Knight-Errant, Part 5: Plausible Lies

Ryan had been running steadily for two and a half miles, but as he approached the strip club he could feel his sprint slow to a reluctant jog.

"Shit, Atwood, move," he hissed, but somehow he couldn't make himself accelerate. His body resisted, pushing sluggishly through the evening air as though he had climbed to some altitude that lacked oxygen.

Ashamed, Ryan admitted the truth: even though he was eager to be home, he didn't quite want to get there. With a grimace, he envisioned his arrival: Sandy and Kirsten, tense and tightlipped at the dinner table, Seth slumped on his tailbone, plowing through mounds of food with chopsticks, all three of them wheeling expectantly the instant that Ryan opened the door. He flinched at the prospect of what he might see in their eyes: relief, probably, but also concern, accusation, anger, disappointment.

Each time, Ryan projected a different reaction, but no matter what expression he pictured on the Cohens' faces, his own always remained the same.

Blank.

Because what, he wondered, could he possibly say? If he admitted what really happened, it would mean betraying Matt. But what other story was even plausible?

Silently, Ryan rehearsed excuses, trying not to stray too far from the truth.

"Seth, man, I know this is lame, but Matt and I were working on a proposal and well, suddenly it was way past dinnertime."

"I was on my way home when I saw some guy attacking a woman. So I helped get him away from her. She's okay, Kirsten, but by the time everything was settled, it was really late."

"I had to run an errand for somebody, Sandy. It was kind of an emergency and it took a lot longer than I expected."

Nothing worked. Every explanation Ryan attempted ended the same way: with the likelihood of questions that he couldn't answer.

"Where did this happen?"

"Why didn't you call?"

"What kind of errand?"

"If you were working with Matt, why didn't anybody pick up at the office?"

Cursing under his breath, Ryan kicked a crushed beer can toward the curb. He needed Seth, he decided. Or at least his best friend's verbal agility.

Of course, Seth's lies weren't usually believable either, but they were glib and detailed and delivered with disarming sincerity. Reflexively slowing to a brisk walk, Ryan summoned Seth's reasoning, trying to imagine what his friend might say.

"Mom, Dad, Ryan and I are really, really sorry we're late. But hey, funny story. Somehow we locked the keys and our phones in the car. What are the odds, right? I'm not quite sure how it happened, although I seem to recall something about a physics experiment. Or possibly somebody might have been a little careless. You know, tomato, tomahto. Anyway, turns out Ryan's not as good at breaking into a car as you might expect. So it took us a while to get the door open, and by that time we figured it would be better just to explain everything when we got home. So . . . here we are. Home. Explaining. And by the way, did I mention that we're really sorry we're late? And that we love you guys very, very much? Because you're so understanding. And forgiving. And generally awesome. Right, Ryan?"

Then Seth would incline his head, smiling widely, and nudge Ryan until he nodded agreement. In response, Sandy would groan, eyebrows disappearing into his disheveled hair, and Kirsten would sigh wearily. They would take turns issuing perfunctory reprimands, and five minutes later everyone would be eating, the incident basically forgotten.

But Seth wasn't around. And alone, Ryan knew, he couldn't lie—not to Sandy and Kirsten. Not even to Seth.

Frustrated, he blew out a puff of air that ruffled his bangs.

What else could he do? He had to tell the truth, or in any case an abridged version of it.

While he waited tensely for a light to change, he rehearsed his speech: "Sorry I'm late, guys. I was helping a friend who had some trouble and needed a ride home. My phone got broken or I would have called. I'd tell you more, but I can't share any details. I promised."

Even to Ryan, the story sounded weak. It wasn't likely to satisfy anybody—certainly not Seth, who would hound him mercilessly for the full story—but at least, Ryan consoled himself, it wasn't a lie. Not exactly anyway.

The light changed and he stepped into the street, striding deliberately. Halfway across, he realized what he was doing and growled in disgust.

"Stop being a little bitch, Atwood," Ryan chided himself silently. "You screwed up. Or you're screwed. Either way, just suck it up. Now move—You're already too late, and the Cohens are waiting."

His jaw set resolutely, he broke into a full run.

