7. Ripley
CHAPTER 7
RIPLEY
MEET YOU AT THE GRAVEYARD – CLEFFY
One hand trailing along the staircase’s balustrade, I will my body to respond. It’s another down day, but this one feels different. Not even the paper cup of coloured pills from the nurse’s station alleviated the weight bearing down on me.
I tried to sleep the feeling away this morning, but this isn’t physical exhaustion. No amount of sleep will cure the crashing chemicals in my brain dragging me back down. More often than not, it only makes me feel worse.
What is it my old psychiatrist used to say to me? Each step is a small victory. Even if that’s only to the bathroom and back. I suppose he wanted to make me feel better about ending up with a UTI when in the height of a depressive episode, I didn’t move for three days.
“Ripley!”
Internally groaning, I ignore Langley abandoning his post to follow me as I reach the bottom of the staircase.
“Hey, Rip. Wait up.”
“Not today,” I reply tersely.
“Are you okay?” Langley’s hand hovers just above my arm.
“Fucking brilliant. Leave me alone.”
“Just doing my job.” He scowls.
“Are you?” I look up into his baby blues.
After my brief stint in solitary, I’m keenly aware of every eye laser-focused on me. If the warden even suspects that Langley is overstepping his duties, a dismissal is the best-case scenario. I dare not think of the worst.
His gaze is soft with concern. “I’m trying to look out for you.”
“And I told you?—”
“It’s alright, Jayden,” a sneering voice interrupts. “I can take it from here.”
Thick-soled boots stopping next to us, Elon’s ever-present, phony grin is firmly in place. His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously, I can tell that not even Langley is convinced by it. He has no choice but to step aside.
Elon takes his place next to me, tightly clutching my wrist. “Shouldn’t you be in class, inmate?”
Asshole. He knows I don’t attend classes like everyone else. Yet another perk. If only my privileges could get me out of weekly therapy too.
“Just off to the studio,” I force out.
“How opportune. I can escort you.”
“Oh, fabulous.”
Ignoring the sarcasm dripping from my voice, Elon frogmarches me through reception and towards the south wing. I don’t bother looking back at Langley. That man needs to learn when to give up.
Once we’re in an empty corridor, Elon drops his voice. “You’re late on inventory.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it? Yeah? Unacceptable.”
Wrangling my wrist from his crushing grip, I pull a folded piece of paper from my sweatpants. Elon quickly takes it from me, his thin lips pursed. He scans over the neatly scribed lines of items with his steely gunmetal gaze.
Folding my arms below my chest, I don’t let my apprehension show. I’ve only added a few extras to my usual contraband order, small quantities I can sneak into a stockpile for my arrangement with Noah. Anything in large amounts would rouse suspicion.
Elon quickly refolds and pockets the list. “Don’t be late again. We say jump, you say how high. Got that?”
“It was a couple of days. Cool off, will you?”
Grey eyes hardening, he takes a step closer. “Did you not learn your lesson? I’ve got a padded cell with your name on it if not.”
I should be playing this smart, but fuck it. Today is not the day to be all up in my business. I’m already struggling to stay afloat.
“If you lock me up in solitary, who is gonna sell your shit?”
His nose wrinkles in disgust. “You think we can’t find another desperate bitch to do our bidding?”
“I imagine you’d only have to look in the mirror to find that.”
“You little?—”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Is there a problem here?”
That raspy voice, filled with palpable self-assurance, apparently shocks Elon out of his rage. He glances over his shoulder to find Raine in the middle of the corridor, one hand holding a violin case, the other wrapped around the guide stick clasped in front of him.
Gleaming blonde hair slicked back, his blacked-out glasses rest above his full lips, stretched in a smirk. I don’t know who puts his outfits together, but between the glasses, ripped grey jeans and loose tee, he looks every part the violin-toting rockstar.
“Keep moving,” Elon barks.
Raine readjusts his grip on the guide stick. “I was actually on my way to see Ripley here.”
“You were?” I gape at him.
His grin widens at my surprised tone. “Still got time to help me with that art project? It’s uh, rather urgent.”
The subtle cocking of his brow would be humorous if I didn’t know who this guy is friends with. I don’t know what’s worse… a run in with Elon or accepting help from Lennox’s latest puppet.
“Sure,” I say uneasily. “I have some time.”
“Great. Lead the way.”
Sauntering up to me with his stick tapping away, he offers his elbow. I quickly step out of Elon’s reach and take the proffered arm. Raine follows without question, letting me guide him down the thick carpet towards the classrooms.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Elon ball his fists and glower at Raine. He quickly abandons any plan to follow us, probably disappearing to take care of his list. When he vanishes, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“You’re welcome, guava girl,” Raine whispers.
