"I've gotta say, you're not looking so stealth there, son." Sandy shook his head, chuckling, as Seth paced back and forth in front of the French doors. "Weren't you the one who said we shouldn't make it obvious to Ryan that we're waiting for him?"
Seth's eyes widened and he snatched a miniature cheesecake off a dessert tray. "Hey, I am totally not looking for Ryan," he protested with feigned innocence. "I'm just, um, eating. And marking time here until Summer gets back from the restroom. This is me in stranded-date mode, that's all."
"Ah. I see. You're waiting for Summer." Sandy drawled. Taking his son by the shoulders, he pivoted Seth to face the other side of the room. "Except . . . isn't she over there talking to your mother and Julie?"
"What?" Seth attempted a tone of outraged surprise. "She must have slipped past me somehow! How did she manage that?"
"Hmm, I don't know . . . Maybe because the restrooms are off the front hall, and not out in the parking lot?"
Seth scowled and adjusted his jacket with affronted dignity. "There is no need for sarcasm, father."
"You're right," Sandy conceded cheerfully. "No need at all. I just enjoy it." Wagging his eyebrows, he draped an arm around Seth and led him through the crowded room. "Help me distract your mother, all right?" he suggested, sotto voce, as they walked. "Between running this event and worrying about Ryan, she's been pretty tense this evening." In a louder voice, he called, "Kirsten! Sweetheart, Seth and I found a painting we think we should bid on."
"We have?" Seth asked blankly. His father nudged his side, and he rushed to backtrack. "I mean, yeah, Mom, we have. But we'd like your expert opinion. You know, my art background is pretty much confined to comic books—which are, however, a completely legitimate and undervalued genre—and as for Dad . . . well, he's stuck on a bunch of dogs playing poker. You were the art history major. What do you think of--" Completely at random, Seth wheeled around and pointed to a canvas layered with churning blobs of blue paint. "That?"
Kirsten's eyes narrowed in bewilderment. "You're interested in that piece? Really?" Trailed by Julie and Summer, she approached the canvas and inspected it critically. "Well, it's striking--almost a cross between fauvism and abstract-expressionism--but I thought you both preferred more literal art."
"Literal. Well. Yeah. Usually that's true. But literal can get, you know . . . boring." Seth sidestepped Summer, ignoring her speculative frown. "Personally, I love the isms: fauvism, expressionism, escapism, hypnotism antidisestablishmentarianism--"
"What are you talking about, Cohen?" Summer demanded as he sputtered to a stop.
"It reminds us of the morning surf on a cloudy day," Sandy cut in smoothly. "Or the wake of a sailboat, right son?"
Seth nodded vigorously. "Right. Exactly," he declared. "Surf, waves, water circling a drain—generally anything wet and moving. So what do you say, Mom. Should we bid on it? It could class up Dad's office, maybe."
"I . . . suppose," Kirsten agreed dubiously. "If you really want it."
"What's not to want?" Sandy leaned forward to scrawl a figure on the bid sheet next to the painting. When he stood up again, Kirsten was checking her watch, her lips folded into a tight line. "Sweetheart . . ." he reproved.
"Well, now he is late," Kirsten explained defensively.
Julie yawned, tapping her mouth and looking bored. "Who's late?"
"Ryan."
"Oh!" She snagged a drink from a passing waiter. "Ryan is coming tonight? Well, that is a surprise. But why didn't he just ride with you?"
Kirsten shifted uncomfortably. "He's . . . escorting Taylor Townsend." Julie's brows arched and Kirsten added, "She invited him as a friend, and to be honest, we were thrilled that he agreed. He needs to connect with other people--"
"Kiki," Julie said. She took a wavering breath before she continued. Her tone was resigned, but tinged with sorrow. "It's all right. Really. You don't have to defend Ryan to me. I know what Marissa meant to him. And if he's decided that he's ready to start dating, well, I understand."
Kirsten squeezed Julie's hand. "It really isn't a date," she insisted gently. "But now I'm starting to wonder if Ryan changed his mind about coming at all."
"Sweetheart, he's not even ten minutes late," Sandy protested. "You need to relax--"
He broke off as the side entrance slid open. There was a flash of blue silk shot with swirling colors and Taylor backed in, directing Ryan.
