A.N. The OC and its characters belong to other people and this is a strictly receational use of other people's property
If you find this chapter confusing, you can read it as two separate chapters if you prefer. The bolded sections should be read first up to the division break at the end. That's the last section of the story no matter how you read it.
VAMPING THE OC
Part I
The Real Chino
REAGENT
Why are the lights so bright?
Christian opens the door for Ryan and light from the foyer floods into the alcove where Ryan stands. It rolls over him like some monster wave. In reaction, the headache that developed during his meeting with Mr. Stavros flares into a nova of pain and nausea that stops him in his tracks. Only his grip on the doorframe keeps Ryan from going to his knees.
"Is something wrong?" The woman outside the door asks as she turns toward him. Ryan remembers her as being a petite Asian woman but now she's only a voice originating in a blue-black afterimage in a field of yellow light.
Ryan starts to shake his head but thinks better of it and only mutters, "No. I'm okay." He directs a weak smile in the direction of the blur he assumes is the woman and hopes that it's halfway convincing. He doesn't need or want help or sympathy from anyone. Squinting back over his right shoulder, Ryan finds that his escort has also dissolved into a blur against the red backdrop of the curtains that screen this private box from the curiosity of people passing by outside.
Swallowing several times, Ryan fights to control his nausea. His eyes have adjusted and he can see a little better now. Ryan forces himself to turn back and face into the glare once more. All of the lights in the hallway are surrounded by brilliant orange-black halos that pulse hypnotically. They wax and wane to a rhythm that he finally realizes in his dazed state corresponds to that of the vein throbbing in his temple.
Even through the narrow slits of his eyes, the light sends waves of pain that ricochet around inside his head. He closes his eyes again. As he hesitates in the doorway, he wishes he had his sunglasses; but they're in his backpack down in Seth's SUV. He doesn't care how phony it looks to wear sunglasses at night. He would embrace phony if it gave him relief from this pain.
"Mr. Alwood…?"
He hears the question in Christian's voice and the name he used. Christian was present during Ryan's meeting with Mr. Stavros but he still uses Ryan's alias in public. Ryan's grateful for that. He squints toward the sound and can see Christian now. He doesn't answer the question; instead, he ducks his head as though he's bracing himself to face a storm and not screwing up his courage to step through a simple door. Ryan releases his grip on the door and forces himself to take one step and then another out into the hall. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been gripping the doorframe until the pain in his left hand begins to fade as the pressure on his scar is removed.
Ryan stops as the room begins to rotate slowly around him. He closes his eyes and as he counts slowly to ten the feeling of being on a spinning carousel passes. Regaining his equilibrium, he tries to recall the placement of the furniture he passed on the way here. Somehow he'll have to navigate past it in order to make it back to the staircase. Christian steps up beside him as he stands there attempting to visualize the route he will need to take.
It wasn't like this earlier.
When Christian led him up the staircase to the level that had originally been the hayloft of the stable, the foyer had been brightly lit but nothing more. Ryan had always wanted to see it for himself. Because the stables had undergone so many modifications over the years in the transition from horses to motorcars, it didn't quality for any historic designation. This had freed the architects to be more creative here. The biggest and most visible change they had made were the tall multi-pane windows they'd cut through the walls of the loft to let in light to the second floor. The owner had been very insistent about his desire for light.
The Stable was, in actuality, nothing more than a 24-hour restaurant that served exemplary food that was far above the coffee shop norm. The foyer created at the top of the stairs and the four private dining rooms that opened off it were more elegantly appointed than the main floor. They were designed with a different clientele in mind. Children's birthday parties and fraternal organizations never held their meetings up there.
The room at the top of the stairs stretched the length of the second floor and was almost eighteen feet deep. It was used for receptions and similar functions. The walls of this room were covered in wallpaper the color of butter; and three crystal chandeliers with bulbs shaped like flames to mimic gaslights of the 1890's hung from the ceiling. They glowed with a soft yellow light that made the yellow crystals dangling from them look like pieces of amber suspended in air. They caught and diffused the light around the room. This light was reflected back by large gilt mirrors hung on the inner wall above overstuffed settees covered in cream colored silk. Heavy, antique sideboards that gleamed from hours of polishing held large oriental vases filled with red and yellow tulips; and armchairs upholstered in the same material as the settees flanked them on either side. These groupings stood between the four floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the grounds. Each window, consisting of dozens of small, rectangular panes, also sent reflections back into the room at night.
Ryan had watched his reflections and those of Christian in the mirrors and windows as they'd walked the length of the hall. It had been a surreal experience to see so many images of himself all at one time. He'd tried not to gawk; but everything, from the soft, burgundy colored carpeting beneath his feet with its pattern of flowering vines worked in gold thread, to the curtains of the same color that framed the windows, and their sashes of gold rope, had fascinated him.
