Round Robin Fic
Okay, first of all, I apologize for taking so long to write this. My real life has been pretty hellish, lately, and I admit to having forgotten all about claiming this fic. *blushes*
But, I remembered, and I wrote the next installment.
Secondly, I have a problem with this chapter. It didn't go AT ALL like I'd planned. And I'm not really sure if I like it. But I've gone over it and over it, and no matter how I cchange it, it just won't do what I wanted it to do. And I'm disappointed with it.
But...*shrugs*
I'll put it out there.
And hope that it doesn't disappoint you guys.
Thirdly, I'm not that good at linking things. Which really means that I really have no clue how to link things. But I DO know how to do an LJ cut. (And I'm actually overly-proud of that...), so I'll copy all the previous chapters, but cut them.
*bites lip*
Here goes!
Title: What Goes Around
Background: Post "The Girlfriend." Angst, AU, and R 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.
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.
Part 5, by chazper
At the sight of the handprint, Ryan flinched. His hand twitched sideways in an involuntary erasing gesture, knocking a book off his nightstand. It fell, landing spine open on the floor. When Ryan just stared, frozen with horror, Sandy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“It’s just a book, kid,” he said, going to retrieve it.
The moment he moved, Ryan slid behind him. Almost panting, he backed against the glass so that his body blocked the telltale, greasy mark.
Sandy smoothed the book jacket as he stood up. “See-good as new. You didn’t do any permanent damage.”
Ryan took a deep, shuddering breath. He really, really hoped that was true.
“Thanks,” he murmured when Sandy turned around. “Thank you.” Without budging from the smudged window, he extended his hand.
Sandy’s forehead creased in a troubled frown as he studied Ryan’s flushed face. “You seem a little . . . off tonight, Ryan,” he observed, passing him the book. “You sure you’re okay?”
Clenching his jaw, Ryan gave a terse nod.
There was a moment of silence. Sandy rubbed his chin. He seemed to be considering what else to say and Ryan braced himself, expecting, knowing, what must be coming next. When he finally spoke, though, Sandy just said mildly, “All right, then. It’s been a long night. Get some sleep.”
Ramrod-stiff, Ryan nodded again.
Just go, he thought. Please.
At last-it seemed like forever-Sandy sighed softly and turned to leave.
Behind him, Ryan started to sag with relief.
“Oops. Almost forgot--” Snapping his fingers, Sandy wheeled around in the doorway. Instantly, Ryan stiffened again. “I was thinking about pancakes for breakfast. What do you say, kid? Blueberry or chocolate chip? Your call.”
“I . . . um . . .”
A rush of panic surged through Ryan.
It was hard enough enduring Sandy’s scrutiny, even when he could still hide in the dim pre-dawn shadows. But Kirsten? Ryan couldn’t bear the thought of facing Kirsten, not in harsh, unforgiving daylight, not knowing how the sight of him would sicken her, how she must feel about him since . . .
She had seen that photo.
She knew.
And Seth-Seth would be oblivious. He wouldn’t realize that everything had changed since he shambled blithely out of the pool house . . . was it just four hours ago?
It felt like a lifetime.
Ryan didn’t know how he could pretend to be normal with Seth. He wasn’t sure he could pretend to be normal at all.
“Actually, Sandy,” he mumbled, “I, um, I think I’ll sleep in. Just skip breakfast tomorrow.”
Sandy’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Skip it?” he chided gently. “The most important meal of the day?” His tone grew wheedling. “It’s not like we expect you in at 6:30. Eight o’clock will do fine. But you’ve got to eat something, kid. If you don’t want pancakes, at least have some cereal. Or there’s always the Cohen stand-by, bagels, breakfast of Bronx champions. Come on.” He tilted his head toward the book Ryan held. “You need nourishment for heavy reading like that.”
Clutching the volume-a copy of Crime and Punishment-Ryan licked his dry lips.
He wanted nothing more than to hide out in the pool house. At least until he could figure out what to do. But Sandy was waiting. Even without looking, Ryan could feel his probing, laser-blue gaze. He had to muster a natural-sounding response. Sandy wouldn’t leave until he did, and if he stayed, sooner or later he’d spy the handprint.
And then . . .
“Blueberry,” Ryan blurted. “Sounds great.”
Sandy grinned. “Good man. That would be my choice too. Told you we were cut from the same deck.”
But we’re not, Ryan thought in despair. We never were really. And now you know it.
“So, blueberry pancakes at eight. Be there or be square. Wait-do kids even say that anymore?”
Ryan shrugged.
“Yeah,” Sandy chuckled ruefully. “That’s what I figured. Okay, kid, I’ll let you get to bed.”
Reaching out, he clasped Ryan’s shoulder almost as though he intended a hug. At the last minute though, he simply squeezed it once and, his smile faltering, sighed and turned to go.
Ryan’s gaze followed each step until Sandy was out of sight.
Even then he held his breath, afraid to move, watching the clock tick off two minutes. Then he bolted for the bathroom. Grabbing a towel, he raced back and scrubbed the window clean with swift, vicious swipes.
Only when it was immaculate, all trace of the intruder gone, did Ryan slump to the floor. Instinctively, he pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and huddled against the wall. His fingernails dug into his thighs.
He felt like he was twelve again, trapped and exposed and helpless.
Dawn’s latest boyfriend, Mitch, had been living with them for almost three months before it began.
