Mexico Chapter Two Part Two
See previous post for disclaimer.
Had to post chapter in two parts.
Chapter Two Part One is posted below.
Chapter Two conclusion
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ana eventually gathers up her things and gets ready to head home. She figures Ryan has had enough time to get his jeep and get out. She’s disappointed he’s not back. She wanted to absolutely apologize for Grail’s behavior as well as the whole…laying on his bed and um…wearing his underwear.
“He’s been gone a long time,” Ana comments worriedly to her aunt. “I hope he’s okay. He really shouldn’t be driving with that concussion.”
“He be back,” Tessa assures her.
She tells Ana that Ryan does that most days, he disappears for a few hours at a time and then he returns even quieter than he usually is, which means he doesn’t speak at all, and he heads straight up the stairs to his room, to his blaring music and punching bag.
“Del agua mansa me libre Dios,” she says with a sigh.
Still waters run deep.
“That boy is troubled, Ana.” She lifts a finger and places it on Ana’s chest, right where her heart is. “He in mourning, but I think he never tell us why.”
Ana nods.
Tessa is right.
She’s noticed it and she’s known Ryan less than twenty-four hours. He’s so withdrawn that it’s downright awkward to be in his presence, although she faked everything was fine during the examination yesterday and later on throughout the ride to the club.
“Even that maniquí grande over there know it,” Tessa says, tilting her head in Grail’s direction.
“Don’t call me a dummy, Tessa,” Grail hollers. “Asshole I’ll admit to. Motherfucker, yes. Dumb? Never.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ryan’s been at Drake’s over two hours. His hopes have been slowly rising and rising and rising, like a kite incrementally finding purchase in a timid wind.
Drake is a creature of habit, at least when it comes to work hours.
Ryan knows it, he can sense it. Someone is in the house with the guy. There’s a reason Drake is unexpectedly home.
As the time has passed, he’s convinced himself that the person in there is Volchok.
Drake’s door swings open and Ryan reaches under his seat and pulls out a wooden baseball bat.
And there Drake is, talking to someone over his shoulder as he walks towards his dented and rusted truck. Ryan can’t hear what’s being said, but he can see Drake motioning towards the passenger’s seat.
Ryan starts his jeep, the keys already in the ignition.
When they get to wherever they are going, he’ll hit Drake first, aim for his leg, take out his kneecap so the guy can’t help Volchok.
Ryan grips his steering wheel.
He’s been waiting so long for this, he’s been waiting since the moment Marissa died, and now that it’s happening his heart is beating fast, and he’s sweating, so much so that he can feel each bead of sweat as it runs down his neck and then he sees…
He sees who Drake was talking to.
It’s a woman.
It’s not Kevin Volchok.
Ryan’s waited all this time, breathing through painful bruised ribs and a headache that has been gnawing out of his brain because he was so sure, he was so positive, that it was Volchok with Drake.
And it wasn’t the guy that killed Marissa at all, but an afternoon fuck.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ana is sitting in her apartment watching television when Tessa calls, worried, because Ryan did indeed come back to the club and she’s never seen him like he is.
“He so enojado, Ana.”
Angry.
He shouldn’t be punching the bag, Tessa tells her. Not for so long. His body is still healing.
“Come and tell him to stop, Ana. You a medico, he listen to you.”
Ana gets into her car and drives over to the club, although she doubts her auntie is right.
She has a feeling that she’s the last person that Ryan has any intention of listening to.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
His head is killing him.
Eventually the relentless headache gets the better of him and Ryan leans over and vomits on the floor.
He has so much adrenaline flowing.
He was so sure that it was Volchok and Ryan was ready to kill him.
He was ready.
Now all he’s left with is yet another failure and he’s not going to be able to get into the cage tonight, Grail still won’t let him fight and Ryan doesn’t know where else to go or how else to channel his anger.
What he does know that he can…
not…
leave this room.
He’ll do something.
He’ll hurt someone.
He’ll find an excuse to replace the cage with someone’s head if he leaves this room and even though he’s no longer living with Sandy, Ryan would like to believe that something of the man, some semblance of his humanity, some piece of Sandy’s kind nature is still surrounding him.
He doesn’t know what will happen when Sandy finds out that he’s killed Volchok, how Sandy will react, but Ryan’s made peace with his decision. He’ll accept whatever the Cohens think of him.
