written for cheekymice
Title: Mexico (1/3)
Season: Post Season Three
Pairing: Ryan/Original Character
Rating: Hopefully by part two, "R."
Author's Note: I started this story before season four aired and the rumor was that Ryan was fighting in a cage in Mexico looking for Volchok. Cheeky's challenge reminded me that I wanted to finish it.
Author's Second Note: This story and I just can't seem to hit a stride. It's readable, but I'm not particularly proud of it. I wanted it to be more.
Beta: None. Thanks to Babel Fish for my slaughtered Spanish.
Feel better
cheekymice
There will be sex...or my version of it...I promise. At the very least, there will be sweaty bodies.
Oh...and stupid LJ...I had to post Chapter One in two parts....which I freaking HATE.
Mexico
Chapter One
by muchtvs
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Inside his green duffle bag, Ryan has an address that one of Volchok’s “friends” gave to him for two-hundred bucks. The address is a cousin of Volchok’s, a guy name Drake, who Volchok evidently runs to whenever things get too hot or too slow.
It’s been three weeks since Marissa died.
Ryan can’t live in Newport one minute longer.
He can’t stay in the pool house, continuing to sleep in a bed where Marissa sometimes slept and he can’t glance over and see the balcony where once upon a time she would stand or drive past the culvasac where he first met her, a hot summer breeze gently teasing her long hair.
He can’t look at Julie or Summer or Kaitlin or their unvoiced questions of, “why?” or “couldn’t you have saved her?”
He can’t stand listening to Sandy or Kirsten telling him how he should be feeling.
He can’t pretend everything is fine for Seth.
And mostly, Ryan can’t sit on his rage any longer.
Or find a way to release it.
Not here.
Not in Newport.
He leaves a note for Sandy and Kirsten and Seth.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t bother looking for me.”
Then he leaves.
Goes to Mexico.
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His God given name is Randall but anyone who calls him that is gonna get his or her ass kicked. He’s been called “Grail” since he founded the club over thirty years ago. It stands for Holy Grail, because everyone and anyone who comes into his establishment is looking for something holy to them.
A woman to fuck.
A runaway son or daughter to save.
A man to fight.
A shot of Tequila to get lost in.
Grail doesn’t pretend he’s the owner of anything but a shit-hole. But it’s his dive, fought and paid for, and he’s worked hard for the layers of dirt and grime that line the faded walls.
He glances up from the previous night’s pile of cash he’s counting as a kid walks in. Probably a lost spring breaker. Little college fucks.
The kid is carrying the worn-out wooden sign that Grail hangs in the window every time one of his fighter quits or gets rolled away in an ambulance.
Cage Fighting
See the management.
No pussies need apply.
Comprende?
“If you’re looking for Cozumel, blondie, you’re in the wrong place,” Grail snorts, pointing, “Go that way and start swimming.”
The kid holds up the sign towards Grail, watching him intently.
Grail sighs.
Stupid fucking kid.
He’s moslt likely a run of the mill twenty-something dick, coming down for the summer, looking to be ‘made’ so he can go back to the states and brag about how fucking bad he is to his frat boyfriends.
“You’re gonna’ probably die the first night you fight, you know that, right?”
“Do I have a job or not?” The kid asks defiantly.
Now that the kid is closer to him, in the semi-light, Grail can see that this is probably no preppy boy. He looks a lot rougher around the edges.
Clothes well worn.
Week old jeans.
A jacket the needs a good beating with a broom to get rid of the dust.
“Do you have a name?” Grail counters, chewing on the inside of his cheek and taking notice of the kid’s biceps.
He’s probably nothing but a suburban gym-fed poser and he’s as short as fuck, but still…there’s something lean and desperate and angry gleaming from the corners of the kid’s eyes.
He’s hungry for something.
He’s looking for a Holy Grail.
“Ryan,” the kid says. Just that. Just a first name.
It flows so smoothly from the kid’s tongue that Grail wonders if maybe he isn’t actually telling him the truth.
That would be refreshing.
Most people lie about their real identities.
“How old are you?” Grail asks, squinting suspiciously.
He’s one well built little motherfucker, but the face and skin scream young.
The kid sets his one bag down on the floor and squints back at Grail and asks dully, “Does it matter?”
“When I ask a question I expect an answer,” Grail bellows, raising his voice to just below a shout. He throws his thumb in the direction of the door, “You know what? I don’t need this shit. Get the fuck out of my club smartass.”
“I’m sorry,” the kid answers quickly, taking a step forward, a little of the desperate from his eyes surfacing to his mouth. “Look…I need a job. I’m eighteen. I can fight. I’ve been doing it all my life.”
