Author's Note: Just a ditty about Chino!Ryan! Sorry folks, I tried, but I hate Newport. So I dragged the kid kicking and screaming back to Chino—where all is sunshine and happiness—Ryan still has a bit of a sack—is a little less of an Eeyore—and his brother hasn't fallen under the spell of the lava lamp —which I completely blame for his evil ways.
Special thanks go out to overnighter for kicking me in the butt to get moving on this and providing me with some invaluable comments and suggestions (and the initial inspiration through one particular description of Ryan in the ab-fab The Reno ) and, of course, to crashcmb who remains the best beta in the business.
Since Ryan was either 16 or 17 his first year in Newport—and apparently repeated 11th grade there, he's a Sophomore here. So sue me. I own nothing—nothing. Not these characters—or their evil opposite characters over in Newport.
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Bang
Ryan was standing, his shoulders and the back of his head resting against the warm red brick of the building behind him. The heel of his boot was propped up, flat against the wall, bracing him, and the thumb of his right hand was resting loosely on the shelf it created of his thigh, a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingertips. Without opening his eyes, he lifted his face towards the warm spring sun, raised his hand and took another deep drag.
He had ten minutes before his sixth period American History class and had ducked out the back door for a quick smoke. While not exactly patently sanctioned, smoking was begrudgingly tolerated in this one section of the school grounds—for the kids who were over eighteen, anyway. As for the rest of them—well, the administration had recently begun cracking down on the underaged smokers—not that Ryan was overly concerned. The system of discipline placed into effect amounted to three-strikes and a one-day suspension. Ryan could do the time blindfolded, gagged and standing on one hand—besides, the school year was almost over and he had only accumulated one strike so far.
After the third obnoxious blare of the horn, Ryan slit his eyes open in annoyance, turned his head—without even bothering to expend the energy necessary to actually lift it from the wall behind him—and followed the sound to a white pickup—parked just outside the chain-link fencing that marked the outer periphery of the school's back lot.
Fuck!
"Hey, man. I think that dude's trying to get your attention."
Ryan looked down at the little, skinny, redheaded kid sitting a few feet to the left of him, knees to chest, back to wall, sucking on his own cigarette—as bored as he was. A freshman, maybe. Ryan wasn't sure he'd ever seen him before. Though that didn't mean a whole hell of a lot. It wasn't like Ryan was the social chair of Chino Hills—not by a long shot.
"Ya think?" He muttered, taking another drag, before exerting pressure on the heel of his raised foot, pushing his shoulders from the wall and standing upright. He cautiously made his way to the chest-high fence, knowing that there could be no good reason why he'd be summoned like this—in the middle of a school day. As his stomach clenched in anticipation—and dread—he worked to keep his expression passive—bored even.
When he reached the fence, he took another drag on the cigarette, squinted through the open window and waited to see what the man wanted.
"Get in," AJ demanded, jerking his head towards the passenger seat.
"I'm—uh—I'm kinda busy," Ryan gestured behind him with a wave of the cigarette, "you know—with school and all."
"Just get in the fucking truck, man. School's out."
"Marshall—Mellors—Taylor––Mitchell—Wilkens—Atwood!"
Ryan turned. The vice principal, Mr. Logan, was standing, his body still positioned halfway in the building, propping the heavy, gray, inoperable emergency exit open with a battered, tousled penny-loafer and writing down names on the small, red, rectangular sheets that were affixed to the clipboard he held awkwardly in front of him. A half-dozen kids jumped—almost in unison—and flicked away the evidence they held between their fingertips—before roughly assembling in a fidgety, pissed-off line, waiting for him to fill out their warning slips and admit them back into the building.
Ryan stayed where he was, watching over his shoulder as the other kids scrambled into position. He took another drag. Fuck it. He'd already been caught. No point in throwing away a perfectly good cigarette.
"I ain't playing, man. Get in the fucking truck—now."
Jesus, this must be worse than he thought.
"Why? What's goin' on?"
"You know why—and I ain't asking you again."
Confused, but fairly certain that at least nobody was dead, Ryan finally flicked away his butt. He put his right hand on the fence's top rail, stuck the toe of his boot through one of the links for leverage, and hopped over the fence in one fluid motion. As he landed cleanly on the other side, he heard his name called out sharply from behind again.
"Mr. Atwood!"
He turned.
