They checked into the hotel with a minimum of fuss, although she had to fight with Ryan over who was going to pay. Which she didn't quite understand, since she was pretty sure that A.J. had mugged him of all of his money back in Reno. The only problem was that there were no doubles.
All she wanted was a shower, a meal and a bed, and not necessarily in that order.
"Whatevs. I'm sure you kick less than Cohen does. I don't care if I have to sleep with you," she said, and the problem was solved -- just like that.
She was sure that Ryan was going to fall right into bed, but when they reached the room, he dropped their bags onto the floor and immediately started undressing.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and concentrated on untying his laces. After a minute, he kicked off his boots and stuck his hand down into the toe. Ew.
He came up with two hundred-dollar bills, though, which he laid on the nightstand.
"That's all I could save from A.J.," he said. "Sorry. I'm going to take a shower and then crash, if that's okay? Go ahead and order dinner. I'll eat anything,"
Without another word, he walked off into the bathroom.
Summer sat on the edge of the bed, which was still warm from where Ryan had been a moment before. She found a room-service menu and a number for the front desk, and ordered up a bunch of different cold sandwiches, salads and fruit. She figured they could both do without another burger, and anything that started out cold would probably keep overnight, in case they just fell asleep.
She took a moment to finally check the -- good lord -- 36 messages on her voicemail, and made a quick call to Marissa's voicemail -- letting her know where they were -- and to Cohen's hotel.
"Summer?"
She wasn't even sure that the phone had rung on his end when Seth answered.
"Cohen? What are you doing in your hotel room?" she asked.
"Waiting for you to call. Or Ryan to call. Or someone to call. Are you guys okay?" he asked frantically, and somehow his version of a spazz-out didn't quite irritate her the same way that Marissa's did.
"We're okay, Cohen," she said.
"Well, thank Jesus and Moses, I guess," he said, and she was surprisingly touched to hear the relief in his voice. "What's going on?"
She sighed. This was the part Seth wasn't going to love.
"You know how what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?" she asked. "Oh, wait a second, the food's here. Hold on," she said, tucking her cell under her chin as she went to sign the check, leaving a substantial tip.
She was going to be nice to every service person in the whole world from now on. Every one that got up in the morning and went to a crappy, low-wage job and didn't give blow jobs in back alleys or demand sex from children in exchange for drugs.
"You're not in the Vegas, Summer," Seth said woodenly.
"No, we're in the Reno. Look, Chino's mom got in trouble -- got arrested. We got it all straightened out, and now we're on our way home. Anything else, Ryan's going to have to tell you. It's so not my job to fill you in on his family," she said, sharper than she intended.
She heard Seth sigh in his own hotel, even as she dug into the sad, sad fruit plate. Apple slices and mandarin oranges? Ew. But whatevs, she was already getting scurvy from the food on this trip. She'd make do.
"So, the odds my getting the whole story . . . " Seth trailed off. Summer was pretty sure they were slim to none, and slim just left the building, but Seth and Ryan had a bond that sometimes transcended Ryan's quintessential Chino nature.
"Probably not good," she answered cheerfully. "But again, so not my problem. Oh, it would be good if you could come up with a reason why Ryan looks like someone ran over him with a truck this weekend, though," she added.
"Did someone run over him with a truck?" Seth asked, and she could hear Zach, faintly, in the background, say "What!"
"No. No trucks, no running over. He's beat up pretty bad, though, and if your parents think he's been fighting again . . . "
"Yeah, I can see how that's not going to fly. I'll think of something. Seriously, though, are you guys okay? If you're being held hostage, say, 'May the force be with you.'"
She laughed despite herself.
"Like any good kidnapper wouldn't pick up on your stealth code, Cohen. We're fine. I'm eating a crappy fruit plate in a crappy hotel room somewhere outside of Reno, Nevada, but besides that, it's all good."
They chatted for a few more minutes, mostly trying to decide when and if to meet up the next day before heading home and, by the end of it, Summer had somehow managed to convince Seth that everything was okay. Now, if she could only convince herself.
She finished the fruit plate and was semi-dozing on the bed, flipping between CNN in Spanish and a cooking channel she didn't recognize, when it occurred to her that Ryan might actually need toiletries.
