Before his wife's horrified words even registered, Sandy had slammed on the brakes and flung open his door. "Seth, go get help!" he ordered as he started to race through the maze of vehicles in his way. "Kirsten, call 911!"
Seth was already tumbling clumsily out of the car, almost falling in his haste to follow. "Dad?"
"The club, Seth! Now!"
With an anguished glance over his shoulder, Seth bolted for the building, alternately cursing and yelling for someone to come out.
Kirsten, phone pressed to her ear, scrambled out of the passenger seat. "I don't know the address," she cried. Spinning around desperately, she searched for some sign or landmark. "Wait, we're on Ingleside and Stearns Boulevard! Just hurry, please!"
By the time she hung up, Sandy had reached the fight. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his voice, loud and laced with venom.
"Get off of him! Take your filthy hands off of my son!"
The words tangled with her own erratic heartbeats, the sound of Seth pounding on the club's unyielding exit, his frantic demands, "Hey! We need some help out here! Now! Come on, anybody!" Propelled by fear, Kirsten ran, clutching her phone like a weapon and instinctively crying Ryan's name.
She got no answer except shouts and thudding blows, all echoing with Sandy's incoherent fury.
There was so little ground to cover, but she felt as if she were moving in slow motion, trapped in a nightmare of suspended time. When she finally reached the unlit corner of the parking lot, Kirsten almost skidded into a pile of flailing bodies. Sandy was on top, his hands on another man's shoulders, clawing at him. Both of them were snarling, and the sight of her husband's face terrified Kirsten: it was unrecognizable, murderous with rage. As she caught her breath, stunned, Sandy plummeted backwards, wrenching his opponent with him. They fell almost at her feet, grunting, and rolled to the side, both struggling to claim something clutched in the other man's hand.
A sharp ping sliced the night, like an audible electric shock, as a knife clattered to the ground.
The tiny noise roused Kirsten. She whirled around the open door, and there was Ryan, slumped motionless, his body twisted half inside the car. His face was turned away from her, mashed against the floor mat, and one hand dangled over the door edge, palm bloody and facing out. With a gasp, Kirsten dropped to her knees on the cracked asphalt beside him. She bent close, one hand hovering over his chest while the other cupped his neck, fingers feeling urgently for a pulse.
As soon as she touched him, an uneven breath hissed through Ryan's teeth. He stirred and then stiffened, pulling away. "No," he growled, kicking back blindly. "Not gonna, you fucker --"
Kirsten choked back a laugh, somewhere between hysteria and relieved gratitude. "Oh, thank God. Ryan? Honey, it's just me," she crooned. "Can you hear me, sweetheart? It's Kirsten."
At the sound of her voice, Ryan froze. "Kirsten?" he whispered. With an effort, he rolled over, blinking in shame and bewilderment. "Sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--" Groaning, he grabbed the doorframe and levered himself awkwardly all the way to the ground.
"No, no. Don't move, sweetie, don't move," Kirsten urged, holding him still with one hand, soft and warm, on each shoulder. "It's all right now. We're here."
Ryan licked his lips, dazed and still trying to focus. "Why? Something wrong?" Suddenly his eyes widened, and he struggled, trying to haul himself to his feet. "Colston--knife." His voice broke, brittle with panic. "You've got to leave. Can't be here, Kirsten."
Kirsten's grip tightened and she gently forced Ryan back down, bracing his body against hers. "Stay still. Please, sweetie, listen to me. It's fine. You don't have to worry." Checking anxiously behind her, she saw Seth charging through the parking lot, three strides ahead of two other men. From her position, she couldn't see Sandy anymore, but she repeated the assurance anyway, praying that she was right. "It's fine. Everything's all right now."
"No. Colston--" Ryan insisted.
With relief, Kirsten detected the whine of sirens, still distant but coming closer. "The police will take care of him," she promised. Relaxing her hold, she leaned away fractionally to kiss Ryan's temple and caress his cheek. "Okay? You believe me?" He nodded, a slow, lopsided grin starting to form in response. Then, abruptly, he winced, his jaw clenching as he clutched his side. Kirsten's gaze followed the movement. "Oh, God," she gasped. "You're bleeding! What did he do?"
"Cut," Ryan said vaguely. "Not bad, though."
