"Come on, die already!"
At the bottom of the stairs, Seth stumbled to a halt, his hands full of comic book prototypes that he was taking to the trade show. His abrupt stop spilled them to the floor, and he picked them up as he listened.
"Ha! I knew I'd get you. Now I just need the key . . . "
Squinting curiously, Seth put his drawings on a table and followed his mother's voice into the living room. Kirsten was sitting on the couch, her head bowed in concentration, blowing fierce puffs of air through her clenched teeth. Silently, Seth padded behind her and leaned over her shoulder.
"A GameBoy, Mom? You're playing with a GameBoy?"
With a guilty start, Kirsten crammed her controller between the seat cushions. She settled back primly, folding her hands on her lap like a reprimanded schoolgirl. "Seth," she began, with a flustered smile, "don't be silly. I wasn't . . ."
Seth fished the GameBoy out from its hiding place and brandished it overhead. "Oh yeah, you so were. It's still warm to the touch," he caroled gleefully. "Who would have thought? Kirsten Nichol Cohen succumbing to the lure of videogames. Welcome to the dark side, Mom." He checked the score and did an elaborate double take. "And . . . wait, did you cheat? How did you get to level 5 already?"
"Natural talent." Kirsten lifted her chin defiantly and extended her hand, gesturing for the controller. "Give that back, Seth. I might as well enjoy GameBoy's company, since my other men are all deserting me tonight."
Seth slid onto the couch, nestling his head against Kirsten's shoulder. "Ah, poor lonely Mom," he crooned. "Want to come to the comic book trade show with me and Zach?" He dimpled, adding, "They'd probably let you in free if you wore a cape and tights. But, you know, you could come dressed just the way you are. We've actually got an extra ticket since Ryan's not coming."
"Gee, thanks," Kirsten replied dryly.
"No, really, you might enjoy it, Mom. It's a very intellectual event," Seth insisted. "An exchange of aesthetic concepts. An imaginative deconstruction of the cosmos, if you will. See?" He traced the words printed on his t-shirt, reciting them solemnly: "Comic Books: The Mythology of the New Millennium."
Kirsten rolled her eyes, but before she could respond, Sandy breezed in, adjusting his tie. He paused behind the couch to kiss the top of Kirsten's head and ruffle Seth's hair. "Proselytizing again, son?" he teased.
"Prosely-what now?" Seth squirmed out from under his father's hand, smoothing his curls with affronted dignity. "For your information, I simply invited Mom to the comic book show so she wouldn't be stuck all home-alone here tonight."
"Sweetheart, why didn't you say you felt like going out? You could join me," Sandy suggested. "A spirited debate on civil rights in the era of the Patriot Act? Controversy, relevance, and the bonus of my stimulating company?" His voice assumed a wheedling cadence. "Come on. You know you want to."
"Dad, please," Seth scoffed. "I offer Mom fantasy and adventure, and you counter with three hours of political rhetoric? Yeah right, that's totally a fair contest. Anyway, I asked her first."
Kirsten laughed, nuzzling her cheek against Sandy's palm while she patted Seth's leg. "All right, you two. I love you both, so please don't take this the wrong way, but those events sound equally . . . how can I put this? Really, really unappealing. No, I'll just curl up with my good friend GameBoy here." Sighing, Kirsten glanced in the direction of Ryan's room. "Besides, if I were going to go anywhere this evening . . ."
"It would be your father's house," Sandy concluded. "Honey, Ryan can handle himself with your dad. He does not need Mama Bear hovering over him."
"I know," Kirsten agreed defensively. "But I wouldn't hover. And besides, the youth center was my idea in the first place. Don't you think I should be there to, oh, facilitate the first advisory panel?"
Seth nodded, his head springing up and down like a bobble-head doll, but Sandy countered firmly, "No, I don't. And you, son, don't encourage your mother. Sweetheart, we talked about this. Ryan needs to know that you trust him."
"I do trust him," Kirsten insisted, although her mouth was crimped tight with anxiety. "And I think this project would be wonderful for Ryan. It's just . . . my father. Somehow I can't help thinking that . . ." She broke off at the sound of an irregular tapping. Ryan appeared in the doorway, self-consciously balancing on a cane and running a finger around the collar of his button-down shirt.