But if he kills someone else simply out of displaced rage, he’ll never be able to look Sandy or Kirsten or Seth in the face again.
He can’t randomly hurt someone.
He has to stay in this room.
He’s caught his breath from getting sick and even though he realizes he’s acting out of control, pushing his body more than he should, he doesn’t care.
So he closes his eyes and he starts swinging again, one punch after another.
He punches through the pain in his ribs and his head and he thinks about the baseball bat and that someday it’ll have to be Volchok who walks out of Drake’s house. It’ll have to be. Volchok has to come to Mexico, because if he never does, if Ryan never finds Volchok, there’s no reason for him to live.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ana can hear Ryan’s music.
Hell, it’s permeating the whole club.
“I wouldn’t go up there if I were you,” Grail warns from behind the bar. “Even I know when to leave well enough alone. And that kid? Wants to be left alone.”
“He shouldn’t be boxing,” Ana says accusingly. “Why haven’t you stopped him?”
“Because it’s none of my fucking business,” Grail growls back. “Just like it isn’t any of yours or Tessa’s fucking business.”
Ana ignores the old man.
He can go to hell.
She takes the stairs slowly, trying to figure out how to handle things once she’s all the way up them.
She brought her medical bag, partly because she really should listen to Ryan’s breathing and get his blood pressure and mostly because she thinks the bag makes her look more important.
More like someone who should be listened to.
She doesn’t tap his door this time because the music is blaring. A loud knock is in order, so that’s what she does.
“Ryan?” she yells, hoping her voice will carry over the noise.
There’s no answer.
The music continues it’s bellowing.
She’s been in this position before, outside his door, unheard.
What to do?
Walking in on him conscious can’t possibly be as bad as last night, when she entered the room with him unconscious, so Ana hesitantly reaches for the doorknob and opens the door slightly.
“Ryan?”
She eases the door open more until she can peek in.
He’s in the corner opposite his bed, where the punching bag hangs from the ceiling. He’s swaying with it, his eyes closed.
His shirt is off, his chest glistening with perspiration. That’s something Ana would normally appreciate, but not right now. Because to be honest? She’s a little frightened by the atmosphere.
The room smells of puke and sweat and unrelenting heat.
Ryan stands up, opens his eyes, straightens the bag and begins punching it.
Slow at first, one, two punches, well aimed.
Then more.
Then he closes his eyes and he attacks the bag as if it’s done something to him, like it’s personal.
Like his life depends on completely obliterating it.
She can see now, as she walks a little further into the room, that he’s taken his gloves off, discarded them to the floor.
All he’s punching the bag with is his knuckles and a thin layer of useless tape.
His hands are bleeding, rivets of thin red lines running down his forearms.
He has to be in pain, from the concussion and the ribs and now the hands and how long has he been doing this? How long ago did Tessa call her? Maybe forty five minutes. Maybe a little more.
His breathing sounds terrible, labored.
“Ryan,” Ana says, soft at first, then a quick, fast shout, “Ryan! Stop!”
He’s not listening.
Maybe it’s the music or maybe he just doesn’t want to hear her but he doesn’t respond to his name and he doesn’t stop punching.
She circles around him until she’s behind both him and the frenetically swinging punching bag and all she needs to do to maybe get his attention is to reach out and touch his shoulder and hope he doesn’t swing around and reflexively smack her in the face.
Because that would most likely break her nose.
“Ryan!” She shouts again before taking a small step backwards. “Stop it!”
He abruptly halts. The punching bag, neglected, smacks against his chest.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge her presence.
His bloody hands drop to his side and his head slumps towards the floor.
His chest is heaving.
He’s wheezing, a side-effect of trying to breathe through the bruised ribs.
Ana reaches out for Ryan’s shoulder, taking a chance that now that he’s no longer punching, he’s aware that someone is standing behind him.
He flinches as she touches him, but allows her hand to stay, her palm instantly wet with his sweat.
“Ryan.”
He turns around slowly until he’s staring at her, his eyes dull.
No expression.
“Ryan, just stop,” Ana says quietly. “It’s okay.”
No expression.
Dull eyes.
“Just stop, just stop, just stop,” Ana repeats in a whisper, as she guides his body to the floor, leaning his back against the wall and she sits beside him, her hand still on his shoulder, as he once again closes his eyes.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To be continued….
