Thanks so much for all the generous reviews. And thanks to Schwartz and company for the loan of the characters.

In His Shadow

Part 2: The Morning

"Okay, son. Here you go, " Sandy announced, pulling to a stop in front of Harbor. "Have a great day at school."

Ryan waved an indolent hand out the window as Seth tumbled from the backseat, dropping his bag and two loose CDs in the process. "Yeah, Seth," he echoed innocently, "Have a great day at school."

Seth opened his mouth to unleash a flippant retort, but at the last minute he settled for a scowl and turned to his father instead. "Goodbye, Dad," he said, stressing the second word. "And please note, I did not reply to that smug individual to whom I am pointedly not speaking because I am pointedly not speaking to him. Although if I were, my rapier wit would cut him off at the knees. And you can feel free to tell him so."

Sandy grinned, shook his head fondly, and put the car into gear.

"Dad!" Seth raised his eyebrows, cocking his head in Ryan's direction. "Tell. Him. So," he hissed.

"Oh. Right." Sandy tapped Ryan on the shoulder. "Kid? Seth says that he's not speaking to you. But if he were . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. Rapier wit, cut off at the knees. Got it . . . Bye, Seth," Ryan called, as Sandy pulled out of the parking lot. "Enjoy your classes today. Especially Dr. Herick's."

Seth's indignant protests, all carefully addressed to his father, followed the car all the way to the street.

"You know Sandy," Ryan observed as he settled back in his seat. "This not-speaking thing? Seth does it really loudly, doesn't he?"

Sandy chuckled in agreement. "It's a gift," he said ruefully. "You should have heard Seth not speak to Kirsten and me once. He was thirteen and we refused to build him a skateboard ramp that he wanted."

"Yeah? Did you give in?"

"Do you see a skateboard ramp at the house? No . . . but Seth did strain his voice trying to persuade us. Not that he spoke to us directly, you understand. He just spoke to Rosa, Caleb, Captain Oats . . . occasionally the furniture. Wound up with laryngitis."

"Shit, not really? Seth with laryngitis?"

"He had no voice at all for three days," Sandy recalled nostalgically.

"Three whole days?" Ryan sighed. "Man, how sweet was that?"

"Very sweet," Sandy confirmed. "And you'd think that would have taught Seth a lesson, but apparently not. When he couldn't talk, he just wrote lists. Left them all over the house. He must have come up with at least five dozen reasons why he should have his own skateboard ramp."

Sandy laughed at the memory, glancing over at the passenger seat, but although Ryan smiled absently, he seemed to have stopped listening. He had pulled the briefcase off the floor and was balancing it on his knees, tracing the letters of the inscribed nameplate with his index finger.

"You know," Sandy mused, "Kirsten surprised me with that the day I passed the bar. At the time, it probably cost more than our living room couch. But, God, it made me feel great. Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of the faith she had in me."

Ryan's eyes darted anxiously to Sandy's profile. "Really? You know if you changed your mind and want to keep the briefcase after all, that's cool." He hesitated, biting his lip. "Or maybe you should give it to Seth. I mean, since it was a present from Kirsten . . ."

"No, Ryan," Sandy said gently. "I want you to have the briefcase. But I was thinking that we should have the nameplate replaced, so that it officially belongs to Ryan Atwood."

Ryan covered the inscription protectively and his lips curved into a shy half-smile. "Actually, Sandy . . . I'd rather keep it just the way it is," he admitted. "If you don't mind, I mean."

"I don't mind at all," Sandy assured him. "But I want you to know, you can blame Kirsten for that froufrou lettering. I would have picked something more manly myself."

"Yeah, it is kind of . . . fancy," Ryan admitted. "But if Kirsten liked it . . ."

Sandy lowered his voice confidentially, even though there was no one around to hear. "Tell you what you can do, Ryan. Just keep the nameplate side facing you. That's what I did . . . So, kid, want to listen to some music?"

"Are you going to sing?" Ryan asked in alarm.

