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Collision Course Chapter 21Seth sat in the Rover, gaping at the building in front of him. Already eight steps away from the car, Ryan suddenly stopped, realizing he was alone.
"Seth?" he called. "Hey, you coming, man?"
Seth stuck his hand out the window, covertly waving Ryan back.
"What's wrong?" Ryan demanded as he returned.
"I'm thinking, maybe the address?" Seth suggested hopefully. "Or street? This isn't a hospital, Ryan."
"Yeah, no, I know. It's a rehab clinic."
"Ryan, it's a sports clinic." Seth dropped his voice as if "sports" was a code word for gulag and ducked as two huge men strode past. "Look at those guys. Behemoths. Serious freaks of nature, dude. Okay, well, nature and steroids, probably."
"Behemoths, Seth?"
"Big men," Seth explained, slinking down in his seat. "Big, ginormous men of Greek myth proportions. Ryan, we don't belong at a sports clinic. It's for people who pretty much require their own zip codes. Sports-type people."
Ryan hoisted the strap of his bag higher onto his shoulder. "An ACL is considered a sports injury, Seth," he said impatiently. "The doctor recommended this place."
He started away from the car, but Seth clutched his sleeve. "Okay, Ryan, not trying to dis your athletic cred here, and yeah, I know you were on a bike at the time, but, dude, your knee? Totally not a sports injury. I mean it's not as if you were riding in the Ile de France when it happened."
"Tour." Ryan smirked slightly. "Tour de France, Seth. Stop being an ass and come on."
Seth nodded and puffed out his chest manfully. "Just making sure we were at the right place, dude." He reached for the door handle, then shrank back again when another athlete jogged past. "Okay, Ryan, that guy has no neck," he whispered. "Are they going to build him one in there? Or maybe transplant one? Because I am not volunteering to be a donor."
Ryan snorted, a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan.
"Hey," Seth protested, "I'm just saying." He gave a self-deprecating shrug, as Ryan looked thoughtfully from him to the clinic doors.
"Tell you what, Seth. Your dad just asked you to drive me here. You don't have to come in. Want to wait for me in the car?"
"Yes, Ryan, yes," Seth confessed fervently, "that is exactly what I want. But . . ." He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I'm not going to. What kind of a friend would I be if I let you walk into Mordor alone? Would Sam do that to Frodo? No, Ryan, he wouldn't, and I refuse to be a lesser man—or hobbit, I guess—than Sam. So I'm with you, dude, all the way to Mount Doom." Seth unfastened his seat belt. He flexed his arms, checking to see if any muscles would magically appear.
Ryan shook his head, his lips twisting into a wry grin. "This isn't Mordor, Seth," he pointed out. "And you don't have to prove anything. This isn't a big deal, really. The place is just a kind of giant gym, that's all . . ."
"Right. You say giant gym, I say Orcan stronghold. Same diff, dude." Seth pointed across the parking lot. "Look at that guy there. Tell me he's not one of the fighting Uruk-hai."
"Yeah, Seth. Your Lord of the Rings DVDs? Really, give them a rest." Wincing a bit as he repositioned his bag, Ryan checked his watch. "Okay, look, I've got to get inside. You coming or staying?"
Seth grimaced. He set his shoulders resolutely and gathered his supplies. "Coming with," he declared, getting out of the car. Then he spun around, fumbling to unlock the door again. "Wait, Ryan," he called, as he shuffled through his bag. "I'm coming. But I think this crowd won't really appreciate my graphic novels. Aesthetically, I mean." Seth shoved the comic books that he'd planned to read onto the seat and trotted after Ryan, demanding, "You don't have any more appropriate reading material handy, do you? Popular Mechanics? Sports Illustrated? Testosterone Today?"
"Seth," Ryan growled, glaring over his shoulder. "Remember how we weren't talking to each other a few days ago?"
Seth nodded.
"You suppose we could do that again?"