I quickly release his elbow. “My body wash is papaya, alright?”
“Oh, I’ve been made aware. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it though, does it?”
“You’ve been discussing my choice of body wash?” I ask incredulously.
Raine chuckles, deep and throaty. “Gotta pass the time somehow.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“A conversation with me?” he replies slyly. “It always is.”
Avoiding the arc of his stick clacking out a clear path, I fight to keep my eyes off him. Something about Raine intrigues me. He’s full of conflicts—vulnerable yet confident, a silver-tongued flirt hiding behind glasses and scruffy t-shirts.
Nothing about him makes sense. Yet nothing can erase the memory of him caressing his violin’s strings alone in the music room. I’ve found my mind replaying that scene over several times, attempting to comprehend what I saw.
“Well, thanks for the save,” I begrudgingly admit. “Feel free to go back to whatever you were doing.”
“Actually, we’re going in the same direction.” He lifts his violin case. “Can you tolerate me for a bit longer?”
Fighting a smile, I keep my voice disinterested. “Suppose I’ll have to.”
“Promise I’m a lot more civilised than the company I keep. Though if you want to tackle me like you did Lennox, you have my full consent. It sounded hot.”
“Your friend deserved what he got.”
Raine snorts. “Of that I have no doubt.”
Keeping his elbow to himself, he follows me at a leisurely pace. I sneak glances at him every few steps, but his slight grin remains sealed in place. How can someone capable of such mournful music have such a normal outward appearance?
“Did you know that your breathing changes every time you’re about to ask something?” Raine enquires conversationally.
“I wasn’t going to ask anything.”
“But everyone always wants to. Stop hesitating, it’s annoying. Ask.”
I suck in my bottom lip, nibbling on it as we pass several classrooms. “I suppose everyone wants to know the same, right?”
“More often than not.” An amused chuff bursts from him. “Short answer? No, I wasn’t born blind.”
When a door opens and patients begin to spill out in search of lunch, the first cracks in Raine’s exterior begin to show. His jaw clenches, betraying a slight tic. Each tap of his guide stick becomes a little more forceful, like firing warning shots.
Someone rushes out with their head down, focused on a sheath of papers. Before they can collide with Raine, I quickly grasp his wrist and tug him aside. His skin is hot to the touch, almost feverishly so, and silky-soft beneath golden fuzz.
His hard body brushes mine, head tilted downwards and turned towards me like he’s seeking safety. For a brief second, I savour the warmth of him pressed right up against my side.
He’s surprisingly firm. Chiselled. Muscular beneath his revolving door of frayed t-shirts and skinny jeans. A lump forms in my throat at his sudden close proximity.
“Now we’re even.”
He releases a short breath. “You keeping count?”
“I don’t like owing people.”
I’m close enough to get a waft of his scent. The intoxicating combination of freshly squeezed orange juice and salty seawater overwhelms my senses. He smells like lazy mornings on the beach, sharing breakfast picnics before catching the next surf.
“Get a good sniff?” Raine snickers.
I flinch away, releasing him once more. “Your good hearing is creepy.”
“Oh, I’ve been told. But it comes in handy.”
Feeling exposed, I train my gaze on the art studio at the end of the corridor and move faster. Somehow, Raine is able to see far past the tactics I’ve long since perfected to portray my indifference.
He doesn’t need his sight to read me like a book. That’s a scary realisation. Even my breathing can betray the lie I live to him. No amount of bravado will stop him from discovering the version of myself that I refuse to let the world see.
“Music room is on your right.” I deliberately don’t stop for him. “Door’s open.”
Entering the art studio—deserted as usual on a Thursday—I’m flustered as I approach my covered canvas from last week which still needs signing and varnishing. I’m gathering my supplies when the sound of a stool scraping against the wooden floor fractures the peace.
After placing his violin case on a workbench, Raine hops up onto the stool and crosses his jean-clad legs at the ankles. He’s facing the window, so I clear my throat and watch his head turn towards me.
“Why are you following me?”
Tilting his body, he repositions himself to face my direction. “We’re supposed to be working on an art project.”
“There is no project.”
“And if your friendly resident stalker returns, looking to continue your conversation?” he counters. “You’re going to need that alibi.”
Slamming down my tin of varnish and brushes, I brace my hands on my hips. “What’s your deal? Did Lennox or Xander put you up to this?”
