"Out of Season"
By Sister Rose
Part Four
Rated: R
Disclaimer: The character of "The O.C." are the the property of Fox, and no infringement on those rights are intended in this fictional work."
AN: Special thanks to Dorabelle for her help with this part of the story.
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When the alarm went off at 4 a.m., Ryan Atwood groaned and wished desperately for a little more sleep.
Summer hadn't left until midnight. When they got back from the restaurant, she had given him one more chance to prove himself in bed. She had looked happy when she left. Ryan hadn't told her that he had agreed to work an early shift at the diner before going to work at the construction site.
When he left Nina's the day before, Joyce had told him she was short-handed. He had warned her he could only stay until 7 o'clock, but she said even that little bit would help.
Ryan rolled out of the bed and went to wash his face, promising himself that the first thing he would do at the diner was make coffee and that the very first cup would be his, all his.
Three and a half hours later, Ryan was listening to the comic stylings of Josh, carpenter and self-proclaimed witty guy.
"What happened to that sweet, sweet smell you wear out here every day?" Josh demanded. "Instead of strawberry cologne you said to yourself, Hey, for a change I'll go for the grease-scented bottle?' "
"Maybe I have a secret life," Ryan said.
"And maybe when you got up today, you heard, Baby, make me some bacon this morning if you want any lovin' tonight."
"Maybe so," Ryan agreed. "Then she said Josh won't do me right, so I need you to take care of my business when you're finished with the bacon business.'"
"Oh, ho," Josh said. "Hey, everybody, did you know Atwood's funny now?"
There was muffled laughter up and down the group as Mr. Roberts came out of the trailer to distribute the day's assignments.
Ryan was busy enough during the day that he had little time to brood about Summer. He spent the time worrying about his job instead. Finally, the call he had been dreading came.
"Hey, Atwood," Mr. Roberts yelled as Ryan lumbered past with a wheelbarrow. "Get your ass in here." Mr. Roberts disappeared back into the trailer.
Ryan dropped the barrow handles and straightened, stretching his back and taking the moment to look around the site for the last time. He had liked working here. Maybe Joyce would give him some extra shifts at the diner while he looked for another job. Maybe he should just embrace his future as a short-order cook and give up on construction.
He climbed the steps to the trailer and knocked on the door. At the muffled "come in," Ryan took off his hard hat and entered.
Mr. Roberts was on the phone, and he held up a finger to Ryan, signaling him to wait.
As if he had a choice, Ryan thought. But he controlled his rising anger. Mr. Roberts was a businessman who needed business. It wasn't his fault he had to fire Ryan. It wasn't anybody's fault, or if it was, it was Ryan's. He should have known the job was too good to last.
Dust flecks danced in the sunlight coming through the dirty window.The seconds ticked by painfully as Ryan waited. He planned to say "Yes, sir," and nothing else when it happened. Maybe he could still get a good reference.
Mr. Roberts finally hung up the black telephone and turned to Ryan.
"So, Atwood," he said. "I have a personal problem that you can help me with."
"Yes, sir," Ryan said, watching his fingers tighten around the straps of his hard hat and mentally bracing for the rest of it.
"I know it's not your job," Mr. Roberts said, "but my daughter needs a driver for today."
Ryan looked from his hard hat to Mr. Roberts and back to his hard hat again. He hoped for more explanation, but he thought it sounded as if he still had a job.
"My daughter's car has broken down," Mr. Roberts said. "I can't leave this afternoon. She's taking a taxi here. I need someone to go with her, help her haul the car to the mechanic and take her for a rental. Take care of her. If I asked any of these other clowns to do it, they would be screaming bloody murder. I figured you wouldn't mind."
"No, sir," Ryan said.
"Take the equipment mover," Mr. Roberts said, passing the keys to him.
The door rattled before flying open.
"Hi, Daddy," Summer said, banging into the trailer with a scowl on her pretty face, dark hair swinging freely behind her. "This has been the suckiest day ever, and I don't have cash for the cab."
"I'll take care of it," Mr. Roberts said, digging for his wallet and tromping down the metal steps.
Ryan kept his eyes down.
"Atwood?" Summer said. "What's going on?"
Ryan snuck a glance at her, but Mr. Roberts came clattering back into the room before he could answer.
"Summer, have you met Atwood?" Mr. Roberts said. "Atwood, my daughter."
"Miss Roberts," Ryan said. Her dark eyebrows tightened.
"Atwood is going to be your driver," Mr. Roberts said.
"I thought you were going to take care of me, Daddy," Summer said as the phone rang.
"Atwood will handle everything. Just tell him what you need," Mr. Roberts said, putting phone to ear and instantly -- it was obvious -- forgetting their presence as the cord tethered him to his desk.