When the man first appeared Ryan had been wary. He had learned, from his father, from Dawn’s string of one-night stands, from the parade of deadbeats whom she called lovers, that safety meant being invisible. So he slipped though the house silently, keeping his distance, trying to make himself disappear.
After all, Ryan knew, this time might be worse than all the others. This time, he was on his own. Trey was serving six months in juvie for breaking and entering; he wouldn’t be around to deflect any blows. Ryan’s refuge at Theresa’s house wasn’t available either. Eva had sublet the place for the summer while she took the family to visit her mother in Mexico.
As for Dawn . . .
Ryan had no illusions that his mother could protect him. He doubted if she would even try. Ever since she had lost her last job-her eighth in less than a year-Dawn had slipped into a drug-and-booze induced haze. Sometimes, stumbling into Ryan as she slouched through the house, she would stop for a second, squinting at him as if she had no idea who he was.
Dawn barely remembered that she had any sons.
Ryan knew he had to take care of himself.
He tried to recall everything Trey had taught him, but Ryan realized that he wasn’t Trey. He wasn’t strong, or tough, or imposing. All Ryan saw when he looked in the mirror was a baby-faced pre-teen, so slight that he still seemed like he belonged in fourth grade.
That boy could never face down a grown man, especially the kind Dawn always brought home: selfish and quick-tempered and violent.
But her new boyfriend turned out to be different.
Or at least Mitch appeared that way.
At first.
Unlike any of Dawn’s other lovers, Mitch always seemed laid-back. Nothing ruffled him; nothing made him angry. He laughed a lot, and he never once ordered Ryan around, never shoved or dismissed or mocked him. In fact, Mitch acted . . . nice. It was kind of the way Ryan imagined that a fond uncle would behave. The man asked him about school, surprised him with milkshakes, or new clothes, or toys, even built a bookcase just for his models. All the attention made Ryan nervous at first. Something about it worried him, the way a brightly colored snake would, and he shied away just in case. But Mitch didn’t seem to mind. He just chuckled at Ryan’s careful, murmured “Thank yous”s, at the way he would retreat, polite but poised for flight.
“Damn, boy!” he would exclaim. “You gotta learn to loosen up a little! Have some fun! That’s what life is all about! Enjoy the good times, okay?”
Ryan tried. He wanted to. After all, he had never known a man so constantly good-natured. So generous.
Of course wasn’t blind: he realized that Mitch sold drugs, that he and his friends had taken over the Atwood home, that he fed Dawn’s habit and treated her less like a lover than a faceless, convenient lay.
But he never lifted his hand to her. Or to Ryan.
The feeling of safety was unfamiliar.
It was disarming too.
Slowly, gradually, Ryan let down his defenses. So when it finally happened, he wasn’t prepared at all.
Actually, he wasn’t even aware the night it started.
Mitch took the first photos when Ryan was asleep.
It had been a steamy evening, still and humid, holding on to the heat of the ninety-degree day. Ryan recalled stripping his tangled sheets off the bed. He didn’t remember taking off his briefs too but sometime during the night he must have.
He was naked in the pictures.
Ryan never saw them for weeks, though, not until the afternoon he came home, sweat-streaked and dirty after a pick-up baseball game in the park. He was racing for the kitchen and something-anything-cold to drink, when Mitch stepped out of his bedroom.
“Whoa! Hold up there, Ry!” he called. “Where’s the fire?”
“Sorry,” Ryan mumbled automatically. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I was just thirsty.”
“Hey, no problem.” With a chuckle, Mitch shook his head. “Looks to me like you could use a shower first, though. You’re pretty filthy there, boy. Don’t want to track all that dirt through the house, do you?”
“Oh.” Ryan glanced down, flushing, at the sight of his grimy clothes and skin. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Sorry. I’ll get cleaned up right away.”
Mitch nodded his approval. “You do that, Ry. Cool shower will feel good on a hot day anyway.”
It did too, all the way up to the moment when Ryan turned off the water and reached blindly for his towel.
It was gone.
Puzzled, he stepped out of the stall.
His clothes were gone too. Mitch was there though, leaning against the sink, focusing a camera on Ryan’s wet body.
“What are you doing?” he gasped. “Stop!”
Shrinking backwards, slipping on the damp floor, Ryan grabbed for the shower curtain, but before he could wrap it around himself Mitch wrenched it out of his hand. Then he yanked, hard, ripping the cheap plastic sheet off the rod.
“Come on, Ry.” He laughed as if they were sharing a joke. “No need to act shy. People take pictures of their naked kids all the time.”
A jumble of emotions-fear and shame and anger and feelings he couldn’t even name-churned through Ryan. He looked around wildly. There was nowhere to run, no way past Mitch’s hulking frame.
“Only babies!” he choked, trying to turn away. “And I’m not your kid!”
Mitch’s smile disappeared.
“No? You got a daddy, Ry? ‘Cause I never seen one. Far as I’m concerned, I’m the closest thing to a daddy that you’ll ever have. Now stand there and smile real pretty for the camera.”
Cupping his hands in front of his groin, Ryan retreated further into the corner. “No,” he hissed.
“What did you say to me?”
“No,” Ryan repeated. “I won’t. You can’t make me”
His eyes narrowing, Mitch lifted one hand and Ryan braced himself for the blow that he knew would follow. Only none came. Instead Mitch reached casually for a stack of photographs on the shelf next to him. He looked at the top one, pursing his mouth with satisfaction.