Now, every feature that had earlier made the room seem warm and inviting and aglow with light conspires to leave him half blinded and in pain. The vines in the carpet seem to twist and coil beneath his feet like golden serpents that aggravate his nausea with their sinuous movements. The gold cords that hold back the curtains give off flashes like sparks from a welding torch. While the chandeliers, the mirrors along the walls, and the tall windows all combine to make him feel as if he is trapped in some kind of twirling, fractured kaleidoscope of light
The pain throbbing behind his eyes and the nausea roiling his stomach make Ryan wonder if this is a migraine. If it isn't, he can't imagine what they must be like.
All he knows is that he wants to find a dark room where he can hide from the pain and the light until it goes away.
It's not that far. If I just take it slow, I only need to keep my eyes open enough to make it to the staircase - and not break my neck.
Ryan feels warmth and his skin jumps at the touch on his arm. Christian's hand is on his arm.
"Are you all right?" The note of concern in his voice surprises Ryan.
"Everything's okay. Just give me a minute." Ryan's breathing is rapid. He takes a breath and holds it, silently trying to regain control over some part of his rebellious body. As he slowly releases the breath, he flexes his left hand. The pain along the scar has vanished. He makes a fist and opens it. It's too bad that he isn't a southpaw. He could actually hit someone with that hand tonight and make them feel it.
Of course, to do damage to anyone they will first have to cooperate by standing still because Ryan thinks his head will probably explode if he has to make any sudden moves. They will also have to be totally defenseless because he has no defenses himself. The burning sensation is almost gone from his right hand but the redness is spreading up that arm and along with it has come swelling and tenderness that make it difficult for him to bend his arm or fully close that hand.
Ryan takes a step. Christian doesn't release his grip on his arm but moves along with him. Even when Ryan attempts to pull away from him he maintains his hold. "I'm okay, mother," Ryan says sarcastically.
"Mr. Stavros said I was to see that you got back to your table safely." Christian says this with such a tone of finality that Ryan knows it's useless to argue. The niggling feeling of comfort he feels at these words irritates him.
I can take care of myself. I've done it all my life.
His meeting with Stavros started off normally enough, he supposed, if a kid from the streets meeting a rich, powerful man could ever be normal. Ryan had learned since leaving the Youth Facility what this kind of meeting usually meant. He knew what quid the one with the power usually demanded for the quo of survival from the powerless. He hoped that Marie's confidence that Mr. Stavros' reputation on the street of being scrupulously honest was deserved.
He stayed alert nevertheless for any sign that this meeting might be straying into areas where he wasn't prepared to go. All of the staff with which Stavros surrounded himself and his sister did not reassure him. Ryan Atwood got it. He wouldn't leave this box unless his host permitted it. He didn't understand why Marie's "honest man" needed so much muscle.
Ryan hadn't believed for a minute that his people were anything other than guards. The suggestive bulges he'd noticed beneath the jackets of the men who'd accompanied Justine were clue enough. He wondered where the women carried their weapons. Maybe Seth hadn't recognized them for what they were but Ryan could smell it on them and could feel the anticipation and the nervous energy that seemed to crackle around them. He'd noted that the woman he passed standing outside the door to this private room and the man and woman stationed inside it all had a similar look to them. Like Christian and his partner, who'd stayed downstairs with Justine, all of them were young, athletic in build, and exuded an air of competence and carefully contained menace. What could create so much fear in a man as rich and powerful as this one?
Christian pulled aside the red curtain inside the door and announced, "Ryan Alwood, Mr. Stavros." Ryan thought he'd heard a slight hesitation on his last name. If the name had surprised Nicholas Stavros, he hid it well. He rose to greet him as Ryan approached the table where he'd been sitting. The dinner dishes had been cleared from the table and only an open laptop and a single silver goblet remained on the lace tablecloth. The room was dimly lit. Only the light from the candles in a single candelabrum on a side table, the light from the monitor panel of the laptop, and that which came in from the wall open to the main dining room provided illumination.
"Ryan, I'm sorry that I gave my sister the wrong name." He laughed pleasantly and then winked. "You see, my reputation for infallibility is exaggerated."
Ryan studied the man who stood so unthreateningly before him. He seemed to be about 25, only a few years older than his brother, Trey. Mr. Stavros was dark with short black hair that he wore spiked. He was not tall, only about Ryan's height. Handsome, well groomed and sleek in an expensively tailored tuxedo, he exuded an air of power and self-confidence that struck Ryan as odd. He seemed more like someone who should be at an Ivy League business or law school where his only worry was whether to go with the Wall Street investment firm or the big West Coast bank or deciding if he'd rather practice corporate or international law as he weighed the offers from competing law firms. He was too young to be standing in front of Ryan as though he was king of the world. Still, Ryan had reflected, if the story he'd seen in the Times about the Stavros fortune was close to accurate, that description might not be so very far off the mark.
