Taming Ryder

by Nicola Haken

  “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

  “Of course I would,” she murmured weakly, and not at all convincingly.

  “You’d have taken his side,” I disagreed, shaking my head. “You already thought I was ‘pretending’ to be gay just to piss Dad off. You said it yourself – I was being stubborn and rebellious. ‘You need to stop this little act’ you said to me.”

  “Whose side?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard a single word after I said ‘his’.

  “Doesn’t matter. None of this matters. This isn’t why I came here,” I rambled, shaking my head in frustration.

  “Ryder, whose side? Did you know this man?”

  “Frank O’Donnell.” His name burned my lips as it slithered off my tongue like a venomous snake. His face was etched onto the back of my eyelids, his scent – stale tobacco and body odour – crawled up my nose and his rough, calloused fingers were once again pawing at my flesh.

  My mum’s hand flew over her mouth before I’d even finished speaking his name. Seconds later she stood up, her hand never leaving her face as she doubled over. I wrapped my fingers around each other in an effort to stem the trembling and then my mum dashed to my dad’s spirit cabinet behind her, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and taking a shot straight from the bottle.

  “It was never supposed to go that far,” she muttered around the rim of the glass bottle in her hands. “He said it wouldn’t go that far.”

  “W-what are you talking about?”

  My mum kept swigging the whiskey like it was water, which even without her jumbled words scared the living shit out of me. My mum has never drank, at least not that I ever saw.

  “Mum, I said what the fuck are you talking about?” I roared, practically pole-vaulting from the couch.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry,” she barely whispered, closing her eyes and refusing to look at me.

  “For what?” I asked, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. A downpour of tears washed over her cheeks as she just stood there, furiously shaking her head from side to side. “FOR WHAT?” I yelled, grabbing her shoulders and trying to jolt some kind of response from her.

  “Get your hands off her!”

  My neck jerked towards the door, and there stood my father, dressed the same as in all my memories of him in a sharp, black suit and holding a briefcase.

  “Malcolm, it’s okay,” my mum said with a shaky breath. I’d let go of her shoulders the second I caught eyes with my dad, yet still she clung to my side, rubbing ferociously at the sleeve of my jacket.

  “What is he doing here?” my dad asked, blanking my presence entirely. “Drug money? Aids announcement? Or maybe he just wants to embarrass us one last time.”

  “Mal, stop it. This is serious. W-we need to t-talk,” Mum stammered, placing the whiskey bottle back in the cabinet.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to him.”

  “It’s…I mean…Fra-”

  “Stop,” I ordered, cutting her off. “I think it’s best if I leave.”

  “No, no, no!” she cried, still holding onto my arm. “Malcolm it’s, I mean it was Frank. He attacked him! He attacked Ryder!”

  “I said stop it,” I growled. This wasn’t part of my plan, not what I came here for. I hadn’t planned on telling my mum about the rape and I regretted it instantly, but my dad? No way in hell did I want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I knew before I came here rebuilding any kind of relationship with him would be difficult at best, but as soon as he looked at me, when his eyes turned to ice and his nose wrinkled up as if he’d just smelt something vile…I knew in that moment it wouldn’t just be difficult – it would be impossible.

  “Get out of my house,” he sneered, finally lowering himself enough to glance at me.

  “Are you listening to me?” my mum sobbed. “Frank attacked our son! He…raped our little boy!”

  “What did you think he was going to do, Carol? Tell him fairy tales?”

  It felt like a knife had sliced straight through my lungs. I literally couldn’t breathe. Clutching my hand to my chest I gasped, wheezing as I fought for air.

  “Y-you…k-knew about this?” I rasped, stumbling back a few steps as my legs began to feel independent from my body.

  “NO!” my mum cried, reaching out to touch me but I batted her hand away. “No, no, no, we didn’t! I swear to you, Ryder. We didn’t know, did we Malcolm?”