“Damn, boy,” he said, and his sick laugh returned. “Don’t know what you think you’re protectin’ there. It’s not like you’ve never posed for me before.”
“I haven’t!” Ryan cried. But then Mitch turned the picture toward him and he saw: his bed, his pillow, his own splayed limbs, his tumbled hair, his lashes, long and dark against his cheeks, his face, flushed and cherubic in sleep.
His naked body
Ryan looked up, horrified.
“You . . .” he whispered hoarsely. That was all he managed before his throat closed.
Mitch’s gaze caressed the picture before he put it away. Then he turned back to Ryan. “Got lots of those,” he said nonchalantly. “Been popular items, too. You’re a real good-lookin’ little kid, Ry. But the customers would kinda like to see some with your eyes open. So let’s just take a few shots like that and then, tell you what? I’ll take you out for some ice cream.”
Unable to speak, Ryan shook his head fiercely.
“Now, that is no way to behave after all I’ve done for you.” Mitch sighed. His voice sounded sorrowful, but something flashed in it too, bright and ominous, like red lights at a railroad crossing. “I been good to you, haven’t I, boy?”
Ryan nodded dully. It was true. But he realized that in some twisted way, the truth had been a lie all along.
“So now I’m askin’ you to do a little somethin’ for me. That’s only fair, right? And hey, it’s no big deal. Me takin’ a few pictures doesn’t hurt you none, does it?”
Only when Mitch repeated, “Does it?” the words drenched in acid, did Ryan recognize the threat. The man expected an answer. The right answer.
The one that would destroy Ryan.
He wanted to resist, but he didn’t know how.
“No,” he whispered.
“That’s right. It don’t. You know, Ry, there are things I could ask you to do . . .” Mitch let the words hover, like a hungry bird of prey, before he continued blandly. “But I’m not like guys who do that to kids. See, that’s wrong. These? These are just pictures. There are men who like to look at them-like ‘em enough to pay-but they’re not touchin’ you, right, Ry? So it’s no big deal, is it?”
Ryan swallowed hard, but he didn’t wait this time. “No,” he agreed thickly.
Mitch grinned and ruffled his hair. “Now see,” he chuckled, ignoring the way Ryan flinched, “I knew you were a smart kid. And besides, you want to help your mama, right?”
At that, Ryan’s head jerked up. “My mom?” he demanded. His voice rose and his breathing began to quicken. “What do you mean, help her?”
Mitch shrugged. “She owes me money,” he explained. “That little habit of hers, it costs, Ry. Costs a lot. Keeps her happy though, don’t it? But see, if she don’t pay soon . . . Well, I got some associates aren’t as nice as me. I been holdin’ ‘em off, but I got to give them somethin’ soon. Now sure, there’s a way Dawn could pay ‘em herself, but it’s pretty nasty and, well, I think you wouldn’t want that. You love your mama, don’t you, boy?
“Yes,” Ryan choked.
Suddenly he was freezing. He shivered and Mitch’s voice, sharp as icicles, scraped against his flesh.
“So you won’t mind if I take some more pictures then, right? It’ll be our little secret. Everybody wins: you get to help your mama, Dawn gets to stay happy, and I get to satisfy my associates. Perfect! So you just drop your hands and we’ll get started, okay?”
Ryan couldn’t make himself move.
“Your hands, Ry,” Mitch ordered and his eyes glinted. “Drop them. Now.”
Slowly, painfully, Ryan did.
Mitch’s jovial smile returned instantly. “That’s my boy!” he exclaimed. He winked, cocking his finger, and Ryan recoiled, seeing the implied gun, knowing that he was its target. “Now just remember, Ry,” Mitch continued as he raised the camera. “You and me got a deal. You live up to your side, I’ll take good care of your mama, and everything will be fine.”
It wasn’t fine.
It made Ryan feel sick and dirty.
Mitch took photos almost every other day, sometimes with Ryan half-dressed, sometimes completely naked, and once even outdoors, on an abandoned playground. The man never touched him, but every smile, every stray glance, every chortled “That’s my boy!” made Ryan’s flesh burn.
He felt like a stranger inside his own skin.
At the time, it seemed to go on forever, but afterwards Ryan realized that “the deal” didn’t really last long. Barely three weeks after Mitch surprised him in the shower, Dawn burst through the front door late one night, flinging herself on the sofa and sobbing incoherently. The noise woke Ryan. Terrified, he tiptoed into the living room.
“Ma?” he whispered, touching her matted hair.
Dawn didn’t even raise her head.
All Ryan could make out was “Mitch” and “busted” and “prison” and a long, keening wail of “What’ll we do without him, Ry?”
She cried for six days straight.
“Best guy I ever met,” she sniffed finally, wiping her eyes on her bare arm as she pulled Ryan close. “He loved us so much, kiddo. He coulda been your new daddy.”
Ryan shuddered at the thought.
He couldn’t celebrate Mitch’s arrest, though. His own freedom felt too fragile. At any moment, he expected the man to come back. Ryan was sure that he would manage to get the charges dropped, or make parole, or escape.
He would just show up, laughing, as if he had never left.
