Round Robin Fic
Title: What Goes Around
Background: Post "The Girlfriend." Angst, AU, and PG rating (so far).
Ground rules: This is a round robin fic. The first person to claim it in a comment writes the next part and posts it as soon as they want or at least by... hopefully next week. The installment can be any length, change style, genre, POV, and go in any direction at all. That's the fun of it! :)
Disclaimer: None of us own any of the characters, unless we invent some original ones. So far, I haven't.
Anne's note: loracj2 was kind enough to look my part over for me. I tinkered just a teeny bit, so any mistakes are all mine and not in any way her fault.
What Goes Around
Part 1 by Chazper:
Ryan stumbled, barefoot and barely awake, across the dark patio.
The last party guests at Caleb’s birthday party had left hours ago-although maybe Caleb himself didn’t count as a guest since he was family. Even Seth had finally exhausted himself after flinging himself around the poolhouse in ecstasy, flopping onto the bed, hugging Ryan’s pillows and springing up again, all the while spouting variations of “Summer kissed me!”
Ryan had sketched a smile of vague support. He tried to respond at the expected places, but the most he could manage were a few distracted nods. It didn’t matter. Seth, enraptured by his own monologue, hadn’t seemed to notice. He just continued to babble until he had collapsed, yawning, in mid-sentence. Then he had shoved himself to his feet, concluding with blissful fatigue, “Tomorrow. Seth-Ryan time. Plan on it, dude. Because you have to, you know, help me plan Mission: Summer!” Then he had shambled off to his room.
The poolhouse had immediately filled with a welcome silence.
Relieved, Ryan had stripped off his shirt, traded his dress pants for a pair of sweats, turned off the light and closed the blinds.
Still, he had not gone to bed.
Instead he had slumped on the edge of the chair, eyes fixed sightlessly on the ground, reviewing unshared memories of his own evening:
Gabrielle, in his bed, in his arms, supple and eager, grinding against him as she sucked on his lower lip;
The poolhouse door opening;
Marissa, her eyes liquid with pain in the instant before she fled, but empty hours later when she faced Ryan on her porch;
Gabrielle again, gazing wistfully at him while she stroked his hair through the spokes of the banister;
Caleb’s measuring glare as he had snapped a chill “Good night” in Ryan’s direction;
Kirsten’s weary sigh when she watched her father leave.
Ryan didn’t understand any of it: why he would risk hurting so many people and losing his home with the Cohens just to hook up with Gabrielle; why, if he really did love Marissa, he failed to think of her even once from the instant Gabrielle touched him until she had appeared in his doorway; why Marissa had come to the poolhouse at all when she had clearly chosen Luke, or what she meant when she stared right through Ryan and told him “You’re too late.”
The longer he mulled the questions, the more they baffled him.
Ryan’s eyes had felt grainy when he finally raised them from the floor.
Coffee, he had thought. Coffee would help him focus.
Still seeing nothing but the people he had betrayed-Marissa, Gabrielle, Caleb, Kirsten, their faces revolving in an endless, accusing cycle-Ryan padded toward the Cohen kitchen. He was about to reach for the door when he noticed a thin line of light seeping out from inside.
Instinctively he stepped back, out of sight.
Seth often left a lamp on after a midnight snack run. If he was still in the kitchen, though, Ryan didn’t want to hear an encore retelling of his “Summer kissed me” epic.
But he really did want a cup of coffee.
Furtively, almost shamefully, he peeked in to check if the room was empty.
It wasn’t.
Through the glass Ryan could see Sandy slouched at the table, his head bowed in his hands. Then Kirsten moved into view, her dress flaming and then dimming as she rubbed her husband’s back.
Their backs were toward him, but Ryan ducked his head anyway.
He didn’t want to intrude.
Whatever had kept the Cohens awake all night, obviously tense and still dressed in their party clothes, it wasn’t his business.
Very quietly, he edged backward, preparing for retreat. Then Sandy tipped his face up to Kirsten. Through the hushed darkness, Ryan could hear his anguished voice.
“After all he’s been through . . . I don’t know what this will do to Ryan.”
The sound of his name stopped Ryan mid-stride. He froze, unable to move or even breathe. All the air seemed to vanish in an instant, like dust sucked away by a vacuum. It whipped back just as suddenly. Hurricane-strong, it rocked him where he stood, so hectic and loud that he could only catch broken fragments of conversation.
“-don’t understand how it even got here, Sandy.”