Ripping off her jacket, Kirsten folded the soft linen into a square. "Let me see," she urged, as he shrank from her, shaking his head. "Please?" She waited, her face both firm and beseeching, until Ryan sighed reluctant agreement. Then, carefully, she eased his palm away and peeled back his stained sweater. Her lips crimping, she inspected the wound before she positioned the impromptu bandage. "There, now," she murmured. "That's better, isn't it?" With one hand, she applied pressure, while the other brushed through his hair, fingers stroking softly in an effort to distract him.
Ryan swallowed hard. "Yeah. Just stings," he lied. "Thanks . . . Kirsten . . . I'm really sorry. Coming here, missing dinner—"
"Oh, sweetie." Kirsten touched her forehead to his for a moment. When she sat back, her mouth trembled and her eyes glistened brightly. "I forgive you. But you know," she teased, trying to muster a smile, "you will have to answer to Seth for spoiling his master plan."
"'Fraid of that," Ryan mumbled. He glanced around, troubled. "Where is Seth? And Sandy? He was here, wasn't he? What's going on?"
Kirsten wished she knew how to answer. Beyond the car door that supported Ryan's body and blocked her view, she could hear cries and muffled blows interspersed with grunts of pain. "Everything's under control," she claimed uncertainly. Peering around the side, she strained to see what was happening but it was impossible to tell unless she left Ryan alone and she wouldn't do that.
Behind them, emergency vehicles pulled into the parking lot, sirens wailing. They screeched to a stop, and suddenly events happened with dizzying speed. Paramedics and police raced over, surrounding Ryan and gently edging Kirsten out of their way. Two other officers sprinted past them towards the melee, and almost at once Sandy and Seth reappeared. Immediately, Kirsten clasped her husband's hand, relief and reassurance and residual fear all alive in her touch. Sandy's fingers twined through hers, holding tight. He looked wildly disheveled, his lip split, his hair whipped into fierce disarray, his face bruised and tense with concern as he searched for a clear glimpse of Ryan through the press of emergency personnel.
Beside him, Seth hopped from foot to foot, flushed and rumpled, craning to see. "Mom? Is Ryan okay?" he demanded.
Kirsten glanced helplessly at her son. "I think so," she replied. "He says he is."
"Yeah. Like that means anything." Frustrated, Seth drummed his fist against his thighs. Then his expression brightened. Very stealthily, he ducked around to the other side of the car, opened the driver's door, and slid inside. Scooting over to the passenger seat, he leaned out, a broad smile blossoming when he saw Ryan try to swat away the medic who was cutting off his sweater.
"Hey, man!" Seth crowed. "How are you doing down there?"
"It's just a damn cut," Ryan growled irritably. Then the voice registered and he jerked around in surprise. "Seth? What are you--? Shit . . ." He broke off, panting, and a spasm of pain distorted his face as he clutched his side again.
The paramedic at his shoulders eased him back down. "Whoa there, pal," he advised sternly. "We want to get this bleeding stopped. You can help us a lot by not moving, okay?"
"Sweetie, please, just lie still," Kirsten urged, at the same time that Sandy ordered, "Seth, don't get in the way."
"But I'm not--" Seth protested. He gestured from the medics to himself, indicating how safely distant he was, positioned inside Colston's car. Sandy shook his head. His brows ratcheted into a reproving V, he lifted one warning finger, and his son squirmed down in the seat. "Point taken," he conceded grudgingly. "Keep quiet and let these fine, trained professionals work."
The female medic got up, flashing a brief grin at Seth as she headed back to the ambulance. As soon as her departure left a space clear, Sandy released Kirsten's hand and started to step forward. At the same time, a policeman placed a detaining palm on his arm.
"Sir? If you could come with me for a couple minutes, I'd like to get your statement now."
Sandy pulled away from the officer. "Right after I talk to my son," he replied. Ignoring Seth's significant, "in the way" cough, he crouched beside Ryan. "Hey there, kid. It is damn good to see you."