For the fifth time, Kirsten reread the spreadsheet in front of her. She had no idea if the figures were correct or not, and frankly, she didn't care. Work was supposed to keep her occupied, make the time pass more quickly, but no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't concentrate.
"God," she groaned, pushing her hands through her hair. "Focus, Kirsten." Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths and then looked at the spreadsheets again.
No. It was pointless.
Kirsten shoved the papers haphazardly into a folder and reached for the phone. Maybe, she thought, she should just check with Seth and find out what the boys wanted for dinner.
No. She couldn't do that either. They'd be home in plenty of time to tell her that. If she wanted to call she needed a more plausible excuse, and right now Kirsten couldn't think of any reason except the truth: to reassure herself that they were all right.
It was ridiculous, even irrational, Kirsten knew. Still, whenever she pictured Seth and Ryan setting out in that car, she couldn't quell a sick feeling of dread. Without thinking about it, she wandered to the kitchen, and started to slide a bottle out of the wine rack. Then her gaze caught the clock. Not even eleven a.m.—too early for lunch, much too early for her to have a drink.
"Damn, damn, damn," Kirsten muttered, mentally slapping her own wrist. Sighing, she replaced the bottle and began to heat water for tea instead. She stood impatiently waiting for it to boil, fingering her speed dial, still debating whether to call the boys.
When the doorbell rang, Kirsten felt a wash of relief. Company. Good. Anybody would be a welcome distraction, she thought as she returned to the living room. Then she opened the door, and groaned silently, correcting herself. Caleb was standing outside, dapper and cool in the midmorning heat, tapping his soft leather briefcase against his leg.
"Dad." Kirsten took a deep breath and braced herself. "Come on in. I thought you might stop by today."
Caleb raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked as he stepped inside. "Why? Is there some problem I'm supposed to know about, Kiki?"
"What? No. I just thought . . ." Kirsten caught herself, covering her confusion by kissing her father hello. If he hadn't come to complain about the boys' behavior at his house, she certainly wasn't going to bring up the subject. "I thought that since the re-launch party is over, you might want to discuss the direction that the Newport Group should take now."
Caleb smiled in approval. "Actually, that's exactly what I came here to do." He unbuttoned his jacket and made himself comfortable on the couch, adding, "Of course, it would be more convenient if we could talk business at the office."
Kirsten flushed. "I'll be back soon," she promised vaguely.
"Yes, I'm sure you will. When you're not needed so much at home."
Kirsten searched her father's face for some sign of sarcasm, but his expression was completely benign. "So . . ." she prompted. "Do you have any specific ideas, Dad?"
Ignoring the question, Caleb indicated Kirsten's teacup. "If you were going to offer me some, Kiki . . . "
"Oh, of course. Or would you prefer coffee?"
"Tea is fine," Caleb said. He waited until Kirsten returned with his drink, took a sip, and then asked, "Are Seth and Ryan around?"
Instantly, Kirsten stiffened, back on guard. "No," she answered warily. "Seth drove Ryan to rehab this morning. Why? I thought you were here to discuss the company."
"I am." Caleb's voice was bemused and the smile he gave Kirsten appeared completely candid. "Kiki, you don't have to jump any time I mention the boys' names." Kirsten's brows rose skeptically, and he gave an injured sigh. "I just thought if they were available we could invite them to join our conversation."
"Seth and Ryan?" Kirsten demanded incredulously. "Why would we do that?"
Pushing his teacup aside, Caleb cleared workspace on the coffee table. "Just let me explain," he urged. "Yesterday I was cleaning out files, and I glanced through some proposals that we rejected previously. One of them was for the youth center you and Sanford wanted the Newport Group to build."
Kirsten frowned. "Why would you revisit that idea, Dad? You hated it. As I recall, you said that kids around here don't need—what did you call it? A glorified playground—since they can already use the country club and the yacht club, and for the ones who don't, there's always the beach."