“Maybe one of the caterers brought it, or the landscapers. I’m just grateful I found it. If someone else had . . . God, if Ryan--”
“Or my father! Oh, Sandy, you don’t think . . .?”
Caleb? Remembering the man’s arrogant dismissal, Ryan licked his dry lips. What did Caleb have to do with him?
The question sneered at him, smug and unanswerable.
Then Kirsten’s voice yanked him back to attention.
“-can’t keep this secret, Sandy,” she was insisting.
“-the kid already feels insecure. You know what he told Seth after Luke was shot. He expects us to give up on him at the first sign of trouble.”
“That’s the point. We have to warn him. If this is true--”
“If, Kirsten! Let me check it out. This whole thing could be a damned lie--”
Sandy gestured violently and Ryan could see it then: a crumpled envelope discarded on the table. As he watched, Sandy picked it up and shoved a sheaf of papers inside. One of them, slick and glossy, caught the light for an instant. Ryan strained to see, but he couldn’t decipher the fleeting image. All he knew for sure was that it was a photo and that something about it seemed familiar and frightening.
Automatically, he looked to Sandy for reassurance, but the man had bowed his head into his hands again, and Kirsten, standing next to him, had resumed kneading his neck.
They both looked defeated.
Fear flooded through Ryan, deafening him. When he could hear again, Kirsten was speaking.
“-boys will be up in a few hours, sweetheart,” she was saying. “We can’t do anything else tonight, and we can’t have them finding us here like this. They’ll know something is wrong.”
Ryan saw Sandy nod wearily and push his chair back. Raking his fingers through his tumbled hair, he stood up, putting an arm around Kirsten, and kissing the top of her head as they turned to go.
The envelope lay abandoned on the table.
Ryan’s breathing quickened.
If the Cohens forgot it, he thought, if they left it there . . . surely he had a right to look inside.
After all, the contents concerned him.
No matter how terrible they might be.
He waited, his fingers flexing, almost feeling the paper slip between them.
Then, at the last minute, Sandy whirled around and snatched the envelope.
Before Ryan could blink, it was gone.
Kirsten sighed, squeezing her husband’s hand as she switched off the light.
Alone in the darkness, Ryan couldn’t even see them leave.
He stood for a few minutes, his skin prickling in the pre-dawn chill. Then, arms wrapped around his midriff for warmth or protection or both, he trudged blindly back to the poolhouse.
The voice greeted him before he even stepped inside.
“Ryan,” it said, as his head jerked up in alarm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Part 2 by Cheekymice:
“What are you doing here?”
Ryan felt himself pale and he stepped back.
“Not pleased to see me Ryan?”
The man smiled a slow and deliberate smile that would have made Lucifer proud. He stepped forward and reached a hand out. Ryan flinched at his touch.
“What do you want?” Ryan side stepped the bed and walked around to the furthest corner of the pool house.
“Oh I think you know Ryan, you always were an intelligent boy." The man looked around the pool house. "Nice house…these people you live with have got a lot of money I bet huh”
Ryan swallowed and shut his eyes as the thundering clarity now of knowing what was in that envelope hit.
“You’re trying to blackmail me?”
“Not you Ryan…never you but what will the fine and upstanding Cohen’s pay for keeping this little secret swept under the carpet.” The guy ran his tongue across his teeth. “I bet their uptight friends would not be impressed with having you in that fancy school, mixing with their darling children…. do you?”
“You bastard…you know I had no choice!” Ryan felt his voice raise and he looked towards the main house and the darkened bedroom of his foster parents.
He wanted to throw up…they knew…they knew about him now.
They had every right to hate him.
And they’d probably want him a million miles away from Seth now.
“So…do you think they’ll pay?” The guy walked towards Ryan and backed him up against the glass.
“I don’t know.” Ryan felt his flesh crawl, as he smelt the guys sour breath on his cheek.
The man’s arm shot out and grabbed Ryan’s throat, all traces of the smile gone now. Ryan found himself pinned against the cold glass as the hand squeezed.
“Oh Ryan…you’d better pray they do….you’d better pray”
Part 3 by themus_revenge:
For a long time all Ryan could feel was the sandpaper fingers crushing his throat, liquid metal imploding his lungs - the pain a molten yellow between the greying edges of his vision.
And somewhere at the back of his panicked brain was stupified surprise, that this idiot was actually going to kill him and forfeit any chance of getting the money.
