by Laura Leone
What in the name of God had happened to him?
#
She risked entering his apartment again an hour later, thinking he'd probably be asleep now.
Although she wanted to phone the police, it was obvious that he'd feel betrayed if she did so. She couldn't drag him literally kicking and screaming to a doctor, and she didn't know any doctors well enough to ask them to come here. She had called Safe House and tried to find out if anyone there knew anything about Ryan's evening; but he had evidently left in a good mood, without incident, and that was all that anyone on the night staff knew. Sara told them he had been injured and wouldn't be able to start work the following day as planned. She promised to update them tomorrow.
Creeping through Ryan's apartment now, Sara saw that he had turned off the bedroom light since her stumbling departure. With the hallway light as her guide, she entered his bedroom and, as hoped, found him sleeping. She watched him, feeling sick with anxiety and helplessness. What should she do? That combination of dirt and blood was bad, she knew that much; those cuts and abrasions might get infected. And what if there was damage beneath his clothing that she couldn't see, such as cracked ribs?
He was breathing evenly, though, and his skin didn't feel unusually hot when she touched him.
Whatever had happened, perhaps rest was the best thing for him right now. She sat down on the chair in his bedroom. It didn't mater that it wasn't very comfortable. She didn't think she'd get much sleep no matter where she spent the night.
#
When she opened her eyes in the morning, he was gone.
After a moment of panic, Sara saw his dirty clothes on the floor. An instant later, she heard a splash in the bathroom.
Groggy and stiff, she pushed herself out of the chair and staggered towards the bathroom. She found Macy lying next to the bathtub, and Ryan lying in it. His knees were up, his head rested against the wall, his eyes were closed, and his skin was flushed as he soaked in the hot water. The mirror was fogged and a thin blanket of steam filled the little room.
She must have made a noise, because he suddenly flinched and opened his eyes. He saw her and, after a tense moment, lowered his gaze.
"It's good that you're soaking." Sara heard her scratchy voice and cleared her throat. "You were so dirty."
"Hm."
His face looked nasty, but not horrifying. It undoubtedly hurt, but it would heal.
She said, "Do you want some ice? That might make it feel better."
"No." His voice was soft.
She came forward and sat on the edge of the tub. It puzzled and distressed her that he seemed to shrink away from her. She could see abrasions on various parts of his body now. How could that have happened? He'd been wearing jeans and his jacket.
Then she remembered: His clothes had been only partially fastened last night, his shirt barely buttoned at all, his pants zipped but not buttoned. Had his clothes been off when this happened to him?
"What happened last night?" she asked quietly.
He closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Yes, I've noticed. But, Ryan, you can't come home like this and just not tell me what happened."
He didn't open his eyes. His jaw muscles worked tensely for a moment. Then he said, "I'm sorry I yelled at you last night."
When it became clear he didn't intend to say any more, she said, "It's all right to yell when you're upset. It's not all right to shut me out like this."
He turned his head away from her. "Why don't you go home, Sara? I don't feel like talking." His voice was flat and dull.
"I'm not leaving you like this."
"I'm fine. Nothing's broken."
"You look like hell, and you're acting like a stranger."
He opened his eyes. "I want to be alone. Go home."
"No. I think you may be in shock or something."
He looked at her with a touch of exasperation—which was a reaction, at least. "I didn't give you the right to push like this."
"Yes, you did. And you gave up your right to treat me like this."
He closed his eyes again. "Lay off. I'm tired."
"Tell me what happened."
He ignored her.
She looked at the scrapes on his knees and, when he shifted, she noticed one on his belly, too. "Christ," she muttered. "How's your backside?"
His eyes flew open and he stared at her with a sudden, glittering tension. Since it was the first sign of real emotion he'd shown, she said, "Turn around. Show me."
"Get out." The words were like bullets.
"No. Show me the rest. What exactly has happ—"
"This is my apartment!" He gripped the side of the bathtub and pushed himself into a standing position, grimacing a little as he did so. "And I don't want you bothering me!"
He got out of the tub and seized her arm. Naked and dripping water everywhere, he dragged her out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down the hall to the door. She felt sure this sudden surge of anger was healthier than his dull apathy, but she was nonetheless distressed by it. Still, as long as he was on his feet and interacting with her, even angrily, she thought it would be best to keep pushing.
"I'm not leaving until you tell me what happened!"
He yanked open his front door and thrust her into the hallway.
"Who did this to you, Ryan? What did they do to you?"
"God, stop! Stop!" He slumped and put the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Would you just stop, Sara?"
"No, I won't stop. What's going on?"
He started breathing hard. "I can't... Please, I can't... talk about it."
"Ryan, let me help you. Let me—"
"Don't," he said in a rough voice. He slammed the door in her face.
She stood there staring at the closed door, feeling lost and helpless. What could she do for him?
Should she leave him alone for a bit? Would that really be the best thing?
A tear rolled down her cheek. Whether or not it was best, that was clearly what he wanted right now. What he insisted on, in fact.
