Faster Than Your Bullets

Chapter 20

Chapter 20


I wake up at 2AM with a grumbling stomach, an aching back and a newly developed crush on Andrew Archer, who is still snoring peacefully on the floor.

This shouldn't be happening.

But it's easy to understand, right? I mean, there are a lot of things to like about him, right? For example, he has really nice eyes and face and body. And he knows Disney's princesses songs. And he can fight. And...and...he's good at English. And...um...

That should not be enough for me to like him. But I do.

But I shouldn't. There are plenty of reasons for that. First, he's an asshole. Second,... Well, that should cover it all.
There isn't much to say about Drew Archer, maybe because he's so boring. Or maybe because I haven't really known him. Obviously, it is impossible for a person to have only five things to state about. It is kinda unfair, too, when I'm pretty sure Drew has had in his hand a considerable amount of information about me, including private stuffs that makes me would rather hide abroad for eternity than exhibit them to anyone else. In five seconds, I sketch up a plan for this week: to stalk Andrew Archer. No, that sounds creepy. Make that "to spy on Andrew Archer". Or... My vocabulary is not exactly limitless, so nothing really sprints to mind.

Of course, not meaning to brag but my schedule makes it harder for me to snoop around. There's school, sleep, parties, girls' night out, etc... And in the course of two hours I'll completely forget about this.

I will write it on my hand: spy on British. It wouldn't trigger curiosity, I guess.

Just as I'm putting away the pen, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Peter.

Tiptoeing on the creaky wooden floor, I whisper into the receiver.

"What?"

"Andrea." Peter sounds anything but sleepy. In fact, I can tell he's actually excited. "I'm outside. Come out." And the line goes dead.

I frown at the phone, totally not getting the situation. It's a school night, 2 AM on a Monday. What is Peter doing outside my house at 2 AM on a Monday?

Cursing aloud my miserably unpredictable fate and Mr. Ooh-I'm-So-Myterious, I pull my kitty socks up, shove my feet in my fluffy slippers then waddle downstairs.

Peter is leaning against a bike on the driveway when I come out.

"You're officially eighteen years and one day old, Andrea." A grin spreads across his face as he helps me do up my coat. I give a weirdly loud chortle and quickly got my mouth covered by Peter's freezing hand. I jump and slap them away.

"Dude, your hands are bloody cold."

"You try to ride, then." He bickers and flings on of his legs over the bicycle, immediately followed by me. "I'm not good at riding bike so," he swallows, "you may want to hold on tight. To me."

Groaning to show my absolute unwillingness to expose my hands to the cold weather, I peek two fingers each hand out of my pockets, grab the fabric of his jacket and tug it a few times to gain his notice. Peter's shoulders shake as he chuckles.

"Seriously, Andrea. Arms around me or we aren't going anywhere."

Rolling my eyes, I take a deep breath, hug Peter by the waist and instantly feel around for his jacket's pockets. He inhales sharply, too and we begin to move.

"So," I ask him as we turn left at the Nichols', "where's the car?"

Peter laughs nervously. "Well, my dad wasn't too happy with me going out every night so he is, quote, "temporarily confiscating" my keys."

"Well that sucks." I click my tongue.

"I know, right!" He exclaims and for a second loses control of the bike (which results in me wailing "Holy crap, Pete!). "I mean, my parents attend parties too! And not those snobby, quote, respectable ones. They even snuck into college parties once or twice or something. So why fussing over this? It's not like I killed someone or something of the sort!"

"You did get into fights." I remind him, imagines of Peter and the Joey guy from the party punching each other in the stomach dancing before my eyes.

"I did?"

"Yeah." I sit up straighter and speak into his ear. "At my birthday party, remember?"

Peter shakes his head. "Well that explains the aching. And no. And this why I need to talk to you. I can't remember a fucking thing about that bloody, bloody party."

"Hey! You're insulting my birthday party!"

"Sorry. Anyways, I sit in my room yesterday for twelve hours straight trying to recollect something. But it's blank. Nothing at all. Maybe it's something in my drink, don't you think?"