It struck Ryan then how much Stavros resembled the people who guarded him. They didn't look like each other. There were different races represented; their ages varied by perhaps ten or fifteen years; and their features were not similar. And yet, they all had a way of holding themselves - of moving - as though they'd all studied in the same exotic school of martial arts.
His host walked forward and offered Ryan his hand. Their handshake was brief, hardly more than a touching of palms. Both released the hold hurriedly. For Ryan the reason was a brief searing pain, like touching his hand to the red-hot burner of a stove. As he'd looked at his hand, he wouldn't have been surprised to see blisters forming. Instead he'd found only an odd, ugly redness on his hand - that and the pain.
Mr. Stavros' reaction to their brief contact had been equally powerful. His first response after pulling away had been simply to stare at his hand. It might have belonged to someone else for all the amazement and confusion that showed on his face. He rubbed at his right palm with the thumb of his left hand as though trying to remove some stain or irritant and continued to do this with increasing agitation and force.
"I've heard of people having chemistry but this is ridiculous," he said not looking up. He took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tuxedo and continued to rub the palm of his right hand with it. He frowned when he looked up and saw Ryan watching him. With obvious reluctance, Stavros replaced the handkerchief in his pocket; but throughout their meeting Ryan noticed that whenever he became distracted he rubbed his right hand against his pants leg.
The comment about chemistry had been lame and must have sounded as feeble to him as it did to Ryan. It hadn't in any way explained the strange thing that had happened to the two of them. The thought came to Ryan that Seth could have adlibbed a better line than that.
You don't have to be able to see to get down a goddamn flight of stairs. Blind people do it all the time. I can keep my eyes closed most of the way. My good hand on the railing, a strong grip, slow and deliberate, not too fast. Just a blink to judge my progress. I can do this.
With a shake of his head Stavros seemed to regain his composure. He smiled and gestured Ryan to the chair across from him at the table. "Can I order you something from the kitchen? I interrupted your dinner plans." The older man glanced toward the railing that bordered the room and overlooked the dining room below. His thoughts, Ryan guessed, were on the table where Seth and Justine sat. His smile grew thinner. "I hate to interrupt a man when he's working."
"Thanks, no." Ryan blinked and rubbed absentmindedly at his forehead. His head had begun to ache as though all his sinuses had closed shut. "Maybe some water."
"Certainly. Christian, pour Ryan a glass of water." Without taking his eyes off him, Mr. Stavros leaned back in his chair and rested his arms on the arms of the chair. Ryan noted that he didn't actually rest the palm of his right hand on the chair's armrest. He kept that hand turned so that nothing pressed against it.
Ryan took the glass of ice water that Christian handed him with his left hand. After thanking him and taking a drink, Ryan set it down in front of him. He pulled his chair forward slightly so he could rest his right arm on the table. His right hand curled around the sweaty coolness of the glass.
"I've only known your employer for a short time but my father has known Ms. Jackson for many years and they've had an understanding for all that time," he said with no preamble. "I thought that everyone who worked for her understood the details of that agreement. You make me wonder if that's true." He paused and studied Ryan.
The pressure and pain in Ryan's temple grew worse. It was spreading out now from the regions of his sinuses. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Stavros."
"Call me Nick, Ryan, everyone does," He said lightly. "Mr. Stavros is my father." His attempt to lighten the mood got him only a cool stare from Ryan. His expression turned serious again. "To be plain, Ryan. Our understanding has been that none of her employees will solicit business within, bring any of their clients into, or create any kind of disturbances in any of my establishments. That's simple enough, isn't it?" He seemed to expect an answer but when Ryan remained silent he continued.
"I'm not interested in people's private affairs. How they choose to conduct their lives is between them and their consciences. However, once they've chosen to enter one of my properties that changes. Then their business becomes my business. People do not bring their illegal activities across the thresholds of my properties. I will not become involved with the authorities because of someone else's activities."
Ryan saw the look he sent toward the dining room below. It didn't require Ryan to have any mind reading abilities to know what Nick had assumed about Seth and their visit or what he'd thought of the scene with Taylor.
Ryan flushed and his gaze also drifted to the balcony before coming back to meet Nick's. "Nothing's happening that would concern you. Seth wanted to know where to eat and I thought of this place. As for Taylor, that won't ever happen again." Ryan stopped and rubbed at his temple with his left hand as the pain intensified.
"Damn." The word explodes out of Ryan. He'd wrenched himself free from Christian's grasp and taken several steps away from him in the direction of the stairs when he walked into one of the heavy, oak sideboards. His eyes open in surprise and pain; and he manages to grab, just barely, the vase of tulips sitting on it and to steady it before his brutalized eyes squeeze shut. The brightness of the light in the room sends his headache off the pain scale. He stands, eyes pressed tightly together, trying to catch his breath and comforts himself with the thought that he hasn't added to his humiliation by destroying an antique that is probably worth more than he'll earn in his lifetime. Ryan feels the presence of his shadow behind him.
