Ok, so I'm totally pimping my new story here. Last chapter I asked for prompts, and I got a bunch. So if you requested, pop on by Little Thoughts. Ok… done pimping now.

Enjoy the Vegasy goodness.

Music: ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't've fallen in love with?

I wake up when he shifts again, this time letting out a soft sigh. I've been trying to fall asleep for a while, but he keeps tossing and turning. Maybe he's just stressed out about everything – Trey, Cody, the wedding. "Ryan?" I open my eyes to find him staring at the ceiling.

"Yeah?" He keeps his voice low for some reason, like he can't speak normally in the dark.

"Why are you being broody?" I shift closer to him, pressing my face into his chest and breathing in the smell of laundry detergent and him. He used to sleep in just boxers – or naked – but he's wearing a t-shirt to bed tonight. Because Cody's in the next room?

I guess I'm going to have to stop walking around naked now.

"I'm not being broody," he tells me, stiffening up. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't," I protest, titling my head to look up at him. "And you are so totally being broody. What's wrong?"

"You don't wanna know."

I sigh, propping up on one arm to get a better view of him. "Of course I want to know. If you have some issue, I'd like to get it out in the open before we get married." That earns a bitter laugh out of him, making me frown.

"You really don't wanna know what my problem is," he warns, which is probably the stupidest thing to say. I mean, way to spark my curiosity.

"Ryan Atwood," I make myself sound stern, "tell me."

"Fine," he grits out, jaw clenching. Then he grabs my left hand, sliding it off his chest and down to the bulge in his sweatpants that I hadn't even noticed before.

"Oh," I breathe, feeling the heat rise in my face – and other places – as he continues to stare at the ceiling. He doesn't remove my hand from his crotch either, which is bad. Bad because it isn't helping him, and bad because it's sending electricity running from my hand, down my arm, straight to my stomach where it swirls, making the heat between my legs climb unbearably.

"Yeah." He finally releases my wrist and I force myself to take my hand away.

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault," he shrugs, still not looking at me, face totally blank. But yes, it is my fault. The no sex thing is my idea. It's not that I'm regretting it – I'm not, really. Yes, I miss sleeping with him, but I still think it's the best thing for us before the wedding. But I feel bad, because no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to stop doing this to him. I mean, all I was doing was trying to sleep.

"Maybe I should stay at Seth and Summer's till the wedding," I suggest. I watch the protest flicker over his face before it settles back.

"Yeah, that may be a good idea." We sit in silence for a few seconds before he sits up, turning to face away from me and putting his feet on the floor. "I think I'm gonna go sleep on the couch."

"Ryan…" I start, not wanting him to go. But maybe he should if it's what he wants – and if it'll help him. He gets up and finally turns to look at me, a small, indulgent smile on his face. Then he leans forward, resting one hand on the bed, the other gripping the hair at the back of my head as he kisses me hard.

When he's finally finished – when I'm finally so dizzy I can barely focus – he pulls away but keeps his face close. "Five more days," he rasps – apparently just as affected by the kiss as I am. "Five more days till you're all mine." He lets go of my hair and stands up. "I want you to think about that."

Then he leaves the room, shutting the door, and fuck, how am I supposed to sleep after that?

"Thanks for helping," I throw over my shoulder as we walk into the apartment.

"Ok, when you said 'I'm taking Cody out', I didn't think it would entail manual labor," he whines back, and I roll my eyes. The guy complains about everything.

"It's not manual labor, Seth." All I asked him to do was help me carry the bags into Cody's room, but he can't even handle that.

To be fair, though, we did buy a lot of stuff for the kid. New clothes, shoes, sheets, more food, and another video game controller. I even made him buy books – although he protested that. Actually, he protested all of it, but I don't care. I'd been the same way when the Cohens first took me in.

"Thanks," Cody mutters when we pile all the stuff in his room, and he shoves his hands into his pockets and ducks his head. Seth shoots me a look that I can only interpret as are you sure you don't have a DeLorean?

"It's no problem," I shrug back, moving over to the closet. "Now, Taylor has a lot of shi-stuff in here, so I'll try and make some room."

