His schoolbag already slung over his shoulder, Ryan knocked on Matt's open office door. "You want to check this proposal before I leave?" he suggested, head bent over the file he was holding. "I know I was just supposed to make the cover, but I think there's a mistake on page fourteen--"
He stopped abruptly, realizing that he was addressing an empty room. With a puzzled frown, Ryan dropped the folder on Matt's desk and ducked back outside the office. "Matt?" he called. His voice echoed eerily in the vacant corridor.
Leaning against the doorframe, Ryan drummed his fingers against the polished wood. It was six twenty-five, and Seth had already text-messaged him twice warning "No overtime!" and "LateNo Dessert!" Five tedious minutes ticked away with no sign of Matt. Frustrated, Ryan checked the conference rooms and the restroom, but they were all deserted. In fact, since the office staff left at 6:00 and Sandy was working at home, the Newport Group offices appeared abandoned.
For a moment, Ryan considered simply leaving Matt a note along with the proposal, but there was always the chance that he wouldn't see it in time. Besides, it would be easier to explain the problem in person.
Cursing silently, Ryan dialed Matt's cell phone. It rang twice and he groaned, convinced it would go to voicemail. "Come on, man," he muttered. "Where the hell are you?"
Matt finally answered on the fourth ring. "Ryan? What's up?" he asked. His voice, lazy and laughing, slipped off the final consonants.
"You tell me," Ryan retorted. He could hear noise in the background—loud music, insistent drums, blurred, smoky voices. "I've got the proposal you wanted."
"Great, man. Just leave it downstairs at reception. A um, a courier from Lanton Enterprises will pick it up tomorrow."
"Okay, only . . ." Ryan glanced longingly at the door before expelling a grudging breath. "Look, Matt, I think you should check it before it goes out. The graph on page fourteen doesn't make sense to me. Are you . . . where are you anyway?" His fingers tightened on the phone, dreading Matt's answer, and already knowing what it would be.
"Look, Lily, give me a minute, okay?" he heard Matt urge in a muffled whisper. Then he said into the phone, "I figured we were done, Ryan, so I, um . . . I left early . . . Shit, are you sure the graph's wrong?"
"No. That's why you need to look at it."
In his mind, Ryan could hear Seth ranting, "You, dude. Remember? The guy with the MBA? The one who's actually collecting a salary here? The one who's supposed to be . . . where exactly right now? Oh, that's right, sitting in his office, and not underneath some incredibly hot girl who's grinding against him, her boobs inches away from his face and . . . wait. What were we talking about again?"
Ryan almost grinned until Matt's mumbled "Damn it!" silenced Seth's phantom tirade.
There was a pause.
"So . . . are you coming back?" Ryan demanded. He gritted his teeth. "I'm due home pretty soon, but I guess I could wait to show you what I mean."
"Look, Ryan, that won't . . . All right, lemme see. Why don't we, um, why don't we do it this way? Bring me the proposal. I'm, ah, I'm at the club. The one I brought you to that time."
"Yeah. I figured."
"Well, it's practically on your way home, right? You bring the proposal here, and I can work on it overnight. I'll make sure it's ready by the time the courier comes to pick it up."
Ryan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to the club, maybe ten to talk to Matt, another ten minutes home—yeah, as long as traffic cooperated, he could make it in time for dinner at seven-thirty. "Okay," he conceded. "Meet me outside?"
"No, come in. I'll tell the manager I'm expecting you, see if he can't set us up with a table in the back. And Ryan—thanks for this, man." Matt hesitated. "We don't need to mention it to Sandy, right?" he added around a weak chuckle. "No harm, no foul?"
"Shit, Matt, don't put me in the middle--"
"Ryan, come on, this isn't like last time," Matt insisted. "I've been working straight through from 6:30 this morning, didn't even take a lunch break. So I left a little early, that's all. Like I told you, I thought everything was done on my end."
Despite himself, Ryan responded to the urgent plea in Matt's voice. "I suppose," he agreed uneasily. "Just be waiting, all right?"
