xi. | chandler.

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xi. | chandler.

HOT PANTS MR. LYTTON...
IT'S MORE THAN JUST A TAD BIT SCARY

CHANDLER PEVOVSKI the golden


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    CHANDLER SLAMMED HIS hand on the table of the diner so hard that Foster's water glass jumped off and spilt all over his lap.

    "Shit," Chandler said, giving Foster his napkin. "Sorry."

    "You're good," Foster said quietly, placing his glass back on the counter and wiping up the water. He cringed.

    Chandler felt a little bad.

    Only a little.

    Chandler sighed and began reaching into his backpack, which was between his legs and under the table. He pulled out a newspaper that had been sitting in his backpack for the last sixteen hours. He threw it on the table, trying to get rid of the feeling. Chandler absolutely hated the feeling of newsprint on his skin.

    Chandler scanned the faces of his friends as they all looked at the headline: "Early Christmas Tragedy Strikes in Las Vegas".

    Lucas was the first to speak up.

    "What is this?" he asked, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. He looked up at Chandler with his watery blue eyes.

    Chandler inhaled sharply, not saying anything, and looking away from Lucas. He had gotten sick and tired of the look Lucas would give him when Chandler would do something wrong. It reminded him too much of his mother.

    Foster, who was still lapping up the water on his pants, took one glance at the headline and immediately looked away. It seemed as if his lifeless green eyes were avoiding it like the plague.

    Chandler looked to the right of him. Alexander sat there, his tired, dull, blue eyes glued to the newspaper's black writing. His face was emotionless. Chandler had gotten used to it after what had happened the prior week.

    Matison's amber eyes were just tracing the photograph on the front page. He refused to look at the writing, as if he thought a word was going to jump out at him and scare the living daylights out of him. He traced ever small wrinkle on the paper, every crevice of the brick wall of the back of the club, every crack in the alleyway pavement.

    Charles then scoffed and grabbed the newspaper, unfolding it, interrupting Matison's tracing. Matison then went to tracing the veins on Charles's arms.

    Charles's hazel eyes scanned the writing quickly — quicker than Chandler had ever seen. Yet, it still looked like he understood every word on there. Once he finished the last word in a matter of seconds, he looked up at Chandler slowly.

    "That's it?" he asked quietly.

    Chandler didn't move a muscle.

    Charles then leaned closer to Chandler, past Alexander, whose eyes were still glued to the spot on the table where the paper had been, and whispered something to him through gritted teeth.

    "There's no way anyone has any proof that we were ever at that club the night this happened," Charles told him.

    Chandler looked Charles dead in the eye and still didn't say anything until Charles raised one of his accusing brown eyebrows at him.

    "We'll see about that," Chandler said quietly as he began digging in his backpack again. He pulled out two pieces of paper, which had been wrinkled up by wind. He threw them on the table.

    Both papers had large "WANTED" titles. They had two drawings, the one on top looking vaguely like Alexander: same skinny nose and round face, with almond shaped eyes and thin lips.

    "You win," Charles said lowly, wiping his nose with his sleeve and running a hand through his hair.

    Alexander then suddenly grabbed the top paper and crinkled it in his hand. He ducked under the table and climbed out, not saying a word. Next thing Chandler new, Alexander's long legs were carrying him out of the diner as quickly as he could walk.

    "Alrighty then," Chandler said quietly. He locked his fingers together and placed his hands on the table as Charles grabbed the other piece of paper.

    "First of all," he said slowly, his eyes still scanning the paper, "this picture looks like none of us. And second of all, we're worth more than just $100,000."

    Charles then put the paper back on the table, letting the rest of the boys look at the paper. Foster snorted a little bit when he read it.

    "We're just gonna let him go?" Matison asked suddenly.

    Chandler turned to him and followed his gaze to the door.

    "Alexander?" Chandler asked. Matison nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

    Lucas grabbed the piece of paper and began studying the picture. "It could be Charlie," he said, passing the paper to Charles.

    Chandler scoffed. "So we're now calling you Charlie?" he asked.

    Charles's smile fell from his face slowly, looking over to Chandler. His hazel eyes narrowed.

    "Don't ever call me that," Charles said.

    Chandler inhaled sharply.

    Before the two knew each other, Chandler had never been scared of Charles. Sure, Chandler knew he had gotten into plenty of fights: that's why he chose him for his group. But, over the past couple weeks, Chandler had grown to fear Charles more than anything. And he really didn't know why.

    Chandler then forced an unphased smirk on his face. "Looks like Hot Pants Mr. Lytton doesn't like being called Charlie."

    Charles then grabbed Chandler by the collar of his white shirt.

    "Call me that one more time," Charles said. "I dare you."

    Chandler swallowed hard.

    Hot Pants Mr. Lytton was, in fact, more than just a tad bit scary.

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