still written for cheeky....
Title: Mexico (2/3)
Season: Post Three
Pairing: Ryan/Original Character
Rating: Still not "R"...but I am trying to get there.
Beta: Microsoft Word
Author's note: Still no sex...but I'm working on it.
URGH............Had to post in two parts again! hate LJ posting limits.
Mexico
Chapter Two
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Ryan awakens to a stifling room, his face and arms and chest covered in sweat.
The air is so heavy and dense with heat that his skin seems to have melted into the bed, causing him to have to peel the thin, scratchy sheet from his bare back.
He’s halfway though the process of liberating himself from his bedding when he sees her.
A lady…Ryan blinks… a lady, in a bra and…another blink…what appears to be a pair of his boxers…and huh…she’s just laying there, snoring, horizontal at the foot of his bed, resembling a random dog that just crawled into his sleep space.
No. That’s wrong, comparing her to a dog is wrong and what…in…the…hell?
Is going on.
He remembers a little bit, he thinks.
A voice, a girl’s, a woman’s voice, urging him to tell her things, not sure what, and a soft hand on his face, behind his neck, insisting he should drink something and maybe…fingertips on his wrist and occasionally, he thinks he heard his name, “Ryan.”
No, not “Ryan,” but “Ryan ?”
A question, not a confirmation.
Ryan processes confusion by backtracking, like a treadmill in reverse, covering ground he’s already run.
Always has.
What has he done to make someone mad at him?
Why is his mother drinking today? Why is she upset?
Why is Sandy looking at him like that or why is Kirsten frozen on the kitchen counter, one hand resting on her hip and staring at him and Seth like they’ve done something even more reckless and impulsive than the last thing they did?
Why is the lady doctor at the foot of his bed wearing his boxers and a black bra?
What in the hell did he do?
He sits up, not taking his eyes off the woman.
Ana, her name was Ana. Not Anna like Seth’s Anna with two “N’s” but just one “N,” the “A’s” more important and deserving the bulk of his pronunciation.
And, God, she's fucking hot.
Shiny black hair, nice ass, long, smooth legs.
Too bad she didn't sleep in the nude and...
What in the hell did he do?
His ribs wake up, reminding him that they don’t really want to help the rest of his body function and Ryan recalls pain pills, two too many and keeping with the Atwood tradition, maybe he blacked out, even though he’s never done that before.
He’s still a bit loopy from the pills and he’s hot and sticky.
It’s so fucking hot.
The woman moves, stretching her arms and Ryan retreats as far up the bed as his pillow will allow.
His ribs protest and he cringes a bit, a reflexive “ufffttthhhh,” escaping his lips.
He blinks at the doctor, at Ana, and holds his breath as she stretches all her limbs. Her head snowplows face down in the blanket she’s laying on top of until she’s facing him.
Then she yawns. Then she opens her eyes. Then she blinks right back at him.
Then…“Oh shit!”
And she’s off the bed, fast, in one fluid motion, like the entire mattress has suddenly caught on fire.
“Oh shit! Oh my God. I just…I was hot…and I thought I would wake up before you…and I’m tired...so I fell asleep…and oh shit…I borrowed your underwear because my jeans…and this is totally embarrassing and…”
Ryan stares at her, then he points to her…no, points to his boxers…and he says, “Don’t say underwear.”
“Huh?” she asks and Ryan mutters, “Never mind.”
He shakes his head, trying to chase away the effects of the pain pills and he squints at her and asks, “Okay, so, why are you here again?”
He’s given up trying to figure it out for himself. He needs her input.
“You overdosed,” she says and that’s not much of an explanation, at least not for Ryan, because he’s doubts the authenticity of that statement.
So he tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in the way that has never failed him in getting across the point of, ‘What the fuck?’
“Well not exactly overdosed,” she backtracks. “You took too many of the pain pills and since I’m the one that gave them to you, I didn’t want you to overdose, not that you would have, but your pulse was low and…”
She doesn’t finish what she’s trying to tell him.
Ryan’s used to dealing with Seth. He gets it, more or less, what she’s trying to say.
He attempts to take command of the situation and sitting in a bed isn’t exactly conveying the picture he wants, so he slides his legs towards the edge of the mattress, concentrating on not showing the full extent of pain he’s in and when he reaches his destination of standing upright, he scratches his hair at the top of his head and he asks, “I didn’t really overdose and that’s why you have my boxers on?”
“Well, no,” she says, tapping her heel in obvious nervousness.“I was hot. I already told you that.”
“Oh. Kay,” he nods once, as if that is that, no further discussion needed and he walks towards his bathroom because he’s pretty sure, judging by the sun’s position through the open window, he just slept 15 hours without taking a piss.
“That’s it?” she asks. “You don’t want to know anything else?”
“Yep. Nope.” He answers her, adding before he closes the bathroom door, “By the way, I need those today.”
He assumes she’ll figure out he’s referring to his boxers.
It’s not until he’s behind the closed door that he releases as deep of a breath that his bruised ribs will allow and unbuttons his jeans and rubs reflexively at his dick, because he’s got a serious hard-on and yeah, he could blame it on his need to use the toilet but…there was just a girl, no, a woman, standing in front of him with boobs practically popping out of her bra.