Even when Dawn got involved with another man-a drunk who answered each perceived slight with his fists-Ryan still dreaded Mitch’s return. He could deal with the beatings. Physical pain felt better than degradation. In fact, deep inside he felt he deserved every blow. There had to be punishment for what he had done.
What Mitch had made him do.
Ryan lived in fear of having to do it again.
But Mitch never returned. As abruptly as he had entered Ryan’s life, the man disappeared.
Ryan prayed that the pictures had vanished too.
And eventually he managed to shove them, and Mitch, and even his constant, queasy sense of shame, into a dark recess of his soul. Ryan couldn’t forget them, but he could ignore them, and he had, repressing the memories so completely that they became no more than a hazy nightmare.
Until suddenly there they all were again, alive and more evil than ever: Mitch and the pictures, and Ryan’s whole perverted past.
In Newport.
In the poolhouse.
In Sandy’s and Kirsten’s hands.
And Ryan had no choice.
He would have to face them all, because Seth’s ebullient voice was caroling from the patio, “Ryan? Ryan, you awake? Let’s go, my man Atwood, breakfast is served!”
Part 6, by TeacherTam
Ryan assured Seth that he would hurry in to breakfast, and waited for Seth to close the doors on his way back out of the pool house. He laid back onto his pillows, covering his eyes with his forearm, trying to block out the light. The day. The problems.
The photo.
Which photo did they have? He’d only seen one. Maybe…maybe it wasn’t one of the worst ones.
Who was he kidding? Sure, some of the photos were worse than others, but it was all a matter of degrees of evil. No matter which photo it was, it was still horrible. They still knew what Ryan had done.
How was he going to face them? Now that they knew? What would they do next?
He had been sure that Sandy would kick him out, but…he’d seemed so eager to help.
Not that he COULD help. Ryan had done those things. It was his fault. He had brought that evil here. And now, Mitch would demand money from the Cohens.
Had Mitch been the one to send the envelope to them? Was that envelope the blackmail letter? Or had someone else sent that letter to the Cohens.
Who else knew?
Ryan groaned, dreading this breakfast, but knowing that he had to get into the house, or the Cohens would be suspicious. And as long as they were willing to keep this whole thing quiet, then he was, as well.
Ryan dragged himself out of bed and went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth. He didn’t bother to turn on the light, and--as always--he avoided looking at himself in the mirror. Ever since Mitch, his own reflection had sickened him. He couldn’t bear to look at himself, knowing what he had done. Knowing how dirty he was.
After he finished with his teeth, he took a deep breath and headed into the kitchen.
OCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOC
The family was seated around the table, silently eating their pancakes.
Sandy and Kirsten were trying hard to keep smiles on their faces, but it was clear that they were very concerned about something. Even Seth, ever absorbed in his own affairs, noticed. Thankfully, though, he did not seem to know what was bothering his parents.
Ryan sat in his seat, attempting to force the pancakes down, hoping to just get through this breakfast and head out to the pool house. He still did not know what he was going to do about all of this. If he just left, would Mitch leave the Cohens alone? Would the Cohens leave him alone? Or would they try to find him. And if they did try to find him…why?
Ryan forced himself to swallow another bite of pancakes, but it was like swallowing thick paper, and he could not eat another bite. He put his fork down, and stared at his plate.
Sandy noticed, and Ryan wanted to get out, but he couldn’t think. He’d had so little sleep. Even after Sandy had left the pool house, it had been so long before he had drifted off, and it was so hard to get his thoughts into any kind of order.
“Kid?” Sandy asked, concern heavy in his voice.
Ryan could not bring himself to answer. He could not make himself get up. He could not function, anymore. Mitch had won. He was finished. It was all over.
He had to move.
But he was stuck.
“Seth,” Sandy said, quietly, “you need to give us some time alone with Ryan.”
Seth began to argue, but Sandy cut him off, quickly, firmly ordering his son out. “Now, Seth. No arguments. No comments. Go.”
Seth’s mouth hung open, for a moment, then, glancing between his parents and his friend, he seemed to realize that something more serious than he had imagined was going on, and he scooted his chair out from the table. “Okay, man. You talk to the parents. Then come get me, and we’ll kick some ninja ass.” With one last, concerned look at Ryan, Seth headed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room.
Ryan wished that he could just fade away. Or walk away. But he seemed to be out of choices. And energy.
Sandy stood up, and started to move around the table to Ryan’s side. Ryan inhaled sharply, not wanting to be within reach of his foster father for this confrontation. He needed personal space. But he couldn’t find a way to say anything.
Sandy sat next to Ryan, placed his hand on Ryan’s right knee. Squeezed it.
“Kid. I’m guessing that you know something’s up. You’re a smart kid, and I think that Kirsten and I aren’t very good at keeping secrets. Please, talk to us.”
Ryan chewed on his lower lip, eyes locked on the table. Unable to speak. This had happened, before. Often, when things got overwhelming, Ryan became mute. He wanted to speak. Tried to speak. But couldn’t. Trey used to make fun of him for it, calling him a retard, but Ryan could never force himself out of it. It usually only made the situation worse, further angering whichever man in his mom’s life was already pissed off at him, but he could never do anything about it.
The way it usually resolved itself was that the angry man would beat him senseless, and he’d wake up the next morning, sore, but no longer in danger. Once the danger had passed, he was usually able to speak, again.
But it sucked. And it hadn’t happened in a while. Ryan guessed that it was the return of Mitch. The return of his biggest shame.