"They're here!" Seth announced, hurrying to greet them. He skidded to a stop near the door. "Or, at least Taylor is. And, um, there are Ryan's legs. But I don't know about the rest of him . . ." Incredulous, he stared open-mouthed as Ryan made his way inside, the massive phallic symbol cradled against his body and almost obscuring his face. Seth spun around, arms outstretched. "Um . . . Mom, Summer, Julie, maybe you shouldn't look. Because this? Is a really disturbing image--"
Before he could finish, the women surged forward to cluster around Ryan.
Seth stumbled out of their way. "Okay, now see, that is looking."
Ignoring him, they all spoke at once.
"Atwood?" Summer gasped. "What the hell?"
"What is that?" Kirsten demanded, extending a tentative finger and then snatching it back. "Ryan? What on earth?"
"My God! Ryan!" Julie blurted. "You're carrying a . . . a . . ." Unable to choke out the word, she collapsed into laughter. "This fundraiser just . . . got . . . so much more interesting!"
His breath hissing, Ryan peered around the heavy stone. Immediately, he grimaced and ducked back behind it again.
"Taylor," he begged. His voice sounded half-strangled. "Please tell me that Julie Cooper and half of Newport aren't staring at me right now."
Taylor bit her lip. "Well, Ryan," she hedged, "actually I would have to say that--"
"Lie," he ordered.
"Nobody is paying any attention to you at all."
"Good." Panting slightly, Ryan shifted the sculpture higher in his grasp. "Kirsten, where do you want--" he began. Then he paused, flinching at his own words. His muscles strained and his barely visible cheeks flamed an abashed red. "I mean," he amended, "where should I put—Look, Taryn sent this thing for the auction. Where does it belong?"
Seth circled Ryan, inspecting the shape with malicious glee. "Well," he suggested, "looking at it, I'd say--"
"You know, son," Sandy warned, "If I were you, I wouldn't finish that sentence." Trying to muffle his laughter, he grabbed the top of the sculpture so that Ryan wasn't supporting its full weight. "Come on, kid. Let's just set it down." Over his shoulder, he called to the onlookers, "Show's over, folks! Feel free to grab a drink and go back to spending your money."
"I'll get someone to . . . um, take care of that for you, Ryan" Julie offered. Sighing with frank admiration, she backed away. "But I have to say, you really know how to make an entrance!"
With a mortified groan, Ryan lowered his end of the sculpture to the floor. He winced as he straightened, reaching instinctively to knead between his shoulder blades.
Instantly Taylor's eyes narrowed with concern. "What's wrong, Ryan?" she demanded.
"Nothing," he claimed. His lopsided shrug didn't look convincing.
"That horrible . . .thing . . . was too heavy, wasn't it? You wouldn't let me help, and now you've hurt yourself." Using her shawl as an improvised handkerchief, Taylor dabbed a thin sheen of sweat off Ryan's forehead. "Hold still," she reproved when he tried to twist away from her. "You have got to learn to accept assistance sometimes, Ryan. Being independent is admirable. Being unreasonably self-reliant is . . . well, it's just silly. And sometimes dangerous."
"Did an old woman in Korea tell you that?" he gritted.
"No. It's simple common sense, Ryan."
Sandy grinned and leaned down to Kirsten. "I like this girl," he whispered.
Kirsten smiled tenderly. "So do I," she agreed.
Tossing her shawl over a nearby chair, Taylor sidled toward Ryan's back. "Now, let me see what's wrong--"
"I'm fine!" Ryan protested. He tried to swat away her probing fingers. "It was just a twinge, that's all. Taylor, come on. It's nothing--"
Seth wrapped his arms around Summer. "Aw, look," he chortled, nestling his head against her neck. "Taylor's trying to take care of Ryan. That's really cute. And also futile. It's kind of like a comic Mission Impossible, isn't it?"
Summer barely appeared to hear what he was saying. Her gaze remained riveted on the hunk of purple marble, even as two workers appeared with a dolly to wheel it away. "Cohen," she hissed, "that thing really, really . . . Well, I mean, it looks exactly like . . ."
"Yeah," Seth grinned. "It does. Pretty much a triple-triple-X version too."
"And Ryan . . . when he was carrying it . . . and it was just sticking straight up . . . he . . . he kind of looked like . . ."
