"Are you okay?" Marissa Cooper asked him.
Ryan looked up at the sound of her voice and nodded wearily. She kept glancing at him and he wished she would stop. He was fine. He was more than fine, in fact. He was—
A wave of pain shattered his self-assurances like so much glass. He stifled a groan and shifted in his seat trying to find relief from the burning in his belly. It reminded him of the time he'd had appendicitis when he was eight. His mother had been gone, as usual, and Ryan was beside himself with pain. Trey had wrapped his brother's arm around his shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried him over to Theresa's house. Her mother had instantly packed him in the car and driven him to the hospital, holding his hand as she drove. Dawn hadn't arrived until the next morning and when she'd tried to hold Ryan's hand he'd pulled away from her. He hadn't wanted to sully the one memory he had of what a mother was supposed to be like.
"Ryan?" Marissa was calling, panic clear in her tone. "Ryan, what's wrong? Were you hurt?"
Ryan came back to himself with a start. The pain seemed reluctant to release its hold on him and he'd broken out into a cold sweat. It was strange, being so cold, but having what felt like a furnace in his side. He glanced down and would have cursed at the amount of blood puddled in the contours and grooves of the front seat if he had the strength. How he was going to pay for the car to be re-upholstered he had no idea.
"I'm fine," he mumbled to Marissa, realizing it had been a little while since she'd all but shouted at him. "Just a little scratch. Kirsten can bandage it up when we get home. She's good at that stuff, you know. My mother was never very good with blood or pain in general, I guess. And she wasn't very good at cooking either which reminds me of Thanksgiving dinner. We should hurry."
Ryan glanced over to see Marissa staring at him with mild alarm. He tried to remember what he had said to her, but the pain seemed to be blocking everything but the most basic functions. All he wanted to do was go home to his pool house, take a hot shower, eat dinner and sleep. He was sure that the wound on his side was superficial. It had to be. If the Cohen's ever found out what had happened today they would never forgive him.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Marissa asked, looking at him suspiciously. "I've never heard you say so many words at one time. You sound funny."
"I'm fine," he repeated, managing to sit up in his seat. He could feel his blood soaking into the butt of his jeans and he grimaced. He'd really liked this pair and he wasn't going to allow Kirsten to buy him new ones. Besides, how exactly was he going to explain the dark red stains without giving himself up?
There were alarm bells ringing in the back of his head, screaming something about blood loss, shock, and organ damage but Ryan ignored them. He hadn't been shot, he hadn't been shot, he hadn't been shot. A lie, he knew, but perhaps if he repeated it enough times, the magical godmother he'd never known he had would suddenly materialize and make his wound disappear.
"Haven't been shot," he murmured, stomach lurching when he realized he'd said it out loud.
"What?" Marissa asked, glancing at him sharply.
"I said you need to stop," Ryan fibbed. "I need to go back and tell Trey it's done."
"Are you serious?" Marissa asked incredulously. "Ryan, we just got shot at. Doesn't that bother you? Tell Trey another time."
"Sure, it does," Ryan replied. "I just don't want to have to make another trip out here if I can help it. I need to get this over with."
Not entirely true, but Ryan needed to assess the damage the bullet had made without alerting Marissa to his plight. Marissa could drop him off at this gas station he knew and Ryan would slip into the bathroom to take care of what he needed to in order to buy him some time. He knew he was being stupid, knew he needed a hospital, but he couldn't go to the hospital without the nurses calling Sandy and Kirsten. They would find out that he'd gone back to his old ways and that would be that. He would lose another family, but this time it would be his fault. He couldn't bear the thought of that so he decided to wait and figure this mess out on his own. He'd done it before and he could do it again. Of course, the bullet wound was a little new, but apparently trying new things made you a well-rounded person.
"Are you sure about this?" Marissa asked him.
"I am," Ryan whispered. "I need to do this, Marissa. Please understand."
"I do understand. I just…I don't want to see you hurt."
Oh Marissa, Ryan thought. If you only knew.
"Yeah, I know but he's my brother. Family is family. You can drop me off at this gas station I know around the corner here. I will catch a ride home when I'm finished."
He knew the gas station very well. He'd been caught shoplifting there more than once, but he didn't mention this little tidbit to Marissa. He had chosen it because it offered him bathrooms off to the side of the station itself. He could find a way to send her into the gas station, clean the blood of the seat before she saw it, and book it to the bathroom before she got back. That was the plan, anyways.
"Turn right here," Ryan ordered Marissa tightly. "It's the first one on the left."
"Ryan," Marissa said softly. "You don't look so good. Maybe we should take you to the doctor. You could have gotten a concussion or something when that asshole hit you."
"No, I'm fine. Honestly. I just want to get this done and go home. If there is an issue we can deal with it there."
"Okay," Marissa whispered as they turned into the tiny station and parked. "I'll be right back. I'm going to get a snack before I go. I've heard eating something helps with nerves."
"Don't hurry on my account," Ryan said, holding his hand to his side.
