I looked back and saw the flash of brightness again. “What is that?”

Ryan looked over his shoulder to see where I pointed. “Where?”

“Up there, in the tree.” I saw movement, first thinking it was a raccoon or someone’s cat and then I saw a knee.

“What the hell?” He swam to the edge of the pool and pressed his body out of the water.

I saw the man crawl down from the tree as I hurried to get out of the pool. I made it to the driveway when I spotted the rogue photographer come out through the neighbor’s hedgerow, distracted and clutching his camera. He noticed Ryan just as Ryan made his way between the rows of cars in his parents’

long driveway.

The photographer started to run.

Ryan took off like a bullet out of a gun.

Mike pushed past me. “Oh, shit.” Scott and Matt were tight on Mike’s heels.

Scott tossed his plastic cup of beer to the ground just as Ryan’s body became airborne, tackling the paparazzo in the neighbor’s front lawn.

By the time I reached them, Ryan was straddling the guy, trying to wrestle the camera free. The guy tried to hit Ryan, but Ryan dodged his swing. He clipped Ryan’s shoulder instead.

“You son of a bitch.” Ryan hauled back and punched the photographer in the face, making that sick popping sound that could only come from fist hitting flesh and bone.

“Ryan, stop!” I screamed as he continued to swing.

Mike grabbed Ryan around his chest and pulled him off the photographer, tossing him like a 180-pound sack of potatoes onto the grass.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the scrambling paparazzo asked, wiping his fingers over his bloodied lip.

“Ryan. Ryan. Easy, man.” Mike had to use his weight to hold Ryan down.

“Scott, get the fucking camera,” Ryan ordered, pointing. “Rip the card out.”

“No! Don’t touch it,” Mike yelled.

Ryan scrambled to his feet. “He’s got pictures of Tar and me, Mike. Those prints will never see the light of day.”

“Don’t touch my camera,” the photographer said vehemently.

“Give me the fucking memory card or I’m going to finish what he started,” Scott threatened.

“Go to hell. I don’t have to give you shit.” Ignoring Mike’s commands to stop, Scott kicked the guy’s hand, knocking the camera free.

Just as the paparazzo tried to grab for the camera and Scott’s leg, Ryan lunged and tackled him again. The guy rolled and elbowed Ryan in the face. Blood instantly gushed from Ryan’s nose. Matt wrestled the guy until he had him pinned face-first in the grass.

I heard the police sirens in the distance.

Mike was trying to break it up, but the second that Ryan got injured, Matt joined the rumble. The boys from Pittsburgh were giving this guy an ol’ fashioned ass-kicking.

Ryan staggered to his feet and spit a wad of blood out of his mouth. Then he picked up the camera from the grass, removing the memory card. He set the camera near the guy’s head.

The sirens were getting closer. Ryan’s hands were bloody from his nose bleeding all over the place. Now the entire neighborhood was alerted to the melee. The elderly couple that owned the yard we were in came out of their house.

Scott took off his shirt and handed it to Ryan, who proceeded to wipe his bloody face with it.

“Sit down,” Matt yelled at the paparazzo and gave him a shove when he tried to stand.

Ryan balled up the bloody shirt, rolling his gaze from me to the shirt and back again, then handed it to me.

The cruiser’s engine gunned and then screeched to a halt at the curb. As soon as the police officer got out of the car, Ryan and the guys were ordered to lie facedown on the ground. Tears ran down my face watching Ryan get handcuffed and patted down like a criminal. Another police SUV came blaring down the street from the opposite direction.

Ryan’s father and Mike were trying to explain things to the cops while the photographer blabbered on about how he was assaulted and his camera destroyed.

Ryan looked worn and battled; his bare chest was bloodied and stretched from being handcuffed. Blood splatters were all over his swim trunks with a smear of it on the upper part of his knee. He motioned for me to come to him.

“Baby, are you okay?” I wiped the edge of his chin with the shirt.

“I need a towel. Wait . . .” I knelt back down on one knee. His eyes instructed me to come closer.

“Careful with that. Make it disappear.” I clutched the shirt to make sure nothing fell out, knowing what was wrapped up in it.

“Are you under arrest?”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“I don’t know. I’m gonna need you to call David,” he muttered quickly. “And my lawyer. Oh, and call Trish.” He spit out more blood, cursing to himself.

Now that the adrenaline was subsiding, I could see the magnitude of the last ten minutes crashing down on him.

While Ryan was being interviewed by the police, an ambulance came zipping down the street. I felt like my bones were going to rattle right out of my skin from shaking so hard.

“Are they taking him to the hospital?” Ellen asked in a panic as she ran back with a bath towel.

The ambulance crew attended to Ryan first, swabbing the blood off his face and nose. I knew exactly why he refused to be taken to the hospital. That would have set off a media feeding frenzy for sure. We had to keep this contained.

The elderly neighbor, whom I had met yesterday when he and his wife came to our party, ambled over to talk to Ryan. “How are you doing, son?”

“I’ve been better, Mr. Doughten. Sorry about all of this.”

The old man scowled at the paparazzo.

“So that bastard was in my tree, was he? Spying on your family?”

Ryan nodded, staring mostly at the ground. “He was taking pictures of us, sir.” It was apparent that he was embarrassed to be standing there talking to a man he obviously respected while wearing handcuffs.

“Pictures, huh? Oh Jesus, Mary, Joseph.” He scrubbed his bristly gray whiskers. “You can’t catch a break, can ya kid?” Mr. Doughten’s lower lip quivered as he eyed me up and down.

The police officer sidled up to Mr.

Doughten. “Huh? Hell yes, I want to press charges.” He raised a crooked, arthritic finger. “That son of a bitch was in my tree, tres-passing on my property. Damn right I’m going to press charges. This is ridiculous.”

“And Mr. Christensen?” the officer asked.

Another police cruiser sped down the street, red and blue lights whirling.