I shrug, accidentally send the bike wobbling. "I dunno. You tried asking Scarlett? And speaking of Scarlett, is she even talking to you?"

Peter's voice is full of confusion when he speaks. "Yeah, we're still talking. Why?"

Shoot. After a moment of hesitation, the reply comes out of my mouth in form of an "Umm, nothing?" Blinking a few times as if snapping out of a trance, I continue. "So she didn't seem...mad or...disoriented or something?"

The bike has pulled up in front of a small café I've never had an idea of existence. It must because it's tiny. And standing in front of it with her arms folded in front of her chest over-protectively, is Scarlett Regan.

What the heck is happening?

Peter parks the bike then pulls me by the wrist toward the café. "Disoriented, yes. Mad, judging from the sex, no." I swear he's just smirked before holding his free hand up to Scarlett to hold.

"Told her she's had an idea." He says to Scarlett and jerks his head in my direction. Scarlett throws me a long look.

"Whatever. I'm only here because I don't want a hole in my brain, that's all."

The three of us sits down at a round table. The waitress, the only one here apart from us, while take our orders keep muttering something about stupid people running around at midnight.

"So," Peter starts, breaking the tension in hovering over our heads, "Scarlett woke up and cannot remember anything from several hours ago, which means your party. This is pretty normal if there had not been a weird bottle in her hand, did I get that right, babe? And now she's every freaked out want to have some idea about what she drank and did she go insane like what they do in movies. Babe, I'm sure you didn't. It's liquor, not pot. So anyways, Andrea, can you tell her, er, tell us what happened there? Like, everything that you know we did."

Wait, what? I look from one of them to another, totally bewildered. Who gives a fuck what Scarlett drank? Am I being interrogated?

If I am indeed, what should I tell them?

It's simple. Tell them they had a fight and they broke up.

But what would it change? They remember nothing about it, not the quarrel, not the breakup, so it automatically doesn't count.

Besides, I don't even know what they fought about.

But if they did count the breakup, then things would get ugly and Peter would get ugly and Scarlett would get ugly (personally, I think she is ugly enough already, by all means). And I would be titled a love wrecker. And nobody wants to be a love wrecker. See how I made this all about me?

Ignoring a whiny voice in my head repeating over and over the phrase "selfish bitch", I force a smile and in two minutes make up a story that "Peter told me afterward". According to me and the voice of my imagination assuring the tale is completely believable, at around two, which means 24 hours ago, Peter bumped into a girl and spilt his drink over her. Being a cutie, he apologized and helped her wipe the liquid away. Unfortunately for him, Scarlett saw the scene at the wrong moment, which made him looked like he was cheating on her. So she straightforwardly confronted him, scaring the girl away. They raised their voices a little but then Peter desperately said that he would not have cheated on her for anyone and it was touching so Scarlett forgave him, which is normal since drunk people could be easygoing if they wanted to. After that they went to the restroom and had sex. At half past three Scarlett disappeared and I found Peter sitting in a corner, hiccuping drunkenly and took him to my house, where he slept on my bed and I slept in the guest room because my room is the furthest he could reach in his pathetic drunken state. At the end of my story, I catch Peter's gaze flickering toward me, the hazel orbs screaming "Liar" silently. Of course, he knows it when I'm lying. I'm a shitty liar to the ones who know me. But Scarlett doesn't know me. She buys my word and even looks kinda touched.

Five minutes afterward of mine is devoted to watching the couple smiling sappily at each other and creating pet names I'm pretty sure I must have misheard.

"Wait, I almost forgot." Scarlett claps her hands together and starts searching in her bag for something. There is a clanking of glass against metal and she pulls out a turquoise glass bottle with the line "Blue Field" printed in white ink on the glass. "The bottle. I've never seen it in my life." She declares with seriousness in her voice which I can't take seriously. "Except for that night, of course. Peter and I seemed to have shared it." She smiles at her boyfriend. It would be sweet if I were not so sick of both of them.

Peter takes the bottle from her hand, brings it to his nose and sniffs. "So where did you get this."