"You too," Ryan sighed. Then he frowned, pointing dubiously at Sandy's battered face. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. Now anyway." Releasing a shaky breath, Sandy paused before continuing. His tone turned playful with relief. "Seems like you had yourself one hell of an action-packed night here. Although who could believe you would pass up pad Thai and a movie at home for strippers and fights--"
"I didn't," Ryan protested. "I mean, not like that anyway, Sandy. I swear. I just--" In desperation, his gaze swung to Seth, who shrugged helplessly.
"Sorry, man," he mouthed. "Cone of silence over here."
Chuckling softly, Sandy reached down to squeeze Ryan's hand. "Never mind, kid. I know. So how do you feel? You doing okay?"
"I think," Ryan hedged. He flinched when the male paramedic swabbed several small slashes below his ear. "If they would just stop doing stuff like that--"
"Almost done," the man promised. "A couple more minutes, and we'll be on our way."
As he spoke his partner returned, wheeling a gurney and collapsing it next to Ryan. His eyes shifted to it with instant mistrust. "What's that for?" he demanded. "Once you've got all the cuts cleaned up, I get to go home, right? You said you were leaving . . ."
"No, I said we were," the medic clarified. "Sorry, kid. Right now, you get to pay a little visit to the emergency room. What you call cuts we call knife wounds. And that one on your side is going to need quite a few stitches. Plus my guess is that you've got a couple cracked ribs, and you've lost a fair amount of blood that has to be replaced."
Wincing, Seth examined the vein inside his own elbow. "Well, that sucks," he declared. "I'd offer you some of mine, dude, but . . . well, Harbor hosted a Red Cross drive back in tenth grade—come to think of it, I'm pretty sure it was all Taylor's idea—and turns out that the sight of my own blood makes me kind of nauseous." He sighed almost nostalgically. "Puke, everywhere . . . Quarts of it. And we'd had burritos and corn niblets for lunch, so--"
"Yeah," Ryan groaned. "Thanks for sharing, Seth."
"Hey, man, I just want you to understand why I can't give you some of my premiere-grade A Cohen superfuel. 'Cause I totally would, if it weren't for the possibility of, you know, mucho vomit being involved. Possibly of the projectile variety." The female medic choked back a laugh as she readied a syringe, and Ryan shot Seth a sideways death-glare. His eyes widened innocently in response. "I'm just saying . . ."
"Cone of silence, dude. Use it."
Sandy grinned, welcoming the familiar banter, and allowing it to ease the worry that had been etched on his face. "Good luck keeping him quiet, kid. I've never known the cone to work for more than three minutes." With a final pat of Ryan's shoulder, he pushed himself to his feet. "The police want to talk to me, but I'll be right back, okay?"
Ryan's gaze followed him anxiously. "Sandy?"
The trace of fear he detected made Sandy bend down again. "I just have to give a statement," he explained, running his thumb along Ryan's cheek. "The police will want to talk to you later too. But there's nothing to worry about, kid. Nobody's in trouble here except for the SOB who attacked you." For a moment his expression darkened, and his fist clenched reflexively at his side. Then he took a deep breath, rose, and followed the police officer behind the car.
"Okay, we're just going to start you on some fluids, and we'll be ready to roll, hon," the female medic announced. She tapped the back of Ryan's hand, raising the vein. "Little sting, all right?"
"No problem," he muttered grimly, but the moment the needle pierced his skin, he paled, his eyes rolling back and his lashes fluttering closed.
"Ryan? Ryan?" Kirsten's voice rose, ragged with concern. She moved closer, gripping her own elbows in an effort not to interfere. "What's wrong with him?"
"He's all right," the medic assured her. "We see this reaction all the time. Ryan, talk to me. You still with us?"
Ryan murmured something faint and incoherent.
"Sweetie, that's not good enough. Look at me," Kirsten urged.
Leaning out of the passenger seat, Seth waved eagerly. "Let me do it, Mom." He raised his right hand, fingers locked in the Vulcan salute. "Ryan, buddy, little experiment here. Tell me how many fingers I'm holding up."
Ryan's eyes flickered open to suspicious slits. He spoke slowly, stopping a few times to steady his breath. "If it's one, and . . . in the middle . . . gonna kick your ass later, man. Sorry, Kirsten. I know. Don't say ass."
"Yeah . . . and he's fine." Seth's dimples danced with satisfaction. "By the way, bro, the answer was four. Well, and a thumb. It was a trick question. But you know, it's sad, really: here you are, supposed to be the math genius, and you can't even count."