So. How was he going to get himself talking again?
tbc by????
So. There it is.
*worried*
But, I remembered, and I wrote the next installment.
Secondly, I have a problem with this chapter. It didn't go AT ALL like I'd planned. And I'm not really sure if I like it. But I've gone over it and over it, and no matter how I cchange it, it just won't do what I wanted it to do. And I'm disappointed with it.
But...*shrugs*
I'll put it out there.
And hope that it doesn't disappoint you guys.
Thirdly, I'm not that good at linking things. Which really means that I really have no clue how to link things. But I DO know how to do an LJ cut. (And I'm actually overly-proud of that...), so I'll copy all the previous chapters, but cut them.
*bites lip*
Here goes!
Title: What Goes Around
Background: Post "The Girlfriend." Angst, AU, and R 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.
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.
Part 5, by chazper
At the sight of the handprint, Ryan flinched. His hand twitched sideways in an involuntary erasing gesture, knocking a book off his nightstand. It fell, landing spine open on the floor. When Ryan just stared, frozen with horror, Sandy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“It’s just a book, kid,” he said, going to retrieve it.
The moment he moved, Ryan slid behind him. Almost panting, he backed against the glass so that his body blocked the telltale, greasy mark.
Sandy smoothed the book jacket as he stood up. “See-good as new. You didn’t do any permanent damage.”
Ryan took a deep, shuddering breath. He really, really hoped that was true.
“Thanks,” he murmured when Sandy turned around. “Thank you.” Without budging from the smudged window, he extended his hand.
Sandy’s forehead creased in a troubled frown as he studied Ryan’s flushed face. “You seem a little . . . off tonight, Ryan,” he observed, passing him the book. “You sure you’re okay?”
Clenching his jaw, Ryan gave a terse nod.
There was a moment of silence. Sandy rubbed his chin. He seemed to be considering what else to say and Ryan braced himself, expecting, knowing, what must be coming next. When he finally spoke, though, Sandy just said mildly, “All right, then. It’s been a long night. Get some sleep.”
Ramrod-stiff, Ryan nodded again.
Just go, he thought. Please.
At last-it seemed like forever-Sandy sighed softly and turned to leave.
Behind him, Ryan started to sag with relief.
“Oops. Almost forgot--” Snapping his fingers, Sandy wheeled around in the doorway. Instantly, Ryan stiffened again. “I was thinking about pancakes for breakfast. What do you say, kid? Blueberry or chocolate chip? Your call.”
“I . . . um . . .”
A rush of panic surged through Ryan.
It was hard enough enduring Sandy’s scrutiny, even when he could still hide in the dim pre-dawn shadows. But Kirsten? Ryan couldn’t bear the thought of facing Kirsten, not in harsh, unforgiving daylight, not knowing how the sight of him would sicken her, how she must feel about him since . . .
She had seen that photo.
She knew.
And Seth-Seth would be oblivious. He wouldn’t realize that everything had changed since he shambled blithely out of the pool house . . . was it just four hours ago?
It felt like a lifetime.
Ryan didn’t know how he could pretend to be normal with Seth. He wasn’t sure he could pretend to be normal at all.
“Actually, Sandy,” he mumbled, “I, um, I think I’ll sleep in. Just skip breakfast tomorrow.”
Sandy’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Skip it?” he chided gently. “The most important meal of the day?” His tone grew wheedling. “It’s not like we expect you in at 6:30. Eight o’clock will do fine. But you’ve got to eat something, kid. If you don’t want pancakes, at least have some cereal. Or there’s always the Cohen stand-by, bagels, breakfast of Bronx champions. Come on.” He tilted his head toward the book Ryan held. “You need nourishment for heavy reading like that.”
Clutching the volume-a copy of Crime and Punishment-Ryan licked his dry lips.
He wanted nothing more than to hide out in the pool house. At least until he could figure out what to do. But Sandy was waiting. Even without looking, Ryan could feel his probing, laser-blue gaze. He had to muster a natural-sounding response. Sandy wouldn’t leave until he did, and if he stayed, sooner or later he’d spy the handprint.
And then . . .
“Blueberry,” Ryan blurted. “Sounds great.”
Sandy grinned. “Good man. That would be my choice too. Told you we were cut from the same deck.”
But we’re not, Ryan thought in despair. We never were really. And now you know it.
“So, blueberry pancakes at eight. Be there or be square. Wait-do kids even say that anymore?”
Ryan shrugged.
“Yeah,” Sandy chuckled ruefully. “That’s what I figured. Okay, kid, I’ll let you get to bed.”
Reaching out, he clasped Ryan’s shoulder almost as though he intended a hug. At the last minute though, he simply squeezed it once and, his smile faltering, sighed and turned to go.
Ryan’s gaze followed each step until Sandy was out of sight.
Even then he held his breath, afraid to move, watching the clock tick off two minutes. Then he bolted for the bathroom. Grabbing a towel, he raced back and scrubbed the window clean with swift, vicious swipes.
Only when it was immaculate, all trace of the intruder gone, did Ryan slump to the floor. Instinctively, he pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and huddled against the wall. His fingernails dug into his thighs.
He felt like he was twelve again, trapped and exposed and helpless.
Dawn’s latest boyfriend, Mitch, had been living with them for almost three months before it began.