She dug her father's pouch out of her bag again and knocked on the bathroom door. There was no answer. The shower was still running, over forty minutes after she'd first heard it turn on.
After a moment of hesitation, she knocked on the door again, louder, and then walked in.
In typical Ryan Atwood fashion, the bathroom was immaculate. His dopp kit had been unpacked on the sink -- his toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, razor and gel all lined up with military precision, although it looked like only the toothbrush had been used. His dirty clothes were folded and tucked inside one of the dry-cleaning bags the hotels always left in the bathrooms, and a new towel was laid out for him on the edge of the sink, next to a fresh pair of grey boxer-briefs.
After forty minutes, she'd expected the room to be billowing with steam, but although the mirror was dripping with condensation, it was not particularly warm.
"Chino?" she called, then, louder, "Ryan?"
After another moment's hesitation, she pulled back the edge of the shower curtain, determined to look only at eye level. The problem was, there was nothing at eye level. Ryan was huddled in the far corner of the shower, his knees pulled up under his chin, which, thank God, were blocking a better view of anything manly. His head was pillowed on his arms, and he was sound asleep under the now-freezing cold rush of water.
"Hey!" she called loudly, unwilling to touch that much wet and naked Ryan. "Hey! Chino! Ryan!"
He woke with a start, lifting his head to get a faceful of freezing water, then jumped to his feet.
"No! No! Stay down, Chino!" Summer hollered, before withdrawing to the other side of the curtain.
"Summer! What the . . . " he sputtered on the other side of the far-too-revealing white plastic shower curtain.
"I'm sorry!" she shouted over the water. "I'm sorry!"
Ryan had already turned off the spray, though, so her voice echoed throughout the room.
"Sorry,"she said again in a more-moderate voice. "You fell asleep in the shower. I came in to check on you when you didn't answer me."
"Um, thanks," Ryan's disembodied voice came from the other side of the curtain. "I'm, uh, fine, though. Do you think you can leave me alone for a few minutes?" he said, "Or, you know, hand me a towel at least?
Right, right. A towel. Or, she should probably leave. Definitely. First towel, then leave.
She grabbed the towel from the sink and tossed it over the curtain rod as she fled.
"Really, really sorry," she called out again.
She was already half-asleep again when he finally emerged, dressed just in his boxer-briefs. Oh well, it wasn't as if either of them had packed particularly well for this excursion. After deciding to forgo a shower until the unit could make some more hot water in the morning, Summer had raided first her bag and then his until she found one of Ryan's white, v-necked t-shirts.
Jesus. He looked awful. And also hot. Which was so very, very wrong. His torso was a mass of nasty, dark bruises, which ranged from plum-colored to greenish and every hue in between. He had bruises on his arms, his legs, even one at the ankle, right where the lip of his boot would catch him -- and what looked like gravel burns on his knees. All laid over some very, very fine, tight muscles. And some washboard abs. And some extremely well-defined arm muscles whose names escaped her.
"You do look like thirty miles of bad road, Ryan," she murmured sleepily and he sort of laughed, then gestured to his bare chest.
"Yeah, sorry about the free show," he said, "But someone stole my underwear."
She tugged at the undershirt.
"Yeah, I forgot to pack a nightgown. Sorry about that."
"'S'okay," he said, and went back to rearranging the mess Summer had left behind in his duffel bag.
"There's food -- on the dresser," she said, gesturing half-heartedly in that direction, but Ryan shook his head.
"Nah, I think I'll just crash," he said.
She opened one sleepy eye to its full extension.
"Seriously, Chino, you'd better be about to climb into this bed. Because if I wake up and find you sleeping on that nasty carpet tomorrow morning, I will end you."
She closed her eyes again, but she felt his laughter wash over her.
"I'm fine, Summer, but thanks for the rage black-out warning."
"You're not fine," she said, raising her voice slightly without opening her eyes. "You're tired, and you're hurt, and if anyone's having a shitty-weekend contest, you're winning, hands down. Now, come to bed and don't make me have to open my eyes again," she ordered.
This time, she felt the mattress dip, just slightly.
"Oh, for cryin' out loud, Chino, get comfortable, would you? Your virtue is safe with me. And unless you're a kicker like Cohen, you're not going to bother me one bit," she assured him.
And that was certainly the truth, as she drifted off to sleep a moment later.