Caleb laced his fingers under his chin, looking abashed. "Yes, well, I did say that," he conceded. "And ordinarily, I don't believe a youth center would qualify as a Newport Group project, but under the circumstances, I believe it's worth another look."
"What circumstances?" Kirsten demanded. "What's different now?
"The Newport Group is different," Caleb replied, opening his briefcase, and disregarding his daughter's dubious expression. "Building a youth center might help us to demonstrate that." His lips twisted ironically. "Perception is everything, you know. And we need to establish a new image. I think the company has to make a show of good faith right now, prove to the public that we've reinvented ourselves after the . . . scandals . . . of the past few months, and show that we're committed to the welfare of this community."
He handed a file to Kirsten and sat back. She took the papers, but she didn't even glance at them. "Are we?" she asked bluntly. "Or is this just a business ploy, Dad?"
"You're not naïve, Kirsten. And I've never pretended to do things strictly for altruistic reasons," Caleb admitted. "Of course it's a ploy. But no matter what my motives are, I thought you would be pleased. After all, the end result will be exactly what you and Sandy wanted--the children in Orange County will get a youth center."
Kirsten thumbed through the file. "That's true," she murmured. "And no matter what you think, the area does need one, Dad. Everyone in Newport doesn't belong to the clubs. The kids in the numbered streets, for instance . . ."
"Yes," Caleb said thoughtfully. "I seem to remember you arguing that we could provide an outlet for them. So . . . can I count on your support when I present this idea to the Board of Directors?"
"Of course," Kirsten agreed. Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Absolutely, Dad. And I know Sandy would be glad to help too. This is exactly the sort of project we'd love to see the Newport Group front."
Caleb nodded, smiling. "Good. I'm glad you're on board, Kiki." He took a square envelope out of his briefcase. "Now, I hope you'll be as receptive to my other idea."
Kirsten tensed slightly. "What other idea?"
"Well, Kiki, this is a youth center, and while I consider myself to be in the prime of life, I don't believe anyone would call me young anymore. I'm afraid even you don't really qualify."
"Gee," Kirsten said wryly, "thanks Dad."
Caleb laughed. "Now, sweetheart, you know what I mean. I just think that to do this project successfully we need the input of the young people it's intended to serve. Find out what they like to do, what kind of facility would appeal to them. And that reminded me of the conversation you and I had at the party."
Kirsten's smile vanished. "What part of our conversation?" she asked suspiciously.
"You claimed that I don't really know Seth and that I don't want to know Ryan," Caleb recalled. Kirsten started to respond, but he waved a hand in apology and continued, "No, I've thought about it, and you were right, Kiki. Seth and I used to be close when he was younger. We enjoyed each other's company when I taught him to sail, but in the past few years, we've drifted apart. My fault, I know . . ."
"You just need to let Seth be his own person, Dad," Kirsten advised earnestly. "He really wants you to be proud of him. And as for Ryan . . ."
"I am proud of Seth," Caleb insisted. "And well, as for Ryan . . ." He shrugged, grimly tapping the edge of the envelope against the arm of his chair. "Perhaps I haven't given him the chance to show me what he's really like. But this project could help me remedy that situation."
Kirsten narrowed her eyes, trying to read her father's business face. "What do you mean exactly?"
"Well, I'd like to make the youth center a family affair, Kiki, get the boys involved with it. Ryan especially. You tell me he has an interest in construction and architecture—"
"Not just an interest, Dad. I told you he was talented."
"That's right," Caleb amended. "You did. And I promise, I plan to let Ryan show me what he's capable of doing." His voice tightened almost imperceptibly. "But you have to understand, Kirsten, I've had reasons to distrust the boy. Burning down our model home, those fights last year, the suspension from school, getting that girl pregnant . . . And now that he's dating my daughter . . ."