"Absolutely. I owe you, man."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The doorman took one look at Ryan and waved him through the entrance. "Back hall, around the corner," he said, gesturing with his chin. "Third door on the left. Lily's waiting . . ." Leering, he tucked the twenty-dollar bill Ryan offered back into his hand. "Nah, your money's no good here. You got some damn special friends, don't you now, kid?"
Ignoring the man's innuendo, Ryan turned down the dim corridor, moving at a near sprint since a traffic jam had already made him almost ten minutes late. He braked abruptly when a door flew open in front of him. A girl scurried out, hitching up her bra, one shaking arm outstretched as though to fend off something or someone.
"Jerry! Come here! I need you!" she yelled. Still backing up, she stumbled blindly into Ryan's chest.
"Whoa," he cautioned, catching the girl's elbows to steady her. She gasped and wheeled around, eyes frantic, her breathing hectic and shallow.
A hulking man with thick, tattooed arms strode toward them. "This sonofabitch bothering you Chelsea?" he demanded. His voice deepened to a menacing growl as he rounded on Ryan. "Get your fucking hands off her, punk! Now!"
Confused, the girl blinked at Ryan, who dropped his arms and warily stepped away. "What?" she stammered, brushing strands of bright red hair out of her eyes. "No, not him, Jerry. It's that guy, Colston--the one you threw out yesterday. He's inside--followed me into my dressing room--"
Without a word, Jerry shoved past Ryan through the doorway. He emerged three seconds later, hauling another man in a headlock. "You made of stupid, you shit?" he sneered. "Yesterday was a goddamn warning. This time you're out of here for good." Over his shoulder, he gruffly assured the girl, "Don't worry, Chelsea. I'll take care of this fucker."
The girl shuddered, nodding her thanks as Jerry dragged the intruder toward the exit.
Ryan's gaze darted from their retreating figures back to Chelsea, who stood motionless, hugging herself. "Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes dark with concern. He moved a half step closer, but didn't touch her.
"Yeah, I'm all right. Just . . . I turned around and there he was. It scared me a little." Chelsea shrugged ruefully. "Assholes like that . . . they're an occupational hazard, you know?" Finally looking at Ryan, she attempted an ironic smile. It widened into pleased recognition as she studied his face. "Hey, I know you, right?"
Ryan shook his head. "I'm not sure . . ."
"Yeah, I do—well, kinda. You were here a few weeks ago. I was Sipowicz that night, remember?" Chelsea lifted her chin, pouting playfully. "What? Did you forget me already, ace?"
"Ahhh . . ." Ryan's breath hissed through his teeth. "No. You're pretty memorable. You just look . . . different today, that's all."
Twirling a crimson curl around her finger, Chelsea examined her skimpy cave girl outfit. "Oh right," she conceded. "Blonde cop, then, Wilma Flintstone now. Hey, got to change the look sometimes, keep my steady customers interested. So . . . you get lost back here or something? 'Cause the public restrooms are the other way."
"No, I'm supposed to . . . uh, meet someone." Ryan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Third room on the left, the doorman said. I should just . . ."
"Oh." Chelsea's eyes widened. "You must be Matt's friend. Ryan, right? Lily told me about you. I'm Chelsea, by the way. Listen, sorry I almost knocked you over. And thanks . . . for not trying to cop a feel, I mean. If I fell on top of most of the guys who come here . . . well, you can imagine." The music changed, and she tossed her hair, refastening the bone-shaped clip that held it in place. "Shit! I should be out there already. Gotta go, ace."
Blowing Ryan a kiss, Chelsea ran toward the stage and into a haze of pulsing lights.
Ryan exhaled heavily. His eyes still on Chelsea's receding form, he backed down the hallway, pausing before he knocked on the third door.
"Matt? It's me," he called softly, just in case there was a mistake. The last thing he wanted was to walk into the wrong room.
