It was still dark when Summer woke again, in a panic, her heart racing. Something had awakened her. She glanced around wildly, disoriented, and heard the soft noise again, this time not right in her ear.
She looked down. Ryan, who usually sprawled across every surface in the pool house, was curled in tight on himself, his hands tucked under his chin. In sleep, his face was even younger than Cohen's, younger than any of them -- he looked as though he'd been outside playing under the streetlights until bedtime. It was also covered in tears.
He was moaning softly to himself, crying in his sleep. She knew better than to wake a sleep walker. Did the same rules apply to a sleep crier?
She settled on a compromise, stroking his hair away from his face as he became more restless, murmuring to himself in nonsense syllables that eventually resolved themselves into words -- No. Stop. A.J. Mom. Trey. Hurts. -- but not into any sense. As he grew more agitated, she made a decision.
"Chino? Hey, Ryan, wake up," she called softly. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, and he jumped beneath her.
He sat straight up, his hair wildly mussed from sleeping on it while it was still wet.
"What? What's wrong?" he asked, already awake.
She felt terrible.
"I'm so sorry. You were -- you were having a nightmare, I think. You were upset."
He wiped a hand across his face, and she heard him swear softly.
"Damnit. Summer, I'm sorry," he said, but she grabbed his hand, and held it between hers.
"No. Don't. If anyone deserves a little mental breakdown right now, it's you. I just -- you looked so sad. I didn't know what else to do," she admitted.
Under her hands, his palm was warm and dry, his fingers still holding faint calluses from his summer's work, and more recent grooves from his drafting pencil. After a moment, he gently tugged his hand away, and brushed it roughly across his face again.
Even in the filtered light from the parking lot, she could see he was blushing, his face, his neck, his ears -- heck, even his chest was a dull, hot red.
"I don't, uh . . . I don't usually cry," he said softly. "Sometimes I hit people by accident, though." She thought he sounded almost pleased by that. "Once, I accidently hit Seth in the nose when I was napping. That's why he knows better than to touch me me when I'm asleep."
She nodded. She'd seen at least a few of Seth's "stealth" maneuvers on a sleeping Ryan, and it was true. Most of the time, Seth was at the end of the bed, or even across the room when he started chanting, or throwing Cheerios in Ryan's ear, or whatever he was doing to torment the poor kid.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, simply.
Ryan shook his head.
"Do I ever?" he asked wryly. "But thanks. I, um, I don't usually remember them, if it makes you feel better -- the nightmares. I'm just sorry they woke you. That's why I like the pool house."
"So, they're not, like, new? From today?" she asked, lying back down and making herself comfortable.
"No. Well, maybe. I've had them forever, but they're supposed to be a stress reaction, so, you know, stressed. Trey used to hit me in the head until I shut up, back when we shared a bed," he added, as he lay back down beside her.
Without thinking, she gathered him up in her arms -- felt him tense for a moment.
"Um, Summer?" he asked softly.
"Am I hurting you?" she asked, being particularly careful of where she placed her hands on his bruised abdomen.
"No."
"Then shut up and go back to sleep. I'm testing a theory."
The second time she woke, the light filtering through the curtains was the grey light of pre-dawn, and Ryan was still sleeping, and struggling, in her arms. This time, he wasn't crying, he was fighting against her, so she let him go. Immediately, he flipped on his side and burrowed into her, his face hidden against her chest, his substantial morning erection straining through the thin material of his boxer briefs, pushing against her thigh.
Still sleeping, he began nuzzling against her, at the junction of where her neck met her shoulder. A spot that she would pay him to introduce Cohen to, actually. After a few moments, he began stroking her hair with his hand, the other cupping her buttocks and drawing her closer into him.
"Ryan! Um, Ryan. Chino! Hey!" she whispered fiercely, but this time a tap on the shoulder didn't seem to do it.
Before things got too far, though, she felt him start to stir, making soft, questioning sounds in the back of his throat.
"Ryan?" she whispered again, and this time he answered with a lazy "Hmmm?" while stroking his thumb back and forth gently across her nipple.
"Ryan, where are you?" she asked.
"Bed. 'S'nice," he muttered. "So soft."
"Ryan, this is Summer," she said. "Not Marissa. You get that, right?"
"Um-hmmh," he answered, still half-asleep.
