Beckett just stares at me for a moment, not saying anything. It’s actually a little bit uncomfortable, if you want to know the truth. Finally, just as I’m about to turn around and head back into the room, he speaks. “First of all, I’m not trying to lure you anywhere. I’m asking you to come with me. And second of all, if you think I give a shit about your douche-bag boyfriend, you’re wrong.”
“He’s not a douche bag!”
“He is a douche bag. He didn’t answer his phone after you missed the bus, he left you stranded all day yesterday, and then last night he made you wait at his hotel room while he took his sweet time.” While Beckett’s been talking, he’s been walking closer to me, until the distance between us is almost nonexistent. “So like I said, he’s a douche bag. And like I also said, I don’t care about him.”
“Whatever,” I say. “I don’t have time for this. Don’t come to my room again.”
I turn around and start walking back inside, hoping that Aven and Derrick slept through all that.
“She could be in trouble,” Beckett calls after me.
I stop. But I don’t turn around. “What do you mean?”
“Quinn. She might be in trouble.”
I turn around. “I’m sure she’s fine.” Still, as I’m saying the words, an image of Quinn from last night pops into my head. That outfit. The way she was tossing her hair all around. The red lipstick. The way she walked as she left the room, like she was on a mission. “And besides, we’re not . . . we’re not really friends anymore.” But I don’t move.
“So? Aren’t you the least bit worried about her?” Beckett asks. Then he shakes his head, like he’s frustrated. “This is ridiculous. I’ll take care of it myself.”
He turns around and starts to walk away from me, back down the hallway toward the elevators.
“Wait!” I say. “You can’t just . . . what are you going to do?”
He shrugs. “I’m going to make sure she’s okay.”
“How?”
“I saw the car she got into, and the neighborhood she was headed for. I’m going to go there.”
“To check on her?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t even know her.” At least, I don’t think he does. I don’t remember Quinn ever mentioning or having any kind of interactions with Beckett. In fact, he’s the exact kind of guy she hates. The kind who just shows up in class, doesn’t take notes, and somehow still gets good grades. Quinn works hard for her grades. Really hard. And she doesn’t like people who don’t.
“So?” Beckett asks. “She might be in trouble. And if you’re not going to do anything about it . . .” He trails off, like he can’t believe I wouldn’t want to do something to save Quinn.
“I’m sure she’s fine. She probably just met a guy she wanted to hook up with.”
Even as I’m saying the words, they don’t sound right. Quinn, hooking up with some guy she just met? Quinn has only hooked up with one guy that I know of, and that was after she completely overanalyzed it and made a list of all the pros and cons. It was like a two-month-long process. By the end of it, the guy almost didn’t even want to hook up with her anymore. Granted, it’s been a while since we talked, but I have a hard time believing Quinn’s changed that much.
Quinn, what is going on with you?
“Whatever,” Beckett says, shaking his head. “Later.”
I watch him start to walk down the hallway, and before I can stop myself, I’m calling after him, “Wait!”
He turns but keeps walking backward.
“I’m coming with you. Just let me grab a sweatshirt.”
I tiptoe back into the room, shutting the door carefully behind me. Aven and Derrick are both still sleeping soundly. Aven’s curly hair is poking out of the blanket cocoon she’s fashioned for herself, and Derrick is now sprawled across the whole bed, snoring loudly.
I think about waking him up. I could ask him to come with me. It would be the right thing to do. Much better than just walking out with Beckett and leaving Derrick here all alone on the second day of vacation. And yeah, I know he left me yesterday, but still. Two wrongs don’t make a right.
On the other hand, I don’t want to take the chance there’s going to be drama between Derrick and Beckett. If those two get into it, then who knows what will happen to Quinn? She could end up locked up in some skeezy guy’s basement for years and years and no one will know where she is until she claws her way out using a pair of scissors she made out of twist ties. Well. That probably wouldn’t happen, since Beckett seems to know where she is. But still. Why take chances with things like that?