Ryan bends forward, his left hand on his knee, his right hand held out to the side as though fending off Christian's concern. The air is thick with Christian's disapproval; but he allows Ryan his space and makes no effort to approach him.
"I…" Ryan starts and then hesitates, unsure what to say. Saying he has a headache, or a migraine, sounds so weak to him. Ryan's lived his life trying never to show weakness. It's how he endured the succession of male friends and their casual violence that Dawn brought home with her and how he survived the gangs and predators in the Youth Facility. He continues, "I'm having trouble with my eyes." That explanation, he thinks, at least has the benefit of not being a total lie. "I don't know what it is but the light is too bright. I can't see very well."
"What can I do?"
"I only need to get to my table. Seth will take care of me." Ryan mentally cringes at this choice of words. Christian heard him deny to Stavros there was anything between Seth and him and now he says such a stupid thing. No one has needed to take care of him since Trey left.
Why am I saying this about a guy I just met? He must just want to get out of here and go home. He can't want to get more involved with my troubles.
Ryan is glad that he can't see Christian's expression. He's not sure why he's so positive in his mind that if he can only get to Seth things will be alright; but there's not a doubt in his mind that it's true.
"Why should I believe you, Ryan Atwood?" The icy tone in his voice caused Ryan to glance up before ducking his head again.
"I'm not a liar." Ryan mumbled into his chest.
"Truth is a very malleable thing, Ryan. Erase one pen stroke and what was once true alters and a new 'truth' is born. The letter 't' morphs into an 'l' and Ryan Atwood dies - Ryan Alwood is born. Tell me why I should believe you about anything if you're not willing to be honest about your own name?"
"Ryan Atwood needed to disappear."
Stavros held out his goblet to Christian who was waiting nearby. He took a sip from it when it had been refilled and considered the sandy haired boy sitting across from him. "Why? I know about the stolen car. Look at me, young man!" His command shook the room. "I'm tired of looking at the top of your head. If you want to convince me of your sincerity, I need to see your eyes."
Ryan's head snapped up but there was defiance in his blue eyes. "I didn't serve all my sentence. I ran away."
"You ran away from the Youth Facility?" Stavros seemed surprised by this news.
"No. I did my time there." A look of bitterness crossed Ryan's face. He looked away and then forced himself to turn back and meet his interrogator's eyes. "I ran away from the halfway house that the court sent me to… the Crawford House." Ryan watched to see if the name meant anything to Stavros. The slight widening of his listener's eyes confirmed that he did recognize the name. Ryan tried but couldn't maintain eye contact.
A long pause followed Ryan's confession. Mr. Stavros seemed to consider the boy's words. His look was sharp, calculating and his lips were pressed together into a thin line when he asked, "How long were you there?"
"Three days." The answer came out half strangled as the pain in Ryan's head spiked again. "It took me a day to figure out what was up; another day to come up with a plan; and I skipped out of there on the third day." Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes.
Nick Stavros sighed. "You could have turned yourself in after…" He made a vague gesture that encompassed all the things he left unsaid, "the news came out."
"Yeah, sure." Ryan snorted. "But I was still a runaway. I'd still violated the terms of my release. I didn't want to go back in hope that some judge might cut me some slack because of…things. There wasn't any way I was going back to the Youth Facility." Ryan forgot himself and shook his head. His wince and sudden intake of breath had to have been obvious to everyone in the room. "There was no way I was going back. No way!"
Ryan suddenly stretched out his left arm and slowly rotated it so that the palm of his hand was visible. He held it out for Stavros to see. A dark purple scar zigzagged from thumb to little finger. It stood out, even in the dim light in the room, against the paleness of his skin. Ryan considered it for a moment before looking up at Nick with an ironic smile.
"Some guys come out of jail with tattoos. This is my souvenir of the California juvenile system." "Ryan closed his fingers and made a fist. "I do exercises every day to keep it limber."
Ryan watches warily as Christian reaches into the inside breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He steps forward and holds out to Ryan a pair of silver rimmed aviator sunglasses.
"These will take care of the glare" He looks around thoughtfully. "They can handle the sun at noon in Death Valley." He grimaces. "Not a nice place to visit. I don't plan to do that again in this lifetime."
Ryan makes no move to take the glasses offered to him. Christian frowns, reaches out, and takes Ryan by the wrist. He places the glasses in Ryan's left hand and closes his fingers tightly around them. The strange warmth is still there in Christian's touch. Ryan wonders at it and considers its oddness worth his consideration if there's ever any letup in the pain that he's experiencing.
"Go on, take them. I've got another pair. I never leave the compound without an extra pair."
Ryan slips the glasses on and breathes out a long sigh as the world around him falls into deep shadow. He turns his head slowly, tentatively, surveying the room and even risks a look at the chandelier overhead. Its light is nothing more than a faded ember compared to the solar flare of its light before. The pain level in his head ratchets down to merely hideous from excruciating.