She didn't speak Ryan's language, not really. None of them did. But, she knew that this was the closest she could get. It wasn't cheating. It wasn't sex. It was comfort. It was solid. It was speaking to Ryan in a language he could finally understand.
"Ryan, what do you want?" she asked.
"You," he answered baldly.
Fair enough.
Summer lay back and allowed him to lift his shirt from her torso. His eyes were still slitted, but she could see that he was awake now.
"No one will know," she whispered, "But I won't lie to you -- and I won't let you lie to yourself. Who am I? Really, Ryan -- you have to say it, or this -- this isn't going to happen."
"Summer," he whispered. "Seth's girl, I know."
He started to pull away, but she stopped him with a hand resting gently on his back.
"No, it's okay," she said. "It won't hurt Seth. It won't hurt me. It might help you."
He nodded, and below his wild hair his eyes were slitted again, this time with desire.
"Just so we're clear. . . " he started.
"Mercy fuck," Summer said evenly. "Well, friendship fuck. Comfort fuck. That's all."
She expected to lie back and think of Newport Beach, but it would figure that Ryan, even in his most selfish, basest instincts, was the prototypical boy scout.
He finished undressing her, and sat back on his heels, admiring the canvas that lay before him.
"That," he said sleepily, "Is a magnificent ass. Not a Newport ass at all. That is what Theresa's mom would say comes from salsa and frijoles."
"Hunh?" she wasn't sure if she was being dissed or complimented, but Ryan picked up on her confusion immediately.
"It's not an insult," he whispered, laying himself down in the split of her legs, holding his chest over hers as he nuzzled against her neck. "It just means you get it from a lot of sexy dancing and a lot of good home cooking. A woman who's fun, but real. Not a throwaway girl," he explained, peppering each word with a kiss against her breastbone.
A minute later, he had gotten his legs beneath hers, and pulled her over on top of him. Her first instinct was to cover up -- this was a position that let all her hidden flaws show, but Ryan didn't give her the time.
He seated her against his pelvic bone, and pulled her breasts down towards him, licking and nibbling the darker areas around her aureoles. Within minutes, her nipples were stiff, and she was pushing herself down against the unyielding hardness of his hip. He brought his legs up to give her better purchase, holding her in a kind of cradle made of his legs and his chest as she rocked back and forth in time with his kisses.
Just when she thought she was going to go crazy if she couldn't get some more stimulation, he walked his hands down her back -- as light as bees' wings -- until they cupped together under her ass. He probed gently at the edges of her panties until he found an opening, and slid a finger inside. She felt the faded calluses she'd felt earlier -- coarse against her delicate skin -- but he didn't push, letting her seat herself on him until she found an angle, and a rhythm, that could take her home. When she came it was wholly unexpected -- a quick, sharp shock -- a sudden, small seizure -- and she let herself fall against his chest.
After a moment, and a few deep breaths, she looked up to find him smiling at her.
"Feeling okay?" he asked. She thumped him lightly on the chest.
"You know I am, you smug bastard," she answered. "Now, why can't you teach Seth that instead of how to swear in Spanish?" she demanded. She felt, rather than heard, the deep chuckle in his throat.
"Oh yeah. That's a conversation I want to have with Seth, who talks about foreplay as the appetizer," he said, and to her surprise, neither of them seemed to be affected by his name. It was as though he were there with them, between them.
"Oh, God," she moaned. "Did he tell you about the fish sex?"
She buried her face in his chest as he laughed aloud.
"What do you think?" Ryan asked, and to her utter surprise, flipped her onto her back once again.
"Hey, stranger," she said, her voice suddenly lower, "I didn't forget about you."
She reached up to the waistband above her, to tug the shorts off the rest of that magnificent body, but Ryan brushed her hand away. With quick efficiency, he stripped them both, and lay down again between her legs, his cock just out of reach of her hands.
"You know," she said, "I may have been a virgin before Seth, but I wasn't, like, a total virgin-virgin. I mean, I'm known to give pretty good head." She didn't want to brag, but she was the one who taught Holly to deep-throat -- the one who convinced Marissa to go down on Luke at all.
He chuckled again, and batted her hands away.
"What if I'm not done playing yet?"he asked, his eyes twinkling. Now, she was the one who blushed, from root to, um, root.
"You mean, um . . . " she trailed off as she watched Ryan's blond, tousled head pillowed on her thigh, so different from Seth's wiry curls. In fact, they'd joked about the consistency of their various, uh, pelts the very first time Seth had tried this.