Sandy's brows furrowed in a mock-scowl. "Hey! A little respect, if you don't mind. I was just planning to play the radio. But of course, if either one of us wants to sing along . . . "

"One of us won't," Ryan said firmly. He squinted out the window as Sandy searched for a classic rock station. "Man. I should have grabbed my sunglasses. Do you have an extra pair in the glove compartment?"

"I don't think so . . . but check your briefcase," Sandy suggested. "Maybe Seth put your sunglasses in there when he was packing the rest of your stuff."

Ryan snorted. "What? Seth remember something practical?" He groped inside the zipper compartment, fishing out a giant paperclip, a cardboard key labeled "Men's Room," a bumper sticker that proclaimed, "Lawyers are People Too (But you'll never be able to prove it in court)," and finally his sunglasses. "Yes!" Ryan crowed in surprised triumph. He was about to close the briefcase when his gaze fell on a small pack of cards. "What the hell?" he murmured suspiciously.

Sandy kept his eyes on the road, but he was already grinning. "What is it, Ryan?"

"Business cards," Ryan announced, gingerly peeling off a post-it note that read "So sue me. Seth." "Your son made me business cards . . . 'Ryan Atwood, Fake-Attorney-For-A-Day. Cheap. I charge by the word. Call 1-800-KID CHINO.' God, Sandy!" he groaned, covering his face. "Only Seth."

"Only Seth," Sandy agreed, but his smile dimmed a little, remembering.

Two days ago, while Ryan was studying in the pool house, Seth had bounced into the kitchen where his parents were having coffee.

"Lady and gentleman!" he announced proudly. "Okay, that's so not impressive when it's not plural, but anyway, I give you . . . wait for it now . . . the prototype for the official Ryan Atwood business card! Ta da!" He had handed the sketch to Kirsten first, but the moment she looked at it, she had paled visibly, shaking her head.

"Sweetie," she breathed. "No. You can't give this to Ryan."

"No?" Seth's pleased smirk dissolved into stunned disappointment. "Why not, Mom?"

Curious, Sandy had joined his son behind Kirsten's chair, studying the drawing over her shoulder. Its wording was the same as the business cards Ryan held now, but on one side Seth had sketched Kid Chino, holding the scales of justice in one hand, with the other curled into a large-knuckled fist, cocked and ready to throw. Above the cartoon a speech bubble declared, "Satisfaction guaranteed. If the right hand doesn't get it, the left hand will."

"What's wrong?" Seth persisted. "It's funny, right?"

Sandy had taken the paper from Kirsten and folded it up. "Trey," he said quietly.

"Trey?" Seth stared at his father, startled, before his eyes darkened with horror. He grabbed the paper, shredding it violently. "Shit, shit, shit. Trey . . . God, is there a lighter around here? I've got to burn this. Mom—Dad," he stammered, "I never thought . . . I would never . . . I wouldn't do that to Ryan."

Kirsten rubbed his cheek soothingly. "Of course you wouldn't, sweetie," she murmured. "You just forgot for a minute. You're allowed to forget."

"No," Seth argued. "I'm not. Not if it means doing something like this. God!" He shuddered. "If Ryan had seen this . . ."

"But he didn't. He won't. Redo the business cards, son," Sandy urged. "It's a funny idea and Ryan will enjoy it. Just leave out the . . . fists of justice reference, okay?"

Now, Sandy glanced over with satisfaction as Ryan shuffled the business cards, chuckling softly.

"1-800-KID-CHINO," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Doesn't Seth know he's got an extra digit in there? Although, I suppose 1-800-KID-CHIN does sound pretty stupid. But what am I supposed to do with these things anyway, Sandy? Seth made twenty of them."

Sandy shrugged. "I don't know. But a lawyer does need business cards." He took one hand off the wheel, reached over, and squeezed Ryan's shoulder. "In my experience," he recalled meaningfully, "they've come in pretty handy."

"Yeah." Ryan's voice was thick with memory. "In my experience too . . ." With careful fingers, he tapped the cards into a neat stack and tucked them safely back into the briefcase. "So Sandy, what are we doing first today?"