Her shoulders slumped with fatigue and distress, Sara returned to her own apartment to shower and change. While she was in the shower, the phone rang. Of course. That was when it always rang.
When she went to her desk a little while later to check the answering machine, she found a message from the literary agent to whom she had sent six chapters of the new book.
After casting another worried glance in the direction of Ryan's apartment, Sara picked up the phone and returned the call.
#
"I don't know what to do, Miriam," she said into the phone late that afternoon, her voice ragged with worry. "I've tried knocking on his door a few times since he threw me out. He doesn't answer. And he's locked the balcony door."
"Oh, right, and that door is so sturdy, you could never get in that way now that he's locked it."
"Oh. You think I should break in?"
"How worried about him are you?"
"Physically, not so much. He's obviously uncomfortable and sore, but that seems to be all. Emotionally, though... Very worried. Something's terribly wrong."
"Do you think that woman is involved in whatever has happened to him?"
Due to Miriam's acid tone when she said the words "that woman," Sara—who had broken down and told her a great deal during the past half hour—didn't have to ask whom she meant. "I don't know. I hadn't even thought of that."
"That's because you're crazy with worry. If you weren't so emotional over Ryan right now, it would have occurred to you before this."
"He was going into a very bad neighborhood after dark, Mir. Maybe he was just overconfident about his ability to take care of himself there. It has been a long time since he had to survive at night in places like that."
"I guess that's possible, but..."
"You really think Catherine did something to him?"
"Well, look at the big picture, Sara. At the start of the day, he ends a longtime asso
ciation with a woman who has been possessive of him to the point of ruthlessness. A woman who lives outside the law and who... well, I agree with you, we really can't call it 'love.' Let's say she's obsessed with him."
"Uh-huh." Sara nodded. "He told me that their scene had been grim, that he'd left before it could get even uglier, and that he didn't think she really accepted that he had quit."
"And then that same night," Miriam said, "he comes home physically hurt, emotionally distraught, and possibly suffering from shock." There was a brief pause. "That's a pretty big coincidence, don't you think?"
"My God, you're right." Sara's heart pounded as she considered this. "I didn't even think of it like that."
"Like I said, you probably would have, if his emotional trauma wasn't traumatizing you."
"I could tell when she called him yesterday, when I answered his phone, that she didn't accept his leaving. I thought she was going to bother him. Maybe make trouble for him. But it never occurred to me she might hurt him." She put her hand over her mouth. "Oh, no! I wonder if that dressing-down I gave her had something to do with—"
"Sara, don't even go there. If she hurt Ryan, it's because she is an evil bitch, not because you called her one."
"But what if I pushed her over the edge?"
"Stop. You're not responsible for her behavior," Miriam said. "But do you have any idea what she could have done that would send Ryan round the twist like this?"
"I don't know. I don't have the impression that she could beat the shit out of him, but someone obviously did."
"So maybe she found someone to do it for her. That couldn't have been a big challenge for a woman who has a bunch of male prostitutes on her payroll."
"I wonder... Maybe it was Derrick."
"Who's Derrick?"
Sara explained.
"Okay," Miriam said. "So we know she's got at least one employee who's already gotten violent with Ryan, and who'd probably like to do it again. Maybe it was him."
"But Ryan is so contemptuous of Derrick, it's hard to believe that a fight with him could upset him this much."
"Maybe it was more than a fight. I don't want to distress you, Sara, but if you think Ryan's clothes were off, or at least partially off, during whatever happened to him..." Miriam drew in a sharp breath. "Oh. Wait. You said..."
Sara realized what her sister what thinking. A dark chill swept through her. She suddenly remembered Ryan's reaction to her question about his "backside." Maybe there was physical damage she just couldn't see. "Oh, no."
"You said the rape and beating nearly killed him ten years ago," Miriam said. "That's a huge trauma. That stays with a person for a long time. Especially if they don't get counseling. Which, I gather, Ryan never did."
"No, he... Jesus, he went from being a rape victim, to being Catherine's toy boy, to being a prostitute in her stable."
"It's a rather common pattern, though we usually associate it with women. The only thing that's really surprising about it is the kind of prostitution Ryan wound up in—the style and self-education he had to bring to his role." After a pause, Miriam said, "I think Ryan may have been raped again last night, Sara. I think that evil bitch may have arranged it to put him in his place."
Sara's eyes filled with tears. "Well, it would explain his behavior. Two years ago, the thought of another rape was so terrifying, he was willing to do anything to avoid a prison sentence. Even give up the idea of quitting prostitution, which he was desperate to do by then."
"So, yesterday, maybe Catherine thought that if she could again reduce him to a helpless, terrified, traumatized boy—"
"The boy who'd been so grateful to her," Sara said through tight lips.
"—she could end this new rebellion of his and get him back where she wants him. Under her control."
"How could she do something like that to him?"