Seth bounced up. "Hey! Check it out, people—phase two of rehab has officially begun. Meet Ryan Atwood, minus one sling and plus one cane. Cool, dude. How do you feel? Liberated? Unfettered? Ready for action?"
"Stupid," Ryan grumbled, glaring at the cane. "I think this thing is worse than the damn crutch. Makes me look like a wanna-be pimp . . . Sorry, Kirsten. I know, don't say damn. Don't say pimp."
Seth scrutinized Ryan, lips pursed in appraisal, and sighed. "No, man, sadly, that's not the image I'm getting. Now, if you had chosen the cane I liked, the one with the gold snakehead handle? Yeah, that was totally ghetto-cool. But no, you had to pick the standard all-wood model. So really, I've gotta say, dude, you look less stylin' Mack Daddy, and more doddering old lady."
His eyes glinting dangerously, Ryan raised the cane and aimed it at Seth. "Care to rethink that statement?" he growled.
"Okay, hey, look at that, Ryan. It completely doubles as a weapon," Seth observed, shrinking against his mother. "Multiple uses—always a selling point. And yeah, wood. Smooth, natural, classic curve there at the top. Excellent choice, buddy. Timeless and elegant."
"And it makes me look like--?"
"Like a, like a . . . okay, to be honest, Ryan, when you hold it like that, it makes you look a James Bond villain."
"Better than a doddering old lady."
Seth reached over and warily lowered the cane to the floor. "Did I say that? See, that came out all wrong," he claimed. "Dapper lady's man, that's what I meant to say. Dodder, dapper—you can see how my mouth might get mixed up, right?"
"Boys," Sandy interjected. "The style of the cane itself doesn't matter. It's the attitude of the person using it that makes the difference. Ryan? If I may?" He extended his hand.
"Dude, don't," Seth protested, but Ryan ignored him. Sinking gratefully into the nearest chair, he tossed Sandy the cane.
Sandy caught it like a baton and flipped it nimbly from one hand to the other. Then he launched into an energetic rendition of "Puttin' on the Ritz," strutting around the living room and tipping an imaginary top hat when he glided to a halt in front of Kirsten. With a flourish, he pulled her up, twirling her into his arms.
Ryan dropped his face into his hands and groaned.
"I knew it, bro," Seth said, shaking his head in commiseration. "I tried to warn you. Dad with a cane? It's like forces of nature combining to create some disaster, like seismic plates shifting at the earth's core—"
Sandy batted the cane playfully against his son's knees. "Did you say encore, Seth? Because if you insist—"
"Sanford Cohen!" Kirsten admonished, laughing. "Give Ryan his cane back. It is not a musical comedy prop. And you are not Fred Astaire."
Sandy wagged his eyebrows. "I know," he conceded, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Astaire was bald . . . Here you go, kid." He returned the cane to Ryan who caught it, biting back a grin. "I'll give you more lessons in how to handle it tomorrow. You—" Sandy tipped Kirsten's head up and kissed her nose. "Have fun with Game Boy. Don't wear him out . . . You—" He poked a finger affectionately at the words on Seth's chest, "Keep living the dream, son. And you—" Crossing to Ryan, Sandy cupped his neck and waited until the boy met his eyes. Then he said seriously, "Remember kid, tonight's about the youth center. Not Caleb. Don't let him get to you."
"I won't," Ryan promised. He flushed, hearing the implied criticism of Caleb, and his eyes darted apologetically toward Kirsten. "It will be fine, really."
"I know." Sandy squeezed Ryan's shoulder encouragingly and pulled out his car keys. "Sorry I can't drop you off myself, kid, but you probably don't want to get there this early anyway."
Ryan shuddered. "God no."
"Okay then. I'll see you all later." Sandy swept off his invisible top hat, bowed deeply and departed, whistling. Just outside the door, though, he paused, trying to brush off the uneasy sensation that his family was fracturing this evening, breaking into four pieces that were rolling in different and very distant directions.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Seth announced in a sonorous voice, "Sandy Cohen has left the building. Good night and drive carefully." The echo of his last words made him flinch, and he glanced at Kirsten, but she was watching Sandy drive away, her lips curved in a tender smile.