He’s still holding out the fighter-wanted sign to Grail.
The old man snatches it out of the kid’s hand.
Eighteen. Shit. He’d be the youngest that Grail ever allowed to fight, at least as one of the official club fighters.
Young but still…this kid’s demeanor is an odd mixture of despondent and dangerous, like a dog standing passively behind a fence, not growling, but barring its fangs.
And he does look like he could fight.
Fine, thinks Grail. The kid wants to get the crap beat out of him, what’s it to him.
“Listen up, you fight for free tonight, got it? I claim everything, every cent you make, if you actually make anything. You win, you stay. You lose, than see previous comment, ‘Get the fuck out of my club’. No booze, no drugs, not when you fight for me. Keep your goddamn hands off all the girls, including the customers. There’s no fucking union here, so if you got a problem with how much I pay, then you can walk the fuck back to wherever you came from, got it?”
“Yeah,” the kid mutters. “What time do I fight?”
He’ll start the night off with the short white boy, where his inevitable ass-kicking will lose the least amount of money.
“Nine,” Grail answers briskly. “Now get out of here. I’m busy.”
The kid nods and turns around and Grail…motherfucking God help him…he’s getting soft in his old age asks, “Hey, where are you staying?”
The kid’s fingernails are dirty, his clothes ripe, his hair greasy. But it’s a new layer of used up that this kid is hiding under. If he is indeed homeless, as Grail suspects, he hasn’t been this way for too long.
“Around,” the kid answers, continuing to walk away.
“Hey!” Grail shouts after him, “I told you not to be a smartass.”
The kid stops walking, his back still turned.
“I have an empty room upstairs,” Grail growls, trying to sound indifferent. “If you’re fighting for me in my bar, I can’t have you sleeping in the alley. It’s bad for business. But you only stay as long as it’s profitable, got it? If you lose tonight, just keep walking…or crawling.”
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Ryan knows he’s in trouble, big trouble, before his opponent even swings the first punch.
Shit almighty, if the guy weighs less than 300 pounds it’ll be a miracle. The dude is all fatty mass and even if all he does is fall on him, he’s gonna kill Ryan for sure.
The best he can do is out run him and then try and get in a good punch when the guy gets winded…which given his gut, shouldn’t take too long.
“Soy gonna patea la cabeza de mierda de asno,” the guy smiles menacing at Ryan, his voice low and dangerous. “Soy gonna le cuelga por sus Pelotas.”
Ryan concentrates on his childhood Spanish procured via Theresa’s house.
He’s pretty sure the guy just called him a shit head and threatened his balls.
So not good.
“El poco uno es bonito,” a waitress shouts into the ring and then in English she yells at Ryan’s opponent, “You be nice, lardass, and leave him in one piece, at least from the head up.”
The small crowd erupts into what sounds like a much larger one as the fat guy throws a cumbersome, slow punch at Ryan.
Ryan dodges it easily.
There’s some booing and some clapping and soon Ryan feels like he might actually have a chance at beating this guy. It’s been less than two minutes and already the fat man is bright red in his face and hasn’t managed to even land a punch in Ryan’s direction.
“Fight already you little shit!” Grail yells at Ryan. “Get in there and fucking fight. You’re not here to put on fucking dancing lessons.”
“All right!” Ryan shouts back. “Just hang on!”
Jesus, can’t this old man see what he’s up against? Anyone would be stupid to engage this human lump of flesh until the guy is out of breath.
Ryan’s opponent is huffing now, his red face fast becoming purple.
“Fight you little cocksucker!” Grail screams, his hands shaking the cheap metal fencing that the club refers to as “The Cage.”
Ryan charges forwards, full throttle.
Fast fists, just like Trey taught him. It just takes one well placed punch.
The big guys goes down hard and Ryan finds himself with a hand lifted high over his head, Grail proudly proclaiming him the winner.
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It’s been two months since Ryan left Newport.
To Seth he writes, “How’s Summer? If your parents are still looking, tell them to stop.”
To Kirsten and Sandy, “Hope you guys are doing all right. I’m fine. Thanks for everything you did and I will always be grateful to you, but I’m not coming back.”
He starts an un-mailed letter to Julie with words he can’t seem to be able to join together to form complete sentences. ‘Sorry,’ ‘my fault,’ ‘I’m going to kill him.’