Summer looked ready to cry, which Ryan knew from hard experience meant she was angry.
"Well," she said harshly. "Are you ready, Atwood?"
"I'll get the truck."
He pulled up to the trailer steps where Summer was waiting, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. A slight breeze ruffled her mini skirt. He got out and went around to open the door for her, but she pushed past his helping hand, climbed in and crossed her arms over her seat belt. Ryan didn't think the posture was a happy one.
"Where are we going?" he said quietly, refastening his own seat belt.
"To the freeway," she said. Except for directions, she didn't speak until they reached her car.
It was easy to spot. Bright red convertibles with the top down, the hood up and the engine smoking weren't thick on the ground, even in Newport.
Ryan pulled over in front of the abandoned vehicle, maneuvering the truck through the California traffic.
"Do you want me to have a look at the engine or just load it up?" he said.
"Whatever."
Ryan took that as permission to exit the truck. He left Summer sitting there, arms still crossed, face still stormy.
He waved away smoke and peered into the depths of the convertible. Six cylinders, overdrive, latest computer technology. He traced some circuits and poked through a nest of multicolored wires. Hmm. He didn't have a clue what was wrong.
Ryan wriggled under the convertible on his back, scraping across the asphalt to hook chains to chassis, hearing the speeding cars go by at uncomfortably close range.
When the car was loaded and locked in place, Ryan got back in the truck. The air inside had smelled like spring flowers -- Summer. His musky sweat hit the air conditioning and filled the cab. He looked at Summer's cloudy face. He bit his lip and looked out the driver's side window in indecision. Finally, he spoke.
"I'm sorry he couldn't come," Ryan said.
The storm broke.
"He can't ever do it himself," Summer raged. "Not ever. He could if he wanted, but he doesn't. He's a pig and I hate him. I can't believe he's my father. If it had been the stepmonster, he would have been out here fast enough, cooing over what a terrible day she had and telling her not to worry her pretty little head. He would have taken care of all of it himself and then taken her out to a really nice restaurant to get her mind off it. But me ... He didn't even ask me how I am. He would rather hand me off to some flunky than take an hour out of his precious day to do anything for me."
Ryan waited patiently as Summer yelled. He had heard most of it before, though the "some flunky" part was new. He tried not to wince.
"And then ... Oh, wait, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it that way."
"It's OK," Ryan said.He wouldn't get his feelings hurt just because Summer was telling the truth. "Do you have a mechanic in mind?"
"Aren't you going to tell me I'm misunderstanding Daddy and I shouldn't be so hard on him?"
"Summer," Ryan began slowly, reluctantly. This was going to be hard. Ryan might be Summer's occasional sex partner, but her father was her father.
"No, it's all right," Summer said, sounding defeated. "I know you won't say anything bad about Daddy. I usually like that. I just wanted someone to be on my side today."
"You're his daughter and will always be special to him. If he didn't have flunkies like me, he would have taken care of you," Ryan said carefully. "But I know he really is busy. He had a long meeting with Mrs. Cohen yesterday."
"Of the Newport Group?" Summer said.
Ryan nodded.
"Did you hear anything about how they're planning to finance that new development?" she said.
"I didn't hear anything, Summer," he said. "I'm sorry."
He was especially sorry he had started the conversation. It was wandering into the territory he and Summer didn't discuss: his job; her father; the effect a single word from her could have on his ability to eat regularly and pay bills.
Ryan had known all along that for Summer he was just a college fling with the hired help. He understood that and didn't try to cross the line into boyfriend land. He didn't ask questions or demand answers or even expect her to show up regularly.
They both got what they needed: He still had a job; and she had steady sex with someone her father wouldn't approve of her seeing.
Ryan hadn't expected that he would like her or that he would be so reluctant for her to let him go.
"Where's your mechanic?" Ryan said.
They deposited Summer's convertible with a scowling bearded man in greasy pants who wiped his hands on an oil-soaked red rag and muttered grimly about blown rods and loose rings in a pretty obvious attempt to intimidate a woman who didn't know anything about cars. Ryan leaned against the equipment mover and watched the conversation.When Summer went to the restroom, Ryan pulled the guy aside.
"Look, man," Ryan began. "I know you're just trying to make a little money, but this is not the way to do it. That's Mike Roberts' daughter, you know, of Mike Roberts Construction? If her dad thinks you tried to overcharge his precious baby girl, there will be hell to pay. Know what I mean?"
The mechanic did, and the auto repair estimate started dropping back into the reasonable range.
Business concluded, Ryan and Summer got back in the truck.
"Let's get a drink," Summer said, eyeing the bar across the street.
