Notable (Smith High) Page 7

  Except his string of orders came too late.

  The door to Neal’s room flew open, and one of the men came lurching out to shut me up. He needn’t have bothered. One glimpse of Neal, sprawled out on the floor like a discarded stuffed animal after too many rounds of tug-of-war, cut off all sound to my throat. Not to mention that I still had Houston’s hand clamped over my mouth.

  There was so much blood.

  That was new for me. It always looks so dramatic on television when the cops go to investigate a brutal murder and there are pools of blood surrounding the victim. The camera inevitably pans to their wide, sightless eyes and . . . roll opening credits.

  Except this was different.

  The blood wasn’t created out of cornstarch and food coloring or whatever.

  This was Neal.

  “You—you . . .” I stuttered at the stranger, unable to complete my sentence because it was so unthinkable. For the first time words were well and truly beyond me because I couldn’t bring myself to say, “You killed him!”

  I couldn’t even admit the possibility that it could be true.

  The stranger seemed temporarily unsure what to do about two young witnesses, but the largest of the three men—Mr. Enormous, as I automatically began thinking of him—decisively shut the door in our face. Although not before I caught a glimpse of Mr. Boss Man (who I assumed was in charge because his suit was the nicest) kicking Neal right in the stomach.

  I dimly heard one of the strangers snarl, “You think to double-cross Mr.—” before Neal’s retching drowned out the rest of his words.

  That should have been my cue to get the hell out of there. In fact, the smart thing would’ve been to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Maybe that meant everyone at Smith High School was right about my intelligence after all, because I couldn’t move. I stood frozen in place while the small part of me that desperately tried to remain objective pointed out that if Neal was puking he couldn’t be dead . . . yet. He just needed to stay in that condition long enough for help to arrive.

  “Answer me, thief! Where is it?”

  The man standing far too close for comfort appeared to make up his mind as he headed right in our direction. Houston didn’t exactly let me linger around there any longer. Snatching hold of my hand, he pulled me down the hall toward the elevator while a handful of nosy guests stuck their heads out of their rooms.

  “Call the police!” Houston shouted. “Room three fourteen! Now!”

  The same tiny, logical voice that was somehow managing to remain calm wanted to point out that I’d been about to yell the exact same thing before he’d shut me up. And that for someone who had recently proclaimed that he was anti-hand-holding, he had a pretty tight grip on me now. I decided those particular comments could probably keep until we didn’t have a three-hundred-pound crazy man chasing us down. Most people tend to be more receptive to feedback when their lives aren’t in mortal danger.

  So I kept my mouth shut and ran.

  My tote banged into me with every step I took, doubtlessly mottling my side black and blue in the process, as Houston and I barreled down three flights of stairs. I never got the chance to reposition it, because Houston’s pace didn’t slacken even when we burst into the lobby. His breathing became choppier with every step until he was wheezing like a shrill teapot trying to signal that the water had reached boiling.

  My feet could easily match Houston’s strides, but my head was struggling to catch up. I knew we had to keep moving, that sprinting far away from the group of thugs currently beating the stuffing out of our professor was our top priority . . . I just didn’t understand the why of it all.

  None of it made sense.

  All Neal had done was complain about a shower. Even with some leeway for cultural differences this was one major overreaction over a faulty appliance. And I couldn’t be fleeing for my life with the one person in Cambodia who hated my guts, all because of a random plumbing miscommunication.

  If my death was that freaking meaningless, I fully intended to haunt my parents forever for sending me on this stupid trip in the first place.

  Houston pulled me through the lobby without missing a step, simultaneously yelling at the overwhelmed help desk lady to call the cops as we sprinted toward the door. I took her panic-stricken face as a good sign that she was taking the danger seriously. Then again, the alternative was to see her expression as a bad sign and, frankly, I didn’t need anything else to freak out over because the big guy behind us didn’t appear to be calling it quits.