Lily opened the door, a flimsy robe over her abbreviated cowgirl outfit. "Ryan, hi," she said, with obvious relief. She slipped out, holding the door closed behind her. "Matt was starting to worry. He's waiting inside. Listen, I'm due onstage in a minute, but can I get you anything? A drink? Well, a soft drink?"
"No. Um . . . thanks. But I'm not staying long."
"Right." Lily lowered her voice. "Listen, I really appreciate you bringing those papers here. Swear to God, Ryan, Matt just came to unwind. He wasn't trying to blow off anything. And he would have gone back to the office, except, well, he's had a few drinks . . ."
"Yeah, I guessed," Ryan observed dryly. "Look, Lily, I'm not going to say anything about this. But Matt will have to explain if the proposal isn't ready in the morning."
"He'll have it done," Lily promised. "He's been drinking coffee ever since you called. Go on in, Ryan. I'll let you guys get to work." Opening the door behind her, she flashed a grateful smile and left.
Matt looked up as Ryan entered, his expression an anxious blend of determination and guilt. "God, thanks for coming, Ryan. I thought maybe you'd changed your mind. Figured you might have gone to Sandy with the proposal."
"Sorry. Traffic jam," Ryan explained. "And I wouldn't do that. This is your project."
"And my problem, right?"
"Shit," Ryan hissed under his breath. "Matt, could you just take a look at that graph? I'm kind of in a hurry."
"Yeah. Absolutely." Matt scraped his hands through his hair and took the binder from Ryan, hitching his chair close to the table as he spoke. "You want to call Sandy or your girlfriend—whoever's waiting—let them know you'll be late?"
Glancing at his watch, Ryan shook his head. "I'll call on the way home. Let's just get this done now."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hands clasped behind his back, Seth paced around the table, inspecting it critically. The glassware sparkled and the dishes, draped with blue napkins, were centered on placemats with chopsticks arranged in precise Vs on top of them. A single yellow lily nodded in a vase in front of Kirsten's setting.
Frowning, Seth nudged his father's plate slightly to the right, then to the left, and finally back to its original position. "Perfection!" he declared with satisfaction. Pressing his palms together, he hummed crowd noise and bowed, murmuring modestly, "Thank you, thank you all . . . Aaaaand, okay, turns out it's not so much fun to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd when you have to provide them yourself. Where the hell is everybody?"
The refrigerator door clicked open behind him, and Seth spun around. "Ryan, my man, about time you—Oh, Mom, hey. So . . ." With a grand sweep of his arm, Seth presented his handiwork. "What do you think?"
Motioning for silence with her water bottle, Kirsten indicated the phone at her ear. "No, Julie," she said firmly. "That's not acceptable. We ordered twelve tables . . . Do you need me to speak to the manager? . . . Are you sure, because I could come down . . ."
"No!" Seth yelped. Snatching the phone from his mother's hand, he darted away. "No calls! No 'coming down.' Mom!"
"Seth Ezekiel Cohen! That was very rude. Julie might have something more to tell me."
Glowering, Seth stashed the phone in the refrigerator, guarding the door with his body. "So she can tell it to the leftover hummus," he retorted. "Because you know what's rude, Mom? Putting business before a promise to your sons. Remember us? Seth, child of your loins—okay, just forget I said 'loins'—and Ryan, child of . . . All right, never mind the 'child of' part. But dinner? Family time tonight? Julie can take care of everything? Ringing any bells there, Mom?"
"Sweetie, I know. But I can be back in thirty minutes--" Seth planted his hands on his hips and Kirsten sighed. "All right," she conceded. "I'll let Julie handle the problem . . . But I want my phone back. Now."
Reluctantly, Seth retrieved the phone and dropped it into his mother's outstretched palm. "So," she prompted, "where are your father and Ryan?"
"An excellent question. Dad's in his office, I think. And Ryan must be in the poolhouse. I'll just go round them up before the food gets here." Halfway out the French doors, Seth paused to command, "Do not go anywhere while I'm gone." He popped his head back in, adding sternly, "And don't call Julie back. Or touch anything!"
