The House of Cards

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

- Jeff Buckley "Hallelujah"

………………………………………………………………………………..

'What the hell happened this morning?' Sandy's voice buzzed.

Ryan wished he could swat it. Kill it dead. He tried to tune it out, but then it sounded again, annoyingly reasonable.

'You raise a fist to anyone in this family, I – we – deserve an explanation!'

We. What a joke. There was no we. There hadn't been for a long time but Sandy was the only one who didn't get it. Too busy putting out fires at the Newport Group, he was completely smoke screened, unable to see that his family was falling apart.

Ryan lounged mutinously on the bed and flexed his hands, groaning inwardly as the skin across his knuckles stretched painfully. Sandy stepped across and perched on the edge of the mattress.

'What's eating you, kid? I can't help you if you don't talk to me,' he pleaded.

But Ryan had nothing to say. How do you tell your hero that he has feet of clay? The old fairy tales wouldn't have had quite the impact had, say, Snow White woken up to the Prince's kiss and said, "You shit! I was in the middle of a fantastic dream and you fucked with it…" Or, if Rapunzel had refused point blank to be carried off on a white charger, claiming a violent allergy to horse hair. It wasn't that Ryan was ungrateful to the Cohens. He just couldn't pretend anymore to be what he wasn't.

He scowled at his foster father. 'You know what they say … you can take the kid out of Chino …' He left the sentence hanging and watched Sandy frown.

'Don't be smart, Ryan. We both know this behaviour isn't you.'

Ryan levered himself onto his elbows and stared at the older man. Was he serious? Sandy's black eyes gazed back at him, big with concern. Ryan guessed he was. And that was a shame. Poor Sandy. His stray puppy had grown teeth and claws and was biting the hand that had fed it. Sandy was floundering, reaching out for anything to help make sense of the mess he could feel but couldn't see. But Ryan couldn't bring himself to throw a lifeline. How could he when he was the one drowning? He flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Fuck them all.

Sandy sighed, exasperatedly. Clearly, reason had no place here. He glanced at his watch and considered his options. But there really weren't any. This would have to wait. Maybe the kid just needed some time.

'I have to go or I'll miss my flight. When I get back tomorrow, you and I are going to sit down and talk, man to man. Got it? Until then, you're grounded.'

Ryan grinned mirthlessly. Surely the irony was not lost on Sandy? In one breath Ryan was a man; the next he was being treated like a child. Confused much? You bet.

Sandy frowned. 'Ryan? Are you listening? Do not leave this house, for any reason.'

Ryan didn't meet his gaze, asking instead, 'Where's Seth?' He needed to see Seth, to explain. Maybe to apologize.

'Gone. I sent him up Luke's for the weekend. I want him out of the way until this is sorted. You need to think about what you did and how the hell you're going to fix it. I can trust you to do that, can't I?' But Sandy sounded uncertain and Ryan sure as hell couldn't provide any answers. Not yet, anyway. He shrugged, perversely delighting in Sandy's obvious concern.

'Tell me I can trust you, kid,' Sandy repeated quietly. 'Tell me or I'm going to have to do something we'll both regret.'

Ryan was almost tempted to push the boundaries, to bait Sandy enough that he might cancel his meeting and stay home. But he didn't. Later, when he was truly alone, he would tell himself that he had known exactly what would happen if Sandy left. Perhaps his actions had been part of some unconscious plan? God help him if they were, because it meant he had never been the victim.

Now he merely nodded at Sandy. The unspoken agreement made, Sandy turned to leave, pausing at the door to offer a parting shot.

'And next time you feel like punching something, make sure you wear these. Trust me, they'll fit.' He sighed. 'Your hands are a mess.'

He bent down to retrieve the boxing gloves stashed unceremoniously under the chair and threw them onto the bed. Ryan glanced at them and when he looked up again, Sandy had gone.

Ryan reached across and picked up the gloves. What was the point of punching if you couldn't feel the impact? He dropped them on the floor and studied the ceiling again. It needed a repaint. Perhaps he should tell Kirsten? He sighed and rested his hands on his belly. There was a lot he wanted to tell Kirsten. Peeling paint didn't top the list.