"He told her he was leaving her. He told her about Safe House, revealed that he was headed in a new direction and didn't need her anymore. She discovered that he has a woman, one to whom he's told a great deal and whom he's kept a secret from her." Miriam blew out her breath. "I'm guessing she freaked out. Panicked. Blew her stack. Did the most extreme, desperate thing she could think of to rein him back in."
"I still don't understand how she could do it."
"That's because you're a decent human being with a conscience."
"If we're right," Sara said, "then I am calling the cops. I don't care what Ryan thinks. She has to be arrested."
"You'll only know if we're right if you can get him to talk to you about this."
Sara made a weepy, frustrated sound. "How am I going to do that?"
"Think of something that will break through the shell of shock that's cutting him off from you right now."
She started thinking. "You're right. I've got to get him to talk to me. Okay. I have to go."
"Will you be all right?"
"Yes." She had to use her head. Had to figure out how to get through to Ryan.
"Call me again if you need to. No matter how late or early."
"I will. Miriam?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
"Go be with Jan now."
"I will. Good luck."
#
An hour later, dressed for the role she had mentally written for herself, Sara took a hammer wrapped in a towel and shoved it through a glass pane on one of Ryan's French doors. Then she reached inside, turned the lock, and entered his silent apartment.
Macy was lying on the couch, as he sometimes did when he thought no one would catch him there. He lifted his head, waited for her to scold him, and then sighed and went back to sleep when she didn't.
Sara made her way through the apartment to the bedroom, where she found Ryan lying on his side, bare-chested and dozing. The cat, upon seeing her, skittered past her and out the bedroom door. Sara closed the door behind her and turned to face Ryan. In the golden light of the sunset spilling through the bedroom window, he looked like a fairytale lover awaiting the kiss which would end his enchanted, centuries-long sleep.
Until she got close enough to see his bruised face and scraped flesh. Then he looked like her lover, bitterly beaten down and suffering wounds of the soul.
As if suddenly aware of her presence, he opened his eyes and flinched.
"It's just me," she said.
He swallowed. "Oh."
"How do you feel?"
"Okay." He pulled the sheet a little higher and closed his eyes.
"I need to ask you a question."
He didn't open his eyes. "How did you get in here?"
"This will just take a second."
"I thought I locked the doors," he muttered.
"Do I ask for the money before sex, or after?"
His eyes opened. "What?"
"You've told me some things about the trade," she said, "but I realized on my way out the door just now that I never asked you about that."
He squinted at her, a little surprise registering on his face as he finally noticed her appearance. "You're all dressed up."
"How do I look?"
She was wearing a dress she'd bought on a whim at a consignment shop a few years ago. It was a little, black, beaded garment with a push-up bodice that did remarkable things for her breasts. She had never worked up the nerve to wear it in public, but it was so pretty that she kept it anyhow.
To reinforce the purpose of the dress this evening, she'd put on eye make-up and lipstick, and she'd taken some care with her hair.
"Ryan?" she prodded as he stared dumbly at her. "How do I look?"
He lowered his gaze and mumbled, "Beautiful."
"Oh, good. I guess the dress works, then."
"Mm."
"So, about the money. Do I ask for it before or after the sex?"
"What are you talking about?"
"And how much do you think I should ask for?"
"Huh?"
"Two hundred? Oh, maybe not. I'm new at
this. And I suppose I'll be older than the other women. Er, girls."
He frowned up at her. "What the fuck are you talking about, Sara?"
She sat down on the bed. "Well, you know, money's a little tight. I've been thinking I should go look for a job. At least part-time. But you know how that depresses me. I hated every job I ever had, and I hate anything that takes time or energy away from my writing. And then—" She snapped her fingers. "—it finally occurred to me. I can't imagine why I didn't think of it before. If I spend one or two nights a week in hotel bars, maybe I can make an extra few hundred dollars here and there."
"What?" He sat up.
This was progress.
"So, I look okay?" she asked. "I don't want to look cheap or too obvious, but I do want to attract some attention. The right kind of attention, I mean. I thought I'd aim for business travelers. Spend some weeknights at first-rate hotels—"
"What?"
"—and see how it goes. Obviously, there'll be some stiff competition for that business—"
"Sara, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"—and the other girls will probably be younger and prettier than me."
"Stop," he said. "Just stop."
"Plus, I have no experience at this," she said. "Which brings me back to my question. Do I ask for the money before I go into a guy's hotel room—"
"This isn't funny, Sara."
"—or as I'm leaving his room?"
She was pleased to see him looking angry.
He said, "Why don't you just shut the fuck up?"
"Jesus, Ryan. Take it easy. Forget I asked."
He grabbed her arm as she rose to go. "What the hell are you playing at?"
"I told you. I need money."
"You have money! You've got... Don't you?"
"I've run through twice as much as I thought I would spend by now. You know I'm no good with money."
He let go of her and shook his head. "You are not thinking of turning tricks. Whatever the hell you're—"
"I've got to go." She checked her watch. "I thought the tail end of happy hour would be a good time to start."
"Oh, really?" he said. "And where am I supposed to believe you're going?"
"I've made a list of hotels. Tonight, I'll try the first two on it."