"First," Sandy mused. "Let's see. First, I've got an appointment with a new client. An L. S. Boardman. We're supposed to meet at my office."

"Your office, huh? Cool. I've never been there. So what's the case? I mean, if you can tell me." Ryan frowned suddenly. "Actually, Sandy, I hadn't thought about that—the whole lawyer-client confidentiality thing. You want me to wait outside while you talk? Or, I don't know? Sharpen pencils in another room or something?"

"My pencils all have pretty sharp points, kid. Tell you what, why don't we just wait and see what happens," Sandy suggested. "Since it's our first meeting, this could just a general discussion, and the client might not mind you sitting in. That is, as long as you promise not to go blabbing everything that you hear."

Ryan pulled his sunglasses down and peered at Sandy over the top.

"Right," Sandy laughed. "Ryan, not Seth. No blabbing, guaranteed."

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Ryan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, reading the titles of the books lining the shelves in Sandy's office. They weren't all legal tomes, he noted with surprise--that is unless murder mysteries counted. And political satires. Ryan was about to slide out a copy of Bushwhacked when the doorbell rang.

"Sandy?" he called. "I think your appointment is here."

Sandy ducked out from the other room, phone pressed to his ear, saying irritably, "No, I'm not heading out there today. I rescheduled that meeting." He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, "Could you get it, kid? Just make the client comfortable. I'll be there in a minute."

"Oh-kay," Ryan agreed reluctantly. He chewed the inside of his cheek. Make the client comfortable. Right, he could do that—as long as Sandy wasn't on the phone more than another thirty seconds.

Pulling down the sleeves of his sweater—shit, he thought, maybe he should have worn a tie after all--Ryan took a deep breath. He opened the door, smiling politely, but the respectful greeting he planned died on his lips when he saw the person standing outside.

"Uh . . . hi," Ryan said uncertainly. The boy on the porch couldn't have been more than eleven even though, with his fiercely spiked hair, his lightning bolt earring, his ripped black t-shirt and baggy jeans, he was obviously aiming for an alienated eighteen at least. "Can I help you?"

The boy looked up, squinting, and wrinkled his nose. He appeared as confused as Ryan felt. "You Sanford Cohen?"

"No," Ryan replied, shaking his head. "But this is his office."

"Oh. Okay then."

As the boy pushed past him to come in, Ryan scanned the area outside. No adults in sight. Just a bike—a very expensive one—parked at the foot of the steps. He shrugged, keeping the door propped open just in case.

"Hey," he said casually. "I'm Ryan." He would have added, "Sit down," but the boy had already dropped his small backpack and was perched on the edge of the armchair. "So . . . you're here to see Sandy?"

The boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who?"

"Sorry. I mean Sanford Cohen," Ryan amended. "'Cause, um, he has an appointment scheduled right now so you may have to wait. Unless?" He fished for the name and added doubtfully, "You're not L. S. Boardman, are you?"

"I'm Scott," the boy muttered, his defiant scowl daring Ryan to argue with him. "But yeah, my last name is Boardman."

Swallowing a grin, Ryan nodded, and leaned against the desk. "Scott," he repeated. "All right, cool. Would you like some . . ." He broke off as Sandy entered, eyebrows lifted in a slight question at the sight of the surly boy. "Hey, Sandy, this is Scott," Ryan explained. "Your new client."

If he was surprised, Sandy hid it completely. "Right on time. Excellent." He held out his hand and, when the boy made no move to take it, slid it discreetly into his pocket. "Good to meet you, Scott," he said, with a welcoming smile. "I'm Sanford Cohen. But please, call me Sandy. What can I do for you today?"

Scott knocked the toes of his combat boots together, sinking back in the chair and chewing his lip. His jaded façade seemed to have disappeared abruptly, leaving just a nervous little boy.

Sandy glanced at Ryan, who shrugged a helpless "I don't know."

"Scott, do you have a legal problem?" Sandy prompted gently.

"Yeah," Scott blurted. "I want to divorce my parents."

