Yelling
by M. F. LuderPart two
It's all a bad dream spinning in your lovely head.
- Down Poison. Three Doors Down.
Dinner is close to being finished and Ryan can count on one hand the number of times he has looked up. Ryan lets the conversation wash over him. It's easy, really, to pretend he's here only with Sandy and Kirsten and Seth. No one else. No need for anyone else. Seth keeps glancing Ryan's way and he's already given him a small smile. That's the best I can do, Ryan thinks as he sighs.
"Well, Kirsten," Dick says, leaning back against the chair, folding his hands on top of the table. "Dinner was remarkable, but I know you didn't invite me over to compliment you on your ability to order out."
Kirsten smiles, nodding as she does so. "Yes, you're right." She takes a deep breath, reaching for her glass of wine. She takes a sip before saying anything else.
Ryan pushes his peas to the edge of his plate. He can't eat, everything is tasteless at this moment. But this will be over, soon. It can't take longer than this. Another hour, probably. Not even that. And the Cohens are with him. They won't leave him alone, nor will Seth. And that's more than enough.
"I'm sure you've heard about Newport Group's position at the moment."
Dick nods. "Yes, yes, I heard about your father's social mistake in marrying someone with such a background and then about his legal issues. Quite a pity, really. I liked your father."
"Yes, well." She shrugs nonchalantly, but when Ryan looks up, he can see the set of her shoulders. She's worried. He's heard enough about the company to know there are more problems there than the Cohens let on. Many, many more. And something in the back of Ryan's mind tells him that maybe, Dick was the only thing that could save them.
That means you're screwed, Ryan. Screwed. Literally.
"I thought... with you coming back to California..."
She doesn't say anything else, and Ryan can very easily fill in the blanks. We need you. The company needs you. We're sinking. He understands. He's heard whispered words between Sandy and Kirsten for weeks. Heard Kirsten tell Sandy, in the kitchen, clinging to him when Ryan was supposed to be asleep or out doing a paper, that she felt like she was running out of options. And this is the last one. For her, for them. For all everyone.
Including you, Ryan, my boy.
Ryan closes his eyes shut. Oh, god.
"I've been meaning to invest, yes." Dick says, nodding, taking his time. He was never the one to rush things. He always knew when to speak and when to keep quiet. Ryan doesn't know, doesn't remember, which one was more deadly. "I think Newport Group might be the right choice."
Kirsten doesn't look like a huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders. It doesn't seem like it, but Ryan can see it in the corner of her eyes and the lessening of her hold of her glass.
"With one condition."
Ryan's breath catches in his throat. Oh, god. Another thing to know about Dick, of course, there were always conditions. Always things over your head. Things he had about you, around you and wasn't that one of the reasons--
Ryan looks up, turning around to look at Kirsten and his eyes shift involuntarily. Dick's looking right at him. Ryan can feel his hand shaking on his lap. Oh, god. And then Dick smiles, the corners of his lips curling upward, black eyes meeting clear blue and there's recognition in them. Ryan gasps, silently, under his breath.
Didn't think you could run far enough, did you? Didn't think this was something to be forgotten, swept under the rug, right? Because that's not how it's done. Nope, not how it's done, not in Orange County, Ryan my darling. No, not at all.
Here, you remember. And you've come to a full stop. No more running now.
Ryan swallows past the tightness in his throat. He knows me. He knows me. He sees me. He's seen me
"That I'll be allowed to see you more often," Dick's eyes leave him, turn around and glance at Kirsten. Quiet smile on his lips, simple smile. Nonthreatening smile. Ryan doesn't buy it for one second. "All of you. Like family."
Kirsten's nodding, of course, why wouldn't she? "Of course," she says, pleased, because she thinks that's hardly a price to pay for her company's safety, future and everything. But she doesn't know, does she? How could she.
You're fucked.