Ryan heaved himself further up the bed, landing gracefully beside her. He leaned over and kissed her, his stubbled cheek raw against hers, his mouth still tasting faintly of toothpaste, despite his morning breath. He smelled like cheap hotel soap, and under it -- fainter -- were the familiar scents of the Cohen's laundry detergent, and the Cohen's soap. But deeper, where Seth was sea breeze and lemon verbena, Ryan was dark -- musk and damp earth and mole sauce. It was an odd, but not an altogether unpleasant, contrast.
"Yes, I mean, um," he teased when he was finished, "Unless it makes you uncomfortable. Haven't you and Seth . . . " he let the question trail off.
"We have," she admitted. "It's just, well, it doesn't really work for me, that's all."
Ryan cocked an eyebrow.
"That would be a first," he said, "I'm pretty sure it works for everybody. I bet Seth can't keep his mouth shut long enough to really show off his technique. Trust me on this," he added, as he began to kiss his way down her chest and over her abdomen.
When he reached her center, his first few teasing strokes made her laugh, she was so sensitive and they were so ticklish. But he seemed to be learning her body as he went along. After a few minutes, he found a harder pressure, a simpler rhythm, and a slow, deep warmth began spreading from the point right behind her navel. She twisted and shook under his mouth, hearing a strange, guttural panting--was surprised to realize that it came from her. As the slow warmth deepened and spread, Ryan added one finger, then another, probing and testing inside even as he continued to apply pressure outside, with his mouth and his teeth and his lips.
If her first orgasm was sharp and sudden, this one rolled over her like an incoming tide, soft and deep, warm and welcome. She rode its peaks for several minutes until she stopped shuddering, and Ryan flopped down beside her once more.
He stretched out his arms above his head and reached for a tissue, but Summer stopped him before he could wipe his face. She kissed him deeply, probing for her own juices, ashamed and exhilarated at the same time. He brought his hand up to cradle the bottom of her skull, brushing his fingertips against the back of her ears, guiding her mouth as he returned her kiss eagerly.
When she was finished, he lay spread out before her, his hands still over his head. Even under the dark, ugly bruises, he was a sight -- all planes and angles, and dark, hidden places. She kissed him again, and moved her hand down between his legs. His cock was thick and heavy, not too long, much like Ryan himself, the skin velvet soft, the flesh feeling, oddly, like a bike handle, dense padding around a strong core. She tugged at it gently, until she felt it jump under her hands, then she bent her head towards it, only to be stopped by Ryan twisting away from her.
"What? What now?" she demanded, but he was already out of bed, his pale ass flashing her as he dug through the pockets of his pants.
"Condom," he answered as he climbed back into bed beside her, a small roll of three in his fist. He broke one off and took a moment to kiss her again. "You want to do the honors, or should I?" he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. This was precisely why she was on the pill. And, incidentally, why she didn't sleep around.
"We don't need one," she said, "It's just been me and Seth -- and Seth and Alex. We got tested after they broke up -- after we got back together. Um -- there never was a me and Zach. And -- well, you? You live like a monk."
Ryan shook his head. This was why, no matter what they told her, she would never really believe that Ryan fathered Theresa's baby. Agreed to be the father, certainly. But he was just too cautious to have done something so reckless -- and dumb.
"No glove, no love," he said lightly, pressing the wrapper into her hand.
She took it -- quickly cast it aside.
"I hate the taste of latex," she said, but Ryan grabbed her head, and forced her to turn her face towards him.
"Summer, listen to me. If you don't like the taste, you don't have to do anything. I'm a very creative guy; we can find another way to have a good time. But, no--not this -- not without a condom."
She sighed.
"I just wanted to return the favor," she pouted. "Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?"
He looked at her sharply for a minute, then smiled sadly.
"I appreciate the gesture. Seriously. But, you can't be too careful. A.J.'s a fuckin' druggie. No different than my mom," he said.
Somehow the conversation zigged -- just when she'd zagged. He'd lost her.
"So -- you think you could be infected, like, from the fight? Did he bleed on you?" she asked, concerned.
"Nah. Mostly, I bled on him. Though he did scrape his knuckles on my mouth."
"So now you think you've got -- what -- hepatitis? AIDS?" she asked. "C'mon, Ryan, there's careful -- and then there's paranoid."
He blinked at her, and sighed again.
