OC Fic : Small Steps 1
...
Chapter One : The Deed
One hour earlier
The night hadn't been going so well, Ryan thought.
He had been at a party with Seth. One of Holly's parties -- "always interesting, if not necessarily entertaining," Luke had said once. Seth was talking (big surprise there) about Summer. Luke, in town for the Easter Break, was hitting on some girl. Ryan was nursing a beer, half-listening to Seth, half-thinking about his latest physics projects, and why it wasn't working. His new lab partner was competent enough, but she wasn't Lindsay.
When Summer finally joined them and dragged Seth to the dance floor, Ryan took his drink outside and walked on the beach, away from the aggressively loud music.
He couldn't remember why coming to the party had seemed like a good idea -- sure, Seth had argued that it would distract him from Lindsay's absence, but really, Ryan should have known better.
And when had he become the kind of person who thought about physics during a *party?* Half the people he knew in Chino would have teased him to death for that.
He shook his head ruefully. That his new found interest in science had coincided with his being partnered with a beautiful girl would have bought him a few points, he admitted. He missed Lindsay more than he had thought he would.
His cell phone began to vibrate at that point of his day-dreaming. He picked up, still thinking about Lindsay -- and her smile, and her eyes, and all her other physical attributes. "Yeah?"
There was only silence and short breaths on the other side of the line. Ryan was about to disconnect when he also heard a sob.
He kept his tone even. "Hello?"
"Ryan?"
"Marissa?" he asked.
"I'm sorry. I…" Another sob. "He won't let me go."
"Who?"
The line went dead.
Ryan checked the caller ID. She had called from the Cooper-Nichol mansion.
He went in search of Seth, all the while wondering if he should go see Marissa. After all, they weren't dating anymore, his practical side pointed out. He didn't *have* to go see her when she called.
But they were friends, the white-knight in him retorted. Impossible as it may have seemed six months ago, they were even on the verge of becoming good friends.
She sounded drunk, Mister Practical said. Ryan had promised himself he wouldn't clean up her messes anymore. He had done that for too long, for too many people.
She sounded upset, Mister Knight said. He didn't know if she was drunk. She may actually have a real problem.
Then why didn't she call someone else? Mister Practical asked.
Who? Mister Knight asked. Jimmy was in Hawaii, Julie was a bitch, Caleb was out of town, and Marissa's friends were not what one might call dependable.
Mister Practical shut up just as Ryan found Seth, and asked him for the keys to the car.
Mister Practical may have become more vocal than he had been two years ago, but he almost never won against Mister Knight. He put up a better fight than he used to, though, Ryan had to admit. He had the voice of Sandy Cohen, and Ryan was sure he would learn to follow that voice soon, instead of just listening to it.
He'd never tell Sandy any of that, though.
The man would become unbearable if he ever knew.
* * *
Ryan sighed inwardly as he approached the house. He remembered a TV show Seth had forced him to watch, where vampires seemed to hit a barrier when they tried to enter a house where they hadn't been invited. He wasn't Julie or Caleb's favorite person, and it amused Ryan to imagine himself forced to stay outside their house, like a vampire.
The door was ajar, and he hesitated briefly before pushing it open all the way and entering.
"Marissa?" he called.
His voice echoed in the house. He grimaced. Why these people insisted on living in gigantic mansions where eighty percent of the rooms stayed unoccupied, was beyond him. They never even had guests, since hospitality and kindness were not high on their list of priorities -- with the exception of the Cohens, naturally.
"Marissa?"
Her muffled voice came from the second floor. "In here!"
At that point, a bad feeling was beginning to settle in his gut. Why wasn't she coming? Why wasn't she at least showing herself?
He took another two steps in before stopping. It never paid to ignore his gut feelings. He knew that, had learned that early in his life.
"Are you hurt?" he asked hesitantly.
"No."
"What do you want?"
"Can you come up?" Her voice broke.
Ryan considered calling 911 then. He truly did. Mister Practical was begging him to do just that, then to go wait in the car. But he was a teenager who, one month earlier, was still on probation, in a house that wasn't his, and he wasn't even sure what was wrong. For all he knew, Marissa had broken a nail. Or chemically created a new species of alcohol and decided to celebrate.
