"Ryan? Oh, Ry-an. Wakey-wakey, dude."
Ryan groaned as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, trying to escape the persistent, singsong voice.
"No, that's not doing it, buddy," Seth chided indulgently. "That? Is going back to sleepy-bye. You need to wakey-wakey now."
"Seth." Ryan opened one eye to a baleful slit. "Do not say 'wake'—that thing you said. Just. Don't. I mean it."
"Aw," Seth cooed. He settled comfortably on the ottoman, his expression both smug and solicitous. "Is somebody cranky after his night of derring-do?"
Wincing slightly, Ryan shifted. His hand automatically covered the thick bandage on his side. "I'm sore. And tired, that's all. And don't say 'derring-do.' In fact, not saying anything at all would be good."
Seth grinned widely. "Yep, you're cranky. But then . . . you don't know what I know." He waited, his shoulders shimmying in an eager 'I've-got-a-secret' move, but Ryan simply yawned and draped one arm over his eyes. "Okay, fine, you don't like wakey-wakey? Then how about rise and shine? Come on, you can do it, buddy. Well, maybe not so much the shine part. But seriously, you should get up now. Brush your teeth, splash some cold water on your face, get dressed . . ." With a frown, Seth wiggled his fingers over his own curls. "Maybe try to do something with that sorry mess you call hair."
"Seth!"
"What? I'm just saying. But I suppose bedhead works too."
"What are you talking about?" Ryan demanded. "And why are you here anyway?"
Seth's eyes widened innocently. "I live here, dude. Well, not here in the poolhouse exactly--"
"Could have fooled me."
"Ah, the fabled Atwood wit survives. Anyway, Mom sent me out to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine. I'm sleeping," Ryan growled. "At least I was until youdecided to wake me up."
"Dude, hey, somebody had to. You've been out for like, thirteen hours straight."
Startled, Ryan lowered his arm to blink his disbelief. "Thirteen? No, I haven't."
"Right," Seth nodded. "That's totally true. Except you have."
"I have not," Ryan repeated stubbornly. What about--?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of his nightstand with its carafe of water and prescription bottle.
"Nope. Nope, sorry. Swallowing a pill every four hours doesn't count as waking up. You missed breakfast, you missed lunch, and if it weren't for me braving the lion's den to get you up now, you would miss dinner too. Dinner, buddy. As in the gala family event that we had planned for last night. Besides, you would also miss . . . wait for it now!" Trilling a fanfare, Seth beat a spastic drum-roll on his thigh. "Your surprise!"
"Oh, God." With a stifled moan, Ryan buried his face again. "Not a surprise."
Seth got up to rummage through the baskets of clothes on Ryan's shelves. "Oh, you'll like this one," he promised, tossing sweatpants and a t-shirt onto the bed "But I think you'll want to be dressed for it. Do you need any--?"
"No!" Scrambling up hastily, Ryan grabbed his clothes and glared a warning at Seth. "I do not need help getting dressed."
Seth raised his hands, feigning hurt indignation. "Fine, then, big boy. You're on your own. But hurry. Oh, and don't forget--" Baring his teeth, he mimed brushing and flossing them. "And mouthwash!" he advised as he backed toward the door. "Come to think of it, you might want to get to get some sun too. You're looking pretty pasty." With a grin, he ducked outside, narrowly avoiding the pillow Ryan heaved at him. Then he peeked back in, just long enough to add, "I'll call you when dinner's here, dude!"
Ryan opened the poolhouse door cautiously. Despite having slept so long, he felt fuzzy and slightly unsteady on his feet. It took him a moment to focus. Squinting against the late afternoon sun, he took one stiff step over the threshold. At the same time a pair of tan, very toned legs swung off a deck chair. Ryan stopped short, one hand pressed to his side, the other behind him, still grasping the doorknob. He watched, speechless, as the woman stood up. She was dressed, improbably, like a high school majorette. The gold sequins of her tiny halter-top winked, her pleated skirt swished high on her thighs, and her white boots clicked on the concrete when she moved.
Ryan swallowed hard. "Chelsea?" he stammered.