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Ryan drives by Drake’s everyday and parks just a few houses away and he counts, he watches his watch. He knows how many steps it takes Drake to get to from his truck to his front steps. He’s been in Drake’s house. He knows that the guy has three guns. A handgun under his pillow. A sawed off shotgun in his truck. Another handgun under his couch. Ryan knows what time the guy leaves to go to work and what time he comes home and when he’s done watching, Ryan goes back to the club and he closes his eyes and he slams his fists into the punching bag he’s hung in the small room that Grail gave him. And he swings and he swings and he swings until his hands hurt so bad that the only thing left to do is go to sleep until it’s time for the cage.
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“Ryan, get your ass over here,” Grail yells.
The little motherfucker is favoring his right side and not telling anyone about it.
“Are you still seeing double?” he asks.
Ryan shakes his head no.
“Lift up your shirt,” Grail demands, pointing a finger at the kid’s stomach.
Ryan asks a defensive, “Why?”
Grail grows a warning, “Don’t fuck with me.”
The kid lets out a strained deep breath and lifts up his T-shirt to reveal a severely bruised abdomen with black and purple snaking along his right side. But the damage is high enough to most likely not involve a kidney…probably.
“Are you peeing blood?” Grail asks, spitting into his chew cup.
He used to spit on the floor but all the waitresses threatened to walk out if he kept it up.
“Excuse me?” Ryan asks, tugging his shirt down.
“I’ve told you over and over again not to be a smart ass,” Grail shouts, sending a few brown and slimy pieces of chewing tobacco Ryan’s direction. “Don’t use that fucking, ‘Excuse me’ bullshit on me. Are you peeing blood?”
“No,” Ryan answers, shaking his head, then tries to hide a smart aleck grin as he says, “Just peeing piss.”
“Get the fuck out of my sight, fuckin’ punk,” Grail mumbles, gently shoving Ryan towards the stairs. “I don’t want to see your face down here tonight until the place is closed. You can help with clean up, got it? No fighting. I’m not having some brat die in my cage. Go lay down before you fall down.”
Ryan shrugs and makes his way slowly up the stairs.
“You awfully nice to that muchacho,” Tessa says, coming up from behind Grail, a dirty glass in one hand, an apron in another. “You losing it Grail.”
Grail is sure that once upon a time she had a different first name, but ever since she’s been working in his bar, shucking drinks and attitude, she’s answered to the name Tessa.
“Yeah? And what do you care?’
“I don’t care,” she answers nonchalant. “I just impressed you can actually act humano.”
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Ryan tries to get comfortable on the thin mattress but it’s impossible.
His side is killing him.
And his head.
And his face.
And his hands.
And his feet.
And his legs.
And his pride.
He got the everlasting shit kicked out of him two nights ago.
Ended up unconscious.
At least he walked out of the ring before passing out.
Despite that set back, he’s been pretty lucky and he knows it.
Most of the time, he wins his fights because it’s nobody against him in the ring but drunk tourists and out of shape locals.
But once in a while, like two nights ago, someone shows up who knows what they are doing.
Someone who knows how to really fucking fight.
And every time that happens, Ryan gets his ass kicked, although he’s getting a little better at hanging in longer and longer.
He can’t figure out why Grail keeps him around, except that he’s so small that most people bet against him, and most nights, when he manages to win, there’s a nice profit for the club.
He hears a soft knock on the door followed by, “Ryan, está usted despierto?”
Ryan recognizes Tessa’s voice, asking if he’s awake.
“Yes,” he answers, clearing his throat and grimacing as he struggles to sit up in bed. “Come on in.”
The woman slides into the room, closing the door behind her. She whispers to Ryan, “I not argue with you about this, obtuvolo? You go to my niece’s house and she eche una mirada a your belly, entienda?”
Ryan’s ability to translate is getting better and better. She wants him to go get his stomach checked out.
Tessa hands him a neatly folded piece of paper and says proudly, “My niece, Ana, she is a student at university. She is going to be a medico. I tell her you coming.”
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“You have a concussion,” Ana tells him. “That’s not surprising, given your…” she stares disdainfully at him before finishing her thought. “…profession.”
Ryan doesn’t need this bullshit. He could have told this lady a painful jeep ride ago he had a concussion. He vomited the whole first night. Grail woke him up every hour. The concussion is old news.
“But I don’t see any signs of internal bleeding,” the young woman says, pointing to his mid-section. “Still, you really should come into the clinic and have those ribs x-rayed.”
“And how much does that cost?” Ryan asks with a bit of hostility in his voice, because they both fucking know the answer is too much. Grail doesn’t quite offer his employees an all inclusive health-care plan.
