Faster Than Your Bullets

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

I tell Drew everything. Well, almost, except for my suspicion of Scarlett being a stalker. Not that it makes much different. As always, Drew actually listens without commenting anything bitchy. I know he's saving them for later. He always does.

Pam called the second after Peter did and confirmed the bad news. She was outside waiting to swap the bottles when she heard Scarlett screamed. One of the housekeepers took her to the hospital in a big black car while the rest debated whether to inform her parents. Peter reached Scarlett's house within five minutes, calmed the ladies down and told them to wait and see if it was serious.

Well fuck of course it was serious her scalp burned.

Needless to say, Pamela freaked out when I told her what the hair dye really is. But it sounded like she took it better than I did. At the time of the accident, before Peter's arrival, she snuck into Scarlett's bathroom, cleaned up the spilt shampoo without injuring herself and recreated the mess with the safe one. She also grabbed the spoilt bottle and is now driving to the other end of town to chuck it away.

Like seriously Pamela Anderson I want you for better and for worse will you marry me?

Against all my predictions, Drew's saved comments don't spill out right after my story. What does is total confusion. And confused Andrew is some sight to see, no matter how fucked up my situation is. He is now striding back and forth between the piano's former place and the door to the kitchen, which is a good half way across the room. His hair is terribly tousled as his fingers run through it every two seconds, followed by a shake of head and mutters falling out in strings with "fucking bastard", "trading", and "obvious" often detected here and there out of the jumbling words. This does not help at all. Andrew is supposed to be the calm and collected one with his big brain and wise mind and advices in the form of bitchy sarcasm. If he is freaked out, then what the heck will I be? Sitting on the lowest step of the staircase and of my self-esteem, I squirm and put my arms around myself, rubbing them up and down.

"I'm scared." I swallow. It's been five minutes since Peter's call and four-and-a-half since his text of the address. Drew halts then turns around, his eyes fixed on me in a curious manner, I guess, and kinda rude also.

"I'm sorry." I mutter and shake my head, eyes closed and once again drowned in the lake of horrifying images. Bloody Scarlett. Literally. With red hair falling all over the place and her skin turning red and black, her flesh showing behind missing skin patches. A bloody, crying, moaning, rolling on the bathroom floor Scarlett. A towel-wrapped, dragged-down-the-stairs, placed-in-black-car Scarlett. A motionless, distorted-faced, wire-hooked Scarlett on hospital bed, surrounded by people in white and blue clothes, taking notes of her and checking her heart rate. And a pale Peter sitting outside on the waiting chair with his head in his hands. My skin crawls.

Something is on my shoulder. It turns out to be Drew's hand when I open my eyes. He is planted in front of me, looking out of place. Maybe it isn't his comfort zone to console people. The night at the Fosters', it wasn't his fabulous words that calmed me down. I guess it was the dancing. Sure, at the moment, it was sweet, but a month later when you look back there's only pure awkwardness.

"It's not your fault." He speaks finally though not looking convinced. "You're just...naïve."

One of my brows shot up and he rolls his eyes. "Yeah it's your fault, but not really."

I stare down at my fidgeting hands. "You think I should come? To the hospital?"

To my surprise, a finger of his goes under my chin and lifts my face up. Not romantically. It's more...militarily, like in movies when the main character calls his buddy a chicken then tries to encourage him, which, personally speaking, sends mixed signals. I search his eyes, then face, and realizes he hasn't come up with anything positive to say. This results in me having to wait a few seconds.