"Oh yes, indeed he did," Seth nodded sagely. "Kid Chino obviously has another superpower."
They swiveled around to stare at Ryan, Summer's eyes wide and impressed, Seth's dancing with hilarity.
Ryan was still squirming away from Taylor's ministrations, but he paused to shoot them a warning glare.
Seth promptly bit back his laughter. "Right, buddy . . . This is totally not amusing. But, hey, you're here. And, uh, Summer and I will be over there . . . by the cartoon cels. If you need us or anything. Which I'm pretty sure you won't, since Taylor seems like she can take care of things. In case you have anything that needs to be taken care of--"
"Cohen!" Clamping her hand on his wrist, Summer dragged Seth away.
"We'll join them," Sandy announced. "Gotta make sure Seth doesn't use his college funds to bid on a Homer Simpson. We're glad you and Taylor could make it, kid. And it was nice of you to bring in Taryn's . . . generous contribution. It must have been hard, carrying something like that across the parking lot . . . Honey, you ready?"
Ignoring Ryan's embarrassed moan behind them, Sandy wheeled Kirsten into the crowd.
"Sanford Cohen! 'It must have been hard'?" she scolded.
"Hard. You know. Difficult," Sandy claimed. "Hey, like Seth said, I didn't create the English language. I just use it."
Kirsten shook her head ruefully. She waved an apology back at Ryan as he pivoted in place, watching them disappear.
"Ryan, you need to stop moving, " Taylor urged. She kneaded a spot below his shoulder blade. "Is this where it hurts? Because I can definitely feel a knot there."
Ryan ducked. "Tell you what," he suggested, managing to catch her hands in his. "If you want to help, could you get me something to drink? Something with lots of ice?"
Taylor froze instantly, staring at their joined hands. "Hmm?" she murmured. "I'm sorry. What?"
"Could you get me some ice water?" Ryan repeated as he released her.
"Oh!" She roused with a start. "But of course! I can do that! Waiter!" She snapped her fingers. "We need a glass of water here! Immediately, s'il vous plaît! Oh—and make it tepid, please, with a twist of lemon!"
The server sketched a bow before he retreated.
Ryan frowned, half-amused, half-irritated. "So to you, 'tepid' means 'lots of ice'?"
Taylor raised her chin sternly. "Drinking something cold after physical exertion can cause cramps, Ryan. A lukewarm beverage is much better for you. I can't imagine that you don't know that, since . . ." She took a trembling breath, "it's obvious that you work out."
"Yeah. Well, I'm hot and I want some ice. I'll be right back." Ryan took four steps, and turned to see Taylor following him eagerly. He put his hands on her shoulders, halting her in place. "Wait. Here," he ordered.
Taylor's mouth opened to protest, but Ryan tapped a cautionary finger across her lips, and she closed them again.
"Mmm-hmm. I'll just . . . wait here," she agreed. Eyes glinting with dazzled admiration, she watched him stride toward the bar. "Damn right you're hot. Sex on legs, Ryan Atwood," she sighed and sank into a blissful reverie.
Her trance—she had just pulled Ryan beneath the surface of the Cohen's infinity pool—was broken by the haughty timbre of her mother's voice.
"Taylor!" Veronica swept into the gallery, pausing to greet people with air kisses as she crossed the room. "There you are! But where is that luscious young man of yours? Don't tell me you've scared him off already?"
At that moment, the waiter reappeared at Taylor's elbow. "Your water, miss? Tepid, with lemon, just as you requested." His expression flashed a gossip alert as he glanced at Veronica, and he planted himself where he could overhear easily.
Flushing, Taylor snatched the glass and retreated toward a corner. "Mother, please," she hissed. "In the first place, Ryan is not my young man, and in the second place--"
"I'm right here," Ryan interjected smoothly. He slipped next to Taylor and slid an arm around her waist. "Sorry I took so long. I lost you in the crowd." His voice dropped an octave. "Veronica. Hello," he added with a crooked smile. "Are you alone this evening? May I get you something to drink?"