Ryan's hand shakes, trembles, and it's pressing down on the handkerchief like he wants to kill it. God, maybe he does. He sighs, looking down at his hands. Well, nothing else left to do, is there? The air feels thick, almost breathless, and with a silent slam his fate has been sealed. He doesn't remember much after that, like he wasn't there at all. Wasn't living it. He stood up when the time came, nodded at Seth when he made a comment. Seth didn't notice, or if he noticed, well, then Ryan wasn't paying enough attention to Seth to see it, was he?
When Dick says his goodbyes, Ryan stands by Sandy's side, one step behind him, hands shoved into his pockets. They are still trembling as he tries to smile at the man but doesn't get as far. He nods, he can do that, but Dick doesn't look at him. Or pretends not to look at him. Ryan's too far gone to notice, really.
He doesn't know how he gets to the pool house, but one moment he's standing by the door, watching Dick turn around and walk to his car, the next he's in the middle of his small room. He sighs, his chest tight, his breathing labored.
He's trapped, he thinks. You're trapped, his mind whispers. You wouldn't be, had you had the balls to actually say something, you little piece of shit.
Oh, fuck you!
The voice stays quiet, but not for long, that's for sure.
He takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the here and now. No point in reliving past mistakes. He remembers he still has History homework to do and the night is young. He starts taking off his tie and throws it on top of the bed, along with the jacket. He's tired, but there are things to get gone. It's not like he was going to get any sleep tonight, anyway.
He walks to the kitchen island that serves, sometimes, as a table. His books are there, calculus and history and physics probably. He reaches for them, but his hand is trembling too bad, too sudden, and they fall to the floor with a loud sound in the otherwise silent room.
Ryan snorted and kneeled on the floor to pick up the books. At least they didn't go down with his orange juice, because wouldn't that be a kicker? Telling his mom he needed another set of books. Right.
He picked them up and placed them on the small table in the kitchen once again. It was Thursday afternoon, which meant he had math homework to get done. He still didn't get the point, but he was wiling to give it a try. Not like he had anything else to do now, did he?
He sighed, looking around the kitchen. Empty. His mom, gone to the Vet with Princess, Mrs. Dart's Poodle, who, apparently, needed pampering every Thursday. In the afternoons as well, because the mornings were for the dog and the woman to enjoy sucking up the sun by the pool. Whatever.
His mom was to stay with the dog through the pampering. She had gagged when she had picked up the poodle, making Ryan grin. Well, it was a very ugly looking dog. Not like Carlos' German Sheppard. Half German Sheppard and half something they had no idea what could be, but still. She would be gone for a couple of hours, she had told Ryan, ten minutes ago when she left.
He picks up his pen and starts writing down the first exercise from his book onto his notebook when the door swings open.
Ryan looked up, smiling slightly as he saw Mr. Dart walk inside. Ryan had seen him around the house a couple of times and so far, he had been nothing if not nice. Always asking Ryan about school, telling him to help himself to anything in the fridge, don't worry about it.
The man grinned, eyeing Ryan's book. "Homework?"
Ryan nodded. "Yeah, math. Not my favorite subject."
"I understand," Mr. Dart said, chuckling. "I didn't like it at all when I was your age."
"Really?"
"Nope."
"Now?"
Mr. Dart seemed to think about it, before shrugging. "Well, it's okay. I use a lot of math in my line of work. More than I ever thought I would."
"Really?" Ryan was fascinated by this fact. Math actually worked?
"Yes." Mr. Dart tilted his head to the side and smiled at Ryan. "Why don't you come with me to my study, I'll show you."
Ryan jumped out of his seat and walked past Mr. Dart as he opened the kitchen door for Ryan. Ryan followed him down the hallway and around the staircase. Mr. Dart's office was the last door on the right, and when Ryan walked in, he gasped.
The room was large, all in wood, very dark and impressive. There was a pool table on one side, ceiling high bookshelves on the other, and on the wall farthest down, there was a big cabinet and Ryan could see guns inside. It took him a moment to count. Nine guns in total. Wow.
"You like it?"