"Kick your ass. Twice. One, two."
Seth beamed at his mother. "Told you. He's fine." He lowered his voice confidentially. "Oh, and Ryan? You said ass again."
Unconvinced by their banter, Kirsten turned to the paramedics. "Is he really all right? Because this isn't the first time Ryan passed out. I should have mentioned it right away. He was unconscious when I found him." Twisting her rings distractedly, she watched as they transferred him to the gurney, strap him in place, and raise its legs. "He came to right away, but still . . ." Before Ryan could protest she touched her hand to his lips, silencing him. "Sweetie, I know you'll say it was nothing. But they need to know."
The female medic jotted a note on her chart and then fastened it to a hook on the gurney's side rail. Glancing over, she offered Kirsten an empathetic smile. "I understand how you feel, Mrs. Cohen. I've got three boys of my own. Don't worry. The doctors will examine your son thoroughly before they send him home."
"Dude." Seth's expression mingled worry and amusement. He climbed out of the car, pausing to slam the door viciously behind him. "You fainted? Seriously?"
Ryan gritted his teeth. "I did not faint. Maybe passed out for a second. That's all."
"Got it." Seth nodded wisely. "Kid Chino doesn't faint. Or, I'd guess, swoon. Or get the vapors."
"He does use his fists of fury, though."
Seth hopped back next to his mother, just in case. "Ah, right. That he does do." Impulsively, he took Kirsten's hand, prompting her to smile with surprised gratitude as they followed the gurney to the ambulance.
"Seth?" Ryan asked, peering backwards. "You guys never told me. Why did you come here anyway?"
"Oh, you know." Seth shrugged evasively. "We just thought we'd bring the party to you. But you totally missed the show, which sucks. Because dude, it was awesome." He patted his own chest, recalling the scene with pride. "The Cohen men starring in Righteous Fury: Revenge of the Newport Knights. Man, Dad's got a wicked left hook. Who knew?"
Automatically, Ryan grinned for a moment, but then his expression clouded. "Yeah, only I don't understand--"
"No? Seems clear to me," Seth claimed. "You must still be hazy. You know—from the whole not-fainting episode."
Laughing, the female medic started to load equipment inside the ambulance as a police officer signaled her partner to the squad car. "Mrs. Cohen, who's going to ride, you or your husband?"
"I will," Kirsten decided instantly. She looked around in confusion. "Actually, I'm not sure where Sandy is right now. Seth, find your father. Tell him we're on our way to the hospital."
"No," Ryan protested. "We can't go yet."
Startled, Kirsten looked from him to Seth, who shrugged his own bewilderment. "Sweetie, we have to--"
"No," Ryan insisted. "Not until Sandy's back."
"Dude," Seth whispered, indicating the gurney straps. "I don't think you're in any position to set terms here. It's kind of a done deal."
Ryan's eyes sought those of the female paramedic. "Please?" he entreated. "He said he wouldn't be long."
Before the woman could answer, her partner returned to grab his supply kit. "The police want me to examine the perp before they take him in," he explained. "Shouldn't take more a couple minutes. I'll be right back."
"Damn," Seth whistled. He gazed at Ryan with amazed admiration. "That is some freaky Atwood mojo you've got working, buddy. You want a delay, you get a delay. Okay, you've got to tell me how you do that."
"I'll consider it. If you find Sandy."
"Don't worry, buddy. I am on the case." Seth took three steps and spun back around. "In fact, I've solved it already," he proclaimed triumphantly. "Do I hear a eureka? Okay, I'll say it myself. Eureka, Dad's coming now. Hey, do you suppose this means I have my own Cohen mojo, or is it just part of yours?"
Ignoring the question, Ryan twisted as far as he could. "Sandy?" he called, his voice raspy with apprehension.
Sandy hurried over, holding an icepack to one eye and smiling reassurance. "Right here, kid."
"Everything's okay? The cops--"
"Are arresting that--" With an effort, Sandy censored himself. "Are arresting Mr. Colston as we speak. I told them they could get your statement tomorrow. Jerry and I gave them all the information they needed tonight."
"Good then. That's good. He won't be able to get to Chelsea."