The hotel room door opens an inch. “Lyla,” Beckett whispers. “I’m going. Are you coming or not?”
I take a deep breath, then quickly scrawl a note on the hotel notepad that’s sitting on the desk.
Went out to get coffee—be back soon.
Before this weekend, I’d never lied to Derrick once.
And now I’ve done it twice in two days.
“Are you sure you saw them come down here?” I grumble fifteen minutes later. It feels like we’ve been walking forever. And what was at first a nice little stroll on the beach has turned into just . . . walking down rows of streets. Lots and lots of streets.
“Yes,” Beckett says. “It was a black Range Rover, and they definitely turned into this neighborhood.” He’s walking next to me, and every so often, his arm brushes against mine. I keep moving over on the sidewalk, but there’s only so far I can go. The only thing that’s keeping me from totally losing it is the fact that I’m wearing long sleeves. If I were wearing short sleeves, if our arms were brushing against each other and his bare skin was on mine . . . I shiver, then wrap my arms around myself.
“You cold?” Beckett asks.
“No.”
“You’re shivering.”
“No, I’m not.”
He shrugs. Even the way he shrugs is kind of sexy. I try to think of things to distract myself. The beautiful sun beating down on my face. The way the air is warm and perfect, not too hot, not too cold. The grit of the sand in my toes. The way this sweatshirt smells like Derrick. Yes, Derrick! Think of Derrick! How nice it felt to sleep with his arms wrapped around me last night.
Well.
One arm, at least.
How I fit against him perfectly in bed; how he was the big spoon and I was the little spoon.
How he didn’t want to have sex with me.
No, no, no, do not think about how he didn’t want to have sex with me! Why didn’t he want to have sex with me? It’s definitely not because he doesn’t want me. It’s just because he wants to make it perfect. Because he’s perfect. Tonight we’ll have sex.
I wonder if I’ll have time to shop for something really sexy. I’m kind of rethinking my black bra and underwear set. Maybe I should get something a little more . . . I don’t know, trashy. But not trashy in a cheap way—trashy in a hot way. It should be sort of see-through, but not—
“There it is,” Beckett says. He points to a one-story turquoise box house with a neatly manicured lawn. A shiny black Range Rover sits in front of it.
“Wow,” I say. “She really looks like she’s in a lot of trouble, Beckett. Thank god you got me out of bed to save her from this crack den.”
He gives me a pointed look.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, aren’t you going to go to the door?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“You’re the one who saw her, why don’t you go to the door?”
“Because I don’t even know her.”
“Yeah, but if I go to the door and she’s been taken by some kind of gangster, then I’m going to be kidnapped, too.”
I expect him to shake his head at my ridiculousness, but instead he nods seriously, and his jaw sets into a line. “Good point. You stay here.” He begins to march toward the door.
“Wait!” I call after him. But he’s not listening. He’s walking right up the
driveway, all determined, like he has every right to be there. “Beckett, wait!”
He ignores me.
What the hell is he doing? Shouldn’t we, like, have a plan or something? You can’t just go marching onto people’s property and banging on their doors, asking them if they’re harboring a teenage girl in their basement. People don’t like that.
I look around, wondering if I’ve missed anything that would lead me to believe this is a bad part of town. It doesn’t look like a bad part of town. We’re so close to the beach that I can still smell the ocean, and there’s sand lining the road where the sidewalk meets the pavement. These houses have to be, like, millions of dollars. Okay, not millions. They’re not mansions or anything. But I’ll bet they’re pretty expensive. My mom is always talking about how when you buy a house, it’s all about location, location, location. And these houses are in a great location.
In fact, now that I think about it, it’s very unlikely that Quinn has been kidnapped. Why would a kidnapper take her to some expensive almost-beachfront property? I’ve never heard of anything like that happening before. When people get kidnapped, they’re always taken to some run-down abandoned apartment building where the neighbors turn the other cheek.