Ryan nodded, astonished. "Hell, yes." He ducked his head. He wasn't supposed to swear inside the house.
Mr. Dart only chuckled, head thrown back. "Yeah, that's one way of putting it."
Ryan looked up, head tilted. Mr. Dart hadn't said anything. He hadn't told Ryan not to swear. He grinned. Well, maybe his mom was wrong about this guy.
"You play pool?"
Ryan turned around, looking at Mr. Dart as he moved toward the cue case and picked up one. Ryan nodded. "Yes, a little. My brother is teaching me."
"Good then, lets play some."
Ryan paused for a moment, eyeing the door from the corner of his eye. It was closed. Weird, he hadn't heard Mr. Dart close it. Still, his mom could arrive, and playing pool with the boss would certainly not sit well with her. Then again, she had said she wouldn't be back for at least two hours. That was more than enough time to play a game, right?
"So?"
Ryan only had to think for another moment before nodding. Well, what the hell. It wasn't like she was going to ground him for doing what the boss said, right?
He took the cue stick Mr. Dart gave him and weighted it in his hands. It was heavy. Heavier than any stick Trey had given him. He watched with avid attention the way Mr. Dart put the triangle in the middle of the table and set the balls. He broke, of course.
They played for over half an hour, Mr. Dart winning by five shots, but Ryan had more fun that he ever had playing pool before, even with Trey.
When they started a second game, Mr. Dart broke as well, and after three shots, he missed a striped one.
Ryan nodded, taking a step forward and placing the cue in position. It took him a moment, for his fingers to find a comfortable hold and then he shot. It was an easy shot, left about fifteen inches from the pocket, and Ryan sunk it with no problem.
Mr. Dart nodded in appreciation, smile on his lips. Ryan beamed at the silent praise.
He made another shot, blue ball corner pocket, before having to do double touch, red having to sink orange one. Ryan frowned, tilted his head to the side and cursed Trey for not teaching him to do this right. So far, all the times he had tried, he had always sent the white ball straight into the pocket.
"I think you better shoot," Ryan said, turning around and leaning against the edge of the table. He shrugged. "I won't sink it."
Mr. Dart frowned. "Why?"
"I can't do it."
"I'm sure you can."
Ryan shook his head. "No, really. I can't. My brother hasn't taught me how to yet."
"Oh." Mr. Dart nodded. "I see. Well, then, I'll teach you."
Ryan couldn't help the grin on his lips. "Really?"
"Sure." Mr. Dart pushed himself away from the wall and made his way to Ryan's side. Placing his own stick against the side of the table, he stood behind Ryan. "Now, pick up the cue."
Ryan did as told.
"Good, now, lean forward."
Ryan nodded, leaning forward. He was supposed to hit the red ball, force it to hit the orange one in the bottom left corner in order for it to go to the right and sink into the middle pocket on the other side of the table. Not easy at all.
Ryan felt Mr. Dart's arms coming around his side and he froze in his spot. He swallowed. He could fee Mr. Dart's chest against this back, his breath against Ryan's neck. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought about telling the man to move away.
Looking over his shoulder, Ryan saw Mr. Dart's face, closer than he would have liked. But this is just a game, he told himself. He's teaching you a move, you idiot. Not making a pass at you.
"Okay, now, aim the cue to the lower corner."
Ryan took a deep breath, told himself not to think too much about this and just fucking aim, and he did that.
"That's it. Good."
Ryan closed his eyes shut for a moment as Mr. Dart shifted behind him, arms tightening, and Ryan knew that even if he wanted to step out of the embrace, he wouldn't be able to. The man was too close. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, inhaled softly through the lack of air and shot with a shaky hand.
Surprisingly enough, red ball hit orange in the perfect spot and it sunk it down the pocket.
"See?"
Ryan smiled, for a moment forgetting the uncomfortable position, and he looked over his shoulder at Mr. Dart once again.
Mr. Dart was grinning widely, teeth showing. "I knew you could do it."