“Nope.” He pops the P exaggeratedly. “And I doubt they’d approve.”
“Then what’s the motive here?”
“Does there have to be one?” Rolling his lips, Raine looks like he’s fighting laughter. “Sounds like people give you a wide berth. Maybe I just want some peace and quiet.”
Despite by brimming curiosity for this mysterious man, I keep my voice level. “You’re disturbing mine right now.”
“Say no more.” He mimes locking his mouth and tossing the key. “Pretend I’m not here.”
Staring at him incredulously for several seconds, I quickly realise he isn’t going to move. I’m keenly aware of his presence mere metres away as I suppress a growl, turning back to my canvas. I’m not used to sharing my personal space.
Beneath the paint-flecked white sheet, my finished canvas sits untouched. I sign it off with my signature in the bottom right corner then methodically begin varnishing, quickly becoming engrossed in my task.
Not even the sound of Raine unlatching his violin case and setting up his instrument disturbs me. I’m lost to the swirls of oil paint and varnish, sucking me back into the terrifying landscape that poured from my brush.
By the end of the first coat, my body has started to sway along to the muted chords Raine is plucking out as he tunes his violin. It’s a stripped-back rhythm, light and oddly reticent, never quite betraying the raw emotion I heard him perform in private.
I still, laying down my brush. “When did you learn to play?”
“Before I lost my vision. I was around nine.” The plucking continues. “My school’s music program was wildly unpopular. Just like me. I fit right in.”
“You were unpopular?”
“No one likes the junkies’ son. I didn’t have the latest clothes or mobile phone like everyone else. Everyone knew my folks were crackheads.”
Still staring at my canvas, I wrestle with my conflicting emotions. “Why the violin?”
“I stumbled into the classroom one day while running from some bullies and found this ancient, battered violin. The rest is history.”
“How old are you now?”
“What’s with the third degree, guava girl?”
“You’re the one who followed me in here.”
“I guess that’s fair. I’m twenty-three.”
Turning on my stool, I allow myself another glimpse. He’s a year younger than Lennox, while Xander is twenty-six, the same as me. That makes Raine the baby of their friendship group.
“You continued to play after you lost your vision?”
Raine nods hesitantly. “Took some practise, but I never stopped playing after it happened. Music gave me something to focus on.”
I bite back the urge to ask what happened to him. No wonder he can play the chords by heart without the need for a single glance. Those wound metal strings are an extension of him, and he strokes them like it’s second nature. Easier than breathing, almost.
“When was that?”
“This?” He gestures towards his eyes. “A little over five years ago.”
An internal voice is telling me to stop asking rapid-fire questions, but he’s like a puzzle I can’t help piecing together. I want to know how this smooth-talking violinist with the filthiest smile ended up becoming friends with people like Lennox or Xander.
I hear him inhale before he speaks. “My turn. Do you always work with… Is that oil paint I can smell?”
“Yes it is, and that depends,” I answer honestly.
“On what?”
“Sometimes, I prefer the richness of this medium and its saturated colours. Other times, the piece requires a lighter touch. Pastels, watercolour, sometimes pencil.”
“What is it that you paint?” His head tilts in interest.
“Mostly landscapes or abstracts. But I dabble.”
Fingertips still dancing over the neck of his violin, his pale brows knit together, like he’s willing his mind to conjure some clue as to what I’ve painted.
“Can you describe it to me?”
Despite his confidence, there’s a slight, almost unnoticeable crack in his voice. A hint of vulnerability. Something tells me that he wouldn’t let it show by accident.
Ignoring every last warning bell telling me to put distance between us, I shift my stool to the left.
“Come closer.”
Raine places his violin back in its velvet-lined case then walks towards me. After abandoning his guide stick, his steps are slow and hesitant. Another snippet of the person behind the mask. The same mask that I find myself wearing every day too.
We both put on a show. Play pretend. Bury any hints of weakness to survive in a world that doesn’t allow for fragility. Perhaps Lennox and Xander are part of that show. Even monsters make good allies when it’s convenient.
I reach out and snag his shirt sleeve. Raine lets me steer him into place, standing directly in front of the still-wet canvas. His lips are parted, breathing slightly unsteadily. He feels it too, then. The fear of flaws being exposed to another person.
“The canvas is about three feet in front of you,” I explain, my voice breathless. “Imagine the ocean. Raging, wild, uncontrollable. There are sprays of deep forest-green and hints of crimson against the waves.”
His throat bobs, the muscles in his neck tensing, but he remains silent. Despite feeling exposed by the emotion passing between us, I decide to continue.