Had to post chapter in two parts.
Chapter Two Part One is posted below.
Chapter Two conclusion
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ana eventually gathers up her things and gets ready to head home. She figures Ryan has had enough time to get his jeep and get out. She’s disappointed he’s not back. She wanted to absolutely apologize for Grail’s behavior as well as the whole…laying on his bed and um…wearing his underwear.
“He’s been gone a long time,” Ana comments worriedly to her aunt. “I hope he’s okay. He really shouldn’t be driving with that concussion.”
“He be back,” Tessa assures her.
She tells Ana that Ryan does that most days, he disappears for a few hours at a time and then he returns even quieter than he usually is, which means he doesn’t speak at all, and he heads straight up the stairs to his room, to his blaring music and punching bag.
“Del agua mansa me libre Dios,” she says with a sigh.
Still waters run deep.
“That boy is troubled, Ana.” She lifts a finger and places it on Ana’s chest, right where her heart is. “He in mourning, but I think he never tell us why.”
Ana nods.
Tessa is right.
She’s noticed it and she’s known Ryan less than twenty-four hours. He’s so withdrawn that it’s downright awkward to be in his presence, although she faked everything was fine during the examination yesterday and later on throughout the ride to the club.
“Even that maniquí grande over there know it,” Tessa says, tilting her head in Grail’s direction.
“Don’t call me a dummy, Tessa,” Grail hollers. “Asshole I’ll admit to. Motherfucker, yes. Dumb? Never.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ryan’s been at Drake’s over two hours. His hopes have been slowly rising and rising and rising, like a kite incrementally finding purchase in a timid wind.
Drake is a creature of habit, at least when it comes to work hours.
Ryan knows it, he can sense it. Someone is in the house with the guy. There’s a reason Drake is unexpectedly home.
As the time has passed, he’s convinced himself that the person in there is Volchok.
Drake’s door swings open and Ryan reaches under his seat and pulls out a wooden baseball bat.
And there Drake is, talking to someone over his shoulder as he walks towards his dented and rusted truck. Ryan can’t hear what’s being said, but he can see Drake motioning towards the passenger’s seat.
Ryan starts his jeep, the keys already in the ignition.
When they get to wherever they are going, he’ll hit Drake first, aim for his leg, take out his kneecap so the guy can’t help Volchok.
Ryan grips his steering wheel.
He’s been waiting so long for this, he’s been waiting since the moment Marissa died, and now that it’s happening his heart is beating fast, and he’s sweating, so much so that he can feel each bead of sweat as it runs down his neck and then he sees…
He sees who Drake was talking to.
It’s a woman.
It’s not Kevin Volchok.
Ryan’s waited all this time, breathing through painful bruised ribs and a headache that has been gnawing out of his brain because he was so sure, he was so positive, that it was Volchok with Drake.
And it wasn’t the guy that killed Marissa at all, but an afternoon fuck.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ana is sitting in her apartment watching television when Tessa calls, worried, because Ryan did indeed come back to the club and she’s never seen him like he is.
“He so enojado, Ana.”
Angry.
He shouldn’t be punching the bag, Tessa tells her. Not for so long. His body is still healing.
“Come and tell him to stop, Ana. You a medico, he listen to you.”
Ana gets into her car and drives over to the club, although she doubts her auntie is right.
She has a feeling that she’s the last person that Ryan has any intention of listening to.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
His head is killing him.
Eventually the relentless headache gets the better of him and Ryan leans over and vomits on the floor.
He has so much adrenaline flowing.
He was so sure that it was Volchok and Ryan was ready to kill him.
He was ready.
Now all he’s left with is yet another failure and he’s not going to be able to get into the cage tonight, Grail still won’t let him fight and Ryan doesn’t know where else to go or how else to channel his anger.
What he does know that he can…
not…
leave this room.
He’ll do something.
He’ll hurt someone.
He’ll find an excuse to replace the cage with someone’s head if he leaves this room and even though he’s no longer living with Sandy, Ryan would like to believe that something of the man, some semblance of his humanity, some piece of Sandy’s kind nature is still surrounding him.
He doesn’t know what will happen when Sandy finds out that he’s killed Volchok, how Sandy will react, but Ryan’s made peace with his decision. He’ll accept whatever the Cohens think of him.