Ryan nodded, turning around to look at the ball still in the pocket. He was about to ask if there were any other cool moves he could teach Ryan when he felt it. The hands that had been on Ryan's shoulders moved downwards, slowly, to his forearms, gripping tightly.
"You're so beautiful."
The words were whispered in Ryan's ear, breath making his earlobe tickle and a shiver run down his spine. air caught in Ryan's throat. One of the hands, the right hand, moved from his arm to his waist, pulling him back against Mr. Dart.
Ryan cringed when he felt the man's crotch against his ass. Oh, fuck.
"You're so beautiful." Too late, Ryan tried to pull away, but Mr. Dart's grip on his arm, the pressure against his back was too much. He barely even shifted in place. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Let me go." Ryan's voice trembled, fear gripping his chest. God. Oh, god. Oh, god. "My mom--"
"She'll be gone for another hour," he said, and Ryan could almost hear the smile in his voice. "She has to do my wife's errands. But that's not the point."
The man -- Mr. Dart, for god's sake -- shifted his hips, hard on rubbing against Ryan's back and he closed his eyes shut.
"Gotta love this ass," Mr. Dart said, tilting his head and licking Ryan's neck where it met his collarbone. "Sweet and salty. So beautiful, so young."
Ryan shook his head. Mom, he thought, mom, fuck, where are you?
"I like you, Ryan. I really like you. You're special." The words are whispered, low in Ryan's ear, making the boy shudder and shake. "You're so special. So pretty, so young. So perfect. Hmm... perfect."
Ryan's hands gripped the edge of the pool table, fingers scrapping wood as he tried to break free. Mr. Dart held him in place. Ryan shook his head. Too much, too much. He couldn't move, wouldn't be able to at all. God, no. The man had, what, sixty pounds on him? About a whole foot, too? No, no, no fucking way.
Mr. Dart spun him around with his hands, and Ryan blinked, looking up at the man's face.
He was grinning, grinning down at Ryan like he was the cat and Ryan was the mouse about to be eaten.
Ryan's lower lip started to tremble, no matter how hard Ryan bit onto it. He tried to breathe, too, but his chest ached and hurt and his head, god, his head burned as he clenched his teeth as much as he could, hurting his jaw in the process.
Mr. Dart leaned down, kissing Ryan roughly on the lips. Ryan's first kiss, and it has to be given in this situation. Ryan closed his mouth shut, trying to pull away but finding himself unable to.
A hand on his crotch, between Ryan's pants, holding him and rubbing against his own persona, made Ryan gasp. That was all it took. Mr. Dart's tongue liked Ryan's upper teeth and then his tongue and that's when Ryan felt like everything around him was dying, slowly, going black. He closed his eyes shut. He wouldn't see this, wouldn't think about this.
Mr. Dart didn't stop, of course. He started licking Ryan's upper mouth, his lower teeth, making the kiss as much passionately as one can make it one sided, and it was enough for Ryan to feel bile rising in his throat. He gagged, but Mr. Dart's hold on Ryan's arm tightened to the point where it hurt.
His other hand, the one on his pants, started working its way in his belt, letting it loose. Ryan shook his head.
Please, no. Oh, no. Please, please, please... no. No. No. No.
Mr. Dart pulled away only long enough to start a trail of kisses, of licks, down Ryan's mouth, to his chin and his throat. Ryan started shivering, shaking in his place.
"Let me go." Ryan's voice was barely above a whisper. "Please."
There was no response, not that Ryan actually expected one. Ryan looked down at Mr. Dart as he looked up, and the man grinned again, shook his head and smiled, taking a step back to pull down Ryan's pants with him.
Ryan's right hand went to his mouth, both of them, to cover it and not cry out loud. He could feel tears in his eyes and he closed his eyes shut just as Mr. Dart kneeled down on the floor. Ryan felt something around his penis, licking it, and his chest was gripped by an invisible hand until he couldn't breathe anymore.