"Hi, Ace," she drawled. Taking her time, Chelsea studied his body, taking in his wifebeater, his chiseled arms and shoulders, his light sweat pants and bare feet. The tip of her tongue flicked out playfully. "Now that's a good look for you," she observed with a judicious nod. "Mm-hmm. Even with the battle scars."
Ryan flushed, touching his bruised temple self-consciously. "Um . . . thanks?"
"You're welcome. So . . . surprised to see me?"
"Yeah. Definitely surprised." Ryan's eyes, which had been dazzled by her appearance, suddenly flickered with comprehension. "Wait," he said slowly. "A surprise. Seth knew you were here, didn't he?"
"'Course." Chelsea shrugged blithely. "It was his idea for me to wait for you here. But your folks said it was all right." Her hair flamed sunset red as she tossed it back. "Do you mind?"
Clutching the doorknob, Ryan sucked a long breath through his teeth. "Not. At. All," he replied.
"Good." Chelsea dimpled briefly before her smile gave away to embarrassment. "I know I said that I'd wait a couple days before coming over, but then . . . well, I wanted to make sure you were really okay. So I decided to stop by on my way to work. You are okay, aren't you, Ace?"
"Uh-huh. Yeah. I'm . . . good." Nodding numbly, Ryan gestured toward her outfit. "So that--?"
"Oh. Right. It's high school fantasy night at the club. Normally I change there, but I figured . . . why not? This way I don't have to rush." Chelsea started to twirl, her skirt rippling upwards in enticing waves. At the last minute, though, she stopped. Smoothing the fabric back against her legs, she gestured to a gauzy poncho folded over her chair. "Of course, I was wearing a cover-up, but Seth--he's your brother, right? He suggested that I take it off. That Seth, he's a little . . . enthusiastic, isn't he?"
"Enthusiastic," Ryan echoed dryly. "Yeah. Except more like a lot."
"He's nice though. Your whole family is nice."
Ryan glanced at the Cohen house, considering. "My family?" he mused. A slow smile warmed his face and he murmured, almost to himself. "They really are, aren't they?"
Chelsea smiled and stooped down to retrieve a large canvas bag from beside her chair. She dangled the package enticingly by its woven straps. "So . . . brought you something," she caroled. "Want to see?"
"Absolutely." Ryan's voice dropped an octave. "Would you like to come inside?" Chelsea's brows arched and he backtracked hastily. "Or we could just stay out here."
Chelsea laughed. "Inside," she decided, wrinkling her nose pertly. "That might be a good idea--getting out of the sun, I mean. I burn."
"You certainly do," Ryan murmured. Fumbling with the knob, he opened the door and stood aside, watching appreciatively as Chelsea sauntered in.
"Nice," she announced as she surveyed the poolhouse furnishings. "Simple, neat, very masculine . . . The place looks like you. Although I bet all those windows can be a problem when you want privacy."
"Not as much as the habit some people have of walking in unannounced."
"Oh! Seth?"
Ryan nodded ruefully. "Plus a few others. I'm thinking about getting a lock."
"Or you could just rig a pail of cold water over the door," Chelsea suggested. "It worked when I did it with my little brother."
Ryan's chuckle caught on a wince and he rubbed his side automatically. Chelsea's eyes narrowed. Dropping her bag, she grabbed his hand and eased him into the chair, adding a pillow to prop behind his back.
"Chelsea! It was just a twinge," he objected. "I'm fine."
"And we're going to keep it that way," Chelsea retorted. She ignored his continued protests as she lifted his feet onto the ottoman. Then she scanned the room swiftly. Spying the carafe and prescription bottle, she filled a glass of water, poured out two capsules, and handed them both to Ryan.
"Take them," she ordered.
"I don't need--"
"Yes you do. Your mother told me that if you were in pain, you should take these pills."
"Kirsten—she's not--"
"Ryan," Chelsea warned. She planted her hands on her hips, glowering. "Don't argue. Just do as you're told."
"You know, you can't order me around," Ryan protested with a mock scowl. You're not Sipowicz today."
Chelsea shook her head sternly, bouncing her gaudy, fur-tipped baton like a nightstick. "Hey, I still have a baton, Ace. And I know how to use it."