It wouldn't be the worst thing the man had done.
But then it stopped and he doubled over, coughing, desperately trying to draw air back into lungs which flamed anew at every breath. He gripped his knees hard as waves of static washed over him.
The man leaned in above him, and Ryan could hear the squeak of glass as he braced his dirty hand on the window. He imagined the smudged, greasy handprint marring the immaculate surface and cringed inwardly. Yet another vestige of his former life that he would have to rub away; disguise.
"This isn't going to work," he coughed out between spasmodic breaths. And even as he said it, he realised that it was directed at himself just as much as at the smug bastard standing over him.
How had he ever thought that this was going to work?
Living in this wealthy town with this perfect family - there was no reason it should work. He didn't need something like this to happen to tell him that.
The man wasn't buying it, his voice still carrying that Lucifer grin as he said, "Oh? And why not?"
"Because I've been here, what? A month? You really think they'd rather hand you a wad of money on a platter just because of a couple of pictures? They'll probably just throw me out of the house and you into jail." He collapsed into a fit of coughing at the end, hoping that what he was saying was true enough that the man would just give up and go. Hoping that it wasn't true at all.
Knowing, deep inside, that it was.
"Well, I guess it's in both our interests that this works out. So you'd better make sure that they're real sympathetic to your situation. Hadn't you? If you don't, well . . ." The man trailed off pointedly and Ryan could almost feel the leer.
He straightened again, leaning his head back against the glass and glaring at the man, who smirked back widely. He thought about what was in the envelope. Thought about how stricken the Cohens had been. Worried about him. Worried for him. Would they still be worried when they found out that it was true?
He'd had no choice then and he had no choice now.
When it came up, as it surely would, then he would have to play the victim card if he had any hopes of staying here, of this man leaving the Cohens alone. After all, there were many more photos where those came from.
He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to be what everyone in Newport thought he was - what Caleb thought he was; a con artist looking for a quick payout. He didn't want to have to act the victim in order to make this go away. Even though he was the victim, the idea still galled him. It was too like his mother in so many ways. Too like Trey.
"Your 'family' will be hearing from me," the man told him, grinning his wicked grin as he stepped out of the poolhouse doors. "And so will you."
Ryan waited until the man had disappeared into the darkness before he swore under his breath - cursing him and his existance and the stupid photos which were about to ruin everything that he had; the only good thing that he had.
It was all happening so much sooner than he had expected. And he didn't know how to deal with it.
If only he could have had a few more weeks. A month. Was that so much to ask?
He banged his head against the glass in frustration, finding his gaze inextricably pulled toward the bed where the strap of his backpack was protruding from beneath the base. It was still packed from his excursion to the model home, Ryan remembered. His Crab Shack money was in there too, now.
Maybe he didn't have to deal with this at all.
Part 4 by Anne35
It wouldn’t be easy . . . leaving this family.
Before, when he had run away, they had been little more than kind strangers.
But things had changed. He had let himself start believing that maybe, just maybe, he could belong here, in this home, with this family.
But that hadn’t stopped him from being prepared. He pulled the backpack from its hiding place and placed it on the bed. If life as an Atwood had taught him anything, it was to expect the worst. But of all the possible things that he would have thought could get him kicked out; those pictures, those damn pictures, were not one of them.
He stared at his bag, its fabric looking all the more cheap and dirty on the pristine sheets that Kirsten had bought for him.
A sudden fury boiled within. He wanted, no, he needed to strike out. He looked again at the offending backpack and with one volatile sweep of his arm, he sent it sailing off the bed, onto the floor, and out of sight.
He stood there breathing rapidly, his nostrils flaring.
It hadn’t helped.
It never did.
Losing his temper had only wasted time. And he had very little of that. It would be morning soon, and he needed to distance himself from the Cohens as soon as possible . . . in more ways than one.
He headed toward the clean laundry to grab a quick change of clothes. He was so intent on the task that he never heard the soft click of the door handle followed by the door opening.
“Ryan?”
For a split-second Ryan feared that it was him again, returning to reinforce his earlier warning, before common sense prevailed and he recognized Sandy’s voice.
He turned around. Sandy was already seated in the wicker chair across from the bed. Fearing that he would see the dreaded envelope, Ryan’s eyes immediately darted to his guardian’s hands. They were empty.
“So kid, do you mind if I come in?”
It’s your pool house. I’m pretty sure I’m only visiting.
“No, of course not.”