That something pulled away a moment later and Ryan could breathe again.
"Please," he said, trying again, when he found his voice. "Please. Let me go. I won't tell anyone."
"I know you won't."
Ryan opened his eyes in surprise. Mr. Dart was standing before him once again and he licked his lips. Ryan took in a shaky breath.
Hands on his arms again made him turn around, stomach against the hard wood on the table. Hands were at his backside, on his pass, and they pulled the cheeks apart.
Eyes were wide shut, as much as he could, trying to block everything out. He took a deep breath a second before there was pain on the edges of his eyes and his head, on his back as it was pushed forward, stomach on top of the green velvet of the pool table. The wood edge cut into his hips, but that was nothing, that pain was nothing, against the one in his hips and lower legs.
He cried out when Mr. Dart pulled away and thrust back in. he was whimpering, cheek on top of the table, and he peered one eye open he could see a blue ball inches by his face. He focused on that, trying to keep on breathing as his ass ached and hurt. It felt like skin was being torn open and he wanted to cry out, but no tears came. It just hurt, nothing else.
The back of his knees started to go numb after a moment, then his legs, and he focused on the pain in his lower belly. The wood was hurting him, it was biting into flesh, along with everything else.
Shallow breaths made it better, at times, when Mr. Dart didn't shove in, or pulled out, or moved, and that was never.
He heard nothing during the whole thing, nothing but hard breathing, panting, and groaning. Mr. Dart licked Ryan's ear a couple of times and Ryan wanted to throw up. He licked down Ryan's shoulder blade and the back of his neck and then he stopped and started thrusting forward, more rapidly, and then he shuddered. Ryan held his breath as the man shuddered once, twice, then quickened the pace for a heartbeat until he stopped, chest against Ryan's back, breathing heavily on Ryan's ear.
"So, so beautiful."
Ryan hiccupped. Aching. He was aching. That was the one thing he knew. Aching. All over. Everything. His legs his chest his arms his feet his ass his mind. All aching.
Ryan stood still, half leaning over the table, for a moment, before Mr. Dart pulled away, quickly, making Ryan wince at the movement. He didn't turn around even as he heard movement, and he forced himself not to imagine Mr. Dart pulling up his trousers and the distinctive sound of him doing his belt.
He waited, breathed and tried not to think about the pain and sting from his ass and legs, about the wetness he could feel between his ass cheeks. And he bit down on his lip not to cry. He had no idea what he was waiting for, permission to move, to breathe, to scream, he didn't know. It wasn't until Mr. Dart closed the distance once again and Ryan felt the man's breath against his ear that he flinched.
"Beautiful."
A finger run down his spine, over his left ass cheek and moved between both of them. Ryan closed his eyes. Stop it. Stop it. Please, just... stop it.
"So perfect."
And then, when Ryan felt like breaking and falling down on the ground and not moving ever again, Mr. Dart took a step back and Ryan felt like he could breath again.
"Clean up. Go on. Go to the bathroom."
Ryan blinked once, twice, before nodding and, without turning around, picked up his pants as they had pooled around his ankles. He held them together with his hands, not bothering to even button it.
He turned around, not looking at Mr. Dart, and a second later the man was standing before him, grin on his lips. Ryan froze in place.
"You won't tell your mother." He grinned, nodding. "I'll fire her, Ryan. You know I will."
It took Ryan a moment to actually hear the words, and another one for him to comprehend them. He nodded. Of course he knew that. He bit on his lower lip harder.
Keep quiet. Don't say a word. Not really hard, is it?
Ryan nodded again.
"Good. Now go."
Ryan walked past Mr. Dart's side and out of the office. He half ran toward the bathroom down the hall and locked the door the moment he walked inside.
He stood in the middle of the large bathroom, larger than the room him and Trey shared, and breathed in, the smell of Pinesol clinging to the walls, the fabric, to his very body. It smelled like lemons, that coppery tang bitter on his tongue, choking him suddenly, and nauseated him.