"Did that help? Can you see well enough to make it on your own?" Christian asks. He hasn't moved and remains standing closer than Ryan would normally allow. He permits this intrusion into his space.
"The pain's less but the lenses are so dark that I can hardly see. If I strain too hard to make out objects in front of me, my eyes feel like they're being torn out of their sockets." Ryan lets out another sigh. This time, however, the cause is frustration, not relief.
Ryan stands there mentally surveying his options, trying to formulate a plan for getting back downstairs that doesn't involve asking Christian for assistance. Finally, resigning himself to the inevitable, he strong arms his pride aside and admits defeat. "No, it's not enough. I need help." Ryan gnaws on his lip as he waits for a response.
Christian's answer is friendly and concerned. There's no hint of the condescension that Ryan expected to hear. "Sure. What do you need me to do?"
"Walk beside me. I need you to talk me down the hall to the staircase and then, the hard part, down them. If I seem likely to walk into anyone or anything, you rescue me."
Ryan watches him out of the corner of his eye and laughs at himself for doing it. No one can see his eyes behind these glasses but the old instinct to avoid eye contact is too strong.
Nick Stavros said nothing and as the silence lengthened Ryan realized that he was once again looking at the floor. When his head came up he found to his relief that Stavros was staring off into space, preoccupied with his own thoughts. This suited Ryan perfectly. He'd talked more than he wanted to about things he'd just as soon not have to remember. The movement of Stavros' right hand caught his eye. He was rubbing it absently back and forth on his pant leg.
When Nick spoke again his voice was less confident - softer. "What do you want, Ryan Atwood"
"What?" Ryan asked confused.
"What are your goals? Everyone needs to have goals."
"To be 17." The sarcasm was thick in Ryan's voice.
Stavros looked startled and then threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Ryan, I'd like that myself." His laughter sounded genuine; but Ryan looked around the room suspiciously convinced that he was the butt of some inside joke that he didn't get. He relaxed when he noticed that Christian was also smiling. There seemed to be nothing malicious in his attitude.
"Seriously, you have no dreams? You seem like an intelligent young man. Staying out of jail is not a bad goal for a kid from Chino. But, doesn't Ryan Atwood want anything more than that?"
"I wouldn't give up your day job, Nick." Ryan answered with a sneer. "If you're auditioning for a job as a school counselor, I've heard all this from professionals. Study hard, get good grades, and with your SATs you could get into a junior college." Ryan said in a bored, indifferent voice that echoed his last counselor from Chino Hills. "You see, even she didn't want me to set my sights too high."
"Having dreams where I come from just gets your ass kicked. Either people believe that you think you're better than they are and decide to knock that idea out of your head; or you try to go for the dream and the reality of who you are and where you're from beats you down. It's all the same. You're still stuck in Chino with only a sore butt to show for having had a dream. Having a dream is a chump's game!"
Ryan realized as he finished speaking that his listener had changed. He'd lost the look of a successful twentysomething. The man who sat across from him looked tired – older. His face was drawn and haggard.
He looks old enough to be my father.
"Ryan, you're a puzzle and I don't give up on puzzles. I work at then until I solve them." He studied Ryan seriously. "Where were you born?" He asked.
"What? What's that to you? I'm out of here." Ryan started to stand but Stavros held up a hand and he settled stiffly back into his chair. His eyes darted around the room checking out the three guards. Suspicion radiated from him.
"I'm not asking you anything I couldn't find out in other ways, Ryan. As I said, I'm curious about you."
"I was born in Fresno. Mom moved us down here a couple of years ago."
"You and your brother?"
"Yeah, me and Trey."
"And your brother is…?"
"In Chino State doing one to three for that car theft you say you know all about. He and I haven't been in touch." Ryan shrugged expressively. "Wouldn't be such a good idea for me to visit him."
Stavros smiled. He looked past Ryan and motioned with his hand to one of the guards by the door. It was the woman who responded to his summons. She crossed the room silently with only the soft swish of the black silk of her pants to mark her progress. Settling herself gracefully in a chair at the table, she took the laptop that Stavros passed to her and brought it out of standby mode. She looked up when she was ready and at his nod her manicured fingers flew over the keyboard. In a matter of moments she'd finished and now waited patiently for the questions to begin again. Ryan blinked at the efficiency of it all and wondered why he rated a file on the personal laptop of Nicholas Stavros.
"Your parents, where are they from, Ryan?" As he asked this Stavros stared at him with such intensity that Ryan felt a moment of kinship with every small animal that had ever looked into the eyes of a snake and wondered what to do next.
He hesitated while he tried to collect his thoughts. All the time pain pulsed through his head in regular, nausea inducing waves. "Mom's from the Midwest someplace. I don't think she ever said where exactly." He closed his eyes briefly. "Her words were 'It's the pig shit capital of the world'."
"Does she have any brothers or sisters?"
"I don't think so. But she didn't like to talk about home."
