"Better her than those things," Chuck said grimly, scanning the area. The whole thing felt surreal, but while the adrenaline coursed through his body and dopamine through his brain, Chuck felt sharp as a tack and twice as dangerous. Every sense was running on overdrive, and he turned his head at the smallest of sounds. Even if this was some big, elaborate prank (which was still a possibility, or so he kept telling himself) he would still feel better with a weapon in his hand.
He nodded noncommittally as Blair made her futile phone calls, and the pessimist in him, the one gearing up for The Worst, was unsurprised when neither number she tried responded. He understood the need for hope, however. He understood it so well that his thumb was sliding over his phone, unlocking it and hovering over the first digit. He took two deep breaths before pressing the number and holding the phone up to his ear, wincing as he bumped his hip against one of the tables.
One ring. Two. Three. ... Voicemail. Chuck cursed inwardly and briefly considered hanging up, but then thought better of it. Even in this worst-case scenario, his heart still sped up a little at the prospect of having to leave a message for his father. His tone was tense, almost clipped, and his words had lost their usual sparkle and drawl in favor of brevity and something almost akin to apology:
"Dad. Something's happening. There are..." he paused. "I'm in trouble. I need a car sent to Table D'Hote on East 92nd." A beat. "Please. Dad." Another beat. "Please."
He pocketed the phone, taking another deep breath and trying to steady his shaking hands. He glanced over his shoulder at Blair, then forward, to the kitchen. "I'm going to the kitchen," he announced. "You should come with me." Knives. There would be knives in the kitchen.