As soon as he glimpsed the beckoning lights of the strip club, Ryan pulled out his keys. He was already pressing the unlock button when he rounded the corner into the parking lot. The place had gotten crowded, and he paused for a moment, scanning the area for any sign of Matt's car. Feeling a surge of relief when he didn't find it—at least the proposal should be done on time—he headed for the Range Rover.

From a distance, something about the vehicle looked odd. Ryan peered at it intently, but it wasn't until he reached the driver's side that he recognized the problem. The front tire was completely flat.

"Fuck!" he moaned. He crouched to inspect the damage, his eyes narrowing as he ran one finger gingerly along a tread. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"What's the matter, kid?" a voice behind him asked. "You got a problem there?"

Without turning, Ryan nodded. "Yeah," he sighed. "Nothing but problems tonight." Frowning with frustration, he started to get up. "And shit, this looks like somebody slashed--"

He never finished. One hand wrenched his arm behind his back, roughly yanking him almost off his feet. At the same time, a fist pressed against his throat so that he couldn't speak, could barely even breathe. When Ryan struggled, panting, a knife pricked almost playfully along his jaw.

"Well, you're in luck, little boy," Colston hissed. "I'll be glad to give you a ride. Tell you what though. First, you're gonna show me where Chelsea lives. You know where that is, right? After all, you. Drove. Her. Home."

The tip of the blade punctuated each of the last words, delicately piercing the skin, just enough to draw three drops of blood.

Colston bent down until his cheek mashed the hair behind Ryan's ear. His voice was pitched low, telling secrets. "Chelsea's mine. You got that, you little sonofabitch? You had no business getting between us. That's gonna cost you. Now keep your mouth shut and move." Shoving his hip against Ryan's, Colston started to propel him toward an unlit recess of the parking lot.

"Like hell I will," Ryan gritted. Resisting the force trying to drive him forward, he scanned his surroundings desperately, but at least in his limited field of vision the place appeared deserted. He didn't have breath enough to shout, but he tried anyway. "Jerry! Out here!"

Instantly, Colston tightened his grip, driving the knife just a fraction deeper. "You don't follow orders very well, do you kid?" he spat. Using his size advantage, he inched Ryan forward relentlessly. "Lemme give you some advice. Do as you're told. We don't want to keep Chelsea waiting, do we?"

"No way," Ryan gasped, the words barely audible. "No fucking way I'll take you to her."

Colston pulled Ryan's arm higher, twisting it just enough to suggest how much worse the pain could be. "No?" he whispered, almost pleasantly. "Now see, I think you just might change your mind."

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"So you know what I'm wondering?" Seth mused dreamily as he sketched invisible and very agile strippers on the back of the passenger seat.

Sandy chuckled. "Not a clue, son, but I'm sure you'll tell us."

"I'm wondering what excuse Ryan will manage to come up with tonight."

"What are you talking about, excuse?" Kirsten asked. "And Seth, whatever you're doing back there, would you stop it please?"

Flinching guiltily, Seth jerked his hand away and hid it under his thigh. "Mom, how did you know I was . . . um, never mind. Stopping now," he stammered.

Kirsten glanced at Sandy and they shared a silent laugh full of memories.

"Okay," Seth muttered to himself. "This is totally one of those 'be careful what you wish for' moments. I gotta remember to warn Ryan. Either the 'rents are ignoring us, or they're noticing things they can't even see."

"Hey, eyes in the back of the head are standard issue for parents, son. I thought you knew that already. Besides, the Kirsten's had your number ever since you were ten and drew Spiderman all over the backseat with magic marker." Sandy's eyebrows wagged mischievously. "You used the permanent variety too, as I recall."

"I didn't!" Seth protested. Kirsten's eyes glinted and he amended hastily, "Well, okay, yeah I did. But I was ten! You know, loving parents do not taunt their children about childhood mistakes. And besides, I don't have any markers with me tonight."

Reaching back, Kirsten gave Seth's knee an affectionate squeeze. "Never mind. We're just teasing you, sweetie. Now . . . what excuse were you talking about?"

"Excuse?" Seth echoed blankly.

"You said something about Ryan?"