"Just where do you think you're going?" Logan was rushing down the metal steps—leaving the doorway momentarily unattended. The redheaded kid was attentive enough to seize the opportunity to grab the door just before it slammed shut. The small, scraggily line of underaged smokers rushed in and disappeared, the door closing behind them with a definitive—and audible—click.
"I've gotta go—it's a—uh—it's a family emergency," Ryan explained, fully aware of how feeble his excuse sounded.
Logan stayed where he was, at the bottom of the steps leading from the back of the building—a good ten yards away—and exaggerated a glance from Ryan to the sketchy-looking older guy in the white t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up tight over the obscenely overdeveloped biceps, who was sitting in the front seat of the truck. Ryan watched as the administrator's face registered his disgust and disappointment—and he knew that Logan must have thought he'd interrupted something illegal—a drug deal, most probably. After all, it wasn't like the Atwoods didn't have a history—considering Trey'd been expelled and his records transferred to Chino Valley after Romie the drug dog alerted to his locker during a random sniff-search—and cops found a roach holding his place at Chapter 4 of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.
"If it really is a family emergency, have the gentleman come inside, we'll verify it—and we'll sign you out. Otherwise, you'll be leaving campus without permission. If you do that? It's an automatic 3-day truancy suspension—and you and I both know that you can't afford to add that to your record."
Ryan turned and looked pointedly at AJ.
"He can suspend you—I can end you—it's your call, hotshot."
Ryan stood, head tilted to one side, and processed the consequences of his choices—it didn't take long. After just a few seconds, he signaled his decision by cocking his head decidedly in the other direction and tossing a vague apology in Logan's direction, "Look, man—I'm—I'm sorry—but, I gotta do this—I gotta go." Ryan walked around the front of AJ's truck.
Logan called out again, just as Ryan reached for the door handle. "I want to see you—and your mother—in my office, first thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand me?" Annoyed, Ryan gave a modified version of the official Trey Atwood salute in response—putting his index and middle finger to his temple for just a second—before flicking his wrist and pointing his index finger at Logan. Had it been his brother—the administrator would have been on the receiving end of the other finger.
He jerked open the car door and jumped into the seat next to his mother's boyfriend.
"Do you mind telling me what's goin' on?" he asked, once the truck pulled away from the curb.
"Nah—I'd rather you tell me," AJ grunted in response.
"I—I have absolutely no idea what this is all about."
"Bullshit. You're a lousy fucking liar, Atwood."
Ryan secured his seatbelt and pressed himself tightly against the passenger-side door—reached over his right shoulder with his left hand and pushed down the lock.
"Jesus, AJ, I'm not lying—so why don't you knock off all this fucking cryptic bullshit and just tell me what it is you think I've done—what's important enough that I gotta get myself suspended—what's important enough I gotta drag my mom to school tomorrow—make her miss a shift?" Ryan was suddenly weary again. His eyes were half-shut—he rested the side of his forehead against the cool glass of the car door—and he feigned indifference—even as he calculated whether he was still within AJ's reach—and watched for any sudden movement from AJ's right hand.
"You think I give a shit—you get suspended? Suspended, expelled—who cares—your schooling ain't exactly high on my list of give a shits, hotshot."
"What's this all about, AJ?" Ryan asked again, trying to keep his impatience from seeping into the tone of his voice.
"We'll talk about it when we get home."
"Your home or mine?" He muttered, just loud enough for AJ to hear.
"What the fuck does that even mean?" AJ growled.
"Nothing," Ryan murmured, giving himself a mental kick in the ass for giving AJ yet another reason to come down on him.
"Seriously. What the fuck is that? I live in your mom's fucking house, hotshot—my fucking house. Don't you forget for one minute that your mother invited me there."
As the truck rolled to a half-assed stop at the corner, AJ leaned over and continued in a malevolent hiss, "Hell, she invited me in between her fuckin' legs, tough guy, and I ain't heard a whole lot of complaints. She invites my cock into her mouth for a Hooverin' almost every night of the fucking week. You so sure you wanna be havin' this conversation?"
Ryan took a deep breath, and refused to rise to the bait—preferring to leave a wide berth around this particular topic. Luckily, AJ let it drop and the rest of the short ride was made in silence.