"Not paranoid," he said softly, "Careful. There are -- other ways –- that -- um . . . "
Oh, Jesus. She was as dense as fucking Marissa sometimes.
"What did he do," she asked carefully, "While you were in the room together? Did he hurt you? Do you need to see a doctor?"
Ryan sighed and sat up, pulling her to him under one arm.
"See, this? This is not how I expected this to go. I thought there might actually be some sex in it for me -- finally. Now I think all I need is a cigarette and a fuckin' cold shower."
Despite his words, he didn't sound angry -- just tired and sad.
"You had your cold shower last night," she reminded him, trying to lighten the mood, just a little. Ryan smiled only with his mouth.
"Yeah, that? Was my little freak-out. This morning was supposed to be the opposite of that. Now, could we return to our regularly scheduled programming, please?" he said, as he bent to kiss her again.
"Wait, wait, Chino, hang on," she said, pushing him away. He sighed for real this time, and Summer felt like a complete ass. This was supposed to be a mercy fuck, not a therapy session.
"It's just -- Look, wouldn't you feel better if you got to say it out loud? Just once? And then I'll forget all about it, just like we're going to forget about this morning. Just -- tell me what happened, and I promise to act like it's no big deal, and then we can have some condom-covered sex and return to Seth, all equilibrium restored."
He was looking at her with hooded eyes.
"I'm fine," he said shortly, and she knew that he was seconds away from leaving the bed and returning to the real life that awaited them after their 12-hour ride back to Newport Beach.
But she pushed back anyway.
"It's only -- yesterday wasn't the first time, was it?"
Ryan actually groaned and threw himself back onto the bed, his erection having fled the building several moments before.
"Jesus. Fuckin'. Christ. Summer. You're worse than fuckin' Seth. What the hell do you think? No, yesterday was not the first time, okay? Now, is that supposed to make me feel better? 'Cause it doesn't. Actually, the sex was working just fine, but thanks all the same."
"What did he do?" she asked, in a small voice, ignoring his outburst.
He covered his eyes with a forearm.
"Jesus. You really need me to tell you?"
Summer nodded, but didn't speak, just waited as he fought with himself -- resigned himself to the fact that she most likely already knew. She wanted to say that nothing he could say would surprise -- or repulse -- her at this point, but she knew that there were some lines even she couldn't cross.
"Just my mouth," he mumbled, "It was just my mouth -- he wanted me to blow him. If you want to party, A.J.'s got to come," he added in a bitter, sing-song voice.
"And, the other times?" Her voice was deliberately soft and even.
"Sometimes -- not -- just my mouth."
"Was A.J. the only one?"
There was a long, long pause.
"No." He was almost too quiet to hear.
"And your mom?"
"Summer, Jesus!"
He turned from her and buried his head in his hands.
"What happened with your mom, Ryan?"
"Shit -- okay, fine."
He turned suddenly and faced her, and she could see the vein in his right temple begin to throb -- even though he still hadn't raised his voice.
"So, she's not the most stable mother ever. She -- occasionally -- in the midst of a bender -- might have gotten me -- confused -- with someone else. Kind of like . . . like she did yesterday."
"What else?"
"What! Summer -- what the fuck else do you think there is?" Ryan spat.
She sighed.
"'Ry? Help your Mom out, kiddo?'" she mimicked.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice strangled. "You were there. You already know the answer to that."
"And Trey?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake -- Trey? He's my brother, Summer! No. Never. Not once. No, Jesus, no," he said, sitting up and glaring at her.
She shifted to face him fully, and put a hand on his reddened cheek.
"No. Not like that. I didn't think that. I just meant -- did it happen to Trey, too? Did Trey know what was happening to you?"
Ryan turned away from her, looked down at his hands tangled up in the stiff, cheap bedsheets.
"He -- I guess -- I don't know. We never talked about it. Ever. We just -- if he was hurt, I took it. If I was hurt, he did. It's just how it worked. And we always, you know, looked out for each other."
"But nobody knew?"
"Everybody knew," he hissed. "Nobody said they knew. Jesus -- every guy my mom ever dated, anyone who knows A.J., teachers, parents, coaches, they all knew. A.J.'s a pretty fuckin' scary guy -- in case you hadn't noticed."
He ran his hand back and forth across his forehead and sighed.
"Hell, all my mother's boyfriends were pretty fuckin' scary guys. It's just -- easier -- this way. Christ, there's probably a little note in some folder in Sandy's office somewhere: 'Ryan Atwood took it up the ass for the first time in spring of 1998. We think this contributes to his intimacy issues.'"