Veronica shook back her hair. "Thank you, Ryan. I'm fine," she purred. "My date is . . . well, he's around here somewhere." With a feline smile, she reached over to brush an invisible bit of lint from Ryan's shoulder. Her fingers lingered there for a moment before she turned to Taylor. "Je suis impressionnée, chérie. Ca fait une heure et demie, et il a toujours l'air intéressé. Ou peut-être que tu as utilisé ta technique habituelle, et que tu lui as promis une . . . récompense pour plus tard?"
"I'm impressed, darling. It has been an hour and a half, and he still seems interested. Or maybe you used your usual technique, and you promised him a . . . reward, for later?"
Taylor bristled. "Mère!" she protested.
At her tone, Ryan clasped her closer protectively. His gaze, dark with concern, darted to Veronica and back again.
"Ce n'était pas une critique, Taylor," Veronica claimed indifferently. "Il faut ce qu'il faut, après tout. Mais quand il commencera à s'ennuyer, essaie de me l'envoyer, tu veux? Il doit surement & ecirc; tre bon au lit."
"It wasn't a criticism, Taylor. One needs to do what one needs to do, after all. But when he starts to get bored, try to send him my way, would you? He must be amazing in bed."
"Maman! Arrête, s'il te plaît! C'est embarassant!"
"Mom, stop it please! This is embarrassing!"
Veronica shrugged. "Quoi?" she demurred. Licking her lips, she regarded Ryan, whose wary gaze registered frank suspicion. "Il ne comprend pas un mot de ce qu'on raconte . . ."
"What? It's not as if he can understand what we're saying . . ."
"Perhaps I should leave for a few minutes?" Ryan suggested. "Taylor, if you want to talk to your mother--"
"I don't," Taylor declared. Two hectic red spots stained her cheekbones, and her eyes blazed furiously. "And I think my mother is the one who should leave. But not before she apologizes. We were both very rude just now. Please forgive me, Ryan . . . Mother?"
Her lashes fluttering, Veronica heaved a long-suffering sigh. "My daughter is so dramatic, Ryan. But I suppose I should go find my date. And I am sorry if our little tête-à-tête made you uncomfortable." Snagging a glass of champagne, she leaned forward and kissed Ryan's cheek. "Trust me," she whispered huskily, "I would never want a young man like you to feel left out. So if you ever do . . ."
Veronica let the invitation dangle. With a suggestive simper, she turned, threw one last leer over her shoulder, and glided out of the room.
Taylor pulled her car to a stop in front of the Cohen home. She sat straight and still at the wheel, and she stared out the front window even when she spoke.
"I am so, so sorry, Ryan," she said on a shuddering breath. "This whole evening was terrible for you, wasn't it?" Before he could reply she answered her own question, her voice thick with misery. "Well, obviously it was. I coerce you into taking me to this fund-raiser, I insist on driving when I know you'd much rather ride with Seth and Summer, I talk your ear off—much of the time about things that are none of my business. And then when we get to the auction, you have to . . . Oh God, you have to carry a giant penis into the country club, you pull a muscle doing it, my shameless urban cougar of a mother launches into a tirade in French, she makes an obvious play for you and--"
A muffled sound came from the passenger seat, and Taylor swiveled around in consternation. "Are you . . . Ryan Atwood! Are you laughing at me?"
"Not," Ryan managed to choke out, "at you."
"But you're laughing!"
"Well, come on, Taylor. The giant penis?" Ryan shook his head. "Okay, yeah, it was embarrassing, but it is pretty funny. Do you suppose anybody actually bid on that thing?"
Like a sudden spray of whipped cream, Taylor's giggles erupted, frothy and sweet. "My mother did, probably!"
Tilting her head, she glanced sideways at Ryan. Their eyes met and they both burst into renewed peals of laughter. For a few moments, the car echoed with shared mirth, but gradually it settled into silence again. Taylor's expression dimmed, becoming uncertain and shy. "So you weren't . . . completely miserable tonight?" she prompted wistfully.
Ryan didn't respond right away. His eyes opaque, he studied the few, stalwart stars that pierced through the night sky. When he spoke at last, his tone was both mystified and grateful. "I wasn't miserable at all," he admitted. "This was . . . it was good. I'm glad we went together, Taylor."
"Oh!" Taylor's face lit with giddy relief. "You are? Really, Ryan? Because I am too."
"So . . . thanks. For asking me." Ryan paused and swallowed. His mouth worked and he seemed to consider saying something else before he settled for a simple, "Goodnight."