AJ jerked the steering wheel and turned into the driveway—going entirely too fast for the maneuver. Ryan reached out a hand and braced himself against the glove-box as he was first thrown forward towards the windshield, then back against the side of the door. As AJ cut the engine, Ryan unlatched his seatbelt, reached back over his right shoulder, popped the lock and opened the door, turning his body and sliding to the ground in one quick motion—his boots making a small, scuffing noise as they hit the dirt.
"Let's go," AJ signaled towards the door with a nod of his head.
As Ryan shut the door to the truck, he mentally braced himself. AJ waited, arms crossed, while Ryan traversed the small patch of mottled grass that edged the front walk. The front door was locked and he suddenly realized that he'd left his key in his backpack, which was still in his locker—at the high school—his bike still chained to the school's side rack.
As he moved out of the way and waited for AJ to join him, he was suddenly and painfully aware that—at this particular moment—the house actually did belong more to AJ than it did to himself—especially considering he had to wait for the prick to unlock the door and let him inside.
He didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed to discover that his mother wasn't home. It wasn't so much that his mom was a particularly effective ally when it came to her younger son getting the crap kicked out of him by her current asshole of a boyfriend—or—really—if truth be told—any of the long line of assholes who'd occupied that particular position—but at least he was pretty sure that she wouldn't actually let the motherfucker kill him.
Unsure of what to do when AJ didn't immediately follow him into the house, Ryan made his way over to the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen, turned and leaned back. He scratched at his left wrist nervously with his right hand, until he realized that he was doing it—stopped—and waited motionless for AJ to give him some indication of what this was all about.
AJ finally lumbered in, taking the time to lock the door behind him. Um—not a good sign.
"What's—" Ryan cleared his throat, when the word stuck—tried again—"What goin' on?"
Apparently, AJ was still in no particular hurry. He positioned himself a few feet in front of Ryan—and deliberately crossed his arms—drawing Ryan's attention to his left wrist for the first time—and to the watch that was now prominently displayed there.
Shit!
If Ryan had held out any ridiculous semblance of hope that this particular encounter with AJ wasn't going to end up with him on the receiving end of an ass stomping? Well—all doubt was instantly erased. Because there was absolutely no way that this particular—whatever (as Trey would call it)—was going to end without a fight. Not with AJ wearing that watch.
If history taught Ryan anything—it taught him that he didn't stand a snowball's chance in—well in Chino—really—when it came to a physical confrontation with AJ. Hell, he'd even seen AJ leave his brother in a bloody pile of broken Trey—complete with a couple of cracked ribs and a shattered eye-socket—and Trey was a much better fighter than Ryan. Hell, he was the best street-fighter Ryan had ever seen—at least before AJ showed up, anyway.
"That's—that's my dad's watch." He whispered, despite himself.
"It's mine, now, hotshot."
"No way, AJ! You got that from my room." Ryan was in a state of semi-shock. Even though he was staring at the proof—well—right in its face—he couldn't believe that AJ'd been ballsy enough to go into his room—and to paw through his stuff. That was one particular line that had not been crossed before—in the year that AJ had mooched off his mother—in the year he'd lived in their home. For a few seconds Ryan was completely at a loss with how to deal with—or how to react to the utter disregard to his privacy—the invasion into his personal space.
If anything, AJ seemed faintly amused by Ryan's reaction. "Yeah, so what. A titty for a fucking tattoo, man."
"Give it back!" Ryan made a lunge for AJ and was rewarded for his effort with a quick blow to his head from the heel of the man's hand. It stung like a motherfucker, but at least it didn't knock him down.
Ryan spent the next couple of seconds shaking his head—trying to clear the cobwebs—and silence the tinny ringing in his left ear.
"Why—what were you doing in my room?" He finally sputtered.
"I was looking for something—something of mine—something you took—something I want back."
"I didn't take anything of yours."
"Really? Because I don't believe you, man. I had something yesterday and today it's gone. I didn't take it. Your mom didn't take it. So who does that leave? Besides you?" AJ asked, as he crowded into Ryan's personal space.
"What is it—exactly—that you think I have?" Ryan realized he was trapped between AJ and the counter. Looking at the man blocking his only avenue to safety, even as he felt the counter pressing into his back, Ryan recognized that he'd made a critical error in judgment when he'd entered the house and taken up his position near the kitchen—it was a mistake he vowed to never make again. Hell, the next time he'd stand in the middle of the fucking dining room.