Ryan's head jerked up in shock, but Sandy's neutral expression never wavered.

"I see," he replied thoughtfully, as he loosened his tie. "Well, Scott you know, divorce is a pretty drastic move for anybody. It's not something you want to rush into."

"But I can do it, can't I?" Scott demanded, his voice rising sharply. "I mean you can make me legally not their son, right? I can pay you."

Ryan's eyes darkened as they darted from the boy's troubled face back to Sandy.

"Divorce is a . . . possibility," Sandy answered carefully. He took out a legal pad and sat down. "But you probably have a number of options, Scott—other things you can do. Why don't you tell me exactly what the problem is with your parents?"

Scott sucked in his lips and pounded his knuckles together. "Why? If I pay you, you have to do what I want, right?" he demanded sullenly. "Isn't that your job?"

"Well, yes," Sandy conceded. "If I'm your lawyer, I have to represent your best interests. But first I have to know what those are. Tell you what. I was just about to make some fresh lemonade." Ryan stared, astonished, and he added wryly, "That's right, I said fresh, smart guy. How you and Seth drink that canned dreck is beyond me . . . So, Scott, why don't I get us something to drink, and then we can talk."

The tiniest flicker of a smile crossed Scott's face. "I am pretty thirsty from riding my bike here," he admitted. "And I like lemonade. But not real, real, real sweet. 'Cause that's icky."

"Exactly what I always say. You're a man after my own heart, Scott. Easy on the sugar, it is," Sandy promised, heading to the kitchenette.

Giving Scott a hasty half-salute, Ryan followed Sandy. "I can get the drinks," he offered quietly. "That way you two can talk."

"Actually, kid, I'd like you to talk to Scott."

"Me?" Ryan's voice was incredulous. "Why?"

Sandy shook some lemons from a bag onto the counter and rummaged in a drawer for a knife. "Why not? You never know, this could be a job for Kid Chino, Attorney for a Day."

"But Sandy," Ryan objected, "he wants to divorce his parents. Maybe that means they're . . . " He gritted his teeth, and finished in a rough whisper. "Abusing him."

Sandy gave a tight nod. "It's possible, Ryan. Or the problem could be something else entirely. Whatever it is, I think Scott might feel better talking about it with you."

Ryan hesitated, unconvinced.

"Just give it a shot," Sandy urged. "Hey, I'm right here if you need me."

"Okay," Ryan agreed, although he still looked skeptical. "But hey, Ryan, not Seth, remember? How do I even start talking to this kid?"

Sandy laughed, tossing two boxes of cookies and a roll of paper towels to him. "Your ice-breaker, Mr. Atwood."

"Hey, Scott. Food!" Ryan announced as he returned to the office area. "I've got Double Stuff Oreos and Chips Ahoy. Choose, dude."

Scott screwed up his face, thinking. "What are you having?"

"Oreos," Ryan answered promptly. "Best. Cookies. Ever."

"Yeah? They're all right, I guess. Okay, I'll have some too."

"Excellent choice." Ryan tore open the package and placed it on the table between their chairs. Simultaneously they each reached for a cookie, twisting it open and scraping the filling off with their teeth. Ryan swallowed and wiped his mouth. He gestured toward the dragon on the boy's left forearm. "Nice tat," he observed.

Scott's wary expression brightened slightly. "You like it?" he asked.

"Absolutely." Ryan brushed crumbs off his fingers and leaned forward to inspect the design more closely. "It's awesome, man."

Scott studied his arm for a moment before speaking. "Do you have any tattoos, Ryan?"

"Me? Nah."

"How come? Are you, like, scared of needles or something?"

Ryan's gaze slid to the kitchenette where Sandy was watching, slicing lemons and smiling encouragement. Then he sat back and considered the question. "I don't like needles," he admitted. "But I wouldn't say I'm scared of them. It's more like I'm scared that I'd pick a design I'd wind up hating five years from now." He shrugged ruefully. "People change, you know? You don't want to be stuck with something 'cause you made the wrong decision."

Frowning, Scott put his cookie down and touched the lines of red fire erupting from the dragon's mouth.