“So . . . uh . . . I know it’s kind of late. I was wondering if we could talk for a minute?”
Does it matter what I want? I’m still not used to people caring about my feelings. And truthfully, I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to do or say with you.
“Sure, Sandy.”
“Like I said, I know it’s late, but I wanted to see how you were doing?”
Scared. Confused. Frightened. You name it. If it’s bad, I’m feeling it.
“Fine.”
“I know we’ve dragged you to a lot of these things over the past several weeks, but this is the first one we’ve had here at home and Kirsten’s dad being back made things a little crazy.”
You mean crazy like making out with your wife’s could-be stepmother and hurting a girl I could really care about and oh, then there’s the little matter of you and Kirsten finding out my deepest, darkest secret? Is that the kind of crazy you’re talking about?
“Like I said, things went fine.”
“You know, Ryan, if something ever happens . . . I mean, if someone or something is upsetting you or bothering you, you can talk to me. You know that don’t you?”
Okay, just remember you asked for it. You can stop wracking your brain trying to figure out how to bring up that envelope you found tonight. Because I already know that you found out about the horrible things I did. But I didn’t want to. I was twelve and scared out of my mind. And Trey was locked up in Juvie, and Mom was right in the middle of one of her binges, and I was all alone and no one was there to help me. I didn’t have a choice. You believe me, don’t you, Sandy? You don’t really think I would ever do what was in that picture if I had a choice, do you? And that guy, the one who took the picture, he came here tonight and brought with him every piece of baggage I’ve been trying to put behind me since the day it happened. I’m so scared. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Not when my dad used to hit us, not when my mom brought home a new boyfriend, not even in Juvie. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t kick me out. Please be different from everyone else in my life. Please don’t leave me alone again. Please be the man I want, no, I need you to be. For God’s sake, Sandy, Please!
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, okay then. I guess I’ll be going to bed. You should get some sleep, too. It’s late.”
He rose from the chair and walked to the door. He stood there, with the door half-opened, facing forward, his hand resting on the knob, not moving.
It was then Ryan saw it . . . the hand print; its greasy outline glistening from the white lights on the patio. It was eye-level with Sandy. If he turned. If he moved his head just a fraction, he would see it. And Ryan knew there would be no easy explanation.
tbc by????
Background: Post "The Girlfriend." Angst, AU, and PG rating (so far).
Ground rules: This is a round robin fic. The first person to claim it in a comment writes the next part and posts it as soon as they want or at least by... hopefully next week. The installment can be any length, change style, genre, POV, and go in any direction at all. That's the fun of it! :)
Disclaimer: None of us own any of the characters, unless we invent some original ones. So far, I haven't.
Anne's note: loracj2 was kind enough to look my part over for me. I tinkered just a teeny bit, so any mistakes are all mine and not in any way her fault.
What Goes Around
Part 1 by Chazper:
Ryan stumbled, barefoot and barely awake, across the dark patio.
The last party guests at Caleb’s birthday party had left hours ago-although maybe Caleb himself didn’t count as a guest since he was family. Even Seth had finally exhausted himself after flinging himself around the poolhouse in ecstasy, flopping onto the bed, hugging Ryan’s pillows and springing up again, all the while spouting variations of “Summer kissed me!”
Ryan had sketched a smile of vague support. He tried to respond at the expected places, but the most he could manage were a few distracted nods. It didn’t matter. Seth, enraptured by his own monologue, hadn’t seemed to notice. He just continued to babble until he had collapsed, yawning, in mid-sentence. Then he had shoved himself to his feet, concluding with blissful fatigue, “Tomorrow. Seth-Ryan time. Plan on it, dude. Because you have to, you know, help me plan Mission: Summer!” Then he had shambled off to his room.
The poolhouse had immediately filled with a welcome silence.
Relieved, Ryan had stripped off his shirt, traded his dress pants for a pair of sweats, turned off the light and closed the blinds.
Still, he had not gone to bed.
Instead he had slumped on the edge of the chair, eyes fixed sightlessly on the ground, reviewing unshared memories of his own evening:
Gabrielle, in his bed, in his arms, supple and eager, grinding against him as she sucked on his lower lip;
The poolhouse door opening;
Marissa, her eyes liquid with pain in the instant before she fled, but empty hours later when she faced Ryan on her porch;
Gabrielle again, gazing wistfully at him while she stroked his hair through the spokes of the banister;
Caleb’s measuring glare as he had snapped a chill “Good night” in Ryan’s direction;
Kirsten’s weary sigh when she watched her father leave.