"Ooh, going through Taylor's stuff. That sounds fun." I hear the sarcasm in Seth's voice, and I just know that behind me, he's rolling his eyes. But when I turn around and catch him making a gagging gesture, Cody's grinning, so I decide to let him live. But I'll still make him pay.

"And just for that, you're gonna help me."

"Aw crap."

"How do I look?"

I turn on the dais to face Summer and Kaitlin, waiting as they run their gazes over me appraisingly. It's almost scary, how nervous I am. I mean, I know I'm not ugly, and I know Ryan thinks I'm hot – his word, not mine – but I'm not sure I'm pretty enough to pull this off. To pull off a wedding dress. What if I look weird in it? What if I look stupid? I already know I'm not looking as good as Summer did.

Truthfully, I'm almost glad she's eight months pregnant – so she won't look better than me on my wedding day.

Or, at least I had been happy about her being pregnant, but then she had to go and get that pregnancy glow. Which means she pretty much looks better than she ever has – and she's one of those women who keeps their bodies during pregnancy. It looks like she's Summer, just with a basketball tucked into her shirt.

I'm almost tempted to make her wear a giant, electric orange taffeta dress.

"You look good," Kaitlin speaks first, nodding at me. I wish she could be my other bridesmaid, but Ryan didn't have another groomsman to go with it, so it's just Seth and Summer. I'm still making Kaitlin do bridesmaid stuff, though – like this dress fitting.

"Ryan won't know what hit him," Summer mirrors Kaitlin's nod, like she approves. I nod – because I'm not about to argue with pregnant Summer – but I don't agree.

I mean, really. I highly doubt Ryan'll be floored by me. He's seen prettier girls than me – hell, he's dated prettier girls than me. This is just me in a white dress. What's there to be 'hit' by?

"Can we go lingerie shopping now?" Kaitlin whines, slumping back in her chair. "It's Justin's birthday next month…"

"Can we take a break?" Seth pants, looking sweaty.

"We've only been doing this for an hour," I roll my eyes at him, not breaking from my movements. What the hell does Taylor need with all this crap? It's just boxes of… well, crap. Old papers from college, a box of wires – things like old cell phone chargers, old headphones. There's a pair of boots I remember her buying six years ago that she doesn't wear anymore, a box of VHS tapes – seriously? – and seventeen purses. Seventeen.

Not that it's messy, per se. It's all very organized – each box labeled and sorted according to what it is. Like, the purses and the shoes were near each other, then the VHS tapes, then the wires, then papers. Even her clutter is organized.

A slight oomph comes from inside the closet, and I peer in to see Cody struggling with a relatively medium-sized box. He insisted on helping – because it's his room and his stuff, and I'm pretty sure he feels guilty enough, so I let him. And that box looks harmless, but it must be heavy, because he's staggering under its weight. I go in and help him out, letting the thing clunk onto the floor next to the rest of the shit.

"Good God, what's in there?" Seth crinkles up his face in distaste. I shrug, pulling the flaps open to- "Oh," Seth breathes reverently as we all stare into the box. "I feel like there should be… like, light coming from inside, and… and angels singing or something."

"Seth, shut up."

"It's like the Holy Grail…"

"Seth, leave."

"Journals?" Cody cuts in, confused. He doesn't seem to get how spectacularly wrong this could all go.

He's never been in a relationship, apparently.

"Diaries," Seth whispers, eyes wide. "Ryan, you have to read them. Preferably out loud. Preferably to me."

"I'm not gonna read them," I hear myself say, eyes drifting back to the box. He sighs in annoyance, and I feel the familiar start of a headache.

"Well, if that's the last box, can we take a break then?" he whines again, apparently losing all interest now that he's not getting his way.

"Yeah," I nod, tearing my gaze away from the diaries and up to him.

"Kickass," he celebrates, leaving the room. "I'm calling out for pizza." There's silence for a few seconds.

"Cody…" I start, and I find myself looking at that damn box again.

"I'll be playing video games," he cuts in, giving me this look. Crap. Well, as long as Seth doesn't find out, I guess Cody knowing is ok. So I nod at him, and he leaves, shooting me another look that I read as 'I'll play video games with Seth and distract him'.