When the man first appeared Ryan had been wary. He had learned, from his father, from Dawn’s string of one-night stands, from the parade of deadbeats whom she called lovers, that safety meant being invisible. So he slipped though the house silently, keeping his distance, trying to make himself disappear.
After all, Ryan knew, this time might be worse than all the others. This time, he was on his own. Trey was serving six months in juvie for breaking and entering; he wouldn’t be around to deflect any blows. Ryan’s refuge at Theresa’s house wasn’t available either. Eva had sublet the place for the summer while she took the family to visit her mother in Mexico.
As for Dawn . . .
Ryan had no illusions that his mother could protect him. He doubted if she would even try. Ever since she had lost her last job-her eighth in less than a year-Dawn had slipped into a drug-and-booze induced haze. Sometimes, stumbling into Ryan as she slouched through the house, she would stop for a second, squinting at him as if she had no idea who he was.
Dawn barely remembered that she had any sons.
Ryan knew he had to take care of himself.
He tried to recall everything Trey had taught him, but Ryan realized that he wasn’t Trey. He wasn’t strong, or tough, or imposing. All Ryan saw when he looked in the mirror was a baby-faced pre-teen, so slight that he still seemed like he belonged in fourth grade.
That boy could never face down a grown man, especially the kind Dawn always brought home: selfish and quick-tempered and violent.
But her new boyfriend turned out to be different.
Or at least Mitch appeared that way.
At first.
Unlike any of Dawn’s other lovers, Mitch always seemed laid-back. Nothing ruffled him; nothing made him angry. He laughed a lot, and he never once ordered Ryan around, never shoved or dismissed or mocked him. In fact, Mitch acted . . . nice. It was kind of the way Ryan imagined that a fond uncle would behave. The man asked him about school, surprised him with milkshakes, or new clothes, or toys, even built a bookcase just for his models. All the attention made Ryan nervous at first. Something about it worried him, the way a brightly colored snake would, and he shied away just in case. But Mitch didn’t seem to mind. He just chuckled at Ryan’s careful, murmured “Thank yous”s, at the way he would retreat, polite but poised for flight.
“Damn, boy!” he would exclaim. “You gotta learn to loosen up a little! Have some fun! That’s what life is all about! Enjoy the good times, okay?”
Ryan tried. He wanted to. After all, he had never known a man so constantly good-natured. So generous.
Of course wasn’t blind: he realized that Mitch sold drugs, that he and his friends had taken over the Atwood home, that he fed Dawn’s habit and treated her less like a lover than a faceless, convenient lay.
But he never lifted his hand to her. Or to Ryan.
The feeling of safety was unfamiliar.
It was disarming too.
Slowly, gradually, Ryan let down his defenses. So when it finally happened, he wasn’t prepared at all.
Actually, he wasn’t even aware the night it started.
Mitch took the first photos when Ryan was asleep.
It had been a steamy evening, still and humid, holding on to the heat of the ninety-degree day. Ryan recalled stripping his tangled sheets off the bed. He didn’t remember taking off his briefs too but sometime during the night he must have.
He was naked in the pictures.
Ryan never saw them for weeks, though, not until the afternoon he came home, sweat-streaked and dirty after a pick-up baseball game in the park. He was racing for the kitchen and something-anything-cold to drink, when Mitch stepped out of his bedroom.
“Whoa! Hold up there, Ry!” he called. “Where’s the fire?”
“Sorry,” Ryan mumbled automatically. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I was just thirsty.”
“Hey, no problem.” With a chuckle, Mitch shook his head. “Looks to me like you could use a shower first, though. You’re pretty filthy there, boy. Don’t want to track all that dirt through the house, do you?”
“Oh.” Ryan glanced down, flushing, at the sight of his grimy clothes and skin. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Sorry. I’ll get cleaned up right away.”
Mitch nodded his approval. “You do that, Ry. Cool shower will feel good on a hot day anyway.”
It did too, all the way up to the moment when Ryan turned off the water and reached blindly for his towel.
It was gone.
Puzzled, he stepped out of the stall.
His clothes were gone too. Mitch was there though, leaning against the sink, focusing a camera on Ryan’s wet body.
“What are you doing?” he gasped. “Stop!”
Shrinking backwards, slipping on the damp floor, Ryan grabbed for the shower curtain, but before he could wrap it around himself Mitch wrenched it out of his hand. Then he yanked, hard, ripping the cheap plastic sheet off the rod.
“Come on, Ry.” He laughed as if they were sharing a joke. “No need to act shy. People take pictures of their naked kids all the time.”
A jumble of emotions-fear and shame and anger and feelings he couldn’t even name-churned through Ryan. He looked around wildly. There was nowhere to run, no way past Mitch’s hulking frame.
“Only babies!” he choked, trying to turn away. “And I’m not your kid!”
Mitch’s smile disappeared.
“No? You got a daddy, Ry? ‘Cause I never seen one. Far as I’m concerned, I’m the closest thing to a daddy that you’ll ever have. Now stand there and smile real pretty for the camera.”
Cupping his hands in front of his groin, Ryan retreated further into the corner. “No,” he hissed.
“What did you say to me?”
“No,” Ryan repeated. “I won’t. You can’t make me”
His eyes narrowing, Mitch lifted one hand and Ryan braced himself for the blow that he knew would follow. Only none came. Instead Mitch reached casually for a stack of photographs on the shelf next to him. He looked at the top one, pursing his mouth with satisfaction.