Ryan didn’t understand any of it: why he would risk hurting so many people and losing his home with the Cohens just to hook up with Gabrielle; why, if he really did love Marissa, he failed to think of her even once from the instant Gabrielle touched him until she had appeared in his doorway; why Marissa had come to the poolhouse at all when she had clearly chosen Luke, or what she meant when she stared right through Ryan and told him “You’re too late.”
The longer he mulled the questions, the more they baffled him.
Ryan’s eyes had felt grainy when he finally raised them from the floor.
Coffee, he had thought. Coffee would help him focus.
Still seeing nothing but the people he had betrayed-Marissa, Gabrielle, Caleb, Kirsten, their faces revolving in an endless, accusing cycle-Ryan padded toward the Cohen kitchen. He was about to reach for the door when he noticed a thin line of light seeping out from inside.
Instinctively he stepped back, out of sight.
Seth often left a lamp on after a midnight snack run. If he was still in the kitchen, though, Ryan didn’t want to hear an encore retelling of his “Summer kissed me” epic.
But he really did want a cup of coffee.
Furtively, almost shamefully, he peeked in to check if the room was empty.
It wasn’t.
Through the glass Ryan could see Sandy slouched at the table, his head bowed in his hands. Then Kirsten moved into view, her dress flaming and then dimming as she rubbed her husband’s back.
Their backs were toward him, but Ryan ducked his head anyway.
He didn’t want to intrude.
Whatever had kept the Cohens awake all night, obviously tense and still dressed in their party clothes, it wasn’t his business.
Very quietly, he edged backward, preparing for retreat. Then Sandy tipped his face up to Kirsten. Through the hushed darkness, Ryan could hear his anguished voice.
“After all he’s been through . . . I don’t know what this will do to Ryan.”
The sound of his name stopped Ryan mid-stride. He froze, unable to move or even breathe. All the air seemed to vanish in an instant, like dust sucked away by a vacuum. It whipped back just as suddenly. Hurricane-strong, it rocked him where he stood, so hectic and loud that he could only catch broken fragments of conversation.
“-don’t understand how it even got here, Sandy.”
“Maybe one of the caterers brought it, or the landscapers. I’m just grateful I found it. If someone else had . . . God, if Ryan--”
“Or my father! Oh, Sandy, you don’t think . . .?”
Caleb? Remembering the man’s arrogant dismissal, Ryan licked his dry lips. What did Caleb have to do with him?
The question sneered at him, smug and unanswerable.
Then Kirsten’s voice yanked him back to attention.
“-can’t keep this secret, Sandy,” she was insisting.
“-the kid already feels insecure. You know what he told Seth after Luke was shot. He expects us to give up on him at the first sign of trouble.”
“That’s the point. We have to warn him. If this is true--”
“If, Kirsten! Let me check it out. This whole thing could be a damned lie--”
Sandy gestured violently and Ryan could see it then: a crumpled envelope discarded on the table. As he watched, Sandy picked it up and shoved a sheaf of papers inside. One of them, slick and glossy, caught the light for an instant. Ryan strained to see, but he couldn’t decipher the fleeting image. All he knew for sure was that it was a photo and that something about it seemed familiar and frightening.
Automatically, he looked to Sandy for reassurance, but the man had bowed his head into his hands again, and Kirsten, standing next to him, had resumed kneading his neck.
They both looked defeated.
Fear flooded through Ryan, deafening him. When he could hear again, Kirsten was speaking.
“-boys will be up in a few hours, sweetheart,” she was saying. “We can’t do anything else tonight, and we can’t have them finding us here like this. They’ll know something is wrong.”
Ryan saw Sandy nod wearily and push his chair back. Raking his fingers through his tumbled hair, he stood up, putting an arm around Kirsten, and kissing the top of her head as they turned to go.
The envelope lay abandoned on the table.
Ryan’s breathing quickened.
If the Cohens forgot it, he thought, if they left it there . . . surely he had a right to look inside.
After all, the contents concerned him.
No matter how terrible they might be.
He waited, his fingers flexing, almost feeling the paper slip between them.
Then, at the last minute, Sandy whirled around and snatched the envelope.
Before Ryan could blink, it was gone.
Kirsten sighed, squeezing her husband’s hand as she switched off the light.
Alone in the darkness, Ryan couldn’t even see them leave.