"But hey," Ryan said hastily, "you don't have to worry about that. 'Cause your dragon? Beyond cool, dude."

Scott glanced at him, his face creased with thought.

"Ryan? Look, can I tell you something? And you won't laugh?"

"Laugh? Not a chance," Ryan promised.

Squirming forward, Scott leaned close and dropped his voice to a whisper. "It's not a real tattoo,"

Unconsciously, Ryan mirrored the sober respect he had seen when Sandy spoke to the boy. "It's not?"

"No. I drew it on myself," Scott confided. "With magic marker."

Ryan crouched next to Scott's chair and examined his arm. "Man, you drew that?" he said with honest admiration. "That is seriously amazing, Scott."

"Yeah? You don't think it's lame . . . I mean, you know, because it's not real?"

"Lame?" Ryan protested. "Are you kidding? It's incredible." He handed Scott another cookie and helped himself to one before going back to his seat. "So what do your parents say about the tattoo?"

Scott's face shuttered instantly. "Nothing," he mumbled. "They don't say anything about anything." He kicked the coffee table, making jump. "Not anything," he repeated viciously.

Ryan put a steadying hand on the table and glanced again at the kitchenette. Sandy was still watching, eyes soft with sympathy. "Go on, kid," he mouthed.

"Well, that sucks," Ryan declared. "Being ignored like that, I mean."

"Yeah. Totally."

For a moment, Ryan just watched as Scott played with his cookie, pulling it apart and slamming it back together again. "You're pretty pissed with them, huh?" he asked finally.

Scott's lips crimped. "Yeah. I'm pissed," he replied, pronouncing the word with grim satisfaction. "It's like they don't even know I'm alive, Ryan. They're always busy. Or gone. Or getting ready to go someplace. And they never take me."

"Are they gone now?" With apparent nonchalance, Ryan sketched a tic-tac-toe board on Sandy's legal pad. "Is that why you got to come here on a school day?" He marked an X in the middle square and slid the paper over to Scott.

"My dad's in Japan," Scott replied. "And my mom's going to meet him there next week, so she's all busy shopping for the trip. I told her we didn't have school today because of some teacher meeting. Doesn't matter. She doesn't care where I am, as long as I'm not in her way."

Ryan's jaw tightened, but he let Scott go on talking.

"They never want me around. So I might as well just divorce them, right? Then they don't even have to pretend like they care." Scott's pen kept circling the O he had drawn until it cut a small hole in the paper. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "I mean . . . sorry, Ryan."

"Nah, it's a stupid game anyway." Ryan picked up the paper and pen and added arrow points to each end of his X. "Hey, what do you think, Scott? It's my tattoo design."

"That?" Scott shook his head critically. "Man, Ryan, that's pretty lame."

"Hey!" Ryan objected. "I'll have you know that . . . that is . . . Okay, yeah, you're right." He balled up the paper and tossed it in the garbage. "That totally sucked. I should stick to my A game, huh? Leave the art work to experts like you."

"Ryan?" Scott asked suddenly. "Are you a lawyer too?"

Ryan grinned. "Me? A lawyer? Uh . . . no."

"Oh. Then are you going to be one?"

Ryan's smile widened as he remembered Seth's 'Atwood opening argument'. "I don't think so. No."

Scott frowned. "Well then, what are you doing here anyway?"

"Really?" Ryan lowered his voice confidentially. "I'm just watching Sandy work. And getting the day off school to do it."

"Cool!" Scott exclaimed. He relaxed into his chair, his legs sticking out in front of him. "Is Sandy your dad?"

Ryan bit his lower lip before he forced out a final, more reluctant denial. "No. He's not. But . . . he's like my dad, sort of." Immediately, his brain screamed a protest, and Ryan amended, "Actually, he's not like my dad. At all." Not quite under his breath he added, "Thank God."

Inside the kitchenette, Sandy stopped pouring lemonade and listened intently.

"I don't get it."