  He simply decided that nonlethal force was no longer his method of choice—not when it came to stopping the two of us. That became pretty darn clear when the handful of tourists sitting in the lobby started screaming, “He’s got a gun!”

  Although I thought the real giveaway was probably the blast of heat as the bullet tore into a framed wall painting next to me. Not to mention the fact that his buddies were probably still upstairs kicking the living daylights out of my professor. That was a big clue that these guys weren’t exactly future Nobel Peace Prize material.

  More like excellent candidates for Cambodia’s Most Deadly, if such a thing even existed.

  But I didn’t have time to say anything sarcastic like, “Really? He has a gun? Gee, I never would have guessed!” because I had to conserve my oxygen for more important things, like charging toward the lobby door. There was another loud blast as our pursuer fired off another round, this one slamming through my tote. I probably should have just let the bag go flying across the room, but I clung to it even as my arm wrenched from the effort. I just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and I didn’t slacken the pace when we made it outside.

  A tuk-tuk was waiting right by the curb, probably because the driver was hoping to receive some late-night business from barhopping tourists. Not that I cared why it was sitting there. I had barely climbed inside before Houston shoved me down to the floor.

  “Go!”

  Our driver didn’t need to be told twice.

  Probably because he wasn’t interested in getting riddled with one of the bullets intended for us. He swore fluently in both English and Cambodian as he peeled away from the hotel. I couldn’t help panting as if I’d just gone through Mrs. P’s hardest routines . . . . twenty times. More than Houston’s arm was draped across me now; his whole body was pressed against mine. Even as I struggled to push past the adrenaline flooding my system, I shut my eyes and pretended that when I opened them again, I’d be safely tucked under the covers in bed. In Oregon.

  Instead of underneath an incredibly hot college guy who appeared equally shaken.

  “Chelsea,” he rasped finally, and I shifted to meet his eyes. For the first time I noticed that they were green with dark gray flecks. And they definitely didn’t look coldly cynical or distant anymore.

  “Chelsea,” he repeated. “What the hell have you gotten mixed up in?”

  Chapter 11

  I glowered up at Houston.

  “You don’t really think . . .” But it was obvious that he did.

  “I had nothing to do with this, thank you very much!”

  “Then why . . .” Houston appeared at a loss to know what he should say next.

  “How do I know?” It felt good to channel some of the adrenaline pumping through my system into yelling at him. Houston deserved it too. He should have said something significantly more swoon-worthy like, “Are you all right? Sit tight, princess. Let me check for injuries.” Now that was an acceptable reaction after someone randomly opened fire in a hotel and tried to use two American students for target practice.

  Other guys would’ve said it without any hesitation. Plenty of other guys also would have used our horizontal positions in a getaway tuk-tuk as an opportunity to make a play for second base. Houston’s hands were bracketed on either side of my face, but they didn’t so much as brush against my cheek. It looked like he was trying his hardest not to unnerve me with our close physical contact . . . even as he acc
used me of being behind the epic debacle of awfulness. The moment would have been so sweet if he hadn’t gone and ruined it by tossing out ridiculous accusations at me. I slugged his shoulder. Hard.

  “This isn’t my fault!”

  “I didn’t say that you intended it to happen, but let’s face it: You’re a walking disaster. We both know that’s why your parents decided to send you on this trip in the first place. And since disasters don’t usually come from out of nowhere, I’m betting you’re involved somehow.” Using his body weight to keep me pinned to the floor, Houston clearly had no intention of moving.

  “You’re insane! Certifiably insane!” I tried to whack him again, but he kept my arms immobilized. “What’s my mastermind plan here, Houston? I flipped through the Yellow Pages and hired some Cambodian Rent-a-Thugs to beat the crap out of Neal, shoot at us, and all for . . . what? A direct flight back to the U.S.?” I snorted in contempt. “If I wanted out that badly, there are a billion better ways I could have arranged it. None of which would include hurting Neal!”

  Houston levered himself off me, and breathing suddenly became a lot easier.

  “So you had nothing to do with this?”