With a placating smile, Kirsten took a seat at the counter and folded her hands.
Sandy entered the kitchen in time to see Seth sprint across the patio. "What's up with our son, sweetheart?"
Kirsten shrugged wryly. "He's Seth."
"Ah, right." Sandy wagged his eyebrows. "Enough said." Spreading the papers he carried across the counter, he turned to switch on the coffeemaker.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Kirsten warned.
"What? Why?"
Inclining her head, Kirsten gestured toward the table. "Dinner with the boys," she reminded him. "And trust me, you don't want to hear the lecture if Seth finds you working."
"Damn!" Sandy groaned. "I'd forgotten. A fax I've been waiting for all day just arrived. I was going to grab a bagel and coffee and eat in my office. You really think the boys would mind if we postponed?"
"Seth already set the table."
Sandy frowned skeptically. "Seth did? Not Ryan?"
"Seth did," Kirsten confirmed. "You might as well surrender, Mr. Cohen. You know it's a special occasion if Seth is voluntarily doing any of the work."
Blowing out a defeated breath, Sandy gathered his papers and tapped them back into the folder. "A special occasion or a sign of the apocalypse, one or the other," he observed. "Do you suppose--"
He broke off as Seth bolted back into the kitchen. At the sight of his father he skidded to a stop, holding up an adamant index finger. "Dad. Good. Stay," he panted before racing in the direction of the front door.
Kirsten and Sandy exchanged puzzled looks, but a moment later Seth returned, scowling impatiently. "Okay, Ryan's not in the poolhouse and the Rover's not in the driveway," he reported. "Did he call either one of you to say he'd be late?"
"Sweetie, Ryan's not late," Kirsten objected mildly. "Didn't you boys say that we'd eat at seven-thirty? It's only seven-fifteen. The food's not even here."
Seth shook his head in reproach. "The guy lives with us for almost three years," he muttered. "I'd think you would know a few things about him by now, Mom. Ryan's not early, which means he's late. This? Does not bode well." Grabbing the kitchen phone, he punched in Ryan's number. "Voicemail," he hissed before leaving his message. "Ryan! Tick-tock, dude. Home. Now. We're waiting!"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Damn. How the hell did I transpose those figures?" Matt muttered glumly. "If you hadn't noticed this, Ryan . . . shit, we would have looked like world-class idiots submitting the proposal this way."
Ryan grabbed his jacket and stood up, already reaching for his car keys. "You'll be able to fix it though, right?"
"I just have to adjust the specs and revise the graph. Soon as I get a couple more cups of coffee in me, I'll head back to the office and take care of it." Matt grinned contritely. "Don't worry, Ryan. Your work here is done—well, yours and part of mine. Go on home. Enjoy your weekend."
Nodding, Ryan headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "You sure you don't want me to drop you off?"
"Thanks. But my car is here. Besides, you've already gone above and beyond tonight. Go, before Sandy sends out the search dogs." Matt ushered Ryan down the hall, calling after him as he turned toward the exit. "And Ryan, I won't forget this, I promise."
Reassured, Ryan twirled his key chain as he crossed the parking lot. At the most, he shouldn't be more than twenty minutes late. He debated calling Seth, but decided to wait until he was stopped at a traffic light, when street sounds seeping through an open window might validate his excuse that he was caught in traffic.
Just as he pressed the button to unlock the Rover, Ryan glimpsed a flurry of movement behind the building. He paused, peering through the shadows.
"Stop it!" a woman cried. "Get your hands off me!" Her voice, faintly familiar, throbbed with panic.
"Come on, baby. You know you want it," a man wheedled. "I've seen the way you look at me--"
"No! Let go of me!"
Before their words fully registered, Ryan charged toward the commotion. Dimly, he could make out a woman struggling in the grasp of a large, dark-haired man. The robe the woman was wearing swung open, revealing a flash of leg and the leopard print of a skimpy cave girl outfit.