And now it's just me and the box.

Of Taylor's diaries.

All her thoughts, wants, desires, dreams. All laid out for me to read – begging for me to read them. They're calling out to me. But I shouldn't. It's wrong to read her private stuff, right?

Right?

Right?

"I can't believe Ryan actually has a style of lingerie he likes," Summer shakes her head, glaring at the skimpy clothes around us.

"Well, it's not really a style," I protest, shrugging. "I just remember one time he said he loved when I wore stuff that looked French." I shake the set in my hands for emphasis. "Then he muttered something about me being high-class or something like that, I don't know."

"Like a high-class hooker?" Kaitlin asks, eyeing up something that's a little too revealing for my tastes. I like to wear lingerie that isn't so… out there. I like it a little more demure, so Ryan has to sweat it out a bit before he sees the good stuff.

"No," I sigh, holding the hanger across my shoulders and looking in a mirror for comparison. "I think he likes to have this fantasy, where he's still from Chino and I'm this little rich girl he gets to debauch."

"Except he's pretty much not from Chino anymore, and you're already debauched," Summer cuts in drily, folding her arms above her bulging stomach and giving a death glare to some girl who giggles loudly with her boyfriend. I think she officially hates everyone in this store – Kaitlin and me included – because she can't fit into any of it and we can.

"Doesn't seem to matter," I tell her. "Cause it seems like all his fantasies involve corrupting me in some way – schoolgirl, maid – although I'm not sure what category girl in wet t-shirt falls under."

"Do you guys ever have normal sex?" Summer asks grumpily.

"All the time. The kinky stuff is only occasionally, but it's much more fun to talk about." I love freaking people out. "Now," I turn to them, holding up the lingerie set I have, "yes or no?"

Bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad.

This is so bad.

But I can't stop.

It's like… crack? Crack's addictive, right?

Yeah. It's like crack.

Oh God, I shouldn't be doing this.

Well, so much for my morals, I think as I pick up the first diary. They're all labeled – of course they are, it's Taylor – and this one says March 2003–December 2003. And my hands are actually shaking as I sit on the floor and open it to the first page.

The first entry isn't all that interesting – just about how she got the journal from her uncle for her birthday, and she's totally going to write in it every day. And the next entry is dated two months later. So much for the every day thing.

I skip ahead to August, 2003. The month I came to live with the Cohens.

Nothing.

Turns out, she was in Cabo for the summer – apparently missing Cotillion, because her mother said her dress made her look fat. It's actually a little frustrating, that I'm not mentioned yet. Is that sad? I decide to scan the pages until I see my name – or at least the words new kid. Maybe hot new kid?

There it is.

She doesn't mention me until almost a month into sophomore year, and then not even by name. And then only after she's complained about this year being the same as last year:

-But speaking of Marissa, she's been hanging out with the new boy. I hear he's from Chino. Mother says he's a danger to our community, but she said that about the new Wal-mart, so I'm not so sure. But the new boy hangs out with Seth Cohen like it's no big deal, which is weird. I mean, Seth Cohen's a bigger loser than I am.-

And that's it.

That's fucking it.

She doesn't say my name and she compares me to a Wal-Mart.

I go through the rest of that year, and nothing. The last entry's about how her mother got her diet pills and a gym membership for Christmas, and that's fucking it. I don't know why I was hoping I'd be mentioned more. It's not like I thought she'd be following me through high school or anything…

But I guess I wanted her to at least have noticed me. Maybe mentioned she thought I was hot or something? She doesn't even talk about Marissa that much, which I'd really expected. But she doesn't. She talks about books she's read, movies she's watched, what her new playlist consists of, her maid's familial drama.

It's kind of sad, actually.

"Well, if he's into the whole corrupting you thing, he'll love that," Kaitlin tells me when I exit the changing room, lingerie in hand. "Plus, it matches the wedding dress."

"I know!" I grin at the white lace in my hands. I love when things match.

I pay for mine, Kaitlin buying the black one she'd been eyeing down earlier, saying something about Justin exploding. Summer glares at us, rubbing her stomach.