"You were ten?"
Up until now, Summer had kept up her end of the bargain -- no emotion, it's no big deal. But ten -- she and Marissa had still been playing dress-up and My Little Pony. Seth hadn't even been allowed to cross the street by himself.
"Nine," Ryan answered. "Foster care. Good Christians. Everyone said they'd turn me around. The old guy -- he was the one -- he said I was already damaged goods. It was too late to save me -- he could do what he wanted -- and no one would ever believe me. He was right," Ryan finished softly.
He'd drawn the sheets around himself, and was sitting up in bed, a pillow wedged behind him. His legs were drawn up, and crossed at the ankles, and his hands dangled loosely between his spread knees.
"It's never too late," Summer answered. "I believe you. The Cohens would, too, if you told them."
"Which I won't. And you won't either, right, Summer?" Ryan suddenly snarled.
"Tell them what? Everything in this room is going to melt away the second we cross that threshold."
"Good. Then can I please have a fuckin' cigarette now?" he asked plaintively.
By the time Ryan finished smoking, Summer had dozed off again, and when she awoke, the sun was fully out. Ryan was sitting at the end of the bed, re-dressed in his boxer-briefs, watching her sleep and picking at a fruit plate.
"Hey you," she said, and smiled at him as she stretched lazily. "What are you doing?"
"Eating some fruit. Watching you sleep. The usual. You know, this is really sad. Mandarin oranges -- seriously? Even in Chino you'd get a nice mango, or maybe a papaya. At least it doesn't taste any shittier the morning after."
"How are you doing?" she asked.
"Crappy fruit plate and serious blue balls aside? Okay, I guess. Thanks, you know, for the impromptu therapy session."
"What time is it?" she asked.
"A little after seven. We should probably get going," he added.
"Or, you know, we could take care of at least one of your problems," Summer said, patting the empty bed beside her.
"You know where to get a juicy mango in Reno? That'd be awesome, Sum," Ryan said, his voice taking on the bland, earnest cheer of a Harbor pep squad member.
"You know what I meant," she scolded. Ryan snorted, and put the plate carefully down on the floor before rising to his knees and coming to lie beside her.
"Oh yeah, that's so sexy. Not even a mercy fuck, now. A pity fuck. I may not be getting any -- apparently ever again -- but even I have my standards," he said, leaning to kiss her.His fingers smelled like oranges as he brushed the hair away from her face.
"Not a pity fuck. Never," she added, more fiercely than she intended. She hated people who felt sorry for her. She knew Ryan had to feel the same.
"Not a pity fuck," she reaffirmed. "You know, I'm not the only one in this bed with a nice ass. Maybe I just want to sample the forbidden treasure," she started to giggle.
Ryan picked up a pillow and covered his face, laughing too.
"And apparently my standards are lower than I thought. Because that actually sounded pretty hot to me," he said, between bursts of laughter.
"It did?"
"Hey. Have I mentioned that it's been fifteen months since I've had actual sex with a woman?"
She hit him with her own pillow, and before long, they were tussling goodnaturedly on the bed.
Unlike the careful attention they had lavished on each other earlier, this fuck was quick and friendly. Summer didn't orgasm again, but she was okay with that, since she didn't think she was going to -- Ryan was just too pent up to pay her much mind. He wasn't so out of practice that she didn't enjoy the ride, however, and once again she had the strangest feeling that Cohen might actually approve.
By the time they cleaned up and checked out, it was after eight o'clock, and, whether it was better directions, or the fact that they'd had some sleep, they made substantially better time on the ride home.
Ryan offered to drive the first leg, and they only stopped long enough to gas up and grab some food when they needed to. When they switched drivers at the halfway point, they tried calling Seth and Marissa, but got no answer. Summer left voicemails while Ryan dozed in the seat beside her.
Their trip back was quiet, but it was a normal, Ryan Atwood, comfortable silence that she didn't mind. Once, he looked out the window and, smoking the one cigarette she allowed him to have every two hours, wondered aloud about how his mother was doing.
By the time they pulled into the familiar gates of the Cohens' development, it was almost twilight.
The guard waved them through, and Summer thought she saw a little smile play on Ryan's face.
"What?" she demanded.
"Nothing. It's just -- good to be home," he said, and she couldn't have agreed more.