“In the eye of the storm, shadows form a solitary figure. Trapped. Powerless. She’s unaware of the others behind her, two larger silhouettes lurking in the background. They’re all imprisoned by saturated flames, eating up the ocean.”
Still holding his shirt sleeve, my hand grasps his bicep, feeling that same burning heat emanating from his skin. He isn’t trembling like last time, but I know a withdrawal fever when I see one. He’s in the early stages.
“Why is she trapped?” he asks quietly.
I consider the varnished canvas. “Because who isn’t trapped by something? None of us are free. Especially not from ourselves.”
After a long beat of silence, Raine replies in a thick voice. “What about the others in the painting?”
“They’re trapped too.”
“So they aren’t the bad guys?”
Unnamed pain lashes against my breastbone. “Being trapped by the same evil doesn’t automatically make them good people. Victims can still be monsters.”
“Doesn’t make them bad either.”
“Circumstance excuses nothing,” I reply hotly, irritation bleeding from my words.
“Sorry, Ripley.” His tone lacks its usual playful lilt. “Circumstance is everything, isn’t it? You don’t blame soldiers for the price they paid to survive the battlefield.”
For a split second, I almost give him the benefit of doubt. Part of me actually thought that we were the same. But anyone willing to condone their friends’ violence is cut from the same fucked up cloth. He’s just like them.
You’re a hypocrite, Ripley.
Stop lying to yourself.
If I follow through and help Noah end his life, will I be any better than them? Willing to shed blood, to sacrifice another living, breathing human being, simply to achieve my own goal?
If they’re the villains in my story… am I the villain in theirs?
Circumstance. It’s a real bitch.
“Well, it’s a good thing that it’s just a painting.” My voice trembles with the torment clawing at my insides.
“Is it?” Raine challenges.
When I shift, trying to put a safe distance between us again, he manages to blindly snag my wrist. His thumb presses above the furious pounding of my pulse. Even I can feel it’s going wild.
“You’re angry.” He gently runs his calloused thumb across the thick veins protruding beneath my skin.
“You needed to feel my pulse to figure that out?”
“Look, I don’t know what happened between you and the guys, but?—”
“No. You don’t know what they did.” The words escape my gritted teeth. “To me. To her .”
“I know.” Raine’s chest rises with his inhale. “They hurt someone you cared about.”
My heart is a dead lump, entombed behind my ribcage. “They destroyed someone I cared about.”
“And? Isn’t what you did to them payback enough?”
“Someone’s been gossiping.”
Raine shrugs dismissively. “I know shit went down before I showed up. Xander doesn’t talk about it. Lennox punches a wall if I bring it up.”
Huh. Perhaps they didn’t escape as unscathed as I thought. I’d still like to know how the pair of them wrangled their way out of the deadly trap I laid for them.
“I’m going to hurt your friends, Raine. If you don’t want to get hurt too, keep your distance from them and me.”
Head dipping lower, his salty, citrus scent assaults me. “Is that a warning?”
“It’s a threat.”
“I’m not the type to abandon my friends. So you’ll have to hurt me too.”
Is he grinning at the mere thought?
Staring into the black depths of his lenses, I can’t decide if I want to punch this cocky shit or find out if the taste of sunshine also dances on his tongue. I must’ve finally lost it to even be contemplating the latter.
“I think I’m starting to understand why you’re here.”
Chuckling, he resumes stroking the sensitive skin of my tattooed inner wrist, causing the hairs on my arms to lift. I internally scold myself for enjoying the featherlight touch.
“This place is a hell of a lot more interesting than rehab ever was.”
I feel the hum of his rising fever once more. “You were in rehab?”
“Spent more time in than out. Five stints.”
“That wasn’t enough to keep you out of this place?”
“Apparently not.” He laughs humourlessly.
I never give a shit about customers. It’s the price of doing business. Yet I find my heart cracking open and bleeding for this broken boy, hiding a deadly addiction behind smirks and over-exaggerated bravado.
Does anyone else see how hard he’s faking it?
This Raine isn’t real.
His entire act is an illusion.
“This isn’t a game.” I push away the empathy trying to gnaw through my resolve, redirecting us back to safe ground. “I meant what I said. If I have to kill you to get to them, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
“We’ve progressed to killing?”
“I won’t let them hurt anyone else.”
Rough fingertips dancing upwards from my wrist, he traverses my ink-covered forearm, leaving a blazing trail in his wake. I find my breath stuttering. Luckily, he can’t see me biting my lip hard enough to sting.