"And your father. What about him?" Nick leaned toward Ryan as he asked this.
"Somewhere back East, I think. Pennsylvania – West Virginia, maybe. I think the men in his family were miners. Dad never did that though." Ryan smiled sourly. "According to mom, he wasn't into the hard work." Ryan paused while trying to remember details of life before his father went to prison. "Dawn always called him a lazy bum; but I remember him going to work when I was little. He left before Trey and I got up for school and didn't come home until after we'd had our dinner. Maybe he was a 'lazy bum.' She should know. Most of her boyfriends have been."
"Wait here." Christian's voice comes from Ryan's right. Ryan stops and spotting the railing for the staircase grabs hold of it. Only the first step down is clearly visible to him. Beyond that there is a dark, shadowy void.
"What?" The walk down the hall has been uneventful and blessedly collisions free. Ryan hasn't added any new bruises to the ones he acquired during his run in with the sideboard.
"There may be an alternative to taking the stairs. Wait here while I check. You'll be okay?"
Ryan's chin comes up and he bristles at the suggestion that he can't take care of himself. His anger quickly evaporates in the face of the pain his sudden movement causes. His stomach tries to tie itself into a knot; and he swallows reflexively in an effort to generate some saliva. "Sure," he says dryly. "I'll try not to fall down the stairs and embarrass you or your boss."
The surliness he hears in his own voice embarrasses Ryan. Christian doesn't deserve it but he finds it comes so much easier to him than gratitude. Ryan Atwood hasn't had much practice in saying thank you or had many reasons to be grateful to anyone since he lost control of his life in August. Until tonight there have been only two people he owed a debt too: the kid who found him that first long night on his own and offered him a place to crash; and Marie Jackson who gave him a job. He reaches up and fingers the glasses that Christian forced on him.
"I'm sorry." Christian's approach is noiseless and his voice from behind Ryan startles him. "There is an elevator but it's been out of order for a while and it's still down."
"I guess I'll just have to turn you in then." Ryan says severely before allowing a small smile to show. Even wearing dark glasses that hide his eyes from Christian's gaze, he still instinctively dips his head. The habits of a lifetime are hard to break. "The ADA police will want to know about this violation."
Christian mistakes Ryan's attempt at humor and replies seriously to him. "Mr. Stavros would be seriously pissed if you did that. He hates any sort of involvement with the authorities. He will do anything to avoid them."
"It was only a joke, Christian." Ryan wonders at the relief that shows in Christian's face at these words.
"Sir, something's wrong with the boy! You should stop." A young man's voice cut through the fog. Ryan wondered why anyone here would care.
A woman in a heavily accented voice rebuked him for his concern. "Such impudence. Boy, you're a fool. The Seigneur has done nothing to the child."
"Enough!" He recognized the voice of Nick Stavros as it sliced through the argument. The voice sounded strained and frustrated but Ryan had no doubt about its owner. "The boy's right, Gisla. Something isn't right. Ryan." Then more loudly he said, "Ryan!"
Ryan tried to fight his way back through the pain-induced fog that had enveloped him. He opened his eyes but they rebelled as he tried to focus on the speaker. The flickering candle flames sent stabs of pain into his head. He closed them again and suddenly the nature of the pain he was experiencing changed. His head still ached and the nausea still stalked him but the band of pain that encircled his head stopped tightening. Even when Stavros addressed him directly there was no corresponding echo in the pain he experienced.
"Young man, I think you are not well. One of my men will see you back to your table." Warily, Ryan watched as Stavros motioned his previous escort over to him. "Christian, see that Ryan gets back to his table safely." Stavros stood. Ryan got to his feet more slowly. He directed a poisonous look, one that promised that serious violence would be inflicted on anyone who thought they had the balls to offer him help up, at Christian. Christian merely stood where he was, his face showing only a bland look of indifference as he watched Ryan struggle out of his seat. Ryan stood by his chair breathing hard as though he'd just performed some arduous task.
"Ryan, I believe I was mistaken about you. I am sorry for that and that's an admission that I've not had to make in a long time." Stavros looked thoughtful as he studied the young man standing in front of him. " I believe that in some way that is unclear to me I owe you a debt. Nick Stavros always honors his obligations. If you should ever need help, I will give you such assistance as I can." With that Stavros nodded to Ryan's escort to take him away, He turned back to the table and resumed his seat. Ryan Atwood was dismissed.
Christian turns from his consideration of the problem represented by the staircase to a consideration of the boy standing beside him. "So…?" He queries.
"Yeah," Is Ryan's not very helpful contribution. His gaze remains fixed on the staircase.
"You have a plan?" Christian waits, allowing Ryan time to put forward any ideas he has for negotiating the stairs. Finally, he volunteers some ideas into Ryan's continuing silence.
"We could go down single file. I can lead or bring up the rear, whichever you want. If you lost your balance I'd be there."
