Again, it's not the longest update in the world, but they get longer after this, I promise! Thanks to anyone who has read and/or reviewed. I hope to have more up shortly.
A Week Before Cohen
Chapter Three
Ryan awoke in a puddle. At least, that was his initial assumption. His pants, shirt, socks, hair—everything—was soaked with sweat. He rubbed his forearm across his face, then pushed himself up onto his elbows.
He had to do something. It was unbearable—unbreatheable.
His first instinct was to rip off his t-shirt and jeans, but there was no way in hell he was going to expose bare skin to the sofa. He could only imagine what life-threatening bacterial agents lingered in the old wool cross-weave.
He blinked and rubbed at his eyes. The tenderness in his left side helped him regain his bearings. AJ's boot. Hospital. Trey's apartment.
He let out a heavy sigh. For a second there, things didn't seem so bad.
He was instantly consumed by that hopeless depression he felt himself growing quite familiar with, but the more pressing matter at the moment was the fact that he was overheating at an unbearable rate.
He scanned the room for solutions—anything to cool him down.
Though it was dark outside, the small window by the kitchen had no covering and the glass panes worked as a throughway for the street lamp's harsh white light.
He stood up slowly and walked over to the kitchen, relieved to find his balance had returned after its little reprieve.
He studied the window for a few seconds and fiddled with the latch. He tried many different manipulations, and almost felt like he was getting somewhere until the latch broke off in his hand.
He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then set the broken piece of plastic on the sill, slowly tip-toeing away.
The fight with the window had somehow made him even hotter, and he was afraid that if he didn't get some fresh air soon, he was going to shrivel up…or suffocate. Regardless, he had to get out. Now.
As he walked by the couch, his toe caught on something, tripping him up. He narrowly avoided a face plant, and swore under his breath as he disentangled himself. The feel of the familiar fabric brought a smile to his face.
"Theresa, you're a Godsend," he whispered, grabbing his backpack and quietly exiting the apartment. He checked to make sure the door wasn't locked before he walked down the narrow flight of stairs that lead him into the street.
Though the air outside was probably just as hot as inside the apartment, Ryan savored the breeze that cooled the damp skin on his face. He took a deep breath and looked around.
An uneasy feeling settled at the bottom of his stomach, and at first, he just wrote it off as hunger, but the scene before him slowly started sinking in.
The streets were empty, save for a few cars parked up on the curb and an empty beer bottle by his feet. It looked like any street should look at—he glanced at his watch—2:30 in the morning, but at the same time, it looked like nothing to Ryan.
He noted he was way behind on his medication schedule while realizing he had absolutely no idea where he was.
And that really bothered him.
He certainly hadn't been in any state of mind to pay attention to the street signs when Theresa dropped him off earlier, and it wasn't like Trey ever had a housewarming party or anything.
Ryan lowered himself onto the step at the bottom of the stairwell—just out of sight, but if he leaned forward, he could still feel the cool breeze. Unzipping the front pocket of his backpack, he pulled out the sealed pack of smokes.
A small post-it note stuck to the front.
Didn't want to wake you.
-T
And at the bottom, in small writing, as if it should be read in a whisper, were the words:
Your mom's fine.
He folded the note up into a tiny square and slipped it into his pocket.
He peeled off the cellophane wrapper, grimacing as it crackled loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the apartments that created the ominous canyon of a street. He was careful to place the plastic into his bag with minimal noise. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. Certainly not in this area…even though he didn't have a clue where he was.
So much for knowing your city, Atwood, he mocked himself. But it was probably for the best, he realized. Because if he knew where he was, he would know how to get home, and the idea of home was extremely appealing at the moment. Which, in itself, was a scary revelation.
He promised Theresa. He would stay here. For now….
He inhaled deeply off the freshly-lit cigarette, resting his forearm on his knee as the smoke swallowed his worries. He focused on the burning embers as he exhaled. He repeated the process until the slam of a car door snapped him out of his trance.
"You should park it behind, man. Cops roam this street."
"Nah, it'll be fine. Besides, it won't be reported until morning and by then, I'll have it at the chop—" Trey immediately stopped.
Stopped talking. Stopped walking.
In fact, he stood in the middle of the road, the fingers of his right hand opening and closing around a set of keys.
"Hey, Ry." Trey glanced over at Arturo, then slowly started walking to the sidewalk. "I thought you'd be in bed."
Ryan dropped his butt and ground it into the sidewalk with the toe of his boot, choosing to ignore the irony of Trey's statement. What bed? "I thought you were in bed," Ryan responded bitterly—quietly—as he blew out the final drag.
Arturo stepped around Ryan and started up the stairs. But Ryan kept looking up, his eyes trained on Trey. He was actually quite interested in hearing what his brother had to say.
There was nothing for the longest time, but eventually, Trey turned away and laughed, waving his hands in a dismissive manner. "You know what?" he asked, walking around Ryan and jogging up the stairs. "Fuck this. It's not like you're a fucking saint anyway…." Trey's voice trailed off as he disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell.
Ryan waited for the slam of the apartment door, then cocked his head to the side and studied the shiny car across the street. It certainly didn't blend with the scenery. He smiled at the idea of someone stealing the stolen car before dawn. He could just see Trey's expression. Ryan was half-tempted to move it himself, but that would require some level of energy and motivation—neither of which he was bursting with right now. When he couldn't feel his heartbeat in his left temple, he'd mess with Trey's head.
Instead, he pulled off his damp shirt, draped it over his shoulder, lit another cigarette, and enjoyed the breeze.
TBC.
Any and all opinions, one way or the other, are welcomed. I would love to hear what you think.