Kirsten's cheeks flushed. "Don't you dare," she warned tersely. "May I remind you who Lindsay is and how she got here? You cheated on my mother when she was sick, you got the other woman in your life pregnant, and then you denied your child until you had to acknowledge her or go to jail. Don't even think about taking the moral high ground here, Dad. At least Ryan--"
"Kiki, please," Caleb interjected, raising his hands in surrender. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just mentioned Ryan's past in order to explain my feelings . . . Past feelings. But never mind. I apologize." He took her hand in both of his. "Truce?"
Kirsten gave a shaky sigh. "I suppose," she whispered, unconvinced.
"Good." Caleb squeezed her hand and released it. "You want me to get to know the real Ryan, and that's exactly what I intend to do. Now, this is my dea, but if you don't approve, I promise I'll drop it . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked at Kirsten questioningly.
"Just tell me, Dad."
"I'd like Ryan and Seth both to serve on an advisory panel for the youth center—you know, to give us authentic teenage input. Actually, I thought I would ask Ryan to head the group." Caleb slid the envelope he'd been holding over to Kirsten. "This is an invitation for the boys. I'm going to host a kick-off dinner at my house this Friday to explain the whole project and their role in it."
"Dad--" Kirsten began. She sounded a little dazed.
"Now, it's not just Seth and Ryan," Caleb assured her hastily. "I'm inviting other teenagers, some of their classmates in fact, so it won't be awkward . . ."
"You and Ryan and Seth. And it won't be awkward?" Kirsten scoffed with a rueful smile. "Let's look the word up in the dictionary, shall we?"
Chucking slightly, Caleb shook his head. "But as I said, it won't be just the three of us," he insisted. "And we'll have something meaningful to discuss, so we won't be sitting around making small talk. I know Ryan doesn't enjoy that . . . Kiki, I am trying to make things right here."
Kirsten bit her lip. "I don't know, Dad . . ." she murmured.
"Sweetheart, really, what can it hurt? My relationship with those boys is already terrible. I hardly think it can get any worse."
"But Seth's and Ryan's friendship is just getting back to normal. And working on a project with you . . . It will be another tense situation . . ."
Caleb leaned forward. "But they'll have each other for support. Kiki, I thought you wanted me to mend fences with them . . ."
"No, I do . . ." Kirsten took a deep breath. "All right," she agreed. "I'll give them the invitation and explain the project. But, Dad, you have to accept whatever decision they make. I am not going to force them to go."
Caleb smiled and got up, buttoning his jacket. "Of course not, sweetheart. But I hope you tell them how much their participation would mean to the company—and to me personally. Because I really think I can learn a lot about the boys this way."
Kirsten trailed her father to the door, still holding the invitation. She lifted her cheek for his goodbye kiss, then stopped suddenly. "Dad—wait. You said the dinner is this Friday?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Seth can't be there. He already has plans with Zach. They're presenting their comic book ideas at an industry trade show in L.A. It's very important to Seth. I'm sure I mentioned that to you--"
Caleb's brows furrowed. "Did you?" he asked vaguely. He straightened his cuffs, avoiding Kirsten's eyes. "Oh yes, that's right, you did. I'm sorry, Kiki. I forgot all about it. Well then, we'll just get Seth involved at a later date. I don't expect him to cancel his plans, but the other invitations are in the mail, so I can hardly change the date now."
"I understand that, but Dad, if it's just you and Ryan, I don't think . . . I really doubt that he'll want to come," Kirsten admitted worriedly.
"Just ask him, Kiki. Please?" Caleb urged. "Remind him that there will be other young people there—friends of his. And I won't even be around most of the time. As soon as I explain the project, I plan to turn the evening over to Ryan."
"You will?"
Caleb nodded, smiling tightly. "If I hope to get honest reactions, I really think I need to leave the young people alone. What do you say, sweetheart? You'll give Ryan the invitation?"
Kirsten hesitated.
"Kiki? I really think this is important to all of us."
"All right, Dad," she agreed finally. "I'll talk to Ryan for you."
"This is it?" Summer asked, wrinkling her nose dubiously. "This doesn't look like a lawyer's office, Lindsay. I thought they were all . . ."