“Damn, boy,” he said, and his sick laugh returned. “Don’t know what you think you’re protectin’ there. It’s not like you’ve never posed for me before.”
“I haven’t!” Ryan cried. But then Mitch turned the picture toward him and he saw: his bed, his pillow, his own splayed limbs, his tumbled hair, his lashes, long and dark against his cheeks, his face, flushed and cherubic in sleep.
His naked body
Ryan looked up, horrified.
“You . . .” he whispered hoarsely. That was all he managed before his throat closed.
Mitch’s gaze caressed the picture before he put it away. Then he turned back to Ryan. “Got lots of those,” he said nonchalantly. “Been popular items, too. You’re a real good-lookin’ little kid, Ry. But the customers would kinda like to see some with your eyes open. So let’s just take a few shots like that and then, tell you what? I’ll take you out for some ice cream.”
Unable to speak, Ryan shook his head fiercely.
“Now, that is no way to behave after all I’ve done for you.” Mitch sighed. His voice sounded sorrowful, but something flashed in it too, bright and ominous, like red lights at a railroad crossing. “I been good to you, haven’t I, boy?”
Ryan nodded dully. It was true. But he realized that in some twisted way, the truth had been a lie all along.
“So now I’m askin’ you to do a little somethin’ for me. That’s only fair, right? And hey, it’s no big deal. Me takin’ a few pictures doesn’t hurt you none, does it?”
Only when Mitch repeated, “Does it?” the words drenched in acid, did Ryan recognize the threat. The man expected an answer. The right answer.
The one that would destroy Ryan.
He wanted to resist, but he didn’t know how.
“No,” he whispered.
“That’s right. It don’t. You know, Ry, there are things I could ask you to do . . .” Mitch let the words hover, like a hungry bird of prey, before he continued blandly. “But I’m not like guys who do that to kids. See, that’s wrong. These? These are just pictures. There are men who like to look at them-like ‘em enough to pay-but they’re not touchin’ you, right, Ry? So it’s no big deal, is it?”
Ryan swallowed hard, but he didn’t wait this time. “No,” he agreed thickly.
Mitch grinned and ruffled his hair. “Now see,” he chuckled, ignoring the way Ryan flinched, “I knew you were a smart kid. And besides, you want to help your mama, right?”
At that, Ryan’s head jerked up. “My mom?” he demanded. His voice rose and his breathing began to quicken. “What do you mean, help her?”
Mitch shrugged. “She owes me money,” he explained. “That little habit of hers, it costs, Ry. Costs a lot. Keeps her happy though, don’t it? But see, if she don’t pay soon . . . Well, I got some associates aren’t as nice as me. I been holdin’ ‘em off, but I got to give them somethin’ soon. Now sure, there’s a way Dawn could pay ‘em herself, but it’s pretty nasty and, well, I think you wouldn’t want that. You love your mama, don’t you, boy?
“Yes,” Ryan choked.
Suddenly he was freezing. He shivered and Mitch’s voice, sharp as icicles, scraped against his flesh.
“So you won’t mind if I take some more pictures then, right? It’ll be our little secret. Everybody wins: you get to help your mama, Dawn gets to stay happy, and I get to satisfy my associates. Perfect! So you just drop your hands and we’ll get started, okay?”
Ryan couldn’t make himself move.
“Your hands, Ry,” Mitch ordered and his eyes glinted. “Drop them. Now.”
Slowly, painfully, Ryan did.
Mitch’s jovial smile returned instantly. “That’s my boy!” he exclaimed. He winked, cocking his finger, and Ryan recoiled, seeing the implied gun, knowing that he was its target. “Now just remember, Ry,” Mitch continued as he raised the camera. “You and me got a deal. You live up to your side, I’ll take good care of your mama, and everything will be fine.”
It wasn’t fine.
It made Ryan feel sick and dirty.
Mitch took photos almost every other day, sometimes with Ryan half-dressed, sometimes completely naked, and once even outdoors, on an abandoned playground. The man never touched him, but every smile, every stray glance, every chortled “That’s my boy!” made Ryan’s flesh burn.
He felt like a stranger inside his own skin.
At the time, it seemed to go on forever, but afterwards Ryan realized that “the deal” didn’t really last long. Barely three weeks after Mitch surprised him in the shower, Dawn burst through the front door late one night, flinging herself on the sofa and sobbing incoherently. The noise woke Ryan. Terrified, he tiptoed into the living room.
“Ma?” he whispered, touching her matted hair.
Dawn didn’t even raise her head.
All Ryan could make out was “Mitch” and “busted” and “prison” and a long, keening wail of “What’ll we do without him, Ry?”
She cried for six days straight.
“Best guy I ever met,” she sniffed finally, wiping her eyes on her bare arm as she pulled Ryan close. “He loved us so much, kiddo. He coulda been your new daddy.”
Ryan shuddered at the thought.
He couldn’t celebrate Mitch’s arrest, though. His own freedom felt too fragile. At any moment, he expected the man to come back. Ryan was sure that he would manage to get the charges dropped, or make parole, or escape.
He would just show up, laughing, as if he had never left.
Even when Dawn got involved with another man-a drunk who answered each perceived slight with his fists-Ryan still dreaded Mitch’s return. He could deal with the beatings. Physical pain felt better than degradation. In fact, deep inside he felt he deserved every blow. There had to be punishment for what he had done.