Taylor nodded breathlessly. "Yes. Goodnight," she whispered.
Ryan opened his door, hesitated for a moment, then leaned back and brushed Taylor's cheek with his thumb. With a quick, silent smile, he climbed out of the car. Head tilted back, he walked toward the patio, one hand absently kneading the nape of his neck.
Taylor fingered her keys as she watched him go.
"Don't push it," she warned herself. "You really shouldn't do this, girl." Then, lips pursed thoughtfully, she gave a decisive nod. "But you're going to anyway."
In a swift, seamless motion, she slipped off her high heels, tossed them onto the car seat and padded, barefoot, after Ryan. She caught up to him just as he opened the poolhouse door.
"Taylor?" Ryan asked, baffled, as she slipped inside. "Is something wrong? I thought you were going home."
"I was," she conceded. "But you winced."
"I . . . winced?"
"You winced. When you got out of the car. Obviously your back is bothering you, so I thought I'd make sure you feel better before you go to bed. Otherwise, we--you--will never get any sleep." Sidling around Ryan, Taylor surveyed the room, her face set in a judicious frown.
"Thanks, but it's no big deal. I'll just rub on some Deep Heat or—Taylor?" Ryan stopped, staring at her feet. "You're not wearing any shoes."
Taylor glanced down. The deep crimson of her nail polish winked as she wiggled her toes. "I know," she shrugged.
"Right. Only . . . why aren't you wearing your shoes?"
"Silly! I told you, I'm going to help your back."
Ryan inclined his head warily. "And to do that you need to be barefoot?"
"Absolument!" Taylor trilled. She approached Ryan, cornering him when he backed away. "I promise, once I'm done, you will feel –" She twirled her hands, fluttering her fingers like a magician's, "one thousand times better. Just trust me, Ryan."
"Trust. You." Ryan licked his lips. "Do I have a choice?"
"No," Taylor replied blithely as she took his hand. "You don't." Walking backwards, she pulled him toward his punching bag. Before Ryan could guess what she was doing, she unlatched the bag and hoisted it down.
"Taylor!" he objected, trying to grab it back.
"I've got it," she panted. Staggering slightly, she set the bag out of the way. "Hmm," she mused, stretching up to test the height of the hook, "Well, this isn't ideal, but it should do, I think. Now take off your sweater, Ryan. Then lie down here on your stomach and relax."
Ryan shook his head.
"You are so stubborn! Honestly, Ryan, have I ever misled you?"
"You mean in the six or so hours we've spent together?"
"Never mind. The point is, you are going to like this."
Ryan didn't move. "Taylor. You haven't said what this is."
"Some things are better demonstrated than explained. Now come on, Ryan." Taylor cocked her head, simultaneously appearing both smug and stern. "You know I'm not going to leave until you do."
Looking a little like a trapped animal, Ryan glanced from Taylor to the door and back again. She nodded resolutely and gestured to the floor.
Groaning in defeat, Ryan began to lie down.
"Uh-uh-uh!" Taylor warned. "First remove the sweater, please!"
Ryan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why do I have to take off any clothes?"
Taylor planted her hands on her hips and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Do you ask a doctor that question, Ryan?"
"Are you a doctor, Taylor?"
"Well, not now," she admitted airily. "But someday, perhaps. I haven't narrowed my career choices quite yet. In any case, I have studied reiki and I earned an advanced certificate from the Watsu Institute of Healing Hands and Body Wellness. It attests to my expertise in the art of Ashiatsu Bar Therapy. Of course we don't have a bar here, but I can make the necessary adjustments. So if you'll just take off that sweater, please." When Ryan still hesitated, Taylor's mouth tightened in reproach. Reaching over, she eased his sweater carefully over his head, folded it, and put it on the bed. "Good!" she declared with satisfaction. "Now the undershirt please."
Ryan crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't think so," he replied.
"Non, non, non, Atwood! No arguments! This technique words best skin-to-skin."
"Ah." Ryan's lips quirked and he lowered his gaze. "So does that mean you're taking your shirt off too?"
Taylor blushed scarlet. She managed to look delighted and offended at the same time. "Mr. Atwood! I think carrying that sculpture around this evening must have gone to your--"
"Taylor," Ryan warned, grinning in spite of himself. "Do not finish that sentence."