"Stuffy?" Sandy teased as he opened the door, waving Summer and Lindsay inside. "Conservative? Boring? Bland? All of the above?"
Summer grinned. "Pretty much," she admitted. "You weren't supposed to hear that, Mr. Cohen. But anyway, this office is different. It's much more . . . well, you."
Sandy scanned the beachfront view before turning to the comfortable furnishings inside, the surfboards propped against the wall, which was hung with bright, framed posters. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."
"Oh, it totally is," Summer declared. She plopped down on the couch and gave a contented sigh. "This place is so nice I don't even mind giving up my first spring break morning to do an errand for Cohen. Seth, I mean. And, oh, don't tell him that I said that, okay, Mr. Cohen? He'll think he doesn't owe me, and he so does."
"Hey, lawyer-client confidentiality applies to anything said in this office, Summer. Your secret's safe with me. So . . . what can I do for you girls today?" Sandy held up a warning finger. "Let me warn you right now, though—the boys' surprise party quota is used up for the week."
Lindsay, who had been examining the shelves of books with something like awe, turned around and smiled, blushing slightly. "Oh no, we know that, Sandy. And thanks again, by the way, for, well, everything yesterday."
"Our pleasure," Sandy said. He poured them all some lemonade and passed the glasses around. "I think having all of you over was really good for the boys."
"It was good for all of us," Lindsay replied. "I think it really helped us to, well, sort of reconnect."
Sandy nodded. His tone was grave, but his eyes were laughing. "Then it was worth using up all of the post-it notes we had at home."
Lindsay and Summer exchanged glances and burst into giggles.
"I wish I could have seen Seth's face!" Summer exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Chino's too—I mean Ryan's. We really should have hooked up a video camera."
"Summer!" Lindsay reproved. "That would have just been mean . . . And you're right. We so should have."
Sandy settled back, savoring the moment—tension-free, full of fun. It was exactly the mood he wanted restored in his family. They'd enjoyed snatches of it—when Ryan prepared breakfast, yesterday during the impromptu party—but something always intruded, like Ryan's letter from UCLA, or Kirsten's terror when the Rover was returned. And then it all bubbled back to the surface, thick and opaque, all the anger, frustration, resentment, betrayal . . .
He really hoped he'd been right to send Seth and Ryan off alone, together, and to suggest to his son that they use the time to talk things out.
Words could heal, or they could hurt.
No one knew that as well as a lawyer.
"Sandy?"
Shaking his head slightly, Sandy focused, realizing that Lindsay and Summer had sobered and were looking at him expectantly. "So . . . you said you were running an errand for Seth?" he prompted. "What does my son need from my office?"
"Your advice," Lindsay replied. She ran a finger around the rim of her glass thoughtfully. "At least, we do. It's sort of complicated, Sandy. You see, Seth really wants to do something to make up for, well, costing Ryan the internship this summer."
Sandy nodded, made a noncommittal noise, and waited.
"Cohen had this idea," Summer explain. "He thought that maybe he could find a different program for Ryan—you know, probably not as good as the one Lindsay's doing, but close. Only science is so not his area, and he didn't know where to start looking. So he asked me to help."
"Ah," Sandy said, raising his eyebrows. "Seth thought you would know some good physics programs. Of course."
Summer choked on her mouthful of lemonade. "Not me, Mr. Cohen. God, physics? Ew," she spluttered. "I don't do boring . . . No offense, Lindsay. No, Seth just wanted me to talk to Lindsay and get her to find some programs for him. He was, well, sort of afraid she'd say no if he asked her himself."
"Got it. You're the go-between," Sandy concluded.
"I prefer to think of myself as the facilitator. But, you know, whatev." Summer gave an airy wave. "Anyway, Lindsay agreed to do the research . . ."
Lindsay's face clouded. "But I failed," she confessed miserably. "I was online almost all night, and I couldn't find any summer programs Ryan would qualify for. There were a few research assistantships, but you can't apply unless you're already in college. I wanted to ask Mr. Greenburg for suggestions, but I can't, because he's away for spring break."
