Sandy stole a covert peek at his watch and glanced at Kirsten. Although her face appeared composed, her hands, half-hidden on her lap, shredded a petal plucked from the lily in front of her plate. When she finished, she reached mechanically for the next one. Across the table Seth surveyed the take-out cartons that he had lined up in order of descending size. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he started doodling on the one nearest him. Sandy watched for a few minutes as a single cartoon panel materialized. The Ironist, scowling with accusation, held a plate of noodles poised to pour over a sheepishly shrugging Kid Chino's head.
His lips twitching, Sandy exhaled a sound that was part amusement, part exasperation. "Tell you what son," he suggested. "Why don't you call me when Ryan gets here? I'll just be in my office--"
"What?" Jerking his head up, Seth aimed his pen at his father. "No, no, and no! Dinner is going to be served in five minutes! Ten at the most! Whether the late—I mean, the tardy—Mr. Atwood is present or not. But he will be. And nobody is leaving this kitchen."
At the sound of their voices, Kirsten roused. "Seth, honey," she sighed. "It's obvious that Ryan forgot about dinner, so why don't we try this tomorrow night instead?" She got up to dispose of the denuded flower. Pausing at the garbage disposal, she frowned thoughtfully. "Or wait—tomorrow's no good. We have our cocktail party at the country club for NewMatch. Maybe Sunday?"
"Not Sunday, sweetheart. Matt and I are playing golf with some potential new clients."
"Oh, that's right. I forgot. Well, next week--"
"Whoa! Stop! Just, both of you, freeze! Did you not hear the 'nos', Mom? Dad?" Seth demanded. "Tonight! We're all having dinner tonight according to the carefully crafted Seth Cohen master plan. And Ryan did not forget. It's just, you know, he's lived here long enough to pick up some Newpsie habits. So he's fashionably late. Really, really, annoyingly, fashionably late. But he'll be here." Glowering at his drawing, Seth added steam curling out of The Ironist's ears. "You better be here, dude," he mumbled.
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Ryan's eyes, shadowed with concern, flickered from the traffic light over to Chelsea as he eased to a stop. "Hey," he prompted quietly. "How are you doing? Are you all right?"
From within the recesses of his jacket where she was nestled, Chelsea offered a wan smile. "You've asked me that at least four times, Ryan."
One side of his mouth lifted in an abashed grin. "Sorry," he said. "I guess I have."
"Oh, don't apologize. It's kind of sweet. Just not necessary. You stopped Colston before he could do more than scare me." Chelsea pulled her hand out of the pocket of Ryan's jacket and stroked his forearm. "I still can't believe that you took him on that way," she observed. Her voice swirled with a strange undercurrent, wonder and worry combined. Ryan shook his head slightly, confused. "You needed help, Chelsea. Anybody else would have done the same thing." "No, they wouldn't," she argued. Her nails traced lazy patterns down to Ryan's wrist, lightly grazing his skin. He glanced down, catching his breath, and then snapped his gaze back to the traffic light. It was still red."I didn't do it—for that," he murmured, the words hoarse and unsteady.
Embarrassed, Chelsea snatched her hand away, wrapping it around a fold of Ryan's jacket. "No, I know," she stammered. "I didn't mean . . . It's just that you were so wonderful. And you don't even know me, really . . ." She tossed her hair, consciously reclaiming some of her pert bravado. "Do you do that a lot, ace?"
"Do . . . what?"
Chelsea's tone was impish, but her eyes fixed on Ryan's profile intently. "Rescue damsels in distress?"
"Not really. No." Ryan stole a quick glance at Chelsea, saw her skeptical squint and shifted uncomfortably. "Come on," he protested. "You're making too much out of this." "I don't think so," Chelsea maintained. Her shoulders lifted in a diffident shrug. "Most other guys, if they had come out of the club and seen what you did, they would have turned right around to get help. Or maybe just called the cops—I mean, if they bothered to get involved at all. They wouldn't have put themselves on the line." At the sight of Ryan's bemused expression, she chuckled softly. "That never even occurred to you, did it?"The light changed, and Ryan shifted gears, pulling through the intersection. "No," he admitted. He took a deep breath, his mouth crimping ironically. "It's official. I'm an idiot."
"Ryan! That's not what I meant." Dropping her hand to his thigh, Chelsea tapped it for emphasis. "You are definitely not an idiot."
"Yeah, that's open for debate. In case you didn't notice, I was losing that fight. If you hadn't yelled for Jerry--"
She winced, her fingers tightening on Ryan's knee before she released him. "Colston could have killed you. I know. I mean, I like to think that I would have done something—hit him with my shoe maybe, to get him off you—but I was so scared all I could do was scream."