This is definitely not that kind of neighborhood. This is the kind of neighborhood where everyone knows everyone else’s business and everyone’s worried about their property values. In fact, even now as I’m glancing around there’s a woman across the street giving me the side eye. She’s pretending to be watering her flowers, but she’s not even looking where the spray is going.
I give her a friendly smile, and she gives me one back, but it can’t hide her suspicion.
“Beckett!” I yell toward the front door. “Beckett, I think we can go now!”
He turns around and looks at me, putting his hand up to block the sun. “What?” he yells.
“I think we should go now! I think Quinn’s all right!” I shouldn’t have said that last part. About Quinn being all right. Now the neighbor woman’s eyes are all wide, like I’ve insinuated Quinn could be half-naked and tied up or something.
“It’s okay,” I say to her, hoping I sound and look responsible. I tug down my spandex shorts. “We’re just visiting our friend.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” the woman calls back. She doesn’t look convinced.
I turn my gaze back to Beckett, who is now talking to some guy who’s opened the door of the little turquoise house. Wow. The guy is seriously hot. He has messy dirty-blond hair and he’s wearing black surfer shorts with no shirt. He steps out onto the porch, and his abs literally glint in the sunlight. His face doesn’t look too happy, though. Probably because he can’t figure out why some stranger has showed up at his house demanding to see Quinn.
“I just want to talk to her,” Beckett’s saying. Then he points to me. “See? That’s her best friend right there, Lyla.”
Oh, Jesus. Why did he have to get me involved? I don’t even want to be here.
Now the hot surfer guy is staring at me. “You’re Quinn’s friend?” he yells across the street, looking confused.
“Yes!” Beckett says at the same time I say, “No!”
Beckett throws his hands up and gives me a what the hell are you doing? kind of look.
“I think she’s okay,” I say to Beckett. I turn and look at the woman with the hose, giving her another reassuring smile.
“Bill!” she calls toward her house. “Bill, I think you should come out here. And maybe get Harvey Cooper on the phone. That Flax boy is getting up to something again.”
“No, no, no,” I say. “No one’s getting up to anything.”
“Harvey Cooper is the president of the homeowners’ association,” the woman reports. “And he’s not going to be too pleased about being called back here for the second time in a week.”
The second time in a week? Yikes. Well, even if Quinn’s not in any danger, she better be careful about this alleged Flax boy. He sounds like trouble. He’s probably always bringing tons of girls home and getting noise complaints. Someone that good-looking is definitely bad news.
I turn back to the house to call for Beckett again, but at that moment, Quinn emerges onto the porch. She’s traded the outfit she was wearing last night for a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy-blue T-shirt that’s about ten sizes too big for her. Probably that Flax boy’s. Which means . . . wow. Did Quinn sleep with him? Well, if she didn’t, they definitely did something. Her hair is all disheveled, and if I was closer, I bet I’d see that her makeup was a little smudged.
I peer at her, trying to figure out if she’s been having sex all night. Stop being so naive, Lyla, I tell myself. Of course she’s been having sex all night. She didn’t just go home with some guy and end up in his clothes because they were studying together.
“Lyla?” Quinn yells once she sees me standing on the sidewalk. Her voice is a mixture of annoyance and confusion.
“Oh, hi,” I say lamely.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just, um . . .” I glance around, looking for an excuse as to why I would be here at this time of day, at this exact house, that would have nothing to do with her.
“We came to check on you,” Beckett says. “Lyla, tell her we came to check on her!”
“Check on her for what?” the Flax boy asks. His tone is all dark, like he doesn’t like anyone insinuating that maybe he’s up to no good. Probably he gets up to no good on a regular basis, and so he’s sick of people calling him on it.
“To make sure she was okay!” Beckett says. He turns to Quinn. “Quinn, are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says to Beckett. She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “I’m fine.”
She seems really upset.
“You seem upset,” I call to them from the end of the driveway. “We should probably go.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Beckett asks Quinn again.
