I’m like, “What’s happening? Why was he chasing us?”
“Probably because he knows you’re with us, Dylan,” Brett said.
“Me? What did I do?”
And Nash goes, “I afraid he knows you’re on to him.”
“On to him?” I said, trying to sound innocent. “On to him about what?”
“About Ashton Browning,” Brett said. “What else?”
And then Nash’s like, “But don’t worry. We’re on your side.” He lifted up his shirt and pulled a black pistol of his own out of his waistband.
I’m like, “What the hell? You carry a firearm around with you?”
He winked at me. “You never know when it might come in handy.”
At this point, I felt like I’d dropped down the rabbit hole into a nightmare version of Wonderland where everyone but me was a Mad Hatter with a gun. I didn’t have a chance to ask any more questions, though. Just then, Rowan’s car whooshed past our hideaway.
“Got you, little boy,” Brett said, and stomped the gas pedal.
The road stretched long and straight. The black car raced ahead, but Brett scorched after it. Within a matter of seconds, Rowan caught on to our ploy. But instead of trying to outrun us, he jammed on the brakes, fishtailed a one-eighty, and, after sitting still for a moment, his engine breathing heavy, he barreled straight toward us, aiming his shiny chrome grille at ours.
It was a game of chicken that neither side seemed willing to lose. I let out a long, loud “Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!” that only ended when both cars screeched to a standstill about twenty yards away from each other. I was wrong to think it was over, though.
Rowan’s passenger-side door swung open, and here came none other than Aisling Collins striding down the blacktop, packing a big black assault rifle, her blond hair flying back in the wind. This cannot be happening, I thought as I scrunched down in the seat. I escaped Sideburns and his switchblade only to be gunned down by a beautiful rich girl?
Before she was halfway to us, Nash jumped out of the car, ready to face her down with his pistol. She said something, and I guess he said something back, but obviously neither was asking for mercy. I slumped lower in the seat.
Then it happened—Aisling pulled her trigger and Nash pulled his, and the next thing I knew red splattered everywhere. Aisling staggered back, her finger still clenched to the trigger, and Nash didn’t let up either. But they weren’t covered in blood. Their guns were nothing but squirt guns filled with strawberry Kool-Aid.
That’s when it hit me—the whole thing was just another Gangland goof.
CHAPTER 30
Brett laughed so hard you would have thought it was a terminal disease, and I’m like, “What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”
“Oh, come on,” she said. “You didn’t think those were real guns, did you?”
And I’m like, “No. Of course not.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “You did. You thought they were real guns. That’s hilarious.”
By now Rowan was out of his car and Tres Browning had climbed out of the backseat, all of them with their own squirt guns, spraying Kool-Aid everywhere. Only after the guns emptied did Brett and I get out of the Mercedes. She held up her hands. “I’m unarmed,” she said.
Everyone was laughing pretty hard—except me. I did try to force a smile like I’d been in on the joke the whole time, but of course, they didn’t buy it and flipped me crap about freaking out. Well, Tres didn’t, but I figured he probably would have if he could’ve thought of something clever to say. Actually, I could see how it would be funny—if it happened to somebody else. But since it was me, I was a little bit pissed off.
I guess Nash noticed my mood because he put his arm around my shoulders and said, “You’re a hell of a sport, Dylan. If it was me, I probably would’ve screamed like a little girl, but you hung right in there. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to buy you a thick, juicy steak. How about that?”
“A burger would be fine by me,” I said, but he’s like, “No way. We’re going to get you the best steak you’ve ever tasted.”
After everyone told me a few more times how hilarious I was, Rowan’s gang climbed back into his car and we got into the Mercedes. Brett made Nash sit on a towel so he wouldn’t drip Kool-Aid on the plush interior. As Rowan drove by, Aisling pointed her gun at me, and I pretended to get shot.
“That’s the spirit, Dylan,” Nash said.
Heading back to the socialite side of the city, he and Brett filled me in on the rules of squirt-gun gang warfare. I could see how it would be fun, but it also kind of made me wonder if maybe rich kids had a little too much time on their hands to think up weird things to do.
“Poor Rowan,” Brett said. “He’s still trying so hard.”
“I know,” Nash said. “It’s really kind of pathetic.”
I asked why Rowan was so pathetic, and Nash’s like, “Financial problems. His dad’s not doing so well. The real estate market, you know.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said as if I knew anything about real estate.
“You don’t think his dad’s going to have to sell Gangland, do you?” Brett asked.
And Nash’s like, “Doesn’t matter—as long as the right person takes it off his hands.”
They seemed pretty unconcerned about Rowan’s family problems, which I thought was a little cold. Sure, Rowan was a creep, but he was still their friend.