Glancing down at Chelsea's stilettos, Ryan raised his eyebrows and grinned. "If you'd gotten him with one of those heels, the guy would have suffered some serious damage. He's lucky you just sicced Jerry on him."
"And I'm lucky that you came out when you did. But Ryan . . ." Her brows lowered pensively, Chelsea fiddled with an errant curl. "You know, you really shouldn't do that again."
"What?" Ryan teased. "Walk into a parking lot?"
"No, silly. What I mean--" She interrupted her explanation to provide directions. "Oh, that's my building up ahead, Ryan. The yellow stucco one with the little courtyard. My parking space is the third one on the right."
Ryan pulled into the space and cut the engine. Beside him, Chelsea fumbled underneath the folds of his jacket, trying to find the seatbelt release. "Let me," he offered. He pressed the catch and eased the strap off her body. "Are you going to be okay here tonight?"
"That makes number six," she laughed, dimpling.
"Number—oh." Ryan flushed. "Right. I keep asking the same question. But are you?"
Glancing up at the second floor, Chelsea nodded. "The lights are on in my apartment, so my roommate is home," she observed. "I'll be fine, Ryan." She crossed her heart, then kissed her fingertips and touched them to his lips. "I won't even be alone. You don't have to worry about me, honest."
"Okay. Good." Ryan slid out of the car and crossed to open the passenger door. "About Colston, though . . ." he said as Chelsea stepped out.
She stiffened, her eyes narrowing at the sound of her attacker's name. "What about him?"
"Just . . . I know a great lawyer. He could help, if the guy gives you any more trouble—get a restraining order against him or something."
"Oh." Her lips pursed thoughtfully, Chelsea studied Ryan's face. After a moment, she dug through her bag for a scrap of paper and something to write with. "Okay," she agreed, tapping an eyeliner pencil against her cheek. "Tell you what, ace. I'll take the lawyer's number if you'll take some advice." Holding out the paper and pencil, she tossed her hair back, her eyes bright with challenge.
Ryan cocked his head, frowning dubiously. "What advice?" he asked as he jotted down Sandy's name and number.
A light wind ruffled Chelsea's robe and she cinched it tighter before taking his hand, the scrap of paper clasped between them. "Okay, I don't want to sound like I'm not grateful, because I really, really am. But Ryan, I've been thinking." With one finger, she traced a line from his eyebrow down to his chin. "You shouldn't rush into dangerous situations the way you did with Colston . . . No, now listen to me," she insisted, when Ryan started to object. "It terrifies me to imagine what might have happened if you weren't there tonight . . . But . . . I'm just saying, next time maybe you should think about getting help, ace." Slipping off his jacket, Chelsea settled it over Ryan's shoulders. She bit her lip, her playful tone belying her pleading expression. "You know . . . like bring in the cavalry, maybe."
His fist closing around her car keys, Ryan studied the cracked asphalt. "You sound like . . ."
"Like what?" Chelsea swatted his arm. "And don't you dare say your mother!"
"No," Ryan replied flatly. "Not like my mother at all."
"Who then?"
He shrugged. "It doesn't matter." The nonchalant smile he attempted faded before it reached his eyes. Another breeze tousled his short bangs and whipped the sash of Chelsea's robe against his legs. "Anyway, you should be getting inside. It's chilly out here--"
"You mean when you're dressed in pretty much your underwear and nothing else?" Chelsea wrinkled her nose, glancing down at the edge of her leopard-skin bra. "Yeah, it is. But Ryan—you're not mad at me, are you?"
"Um . . . No." With obvious reluctance, Ryan lifted his gaze from her cleavage. "Definitely not mad."
"Good," Chelsea whispered. She reached up, brushed his hair back, then impulsively kissed him, gliding her tongue along his lower lip as she moved away.
Ryan swallowed hard. "I . . . um, I better get going. Got to . . . the car . . . get home." Vaguely, he gestured in the direction of the club.
"Yes, you better," Chelsea agreed. "But if you're ever interested, ace, I would like to thank you. Maybe make you dinner? I'm actually a pretty good cook. Pasta? Homemade sauce? Just a little bit spicy? What do you think?"
"Sounds . . . delicious."
"Well then, just call the club when you're hungry. Ask for Chelsea. Any time."
With a crooked grin, Ryan nodded, thrusting her car keys into Chelsea's hand as he walked her to the apartment entrance. He waited until she had unlocked the security door before he murmured goodnight and turned to go.