"Oh, right. Ryan's excuse. AKA, the entertainment portion of the evening." His dimples dancing, Seth relaxed in his seat and released his pinioned hand. "This should be fun. 'Cause you realize he's not going to tell us the truth about what happened tonight."

"He's not?"

Seth gestured condescendingly. "Think, Mom," he urged. "Ryan doesn't know that we already know, so he won't know it's okay to let us know . . . Whoa, hold on. Feeling a little dizzy here. Who knows what now? Wait! Never mind. I got it again. Okay, here's the deal. Since Ryan doesn't realize Matt already told us the whole story, he's going to try to cover for the guy."

For a moment Sandy looked startled. His brows creased in a sharp V and he peered back at Seth. Then he nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the road. "You're probably right about that, son."

"If you mean 'probably' in the sense of 'definitely,' yes, Dad, yes I am. Ryan won't want to tell us where Matt was, which means he can't tell us where he was. So . . . no strip club. Ergo, no stripper. Ergo, no rescue of said stripper-in-distress. So hmm . . . exactly where was Ryan all this time? And what was he doing that made him so late?" Tapping his chin with one finger, Seth did his best stymied-scientist impersonation. "It's a conundrum."

"Ergo? Conundrum?" Kirsten shook her head, smiling with fond amusement. "Seth--"

"Hey, soon-to-be-college man here," Seth explained. "My vocabulary consists of more than just 'cool' and 'awesome,' thank you. Although 'awesome' really is an awesome word." A low rumble interrupted him, rising from his lap, and he cringed, shrinking into the corner.

"What was that?"

"Um . . . that would be me. Or a part of me. Don't worry, Ralph." Seth rubbed his stomach soothingly. "I'll feed you in twenty minutes . . ."

Kirsten's brows arched incredulously. "Ralph?"

"My tummy," Seth explained.

"You named your stomach?"

"Actually, I think Dad did. Back when I was like, four. It was the same time that we named my--"

"Seth Ezekiel Cohen! Stop right there, please!"

Blushing, Seth slunk as low as his seatbelt would allow. "Oops. Sorry. Total overshare. So . . . what was I saying? Oh, right, Ryan. Yeah, I can picture him now, straining to think of some story that won't get him grounded until graduation. Poor guy. It's pitiful, really. He's sort of lost without the benefit of my, um, creative imagination."

Kirsten glanced at Sandy expectantly, but he didn't respond. She frowned, faintly puzzled, before swiveling to face her son. "You mean your ability to lie to your parents," she clarified.

"Now see, Mom, you make it sound so ugly. True, I may dissemble, I may sometimes embroider the truth. . ."

"You may lie."

Seth flashed a blithe smile. "Semantics, Mom. Personally I prefer to think of it as storytelling—you know, in the grand tradition of Homer, Shakespeare, Steven Spielberg, Stan Lee. But Ryan--" Heaving a sigh, Seth bowed his head sadly. "For someone who's a great poker player, the guy has no skill when it comes to bluffing with words."

"Good," Kirsten retorted. "At least your father and I can count on one son's honesty."

"Mom, come on. Ryan's not so much truthful as he is a rotten liar." Seth paused and then amended, "Although, to give the guy his due, I don't think he ever would lie to you and Dad unless he was protecting somebody. Like for instance, Matt. So, yeah, he's probably in brood overdrive right about now . . . I'd feel sorry for the dude if, you know, Ralph wasn't starving to death on his account."

Abruptly, Sandy flipped on the right turn signal and eased into the curb lane.

"Seth, you are not starving--" Kirsten broke off in confusion when she realized that they were pulling into the driveway of an anonymous house.

"Um, Dad?" Baffled, Seth peered out the window as his father put the car in reverse and doubled back the way they had just come. "What's going on? You do know we're not heading home anymore, right?"

"Sweetheart?" Kirsten prompted, her voice stretched thin with anxiety. "Is something wrong?"

Sandy smiled reassurance. "No. I've just been thinking about everything," he explained. "You know, Ryan has had a pretty eventful evening. He's got to be exhausted. And Seth's right: he won't want to betray Matt's little secret, which means he's going to worry--"

"Brood," Seth corrected, disguising the word as a cough.