"What about you, Seth?" she asked, turning around. "Don't you have to get going too?"
Seth lifted his wrist, realized he wasn't wearing a watch, and checked Ryan's instead. "That would be yes. Zach should be here soon." His brow furrowed. "Hmm. Zach," he mused. "You know, Ryan, I hadn't thought about it before, but tonight could be potentially awkward, Summer-conversation-wise. I mean, what do I say to the guy about their break-up? And singing the Hallelujah Chorus? I suppose that would be wrong?"
"Say nothing," Ryan advised. "Unless Zach brings it up himself. Then just . . . well be honest, but be a friend. And Seth, no singing of any kind."
Seth nodded. "Right. Got it. Honest. Friend. No singing. But Ryan, that say nothing part? Is that negotiable at all?"
Ryan rolled his eyes, but he ignored the question. Instead he straightened the sleeve that Seth had rumpled in order to uncover his watch. "Kirsten, am I dressed all right?" he asked. "I thought maybe, since it's your father . . . should I wear a jacket? I still have time to change."
"You look fine, just the way you are," Kirsten assured him warmly.
Seth flopped on the couch, heedless of his sneakers on the fabric. "I vote for a change of clothes," he declared, waving his hand in the air. "Personally, I'm thinking a suit of armor, Ryan. That would be, you know, stylish and functional. Or a maybe nice understated flak jacket, if you think chain mail is too showy, and I'm guessing you probably would."
Ryan shot him a warning glare at the same time that Kirsten protested, "Seth Ezekiel!"
"Hey, I'm just saying," Seth replied innocently. "Dress for the occasion, right?" The doorbell rang, startling him. When he sat up one foot caught behind a cushion and he rolled off the couch, landing in an ignominious heap on the floor. "Okay," he muttered, scrambling to his feet, "let's all just pretend that didn't happen."
Ryan's mouth twitched in amusement. "Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed, "Seth Cohen has left the building."
"Okay, now see, that's so not pretending, dude," Seth objected. "Just for that, I won't even wish you good luck tonight—except, hey, good luck tonight, Ryan. Night Mom—or should I say, Lara Croft?" He gave Kirsten a cursory kiss and went to grab his portfolio.
"Hey Seth," Ryan called.
Seth ducked back inside, his forehead puckered. "Yeah?"
"Your stuff is great, man," Ryan said quietly. "I hope the people at the trade show are smart enough to see that."
"Really? Thanks!" Seth beamed and bounced happily on his toes. "Yeah, just . . . thanks a lot, bro." The doorbell rang again and he yelled, "Be right there, Zach! . . . So, you think you might feel like some PlayStation later . . . a little Seth-Ryan time maybe?"
"Sure," Ryan agreed. "Sounds good."
"Good," Seth echoed, grinning again.
The door closed behind him, leaving the house suddenly quiet.
Ryan batted his cane awkwardly back and forth. "You know, you don't have to wait here with me if you've got things to do, Kirsten."
"Oh, very important things." Kirsten produced the GameBoy with a self-deprecating smile. "I have to figure out how to get to Level 6." Beckoning Ryan to sit next to her, she resumed the game. "What time is Lindsay picking you up?" she asked after a couple minutes.
"She's not . . . Kirsten, you can jump over that pit to get past the monster . . . Lindsay wasn't invited."
"She wasn't?" A concerned frown creased Kirsten's forehead and her voice sharpened suspiciously. "Why not? I thought Dad would welcome the chance to involve Lindsay with the Newport Group."
Ryan hunched one shoulder uncertainly. "He knows she'll be gone this summer when the project really gets going. Besides, Lindsay said she was pretty harsh to him the last time they talked," he reported. "Your dad probably thought she'd turn him down. . . Kirsten, watch out behind you--"
"I suppose that's possible." Ignoring the game, Kirsten twisted her rings anxiously while her warrior died, unnoticed, on the tiny screen. "But I assumed you'd at least have Lindsay's company tonight. . . Do you know who else is coming?"
"No," Ryan admitted. "Does it matter?"