And as he leans against the wall and slides his jeans all the way down his legs and closes his eyes, he tells his bladder and ribs to go fuck themselves, because at the moment, there’s another part of his body demanding attention.
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“He didn’t even ask me why I was in his bed,” Ana tells Tessa, trying to disguise her disappointment.
He just left her standing there, in the middle of the room, feeling like an idiot.
“I mean, who does that? Who wakes up and sees another person sleeping on their bed, wearing their underwear…their boxers…and just stands up and goes in the bathroom? Who does that?”
“Evidently the Little Shit does,” Grail says smugly, rudely interrupting the conversation as he carries a keg on top of his shoulder. “So you and the kid did the horizontal mumbo jumbo, huh?” he asks her, gyrating and thrusting his hips.
Ana’s eyes pop out of her head and she looks at Grail as if he’s killing a baby with its own pacifier. Her mouth drops open and it takes her a second to regroup before she exclaims. “Oh my God! God...no. Absolutely not. We did not do… that! You’re a disgusting pig.”
“What?” Grail shrugs, setting down the keg and hoisting his pants over his beer gut. “Good for you. If the kid fucks as well as he moves around the mat, you must have gotten yourself quite a workout.”
Ana drops her head, shaking it in disbelief that Grail can still be considered part of the human race.
He starts gyrating again, thrusting at the keg. “Hey Tessa? Who am I?”
Tessa refuses to acknowledge the question, so Grail ups the ante a notch and adds dialogue to his display.
“Ohhhh, right there, right there baby. Harder, harder…”
Then he stops abruptly, because Ryan is standing at the bottom of the steps staring at all three of them.
And blinking.
Grail clears his throat and stands up straight and Ana mutters, “Oh God,” as she slumps, humiliated, into the booth she’s sitting in, hand covering her face.
She’s going to kill Grail.
Murder him with his own barstool.
“Buenos días, Ryan,” Tessa calls out, way, way louder than necessary, a big, innocent smile on her face. “You feeling better, yes?”
Ryan walks past them, not making eye contact as he mumbles, “I gotta’ go get my jeep.”
Ana almost offers to drive him, seeing as though his jeep is at her apartment, but...no…probably not a good idea.
She’ll just stay at the bar.
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Ryan hitches a ride from the guy across the street, Henry Sargio, who works construction during the day and drinks away his paychecks at the club each night.
“I go lento,” Henry assures Ryan, pointing to his stomach.
‘Lento,’ thinks Ryan, searching his limited but expanding Spanish vocabulary. ‘Lento.’ Slow. Henry’s going to drive slowly because he knows Ryan’s still hurting from the beating he took.
Henry was there at the cage. Witnessed the ass kicking. Ryan’s sure he remembers the guy’s blurry face through his bloody eyes.
He grimaces a half hearted smile indicating he appreciates Henry’s efforts.
The man smiles back and then proceeds to chat the entire way, mostly about his wife and daughters.
At least that’s what Ryan thinks Henry is talking about. He can only translate about every four words.
Anyway, he’s basically not paying any attention.
He’s thinking about Ana, about waking up to a girl in his bed and about another time he woke up in Mexico with a different girl in a bed, and he’s remembering Tijuana and pain pills and a real overdose with a real helicopter and Marissa, just a sweaty as he was this morning, being carried in his arms.
He was scared back there, back when she was still brand new to him, back when he thought he’d never seen a girl as beautiful and fragile as Marissa was.
She was barely breathing.
He knew she was upset about her father.
He should have kept a better eye on her.
Henry is droning on and on. He raises his voice in a question that Ryan wasn’t listening to so Ryan pretends to know what in the hell the one-sided conversation is about by nodding at the man before glancing back out the window.
He should have kept a better eye on Marissa.
He should have pulled his truck over. He should have protected her.
When he finally does find Volchok, and he will, he’s going to fucking kill him with his bare hands and he knows now, after months of fighting in the cage, that he can do it.
“We' re aquí,” Henry announces.
Ryan nods.
‘Aquí.’ Here. They are here, at Ana’s apartment house.
Ryan’s relieved to see that his jeep appears to still be in one piece. He’s amazed, given where he’s living, that it hasn’t been stolen or at least stripped. Grail lets him keep it in a locked garage, but he’s certain that one of these days the jeep is gonna’ get a working over.
That’s fine. It’ll help him blend in more.
He reaches for the door handle and thanks Henry for the ride while he fishes the jeep keys out of his pocket.
Ryan’s halfway back to the bar when he realizes that he has automatically taken the route that includes a drive-by of Drake’s house. He puts his sunglasses on as he approaches the exact street. And that’s when he sees it. Drake’s truck is in the driveway.
It shouldn’t be. It’s a Thursday and the guy is never around on a Thursday afternoon.
He tries to look into the house as he drives slowly past, but as always, the shades are drawn and it’s impossible to see anything. So he parks down the street at his usual spot, an abandoned house that conveniently has a big overgrown bush that’s big enough to obscure most of the jeep but provides a glimpse of Drake’s driveway.
And he waits.
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Part two of chapter two is posted.