But if he kills someone else simply out of displaced rage, he’ll never be able to look Sandy or Kirsten or Seth in the face again.
He can’t randomly hurt someone.
He has to stay in this room.
He’s caught his breath from getting sick and even though he realizes he’s acting out of control, pushing his body more than he should, he doesn’t care.
So he closes his eyes and he starts swinging again, one punch after another.
He punches through the pain in his ribs and his head and he thinks about the baseball bat and that someday it’ll have to be Volchok who walks out of Drake’s house. It’ll have to be. Volchok has to come to Mexico, because if he never does, if Ryan never finds Volchok, there’s no reason for him to live.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ana can hear Ryan’s music.
Hell, it’s permeating the whole club.
“I wouldn’t go up there if I were you,” Grail warns from behind the bar. “Even I know when to leave well enough alone. And that kid? Wants to be left alone.”
“He shouldn’t be boxing,” Ana says accusingly. “Why haven’t you stopped him?”
“Because it’s none of my fucking business,” Grail growls back. “Just like it isn’t any of yours or Tessa’s fucking business.”
Ana ignores the old man.
He can go to hell.
She takes the stairs slowly, trying to figure out how to handle things once she’s all the way up them.
She brought her medical bag, partly because she really should listen to Ryan’s breathing and get his blood pressure and mostly because she thinks the bag makes her look more important.
More like someone who should be listened to.
She doesn’t tap his door this time because the music is blaring. A loud knock is in order, so that’s what she does.
“Ryan?” she yells, hoping her voice will carry over the noise.
There’s no answer.
The music continues it’s bellowing.
She’s been in this position before, outside his door, unheard.
What to do?
Walking in on him conscious can’t possibly be as bad as last night, when she entered the room with him unconscious, so Ana hesitantly reaches for the doorknob and opens the door slightly.
“Ryan?”
She eases the door open more until she can peek in.
He’s in the corner opposite his bed, where the punching bag hangs from the ceiling. He’s swaying with it, his eyes closed.
His shirt is off, his chest glistening with perspiration. That’s something Ana would normally appreciate, but not right now. Because to be honest? She’s a little frightened by the atmosphere.
The room smells of puke and sweat and unrelenting heat.
Ryan stands up, opens his eyes, straightens the bag and begins punching it.
Slow at first, one, two punches, well aimed.
Then more.
Then he closes his eyes and he attacks the bag as if it’s done something to him, like it’s personal.
Like his life depends on completely obliterating it.
She can see now, as she walks a little further into the room, that he’s taken his gloves off, discarded them to the floor.
All he’s punching the bag with is his knuckles and a thin layer of useless tape.
His hands are bleeding, rivets of thin red lines running down his forearms.
He has to be in pain, from the concussion and the ribs and now the hands and how long has he been doing this? How long ago did Tessa call her? Maybe forty five minutes. Maybe a little more.
His breathing sounds terrible, labored.
“Ryan,” Ana says, soft at first, then a quick, fast shout, “Ryan! Stop!”
He’s not listening.
Maybe it’s the music or maybe he just doesn’t want to hear her but he doesn’t respond to his name and he doesn’t stop punching.
She circles around him until she’s behind both him and the frenetically swinging punching bag and all she needs to do to maybe get his attention is to reach out and touch his shoulder and hope he doesn’t swing around and reflexively smack her in the face.
Because that would most likely break her nose.
“Ryan!” She shouts again before taking a small step backwards. “Stop it!”
He abruptly halts. The punching bag, neglected, smacks against his chest.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge her presence.
His bloody hands drop to his side and his head slumps towards the floor.
His chest is heaving.
He’s wheezing, a side-effect of trying to breathe through the bruised ribs.
Ana reaches out for Ryan’s shoulder, taking a chance that now that he’s no longer punching, he’s aware that someone is standing behind him.
He flinches as she touches him, but allows her hand to stay, her palm instantly wet with his sweat.
“Ryan.”
He turns around slowly until he’s staring at her, his eyes dull.
No expression.
“Ryan, just stop,” Ana says quietly. “It’s okay.”
No expression.
Dull eyes.
“Just stop, just stop, just stop,” Ana repeats in a whisper, as she guides his body to the floor, leaning his back against the wall and she sits beside him, her hand still on his shoulder, as he once again closes his eyes.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To be continued….