Ignoring the comment, his father continued, "About what he should tell us. There's no reason to put the kid through that. Besides, knowing Ryan, he might be more banged up than he let on. He may need somebody to drive him home. And even if not . . ." Sandy's mouth quirked in a quick, sheepish grin. "I'd feel better if he had some company."

"So . . . what? We're postponing dinner again? But I promised my stomach nourishment. Ralph is going to lose all faith in me." Arms folded, Seth sulked for a moment before realization animated his face. "Okay, wait. Suddenly not so hungry. This means the field trip is back on."

"It is not." Kirsten admonished. "Nobody needs to go into the club. We can wait for Ryan in the parking lot."

"Yeah? But what if he's been there and gone already?"

Sandy angled his head to peer at his son. "Good point," he admitted. "Keep an eye out for the Rover, Seth. If Ryan has left the club, we should pass him along the way."

"So I'm what? On sentry duty now?"

"Exactly. And good sentries concentrate on watching. They don't talk."

Kirsten shifted closer to Sandy. "I think it's a good idea—going to meet Ryan after all," she said, relief warm in her voice. "There's something about this whole situation that bothers me. You know, Sanford Cohen, you are a very smart man." Leaning over, she kissed his cheek. A trace of pink lipstick lingered on his skin and she erased it gently with her fingertips. "That's the reason why I married you."

"Really?" Sandy pretended disappointment. "Aw, and here all along I thought it was my boyish charm."

"That too. You're a triple threat."

"Hmm," he mused. Taking one hand off the wheel, Sandy tucked a strand of hair behind his wife's ear. "Intelligence, charm . . . that's only two qualities. What was the third one, Mrs. Cohen?"

Kirsten peeked at Seth, her eyes dancing, and then turned back around. "Well," she murmured seductively, "if you must know . . ."

"No! He musn't! Or I musn't!" Seth clapped his ears over his ears. "TMI, guys. Seriously, this conversation could warp me for life."

"Well, we wouldn't want that," Sandy declared. "Tell you what, honey. We can review all of my best qualities later. Privately, in our bedroom. Maybe yours too, if I've got the stamina." Grinning, he gunned the engine and sped up to get through a yellow light.

Seth dropped his head to his knees, groaning dramatically. "It's gone," he moaned. "Gone. All my innocence. Lost forever. How is this even fair? You guys won't let me go into a strip club, but you make me listen to--"

The shrill whine of a siren silenced him abruptly. He spun around, staring, as a police car wheeled out of a side street, its light pulsing crimson in the night sky. Sandy slowed to allow the cruiser to pass, but it inched closer to their bumper, still flashing its insistent warning.

"Um, Dad? I think they want us to stop." Seth tried for irony, but his tone teetered on shock. "What did you do?"

Irritated and vaguely uneasy, Sandy checked his speedometer. "I don't know, son," he said as he pulled the car to the curb and switched off the engine. Behind them, the patrol car came to a stop, and a police officer exited, clipboard in hand. Sandy rolled down his window as the man approached.

"Well, damn," Seth muttered regretfully. "How do you like this? Dad gets busted and Ryan's not even here to see it."

"Seth!" Kirsten hissed.

Chastened, Seth clamped his lips closed and mimed locking them.

"License, registration and proof of insurance," the cop intoned mechanically. His gaze swept the interior of the car, studying each occupant.

"Of course, officer." Sandy surrendered the items. "What seems to be the problem?"

Without responding, the policeman inspected all three documents, taking his time with each one. Sandy waited, tapping his watch. His impatience mounted as seconds ticked away in silence. At last the cop returned the papers. He raised his clipboard, bracing it against the window frame as he began to write.

"Officer?" Sandy prompted.

"You ran a red light back there. That's going to be a $250 fine, sir."

Sandy's brow creased, but before he could reply Seth lunged forward. "Well, that's bogus." His face scrunched with disbelief, he wedged himself between his parents' seats. "Come on. That light was totally yellow."

"Seth." With one hand, Kirsten motioned her son back to his seat. "Hush. We don't need your opinion."