"Oh, c'mon! Quit the bullshit, man. Here's how it's gonna go down. You're going to give me back the gun—and the bag of weed—I'm gonna knock you around a little—and we'll call it a day—we'll go out for ice-cream—hell, I'll even let you ride on my shoulders."
"Gun?" Ryan shook his head in disbelief. "This is about a gun? Christ, AJ, I don't have your fucking gun."
AJ leaned in closer—if such a thing was even possible—as his eyes narrowed.
"This ain't a joke—and believe you me—this ain't a game you wanna be playin'. Because I will hurt you, Atwood. I will mess you up—but bad. You areway out of your league here, hotshot. You're trying to hit a ball off a tee—and there's a fastball—coming at you—aimed right at your fucking head. Now don't be a dumbass—where's the gun?"
"C'mon, AJ." Ryan somehow managed to hold himself in check—he put his palms out in a gesture of contrition—and improbably hoped that oncoming train could still be derailed. "You gotta know I didn't do this—I mean—a gun? What the hell am I gonna do with a gun?"
"This ain't twenty questions, hotshot."
AJ backed up a step—cocked his right fist and punched Ryan. Even though he knew it was coming and braced himself—while simultaneously trying to turn away—the blow still landed squarely under Ryan's right eye—and it felt like it may have busted something. The impact knocked Ryan to the ground, where he lay for a couple of seconds—trying to remember where—and who—he was.
As soon as his vision cleared, he looked up at AJ. The man stood with his fist still clenched tightly. Too tightly, to Ryan's way of thinking. Looking at the stark contrast between the whiteness of the knuckles against the rest of AJ's hand, Ryan couldn't help but think that the man should be wincing, shaking out his hand—or at least looking at it.
So—Ryan decided that AJ was either drunk or amped—and, considering that he couldn't smell anything on him mixed in with his usual scent of chronic halitosis, cigarette smoke and b.o.—he stacked his chips decidedly on the latter.
Christ. Things were just getting better and better.
When Ryan made no immediate attempt to stand, AJ got impatient. "Get up," he finally ordered, holding his hands out, palms up, and gesturing towards himself with a couple of quick little waves of his fingers.
As Ryan slowly got to his feet, he made another futile attempt at reasoning with the prick. "C'mon, man. You heard Logan—the vice-principal, I mean—I gotta meet with him tomorrow—I'm pretty sure he's gonna want to know all about what happened—and if I don't show—they're gonna send someone over here."
AJ laughed, "So what, man—still so totally not on my list of give a shits. Social Services shows up—takes you away from your mommy—sends you into foster care—you tell me—where's the fucking downside?"
Ryan had to admit, it was hard to argue with such assholian logic. Especially when the specific asshole in question was juiced up on the meth, high on the blow, or otherwise altered by whatever the fuck the narcotic was that was serving as AJ's flavor of the day.
Despite himself, Ryan was starting to get pissed. It's not like he wasn't used to getting knocked around for, well, for dubious reasons, but this was ridiculous. Even a prick of this enormously obtuse magnitude should know that Ryan Atwood wasn't exactly the prototypical gangsta—or weapons dealer—or whatever the fuck it was that AJ thought he'd done with the gun.
"This is bullshit!" Ryan said, suddenly overcome by the irritation and the annoyance that accompanied the absolute certainty that AJ wasn't going to listen to reason. He was secure in the knowledge that there was nothing he could do or say to get out of the situation unharmed—and the fact that he'd done absolutely nothing wrong to deserve this niggled at his sense of fairness like an exposed root.
Succumbing to his frustration and anger, Ryan dipped his shoulder and drove it straight into AJ. He caught him off-balance and rushed by—hoping to get out the front door, and out to safety. He was absolutely sure that if he could leave the house, he'd be in the clear—because he could definitely beat AJ in a straight-up foot race.
Not that he got the chance to find out, since AJ recovered before Ryan was able to throw back the deadbolt. AJ grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around and punched him. Ryan fell heavily to the ground again. This time, AJ didn't wait for Ryan to stand. Instead, he reached down, grasped Ryan's t-shirt in one hand and a shoulder in the other, and forcefully lifted him off the floor as he simultaneously propelled him towards the kitchen. Ryan was forced into a semi-crouching position as he tried to break away from AJ's hold and to stand upright. Almost too late, he realized that AJ was going to run him head first into the kitchen wall. Fortunately, Ryan was able to turn, so that the brunt of the impact was absorbed by his left shoulder.