I don't suggest we go to a maternity store for her to buy maternity lingerie. The last time I suggested we go shopping for pregnancy clothes she hit me, called me a bitch, then broke into tears. Because apparently – in Summer language – I'd called her fat.

Actually, anything anyone says means 'you're fat' in Summer language. She's quite touchy about the subject.

January 2004-December 2004 is just as uneventful. A few mentions of how annoying Marissa is, but other than that, mostly just her mother's bitchiness and her maid's son's problems and how he doesn't realize he loves his best friend. She seems more interested in other people's lives than her own.

I don't make another appearance until halfway through diary number three: January 2005-December 2005. And then all she does is mention how I punched Hess in the face at the kickoff carnival.

I can't decide whether the worst part of that entry is how awesome she thinks the sex with him is, or the way she doesn't call me by my name; just refers to me as 'Marissa's automaton boytoy'.

I'm tempted to skip that entire year, because I really, really, don't want to read about her relationship with Hess, or her subsequent crush on Seth, and later her fling with the Korean waiter. But something forces me to, and I guess I should take solace in the way she writes about Hess so clinically – he's obviously just a tool for her to use. There's no emotions there, which is… actually it's a relief. I mean, it's sort of depressing how she's such a… well, bitch comes to mind, but it's kind of true. Or, it starts off true, because after her little mini-crush on Seth, she gets better.

She still doesn't talk about me though. It's basically all Seth for a while there, no mention of his – slightly shorter but more masculine – brother. Even when I crack open January 2006-December 2006 I'm not there. Well, not in the first half, when we were still in high school. A very brief mention of how I 'clean up nicely' at prom and how 'un-felon-like' it was for me to get her money back after Volchok stole it.

There's a feeling in the pit of my stomach – something like apprehension – as we reach graduation. I'm almost surprised to find she has an entire entry about Marissa's death. She'd been in Korea at the time, but somehow she managed to get hold of one of those little cards they hand out at funerals – with a soothing picture on the front and a Bible verse on the back – and pasted it into the diary.

Strangely enough, the apprehension doesn't go away with Marissa's death. I find myself almost holding my breath as we move through June, July, August, September, October, November. Although, I have to admit, my favorite entry so far has to go to October 29th – France sucks.

I read through Thanksgiving – she hid under Seth's bed? – until I get to what I've been waiting for through four years. Diaries, whatever.

Me.

She starts off ranting about her husband – God, she can't even call him 'ex-husband' yet – and how she tried to enlist my help. Which I'd turned down.

Have I ever mentioned how fucking glad I am Sandy came in and convinced me to play the hero again?

I read the next entries with my heart going a mile a minute, because she fell for me way too quickly. One kiss and she was head over heels, planning on how best to seduce me. I'd thought the sleep therapist thing had been stupid, but some of her other possible ideas had been downright… well, crazy. There was one about having some sort of 'accident' to get my attention – and sympathy. I'm glad she never went through with that plan.

2006 ends with a few days after Chrismukkah – about how lighthearted she felt after the coma. So I pick up 2007, which starts on January 2nd.

Holy fuck, is she trying to write some sort of porno? She's actually detailed every single thing we did on New Year's Eve. Or, at least all the dirty parts. Because of her 'everything but' clause, we hadn't actually had sex that night, but we definitely hadn't been saints. And now I'm reliving the entire night – she should start writing romance novels or something. Cause she's quite good at capturing… the mood. In detail. Fuck. Are we that dirty?

Apparently she thinks I have a 'talented' mouth, and she was 'relieved' when she saw me naked for the first time. Seems she thought my tendency to get into fights may have something to do with me being… poorly equipped.

I'd rather not think about it.

Although I should probably take it as a good sign that I seem to be the only guy she talks about in great detail. And that I'm the only guy who's sexual exploits she recounts vividly.

I kind of feel like photocopying this and sending it to Henri-Michel with some scathing note about how he may have written a pseudo-pornographic book about her, but she wrote one about me.

And hers isn't half made up.

Take that, smug French bastard.

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