Sipowicz, Ryan thought. Or, what had she said her name was? Chelsea? And the guy pawing her was definitely Colston, the one he had seen dragged out of her dressing room.
Yelling a warning, Ryan sped up. In one movement, he grabbed the man by the shoulders and spun him around, shoving him backwards into the wire fence.
"She said to let her go," Ryan snapped. He slipped in front of Chelsea, using his body to shield hers.
Colston stood unsteadily, rubbing his jaw. "This doesn't concern you," he warned as he edged closer. "Little Chelsea and me got some unfinished business."
Chelsea's fingers hooked through Ryan's belt loops and she pressed against his back, whimpering softly.
"Yeah, I don't think so," he countered. "I saw the bouncer throw your ass out. Looks to me like you don't have any business here at all." The man glared, but Ryan crossed his arms, standing his ground. "Leave. Now," he ordered.
"Goddamn punkass," Colston muttered. He spat in Ryan's direction, but he began to retreat.
Ryan loosed Chelsea's hold as he turned to face her. "Are you okay?" he asked, gently pulling her robe over her shoulders. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"
"No. I don't think so. I just stepped out for a smoke and he grabbed me. But it's like he's stalking me or--" Chelsea gasped suddenly and yanked Ryan sideways, her nails raking his arm. "Look out!"
A split second later something hit the side of Ryan's head. Instinctively he pivoted, so he avoided the worst of the blow, but it still knocked him to the ground. Something crunched underneath him as he fell. Ignoring the sound, Ryan sprang back to his feet. He charged Colston again, sending them both sprawling.
As he struggled for leverage, Ryan could hear Chelsea screaming for help and the man's garbled threats. "You sonofabitch! I'll teach you to get between me and my woman--"
"What the fuck's going on? Chelsea!" someone shouted.
Ryan was quicker, but his opponent outweighed him. With a sudden lunge, Colston pinned him to the ground, an elbow pressed into his throat, cutting off his air. His vision blurring, Ryan tried to cram a knee into the man's stomach and twist away, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't muster the strength.
Suddenly Colston flew backwards, propelled by two powerful fists.
"What does it take for you to get the message, you fucker?" Jerry growled. He hauled Chelsea's attacker off Ryan, using a hammerlock to restrain him. "Thought I told you to get the hell out of here--"
Dizzily, Ryan pushed himself to his elbows. Chelsea knelt next to him. "Oh God," she whispered, placing a supportive palm on his back and clutching his hand. "Are you okay?"
Ryan dipped his head. "Yeah. You?" he panted.
"Uh-huh. Thanks to you."
Chelsea wrapped her arms around Ryan's waist as he struggled to his feet. He swayed for a moment and she tightened her grip. "Jerry, I just . . . I want to go home, all right?" Her voice wavered, reedy with fear. "Could you tell Mr. Russo what happened, let him know I'm not going to finish my shift?"
"No problem, Chelsea. Tell you what, you wait here and I'll send someone out with your things." His arms still locked around Colston, Jerry jerked his chin at Ryan. "You sure you're all right, kid?"
Rubbing the base of his throat, Ryan nodded grimly.
"You mind staying with Chelsea until she leaves?"
"No problem."
"Jerry--" Chelsea called as he strode away, dragging Colston with him. "When you let him go, I'm afraid . . . he could follow me."
Laughing derisively, Jerry yanked Colston's arm up until he grunted with pain. "This sonofabitch? Not a chance, babe. He goes nowhere until you're out of here."
"He attacked her. You could call the cops," Ryan suggested. "Have him arrested."
Jerry scowled, shaking his head. "Bad for business. We handle fucking losers like this all the time. Appreciate your help with this one, though." He grinned over his shoulder as he marched Colston toward the club. "Got yourself a real hero, huh, babe?"
With a feral snarl, Colston twisted in Jerry's arms. He managed to glare a silent threat at Ryan before being hauled through the club's back door.
"You really were, you know," Chelsea murmured. Smiling tremulously, she looked up at Ryan.
He blinked, puzzled. "What?"