Sighing with relief, Ryan settled back on the gurney. As he did so, Jerry strode into view, talking with a police officer. The man grinned broadly at Ryan, but his expression held uneasy mixture of respect, guilt and sympathy.
"Hey, there, ace," he called. "Officer, you mind if I speak to my friend for a moment?"
"His 'friend'?" Seth squinted, measuring the bulk of the man as he walked over. "Ryan, you're friends with somebody the size of the poolhouse?" Cautiously, he stepped aside to make room, but as Jerry squeezed through he clapped Seth on the back, almost staggering him. "O . . . kay," he groaned, hunching over. "Good thing there's an ambulance standing by. I think I may need it too."
Looming over the gurney, Jerry grimaced with self-reproach. "Shit, kid. I'm damned sorry about this," he said awkwardly. "I shoulda thrown that sonofabitch off a pier instead of just out of the fucking club."
Ryan managed a smile. "Not your fault," he replied. "But could you do me a favor, Jerry? Call Chelsea, make sure if she's okay?"
"Fuck, ace, why wouldn't she be? The shitass never got near her. But tell you what—I'll call. She'll want to know what happened to her hero." Jerry patted Ryan's arm clumsily. "You take care, all right, kid?"
Sidling close to his parents, Seth whispered, "Aww, hear that? 'Her hero.' Gives you a warm, gooey Disneyfied kind of feeling, doesn't it?"
Jerry had turned to leave but Seth's comment made him pause. He glanced back, his mouth curved into a meaningful grin. "In fact, knowing Chelsea?" he drawled. "She'll want to do something special to make her hero feel better." One finger touched his forehead in a farewell salute and he swaggered back to the club, leaving Seth staring, open-mouthed, after him.
"Yeah," Ryan muttered. "More like kick my ass for not being more careful."
"Whoa!" Seth breathed. He whipped his awestruck gaze back to Ryan. "Chelsea's the stripper, right? And she's on kicking terms with your ass? And hey, what exactly does Andre the Giant there mean by 'something special'? Dude! I demand the whole story. Unabridged. Uncensored. Unadulterated—unless, you know, adultery is part of the tale." Shimmying with excitement, Seth swiveled to face his mother. "Mom, can I ride with Ryan? Huh? Can I? Huh?"
"Absolutely not," Kirsten replied. Her voice was amused but firm, and she placed a protective hand on Ryan's head. "I'm going with Ryan. You and your father can follow in the car."
As she spoke, the male paramedic returned, signaling his partner to help him load the gurney into the ambulance. Kirsten stepped aside reluctantly, but as soon as Ryan was settled, she started to clamber in after him. One foot was poised on the step when a ring tone chimed, the sound unexpected and strangely shrill. Frowning with irritation, Kirsten paused to fumble inside her purse for her cell phone.
"Mom!"
Seth's protest, shocked and accusing, ripped through the night air.
"What?" Confused, Kirsten stared at her son. Then her eyes widened with shamed comprehension. "Oh, Seth. Sweetie, no. I'm not taking this call. I'm turning the damn thing off."
"Dad?" Seth pivoted grimly to confront his father. "What about yours?"
"It's on," Sandy admitted. "But just for emergencies."
"Like what? 'Cause see, I think the emergency already happened. "Or maybe there's something you think might be more important?"
Before either of his parents could answer, the male medic interjected, "Mrs. Cohen? Are you coming? We're ready to roll now."
With an anxious glance back at Seth, Kirsten nodded and climbed inside.
"Let's go, son," Sandy urged. "The sooner Ryan gets treated, the sooner we can get him home and have that family time you wanted so much." He raised his voice so that Ryan could hear him inside the ambulance. "How does that sound to you, kid?"
His eyes drifting close, Ryan nodded. "Home," he murmured. "Yeah. Sounds really good."
The doors swung closed and the ambulance began to back out, its siren blaring a warning. Draping an arm around Seth, Sandy started toward their car, but his son shrugged out of his grasp. He stalked away, his back rigid, his feet striking the asphalt deliberately.
"Seth!" Sandy called, hurrying to catch up. "Hey! What's going on?"
"Nothing," Seth claimed. His shoulders stiffened, but he didn't look back. "I just remembered what this whole damn evening was about in the first place, that's all."
TBC