"I guess not." Kirsten fluffed the throw pillows on the couch and rearranged them restlessly. "How are you getting to Dad's house, Ryan?"
Embarrassed, Ryan chewed his lower lip. "Um . . . your father is sending a car for me." Kirsten's eyes widened in surprise, and he added, "I kind of thought he would have told you. But I guess he figured that I would."
"My father . . ." Kirsten's voice trailed off in confusion.
"Yeah, I know. I mean it's nice of him, but it's sort of . . . weird. Unless maybe . . . I could borrow the Rover and drive myself?" Ryan busied himself resetting the game, trying to make his request sound nonchalant.
"The answer to that would be no," Kirsten replied, looking pointedly at the cane propped against his chair and the brace still supporting his knee. She took a deep breath. "I suppose, though . . . I could drive you," she offered slowly.
Ryan wanted to accept, but he couldn't mistake the brittle tone of Kirsten's voice, the tense lines of her face. "No, that's okay, Kirsten," he said, and heard her sigh with relief. Inclining his head, he smiled impishly, adding, "But there is one thing you could do for me. . . Give me a chance to beat your score."
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Caleb ran a finger around the rim of his wine glass, staring pensively into its swirling contents.
"Bad vintage?" Julie asked, catching sight of him in the mirror as she smoothed some errant strands of hair. "We could send for another bottle."
"Hmm?" Caleb murmured absently as he took a drink.
"Well, I guess nothing's wrong with the wine." Julie sat down opposite Caleb, crossing her legs and taking a moment to admire the sleek lines of her new sandals. "What's the problem, Cal?"
A small vertical line wrinkled Caleb's forehead briefly before he answered. "Nothing, really, Juju. I was just recalling a visit Sanford paid me the other day. Apparently, he feels that I'm putting my relationship with Kirsten on the line this evening."
"So what's this? Second thoughts?"
"Not at all." Caleb sipped his wine and smiled acerbically. "Every venture has risks, but after all, what happens tonight is strictly up to Ryan. Kiki will understand that."
Julie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I'm sure Sandy has warned Ryan to be on his best behavior," she mused. "And he's quite capable of acting civilized when he tries—look at the show he's put on since he got back from Chino last fall. He's not stupid you know, Cal."
"Perhaps not," Caleb countered. "But he hasn't been challenged, has he? From what I've seen, the boy has very little self-control. He's ruled by his temper and his libido. I doubt very much that he'll be able to manage either one of them when he's put to the test." The doorbell rang, and Caleb drained the rest of his glass. "Ah," he murmured. "It seems our guests are arriving. Juju--?"
Julie stood up, smoothing her slacks and tossing her hair over her shoulders. "Right. I'm off to play hostess," she announced. "Do enjoy your evening, darling."
She blew Caleb a kiss and swept out of the room, leaving him alone in his study.
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Ryan shifted uneasily on the butter-soft upholstery of Caleb's town car, wondering which was worse—the prospect of an evening at the Nichol house or this solitary ride that seemed endless. He had never been chauffeured anywhere before, and the whole experience chafed him, as if he were wearing somebody else's ill-fitting skin. When the car had arrived at the Cohen house, almost ten minutes late, Ryan had automatically headed for the front passenger seat, only to see the driver appear and hold the back door open for him. Sheepishly, muttering an almost inaudible "Hey, how are you doing?" Ryan had ducked inside. He reached for the door, then snatched his hand back in embarrassment when he realized that the driver was shutting it for him.
As he slid behind the wheel, the driver murmured politely, "I'm fine, thank you, sir."
Sir. Ryan had no idea who that was.
Since then they had ridden in an unnerving silence. Ryan felt as if the driver was waiting for some cue from him, but he had no idea what he was supposed to say or do.
"Nice car," he observed finally, the words sounding inane in his own ears. "It's a really smooth ride."
"Yes." The driver's voice was clipped and distant. "It handles beautifully, sir."
Sir. There was that word again. Unconsciously, Ryan rubbed his injured arm, shivering in the frigid air-conditioning, but unwilling to ask the driver to turn it down. He could almost hear a phantom Seth protesting, "Seriously, dude, you've got to say something. It will be tough enough to relax at Grandpa's house without showing up there literally frozen stiff."