"Sandy's my legal guardian," Ryan explained, choosing his words carefully. "I live with him—well, with his whole family. Sandy is taking the place of my father."

"Oh." To Ryan's amazement, Scott nodded as if he understood perfectly. "Did you divorce your parents? Is that why you're living with other people?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Ryan looked over his shoulder, wondering what was taking Sandy so long. "Not really, Scott. My parents . . . they kind of divorced me, I guess."

"Oh," Scott said again. His eyes clouded, and he crumpled bits of cookie onto a paper towel. "Did that like . . . hurt your feelings or anything?"

"Yeah, it did," Ryan confessed. "It hurt my feelings a lot." Unsure what to say next, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, then sighed in relief when Sandy strolled into the office,

"Here we go!" Sandy announced, balancing a tray with three glasses.

"And you'll be happy to know this lemonade aced the Sandy Cohen taste test--not too tart, not too sweet. Sorry to keep you guys waiting. I squirted some juice in my eye—had to get it out." As he passed behind Ryan's chair, Sandy paused for a moment, cupping the back of his neck and gently ruffling his hair. "So, Scott. Ready to discuss your case?" he asked as he sat down and distributed the lemonade.

Scott drained half his glass before answering, his body tense again. "I guess."

"Okay then." Sandy took out his pen and poised it over his legal pad. "Let's get the basics down first. What's your full name, Scott?"

"Why?" Scott demanded, glowering.

"Can't conduct legal business without your legal name," Sandy explained.

"You'll laugh. Well, maybe not you, Sandy. But you will, Ryan."

Surprised, Ryan set down his glass and leaned forward. "No, I won't," he promised. When Scott still said nothing, he added, "Swear to God, dude. Go ahead. You can tell us."

"Leslie Scott Boardman. The Fourth," Scott muttered into his glass. "I hate it. It's a stupid name. And Leslie is the worst. It's a stupid girl's name."

Ryan shook his head sympathetically. "Oh, man. That does suck, Scott. Good thing you've got a decent middle name."

Scott turned to Sandy. "Don't you have a middle name you can use?" he asked earnestly. "I mean Sandy is a girls' name too."

Ryan choked and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oops—sorry. I, um, swallowed a seed," he claimed, hiding a grin in his palm.

"Nope," Sandy told Scott mildly. "No middle name." Behind his legal pad, he cocked a playful, warning finger in Ryan's direction. "All right, Scott. Let's get down to business. Why don't you tell me exactly why you want to divorce your parents?"

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The moment Scott disappeared into the bathroom, Sandy turned to Ryan. "Swallowed a seed?" he demanded.

Ryan held up both hands in surrender. "Sorry!" he sputtered, laughing again. "But come on! You have to admit, Sandy is a girl's name."

"The name is Sanford, kid," Sandy growled with mock-fury. "And if I hear any girly-name jokes around the house--"

"Hey, no, not from me!"

"Or from Seth," Sandy cautioned.

"Aw." Ryan slumped in his seat, apparently disappointed. "Not even from Seth?"

"Especially not from Seth," Sandy clarified. "But if he does, I'll know exactly where he got the idea."

Ryan nodded, his face a mask of innocence. "Okay, got it. Sensitive subject, no jokes. But I do have one question," he said ingenuously. "How much mail do you get addressed to Mrs. Sandy Cohen?" He ducked, smirking, as Sandy lobbed an Oreo at him. Ryan caught the cookie and twisted it open. He bit into it, chewing slowly as his face grew serious again. "Sandy, what are you going to do about Scott?" he asked. "I mean, this divorcing your parents deal--can kids his age really do that?"

Sandy sipped his lemonade thoughtfully. "Yes, they can, under special circumstances. It doesn't happen often, of course. But I don't think that's what Scott really wants to do anyway."

"No, he doesn't." Ryan snapped the remainder of his cookie in half and flung both pieces down in disgust. His voice was gruff with emotion. "Shit, he's just a regular kid. All he wants is for his parents to give a damn about him."