He stood for a few minutes, his skin prickling in the pre-dawn chill. Then, arms wrapped around his midriff for warmth or protection or both, he trudged blindly back to the poolhouse.
The voice greeted him before he even stepped inside.
“Ryan,” it said, as his head jerked up in alarm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Part 2 by Cheekymice:
“What are you doing here?”
Ryan felt himself pale and he stepped back.
“Not pleased to see me Ryan?”
The man smiled a slow and deliberate smile that would have made Lucifer proud. He stepped forward and reached a hand out. Ryan flinched at his touch.
“What do you want?” Ryan side stepped the bed and walked around to the furthest corner of the pool house.
“Oh I think you know Ryan, you always were an intelligent boy." The man looked around the pool house. "Nice house…these people you live with have got a lot of money I bet huh”
Ryan swallowed and shut his eyes as the thundering clarity now of knowing what was in that envelope hit.
“You’re trying to blackmail me?”
“Not you Ryan…never you but what will the fine and upstanding Cohen’s pay for keeping this little secret swept under the carpet.” The guy ran his tongue across his teeth. “I bet their uptight friends would not be impressed with having you in that fancy school, mixing with their darling children…. do you?”
“You bastard…you know I had no choice!” Ryan felt his voice raise and he looked towards the main house and the darkened bedroom of his foster parents.
He wanted to throw up…they knew…they knew about him now.
They had every right to hate him.
And they’d probably want him a million miles away from Seth now.
“So…do you think they’ll pay?” The guy walked towards Ryan and backed him up against the glass.
“I don’t know.” Ryan felt his flesh crawl, as he smelt the guys sour breath on his cheek.
The man’s arm shot out and grabbed Ryan’s throat, all traces of the smile gone now. Ryan found himself pinned against the cold glass as the hand squeezed.
“Oh Ryan…you’d better pray they do….you’d better pray”
Part 3 by themus_revenge:
For a long time all Ryan could feel was the sandpaper fingers crushing his throat, liquid metal imploding his lungs - the pain a molten yellow between the greying edges of his vision.
And somewhere at the back of his panicked brain was stupified surprise, that this idiot was actually going to kill him and forfeit any chance of getting the money.
It wouldn't be the worst thing the man had done.
But then it stopped and he doubled over, coughing, desperately trying to draw air back into lungs which flamed anew at every breath. He gripped his knees hard as waves of static washed over him.
The man leaned in above him, and Ryan could hear the squeak of glass as he braced his dirty hand on the window. He imagined the smudged, greasy handprint marring the immaculate surface and cringed inwardly. Yet another vestige of his former life that he would have to rub away; disguise.
"This isn't going to work," he coughed out between spasmodic breaths. And even as he said it, he realised that it was directed at himself just as much as at the smug bastard standing over him.
How had he ever thought that this was going to work?
Living in this wealthy town with this perfect family - there was no reason it should work. He didn't need something like this to happen to tell him that.
The man wasn't buying it, his voice still carrying that Lucifer grin as he said, "Oh? And why not?"
"Because I've been here, what? A month? You really think they'd rather hand you a wad of money on a platter just because of a couple of pictures? They'll probably just throw me out of the house and you into jail." He collapsed into a fit of coughing at the end, hoping that what he was saying was true enough that the man would just give up and go. Hoping that it wasn't true at all.
Knowing, deep inside, that it was.
"Well, I guess it's in both our interests that this works out. So you'd better make sure that they're real sympathetic to your situation. Hadn't you? If you don't, well . . ." The man trailed off pointedly and Ryan could almost feel the leer.
He straightened again, leaning his head back against the glass and glaring at the man, who smirked back widely. He thought about what was in the envelope. Thought about how stricken the Cohens had been. Worried about him. Worried for him. Would they still be worried when they found out that it was true?
He'd had no choice then and he had no choice now.
When it came up, as it surely would, then he would have to play the victim card if he had any hopes of staying here, of this man leaving the Cohens alone. After all, there were many more photos where those came from.
He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to be what everyone in Newport thought he was - what Caleb thought he was; a con artist looking for a quick payout. He didn't want to have to act the victim in order to make this go away. Even though he was the victim, the idea still galled him. It was too like his mother in so many ways. Too like Trey.
"Your 'family' will be hearing from me," the man told him, grinning his wicked grin as he stepped out of the poolhouse doors. "And so will you."