  “That’s what I just said, genius!”

  We glared at each other, and for a moment I could almost pretend we were still arguing over his snarky comments that had pissed me off not even an hour ago. Except then he had to go and take the fight out of me by raking a hand through his hair and muttering, “I’m glad you’re safe, Chelsea. Let’s focus on keeping it that way.”

  I nodded, but instead of leaving the conversation there, I locked onto his piercing green eyes and blurted out the one thing that really mattered to me.

  “Do you think Neal is going to be okay?”

  Even as the words escaped my lips, I knew it was a dumb question. Neal was probably still being beaten up by a group of men who had looked awfully comfortable kicking him in the stomach. Of course he wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot. I simply couldn’t bring myself to ask point-blank if Houston thought he was dead.

  “Let’s concentrate on finding the others,” Houston replied evasively, before he shifted upright so that he could holler out directions to the tuk-tuk driver. I didn’t move from the flooring. I didn’t even try to pull myself up onto one of the seats. Instead, I closed my eyes and felt the vibrations of the motor rumble through me.

  It should have been soothing, but I couldn’t catch my breath until we pulled up at the same open-air massage place I had stormed away from an hour earlier, but which already felt like a lifetime ago, and found Liz and Amy happily getting pedicures. Ben sat nearby flirting with two random girls as he worked on what was probably his third or fourth drink of the night.

  Ben spotted us first and grinned. “Aw, have the two of you kissed and made up already?”

  Not so much.

  My expression must have given away that everything was far from okay because Liz stared at me hard. “What happened?”

  “It’s Neal,” I managed to say numbly. “He’s . . . in trouble.”

  Amy’s big Disney eyes widened. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The kind that comes with guns. Lots of guns.”

  Ben started laughing. “Good one, Chelsea. You almost had me with that one. You’re not a half-bad actress. Maybe you should consider it professionally. Or you could always look into modeling.”

  “She’s not joking.” Houston’s voice was low and calm, but I could sense his body vibrating with adrenaline just like mine. “We were leaving Neal’s room when these guys showed up.”

  “Boss Man, Mr. Enormous, and Backup,” I interrupted. Then shut up when Houston shot me his patented you’re not helping glare.

  “They confronted Neal about being in their room and then one of them got really pissed—”

  “Boss Man.”

  Houston rubbed his forehead, probably to resist the temptation to throttle me.

  “Okay, Boss Man started beating up Neal, Chelsea started screaming, and . . .”

  “And?” Liz demanded.

  “We ran.”

  There it was. The reason I felt like the crappiest human being on the planet. My teacher, the one adult who actually cared enough to try to discuss my feelings, was pummeled right in front of me, and all I’d managed to do was scream and run away.

  Oh yeah, I was real brave.

  Mackenzie Wellesley probably would’ve figured out a way to help Neal. She would’ve whipped out her phone and snapped a picture of the thugs to show the police. Or maybe she would have simply bored them to tears with a discussion on the history of Cambodia. Either way, she wouldn’t have bailed for the nearest exit with an enormous wooden Buddha weighing down her tote bag. Mackenzie never would’ve taken all that extra poundage with her.

  Then again, I wasn’t as smart as Mackenzie Wellesley, geek extraordinaire.

  “You ran?” Liz repeated.

  “Yeah.” Houston shoved his hands into his jeans pockets as if that would help him regain his famous control. “One of the guys chased—”

  “Backup.”

  I really had to stop interrupting.

  “Backup started shooting at us and . . . what else could I have done?” He looked disgusted with himself. “Chelsea was a sitting duck, and I couldn’t—”

  “Hey! Don’t you dare blame this on me!”

  Houston shook his head. “That’s not what I’m trying to do here, Chelsea. You already told me you had nothing to do with it. So . . . that’s it.”

  Liz, Amy, and Ben looked at me expectantly. As if now that we had that all cleared up, I would start barking orders for everyone to follow. There was a thickness to the air, a nervous energy, a heightened tension that was only building around me.