Sandy took a deep breath. He expelled it slowly before he spoke, eliminating all trace of challenge from his tone. "I do think we were through the intersection before the light turned red, officer."

The policeman glanced up from the clipboard, his face flushed with annoyance. "Look, if you want to challenge the ticket, that's your right," he snapped, ripping a paper off his pad. "But I suggest you save it for traffic court. Right now, you're just wasting my time and yours. Are we gonna have any trouble here?"

Kirsten plucked Sandy's sleeve. "Don't argue, sweetheart," she whispered. "It's not worth it. And we don't want to miss Ryan. Please."

Sandy's mouth was already open to object, but Kirsten shook her head, blue eyes bright with entreaty. Reluctantly, he raised his open palms. "Not at all, officer," he said, accepting the ticket with scrupulous courtesy.

"All right then. You folks can be on your way. Just remember—don't treat the street like it's a racetrack. Wherever you're going, it can't be that urgent. You drive safe now." With a curt nod, the police officer turned and strode back to his cruiser.

"No justice, no peace," Seth chanted as he left. His voice was soft enough so that the man didn't hear, but the words still elicited a stern glare from Kirsten. "Well, come on, Mom. No way that light was red," he insisted. "You know what I think? It's the end of the month. I bet the police have a quota to meet or they're stopping like, every tenth car. Or maybe the cop who writes the most tickets wins some kind of award. Probably a laminated certificate and a box of donuts."

"That's enough," Kirsten reproved. "Let it go, Seth."

"Dad?" he pleaded, turning to his father for support.

Sandy's attention remained fixed on the side mirror. His jaw tensed as he watched for a break in traffic, and his hands clenched the steering wheel. "It's not important, son," he replied. "Let's just concentrate on meeting Ryan so we can all go home and relax. This evening . . ." Blowing out a frustrated breath, he let the thought go unfinished.

"Yeah." With a sigh, Seth slouched down in his seat. "So far? Not exactly the night of family fun I had in mind. According to the Seth Cohen master plan, by now we should be eating dessert in the den and watching King Kong rip apart a dinosaur. Ryan's lucky. At least he clocked some quality time with a stripper."

"Seth . . ." Kirsten warned.

"Hey, I'm just saying, Mom. Even with the fight and all, he's got to be enjoying himself more than we are." Seth clasped his hands behind his neck and smiled absently at the ceiling. "Hmm . . . I wonder how she thanked him anyway."

"Do us a favor and don't wonder out loud," Sandy advised dryly. "And you're on sentry duty, remember? Just keep quiet and watch for the Rover. By now Ryan probably is on his way home."

With an effort, Seth obeyed. He stared out the window, amusing himself during breaks in traffic by plotting a new Atomic County adventure. In it The Ironist, with some small help from Kid Chino, saved a dozen strippers from a master villain who was using the stage's strobe light as a mind-control device. Just as three dancers wrapped The Ironist in a grateful embrace that involved both arms and legs, Seth noticed the sign for the strip club blinking up ahead.

"Huh," he mumbled, rousing reluctantly. "We're here? Guess we beat Ryan back after all."

Sandy pulled into the parking area, decelerating as he cruised the aisles in search of the Range Rover.

"Evidently we did," he agreed. "There's our car." He sounded surprised and somewhat apprehensive. "I thought sure getting stopped for that ticket--" Abruptly, he fell silent. His shoulders tensed, and he leaned closer to the windshield.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Kirsten asked.

Sandy gestured toward a flurry of movement in an unlit, distant corner of the lot. An open car door obscured the thrashing figures, but one seemed to loom over the other and something flashed, a glint of light slicing through the shadows. "Something's going on over there," he observed. "Looks like it could be a fight."

Seth slid forward, squinting. "Yeah, only think where we are, Dad. Maybe it's a different kind of action altogether."

The back Sandy's neck prickled suddenly and a chill sensation constricted his chest. "I don't think so," he muttered. Flicking a switch, he whipped the car around, accelerating toward the tangle of bodies. The vehicle's high beams raked the scene, throwing it into instant relief, and Kirsten gasped. She clutched Sandy's arm, her nails gouging through fabric into his skin.

"Oh my God! Sandy, that's Ryan!"

TBC