Scarlett shrugs. "Dunno. I do remember going to the store, fake ID, of course, and feeling down. And there was this guy standing in the corner saying this is the one for me and he gave me this. I take a swig right outside the place." She stands up from her seat and lean across the table toward me. "The scary thing is, I can't remember what happened since."

Her face is wearing the expression of a person on the verge of a panic attack, so I choose to let slide the fact that alcohol could have gotten my party in trouble.

Peter's eyebrows furrow. "Do you happen to catch his name?"

Scarlett's eyes light up. "Yeah. Ramsay."

Ramsay? Now why does that sound familiar?...

Ramsay! Drew's acquaintance! But that sounds wrong. Why would Drew be acquainted with a, what, illegal alcohol dealer? A drink that drown its consumer in oblivion sounds pretty illegal to me. What if Drew participates in the chain, too? No, no, that's stupid. I know him and he's not someone like that.

But do I know him? With the screaming fact that I know no more than five basic things about him. And being good at English isn't even a basic thing.

Peter is also mentally checking his list of names, I can tell. Finally, he surrenders to his own brain. "No. Doesn't ring any bell."

Well, it does to me, I feel like yelling triumphantly. But let's consider it carefully. Should I tell them about J. Ramsay and my wild guesses? And the call? And Drew?

Drew. Something rises in me at the thought of him. Not the crush, no. But I don't want to tell them about Drew. Andrew is like...another world, another part of my life that cannot be blended with the part Peter and Scarlett and other people are in, and I very much prefer to keep that part all to myself, no matter how insane that might be.

"Not for me." I sigh dramatically and stands up. The couple follows after Peter has paid for our drinks. I suggest him taking his girlfriend home, since my house is not that far away from the place. While waiting for Peter to take his bike ("Isn't it cute?" Coos Scarlett. I pretend to vomit behind her back), something pops up in my head.

"Do you remember where the store is?" I ask her. Scarlett's brows shoot up in surprise, but she provides me with the address anyways. Good news, it's not so far away. Bad news is, it's on the bad side of town.

Luckily I am wearing waterproof sneakers and carrying pepper spray in my pocket. Yeah, I know, pepper spray, how cliché is that? But it is useful. I know because I tried it once. Unintentionally. On Peter. But it was not my fault that the idiot jumped out from behind a trash can at midnight on Halloween's day after having spookily disappeared.

"You sure you'll be okay?" Peter asks again. I say yes and tell him to not worry for I have long ago mastered the art of using pepper spray. His face darkens at the memories. The conversation happens about three more time before he is sufficiently unconcerned to leave. As my left hand is waving them goodbye, the five fingers of the other hand is seizing the spray tightly. Curiosity kills the cat. Yes. The cat does moronic things that in the end screws up and it dies. But no one has ever thought about it differently. Curiosity kills the cat. The cat isn't allowed to do moronic things and in the end driven crazy by its hungry nature. And then it dies, of course, never discovering what it desires to discover. Personally speaking, I think the cat prefers to die enlightened. And so do I. So I take three deep breath under the waitress's judgmental eyes and start pacing, the destination spinning in my head like a red pin on a untouched map.

When I am officially in the bad side of town, the hair at the back of my head is on its end and my subconscious is shouting at the top of her lungs telling me it's not too late to turn around and run. But I know she's wrong. If I go now, I will never live a day for the rest of my life without torturing myself with endless theories of what could have happened.

But God, it's like this place is taken straight out of a horror movie.

Dark alleys every fifteen feet, bins lying around with black and yellow cats meowing, the scent of waste of both human and cats lingering in the air and my footsteps sounds wrongly and dangerously loud. Classic.

As if to freak me out even more, the wine store is still open, standing out shinily from the filthiness surroundings. I move to a side, trusting the darkness to keep me hidden. As I am silently approaching the side of the store, voices reaches my ears.

"Where's the bastard, Ramsey?"

Ramsey. Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God oh my God. I found him. Well life is easy.