When he saw AJ pull back his boot, Ryan scooted back so that he was lying on his side, his back pressed to the wall behind him. He drew his knees up, tucked his face into his forearms and covered his head with both hands. AJ held onto the kitchen divider with both hands for balance and leverage as he repeatedly landed well-aimed blows to Ryan's kidneys, buttocks and thighs.
Finally, AJ stopped, leaned down and roughly pulled Ryan up to a sitting position. Ryan kept his arms up—protecting his face and head.
"Drop 'em." AJ ordered.
Ryan didn't move.
"Drop your fucking hands and we can end this." AJ said, as he placed another kick that landed on Ryan's side—halfway between his hip and his shoulder. "It's your call, hotshot."
Ryan tentatively moved his arms away from his face and placed his hands on the floor—bracing himself. His head was thrown back against the wall behind him—and he was watching as AJ huffed and puffed—his breath short from the effort of kicking Ryan's ass—literally.
Ryan briefly entertained the encouraging thought that AJ just might drop dead of a heart attack. He mused that it'd be a hell of an epitaph. One Ryan would gladly write:
Here lies AJ Fuck-wit—Kicked My Ass, then Kicked the Buck-it.
"Something funny, man?" AJ wheezed.
Ryan shook his head slowly, still not lifting it from the wall behind him. He stayed silent, but made sure that any semblance of a smile was long-gone.
"Here's what's gonna happen," AJ explained carefully, like he was talking to a really slow 6-year-old "You've got till I get home to put the pot and the gun back."
"I don't have your shi—." Ryan's protestation was cut off with a downward punch—to the same cheek he was sure that AJ had shattered earlier. The pain of the blow took his breath away—and he struggled for a few seconds—reminding himself to draw air in—hold on to it—and then to let it out. Kind of like smoking.
Shit. Maybe AJ was right—he had been knocked stupid.
"You don't come up with the gun or the weed? Well, then you owe me fifty bucks for the weed—two hundred for the gun." AJ continued—still enunciating each syllable as he was speaking with an incredibly dimwitted child.
"Where the hell am I gonna get two-fifty?"
"Not my problem." AJ shrugged, then backhanded Ryan across the face. "You've gotta week. Make it work—or I'll make you unrecognizable."
AJ turned and walked out of the house, leaving the front door open. A gesture Ryan couldn't help but think was a deliberate reminder of how he'd tried to flee—and hadn't succeeded. Ryan wiped the back of his right hand across the left corner of his mouth and looked down at the angry smudge of red that he'd tracked across it. Noticing that his white t-shirt was already ruined by several irregularly spaced and shaped droplets of blood, he picked it up by the hem and gingerly lifted it up over his head, swiping it across his chin, before putting it to the corner of his mouth and applying pressure.
After several minutes, Ryan stood and crossed the small room to the front door. He slammed it closed with as much force as his aching body would allow—then kicked it a couple of times for good measure. He was on his way to the bathroom to assess the damage, when he noticed that his own door was open.
Through the gaping doorway, he saw that his bedroom was thoroughly tossed. AJ had pulled his drawers out of the bureau—left them upside down—Ryan's clothing scattered everywhere. He'd even pulled the covers off the mattresses—and pulled both mattresses off the bed.
Ryan entered his bedroom and started cleaning up—one handed—since he was still bleeding pretty heavily from the corner of his mouth, where his lip had split from a combination of contact with AJ's knuckles and the tearing on his own teeth. He looked at the Maxims AJ had discovered between the mattresses—and angrily tossed them away in the wastebasket. They weren't going to do much for him anymore—tainted as they were by AJ's discovery—and the total desecration of his room. Ryan was sure that he had a pretty good idea of how people felt when their homes—or their cars—were burglarized. The sense of intrusion—violation—defilement—as if everything had to be washed—sanitized—before he could feel comfortable again with his own possessions. Comfortable in his own bedroom.
Resisting the strong impulse to just lie down and let sleep overtake him, Ryan made his way to the bathroom—cleaned himself up the best he could—pulled on a clean t-shirt—and left the house.
There was somewhere he had to go—someone he had to talk to. The one person he could think of who might have taken the gun—the one person crazy enough—or impulsive enough—to steal something from AJ without even thinking of the consequences to himself—to his mother—or to Ryan.
He had to find Trey.
TBC