Ryan waited until the man had disappeared into the darkness before he swore under his breath - cursing him and his existance and the stupid photos which were about to ruin everything that he had; the only good thing that he had.
It was all happening so much sooner than he had expected. And he didn't know how to deal with it.
If only he could have had a few more weeks. A month. Was that so much to ask?
He banged his head against the glass in frustration, finding his gaze inextricably pulled toward the bed where the strap of his backpack was protruding from beneath the base. It was still packed from his excursion to the model home, Ryan remembered. His Crab Shack money was in there too, now.
Maybe he didn't have to deal with this at all.
Part 4 by Anne35
It wouldn’t be easy . . . leaving this family.
Before, when he had run away, they had been little more than kind strangers.
But things had changed. He had let himself start believing that maybe, just maybe, he could belong here, in this home, with this family.
But that hadn’t stopped him from being prepared. He pulled the backpack from its hiding place and placed it on the bed. If life as an Atwood had taught him anything, it was to expect the worst. But of all the possible things that he would have thought could get him kicked out; those pictures, those damn pictures, were not one of them.
He stared at his bag, its fabric looking all the more cheap and dirty on the pristine sheets that Kirsten had bought for him.
A sudden fury boiled within. He wanted, no, he needed to strike out. He looked again at the offending backpack and with one volatile sweep of his arm, he sent it sailing off the bed, onto the floor, and out of sight.
He stood there breathing rapidly, his nostrils flaring.
It hadn’t helped.
It never did.
Losing his temper had only wasted time. And he had very little of that. It would be morning soon, and he needed to distance himself from the Cohens as soon as possible . . . in more ways than one.
He headed toward the clean laundry to grab a quick change of clothes. He was so intent on the task that he never heard the soft click of the door handle followed by the door opening.
“Ryan?”
For a split-second Ryan feared that it was him again, returning to reinforce his earlier warning, before common sense prevailed and he recognized Sandy’s voice.
He turned around. Sandy was already seated in the wicker chair across from the bed. Fearing that he would see the dreaded envelope, Ryan’s eyes immediately darted to his guardian’s hands. They were empty.
“So kid, do you mind if I come in?”
It’s your pool house. I’m pretty sure I’m only visiting.
“No, of course not.”
“So . . . uh . . . I know it’s kind of late. I was wondering if we could talk for a minute?”
Does it matter what I want? I’m still not used to people caring about my feelings. And truthfully, I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to do or say with you.
“Sure, Sandy.”
“Like I said, I know it’s late, but I wanted to see how you were doing?”
Scared. Confused. Frightened. You name it. If it’s bad, I’m feeling it.
“Fine.”
“I know we’ve dragged you to a lot of these things over the past several weeks, but this is the first one we’ve had here at home and Kirsten’s dad being back made things a little crazy.”
You mean crazy like making out with your wife’s could-be stepmother and hurting a girl I could really care about and oh, then there’s the little matter of you and Kirsten finding out my deepest, darkest secret? Is that the kind of crazy you’re talking about?
“Like I said, things went fine.”
“You know, Ryan, if something ever happens . . . I mean, if someone or something is upsetting you or bothering you, you can talk to me. You know that don’t you?”
Okay, just remember you asked for it. You can stop wracking your brain trying to figure out how to bring up that envelope you found tonight. Because I already know that you found out about the horrible things I did. But I didn’t want to. I was twelve and scared out of my mind. And Trey was locked up in Juvie, and Mom was right in the middle of one of her binges, and I was all alone and no one was there to help me. I didn’t have a choice. You believe me, don’t you, Sandy? You don’t really think I would ever do what was in that picture if I had a choice, do you? And that guy, the one who took the picture, he came here tonight and brought with him every piece of baggage I’ve been trying to put behind me since the day it happened. I’m so scared. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Not when my dad used to hit us, not when my mom brought home a new boyfriend, not even in Juvie. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t kick me out. Please be different from everyone else in my life. Please don’t leave me alone again. Please be the man I want, no, I need you to be. For God’s sake, Sandy, Please!
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, okay then. I guess I’ll be going to bed. You should get some sleep, too. It’s late.”
He rose from the chair and walked to the door. He stood there, with the door half-opened, facing forward, his hand resting on the knob, not moving.
It was then Ryan saw it . . . the hand print; its greasy outline glistening from the white lights on the patio. It was eye-level with Sandy. If he turned. If he moved his head just a fraction, he would see it. And Ryan knew there would be no easy explanation.
tbc by????