The speaker is not American. Not really a strange thing, since it's California. He's from Mexico, maybe.

"I came alone." Andrew can never say the phone distorted Ramsay's voice again, because I am one hundred percent sure I have heard this voice before. And as I peek one eye out of my hiding place to look at the owner of the voice, it hits me. I've seen him before. I've seen Jack Ramsay before. In the flesh. I hide myself again, the ringing in my ears getting violent.

"I came alone." He repeats himself with nervousness clumsily covered. Then coughs. "Like you asked."

The other person laughs. This is followed by a unbroken chains of urgent mutters and whispers. Then there are a yelp and multiple footsteps. When I stick my head out the second time, the two men have disappeared, their silhouettes printed on the wall of an alley nearby. I wait until they are nearly out of sight then hold my breath and sneak after them as slowly and quietly as possible while doing my best to proficiently process what I have just witnessed.

Jack Ramsay is obviously in deep shit with gangsters. And two commonest types of people to get is trouble with gangsters are gangsters and debtors. Judging from Ramsay's body and expression, I would say he's a little bit of both.

He gave Scarlett the bottle. That couldn't be fore-planned, since as far as I'm informed, they had never met before. Maybe he just needed some money, God knows what for. I should ask Scarlett about the price she paid for the stupid poison.

Now, Drew. Why would he be friends with a gangster? Unless... Unless he's also a gangster. That is ridiculous. He's still in school! He's an English nerd! Where is gangsterism in that? But what if he's something more? He fights at bars randomly. Or at least that's what he said. What if all the fights were not random? Besides, random guy at bars couldn't have made such horrid imprints on his body. Maybe he is not in a gang, but involved in activities. Which is basically the same thing.

I can't make out any words from the two creeps' conversation for it is too fast and low, but can collect enough to know Ramsay is chickening out, God knows why. Between the murmurs, a name gets to my ears: Frederick Pollen.

Again, just like J. Ramsay, this name is inexplicably familiar. Frederick Frederick Frederick... Who is that?

Frederick is dead. Fred is fucking dead. And I'm next. He's going to hunt me down, Ramsay's panicked voice plays inside my mind.

Omigod. He's a dead man! The call to Drew's cell phone the night he came over to do English homework! Someone is hunting Ramsay down. What if that someone is the person he's talking to right now? Am I going to witness a murder?

Footstep. Footstep. I am snapped out of my thoughts. There's coming back here. And I'm standing in the fucking light. Sucking in a lungful of the foul smell of the place, I bend down and run on my toes to the nearest shadowed corner, which is only a few feet away. I escape in the dark just in time the couple appears. For a split second I see the other guy's eye dart to the tip of my shoes, but it seems like he doesn't suspect anything.

But just as I'm exhaling in relief, something flings over my shoulder and locks my neck. An arm. Squeaking involuntary out of fear, I try kicking in feet in the direction of whatever it is behind me but it doesn't budge.

Beginning to choke, I use my fingers to pry the arm away, but of course, that is useless, too.

Oh my God, that's it. That's it. I've run myself into doom. And no, J. Ramsay isn't the next to die, I am. I am going to be the next goner. I can't scream. Screaming can free me from this death, but will lead to another one under those two people's hands, which I would not prefer. They're going to shoot me in the head then put my body is a trash bag and throw it in a bin to rot. But if I don't act, I will also die. I will never see Peter or Pamela again. And, stupid as it is, Drew.

Curiosity kills the cat. For the first time, I regret neglecting it.

"If you make any more sound, Andy, we're gonna die, and I'm gonna fucking kill you." The owner of the arm breathes into my ear.

I should not have wished to see Drew.

But is this him?

Of course, physically, this is. But I don't really know him, do I? Nor do I, or can I have a crush on him. I cannot have a little crush on the guy who is willing to strangle me. This Drew is not the one who knows Disney's songs and paints shittily and tickles me on the bedroom floor. This Drew is a stranger.

I quit the silent struggle and instruct myself to calm down. It was easier in my head, that's for sure. Half a minute passes and Drew bends down, his head next to mine.