He took another step in, breathed deeply, and climbed the steps.
His gut feeling grew stronger with each step, but he went on.
"Marissa?" he called on the landing.
"Third door to your right!" she yelled.
"Why don't you come out now?" he asked.
After a brief silence, the third door on his right opened. Marissa stepped out. She was disheveled, dressed for a party, and there were tear tracks on her face. She was followed by a gun. The gun was held by Oliver.
Ryan took a brief moment to apologize to Mister Practical for not listening to him, to mentally kick himself for not calling the cops, and to curse whoever had decided Oliver was now capable of becoming a productive member of society.
Then the gun went from Marissa's back to Ryan's head, and he stopped thinking.
* * *
"Ryan. I thought a lot about you," Oliver was saying, pacing the length of Marissa's room. He had ordered Ryan in, and Marissa had followed. Ryan had half expected her to do something, like jump on Oliver to distract him, but she hadn't. And really, when he thought about Donnie and the stray bullet lodging itself in Luke's arm, perhaps keeping quiet wasn't such a bad idea.
Ryan was sitting on the bed, Marissa at her desk, and Oliver was keeping a careful eye on both of them.
He was thinner than the last time Ryan had seen him. He was also a lot more twitchy. Ryan wondered if he had taken any drugs -- at this point, it seemed more than likely.
To Ryan's eyes, Oliver had always seemed off balance with the rest of humanity -- it had been so obvious to him that he hadn't understood why no one else could see it.
Now, Oliver didn't even seem in synch with the universe -- being in his presence gave Ryan the impression of standing on the edge of a black, bottomless pit.
"Creepy," Seth would have said, and Ryan would have agreed wholeheartedly.
"You're the one who convinced me that life would give me a second chance, aren't you?" Oliver went on.
There was a silence. When he was sure that the question hadn't been rhetorical, Ryan said, "Yes." His voice sounded strange -- metallic, flat. He bit back a grimace.
Oliver shook his head, still aiming his gun at Ryan. "Where the fuck is my second chance?" he yelled, and Ryan jumped slightly. "They said I was better, but how could I be better without Marissa?"
Marissa was biting her bottom lip, teary-eyed. Ryan felt a surge of weariness. Sometimes, he wished he could count on people to have his back in these situations. He didn't blame Marissa for her upbringing, for not knowing how to keep herself together under pressure, but really, a little help would have been appreciated. He was tired of being alone each time he faced down lunatics.
He knew Sandy and Kirsten would happily take his place right now -- a certainty that made him feel slightly better. He wouldn't wish this on anyone, but knowing someone wanted to keep him safe at all costs and would lay their life on the line for him was priceless. However, fate seemed to want to make certain that he would always be alone in these situations.
And now wasn't a good time to get lost in his thoughts, he reminded himself. He'd whine about the unfairness of life later. At length.
Oliver prattled on about his love for Marissa, her apparent indifference, how they were meant to be together, waving the gun around all the while. Then he put a hand behind his back, and when it reappeared, it was holding a ten-inch kitchen knife.
Ryan felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the knife, distantly noting that Marissa had also paled.
Oliver watched Ryan with a smirk, then snapped. "You're still the one she calls."
Marissa tried to intervene. "We're not together anymore, Oliver. I promise."
Ryan added, a little bitterly, "We never really got back together after you."
When Oliver yelled this time, it was full force. "THEN WHY THE FUCK DID SHE CALL YOU?"
Marissa whispered, "I'm sorry."
"I can't think," Oliver announced, and he used the knife to cut a fine line on his arm.
Ryan swallowed back a wave of nausea at the sight of the blood.
Oliver watched the blood flow for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "Why, honey?" he asked Marissa. "Why did you call him? You promised me we'd talk. Calmly. Alone."
"You were scaring me," she said, her voice shaking. "You're scaring me now."
"I'm sorry, baby. Everything will be better soon."
He put the knife on the desk, went to her and touched her hair. She flinched back and his face hardened. "I'm sorry," she said.
He softened. "That's okay. We have time. All the time in the world."
Ryan didn't like the sound of that. Judging from the look on her face, neither did Marissa.