  “You wouldn’t listen to us,” my dad spat, repulsion causing his face to contort. “So we thought maybe someone should show you what choices you were making.”

  “What are you saying?” my mum blared, directing her gaze at my dad. “WE didn’t think anything like that! You said he was going to talk to him, discourage him! You never said he would hurt him!”

  “Being a dirty little queer does hurt. Better he found out sooner than later.”

  “I need to get out of here,” I said, or at least I think I did. I couldn’t be sure because my mind was too focused trying to remember how to breathe.

  “Ryder, wait! Please! I didn’t know any of this! Please, son, you have to believe me!” Mum called. I skidded to a halt on the polished marble floor, turning sharply on my heels to face her.

  “Don’t call me that. I am not your fucking son.”

  I didn’t give her a chance to respond before I bolted through the door, although I did hear her muffled sobs growing fainter with each step I took. My vision was blurry, clouded with tears. My heart pounded, thrashing against my ribs as if it were trying to break free, and my head throbbed – unable to cope with the pressure caused by too many thoughts, memories and nightmares being hurled around inside my mind.

  I was forced to stop when I’d ran so far that my knees gave way, rescuing myself on a giant wheelie-bin around the back of a kebab house. Once stable, I doubled over, supporting myself with my hands on my knees as I tried to regain my breath.

  They knew. They fucking knew. They planned it. They fucking planned it. That bastard took away everything I ever was. He hurt me. He destroyed me. He changed the course of my whole life…and my parents fucking PLANNED it.

  With my mind in overload - confused, scared, vibrating violently with shock – and my body restless, desperate to get the pain out somehow, I rammed my fist into the brick wall in front of me.

  “FUCK!” I blasted, shaking the droplets of blood from my knuckles. The spots of red glittering the back of my hand caught my immediate attention. It drew my eyes towards it like a moth to a flame, inviting me, enticing me, and for a moment all I could focus on was the physical pain. The distraction from my thoughts lasted only a few seconds but the relief was overwhelming, so I did it again.

  I punched the wall with one fist and then the other in quick succession, slamming into it as if it were a person I was trying to kill. I wailed and grunted as I continued to punch, carrying on until the point I fell down to my knees, my body too weak to support me any longer. I don’t know how long I sat there, beside the dirty bin and resting my head back against the coarse bricks – time faded into complete insignificance. After what felt like hours, but could’ve possibly only been minutes, the mental torture was returning with a vengeance. I needed something stronger.

  I needed a fucking drink.

  There were plenty of bars not far from where I was, in Soho – the centre of London’s gay scene. So with my destination in mind, I stood up, brushed the dirt off my pants with the palms of my hands and set off to the main road to find a taxi. It was only a two minute ride but I was too exhausted to make the walk. When we pulled up I reached into my pocket for my wallet, wincing from the pain in my hand. After handing over my fare and nodding in thanks towards the driver, I wandered into the first pub I came to, heading straight for the bathroom.

  Standing in front of the basins, resting my hands on the cool porcelain, it took me a couple of minutes to gain the courage I needed to look at my reflection in the mirror. Eventually though, I slowly raised my head, making eye contact with myself. Usually I’d focus
on making sure my hair sat just right, that my tapers were in securely, that I had no spots or blemishes… but this time all I could see were my eyes. How lifeless they looked, empty, swollen and red. They portrayed how I was feeling perfectly.

  Weak.

  Broken.

  Desolate.

  Swallowing down the last flood of tears that clogged my throat, I hovered my hands under the sensor-activated taps, letting the water wash over my grazed knuckles. I gasped quietly, cursing to the empty air. The water felt like vinegar seeping into the shallow cuts, my touch like salt as I rubbed gently to remove the streaks of dried blood. The swelling was already starting to set in by the time I’d finished and marbled shadows were forming around the wounds.