Summer gave an indelicate snort. "Oops—sorry!" Hastily, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "I just pictured Mr. Greenburg on the beach in a Speedo. And well, ew. But, you know, back to the subject."
"Right," Lindsay agreed. "The subject . . . So, Sandy, I know you're not a scientist or anything . . . well, I mean, obviously you're something. You're a lawyer, and a really good one—and, God, I'm babbling again."
Sandy put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "It's all right, honey. I live with Seth. I can translate babbling pretty accurately. You'd like me to see if I can find a summer program for Ryan, right?"
Lindsay nodded.
"Well," Sandy said honestly, "I can't promise anything. But I'm glad to know that Seth is really thinking about what his actions cost Ryan, and not just trying to make things up to him with some new video games. So I'll see what I can do."
Lindsay gave him a spontaneous kiss. "Thank you so much. You're just the best, Sandy."
Sandy smiled. "I was going to say the same thing about you two. My boys are really lucky to have you girls in their lives."
Without anything else to occupy his time, Seth huddled in a corner of the cavernous room, listening to his iPod, checking his watch at half-minute intervals, and trying to keep his feet tucked safely away from rolling barbells.
Not that any barbells were rolling. But Seth thought they might. Everything around appeared life-threatening to him—the machines, the weights, and particularly the people, almost all of whom looked huge, fierce, and most frightening of all, completely comfortable with pain.
There was no way Seth could avoid the fetid smell of raw sweat, but at least his music drowned out the primal grunts that echoed through the room. He would have closed his eyes, but he figured he needed to stay alert in case a stray medicine ball suddenly barreled in his direction, or a weighted disc fell from one of the suspended machines, and he needed to somersault to safety.
"You could wait for me here in the lobby," Ryan had suggested when they arrived.
Seth surveyed the area and nodded. It was Spartan—hard chairs, armless couches. No coddling or comfort allowed, obviously. Seth figured the décor must be part of the "no pain no gain" mystique his gym teachers always cited when they pushed him to run one more brutal lap. Personally, Seth only bought into the "no pain" part, so he really would have appreciated a cushion or two scattered around. But the room did have windows, and between the view and his music, he could do some serious escapist daydreaming. Maybe even sneak back to the car for a while and read a comic book or two.
After all, he'd seen Ryan safely inside the building. Now the physical therapist would take over.
Ryan finished checking in and shouldered his gym bag. "So I'll be done in about an hour."
"Right. See you in sixty," Seth agreed. He watched Ryan head for the locker area and fumble to maneuver his crutch and bag so that he could open the door. To his own chagrin, Seth heard himself call, "Wait. Ryan, wait. I changed my mind. I'm coming with."
The Moses part of him might not recognize the concept, but the Jesus side understood precisely what this was: penance, pure and simple.
At least it was almost over. Three minutes and counting, counting having been Seth's primary mental activity during the last hour as he ticked off the number of times Jason, the physical therapist, pushed Ryan through each exercise.
Seth decided that "Jason" with its horror-movie connotations, was a very apt name, since the activities he supervised all looked like pure torture from Seth's perspective. Ryan, on the other hand, didn't seem affected by the pain, and he never exactly had to be pushed into more repetitions. In fact, Seth thought he looked disappointed each time the therapist ended an activity.
"Okay, that's it," Jason announced finally, tossing Ryan a towel. "Good job, man. Definitely ahead of the curve. You keep going like this, we should cut a couple weeks off your recovery time easy."
Ryan scrubbed the towel across his face, panting slightly. "We could do more now," he suggested. "I'm not tired."
Jason laughed. "Maybe you're not, but your muscles have had enough for this session. Just do those exercises that we talked about at home and I'll see you next time, kid." He picked up his clipboard, touched his forehead in a half-salute and headed for the office area.
"So, what now?" Seth asked, clambering to his feet, and trying to stamp some feeling into the right one, which had fallen asleep. "A shower, some juice, and 'home, James', right dude?"