Oliver kept his gun aimed at Ryan while patiently explaining that he loved her, and they had to be together. He had come back for her; everyone wanted to keep them apart. "Don't you love me?" he asked her.
"Yes," she said, her eyes never straying from the gun pointed at Ryan.
"Good. All the time in the world."
He began pacing again, and Marissa looked at Ryan helplessly. Oliver picked up the knife, and ran it on his arm again. The line seemed deeper this time. Ryan wondered when he had begun to hurt himself, and then dismissed the thought as irrelevant.
This time, Oliver dropped the knife on the ground when he was finished, as if tossing aside a used Kleenex.
"You're not trying to convince me to calm down, that I'll have another chance?" Oliver asked Ryan.
"Would there be a point?"
Oliver laughed, and Ryan flinched at the high-pitched sound. "Perhaps you're not as thick as I thought," Oliver acknowledged. "I can't live without her, you see."
"You've said that already."
"I thought I would be able to, but I wasn't. And she loves me too. She missed me."
For the life of him, Ryan couldn't figure out how to talk to someone so vastly out of touch with reality that he thought the tears on Marissa's face were out of love, rather than fear.
Oliver, still oblivious, went from quiet conviction to anger. "They told me it was all in my head. But you heard her, didn't you? She said it, right here."
Ryan refrained from pointing out that Marissa had just been trying not to upset the lunatic with the gun. Now wasn't the time to play the bad-ass.
"I'm not sure what I'll do with you yet," Oliver said. "But the two of us…I love her so much. And we need each other. She's not happy without me, and I can't live without her."
He tilted his head, as if listening to something, and pointed the gun toward himself, looking into the barrel, an expression of wonder on his face. "Such a simple way to get what I want," he said.
Ryan took the chance. Oliver was way past reasoning. For the first time, he wasn't pointing the weapon at Ryan or Marissa. Things wouldn't get any better than this tonight.
Ryan jumped up and tackled Oliver, grabbing the arm that held the gun, relieved when no shot was heard. They landed on the ground in a heap. Then Ryan realized the gun was trapped between the two of them, and that Oliver was still holding on to it. Ryan hesitated for a moment. Oliver saw it, and rolled Ryan over so that he'd be on top of him. They were still on the floor, still holding on to that damn gun, and Ryan was getting desperate. He had always believed that insane people were stronger than average, but now that assumption was being verified.
He would have lived happily ever after without the verification.
Their fingers were intertwined around the weapon, and Ryan tried to focus on what he was doing. He needed to make Oliver lose his grasp on the gun. Soon.
There was no sound other than their ragged breathing and Marissa's sobs in the room. Ryan almost sighed in annoyance -- couldn't she just grab a blunt object and knock Oliver out?
His hands were sweaty, slipping. And he was definitely in a bad position
At some point, he heard the distinctive click of the magazine being armed, and if that sound didn't seem like much on TV or in the movies, in this room it was deafening.
Desperate, Ryan twisted Oliver's right wrist, narrowly avoiding the left one when it headed toward his own face. Oliver yelped in pain and let go of the gun. Ryan punched him in the stomach, pushing him back. Oliver landed on his ass and scrambled backward as Ryan sat up, breathless, taking possession of the gun.
Oliver pushed himself up on all four, and grappled around on the floor. Suddenly, he whirled on Ryan, who caught a glimpse of the bloodied knife heading straight for him.
He reflexively raised his arm, his finger found the trigger and he pulled it.
* * *
Marissa and Ryan were sitting in the living room. It was perfectly fitting, Ryan thought, that he was handcuffed and Marissa was huddled in a blanket, on the other side of the room. The bad boy and the defenseless princess -- fucking story of his life.
She was sobbing, repeating that she was sorry.
Ryan stared ahead, trying to think of anything but the feeling of the cold metal against his wrists. He had hoped he'd never have to feel that again. What was it he had said to Sandy during their first meeting? That having a dream didn't make you smart, but knowing it wouldn't come true did. "You should have known better, Atwood," he thought.
One little hour earlier, he was listening to Seth complain about his usual girlfriend troubles.
Now he was in the hands of the police again, his thoughts foggy, his stomach painfully knotted, feeling cold and apprehensive.