With a rueful half-smile, Ryan wished momentarily that he had accepted Seth's offer to come along. At least his babbling would dispel the tense silence in the car.
When they finally turned into the curving driveway that led to the Nichol house, Ryan exhaled, feeling exhausted suddenly. Clutching his cane, he forced himself to wait until the driver opened his door.
"Thank you," he said. "I guess I'll . . . see you later?"
The driver nodded impassively. "Just let me know when you're ready to leave, sir."
Ryan wondered if he imagined the small sneer that flashed across the driver's face, the impression that the man was secretly thinking, "Entitled brat." Feeling oddly off-balance, Ryan took a moment to brace himself, but even so he wavered as he walked up to the Nichol house.
Before he could even ring the doorbell, Julie flung open the front door.
"Ryan!" she exclaimed, air-kissing his cheek. "I am so glad you're here. And ooh, look at you, with a cane instead of a crutch. You were handsome before, but now you're positively irresistible."
Grimacing, Ryan licked his dry lips and murmured, "Thank you." He glanced around, surprised not to see Caleb hovering nearby. "Is Mr. Nichol in his study? I wanted to speak to him before the meeting—if we have time, I mean. The car was a little late."
Julie slipped a proprietary arm through Ryan's and leaned in confidentially as she walked him into the house, the scent of her perfume coiling around them both. "Ryan, Cal is so sorry, but he's not going to be able to join you tonight after all. You won't mind playing host for him, though, will you?"
"What?" Ryan stopped, blinking in confusion. "Mr. Nichol won't be here? Why not?"
Julie waved a hand airily. "Honestly, Ryan, I don't even know exactly," she claimed. "Some aspects of the business are just beyond me, mostly because they're so boring. Charts, numbers, financial projections—not sexy at all." She wrinkled her nose, shuddering delicately, and continued, "Cal asked me to give you his regrets. He's been on a conference call with people in Japan, something about problems with a merger he's arranging there, and he's going to be busy putting out fires all night."
Ryan gripped the top of his cane. He couldn't quite identify the dizzy sensation surging through him. It seemed to be an unsettling mixture of relief, apprehension, and suspicion. "So this just happened?" he asked.
"Within the last half-hour actually," Julie answered. "So it was much too late to cancel. You'll have to extend Cal's apologies to everyone and manage without him. You can do that, can't you Ryan?"
"I suppose," Ryan said slowly. "But Mr. Nichol was supposed to present the project."
"Ryan, silly, it's not Mr. Nichol. Call him Caleb. After all, we're family. Now, I'll tell you what." Julie smiled wickedly and tapped an index finger against her lower lip. "Everyone will be here soon and the food is already set up by the pool. Why don't you all just enjoy yourselves, get to know each other better, and save the actual meeting for another time when Cal can make it?"
Ryan's eyes narrowed speculatively. "So basically you're saying we should have a party?"
"Why not?" Julie laughed, giving his arm a conspiratorial squeeze. "Just mention the youth center once or twice so we can write off the cost of the catering." Her mouth pursed in a mock-pout. "I'd join you myself, but I'm off to a fashion preview at the club."
"You're not sticking around either? Marissa's here though, right?"
Julie shook her head, sighing in resignation. "No, I'm afraid she's out with Alex tonight . . . So, that means you have the house to yourself, Ryan. Look, I have to run, and one of your guests is already out by the pool. Have a good time, all right? Just don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
Julie grabbed her purse from a side table, gave Ryan a playful push towards the French doors, and left. For a moment, he stood motionless, watching her go, his blue eyes clouded with doubt. Then he ran a hand through his hair, rolled his shoulders back, and went out to the patio.
For a moment, Ryan didn't see anyone. A buffet table was prepared, lined with chafing dishes and covered bowls, and places were set at small round tables surrounding it. At each seat laya glossy brochure labeled "Newport Youth Center: A Place for Our Future." Ryan unfolded one of them curiously. He started to scan a bullet-point summary of the project when he heard a small splash and a voice called, in an eerie echo of Julie's greeting, "Ryan! I'm so glad you're here!"