"You're gonna have to get out of here, Andy."

Stay cool, Andrea. Stay cool.

I turn my head toward him, my face almost touching his. "Gimme a reason."

"There's no fucking time for reasons, you idiot." There is a certain level of patience in his voice that is obviously running out very rapidly. He is still straining his eyes to watch the two men. But then his eyelids drop and he turns to side, facing me. "I'll get you out of here." His breath is fanning my forehead and my heart rate is increasing again out of both fear and excitement.

Over my stomach, I feel one of his hands creeping, hugging it, while the other places itself firmly on my shoulder.

"Still remember the dancing?" He murmurs and I give a tiny nod. Without a warning, his hands begin to guide me to a side. Collecting my nerves, I start to take control of my own feet and take voluntary steps along with him.

"That's good. Stay close to me." He orders as I try to create space between us. "Stay close or we'll die. You can press yourself to me, if you wish." Even with fear shouting in my ears, I can still detect a smirk of his. "I promise you're not that attractive."

Haha, what?

"What d'you mean, I'm not attractive?" I retort, girlish pride bubbling inside. "I am f-" Drew claps his hand over my mouth before I finish the sentence. The two men have stopped talking. One is staring at a point close to where we are standing. We take two steps further away from it.

"Did you really come alone, Ramsay?" A man takes a step toward the shadowed area, his hand stretched out as if hoping to capture something invisible.

"I did." Ramsay's voice is relaxed, but there's still a note of fear he cannot disguise.

The other man turns around and grins nastily, a grin that shows many of his disgusting teeth, and begins to take bold, long steps toward the corner where we have just stood a minute ago.

"I don't think you do, Ramsay."

The man finds nothing, of course, so he steps out of the dark corner but then he turns his head sideway and once again walks, this time along the wall, coming straight toward us. And we can't even see him since his body has disappeared inside the shadow again.

Shit shit shit shit.

"You're being stupid, Dawson." Ramsay calls out but does nothing. He just stands there, eyes focused on some point between us and Dawson. And even though I understand that he can see nothing, I get the nagging feeling that he knows that we're here, running from his Mexican companion. And he dies nothing.

So much for telling me to choose friends wisely, I feeling like snapping my fingers at Drew. If only we were not going to die and I knew how to snap my fingers.

Meanwhile, we are still stepping silently, faster this time, and the man's footsteps are drawing closer and closer.

"No, son. This is being smart." Dawson growls and, to my horror, it is closer than I thought by a great deal.

His heavy breathing is audible. He is that close. And he is faster. We'll never get out of this. I can sense Drew's heart beating frantically against his chest, which is against my back. He must know we can't survive, too. His hands on my stomach and shoulder are hard and steely, gripping my flesh so brutally that it hurts. But I won't complain, because they are the only things leading me to survival now, no matter how hopelessly.

My scalp tingles as a funny little sensation awakens it. Dawson touched my hair. He touched my hair! Omigod omigod omigod. A deep gurgling noise comes from inside the man as he stops abruptly. His shoes grind against the ground like a bull in the movies. Suddenly I know what is going to happen. He's going to lunge for us. And there is no way out of it except for jumping back and stepping away into the light. Both won't work. Jumping would create obvious sounds and give us away immediately. Exposing ourselves is the same, only more idiotic. The grinding noise stops. Here come the moment. And even in complete darkness, I can see my life. Not a very great life, but it works for me.

But, as I mention, there's an alley every fifteen feet. And that distance ends the moment Dawson's giant body flies toward us. Drew twist his and my bodies and take a step behind the wall. Dawson hits the ground with a harsh contact and a swear word.

Not stopping to put ourselves to a more peaceful state, Drew withdraws his hands but drags me by the wrist. And we break into a sprint of out the place while still keeping quiet.

Only once we're a good two-I-think miles away, out of the bad side of the town do we rest. I place my hand on my knees, all the winds in me knocked out.

But apparently, Drew is still in perfect health.

"What the fuck was that?" He yells, sending me skipping backward, startled. It only last for a second, because I, too, wants to have my question answered.