"I can do this myself. If I ditch the dark glasses, I can see well enough to get down some stairs without being treated like a baby. Gravity is on my side." There's an ironic smile on Ryan's face.
Christian ignores Ryan's interjection and proceeds to finish his list of suggestions in a tone that reveals his exasperation with Ryan. "Or, I can walk beside you; or, I can walk on the opposite side of the staircase and we can pretend we're not together. However you want to do it, I'm going to see you get down these stairs safely. And, don't take those glasses off!" Ryan's hand pauses in the act of removing them.
"We're not together." Ryan reminds him dryly but he leaves the glasses on. He looks up into Christian's eyes and relishes the ability to do this without the other person being able to see his own eyes. With the glasses, Christian's dark blue eyes have become black orbs that stare back at him levelly. "Christian, you're here because your boss ordered you to be."
"Chris."
"What?" Ryan responds cocking his head and trying to read the other man's expression.
"Call me Chris, I said. My friends do." Chris runs his hand through the tight blond curls that cover his head and studies, with seeming fascination, the pattern of vines woven into the carpeting.
"You heard everything I told Mr. Stavros," Ryan says quietly.
"Yeah."
"It's all true."
"I assumed so. People don't lie to Mr. Stavros."
"Beside me then, I guess." Ryan shakes his head and relishes the fact that his head doesn't fall off from doing so. "Walk beside me; but if I take you down with me, Chris, it's your own damn fault." Ryan takes a secure hold on the railing and steps off into space.
"You see, no problem." Ryan boasts as he reaches the landing midway down the staircase without incident. "I don't needbig brother hovering over my shoulder." Ryan looks out across the restaurant in hope of being able to see some detail now that he's closer to the main level, to see Seth at their table, but the darkness of the glasses still won't allow that.
The pain in his head is better since Christian gave him the glasses. The constant, unrelenting pain has left him exhausted but there are none of the awful spikes in pain that punctuated his headache before. Thinking ahead Ryan tries to maintain a positive attitude. At least it's a weeknight; the motel should be fairly quiet this time of night. Climbing into his bed and pulling the covers over his head sounds so good to him.
But the thought of his room brings up the question of how he'll get there. There's no way he can ride his bike home. He will not allow Seth to give him a ride. No, I'll take a cab. I've got cash. I don't want Seth to know where I live. Ryan has a feeling of relief now that he's solved that problem. He wonders if Seth will give him any trouble about his decision.
Ryan steps off the landing. Lilies, he smells lilies. The sweet fragrance of flowers surrounds him. Now he can identify the familiar scent; it's the exotic odor of Stargazer lilies, his mother's favorite. That's the flower that the construction worker always brought Dawn last summer. Stargazer lilies, they had filled the house in Chino with their scent that summer and covered everything with their pollen when Dawn forgot (which she always did) to remove the stamens. He smiles. It had been a good summer until Dawn's self-destructive nature ruined it. The guy had met her just out of rehab and even for someone as good as this man she couldn't stay dry. The real Dawn Atwood had sent him running for Texas.
He takes several more slow, careful steps down the stairs wondering at the oddness of this. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the odor of flowers is gone and a wave of fear coils around him. Fear comes for Ryan in the form of the cool, dry, raspy feel of scales sliding across his soul. Like a serpent casting about anxiously for the scent of prey it knows is near, it brushes past his mind. He stops abruptly and Chris collides with him. Ryan is turning toward Christian with an apology when he sees Chris stagger. Somehow Ryan catches and holds onto Christian's wrist with the right hand he can hardly feel. His left hand screams in pain at the sudden strain of having to support the weight of two men as Ryan struggles to keep his grip on the railing.
Darkness: He exists in a lightless space. So black and devoid of light that he wonders if he's gone blind. He turns his head slowly from left to right searching for some speck of light.
Silence: Only the sounds of his own rapid breathing disturb the stillness. Shouts produce only mocking echoes that magnify his fear. Willing himself to relax, he tries to take slow, even breaths.
Cold: Could he see his breath if there were lights? He thinks so.
Naked: Shivering, his body tries to warm itself in response to the coldness of this place. It's not the dry cold of central air but the damp cold of a chamber deep underground. The soft surface beneath him, with its silky covering, suggests a bed but retains none of his body's warmth.
Bound: He's caught, held tight at wrists and ankles by soft restraints that leave him spread-eagled, exposed, vulnerable. He tests their strength, fighting against them until he slumps back exhausted. The sweat drying on his bare skin adds to his chill. Maybe there was a little give at his left wrist.
Sound: Nails dragging across silk, the whisper slips into his consciousness. His head twists wildly from side-to-side trying to locate its source.
Fear: His stomach knots as his body dips. Someone has joined him. As they make their way in from the edge toward him at the center, his body moves and sways. The movement stops. Over the pounding of his heart, he can hear the sound of the other's breathing.