"Ryan!" Halfway down the sidewalk, Ryan paused, looking back curiously.
"You take care of yourself," Chelsea warned. Her stern schoolteacher voice contrasted incongruously with the bone-shape hairclip she shook at him. "I mean it! And call me!"
Ryan laughed, pivoting to wave a promise before he set off on a jog down the street. He was seven blocks away, waiting to cross an intersection, before he flinched, the realization striking him suddenly: he had meant to ask Chelsea if he could use her apartment phone to call Seth.
Checking his watch, Ryan groaned and then sprinted across the street, ignoring horns that blared in protest. By the time he got home, he would be facing more serious consequences than just missing dessert. And while he might tell Seth the truth—privately, in the poolhouse—Ryan had absolutely no idea how he would explain his tardiness to Kirsten and Sandy.
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Seth slouched in his chair at the silent dinner table, staring at a pool of congealed sauce next to his noodles. His chopsticks, unused, hovered above his plate. Glumly, he twirled them between his fingers, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they began to blur and he arced them over to beat a tattoo against his water glass. The tempo matched that of his jittering knees.
Across from him, Kirsten winced at the sound. She said nothing, but Sandy placed a remonstrative hand on Seth's wrist, halting his movement. "Son," he warned softly. Seth's gaze darted to his father's face. Recognizing an earnest plea there, he slumped further down in his seat. For about a minute he managed to sit still. Then he picked up his chopsticks again. With furious concentration, he marched them across his plate, jumped them over some dumplings, flicked them high in the air and finally let them fall. Thick drops of peanut sauce spattered onto his placemat."Okay," he declared flatly. "Anybody else getting a sense of déjà vu here? Been there, done that, totally didn't want to do it again? Maybe we should contact the docks, see if any fishing boats have shipped out this evening."
"Seth!" Pushing away her untouched food, Kirsten gripped the edge of the table, the tips of her manicured nails digging into its surface. "We could do without the jokes."
"Yeah, well, not so much joking here. Mom. Ryan should have been home like, forever ago. Or at least an hour and a half."
Sandy crumpled his napkin and flung it down on the table. "I can't believe this," he muttered. "Not showing up, after you boys insisted on this dinner and your mother and I rearranged our schedules. What is going on with that boy? He promised he wouldn't do this again."
"Right." Nodding fiercely, Seth met his father's eyes. "Ryan promised. Think about that, Dad. How often does Ryan break a promise to us? Let's see, that would be . . . pretty much never. Besides he was looking forward to this. And it's not like he has any reason to bail. He hasn't been kicked out of Harbor again. Hell, he's been downright boring. No decking deans, no breaking into school records or jumping psycho students. Ryan hasn't even gotten a detention lately." Seth impaled a shrimp roll, mangling it with repeated jabs. "Hey, I was pissed when he was just twenty minutes late. But now? Something's wrong," he mumbled.
Kirsten inhaled sharply. "I'll try his cell again," she announced.
As she strode to the phone, Seth and Sandy both swiveled around, eyes intent on the doorway. They sank back in disappointment when nobody appeared.
"Yeah, see, that should have been Ryan's cue to stroll in. So much for the powers of superstition," Seth sighed.
Kirsten replaced the handset. "Still that not-in-service message," she reported uneasily. "What does that mean? Ryan's so meticulous. He wouldn't let his battery die. Seth, check your phone. See if it's working."
"It was when I tried calling him ten minutes ago," Seth muttered, but he dug his phone out, turned it on, and held up the display for his parents' inspection. "Yep. You can reach me, Mom. Only, right, you don't have to, since unlike Ryan, I'm already here. Where he should be, except, you know, in his own chair."
Sandy drummed his fingers against the stem of his glass. "It doesn't make sense," he mused. "Ryan was only supposed to work until six-thirty and nobody's answering at the office so he and Matt must have finished. Besides, if there was a problem with the proposal, I'm sure that Matt--" He broke off, his brows furrowing ominously. "Oh, he wouldn't. He wouldn't dare do something like that again."
"Who and do what now?" Seth asked.
"Matt," Sandy replied. His tone was grim. "He tends to have difficulty handling the pressure of deadlines. The first night they worked together he couldn't cope and he wound up taking Ryan to a strip club and buying him a lap dance. If he's done it again . . ."
Kirsten's "What?" of shocked disbelief bisected Seth's incredulous, protracted "Whoa!"
"Sanford Cohen! Matt bought Ryan a lap dance? Why didn't you tell me this?" Kirsten demanded. "And if that's his idea of mentoring one of our sons, why is that man still working for you?"
