"Out of Season"
Part 12
By Sister Rose
The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement on those rights is intended in this fictional work.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ryan Atwood, forbidden to talk, nodded. He remembered the company Christmas party at the fancy hotel, the smell of pine from the boughs decorating the reception hall, the rich, dark furniture that had made him unwilling to sit down, and he remembered Summer. Summer in that red velvet dress, coming onto him. He remembered his cold-blooded decision that if the boss' daughter wanted a lay, she was going to get one she would never forget.
He remembered the first time he had touched expensive fabric, the kiss of the red velvet, how he had smoothed his forearms over it so his callused worker's hands wouldn't catch on it. He remembered the brush of it over Summer's body and the first time he watched clothing slip away from fine-grained skin stretched over fragile bones.
He remembered thinking no one could possibly be as beautiful as Summer. He had known she was slumming and he hadn't cared. He still didn't.
He remembered resting beside her afterward, drinking in her scent and wondering whether any moment again in his life would ever be so perfect. And he remembered his astonishment when she wanted to see him again.
"I was drunk, and you walked me to my room," Summer said. "And I've been thinking that maybe I sort of forced you into having sex with me."
She wasn't looking at Ryan anymore. Was she embarrassed?
"Summer," he said.
"No, don't say anything yet. We met at the Christmas party, and Daddy introduced us so I knew you worked for him and you knew I was Daddy's daughter and when I asked you up to the hotel room, you couldn't say no."
He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a finger to stop him. He didn't know what he would have said anyway. It was true.
But that had been understood all along. He had sex with Summer because she wanted him to, and because if he didn't do what she wanted, or if he didn't do a good enough job, she could have him fired.
That he liked the sex, too, that he enjoyed her company, that she was beautiful and had been kind to him so many times -- all that was irrelevant. He needed the job and would do anything he had to do to keep it. At first anyway. Things had changed. Now he would do anything to keep Summer, even though the best thing for her would be to let her go.
"And I was so drunk on those cranberry shooters I hung all over you and we had wild sex that was so good and then the next morning you took care of me when I threw up on the bed. ...."
Ryan opened his mouth again, and this time the finger touched it.
He laid a gentle kiss on it, and she snatched it away.
"That's what I mean," she said. "You're so nice that it makes me feel guilty, which makes me mad, which makes me be mean to you."
"You've never been mean to me, Summer," Ryan put in, gruffly.
"No talking!" she said. "And then the next day I told you that we had to do it again. So we did. And the next week I hunted you up and said we had to do it again. So we did that, too. And the next thing I know, you're giving me a key to your room, and feeding me macaroni and cheese, and asking about my homework, and letting me use your punching bag when I'm mad, and dropping your plans and driving me home just because I asked, and getting stopped by the police just because you were doing what I asked you to do .... "
Tears were in her voice. He couldn't stand that wet sound. It made him feel helpless and furious at the same time. If it had been anyone else who had made Summer cry, he would have punched the jerk, but he was going to have a hard time punching himself.
"No one has ever been so nice to me, and I'm worried all the time that you're doing it because you think I'll get you fired and not because you like me. And the sex just gets better each time, sweeter, like I never knew it could be. But then just now you're kissing me like a distraction or apology or something, and talking like sex with me is a job for you instead of something we share."
"Summer," Ryan tried again. She rushed on over his words.
"You never complain when I go out with other guys and you won't talk to me in public, except to call me Miss Roberts, like you think I think I'm too good to talk to you or something. When the officer asked me whether you were hurting me, I had to laugh and say, Him? No, he wouldn't do anything to risk his job.' And I realized it was true. You're only having sex with me because you want to keep your job.
"How can you be so good to me when you don't like me, when you think this is just a job?" she said plaintively.
Ryan jumped up and walked over to the punching bag. He gave it a blow. Damn! Another slamming hit. He wanted to pound away his troubles and lose them in the rhythm of the punches, but he was going to have to talk instead.
"What do you want me to say, Summer? It sounds like you want a boyfriend, someone you can date and take home to your family. I like you a lot, Summer, but I can't be that guy. Look around," he said, waving at the dingy room, punching bag included, exasperation creeping into his voice. "I have nothing to offer you except sex."
"That's not true," she said.
"Yes, it is," he countered. "If the police had taken me away tonight, I couldn't have made bail. And what if your friends had seen you tonight? They wouldn't say, Oh, how nice. Aren't they cute.' They'd say, He must be conning her.' I don't want to be your con."
"What do you want?"
"I want to be your man."