"Fine," she agreed primly. "I won't. As long as you take off that insultingly nicknamed tank top of yours and lie down."
For a moment Ryan stood immobile, head cocked, his eyes glinting a changeable blue. Then, with sudden decision, he stripped off his wifebeater. Very gingerly, he eased himself to the floor.
"Satisfied?" he asked. His voice emerged gruff and muffled, since his mouth was half buried in his crossed arms.
"Mmm, almost."
Ryan glanced back up when he heard drawers opening and closing. "Taylor? What are you looking for?"
"Candles."
"Well, that may take a while. I don't have any."
Taylor spun around, shocked. "Really? None?"
"I have a flashlight," Ryan reported helpfully. "You know, in case there's ever a power outage."
"A flashlight. That is just . . . well, it's pitiful, really." With a sigh of regret, Taylor turned off all the lights except for Ryan's bedside lamp. "Tomorrow, I am buying you some candles," she declared, fiddling with the radio into she found a soft, instrumental piece. "Sandalwood, maybe, because you should have something earthy, and cinnamon because it's such a warm, cozy scent. Oh! And vanilla for the times when you need to mellow out. Definitely lots of vanilla candles. But tonight I'll just have to improvise, I suppose." Opening her purse, Taylor took out her cologne and hand cream. She sprayed a mist of Shalimar around the room and sat down to finish her preparations.
Ryan bit back a smile. "Okay, so it's dark, the place smells good, and you've got some sappy music playing. Now what?" he asked.
Grabbing the punching bag hook to support her weight, Taylor stepped delicately onto Ryan's back. "Now. This," she answered coolly.
Ryan jerked in surprise as her toes, slick with lotion, curled into his flesh. An incoherent growl caught in his throat before he managed to muster any words. "Taylor? What . . . God, what are you doing?"
"Giving you a massage," Taylor explained. She ground the heel of one foot into a muscle below Ryan's shoulder blade. "This is Ashiatsu Bar Therapy--minus the bar, of course. It's more effective than a standard massage, I think, because I can exert more pressure this way. Now just relax and let me work."
"Relax. Yeah. Easy for you to say."
"Ry-an!" Taylor separated his name into two reproachful syllables. "You have to trust me."
She shifted her weight and he grunted, his fingers gouging into the floor.
"It's just . . . have you done this a lot?"
"Oh, dozens and dozens of times! I had to, in order to pass the course."
"I mean . . ." Ryan struggled for coherency. "With real people."
Taylor tapped her tongue against her teeth. "Of course. Real people attended the institute, Ryan. It's not like we used a CPR dummy or anything--well, not once we mastered the technique. Now, just close your eyes and let your body sink into the sensation."
"But--"
"Shh! All you have to do is lie there and feel."
Graceful as a ballerina, Taylor rose onto her toes and sank down again, relevé-ing her way across Ryan's back.
Ryan groaned blissfully. "Taylor?" he asked. His voice was drowsy and thick with contentment after several minutes of silent massage.
"Hmm?"
"When we were talking about the Greek columns at your house? You mentioned that I was going to major in architecture in college. How did you know that anyway?"
"Oh. Well. Seth said something about it once."
"And you remembered that? Why?"
"You're memorable, Ryan," Taylor confessed. Ryan stirred, and she eased him back down with firm little steps high on his shoulders. " Besides," she added softly, "I remember information about my friends. Of course, I suppose we weren't really friends at the time, but . . . I hope maybe we are now."
Ryan's chuckle trailed off in a hissing breath. "Taylor, you're walking on my back. I'd say we're friends."
"I am walking as your back as a therapist, Ryan. But we're talking as friends." Taylor paused and a note of uncertain hope crept into her voice. "At least I think we are. Aren't we?"
Ryan angled his face sideways to look up at her. A faint smile flickered behind his eyes, then slipped to the surface. "Yeah," he affirmed. "We are."
"Good," Taylor murmured. She dragged the ball of one foot slowly down his spine. "I wasn't sure—I mean, I know I can be, well, overwhelming enough, but then my mother—God, Ryan, I was so humiliated--"
"I know." A new piece of music began, dark and pensive. Ryan's earnest tone matched its pitch. "But Taylor, the way your mom acts? That's all her. It's not you, and there is no reason at all for you to be embarrassed."