One of the cops approached them. "We need to drive you to the station," he said. He was the one who had entered Marissa's room first. A forty-something, seasoned cop, whose name Ryan hadn't caught -- Peterson, or possibly Petersen.
Marissa sniffed and nodded. Then her gaze fell on Ryan, and for the first time since she had stepped out of her room, she seemed to be thinking clearly. "Why is he handcuffed?" she asked.
"Procedure, miss."
She frowned a little. "But he didn't do anything."
"Actually, he admitted he killed the young man in your room."
Ryan clenched his jaw. When the cops had asked what had happened, Ryan had blurted it out. He still couldn't believe he had done that. And granted, when what he had done had registered, he had rushed on to say that he had been defending himself, but he had been quickly silenced, and the younger of the cops had read him his rights.
After which all that had come out of Ryan's mouth had been Sandy's name and number, and his own name.
"He didn't have a choice!" Marissa exclaimed.
Peterson looked at her dubiously, but she insisted. "Oliver had the gun when he came by. I called Ryan to help. Oliver threatened us both. He was rushing Ryan with a knife." She swallowed. "I think I'm going to be sick." She leaned over and proceeded to throw up on a ridiculously expensive rug.
Peterson had stayed with them from the beginning, until hordes of his colleagues arrived and began to take pictures and measurements upstairs. Ryan felt a little reassured by the man's calm. He had met too many young cops, eager to get a promotion, or rough with the suspects-huge partisans of the "guilty until proven innocent" philosophy.
Peterson was now looking at him less suspiciously, and Ryan had the feeling that he had just gone from "potential murderer" to "potential victim." The cop helped him up, and a female officer came to clean up the mess and help Marissa to the car.
Outside, Ryan blinked in the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars. Cops were rushing around. The flurry of movement and the loud voices assaulted Ryan's senses, making him wince. This brutal return to reality was jarring.
Ryan had known that the world outside wouldn't stop existing to accommodate him, but as the car headed to the police station, he wished it did.
Dreams don't often come true, though. The world kept on spinning, and the night continued.
Chapter 2
Chapter One : The Deed
One hour earlier
The night hadn't been going so well, Ryan thought.
He had been at a party with Seth. One of Holly's parties -- "always interesting, if not necessarily entertaining," Luke had said once. Seth was talking (big surprise there) about Summer. Luke, in town for the Easter Break, was hitting on some girl. Ryan was nursing a beer, half-listening to Seth, half-thinking about his latest physics projects, and why it wasn't working. His new lab partner was competent enough, but she wasn't Lindsay.
When Summer finally joined them and dragged Seth to the dance floor, Ryan took his drink outside and walked on the beach, away from the aggressively loud music.
He couldn't remember why coming to the party had seemed like a good idea -- sure, Seth had argued that it would distract him from Lindsay's absence, but really, Ryan should have known better.
And when had he become the kind of person who thought about physics during a *party?* Half the people he knew in Chino would have teased him to death for that.
He shook his head ruefully. That his new found interest in science had coincided with his being partnered with a beautiful girl would have bought him a few points, he admitted. He missed Lindsay more than he had thought he would.
His cell phone began to vibrate at that point of his day-dreaming. He picked up, still thinking about Lindsay -- and her smile, and her eyes, and all her other physical attributes. "Yeah?"
There was only silence and short breaths on the other side of the line. Ryan was about to disconnect when he also heard a sob.
He kept his tone even. "Hello?"
"Ryan?"
"Marissa?" he asked.
"I'm sorry. I…" Another sob. "He won't let me go."
"Who?"
The line went dead.
Ryan checked the caller ID. She had called from the Cooper-Nichol mansion.
He went in search of Seth, all the while wondering if he should go see Marissa. After all, they weren't dating anymore, his practical side pointed out. He didn't *have* to go see her when she called.
But they were friends, the white-knight in him retorted. Impossible as it may have seemed six months ago, they were even on the verge of becoming good friends.
She sounded drunk, Mister Practical said. Ryan had promised himself he wouldn't clean up her messes anymore. He had done that for too long, for too many people.
She sounded upset, Mister Knight said. He didn't know if she was drunk. She may actually have a real problem.