"I did fire him," Sandy reported before amending weakly, "But then I found out that he was having issues in his personal life, so I assumed that it was a one time mistake . . . Look, sweetheart, I'll explain everything later. Right now, I'm going to call Matt."
His eyes glazed, Seth pushed himself back from the table, rubbing his own thighs. "A lap dance," he mumbled. "And Ryan didn't even tell me about it. Where's the brotherhood? Where's the solidarity? Where's my opportunity for cheap, vicarious thrills?"
"Here's a much better question," Kirsten snapped. "Where is Ryan?"
Seth flushed. "Yeah," he conceded. "I know that, Mom. I just--"
"Decided to make an inappropriate comment. As usual," Kirsten concluded impatiently.
"No. Or, I mean, yeah, I guess I did, but not because--"
Sandy raised a palm, gesturing for quiet. Clamping his mouth shut, Seth went to stand silently beside his mother, both of them straining to make sense of the one-sided conversation.
"Matt? It's Sandy. Look, we're waiting dinner for Ryan and I wondered if you . . . No, he's not. What time did he leave the office? . . . What errand? . . . Oh. Well, do you know when he finished? . . . No, we haven't heard from him and frankly, we're getting worried . . . What did you ask him to do for you anyway?" There was a long pause. Sandy gripped the phone tighter, his expression darkening as he listened. Finally he exclaimed, "Damn it, Matt, what the hell--!"
With a hiss of alarm, Kirsten reached over to switch on the speaker.
"Listen, Sandy, I'm sorry," they heard Matt say. "I know I shouldn't have left without double-checking the proposal. But it's under control now. I'll have everything corrected and ready on time even if I have to stay up all night."
Sandy's voice grated, honing each word to a cutting edge. "I don't give a damn about the proposal, Matt. When exactly did Ryan leave the club?"
Kirsten's eyes widened with livid disbelief as Seth mouthed "The club?" and sketched the shape of a voluptuous woman in the air. Nodding tensely, Sandy raked his hand through his hair. "Matt," he repeated, "what time did he leave?"
"Shit, I'm not sure," Matt admitted. "But it was a while ago. About forty-five minutes, I think. Maybe he just stopped off someplace, Sandy. Have you tried Marissa?"
"He's not with Marissa. I want the truth, Matt. Did you ask Ryan to do anything else . . . go back to the office or pick up something for you?"
"Of course not. This proposal is my responsibility, Sandy. I know that."
"Right." Sandy retorted. "That's why Ryan had to find your mistake and why you were at a strip club when he wanted to discuss it with you."
"Look, I understand that you're upset with me right now, and it's completely justified, but I swear--"
Sandy slammed a palm flat on the counter. The sound shot through the room and across the wire, stunning Matt into silence. "Save the excuses. Just tell me, did Ryan say anything to suggest where he might be now?"
"Nothing. Just that he was in a hurry to get going. I walked him part of the way out and I could barely keep up . . ."
"God," Sandy murmured, almost inaudibly. He covered his eyes with one hand, fingers rubbing his temples. "If Ryan left the club almost an hour ago, why the hell isn't he home yet?"
Instinctively, the Cohens moved closer together. Kirsten clutched Sandy's arm, and Seth wedged himself between his mother and the kitchen counter. In the moment of wordless tension that ensued, they could hear Matt clear his throat. "Um, Sandy," he ventured hesitantly. "Was Ryan driving the Range Rover tonight?"
"Yes." Sandy's lips tightened with suspicion. "Why?"
"It's just . . . now that I think about it, I remember seeing a car in the parking lot when I left. It . . . well it looked just like yours, Sandy. But it didn't occur to me at the time that--"
"Holy shit," Seth mumbled at the same time that his father exclaimed, "What? You mean Ryan is still there?"
"I don't know," Matt stammered. "He could be. I went out the back exit, so I didn't see who was in the lounge. But Ryan seemed so eager to get home. I never expected him to hang around . . . Tell you what, I could go back and check, see if he's there. Would you like me to do that?"
"Oh, I think you've done enough already, Matt."
"Really, Sandy, anything I can do to help, just say the word--"
Without bothering to reply, Sandy hung up the phone, scrubbing a palm across his face. "Damn it, Ryan," he muttered.
"Dad?" Seth prompted. "Mom and I missed some of that. Matt . . . Ryan . . . strip club? Maybe you can fill in the blanks?"
"Ryan found a mistake in a proposal they were working on," Sandy reported curtly. "But Matt had already left for the day. He was at the club, and he had been drinking, so he asked Ryan to bring the file there. Matt assumed he left when they finished discussing the problem but—well, you heard the rest."