Pain: Searing pain shoots through his head and drives out every other thought. He gasps at its unexpectedness. Then he's teetering on a staircase; the fear of falling is foremost in his thoughts. He grips the railing with his left hand despite the agony that shoots through it and clamps his other hand tightly around the wrist of the person beside him who's wobbling on the edge. Warmth. Heat, Fire! His right hand is on fire but he won't turn loose, won't let his companion fall.
Confusion: This didn't happen before. Before?
Someone is bending over him. He hears the sound of metal on leather. A hand comes down on his left shoulder and pushes him roughly into the bed. Something icy cold touches and pricks the base of his throat. His body tries to sink into the bed, to shrink away from the cold point of the blade. In one smooth stroke the knife slices him neatly from throat to navel. Screaming, he flinches away from the sharp, burning pain that splits him down the center. He licks the coppery taste of his own blood from his lips and takes a jerky breath. Blood seeps from the shallow cut.
Long-nailed hands press down on his chest, a hand on each breast; and the odor of lilies sweeps over him in an intoxicating cloud. The hot breath of the one leaning over him burns on his cut. Unresisting to this invasion, his body refuses to obey him and lies passive. Now his tormentor's breathing is rapid, impatient. Wet lips press themselves to his wound.
A series of slow, lingering kisses burn their way down his chest, tracing the blade's path. The greedy tongue tastes him and savors every drop of the lifeblood oozing from him. Wherever it passes, fire spreads out from the wound.
Blood has collected in his navel and the questing tongue goes after it greedily. A hand rests lightly now on his stomach. The fingers play with the blond hairs that mark his manhood. They tense and the nails dig into his groin. When the hungry mouth finally pulls away from his stomach, the whole length of the cut is inflamed. It burns as though some caustic agent has been poured into the wound and is working its way out into his bloodstream.
His body rocks gently as his captor changes position. He hears the sound of the knife being pulled from its sheath again and his body tenses. A hand takes hold of his left wrist and turns it palm up.
"What is it, Marcus?" A woman's voice, his tormentor's voice, asks in irritation. The grip on his wrist relaxes slightly.
"Lady," a smooth male voice answers. "I knew you'd want to know when it was done."
"It's done? You're sure? You know this for a fact?" There's excitement in the woman's voice. She releases his wrist.
"Of course, Lady. I saw to it personally." There's a note of smug satisfaction in the man's voice.
"How long ago?"
"No more than two hours."
"We'll…." She begins but the man anticipates her.
"The teams are ready. They await only you're order and all the little lambs will be rounded up."
"How many?"
"Twenty here in the city. Those out of the city will be lost to us, of course. Still…"
"Indeed. A goodly number. The House is ready for them?"
"Everything is prepared, Lady. All I need is your word."
"You have it! See to it, Marcus." The bed moves as she turns back to her captive. "Well…?" There's impatience in her voice as she hesitates.
"Will you keep him?"
"No." The woman's voice sounds regretful. "He's flawed."
"A flaw? Really? He's such a beautiful boy. All those pale blond curls and those dark blue eyes."
"He has a flaw." Her voice has grown petulant like a spoiled child. "See, a birthmark on his thigh." Her fingers trail over his stomach until they reach the small mark on his inner thigh. "Besides, I have enough blondes now anyway. You've told me so yourself."
"Of course. You're right. He's quite unworthy of you, mistress." There's a note of sarcasm and amusement in the man's voice.
"Marcus, your voyeurism grows tiresome. You have your orders. See that they're carried out!" She snaps. Cold steel has replaced her friendly, bantering tone.
"Lady." He replies stiffly.
"Marcus…" Her voice softens. "Well done. I won't finish this one. I'll leave him for you. I know how you like your pretty boys and I need to pace myself. Twenty! I'll have lots to do in the next few days. Now, take your greedy eyes out of here and let me finish."
Patience: The distraction gives him time. His body is his own once again and he gathers his strength. He'll put all his effort into freeing his left arm. There was, he thinks, some give in the restraint holding that wrist when he tested it. The "pretty boy" will give her a surprise to remember him by. He waits. It has to be done before she turns her attention back to his wrist.
A finger unexpectedly touches him on his left arm and trails down its length skimming just above the hairs sending a shock through his body. He steadies himself. Her finger traces idly across the palm of his hand as though she's reading his palm. Finally, she grasps his wrist in her hand and begins to tighten her grip again. He puts all his strength into freeing his left arm, breaking her grip on him.
His grip on the railing is snapped by the terrific yank that Christian gives Ryan's right hand. As Ryan loses his balance, Christian shakes himself free of the restraining hand and shoves him violently away. Ryan bounces off the railing. Christian's handsome face is contorted into a mask of fear and pain and his eyes are unfocused as he falls back onto the stairs. In the split second before Ryan begins to tumble down the stairs, reason returns to Chris's eyes. Christian makes a lunge for Ryan's flailing arm, misses, and watches the boy, he was supposed to keep safe, fall away from him to the floor below.