"A hero. That guy--" A convulsive shudder wracked Chelsea's body. "God, I was so afraid . . ."
Slipping off his jacket, Ryan draped it over her shoulders. She made small mewing sound as she huddled into its folds. "Thanks," she whispered, leaning into him and starting to cup his neck. Immediately, she recoiled, looking at her fingers in horror. "You are hurt!" she cried. "You're bleeding."
"That? It's nothing," Ryan claimed. He swiped an indifferent hand across the cut behind his ear and turned to scan the parking lot. "Where's your car?"
Chelsea gestured uncertainly. "Over there. But Ryan . . ." Biting her lip, she touched his neck again.
"It's okay," he assured her. "Doesn't even hurt." Wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders, he escorted her toward the blue Honda as another girl emerged from the club.
"Chelsea?" she called, waving the purse and tote bag she was carrying. "I've got your stuff."
"Oh, Tanya, thanks."
"It was that guy again, wasn't it?" Tanya asked sympathetically. "What was his name—Colston? The octopus that was slobbering all over you yesterday?"
Chelsea nodded, grimacing.
"Well, don't worry. Jerry's got everything under control. You just go home and relax. Mr. Russo said you could take tomorrow off too . . . Listen, Jerry wanted me to ask, you sure you're okay to drive yourself? 'Cause he could call a cab--"
"No," Chelsea answered hesitantly. "Um . . . no, I need my car. And it's only a couple miles anyway." Taking her purse from Tanya, she fumbled inside for her keys. They swung from her fingers, jangling against each other.
"Yeah, I know, but . . ."
Ryan studied Chelsea's shuttered face, her unsteady hands. "I'll drive you home," he announced abruptly.
"You will?" Relieved, Chelsea caught her breath, but her grateful smile faltered almost at once. "But what about your car, Ryan? And your neck, you should take care of that--"
"I'm fine," Ryan insisted. "You said it's only a couple of miles to your place, right? I can come back for my car. Tanya, tell Jerry that I'll make sure Chelsea gets home safe, okay?"
"Sure." Tanya hugged Chelsea. "You take care, girl." She turned to go before spinning back and giving Ryan a quick, fervent kiss on the cheek. "Nice to know there are good guys in the world."
"You are wonderful, Ryan," Chelsea agreed as he unlocked her car and settled her in the passenger seat. "I don't know how to thank you."
Ryan dismissed the comment with a shrug and a crooked grin. "Chelsea, my cell phone. It's in my jacket pocket, right side. Could you dig it out?" he asked. "I better call home, let them know I'll be late.
"Got it. Oh, shit, Ryan!"
"What?"
Chelsea held up the phone. Even in the dim light, Ryan could see deep cracks splintering the plastic. "It's broken," she reported. "Must have happened when you were fighting with Colston. Wait, let me check . . . Yeah, nothing. Ryan, I'm so sorry."
Recalling the sound of something shattering when he fell, Ryan groaned softly. "Not your fault. Could I borrow yours?"
"Of course." Chelsea rooted through her purse, then through the bag Tanya had brought her. "Damn!" she exclaimed. "It's not here. It must still be on my dressing table . . ."
Chewing the inside of his cheek, Ryan glanced helplessly back at the club. "Shit," he sighed under his breath.
"You want to go inside and call?" Chelsea offered. "I could wait here." She lifted her chin resolutely, but Ryan heard the whisper of fear in her voice.
"Thanks. But let's just get you home," he replied. Crossing to the driver's side, he swung himself into the car, adjusting the seat for his longer legs. As he put the key into the ignition, Chelsea covered his hand with hers.
"It won't be a problem, will it?" she asked anxiously. "You not calling, I mean?"
"No." Ryan paused, picturing the Cohens at home waiting for him. "Well, yeah, it will be, I suppose," he amended. He gave Chelsea's fingers a reassuring squeeze and started the car. "But don't worry about it. I'll just explain everything later, that's all. And hey, I didn't want dessert tonight anyway."
TBC