Then why didn't she call someone else? Mister Practical asked.
Who? Mister Knight asked. Jimmy was in Hawaii, Julie was a bitch, Caleb was out of town, and Marissa's friends were not what one might call dependable.
Mister Practical shut up just as Ryan found Seth, and asked him for the keys to the car.
Mister Practical may have become more vocal than he had been two years ago, but he almost never won against Mister Knight. He put up a better fight than he used to, though, Ryan had to admit. He had the voice of Sandy Cohen, and Ryan was sure he would learn to follow that voice soon, instead of just listening to it.
He'd never tell Sandy any of that, though.
The man would become unbearable if he ever knew.
* * *
Ryan sighed inwardly as he approached the house. He remembered a TV show Seth had forced him to watch, where vampires seemed to hit a barrier when they tried to enter a house where they hadn't been invited. He wasn't Julie or Caleb's favorite person, and it amused Ryan to imagine himself forced to stay outside their house, like a vampire.
The door was ajar, and he hesitated briefly before pushing it open all the way and entering.
"Marissa?" he called.
His voice echoed in the house. He grimaced. Why these people insisted on living in gigantic mansions where eighty percent of the rooms stayed unoccupied, was beyond him. They never even had guests, since hospitality and kindness were not high on their list of priorities -- with the exception of the Cohens, naturally.
"Marissa?"
Her muffled voice came from the second floor. "In here!"
At that point, a bad feeling was beginning to settle in his gut. Why wasn't she coming? Why wasn't she at least showing herself?
He took another two steps in before stopping. It never paid to ignore his gut feelings. He knew that, had learned that early in his life.
"Are you hurt?" he asked hesitantly.
"No."
"What do you want?"
"Can you come up?" Her voice broke.
Ryan considered calling 911 then. He truly did. Mister Practical was begging him to do just that, then to go wait in the car. But he was a teenager who, one month earlier, was still on probation, in a house that wasn't his, and he wasn't even sure what was wrong. For all he knew, Marissa had broken a nail. Or chemically created a new species of alcohol and decided to celebrate.
He took another step in, breathed deeply, and climbed the steps.
His gut feeling grew stronger with each step, but he went on.
"Marissa?" he called on the landing.
"Third door to your right!" she yelled.
"Why don't you come out now?" he asked.
After a brief silence, the third door on his right opened. Marissa stepped out. She was disheveled, dressed for a party, and there were tear tracks on her face. She was followed by a gun. The gun was held by Oliver.
Ryan took a brief moment to apologize to Mister Practical for not listening to him, to mentally kick himself for not calling the cops, and to curse whoever had decided Oliver was now capable of becoming a productive member of society.
Then the gun went from Marissa's back to Ryan's head, and he stopped thinking.
* * *
"Ryan. I thought a lot about you," Oliver was saying, pacing the length of Marissa's room. He had ordered Ryan in, and Marissa had followed. Ryan had half expected her to do something, like jump on Oliver to distract him, but she hadn't. And really, when he thought about Donnie and the stray bullet lodging itself in Luke's arm, perhaps keeping quiet wasn't such a bad idea.
Ryan was sitting on the bed, Marissa at her desk, and Oliver was keeping a careful eye on both of them.
He was thinner than the last time Ryan had seen him. He was also a lot more twitchy. Ryan wondered if he had taken any drugs -- at this point, it seemed more than likely.
To Ryan's eyes, Oliver had always seemed off balance with the rest of humanity -- it had been so obvious to him that he hadn't understood why no one else could see it.
Now, Oliver didn't even seem in synch with the universe -- being in his presence gave Ryan the impression of standing on the edge of a black, bottomless pit.
"Creepy," Seth would have said, and Ryan would have agreed wholeheartedly.
"You're the one who convinced me that life would give me a second chance, aren't you?" Oliver went on.
There was a silence. When he was sure that the question hadn't been rhetorical, Ryan said, "Yes." His voice sounded strange -- metallic, flat. He bit back a grimace.
Oliver shook his head, still aiming his gun at Ryan. "Where the fuck is my second chance?" he yelled, and Ryan jumped slightly. "They said I was better, but how could I be better without Marissa?"