She smiled at him and he watched her walk through the doors with guilt heavy on his heart. He hated lying to her, hated being the guy he'd sworn he wouldn't be, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Marissa couldn't know because Marissa had the car and would instantly drive him to the hospital no matter how hard he pleaded with her not to.
He waited a few seconds before opening the door. With a sickening lurch of gorge in his throat he watched as his blood dripped down the side of the seats and onto the pavement. As soon as he stood up he felt a wave dizziness slam into him and it was all he could do to remain upright. He held onto the door-frame for dear life, panting and nauseous with pain. Ok, so things were a little worse than he'd originally believed, but there was still no need to panic. No need to make any rash decisions.
He swallowed the urge to throw up and concentrated on cleaning the blood from the seat. He hadn't been sure how he was going to manage that part, but Marissa had given him the perfect out. He grabbed a beach towel he had stuffed underneath the seat after a day at the beach with Seth and mopped up as best he could. The most important part was the leather and he felt pretty secure about his job with it. If Marissa happened to glance at the carpet beneath his feet or at the side of seat it would all be over, but he highly doubted that would happen until she got home. He threw the towel in the trunk, wincing as the movement jostled his side. He couldn't wait any longer. He had to get out of here.
As soon as his vision settled and his head stopped spinning Ryan stumbled towards the bathroom, leaving the door wide open in his haste. He barely managed to open the door, partly because his hands were slick with blood, but partly because his limited surge of strength seemed to be failing him. An old homeless man on the other side of street watched him with interest and Ryan lifted his middle finger before disappearing through the door, slamming it shut and locking it behind him. He somehow made it to the sink and turned the faucet on high so he could groan out loud without anyone getting suspicious. He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped out a quick message to Marissa letting her know he was fine, but had to use the little boys room. He told her not to wait for him and that he'd see her at home. He could only hope she would listen.
Ryan gingerly lifted his shirt and eyed his blood-covered torso in distaste. He could barely make out the point of entry, but as soon as his finger grazed the bullet hole he knew for sure. His world was gone in a sheet of white pain and he whimpered as he slumped to the floor. The bullet had entered low down on his side and from what little Ryan could recall about human anatomy torn through the area where his liver should be. That was bad, wasn't it?
He couldn't remember for sure, but the pain was spreading rapidly through his stomach and groin and blood began to form in a puddle on the dirty bathroom floor. Ryan spotted an old towel contraption in the corner, one of the ones that had the cloth towel that revolved around each time a person dried their hands. He dragged himself towards it overly aware of the bloody smears he brought with him. Grasping the cloth, Ryan pulled and yanked the entire thing out of the wall. It crashed down on him and he put his hands over his head to keep it from knocking him out. It slammed down on his fingers and he cried out as his digits showed their distaste of his most recent assault. He could see blood welling up from a couple of cuts on his hands, but he could handle those later. For now he had to stop the blood from draining out of his side.
Ryan ripped a long piece of cloth from the container and held it firmly against his side. He choked down a scream as pain exploded through him all but knocking him out. Groaning was one thing, but screams would draw attention and he couldn't afford to—oh, who was he kidding? He needed help. He needed it badly. Tearing off more than he could chew seemed to be a common theme among the Atwood clan, but this was bringing it to a whole new level.
He slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily. He needed help, but he sure as hell wasn't going to call the police. He trusted them about as far he could throw them and in his semi-delirious state of mind his instincts won out over common sense. He had been in a Chino hospital more than once and he never wanted to do it again. He had insurance now, didn't he? He could afford to go to an actual hospital with doctors who cared about more than getting through to the next patient. No, he wasn't going to call the police, but he was loathe to call the one person he knew could help him because it meant giving up a home. Still, if Ryan died he wouldn't have a family and he would hurt the Cohen's so, with shaking fingers, he reached into his jeans pocket and flipped open his phone.
Marissa had answered him. 'Okay. Be careful and see you soon. Don't worry…this will be our little secret.' He smiled weakly and thought about calling her, but she wasn't who he needed in that moment. He needed his father. He needed Sandy. Ryan dialed the number and held the phone up to his ear with shaking hands. He could smell his blood on his hands and the metallic odor made him dizzy.
The phone rang four times before Sandy actually answered. Ryan couldn't describe the relief that flooded through him at the sound of his voice.
"Ryan," Sandy greeted warmly. "Boy, am I glad you called. You need to get your ass back here. Things are turning pretty ugly, but what can you expect when Caleb is involved? I'll tell you, Ryan, just once I wish I could let you kick his—"
"Sandy," Ryan interrupted weakly. "Sandy, stop."
It was a testament to the kind of father Sandy was that he realized the second he heard Ryan's voice that something was wrong. Ryan's own father or mother would have had to see him collapse from blood loss before they even acknowledged he was hurt.
"Ryan?" Sandy said questioningly. "Kid, are you alright? You sound funny."