Hand trembling, he touched his lower back and slowly, almost afraid, moved it down to his ass. When he pulled it away and under his gaze, Ryan took in a shaky breath. There were droplets of blood on his fingertips. Not much, but enough, and now Ryan understood the reason behind the stinging. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. He reached forty-eight before being able to open them again.
Lifting the toilet lid, he let go of his pants and sat down. He tried to think, but his mind was anything if not a blur of thoughts and memories and sounds. Mr. Dart's breathing, his touching, his whispering. The pain, the aching, the stinging and the tightness in his chest. Minutes afterwards, Ryan reached for the toilet paper and wiped his ass until there was no more redness tainting the white paper. There was still aching, and soreness, and a stinging feeling he thought might never go away, but it was clean, and right now that was more than enough.
Ryan didn't realize it was half an hour after walking into the bathroom that he was able to walk out. His hips hurt, somehow, and his lower back complained with each movement. He didn't look toward the office, instead he kept his eyes fixed ahead and felt some sense of relief when he reached the kitchen.
Forty minutes later, when his mom arrived, she found Ryan sitting down at the table, staring idly, not quite seeing, at his notebook. She asked him about the hours she was gone and Ryan remembered Mr. Dart's words "I'll fire her", and he shrugged, muttering something about homework and math and equations. She waved it off, telling him she still had to get the ironing done.
After ten minutes, when Ryan's hands finished trembling, he opened his book and tried to find it in him to focus.
He walks to the kitchen island that serves, sometimes, as a table. His books are there, calculus and history and physics probably. He reaches for them, but his hand is trembling too badly, too sudden, and they fall to the floor with a loud sound in the otherwise silent room.
Ryan blinks, and it takes him a moment to find himself again, to recognize his surroundings and have enough strength to shake his head and try to get rid of what he thought were six years worth of forgotten memories. Guess not.
He swallows past the tightness in his chest and when he tries to take a breath, it comes out as short gasps, like his lungs have forgotten their purpose. His right hand is trembling, very badly, and he looks down at it. It's shaking, terribly, and his fingers are cold to the touch, aching, like he's been holding ice in bare hands.
He grimaces, shakes his head once and wills himself not to break down, not to remember anything else. He's here, and he's fine, and he's breathing, and Dart is not here. He's not.
He has the Cohens now, the Cohens, not his parents, and they are different. They will listen, if such a time comes. They will listen and understand and he will talk. But he doesn't want to it to come down to that.
Ryan's gaze shifts down to the books on the floor, scattered around, pages getting folded and wrinkled, and he doesn't care enough to bend over and pick them up. He doesn't think he could. He turns around instead, barely realizing he's moving at all, and sits down on the bed. He's still wearing the slacks, and the dress shirt, new dress shirt Kristen bought for him, and he doesn't care about this either. He lies down on the bed, on his side, and blinks.
He can almost feel eyes looking at him, from behind him, and Ryan turns around and lies down on his back, eyes staring up at the ceiling. His heart is racing and his breathing is anything but regular, and he knows he probably won't fall asleep anytime soon.
He doesn't. He stays like this, blinking and trying to calm down his breathing for yet another hour. He wills himself not to remember everything, and he doesn't. Not much. But he remembers some, and that's enough to know that he will have nightmares if he does fall asleep.
Afraid, Ryan, my darling?
Very much, yes, so fuck off and leave me alone.
The voice quiets, but it doesn't go away. It never does.
It's well into the morning, sometime around five, when the night is no longer dark, and it's not longer night either, as the first rays of sun make an appearance. Kirsten is up early, Ryan notices, when he hears her moving around in the kitchen. He has no idea what she's doing up, at this time, on Sunday, but he's not going to question his luck.
With a sense of security in the simple knowledge that Kirsten is up and close enough to hear him, should he need her -- should he scream -- he closes his eyes. He doesn't dream, but he doesn't rest either. The day only ends and a new one begin. That's good enough for him.