Ryan glanced up. He caught his breath and the brochure fluttered unnoticed to the ground. A girl was climbing out of the pool. At first, stunned, he thought she was completely naked, but when she stepped under a light, he realized that she had on a bra and thong panties, the drenched fabric transparent and molded tight to her body.
Ryan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Jamie?" he asked hoarsely.
She giggled and skipped toward him, pausing to snag a small open bottle from a table along the way. "I got bored waiting for everybody to get here," she explained giddily. "So I went for a little swim. And—oops!"
One foot slipped out from under her and she grabbed the edge of a chair. Instinctively, Ryan dropped his cane and reached out, catching her before she reached the ground.
"Mmm, my hero," Jamie murmured, pressing her face into his throat and licking up to his jaw line. The bottle that she was holding tipped, sloshing vodka down Ryan's shirt.
Ryan pulled back. "Jamie," he began again, but his voice was choked off as she locked her arms around his neck and hopped up, wrapping her legs around his waist at the same time. Staggering backwards, Ryan fell onto the lounge chair behind him with Jamie on his lap. Her wet curls tickled his chin as she burrowed there, mashing her breasts against his chest and twining damp fingers into his hair.
Ryan tried to ease her away, but his hands slipped off her waist and caught on the thin, soaked lace band of her thong.
"Ooh, bad boy," Jamie purred into his ear. She squirmed closer and dipped her head down, nudging his shirt collar away and grazing his shoulder with her teeth.
"Don't," Ryan rasped. "Look, Jamie, I'm not trying to . . ."
"Trying to what?" Jamie teased, grinding against him. "Do this, you mean?"
Ryan inhaled sharply and lifted her off his lap. He twisted up from beneath her, ignoring the angry protest of his injured knee, and set Jamie down on the chair.
"Well now, I'm cold," she pouted, trying to wiggle back into his arms. "Oh, and look, you're all wet too, babe. I got you all wet, just like me." She plucked at the translucent fabric of her bra. It clung to her skin, outlining the swell of her breasts and puckering over her nipples.
Ryan tore his eyes away and looked around for something, anything, to dry Jamie, or at least cover her. In desperation, he stripped the tablecloth off a nearby table and draped it around her shoulders.
"Drinking and swimming? Shouldn't do it alone, Jamie," he warned, rubbing her arms and then wrapping the tablecloth close around her.
"Not alone now. You're here," Jamie caroled happily. "We can play together." Her hands fumbled with Ryan's shirt, trying to push it off his shoulders. "You're all wet," she repeated. "Shouldn't stay in those wet clothes, babe. You could catch a . . . a cold or something."
Insistently her fingers tugged first at one sleeve and then at the other, until Ryan surrendered. "Fine," he said, shrugging off his shirt. He turned to hang it over a chair, and Jamie's hands slid under his wife-beater from behind, stroking slowly up his back.
"This is wet too, Ryan. Should take it off," she urged, kneeling on the lounge chair and pressing against his body. She reached for his belt buckle, giggling, her breath hot against Ryan's neck. "And your pants. I made a big wet spot there, didn't I? In a really embarrassing place."
Ryan caught her wrists. "Stop it," he hissed, his voice rasping as she dragged their joined hands down to his groin. "We're not doing this, Jamie. I'm not—"
"Whoa!" a voice called exuberantly. "Shit guys, looks like Ryan and Jamie started their party already. We've got some serious catching up to do."
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"Okay, Zach, you seriously expect me to listen to these?" Seth demanded, distastefully examining Zach's CD collection. He shook his head in dismay. "I should so have been in charge of choosing the music."
"I like Mariah Carey and Kelly Clarkson," Zach protested. "They can sing, plus they're hot. Besides, you were supposed to bring the snacks. And I don't exactly see any. What did you do, Cohen? Forget them?"
Seth huffed indignantly. "I absolutely did not. The snacks are right. . . They're right . . . " He looked down at his feet and then craned his head around to check the backseat. "Okay, apparently they're in the trunk with my portfolio. Or maybe back on our driveway. I'm not sure. But it's not as if I forgot them exactly. I'm positive I had them when I left the house. I think. Anyway, we won't starve. The drive isn't that long."