“She’s fine,” the Flax boy says. “Now you want to tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you’re doing here?”
“Jesus,” Beckett says. “Take a chill pill. We’re friends of Quinn’s. We just came to make sure she was okay. Which we already told you.”
“Quinn, are these people friends of yours?” the Flax boy asks her.
“No,” Quinn says, surprising everyone. Even the Flax boy looks a little surprised, like up until she said that, he thought he was making a big deal out of nothing.
“Bill!” the woman across the street yells. She drops the hose, and a river of water goes snaking down her grass. Those flowers are definitely going to be ruined now—she’s going to end up drowning them if she keeps carrying on like that. “Bill, come quick! There’s going to be a domestic disturbance!”
“No there’s not,” I yell after her. I turn back to the driveway. “Beckett! Come on! She’s fine! Let’s go!”
Beckett shakes his head one more time at the Flax boy, like he can’t believe how stupid he’s being. Like the Flax boy should be happy that he took Quinn home to hook up and then had a bunch of strangers show up on his doorstep to question his motives and get the neighbors all riled up. Then he turns around and walks back toward me.
“That guy’s an asshole,” he says as he walks down the driveway.
“Shh!” I say.
But it’s too late. The Flax boy heard him. “Hey,” he calls after Beckett. “What’d you call me?”
Beckett turns around. “I called you an asshole,” he says.
The Flax boy’s eyes darken. He’s very sexy when he gets all smoldery like that. I’m sorry, but I can kind of see why Quinn would want to go home with him. I mean, if you had to pick a boy to have as your vacation hookup, this guy is exactly what you’d want.
I look at Quinn. She’s standing on the porch, looking a little dazed. Is she really okay? I wonder. I give her a smile, but she scowls at me and looks away. All righty then. She must be at least a little bit okay. I really doubt someone who was being held again
st their will and tortured would be so unfriendly, even to an ex–best friend.
Then her eyes suddenly widen. “Are those my shorts?” she calls.
“No,” I say hotly. “They’re mine.” These shorts are just plain black shorts. She’s not the only one who can wear plain black shorts. Everyone has a right to them. They’re, like, in the public domain.
“What did you call me?” the Flax boy asks again, like it’s so unbelievable he needs to hear it twice.
“I. Called. You. An. Asshole.” Beckett moves closer, and I reach out and grab his arm.
“Bill, the police, call the police!” the woman across the street screams.
“Come on,” I say to Beckett, “this isn’t any of our business.”
“Get out of here,” the Flax boy says to us.
Beckett takes a step toward him, like he’s going to completely disregard the fact that we’re trespassing on someone else’s property and that said person is pretty much threatening Beckett.
“Beckett!” I say. “Stop. Just stop.”
In the distance, I hear the sounds of a siren.
“That’s the police!” the woman yells from across the street. “My husband has called the police! And as soon as they get here, I’m going to fill out a report. I’m going to fill out a report and make sure that this neighborhood doesn’t go the way of the ghetto!”
Wow. That is definitely not PC. I don’t think you can really just walk around saying you don’t want your neighborhood to go the way of the ghetto. I think you have to call bad neighborhoods “transitioning.” Although it definitely doesn’t pack the same punch to say you don’t want your neighborhood to end up “transitioning.”
“Beckett,” I say, “please, come on.”
He turns around and looks at me, and when he sees my face, it must snap him out of it. “The police are going to come and arrest you!” I yell, just to drive the point home. “Do you want to spend the day in jail?”
“Fine,” he says, “come on.” He starts to head down the driveway, but he’s walking backward, still staring the Flax boy down. The Flax boy is staring him down, too. I have the feeling that if Quinn and I (and the neighbor woman) weren’t here, then they’d probably have started fighting. How stupid. Boys and their dumb hormones. Who cares if we’re here looking for Quinn? Why do they have to make a big deal about it and get all up in each other’s faces? This isn’t medieval times. Nothing has to be settled with force.