  It paralyzed all of us.

  High school popularity might have prepared me for a lot, but nothing like this.

  “So. . . .” Amy’s voice shook as she finally cut through the helpless silence. “Uh, what . . . what should we do now?”

  Ben draped an arm across her shoulder as he obviously did his best not to panic. “I vote we go back to the hotel. We can do some amateur sleuthing while Houston and Chelsea hide out here. Sounds like they could use a few more massages while we make sure the coast is clear.”

  Right. Because as soon as the massage oil came out I would totally forget that, minutes ago, someone was trying to lodge speeding hunks of metal in my body. Then again, I couldn’t go back to the hotel. If I ever had to walk through the main lobby, with or without bullet holes, the hotel would have another mess on its hands. I couldn’t even think about it without wanting to retch.

  Still, if Ben wanted to be the voice of reason while I had my own private meltdown, he wouldn’t hear any complaints from me.

  “Okay,” I muttered, sinking into the chair that Amy had vacated. “That’s great, because I’m not going back there. Ever.” I fought back a wave of hysterical laughter as I added, “Could someone grab my suitcase? My tote isn’t exactly going to cut it for long.”

  I lifted my bag to show them just how unprepared I was for life on the run, but it only made the Buddha inside stare at all of us with that big, foolish grin carved on his face.

  “Why exactly are you lugging around a statue with you?” Liz demanded. “Please tell me you didn’t steal it from the lobby on your way out.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly how it happened.” Maybe it was the fear-based adrenaline pumping through my system that had me desperate to cling to this distraction. Anything to postpone the inevitable moment when the events of the past twenty minutes became sickeningly real. I couldn’t resist rolling my eyes. “I asked Backup to stop shooting at us long enough for me to grab a Buddha. Pudgy men always make me sentimental.”

  Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to dis on the closest thing I had to a spiritual adviser. I hadn’t actually been shot, so he had sort of upheld his whole “lucky” end of the bargain. Then again, good luck shouldn’t have included fleeing for my life from professor-be
ating thugs.

  Houston’s lips quirked upward into a reluctant smile, and it struck me just how absurdly attractive he was when he chose to make himself agreeable. If the guy ever loosened up enough to turn on the charm, he could probably be every bit as persuasive as Ben . . . or me.

  I wanted to attribute that observation of mine to shell-shock. That was the only thing that made even the slightest bit of sense to me. It was also the one semi-logical explanation I could come up with to excuse the goofy smile spreading across my face.

  I was one more hysterical burst of laughter away from being committed to a psych ward.

  “Next time, don’t drag the bag with you, princess.”

  So apparently I wasn’t the only one who had an inappropriate response to catastrophe. “Funny, I’d rather make sure there isn’t a next time, Texas.”

  For a second I thought we might legitimately have a nice moment together, one that didn’t involve frustrated hair raking or eye rolling or general snarkiness, even though the timing couldn’t have been worse. Something that Ben didn’t hesitate to point out.

  “Seriously? The two of you are going to be all cutesy together now?”

  “Don’t be jealous, Ben,” Liz told him, dragging Amy with her toward the nearest available tuk-tuk. “We’ll help you find someone. After we find Neal.”

  Ben’s scowl only deepened as he strode towards the bustling street full of tuk-tuks. “I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

  Even in the midst of a full-blown crisis, it was hard to take Ben seriously. The guy acted like a little boy who had just been promised a bowl of ice cream if he ate all of his broccoli. Houston might care about the three-year age gap, but I wasn’t particularly impressed with the way the others were handling Neal’s situation. Amy looked terrified by the idea of scouting the hotel, Ben paused briefly to check out a stranger even as he hailed the nearest tuk-tuk, and Liz . . . okay, she looked like she had everything under control.

  But some of that had to be an act.

  Although for the very first time I found myself hoping that someone else could continue delivering the star performance. Our group needed someone to keep it together because this particular mess was already way out of my league.