Zach pressed the play button and Kelly Clarkson's "Behind These Hazel Eyes" filled the car.
"It will only seem that long," Seth muttered, drumming his fingers restively on his thighs. He raised his voice, desperate to drown out the music. "So . . . you couldn't find anybody to use that third ticket either, huh?"
"I only asked Summer, and she wasn't interested," Zach replied. Then he added honestly, "Besides, it might have been awkward if she had come. We broke up."
Seth's head bobbed up and down. "Yeah," he admitted. "I heard." Remembering Ryan's advice, he swallowed all his instinctive comments and asked warily, "Are you okay with that?"
Zach considered for a moment. "Yeah, I am," he said finally. "Summer is great, but we just didn't work as a couple. No real spark or something. We're still friends, though . . . Anyway, she turned me down in favor of a girl's night out with Lindsay, Marissa and Alex. You know, Summer will enjoy that better than a comic book trade show."
"Yeah," Seth agreed. "I can hear her now: 'Boring!' 'Lame.' 'Eww.' 'God, this is like, geek paradise—'"Seth's Summer-imitation stopped abruptly. "Wait a minute, Zach," he demanded. "Summer is going out with Alex and Marissa and Lindsay tonight?"
"Yeah. Why?"
Seth frowned and shifted uneasily, feeling as though something was prickling the backs of his legs. "I don't know," he mused. "I just figured Marissa and Lindsay would be at my grandfather's tonight—you know, part of the youth center advisory panel."
"Oh, right. That thing Ryan's doing. Yeah, you would think they'd be involved, just because of the Caleb Nichol connection." Zach deftly passed the car in front of him and resumed cruise control, chuckling. "Man, that is going to be one bizarre focus group, though."
"What do you mean?" Seth asked sharply.
"It's just that some of the people who were invited . . . Sure, I know their parents work for the Newport Group, but I can't picture Eric Bredlow or Jamie Stanton or Tucker Ridley contributing meaningful ideas for a youth center. Jamie in particular. I mean, I know it's not a polite thing to say, but seriously, does that girl ever think about anything except getting high or getting laid?"
Involuntarily, Seth's muscles tensed, and his eyes narrowed. "Jamie was invited to be on the panel? You're sure?"
"Yeah," Zach confirmed mildly. "Tucker was complaining the other day that his father is forcing him to go. But then he said there was hope for some fun anyway, since Jamie would be there."
Seth twisted in his seat, digging out his cell phone and punching Ryan's number frantically. "Pick up, man," he muttered. "Shit, come on, pick up, pick up, pick up . . . Okay, Ryan, listen, you shouldn't go to Grandpa's tonight. Trust me on this, all right? Just don't go. Unless . . . oh fuck, if you're already there, just . . . seriously, man, don't do anything stu—just don't do anything. And call me!"
"What's up, Cohen?' Zach asked as Seth hung up.
"What the fuck good are cell phones when people don't answer them? . . . Okay, Zach, we have to go back."
"What?"
"We've got to turn around, man. You've got to drop me off at my grandfather's house."
"Now?" Zach glanced over, baffled. "What the hell, Seth? And what do you mean, drop you off? What about the trade show? Your presentation?"
Seth licked his lips, swallowing the sour taste of disappointment. "Screw the presentation," he replied. "I'm not going. Zach, turn right up here, turn right, turn—okay, you totally missed the turn!"
"Because I'm not taking you to your grandfather's house. It's completely out of our way, man."
"Then just stop the car," Seth ordered. "I mean it, Zach. Stop the fucking car. Now."
Pulling over, Zach sat back, shaking his head incredulously and watching as Seth scrambled out of the passenger seat. "You're insane, you know that, Cohen?"
"Yeah, so I've been told. But hey, it works for me."
Seth waved Zach off impatiently, not even glancing up as the car drove off. "Okay, Dad's too far away," he muttered to himself. "And who the hell knows where Summer and Lindsay are. Gotta be Mom--" He punched in Kirsten's number, his words tumbling out almost before she answered the phone.
"Mom! Okay, listen, I know we had a deal about when you'd start driving and everything, but you have to come pick me up. Like right now. We've got to get over to Grandpa's house. Ryan needs us."