"Thank you, Ryan," Taylor whispered. Lifting her weight off his body she brushed the nape of his neck with her toes before she settled back down again. "That's very sweet. But it's hard sometimes--"
Ryan took a deep breath and let the air whistle out in a sigh. "Yeah, I understand that. Maybe someday I'll tell you about my mom."
Instantly, Taylor brightened. "You will?" she demanded. "Because that would be wonderful. I mean, not wonderful in a misery loves company way, because I wish you didn't have any painful memories to share. It's just wonderful that you would trust me to listen. And I will, you know. I'm available anytime you want to talk. Really, Ryan. About anything. Believe it or not, despite my tendency to dominate a conversation, I am capable of doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Listening. I mean, instead of talking."
Ryan peered up, his mouth quirked in a quizzical grin.
"Well I am!" Taylor exclaimed.
She stamped lightly to make her point, and Ryan emitted a muffled "ummph!" At the same time, Seth's clambering footsteps on the patio announced his arrival.
"Ryan! Hey, buddy!" he called from outside. "I've got drinks, I've got chips, everything we need for some serious Seth-Ryan time! Not that there's anything to talk about tonight. Well, except for you and Taylor and what I like to call The Adventures of Kid Chino and the Giant Cock. And—um, I—uh--" Absorbed in his own monologue, Seth was halfway inside the poolhouse before he spluttered to an incredulous stop.
"Hello, Seth!" Taylor caroled blithely. "Did you and Summer enjoy yourselves this evening? Personally, I thought the event was très magnifique!"
Seth nodded numbly. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Great food. Lots of fun. And, um . . . Ryan?" He lowered his voice to a confidential mumble. "This is a little . . . I mean Taylor is . . . That is—Dude, she seems to be—walking on your back."
A dull red flush stained Ryan's skin. He squirmed, trying to dislodge Taylor without toppling her. "She's not really . . . well, yes, she is. But it's a just a massage."
Oblivious to Ryan's tacit "Get off," Taylor rolled her insteps across his shoulders. "Ashiatsu Bar Therapy," she clarified helpfully.
"Uh-huh." Seth's head bobbed again. "And just how many drinks did the two of you have?"
"Not that kind of bar," Taylor laughed. "Although I can understand why you would be confused, Seth. We didn't have the proper equipment here. So I had to improvise, which does makes it all look less professional, and more, well, salacious, I suppose--"
"Taylor?" Ryan hissed. He pressed his palms flat against the floor and started to push up.
Taylor's eyes widened with realization. "Oh! Right!" Her hands fluttering with apology, she hopped off Ryan's back. "We're done now! So, I'll just . . . be going. Seth, it was nice to see you. Ryan, thank you for . . . well, for everything. I'll come by tomorrow to see how your back feels, all right? And I'll bring you those candles I promised. Goodnight!"
Waving ecstatically, Taylor skipped out the door. Seth watched her go, stunned and speechless. Then he pivoted slowly to face Ryan again.
"Don't say it, Seth," Ryan warned. With a groan, he rolled to his knees and fumbled for his sweater. "And why did you come out here anyway? Didn't you see Taylor's car in the drive?"
"That was Taylor's car? A couple Newpsies are inside debriefing the auction with Mom so I just assumed . . . Hey, don't try to change the subject, buddy." Seth sank onto the ottoman. He leaned forward, tenting his fingers and propping his chin on top of them. "Now let's just recap. I walk in. The lights are out. There's string music playing. You're not wearing a shirt. Taylor's not wearing her shoes. You're on the floor. Taylor's on your back. And you both look . . . how can I say this? Satisfied. Oh--and tomorrow she's coming back to bring you candles."
Seth's face creased into broad, Cheshire grin. His eyes danced wickedly and he settled back into the chair. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. What an evening you've had."
Ryan dropped his head into his hands. "You're not going to go away, are you?" he moaned.
"No," Seth replied. "No, I'm not. In fact, I hope you're not sleepy, dude, because this? Is going to require marathon Seth-Ryan time. Now, question number one: what exactly did Taylor mean when she thanked you for 'everything'?"
FIN