CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Danny girl,” Cage whispered, softly brushing my hair out of my eyes. “Danny.”

I blinked several times, trying to blink back sleep and dried tears and memories I didn’t want.

“Gotta get outta bed, little sister.”

“Go away,” I whispered hoarsely.

I shoved his arm away from me and rolled over on my side.

Two weeks. Four days. A handful of hours.

Ripper had been gone for two weeks, four days, and a handful of hours.

At first, when he hadn’t answered my text messages or phone calls after dropping me at Anabeth’s house, unable to sleep or eat or do much of anything except pace and shake, the next day I’d tagged along with Eva and Ivy to the club.

And that’s when I saw the sad faces, heard the whispered conversations. That’s when I knew.

“Ripper left.”

I pushed my sweatshirt hood off my head and turned to Tegen.

“He just up and left,” she continued, shrugging. “Didn’t even give a reason. Isn’t that, like, against the rules or something?”

“Wh-what?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

Tegen eyed me strangely. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. Fuck speaking, I couldn’t even breathe.

He’d left.

He’d just up and left me.

And now…

I was dying.

At least it felt like I was.

I could barely eat. When I did manage to sleep, it was riddled with nightmares, images of Nikki’s dead body and blood…everywhere.

I always woke up crying or on the verge of crying. I’d never felt so awful, so alone, so desolate before.

So empty.

Aching.

Oh god, it hurt…so damn bad.

And it was all my fault.

I’d pushed for something to happen between us, and…and I…

I had shot Nikki.

Me.

I’d killed her.

Now Ripper was gone because I’d been a selfish little girl who’d wanted him so badly I hadn’t cared about the repercussions my actions would bring down on him.

“Danny,” Cage pleaded. “You’re makin’ yourself sick, please—”

“Get out of my room!” I screamed, yanking my blankets up over my head. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t want anything at all…except to stop feeling, to lay in bed and waste away. Or die, I didn’t care.

• • •

Clutching the rim of the toilet bowl, Ripper’s face fell forward. Gagging and dry heaving, he began expelling another round of tequila vomit. When he finished, he spit, stood, and gripped the edge of the sink. Pulling himself up, he fell forward and leaned over the counter. Swaying heavily, he managed to turn the tap on and wash his mouth out.

He wanted to go back. He wanted Danny. She was all he could think about. The only thing keeping him from turning his ass around was keeping a bottle with him at all times and pussy in his bed. It helped, gave him a minute sense of comfort, but just barely.

He needed something else, a bigger distraction and real comfort, the kind that only comes from familiarity.

The kind that came from family.

Family…

He could go home, back to California, back to the house he owned yet hadn’t been inside of since he’d lost his parents.

For the first time since he’d lost the only two people in the world who’d loved him unconditionally, Ripper wanted to go home. They wouldn’t be there but his memories would, the foundation and four walls that he’d grown up inside of would be full of mementos and photos of everything he’d lost. And that was something.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, gripping the walls, he made his way back into the motel bedroom. Shielding his eyes, he cursed both the sun and the naked bitch sprawled across the bed he’d paid for like she fucking owned it. Seizing her arm, he haphazardly dragged her off the bed and dumped her on the floor, so he could take her place in bed. Another bitch, he couldn’t remember their names for the life of him, rolled over and curled up around him with a sigh. He shoved her off him and grabbed the nearly empty bottle on the nightstand.

“You gonna share?” the bitch whined, reaching for him again, running her hand down his body and taking hold of his cock.

He elbowed her hard, shoving her off him and, because she was still hammered or crazier than shit, the bitch started laughing.

Annoying, high-pitched drunken laughter.

His head throbbed angrily.

But he’d picked her for a reason. Because she was blonde, a real blonde, her hair nearly white and her body was toned and tight and her skin tanned, soft, and smooth.

“Too drunk to fuck.” She laughed.

“Fuck off,” he growled.

She laughed harder and he reached for her, grabbed hold of her hair, and yanked her face close to his. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

She didn’t.

Still gripping her hair, Ripper rolled on top of her and dumped the last of the tequila over her face. “You gonna shut the fuck up now, you dirty fuckin’ whore?” he yelled as she thrashed beneath him.

She didn’t answer, because she couldn’t.

Because he had her face shoved down in the pillows.