He reached a hand down to Ryan, who was straddling some strange kind of bench, but instead of getting up, Ryan just blew out a heavy breath and hooked his feet under the weights again.
"Five more minutes, Seth."
"What are you talking about, man? Time's up. The fat lady sang. And Jason said you should quit." Seth looked at Ryan's determined expression and decided to bring out the big guns. "Besides, mom's expecting us home. She'll worry if we're late."
Ryan bit his lip, massaging the back of his neck absently. "Yeah, she probably will."
"Definitely will, dude. So . . ."
"So call her, okay, Seth? I'm not ready to quit yet." Ryan began pulling his knees alternately toward his chest, spacing his words between gulps of air. "The more of these fucking exercises I do, the sooner all of . . . this . . . is over."
Seth shook his head, beginning to bounce uncertainly on his toes. "Ryan, okay, I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way. I mean, isn't Jason supposed to know how much you should do at a time? He's got the degree and the license and the nametag, right? And a whistle, dude. In a gym. Doesn't that mean, like, ultimate authority? You never argue with the man wearing a whistle." Seth paused and added earnestly, "Ryan, I really think you should stop for today."
"Yeah?" Ryan snapped. "Well, you don't make my decisions, all right? I know what I'm doing. Just go call Kirsten."
Seth retreated a step, holding up his hands. "All right, Ryan. Fine. But you won't mind if I just stop in the office, clear the extra time with Jason, maybe have him come back and do that spotty thing . . . Spotting, I mean . . ."
Ryan's eyes narrowed and Seth shuffled back uneasily. As he did, he stumbled into the man behind him, knocking him off balance and into a support bar. There was the sharp, sick smack of bone hitting metal.
The sheer sound of the impact hurt, and Seth winced in sympathy. "Oops. Sorry there, man," he stammered when the guy clutched his elbow, yelping in pain.
"Shit!" the man exclaimed. "Watch the fuck where you're going, kid." He grabbed Seth's arm and spun him around.
Ryan was up and between the two of them before Seth could even react. "Back off, man," he growled, pushing Seth out of the way.
"Hey, no, Ryan, it's all right." Seth attempted a reassuring smile. He glanced around to see if any of the staff was on their way over to play security guard, but nobody seemed to be in the area. "I'll just apologize to the nice man—again—and we'll leave, okay?"
"No. You already said you were sorry. And it was an accident." Ryan wavered momentarily on his unsupported bad knee, but he stood his ground, glaring up at the other man, who had at least four inches on him.
"Come on, Ryan. This is so not worth it. Let's just get out of here." Seth cocked his head in the guy's direction. "Dude--Uruk-hai," he hissed.
"What the hell did you just call me?" the man demanded, trying to reach past Ryan, who blocked him, his jaw set dangerously.
"Um . . . Call you? Nothing," Seth spluttered. "No, see, I just said 'You're rock high.' Not 'high' like on anything because, yeah, I'm sure you're not. Body a temple and all that. Just, you know, high as in tall. Rock as in strong, ripped . . . Totally a compliment, dude."
Ryan clenched his teeth. "Shut up, Seth . . ." he seethe, Seth continued, oblivious.
"See, I understand you not getting it though, because it's kind of hardcore street slang. Not really in widespread use yet. Do you listen to rap? 'Cause if you listen to rap . . . "
The man glowered at Seth over Ryan's head. "You mocking me, you little sonofabitch?"
Seth hopped backward, trying unsuccessfully to pull Ryan with him. "Absolutely not. Sir. So, not a rap fan. That's cool."
"Let go, Seth. And you, asshole . . . I told you to back off," Ryan warned, taking a step further into the man's space.
"Yeah?" the guy snarled, unimpressed. "Or what?"
Seth saw it coming, but he couldn't stop it.
Ryan cocked his arm. "Or this," he retorted, and snapped his fist forward, into the man's face.