Chapter Text
When Ransom was eight, their family dog was hit by a car.
He remembered it in vivid detail.
There was his mother, sobbing in the living room with a bottle of wine aside her, and there was his father, trying to comfort his wife and failing. Richard’s arms had wrapped stiffly wrapped around Linda from his spot on the couch as he whispered words into her ear that didn’t do shit, because she’d only continued to cry.
Ransom, from his spot in the doorway, had watched the whole scene unfold.
He remembers the jealousy he felt for that dog. Sure, it was dead, but to have stirred such a reaction from his parents? They were both crying over it now, for God’s sake, as Ransom then saw that even his dear old Dad’s eyes had begun to water too.
As his parents continued to cry over their ever-so-awful loss, the comfort Richard had tried to offer was ultimately rejected by his wife in favor of what the wine bottle had to offer. Ransom watched his Dad take a drag of it after Linda had finished. He’d tried not to gag at the scene.
It was only a fucking dog, he’d thought, his speech already colorful by that age. What’s the big fucking deal?
It was only a retriever, one that had drooled and chewed shoes and had never listened worth a damn during its entire life. Both of his parents had complained about the animal so much when it was alive, so to cry tears over its death?
It didn’t make sense. What had that dog ever done to earn their tears?
Nothing. It had done nothing.
It had only been a fucking pet, and a bad one at that.
And yet his parents cried.
He walked forward then, entering the room. Neither of his parents noticed, too busy they were mourning, but he still approached them because if they were this upset over the dog’s death then he should try comforting them, right? He was their son, after all, they’d want his comfort.
Right?
“Mom,” he’d said, his hand intending to set on her arm. But she moved, shifting away from him.
His hand stilled in the air, his breath caught as she sniffled.
His Dad spoke then.
“Not now, Ransom, it’s not a good time.”
He’d waved his hand at him, shooing him away, dismissing him and his comfort. They didn’t need it and they didn’t want it.
They didn’t want him period.
They wanted the fucking dog.
He left then, storming down the hallway towards the staircase. He purposefully knocked over a vase as he went, not caring that their housekeeper saw him do it, not caring that he had done it.
He slammed his bedroom door shut when he reached it, wondering if his parents’ could hear his anger, and then wondering whether or not they’d even care.
His fists were still clenched, and his face was flushed with anger, and yet his eyes were burning too, and he hated it he hated it he hated it.
He buried himself under the covers of his bed, hiding from it all, taking solace in the darkness.
The darkness was a friend, the emptiness of it comforting. He could say anything to it without judgement. He could tell it his secrets and know that it would keep them.
It was because he trusted the darkness, that he’d told it another.
He’d been the one to let the dog off its leash.
And when he’d watched it run onto the road and into traffic, he’d done so with a smile on his face.
~
The bar was loud, the beer cheap, and the girls cheaper.
One hung on either side of him, two sets of heels warring to play footsie with him under the table. Ransom let them battle it out as he took a drink, pretending to pay attention to the conversation his friends were having without him.
Jake was the loudest of the group, as he always got loud when he drank, and he undoubtedly was drawing attention to the table. Ransom didn’t mind attention, but he took issue to it when it wasn’t drawn on his terms.
Tiring of the bar and the people he called friends, he glanced over at one of the girls.
Christy, her name was, or maybe Cassie. The other girl’s name he didn’t know at all. He referred to them in his mind as the blonde and the brunette.
The blonde smiled at the attention he gave her, playing with the collar of his sweater, her lips close to his ear. At the attention the blonde was getting, the brunette pushed her heel farther up his pant leg, annoyedly clingy.
They were both pathetic.
He knew that if we chose to, either of them would come home with him tonight with no argument. It would be just another fling with a slut, even if the girl didn’t know that at first.
Maybe he’d toy with her for a bit and give her hopes of a relationship and access to his credit cards, and maybe just when that hope had started to take root in the girl’s heart, he’d toss her like yesterday’s garbage as he’d done so often before.
Ransom liked to imagine that she’d cry when he did that, that she’d be upset.
But, begrudgingly, he also knew that eventually she would move on. She’d find another guy with enough money in his bank accounts to satiate her, and that would be all she’d need to quickly forget about the pain he had caused.
There was no challenge in either girl; he could get what he wanted from both with ease, and maybe that was what annoyed him so much.
It wouldn’t be difficult to break either of them.
And Ransom wanted a challenge.
Over the din of the bar, a scuffle was heard.
He quickly pinpoints the source of the to the tables closest to the bar. He turns his attention towards it, earning a whine from the blonde.
And there you are.
You’re arguing with a man—a drunk man, one who looks at least ten years older than you. He’s taller too, and Ransom observes with peaked interest that despite being easily outmatched, you stand tall and look the man in the eye.
He can’t hear the exact parameters of the argument. Instead, he can only watch, and watch he does. He notes your body language as you counter the man, your movements remaining cool and collected despite the drunk’s becoming wild and erratic.
“Oh my God, someone should step in and help her—”
“Shut up,” Ransom snaps at the brunette. By no means does he want anyone to help you. He wants to see what you do to help yourself, he wants to see the lengths of the fight you have in you.
He wants to know how you play.
The man you’re arguing with takes a drunken step closer, getting close to your face. You put space between you, backing away, but it doesn’t like your backing down. It doesn’t look submissive, it looks calculated. You look in control.
Ransom leans forward, enthralled.
The man takes another step closer, one sloppy fist aimed your way, and you take the opportunity that gives you. You’d expected this, and so you cut to the side. His body is already off balanced and so all it takes your hand pressed to the back of his head to make him fall in the direction of your raised knee.
Ransom hears rather than sees the man’s nose break, the crunching sound resonating through the bar despite the odds.
The man screams, cradling his nose from his spot on the floor, and you step back, satisfied and safe. Unrattled.
The somewhat impressed smirk that tugs at Ransom’s lips dies as two girls rush to your side, evidentially concerned. They know you, and they’re apologizing and apologizing that they didn’t see the encounter happen until it was too late to get someone to help. As you’re reassuring them that you’re okay, the manager emerges, and you repeat your assurances before slipping to a booth in the back with your friends.
People care about you, Ransom notes. They care about whether or not you’re okay. You matter enough to your friends that they were worried for you, that they now feel guilt for not helping you with the drunk. They want you to be okay. They want you with them, safe and sound.
Ransom shifts in his seat, glancing at his table.
He doesn’t like what he sees, so he focuses on his drink as he gulps back the cheap beer, his knuckles white around the bottle.
You’re unaware of his stare, and that annoys him even more, that you have caught his attention without trying. You’re magnetic, a force pulling him in, and you aren’t like the girls beside him. You don’t know who he is, or that he even exists, and yet you’re the one he has his eye on.
He watches you smile, laugh, and he fucking hates the ease at which you seem to be, the ease at which you handled yourself with that drunk. You can take care of yourself. You don’t need help. You’re confident, assured. Cared about.
You’re everything that he’s not.
And he fucking hates you for that.
But, he wanted a challenge though, and damn, if the world hasn’t dropped one at his feet.
You’re it. You’re his next plaything, his next game, and it’s his move.
And Ransom intends to win.