  After splashing my face with water too, I patted my skin dry with a paper towel, taking extra care around my hands. In the mirror, I caught sight of two guys coming in the room behind me and from the subtle nod of the taller guy’s head, I took it as my cue to leave. His pants were around his ankles before I’d even closed the door.

  Next on my list was alcohol, and then I would find someone who could sell me enough weed to smoke myself into an oblivion.

  I didn’t waste time with anything weak, opting for spirits from the start. I wasn’t there to enjoy it, savour it, relax and have a good time. I was there for one reason only – to get so wasted I couldn’t even remember my own name. I was just about to order my fourth shot of neat vodka when a guy – older, thirties, hair greying around the edges but with muscles so damn fine they made his shirt look like it was about to rip under the pressure – pulled up a stool next to me.

  “Kyle, right?”

  It took me a moment longer than usual to summon my alter ego, most likely because I wasn’t expecting to be recognised so much in the UK, especially in a small pub like this one.

  “Right.”

  “You okay?” he asked, looking down at my ballooning hand that was propped on the bar.

  “Not really,” I slurred, summoning the bartender over with a crook of my finger.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “No,” I clipped. I had shredded knuckles, dirt on my pants and a face that surely screamed leave me the fuck alone. “Try the bathroom if you’re looking for a quick fuck.”

  The stranger smirked at me, almost looking amused. Standing from his stool he got right up in my personal space, placing his hand on my waist.

  “I’ll be over there if you change your mind,” he whispered straight into my ear, winking at me as he smoothed his palm down my side and over my thigh. Ignoring him completely, I gave my order for another vodka, and continued my quest to drink myself numb.

  An hour or so later and my mind was so blissfully anesthetised I’d forgotten all about trying to score some pot. I didn’t need it now. The copious amounts of alcohol I’d consumed had quietened my thoughts and all but paralysed my body. Slumped over the bar, my head was buried into my crossed arms on the counter. I think I might’ve even been on the verge of passing out entirely, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Ryder Richardson?” It seemed to take me several minutes to prize my heavy head from the bar top and turn to look at the source of the stern voice. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my cloudy eyes. In front of me stood two uniformed police officers, staring down at me with impatient frowns on their faces.

  “Umm, y-yeah,” I mumbled lazily.

  “We have reason to believe you’re in possession of Class A drugs. We’re going to need you to come with us.”

  I looked at them through hazy vision, crumpling my face in confusion.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I slurred. “I don’t have anything on me.”

  “Then I’m sorry, sir, but you are under arrest.”

  “What the…” A strong hand took hold of my wrist, holding it out in front of me before doing the same with the other.

  “You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Handcuffs were clicked into place around my wrists, and then I was coaxed from the barstool with a gentle tug of my arm.

  “I-I don’t understand. What the f-fuck is going on?”

  Somehow I managed to sober myself up enough to walk through the pub, although I did stumble a few times. The officers didn’t leave my side, each of them holding one of my arms at the elbow. Eyes bored into me from every direction, some curious, some disgusted. I hung my head low, not only to avoid their mocking stares but also to make sure my feet were moving in the right direction.

  Outside there was a police car, and when we reached it one of the officers placed his hand on top of my head while I climbed clumsily inside the back.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked when the car roared to life. “I haven’t done anything,” I protested lazily, my words still garbled from the alcohol.

  “You’re going to the station,” one of them answered. “Where you’ll be searched and given the opportunity to contact a solicitor.”

  “But I haven’t fucking done anything,” I whispered under my breath.

  When we reached the station the officers escorted me into the building, removing the handcuffs when we reached the desk. I flexed my wrists, not realising how much being constricted had affected them until the cuffs were gone. The officer behind the desk, an older guy with a bald head and pot belly, took my name and details before asking me to empty my pockets.