"I've been better," Ryan laughed slightly, alarmed when he felt blood fleck his lips. "Sandy, I might be in a bad situation here."
"Okay, kid," Sandy said soothingly. "Just don't do anything stupid. I'll come get you and we can figure it out."
"Too late for that," Ryan whispered. "Sandy, how much blood can someone lose before they die?"
"What? Ryan, what the hell are you talking about?"
"You should ask Seth," Ryan slurred. "I bet he would know. He knows everything."
"Ryan," Sandy said loudly, fear evident in his voice. "Come on, kid. You need to tell me where you are and what happened. I'm getting in the car right now."
Ryan heard the car door slam and the jingle of keys being put into the ignition. His mind was beginning to get fuzzy and the pool of blood surrounding him was no longer as alarming. He was just so damn cold.
"Ryan," Sandy said again. "Tell me where the hell you are."
"A bathroom," Ryan answered. "At a gas station in Chino. A Phillips 66, I think. Its on the corner of—"
The air caught in Ryan's throat and before he knew what was happening he was coughing, dark arterial blood coming up his throat. He slumped over sideways and watched as red stained the white tiles in flecks and drops. When he was finally done he was sweating profusely and shivering. His side ached more fiercely than it ever had before and Ryan put his head on the cool tiles and cried for the first time in years.
Faintly, and coming to him as if through a long tunnel, he heard Sandy shouting his name through the speaker of the phone he'd dropped during his coughing fit. He reached out his hand and managed to grab it with clumsy fingers, bringing the speaker up to his ear.
"Sandy," he gasped. "Sandy, please. I need help."
"I know," Sandy whispered. "Listen to me, kid. How bad are you hurt?"
"Hurt?" Ryan said, closing his eyes. "I wasn't hurt, Sandy. I was shot."
He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. He could imagine the lawyer's bushy eyebrows go wide in shock before falling to crease in worry. He heard Kirsten beside him asking what he'd said.
"Kirsten is there?" Ryan asked, surprised.
"Ryan, where were you shot?"
"In my side," Ryan said. "My left side. I—shit, this hurts."
"I know, kid. Stay with me all right? Your mother called the police. They are on their way."
"No police," Ryan mumbled. "I can't go back, Sandy."
"You're not going anywhere, kid. Not if I can help it."
"I thought you'd hate me," Ryan slurred. "I thought you'd never talk to me again and I would die alone. I don't want to die alone."
"Nobody is dying," Sandy said sharply. "Just keep talking to me, kid. When did this happen? After Marissa dropped you off?"
"No," Ryan whispered. "Before. But she didn't know. I lied to her just like I lied to you."
"It's fine," Sandy said urgently. "Ryan, its fine. Whatever you did we can work through it."
"No," Ryan gurgled. "You don't know, Sandy. You don't know what I did."
"Ryan. Ryan, can you hear me?"
Kirsten. Ryan opened his eyes.
"Kirsten?"
"I'm here, Ryan. We're all here. We're coming for you."
"Why? I'm not—I'm not—Kirsten, there is so much blood."
His thoughts were becoming fragmented. It was all he could to keep his eyes open and talking suddenly seemed like walking uphill in sand. His vision was going from color to black and white and the pain was building to a blinding crescendo that would break over him and send him spiraling into darkness.
He could feel tears running down his cheeks and his shoulders shook as he cried. This wasn't the way he'd wanted to go out. This was the Atwood way, the Chino way. This was the future he'd tried so hard to avoid, this was the prediction his mother had made to him so many times. He had wished for a better life, but his request had been denied.
"Don't tell Seth I cried," Ryan rasped. "Bad boy Chino is my thing. He'd be—he'd be crushed, Kirsten."
"Seth will be fine," Kirsten said gently. "Ryan, whatever happens stay on the phone. Keep talking."
"Right," Ryan snorted weakly, managing some last minute humor. "Cause that's always been my thing."
"Funny," Kirsten said. "Who knew Ryan Atwood could be funny?"
"I had my funny bone broken when I was six," Ryan slurred.
"Two in a row? The world really is coming to an end."
"Mine is," Ryan whispered.
"Don't. Don't you dare give up on me, Ryan. I have given up too much to let you slip away from me."
"I make everything harder," Ryan said, eyes drooping. "I make everything—"
"No," Kirsten interrupted him. "You don't, Ryan. You have brought so much joy into our lives. You are a member of the family. You're a Cohen."
"A Cohen," Ryan whispered.
"We love you, Ryan. Just stay with us."
But he couldn't stay. He just couldn't. No matter how hard he tried to keep his eyes open, no matter how much he wanted to tell Kirsten he would try for her, his body betrayed him. The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the tiles, but Ryan couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear anything but the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins. He was cold, so cold, but the pain had vanished and Ryan felt relieved. He gave in readily to the darkness, to the pain free world of his dreams.
Kirsten shouted his name over and over through the speakers, but no answer came to her. Only the harsh rasp of Ryan's breath in his throat and then…only silence.