Ryan's mouth quirked, but he nodded in surrender. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed. Obediently, he popped both pills in his mouth, took a sip of water and set the glass on the arm of his chair.
"Oh no you don't. Drink it all." Chelsea thrust the tumbler back in his hands. "You need to keep hydrated. Doctor's orders."
"Why do I feel like I'm back at the hospital?" Ryan grumbled. "Forget cop and majorette. You should be wearing a nurse's uniform."
Chelsea lifted her chin, preening. "I do have one you know."
"I bet you do." Ryan's voice was husky. Ducking his head, he peered up from beneath his lashes, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes glinting with instinctive desire.
"Whoa!" Chelsea gasped shakily. She took an unsteady step back. "You . . . really shouldn't do that, Ace. I'm just here as a friend. With your parents' permission, and, and, and . . . oh hell. I did come to give you some TLC, after all." Bending down, she breathed a kiss against Ryan's bruised forehead, before she let her lips slide slowly down to met his. Instantly, he reached up to cup her head, his fingers threading through her hair as she swept her tongue between his teeth and around his mouth, humming faintly the whole time.
When Ryan finally pulled back, they were both breathless.
"I'm sorry. This . . . I shouldn't . . ." he stammered.
"I know." Chelsea stood up, a little shakily. "Not with your parents--"
"And my girlfriend . . ."
"Oh!" Startled, Chelsea stared at him. "You have a girlfriend?"
"Yeah," Ryan confessed ruefully. "Things are a little, well, strange between us right now, but . . . yeah, I do." His face shuttered as his voice drifted off. "I think I do," he amended softly.
Chelsea sat down on the ottoman, careful not to lean against Ryan's legs. Very gently, she covered his hand with hers. "You don't have to tell me. But if you want to . . . Last night, Ryan—well, you saved my life. So if I can help at all? Maybe just listen?"
Ryan ducked his head. "There's really nothing to tell," he claimed. "It's just . . . Marissa has been through hell the last few months." He cast a furtive, shamed glance at Chelsea before dropping his gaze again. "You'd understand," he whispered.
"Oh." Chelsea's lips pinched on a strangled breath. "You mean, something like . . . Colston?"
"Kind of." Ryan's voice was so low that Chelsea could barely hear him. "I want to help her. I do. But I can't seem to give her what she needs now and, well, there may be somebody else who can."
"Another guy," Chelsea concluded.
Ryan's shrug was accompanied by a reluctant nod. "Marissa says they're just friends, and I believe her, only . . . nothing between us feels right any more. Nothing is easy."
"Aw, Ryan." Chelsea laced her fingers through his, kneading his palms. "A lot of times . . . love isn't easy." Sliding closer, she forced him to look into her eyes. "You know, I'm only dressed like a high school student. Actually, I'm at least five years older than you are. So trust me. I know what I'm talking about."
Ryan bit his lip, fighting a sly grin. "Right," he conceded. "Because you're so ancient."
"Hey!" Chelsea squeezed his hand. "Watch it there, Ace. I did not say ancient! And don't try to chance the subject either." Ryan flushed slightly, averting his face, and she gave a sage nod. "See! I knew that's what you were trying to do . . . But seriously, Ryan, you know that I'm right. A lot of times . . . love is really hard."
"I know," Ryan admitted. He sighed, staring at the ceiling. "And Marissa and I . . . we've been through so much together. I really want it to work. It's just that I'm . . . not sure if it can anymore." Lowering his head, he looked at Chelsea. With a small, rueful smile, he pulled his hand out of hers. "But I can't complicate it . . . I mean, not any more than I just did."
"You mean kissing me."
Ryan took a deep breath before he answered. "It was . . . you are . . . great, Chelsea. But that was wrong."
"I guess it was," she agreed thoughtfully. "But, Ryan it was my fault, really. After what you did for me—and then you just looked so . . . Well, never mind." Chelsea hitched her top higher and tugged down her skirt. "Back to business. Time to give you your get-well presents . . . I mean, your real ones this time."
Digging into one section of her bag, she pulled out a small, desert plant in an earthenware container. Ryan cocked his head quizzically as he accepted it.
"I was going to buy flowers," she explained, flushing slightly. "But you don't seem like the flowery type. So I got this instead. The florist said it's adaptable, and it will thrive as long as you give it a little attention . . . Is it too silly?"