What Mitch had made him do.
Ryan lived in fear of having to do it again.
But Mitch never returned. As abruptly as he had entered Ryan’s life, the man disappeared.
Ryan prayed that the pictures had vanished too.
And eventually he managed to shove them, and Mitch, and even his constant, queasy sense of shame, into a dark recess of his soul. Ryan couldn’t forget them, but he could ignore them, and he had, repressing the memories so completely that they became no more than a hazy nightmare.
Until suddenly there they all were again, alive and more evil than ever: Mitch and the pictures, and Ryan’s whole perverted past.
In Newport.
In the poolhouse.
In Sandy’s and Kirsten’s hands.
And Ryan had no choice.
He would have to face them all, because Seth’s ebullient voice was caroling from the patio, “Ryan? Ryan, you awake? Let’s go, my man Atwood, breakfast is served!”
Part 6, by TeacherTam
Ryan assured Seth that he would hurry in to breakfast, and waited for Seth to close the doors on his way back out of the pool house. He laid back onto his pillows, covering his eyes with his forearm, trying to block out the light. The day. The problems.
The photo.
Which photo did they have? He’d only seen one. Maybe…maybe it wasn’t one of the worst ones.
Who was he kidding? Sure, some of the photos were worse than others, but it was all a matter of degrees of evil. No matter which photo it was, it was still horrible. They still knew what Ryan had done.
How was he going to face them? Now that they knew? What would they do next?
He had been sure that Sandy would kick him out, but…he’d seemed so eager to help.
Not that he COULD help. Ryan had done those things. It was his fault. He had brought that evil here. And now, Mitch would demand money from the Cohens.
Had Mitch been the one to send the envelope to them? Was that envelope the blackmail letter? Or had someone else sent that letter to the Cohens.
Who else knew?
Ryan groaned, dreading this breakfast, but knowing that he had to get into the house, or the Cohens would be suspicious. And as long as they were willing to keep this whole thing quiet, then he was, as well.
Ryan dragged himself out of bed and went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth. He didn’t bother to turn on the light, and--as always--he avoided looking at himself in the mirror. Ever since Mitch, his own reflection had sickened him. He couldn’t bear to look at himself, knowing what he had done. Knowing how dirty he was.
After he finished with his teeth, he took a deep breath and headed into the kitchen.
OCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOCOC
The family was seated around the table, silently eating their pancakes.
Sandy and Kirsten were trying hard to keep smiles on their faces, but it was clear that they were very concerned about something. Even Seth, ever absorbed in his own affairs, noticed. Thankfully, though, he did not seem to know what was bothering his parents.
Ryan sat in his seat, attempting to force the pancakes down, hoping to just get through this breakfast and head out to the pool house. He still did not know what he was going to do about all of this. If he just left, would Mitch leave the Cohens alone? Would the Cohens leave him alone? Or would they try to find him. And if they did try to find him…why?
Ryan forced himself to swallow another bite of pancakes, but it was like swallowing thick paper, and he could not eat another bite. He put his fork down, and stared at his plate.
Sandy noticed, and Ryan wanted to get out, but he couldn’t think. He’d had so little sleep. Even after Sandy had left the pool house, it had been so long before he had drifted off, and it was so hard to get his thoughts into any kind of order.
“Kid?” Sandy asked, concern heavy in his voice.
Ryan could not bring himself to answer. He could not make himself get up. He could not function, anymore. Mitch had won. He was finished. It was all over.
He had to move.
But he was stuck.
“Seth,” Sandy said, quietly, “you need to give us some time alone with Ryan.”
Seth began to argue, but Sandy cut him off, quickly, firmly ordering his son out. “Now, Seth. No arguments. No comments. Go.”
Seth’s mouth hung open, for a moment, then, glancing between his parents and his friend, he seemed to realize that something more serious than he had imagined was going on, and he scooted his chair out from the table. “Okay, man. You talk to the parents. Then come get me, and we’ll kick some ninja ass.” With one last, concerned look at Ryan, Seth headed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room.
Ryan wished that he could just fade away. Or walk away. But he seemed to be out of choices. And energy.
Sandy stood up, and started to move around the table to Ryan’s side. Ryan inhaled sharply, not wanting to be within reach of his foster father for this confrontation. He needed personal space. But he couldn’t find a way to say anything.
Sandy sat next to Ryan, placed his hand on Ryan’s right knee. Squeezed it.
“Kid. I’m guessing that you know something’s up. You’re a smart kid, and I think that Kirsten and I aren’t very good at keeping secrets. Please, talk to us.”
Ryan chewed on his lower lip, eyes locked on the table. Unable to speak. This had happened, before. Often, when things got overwhelming, Ryan became mute. He wanted to speak. Tried to speak. But couldn’t. Trey used to make fun of him for it, calling him a retard, but Ryan could never force himself out of it. It usually only made the situation worse, further angering whichever man in his mom’s life was already pissed off at him, but he could never do anything about it.
The way it usually resolved itself was that the angry man would beat him senseless, and he’d wake up the next morning, sore, but no longer in danger. Once the danger had passed, he was usually able to speak, again.
But it sucked. And it hadn’t happened in a while. Ryan guessed that it was the return of Mitch. The return of his biggest shame.
So. How was he going to get himself talking again?
tbc by????
So. There it is.
*worried*