"Right. Rover in the parking lot. So Ryan possibly underneath a lap dancer again."
Kirsten rounded on him, her eyes blazing. "Seth!"
"Sorry." Seth hunched his shoulders, shuffling in place. "But hey, better that than some of the other options, right?"
A shadow crossed Kirsten's face. "Sandy?" she asked uncertainly. "Do you think Ryan really might be there now?"
"You mean do I think his hormones distracted him enough to make him forget about dinner?" Sandy countered. "It's certainly possible. But if he did--"
"Well, in Ryan's defense--" Seth interjected. His parents wheeled around, and he rushed to backpedal. "Not that I'm defending him, because that would be stupid and/or dangerous, and I'm totally pissed—angry—that he's ruining the Seth Cohen master plan. But just hypothetically . . . I mean, if I were to defend him . . . Hey, the guy's lived practically like a monk in Newport, and after the girls he had in Chino—which is TMI, and if you value my life, you'll never tell Ryan that I mentioned it–-But come on! He's at a strip club! What red-blooded guy wouldn't linger a while, maybe look around . . ."
The heat of his parents' combined glares melted Seth's bravado. "Well, of course, I wouldn't," he amended weakly. "But maybe we can't . . . altogether . . . entirely . . . blame Ryan if he did?" With an apologetic grin, he dropped down on a kitchen stool. "It's just a thought . . ."
Ignoring Seth's sputtering explanation, Sandy grabbed his jacket and dug out his car keys.
"What are you going to do?" Kirsten asked.
"Go down and drag the kid out of there."
"Then I'm going with you."
"Sweetheart," Sandy protested, "I don't think--"
"I'm going," she insisted. "We don't know what he's been doing tonight. If Ryan's been drinking, we don't want him behind the wheel. One of us should be there to drive him home."
Sandy nodded, his eyes flinty. "Fine," he agreed shortly. "Seth, if we miss Ryan and he gets home while we're gone, tell him I expect to see him sitting right here when I walk in the door. Is that clear?"
"Sit. Stay. Got it," Seth confirmed. He snatched the nearest container and started scribbling on one side.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing a note. Which I will put right in the middle of the table on top of a pyramid of cartons so that Ryan is bound to see it. I'm going with you guys."
"Oh no you're not, young man," Kirsten objected. "There's no reason for you to come. If you think you can use this as an excuse to slip into a strip club--"
Rolling his eyes, Seth heaved a patronizing sigh. "Please, Mom. If I wanted to do that, I wouldn't go with my parents. And hey, at least this time Aunt Hailey won't be working the pole." His mother stiffened and he winced, withering instantly under her cold scrutiny. "Right. Sorry. Another inappropriate comment. Also, so not the point."
Jangling the car keys impatiently, Sandy snapped, "What is your point? We don't have time for this, Seth."
"My point is, we were supposed to spend the evening as a family tonight. All four of us. So if you're going to pick up Ryan, I should go with." Seth bobbed his head earnestly, agreeing with himself.
"But what if he comes home while we're gone?" Kirsten argued.
Seth shrugged. "So? Then Ryan has to wait for us. Wait and worry, and may I add, anticipate our righteous fury. Poetic justice, guys." Striding to the door, he glanced over his shoulder. "Well?" he urged. "Are you two coming or what?"
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"Let me make sure you understand me this time, fucker," Jerry growled as he shoved Colston out the back exit. "Stay the hell away from this club. You come here again, I'll tattoo the message on your shit-ugly face. Got it?" With a final jab to the ribs he sent the other man sprawling and slammed the door.
Furiously, Colston hauled himself upright. Brushing bits of gravel from his knees, he peered around the deserted parking lot. The conversation he had overheard inside replayed in his mind.
"He's driving her home? Damn, guess I was right when I said she had found herself a hero. Chelsea must be relieved. I've never seen her so shook. Hey, Tonya, what about her car though?"
"They took her car. Ryan said he'd come back for his."
"Yeah, I bet he will. I saw the kid pull in. Got himself one sweet ride. Shit, those Range Rovers run, what, around eighty g's?"
Colston's eyes narrowed as he reached into his back pocket. He flicked open the knife he found there, smiling with grim satisfaction when it locked into place with a precise, warning snick. His expression speculative, he hefted the weapon, bouncing it on his open palm. The blade glinted when it moved and Colston smirked, admiring its conspiratorial wink as it sliced through a thin shaft of light.
"Fucking sonofabitch rich boy," he sneered.
Then, idly picking his teeth with the knife's point, he crossed the parking lot.
TBC