  Reaching into my jeans, I took out my phone and placed it on the desk, Then I turned out the other pocket, which was empty, before moving onto my jacket. Rolling my eyes, I plucked out my wallet, some chewing-gum, a lighter and…”

  “Those aren’t mine,” I stated, my eyes widening in shock as I dropped the three small pouches of powder onto the desk. Heroin. I’d recognise that shit anywhere. “I swear to God I have no idea where that came from.” What the hell was going on? I may have been drunk but I knew I hadn’t moved off that barstool all damn night. Those drugs did not belong to me. “I’ve never seen that shit before!”

  “Empty the rest of your pockets please,” the bald officer ordered, ignoring my plea completely. I did as I was told, only coming up with another packet of gum and a handful of loose change. “Do you have a solicitor or would you like us to arrange one for you?”

  “No! Yes, I mean…shit…can I call someone?”

  “You’re allowed one phone call, so choose wisely.”

  I went to pick up my phone from the desk but it was quickly swiped away from me.

  “You’ll need to use the station’s phone.”

  “Okay but I need a number out of my phone.”

  “Name of contact?” he asked, hovering his finger over the touchscreen. “Ah, you’re out of luck. This phone is flat.”

  “Shit,” I murmured, slamming my hand down on the desk. The officers who escorted me in stepped quickly into my side, no doubt preparing to take me down if I lost my temper. I held my hand in the air, muttering an insincere apology. “Okay, okay,” I pondered to myself. I didn’t have Mason’s number committed to memory, and it was only when I thought about that I remembered I didn’t even have the decency to call him earlier like I said I would. “Can I make an international call?”

  “Go ahead.” The officer nodded and slid the desk phone over to me. Elle was my only option. She’d had the same number ever since I’d met her and I knew it was lodged in my brain somewhere. Trouble was, I just had to hope the alcohol had cleared enough to let me find it.

  Taking some deep breaths, I mentally scoured my mind for her number. When I was sure I’d remembered it correctly, I repeated it a few times in my head to make doubly sure before slowly dialling her number.

  “Hello, Elle Wilson,” she answered formally to the strange number calling her.

  “Elle, it’s Ryder. I’m in trouble.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ~Mason~

  Ryder had been gon
e for hours and I was starting to worry. I’d tried calling and texting him several times but each time I was greeted with his voicemail. Something went wrong. I knew it had – I could feel it in my gut. If the reconciliation between Ryder and his parents had gone well, he would’ve been here right now, or at least called.

  When my cell started ringing from the table in the hotel room, I shot up to get it, panic surging through my veins. By this point I had visions of him lying bloody and beaten in the street, or hurting himself again, or maybe even collapsed behind a dumpster, out of his mind on crack.

  “Elle?” I answered, puzzled as to why her name was flashing up on my screen.

  “Mason it’s Ryder. He’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested? What the hell for?”

  “Possession.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “What the hell is he playing at?”

  “He says it’s not his.”

  “And you believe him?” Because in that moment I didn’t know what to believe.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been here before with him. He’s a good liar when he wants to be.”

  “I need to get down there.”

  “There’s no point, hon. They won’t let you see him. But I’ve called Sawyer and he’s employing the best lawyer he knows over there. He’s also flying out with Jake as soon as he can. I can’t come until next week, but Jake knows the law better than any of us. He’ll sort this.”

  “Unless Ryder’s guilty. He can’t sort that.”

  “Don’t give up on him, Mason.”

  “I’m not,” I said after a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

  “Look, hon, I have to go, but keep me updated, okay? And when you get to see him tell him I love him no matter what happens.”

  “Of course I will. Goodbye, Elle.”

  Ending the call, I threw myself onto the bed. Rolling on to my back, I couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down my cheeks, stinging as they left my eyes. I didn’t know what to do. I was in a foreign country with no friends or contacts and I didn’t know the law or how it worked over here. I had no way of helping him, no way of talking to him. Would he really be so stupid as to go back to the drugs? The evidence pretty much spoke for itself I supposed. Regardless all I could feel was concern. And fear. And gut wrenching helplessness.