"The fuck was that? Then what were you doing there?"

His eyes are dangerously and murderously green as he marches forward and speak through gritted teeth. "That's none of your business. Now answer my question."

I lift my chin and spit. "That's none of your business. Who is Jack Ramsay?"

For a moment I thought Drew was really going to finish his job strangling me, but then he swears and spins around, his back toward me, his fists clenched at the back of his head. The few silent seconds go away and he turns around again.

"For a moment, Andy, stop being so fucking nosey." His voice rises with the sentence and is full on yelling again at the last word. I raise my voice, too.

"I'VE SEEN RAMSAY BEFORE!" I scream. "I am not a fucking idiot, Andrew! I know what I saw! That man is everywhere, and gave this bottle to Scarlett Regan, and-"

"What the-" Drew interrupts me with confusion written all over his face. "What bottle? What are you even talking about?"

"The alcohol." I accuse. "He gave her that bottle, and there's drug in it. And that's illegal."

Drew's expression flickers from lost to knowing, but it isn't serious and scared like I expected.

"Illegal drug?" He sneers. "This isn't about fucking illegal drugs! Those guys doesn't fucking care what they gave to your stupid friends, Andy! And I don't give two fucks if you saw Jack Ramsay, or that guy, or whotherfuckever, as long as you stay out of my way and mind your own shit!"

Okay, ouch. I am shit in you-are-nosey type of argument, both of us know that, but my pride swirling inside me, making a nauseous storm.

"I want to know what happens!" I demands and furiously stomp one foot down. "The call to your phone. He said someone was killed! And that same man met one of my friends! I have the rights to know who he is!"

"STOP MAKING THIS ALL ABOUT YOU." Drew's shout is so loud that his voice sounds odd. Under the street lights, his face is red and his eyes are sharp and angry. "You are a fucking ignorant cow, Andrea Hales!" My skin crawls at he spits out my full name - a mouthful - as he said once. Now I'm stepping slowly backward as he stepping forward, attacking. "You grow up, thinking just because your daddy is fucking rich, the whole world must be kissing your ass."

"I don't-"

"Your best friends fucking adore you and everyfuckingone in high school fucking adores you and you go to parties and fuck around with people's lives. Well, guess what, you fucking stupid bitch, you are not the center of the universe, and not everything is happening on Earth revolves around you! You have no fucking rights to know what I do with my time. You have no fucking rights to know who the people I meet are. You have no fucking rights to demands your rights! You cannot fucking treat me like one of your little dumb friends, because as you said it yourself, I am not one of them! I do not answer your question whenever you want! I do not do you favors whenever you want! I do not agree to be treated like a fucking servant like you do to your friends who are too fucking blind to see that! I don't give a shit about you and your pretty hypocritical popular life, and you should, too, fucking leave mine alone!"

By the time Drew finished his speech, I am flat against a wall, feeling like I've been slapped in the face a few hundred times. Drew gives one last swear word them turns away, walking straight into where we have just escaped from. It takes a moment to find my voice, but I can speak finally.

"You're a fucking liar, Andrew!" I call after him, unable to push the thought of how desperate I am being right now.

Drew halts in his steps but then continue as if nothing happened. Flames flared inside me out of sudden, licking my mind, reaching higher than the top of my head and before I know it, I am pursuing him.

"You saved both of us! You did! And then you said you didn't give a shit about me!" My voice is also getting odd. I've shouted myself hoarse. "You're a fucking liar!"

This time, Drew whirls around, green eyes burning with no patience left.

"I don't fucking give a shit if you'd died there!" He bellows. "If anyone saw you wandering there like a fucking idiot with me, Ramsay and I will be dead! And that's the only fucking reason!"

That's all the asshole says before he resumes he walk into the dark, leaving me standing, my pride shattered to a thousand pieces without a way to mend.

The pillow his head had laid is still on my bedroom floor when I open the door, but I am not feeling what I would have some hours ago. I officially take back my crush on Andrew Archer while in the bathroom.