Marissa was biting her bottom lip, teary-eyed. Ryan felt a surge of weariness. Sometimes, he wished he could count on people to have his back in these situations. He didn't blame Marissa for her upbringing, for not knowing how to keep herself together under pressure, but really, a little help would have been appreciated. He was tired of being alone each time he faced down lunatics.
He knew Sandy and Kirsten would happily take his place right now -- a certainty that made him feel slightly better. He wouldn't wish this on anyone, but knowing someone wanted to keep him safe at all costs and would lay their life on the line for him was priceless. However, fate seemed to want to make certain that he would always be alone in these situations.
And now wasn't a good time to get lost in his thoughts, he reminded himself. He'd whine about the unfairness of life later. At length.
Oliver prattled on about his love for Marissa, her apparent indifference, how they were meant to be together, waving the gun around all the while. Then he put a hand behind his back, and when it reappeared, it was holding a ten-inch kitchen knife.
Ryan felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the knife, distantly noting that Marissa had also paled.
Oliver watched Ryan with a smirk, then snapped. "You're still the one she calls."
Marissa tried to intervene. "We're not together anymore, Oliver. I promise."
Ryan added, a little bitterly, "We never really got back together after you."
When Oliver yelled this time, it was full force. "THEN WHY THE FUCK DID SHE CALL YOU?"
Marissa whispered, "I'm sorry."
"I can't think," Oliver announced, and he used the knife to cut a fine line on his arm.
Ryan swallowed back a wave of nausea at the sight of the blood.
Oliver watched the blood flow for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "Why, honey?" he asked Marissa. "Why did you call him? You promised me we'd talk. Calmly. Alone."
"You were scaring me," she said, her voice shaking. "You're scaring me now."
"I'm sorry, baby. Everything will be better soon."
He put the knife on the desk, went to her and touched her hair. She flinched back and his face hardened. "I'm sorry," she said.
He softened. "That's okay. We have time. All the time in the world."
Ryan didn't like the sound of that. Judging from the look on her face, neither did Marissa.
Oliver kept his gun aimed at Ryan while patiently explaining that he loved her, and they had to be together. He had come back for her; everyone wanted to keep them apart. "Don't you love me?" he asked her.
"Yes," she said, her eyes never straying from the gun pointed at Ryan.
"Good. All the time in the world."
He began pacing again, and Marissa looked at Ryan helplessly. Oliver picked up the knife, and ran it on his arm again. The line seemed deeper this time. Ryan wondered when he had begun to hurt himself, and then dismissed the thought as irrelevant.
This time, Oliver dropped the knife on the ground when he was finished, as if tossing aside a used Kleenex.
"You're not trying to convince me to calm down, that I'll have another chance?" Oliver asked Ryan.
"Would there be a point?"
Oliver laughed, and Ryan flinched at the high-pitched sound. "Perhaps you're not as thick as I thought," Oliver acknowledged. "I can't live without her, you see."
"You've said that already."
"I thought I would be able to, but I wasn't. And she loves me too. She missed me."
For the life of him, Ryan couldn't figure out how to talk to someone so vastly out of touch with reality that he thought the tears on Marissa's face were out of love, rather than fear.
Oliver, still oblivious, went from quiet conviction to anger. "They told me it was all in my head. But you heard her, didn't you? She said it, right here."
Ryan refrained from pointing out that Marissa had just been trying not to upset the lunatic with the gun. Now wasn't the time to play the bad-ass.
"I'm not sure what I'll do with you yet," Oliver said. "But the two of us…I love her so much. And we need each other. She's not happy without me, and I can't live without her."
He tilted his head, as if listening to something, and pointed the gun toward himself, looking into the barrel, an expression of wonder on his face. "Such a simple way to get what I want," he said.
Ryan took the chance. Oliver was way past reasoning. For the first time, he wasn't pointing the weapon at Ryan or Marissa. Things wouldn't get any better than this tonight.