Those sure fingertips feel like tasers against my flushed skin. His thumb tugs my shirt sleeve, testing the rough cotton before he moves higher and wraps my loose, brown curls around his digits.
“What are you doing?” I ask nervously.
He fingers the coarse strands of hair. “What colour is it?”
“Um, dark-brown.”
“The curls are natural?”
His laser focus is making nervous sweat bead on my forehead. I feel like I’m being inspected. He lightly tugs on a strand, measuring the length against my jawline like he’s taking mental notes to better construct an idea of my appearance.
“Yes,” I squeak.
“What about your eyes? Colour?”
“Uh, hazel.”
Releasing the ringlet clasped in his fingers, Raine’s hand hovers close to my face. “Do you mind? It helps me to form a mental picture of who I’m talking to.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Most don’t complain about me wanting to touch them.” He sighs in a long-suffering way.
I want to tell him to get lost. Instead, I find myself suppressing a snort.
“I should’ve known the whole blind thing was a flirting tactic.”
“You caught me.” Chest rumbling with laughter, Raine seems to consider me behind those blacked-out lenses. “Feel free to do whatever you’d like in return. I’m an open book.”
“Um.” My throat seizes. “I don’t kn…”
An invisible hand wraps tight around my windpipe before I can say no. That damn curiosity is too strong to ignore. As my voice trails off, Raine waits expectantly. Not daring to touch my face yet, his hand hangs in limbo as I deliberate.
For once, I don’t want to run. Those violin-toughened fingertips promise salvation, and the smirking man bulldozing my self-imposed boundaries knows it.
Instead of answering, I lift an unsteady hand and grasp his glasses. Raine’s throat spasms as I carefully slide them from his face. All I want is another glimpse of the honeycomb jewels he keeps hidden.
If it wasn’t for them or the telltale bouncing of his eyes from side to side, never finding a target to land on, I wouldn’t know he’s blind. His irises are golden pools of treacle.
It isn’t always dramatic like how it’s shown in the movies—clouded over eyeballs or obvious, gnarly scarring. Even his pupils still dilate, untouched by whatever stole his eyesight. They’re a regular size. He must’ve run out of whatever I caught him snorting the other night. That explains the lack of intoxication.
“Satisfied?” Raine murmurs.
Gently placing his glasses down, I stare into his unfocused eyes. “Seems only fair.”
“Agreed. Now, hold still.”
Fingers connecting with my left cheek, he gingerly caresses my skin, following the slope of my features. His index finger traces the outline of my jaw, while his thumb swipes over my lips, tugging the bottom one down ever so slightly.
Travelling upwards, Raine strokes beneath my eye, as if feeling for the sunken ravines that provide evidence of my exhaustion. My heart gallops painfully when he traces my eyebrows and cupid’s bow before following my narrow, upturned nose.
“What do you see?” I breathe out.
Inspection complete, he brushes the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. “Well, I can hazard a guess why Lennox and Xander are so obsessed with you.”
“I could’ve told you that. They hate my guts.”
His hand falls away. “Even if they hadn’t told me the bitch who set them up is hot as fuck, I would’ve guessed so. But it doesn’t matter to me either way. I have a different concept of beauty now.”
I’m not sure what’s more entertaining—the fact that pair of assholes willingly said something semi-nice about me or Raine’s back-handed compliment. The feel of my face tells him I’m hot. People have said a lot worse to me, so I’ll take it.
“What do you find attractive?”
Tongue darting out to wet his lips, those honeyed orbs dart around, searching for the forever out of reach.
“Conversation. Laughter, but only the genuine kind. The way someone breathes. Footsteps. Nervous tics like teeth grinding or fidgeting. The slightest change in tone or intonation.”
“You pick up on all of that?”
Raine hesitates, the corners of his eyes crinkling in thought, before he answers. “I have to. I live my life in the margins of a full page. All I’ve got is subtext.”
Hand searching the nearby table for his glasses, Raine locates them, then his gaze vanishes once more. Retreating back behind the relative safety of his lenses and a scripted persona.
“Thanks for the art lesson.” He changes the subject.
“Raine—”
“I should go.”
Fumbling back to his abandoned violin case and guide stick, he gathers his belongings to leave. My muscles twitch with the urge to chase after him and break those fucking glasses so he has no ability to hide anymore. Not from me, at least.
“And good luck with the grand revenge plan,” he adds. “Perhaps you’ll feel differently about circumstance when your so-called enemies are dead and you’re left to deal with the consequences.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I’m left staring after him, my face still tingling from the tender caress of his fingers mapping its topography.