"And instead they just give him things," Sandy said, his mouth tightening with distaste. "I looked up some background information about the Boardmans while you guys were talking. They've got enough money to make Caleb feel poor. Private island, villa in Tuscany, collection of classic cars. But Scott told the truth. His parents spend almost all their time traveling."

"So he's stuck on his own," Ryan concluded.

Sandy nodded, sighing. "Pretty much. There are housekeepers. Nannies. I'm sure the parents feel like they do right by the boy, but . . ."

"If they do, they're fucking idiots," Ryan muttered fiercely. His eyes darted over to Sandy, and he flushed, biting his lip. "Sorry. It's just . . . Not my business. Sorry." Hastily, he closed the cookie bags and began to clear the crumb-laden paper towels. "Can you help him, Sandy?"

"I'm certainly going to try," Sandy replied. "Scott's mom isn't scheduled to leave until next week. I'll set up a meeting with her. Maybe a conference with her son's lawyer will convince her that she and her husband have important matters to attend to right here in California."

Ryan rubbed his knuckles pensively against his teeth. "What if she doesn't listen?"

"If she doesn't, then we'll take the next step," Sandy replied grimly. "Kids like Scott--"

He broke off as Scott emerged from the bathroom, inspecting his tattoo anxiously. "I think it's fading, Ryan. Look."

"Hmm." Ryan examined Scott's arm from several different angles. "Yep. A little, I think."

"But I used permanent marker. That's supposed to last forever, right?"

Ryan sucked in his lower lip and closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah," he answered finally. "It's supposed to. But sometimes things that you expect to be permanent . . . well, they aren't really. They just disappear." His eyes briefly sought Sandy's, and reassurance. Then he studied the tattoo again. "It's not so bad, though, Scott. You can always touch it up, right? Go over the lines again. Or . . ."

"Or what Ryan?" Scott prompted.

"Or you could wash it off and draw a whole new design. An eagle maybe. Or a tiger."

Scott narrowed his eyes, considering. "Yeah, a tiger might be cool. You know, for a change." He picked up his backpack and started toward the door, then stopped abruptly. "Um . . . Sandy, I have to pay you, right? So you're really my lawyer?"

"That's right," Sandy confirmed. "Before I can begin working on your case, I need a retainer from you, Scott."

"Yeah, so, um . . ." Scott's mouth twisted uncertainly. "What does that mean?"

"You need to give me—oh, let's say, one dollar. Would that be okay?"

Scott snorted, some of his original attitude reasserting itself. "That's cheap! I could pay you lots more than that."

"Well, of course, that's not my whole fee," Sandy explained, masking a smile. "We'll talk serious money as the case goes on. Scott, it was very nice meeting you."

This time, when Sandy held out his hand, Scott shook it. "You too," he replied. "And I'm really sorry you don't have a middle name."

Behind them, Ryan choked. He pointed to his throat, coughing. "Seed," he gasped. "Still stuck, I think . . . I'll be right back, Sandy."

Looping an arm around Scott's shoulders, Ryan walked him outside. Once they were on the porch, he crouched down, putting himself at eye level. "Here," he said seriously. "I want you to take this."

Scott looked at the card Ryan pressed into his hand. "What is it?"

"It's . . . well, it's my business card. The whole thing's a joke, really, so don't use that 1-800 number. I'll explain it to you sometime. But see, I wrote my real number below it."

"So . . . I can call you, Ryan?" Scott asked. "Like we're friends or something?"

"We are friends," Ryan assured him. "And you can call me anytime."

"Cool!" Scott breathed. "Thanks."

Ryan watched as he rode away, waiting until Scott gave a final wave before he turned to go back inside. Sandy was standing in the doorway, smiling proudly.

"Nice job, Kid Chino," he said, nodding his approval. "Now get in here. Cohen and Atwood have got more work to do."

TBC

My apologies (or maybe thanks?) to cheekymice, for the "Come Undone" Ryan-Danny echoes in the final scene between Ryan and Scott. I can't pretend that I didn't remember Ryan giving Danny Sandy's card--hangs head in shame—but I just couldn't resist having him do almost the same thing here.