Ryan jumped up and tackled Oliver, grabbing the arm that held the gun, relieved when no shot was heard. They landed on the ground in a heap. Then Ryan realized the gun was trapped between the two of them, and that Oliver was still holding on to it. Ryan hesitated for a moment. Oliver saw it, and rolled Ryan over so that he'd be on top of him. They were still on the floor, still holding on to that damn gun, and Ryan was getting desperate. He had always believed that insane people were stronger than average, but now that assumption was being verified.
He would have lived happily ever after without the verification.
Their fingers were intertwined around the weapon, and Ryan tried to focus on what he was doing. He needed to make Oliver lose his grasp on the gun. Soon.
There was no sound other than their ragged breathing and Marissa's sobs in the room. Ryan almost sighed in annoyance -- couldn't she just grab a blunt object and knock Oliver out?
His hands were sweaty, slipping. And he was definitely in a bad position
At some point, he heard the distinctive click of the magazine being armed, and if that sound didn't seem like much on TV or in the movies, in this room it was deafening.
Desperate, Ryan twisted Oliver's right wrist, narrowly avoiding the left one when it headed toward his own face. Oliver yelped in pain and let go of the gun. Ryan punched him in the stomach, pushing him back. Oliver landed on his ass and scrambled backward as Ryan sat up, breathless, taking possession of the gun.
Oliver pushed himself up on all four, and grappled around on the floor. Suddenly, he whirled on Ryan, who caught a glimpse of the bloodied knife heading straight for him.
He reflexively raised his arm, his finger found the trigger and he pulled it.
* * *
Marissa and Ryan were sitting in the living room. It was perfectly fitting, Ryan thought, that he was handcuffed and Marissa was huddled in a blanket, on the other side of the room. The bad boy and the defenseless princess -- fucking story of his life.
She was sobbing, repeating that she was sorry.
Ryan stared ahead, trying to think of anything but the feeling of the cold metal against his wrists. He had hoped he'd never have to feel that again. What was it he had said to Sandy during their first meeting? That having a dream didn't make you smart, but knowing it wouldn't come true did. "You should have known better, Atwood," he thought.
One little hour earlier, he was listening to Seth complain about his usual girlfriend troubles.
Now he was in the hands of the police again, his thoughts foggy, his stomach painfully knotted, feeling cold and apprehensive.
One of the cops approached them. "We need to drive you to the station," he said. He was the one who had entered Marissa's room first. A forty-something, seasoned cop, whose name Ryan hadn't caught -- Peterson, or possibly Petersen.
Marissa sniffed and nodded. Then her gaze fell on Ryan, and for the first time since she had stepped out of her room, she seemed to be thinking clearly. "Why is he handcuffed?" she asked.
"Procedure, miss."
She frowned a little. "But he didn't do anything."
"Actually, he admitted he killed the young man in your room."
Ryan clenched his jaw. When the cops had asked what had happened, Ryan had blurted it out. He still couldn't believe he had done that. And granted, when what he had done had registered, he had rushed on to say that he had been defending himself, but he had been quickly silenced, and the younger of the cops had read him his rights.
After which all that had come out of Ryan's mouth had been Sandy's name and number, and his own name.
"He didn't have a choice!" Marissa exclaimed.
Peterson looked at her dubiously, but she insisted. "Oliver had the gun when he came by. I called Ryan to help. Oliver threatened us both. He was rushing Ryan with a knife." She swallowed. "I think I'm going to be sick." She leaned over and proceeded to throw up on a ridiculously expensive rug.
Peterson had stayed with them from the beginning, until hordes of his colleagues arrived and began to take pictures and measurements upstairs. Ryan felt a little reassured by the man's calm. He had met too many young cops, eager to get a promotion, or rough with the suspects-huge partisans of the "guilty until proven innocent" philosophy.
Peterson was now looking at him less suspiciously, and Ryan had the feeling that he had just gone from "potential murderer" to "potential victim." The cop helped him up, and a female officer came to clean up the mess and help Marissa to the car.
Outside, Ryan blinked in the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars. Cops were rushing around. The flurry of movement and the loud voices assaulted Ryan's senses, making him wince. This brutal return to reality was jarring.
Ryan had known that the world outside wouldn't stop existing to accommodate him, but as the car headed to the police station, he wished it did.
Dreams don't often come true, though. The world kept on spinning, and the night continued.
Chapter 2