Ryan paused. He looked at Summer underneath hooded eyes. He kept his voice level.
"The car place won't let you have a rental if they think you've been drinking," he said.
She looked at him with lower lip pooching out. He thought that meant she was feeling pouty instead of angry. She had washed her face and reapplied her makeup in the bathroom.She looked as if she felt better. Ryan hoped so.
"We could go for just one drink," Summer said, "then do some shopping and then go get a car before you have to go back to work."
"I'm ..." he bit off the sentence -- I'm at work right now -- before it could escape. "I'm not very good at shopping. Unless you want to pick out a hammer."
"No," Summer said sadly. "That would make you an accomplice."
They sat in the silence for a couple of minutes, air conditioner rattling out a cold breeze. Summer finally sighed.
"Oh, all right," she said. "Take me to Budget."
Ryan put the truck in gear.
"I can't believe he introduced us. He doesn't even remember what happened last year," she said.
Ryan put the truck back in neutral and pulled the parking brake.There were so many things he could say, and not one of them seemed like the right thing.
"I'm sorry," he said, helplessly, fruitlessly. What good was he when he couldn't even make her feel better?
"It's not your fault, Atwood," Summer said. "Will you be home tonight?"
"I'm working a shift at the diner," he said.
"Can I see you after?"
He finally turned to look at her, her finely shaped eyebrows knotted together, peach lips tightly pressed. He wanted to say, "Come when you want and stay forever."
He didn't.
"Sure."
"Would you do me a favor?"
"Sure."
"Don't call me Miss Roberts' again," she said, looking out her window.
"It's just in front of your dad."
"No, it's not," she said. "What did you tell the mechanic when I went to the bathroom?"
Ryan frowned at her. How did they get from "Miss Roberts" to the mechanic?
"I just said he should be more careful in his billing," Ryan said.
"No, you didn't," Summer said. "You threatened him with Daddy. Didn't you? You didn't say, Hey, buddy, quit messing with my girl.' You said, Quit messing with Mike Roberts' daughter.'"
Ryan thought for a minute. She was right.
"You're right, Summer," he said.
"You're not even going to argue?"
"You're right, Summer," he said again. "What else do you want me to say? I'll say it."
"How does it feel, knowing you don't even have the balls to stand up for me in public?" she said.
Ryan felt that one burn. He didn't answer for a minute. The minute ticked into two.
She was right, of course. Ryan had no power to protect Summer except by telling people she had a powerful father. Their relationship was just about sex. To Summer, he was the hired help, a loser who couldn't get his job done. So she was firing him. He had known this was coming. He had thought he was ready. Wrong again.
He wanted to ask Summer whether it was making her feel better to make him feel worse. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bang her head against the dashboard, or maybe his, and he wanted to have sex with her until neither of them could stand up.
Summer shifted uncomfortably on her side of the cab. She should be uncomfortable.She could have waited until he could walk away. Now he was stuck in this truck for the rest of the afternoon with her.
He couldn't believe he was wishing she had dumped him in the restaurant after all.
Ryan took his hands off the thin, oversized steering wheel. He unbuckled his seat belt and climbed down from the cab. He walked around the front, watching Summer all the way. He opened the door on her side, took her hand and pulled her out of the cab. She didn't say anything else, and he was glad. There was nothing else to say.
He pushed her against the side of the truck's cab and put his hands on either side of her head. He bent down and laid his lips on hers.
Only their lips touched. He just wanted one kiss.
The last kiss, he thought. He tried to make it perfect, something the rich girl might remember in years to come. He tried to memorize the sweet, soft texture of her peach lips with his own mouth.
His nose picked up the complex flowery mixture of expensive makeup, shampoo and moisturizer that had come to mean "Summer" to him.
The heat from the still-rumbling truck finally registered on his thick palms. He broke off the kiss, pulled Summer away from the cab and into his arms, then ran his hands down her back. Her tiny body always made him feel tall, strong and brave, three things he wasn't.
Ryan stroked Summer's warm, dark hair. He thought he would miss it most of all. He laid his head across hers and breathed it in, remembering the way it always ended up in his nose during sex, the silky feel of it draped across his body, the way it clung to the hairbrush when she let him brush it. Ryan clasped Summer tightly, squeezed even more tightly and with a last breath of her hair, unlocked his arms and let her go.
He opened the truck door and held out his hand to help her into the cab. She looked shaken as she took the hand and climbed inside.
Ryan gently closed the door and walked back to the driver's side. He fastened his seat belt.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. You deserve better."
He released the parking brake and put the truck in gear. He didn't look at her. He didn't speak another word. Neither did she.
That night, Summer didn't show up at the diner.