"No. It's great." Ryan touched the serrated leaves, smiling. "I like it."
"And then there's this." From another section, Chelsea retrieved a giant chocolate chip cookie, edged with red frosting. A message on top read, "To My Hero."
Ryan's face flamed instantly. "C'mon," he demurred. "It was no big deal, Chelsea."
"It was a very big deal," she insisted.
Her voice quavered and Ryan peered up, alarmed. "Are you okay?"
"Me? Fine," she claimed staunchly. "I'm not the one who wound up in the hospital."
"Chelsea?" Ryan gave her a searching look, and she shrank down, suddenly appearing very young and vulnerable. "Hey, I confided in you. Come on. You can tell me."
"Honestly?" Chelsea inched a little closer, absently resting one hand on Ryan's ankle. "I can't stop thinking about what might have happened last night, to me—and to you . . . I just keep seeing him . . ." She shuddered, rubbing her arms.
Ryan slid off the chair to sit next to her, and she leaned against him, checking first to make sure that it wasn't his wounded side.
"Are you sure you want to go back to work today?"
Chelsea pursed her lips pensively. "Yes," she said at last. "You know what they say about getting back on the horse--Okay, maybe that's not the best comparison for a lap dancer to use. But honestly, Ryan, I'll be okay. Len has already hired extra security, and Jerry and the girls are all going to look out for me. Besides," She hesitated, unconsciously stiffening in Ryan's arms. "I don't want to be a victim."
"Good for you," he murmured. For a moment he just held her. Then he added slowly, "But you do have my number, if you need me, right?"
Chelsea jerked upright, bristling. "I am not going to call you, Ryan Atwood!" She glared at him, fierce and adamant. "Not for that. You were amazing, and I'll always be grateful, but I never, ever want you to do anything like that again."
"Chelsea--"
"I mean it, Ryan. Look, I don't expect you to stand by and just watch somebody be hurt. I know you couldn't do that. Just next time . . . be careful," she pleaded. "Be smart. Because your life matters too, you know. A lot."
There was a brief silence. At last Chelsea gently disengaged herself from Ryan's sheltering arm and stood up. "I kept the number you gave me last night though," she admitted. "But Ryan, I wondered, the lawyer's name . . . Sandy Cohen? That's your dad, right?"
Ryan gazed past Chelsea for a moment. "Yes," he said quietly. "It is."
"And he's a good lawyer?"
A faint, grateful smile lit Ryan's face as he nodded. "There's nobody better."
"Good. I will definitely call him if I ever encounter another Colston. But now, I'd better get going before I'm late for work." Stooping down, Chelsea started to kiss Ryan's cheek, but at the last minute, she simply cupped it with her hand, stroking his skin lightly as she smiled down at him. "Remember, I still owe you a dinner," she said. "Pasta at my place, as soon as you're all better." She grinned impishly, "And I'll make my Better than Sex chocolate cake—you know, so we won't be tempted."
Ryan laughed, and her smile grew brighter.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, digging into her bag one last time. "I almost forgot: Seth asked me to give you this." Pulling out a CD, she handed it to Ryan. "He calls it the Recovery Mix—music to inspire the recuperation process. You can bring it when you come to dinner if you want. But," she warned mysteriously, "I think you and I better skip the first cut."
With a puzzled frown, Ryan flipped the case over to read Seth's notes. "Ah," he drawled wryly. "Sexual Healing. Yeah, I guess we should avoid that one."
Chelsea shouldered her bag, twirling her baton once before she stuck it inside. "I'll call you, Ace," she promised. "You take care of yourself, okay?"
"You too," Ryan urged.
"Oh, I will." At the door, Chelsea paused, looking back with mingled concern and admiration. "One more thing, Ryan. Your girlfriend? Marissa? I hope really things work out. And I know I shouldn't say this, since it's not like I understand the whole situation, but still . . . If she doesn't realize that she has the best guy right now—well, it's her loss. Because honestly, Ace? You are. The best."
Before Ryan could reply, Chelsea blew him a kiss, slipped out the door, and vanished in a flash of white and gold.
TBC