Ana rolls her eyes. “Just be careful for the next few days. No heavy lifting or fighting for a week. For some reason my auntie appears to prefer you…alive.”
“I prefer me alive too,” Ryan mutters, holding his stomach and grimacing as he reaches for his shirt.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Ana says, exasperated as she stands up and rushes ahead of Ryan to grab his shirt off her kitchen counter. “Let me help you. You’re pitiful.”
She moves in close, first holding out his shirt to him, but then rethinking her decision and instead clutching the piece of clothing tightly to her body.
“Hold your arms up,” she instructs him. “You have to be in pain. Let me slide it on for you.”
Ryan does as he’s told, mostly cause he’s too fucking sore and tired to bother arguing.
“You know what?” Ana surmises, holding up the shirt and looking at it disapprovingly. “This T-shirt is a bad idea. Stay here.”
She disappears and re-emerges with a button down short sleeve shirt. She helps Ryan ease a sleeve over one arm and then the next before pushing his hands away and buttoning it up for him as well. He turns his head, but sneaks peeks at her from the corner of his eye, pretending not to notice how shiny black her hair is or how good she looks without any make-up. Ana’s fingers touch his bare chest and Ryan shivers slightly as she methodically makes her way from button to button.
Her fingers, soft and delicate on his skin, remind him of…
“This looks a hell of a lot better on you than it did on the prick that used to own it,” she says, stepping back after finishing the last button.
“Ex-boyfriend?” Ryan asks cautiously.
“Yes, ex, thank God,” Ana nods.
They stand there in silence for a moment, Ana staring at Ryan, Ryan staring back.
“How old are you?” she asks, studying him. “Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”
“Eighteen,” Ryan answers awkwardly, not sure where things are headed. She appears surprised by his answer, her mouth forming a small, ‘o’, but she moves on quickly.
“My auntie is worried about you.” Ana tells him, backpedaling to allow both of them their personal space. “She asked me to talk to you about finding another way to make money. She wanted me to scare you out of fighting, tell you about head injury statistics and all that shit. But now that I’ve met you, I’m thinking you’re not fighting for the money. And I think you’re damn well smart enough to figure out how dangerous what you’re doing is.”
Ryan knows she’s right and he knows he doesn’t care.
She doesn’t know about Marissa.
She doesn’t know how badly he can taste Volchok’s blood.
"I gotta go," He says, gathering his jacket and a bottle of pain pills Ana managed to produce from a locked cabinet. He points up and down from his head to his stomach. "Um...thanks, for this."
“I’m calling my Aunt Tessa,” Ana warns him, walking with him to the door. “I’m telling her that I am recommending you not fight for a week.”
“I have to fight,” Ryan disagrees. “Or I lose my room.”
“No you won’t,” Ana smiles knowingly. “If there is one thing in this world that Grail is afraid of, it’s my Auntie Tessa. One week. No fighting. I promise you won’t lose your place at the club.”
Ryan nods, mutters, “Thank you.”
He hates the thought of not fighting because he feels like it's all that's keeping him alive.
But she’s right.
His ribs are fucked.
He needs a few nights off.
“Hold on,” Ana says, snatching her purse and digging through it for her car keys. “I’ll drive you back to Grail’s. I’m going that direction anyway. Besides, you really shouldn’t be on your feet right now. You and Tessa can come back in a few days for your car.”
She talks the entire drive and Ryan stares out the window, at the setting sun, and listens to her voice, finding it suprisingly calming and soothing despite his current hatred of pretty much anything and anyone.
Her ex-boyfriend, Carlos, is a rich asshole she tells him.
He expected her to quit school.
Marry him.
Have his babies.
She told him to go straight to hell.
Carlos took back the ring.
Ryan only speaks once during the drive, and that’s to ask why she doesn’t use Spanish, why she doesn’t have an accent.
“I’m from Texas,” she explains. “Born and raised. I can speak Spanish, but I only use it with the locals. I come here for two months in the summer because the clinic basically lets me practice medicine and I get a hell of a lot more hands on experience here than I do at school.”
When they pull up to the club, Ana surprises Ryan by getting out of the car.
“I’m thirsty,” she says, shrugging. “I could use a beer.”
Ryan’s a little embarrassed to walk into the club with her. He’s not proud of the life he’s currently living and this lady is smart and pretty and shouldn’t be in a place like this.
“Auntie Tessa?” she calls out as she enters the dimly lit bar.
Ana heads in the direction of the club’s small kitchen and Ryan goes the opposite direction, towards the stairs that lead to his room.
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to be continued...conclusion of Chapter One is posted.