Maybe Sandy had thought he was punishing him by keeping him locked up, but the truth was Ryan had nowhere to go. He was fucked if he knew how to fix what had happened that morning, but at least he now had an excuse to think. Not because he wanted to please Sandy, but because he wanted to please himself. Something he hadn't done in a hell of a long time.

Don't think … Gabby's warning filtered through, and he hissed as he recalled her voice. Her voice and her body … and her boredom. So long ago, but still he stirred at the memory. Shit. Groaning, he pushed himself off the bed and stalked to the door where he lounged against the frame and lit a cigarette. It wasn't quite dark, and a faint light came from the house. Memories. That was all he had to go on. Fucking memories. Memories of fucking. Forget the bases. Forget how close he'd come so many times, only to be interrupted by God knows who. How many times had he actually fucked anyone since moving here? He drew on the cigarette again and grimaced. He could count on one hand, which was pretty ironic considering how often he'd used that hand to service himself.

The weird thing was it hadn't ever really bothered him. Marissa and her on again/off again antics: I want you … I don't want you. Touch me … but not there. Kiss me … but not on the neck, it tickles. Tickles? Who the hell complains of tickling when you're trying to get into each other's pants? He sighed and closed his eyes, relishing the pain in his fingertips as the cigarette burned to the butt and died. Sure, that night on the beach had been great, but the effort required to do it had outweighed the pleasure. With Marissa, everything was an effort. Even love – if that's what he'd felt. He still didn't know and now it didn't matter. She was off blowing Volchock in some sleazy dive and Ryan was alone. Again. Lindsay had come and gone, Theresa was an uneasy memory and good ol' Ryan had been, if not content then, at least resigned to his memories and his hand.

Until last week when he'd wandered blindly into uncharted territory and found her wrapped in nothing but a towel. No, half wrapped, her smooth back exposed as she tilted her head and tousled her damp hair. The room smelled of hot soap, and drifts of mist wafted from the bathroom. How long had he stood there, watching as the towel slipped lower, wishing it would fall away completely? Had he actually spoken, or had she simply sensed him behind her, turning to meet his gaze? Perhaps she'd smiled, perhaps he'd imagined it. It didn't matter. What mattered was that even when she knew of his presence, he hadn't stopped staring, hadn't averted his gaze as he should have. And she'd said nothing. Not then, not now. No hysteria, no embarrassment, no wild clutching at the towel to hide what little he'd seen. She'd simply walked right past him – close enough that he could have reached out and touched her - back into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. The sound of the latch had released him from his trance and he'd stumbled back to the pool house, mortified yet so aroused. The anger had come later.

For six long nights as he'd drifted into broken sleep he'd relived that moment, memorizing every curve, every blemish, fantasizing how her skin would feel. But in his fantasy, as he thrust savagely into his hand, the towel was gone and she was beneath him, meeting his thrusts with his own, begging for him never to stop. And each morning he had awoken, alone and exhausted and full of self-loathing. He'd seen her clad in less by the pool and never once had he harboured thoughts of wanting to fuck her. She was out of bounds, illicit, a no-go area. But that moment in the bedroom, when he couldn't look away, had effectively removed any barriers. Now he was consumed with need and he knew that she knew it. And it was driving him crazy.

Ryan dropped his second – or was it his third? – cigarette butt and ground it viciously beneath his heel, marring the pristine tiles. Fuck Kirsten and her no-smoking policy. Fuck Kirsten. And therein lay the problem. Irony. Again. God, irony sucked.

He lurched to the bathroom and peered at his reflection. He looked like shit and his swollen, bloody hands ached. Dousing his face with cold water stung them further and he cursed. Grimacing, he peered at himself, hating what he saw and wishing that others could see it too. Guilt sucked more. Seth hadn't been the problem this morning, just the catalyst and Ryan closed his eyes as he recalled the ugly scene.

'Whoa!' Seth had whistled over breakfast, clutching one of Ryan's hands in his own, making him wince. 'Hate to see the other guy.'

'I just hope the "other guy" is hanging from a chain and made of leather. What happened to the gloves I gave you?' Sandy asked, mid-schmear.

'They don't fit,' Ryan lied. The truth was he'd been enjoying the pain. Nothing better to clear the mind - and cool the groin - than the bloodying of hands.

'Then I'll take them back and get you another pair,' Sandy said.

'Whatever,' Ryan had shrugged, uncaring of Sandy's quizzical look. An awkward silence descended.

'So Ryan,' Seth finally intoned. 'To bypass one difficult subject I feel duty-bound to bring up another.' He paused to shovel cereal into his mouth. And for effect. With Seth, everything was done for effect. 'Have you found a date yet?'

'Date?' Sandy enquired.

'Bonfire rally,' Seth mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. 'Ryan has no one to take.'

'It's a fire on a beach. No date required, because I'm not going,' Ryan was curt, wanting the topic of his dateless, sexless life dropped. Now. He glared at Seth, who chose to remain oblivious.

'C'mon Ryan, you know you don't mean that. A bevy of Californian beauties awaits the discerning young man … hey, speaking of discerning, Mom, I have a suggestion for you.'

Kirsten lifted tired eyes and smiled wanly at her son, who had moved to place his hands on Ryan's shoulders. He made a show of kneading them. 'Ooh, very tense. Mom, meet your newest client.'

Ryan balled his fists, hissing at the pain.

'You and Julie can find Ryan a date for the rally!' Seth continued triumphantly.

'Now this, I gotta see,' quipped Sandy, pausing and pointing his knife at Ryan. 'And when you and your Newpsie Divorcee turn up at the rally, she can introduce you to her daughter!'

'Or grand-daughter,' Seth replied. 'But seriously, Mom, I think you need to aim for something on the younger side. Walking frames and sand … not a good combination.'

Seth and Sandy chortled.

'Shut up, Seth,' Ryan muttered.

'Bad idea,' Kirsten whispered, gripping her mug of coffee too tightly.

'No, Mom, it's brilliant. You gain access to a whole new market and you get to catch up on all the teen dramas that make this empty town the place it is. And … Ryan just might get to relieve some of that tension, hey buddy?' Seth clapped Ryan on the back.

'Shut up!' This time Ryan snarled the words and watched Kirsten jump nervously. Sandy paused with coffee pot suspended, alert now. Well, at least he had someone's attention, Ryan thought.

'Don't thank me now, Ryan. Wait and see!' Seth uttered theatrically.

Ryan had leaped up, sending his chair crashing to the floor and faced his friend, shaking with rage. Sandy stepped forward, shouting. Kirsten cried, 'Oh God!' but Ryan didn't care. He wanted to hit Seth. Everything in his body ached to smash Kirsten's son, but the other boy's confusion and - was that fear he'd seen in his friend's eyes? – had doused his rage and his fists had dropped limply. He backed away, shrugging helplessly.

'Sorry,' he muttered. 'Sorry …' and he'd fled the house to the sound of Seth's plaintive cries. 'What did I say? What did I say?'

Nothing, buddy, Ryan now thought miserably. Everything. He switched off the bathroom light and paced the poolhouse. What had been a sanctuary was now a cage. He wished he could call Seth, but that probably wasn't a good idea. Gabby had been right – thinking just complicated everything. He needed something to numb his mind, to slow down the cogs, to help him forget.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Easing himself through the door into the kitchen, Ryan made a beeline for the bar. One thing you could rely on in this house – reformed alcoholic residing or not – was a well-stocked bar. Ryan had never helped himself to its contents before now. He drank, sometimes a lot, but never alone and never in the Cohen's house. It was a rule he'd made when he first came here and one he'd had no problems abiding by. Until now. He reached for a bottle of whisky.

'It doesn't help, you know.'

Shit. Ryan turned slowly to the lithe figure silhouetted in the doorway.

'So you say,' he muttered. 'But it will make forgetting a whole lot easier.'

'Only momentarily. Trust me, I know.' Her voice was soft and a just little sad.

Ryan stared at her, drinking in the vision of the slight frame draped in silk. Her hair was pinned up, making her look older, hollowing out her cheeks, painting her gauntly. The light behind her enhanced the image and Ryan thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, or so tragic. He glanced at the bottle in his hands and moved towards her slowly, almost predatorily. She was so frail, so delicate, he could actually see her heart flutter beneath her robe. Did he scare her too? He hoped so, because fear would keep them both safe.

'I'll take my chances,' he snarled, pushing past her. His shoulder brushed hers, knocking her against the door jamb, before he beat a hasty retreat to the poolhouse. She didn't try to stop him.

tbc