Page 140 of Satan's Spawn
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Crayton kepthis word and freed Father Stanley.
Somehow managing to remove the chair he jarred against the door, he snuck out back, and appeared out of a set of bushes beside the church without being seen.
We’ve already sped—walked three blocks by the time a police car blasts past us, lights blaring.
It was hostile between us mostly—Crayton dragging me through the streets as I spit every curse word under the sun at him—until finally we were far enough away to slow down.
We stopped in front of a dollar store, where I did the honors of buying a cheap pair of underwear to replace the ones Crayton so expertly ripped.
Now that I’m no longer going commando and the excitement has died down, all that’s left between us is awkward silence as we try to figure out where we go from here.
Literally and metaphorically.
My stomach grumbles as the two of us sit on a bench, a painful reminder I skipped lunch.
“You’re hungry,” Crayton says, not asking—straight telling.
“Yeah,” I respond, clearing my throat. “May have gotten too distracted during my tour and forgot to eat lunch.”
“What about your medication? Kinda hard to get it from Saint when you’re marching through the city.”
Shit.
Sorry Saint, you stand more of a chance surviving his wrath than I do.
“Yeah, uhm, Saint gave me enough pills to last me the weekend.”
Crayton’s lip twitches. “He did, did he?”
“In his defense…he truly thought I did all your work.”
Crayton cracks his neck then stands. “You need to eat. Get up.”
And people say chivalry is dead.
I lean back and cross a leg over my knee. “Are you asking me to share a meal with you?”
Crayton shadows over me, slapping two hands on the back of the bench beside my head. “Did it sound like I was?”
I tilt my head. “Not sure. It was hard to hear over all your compensated superiority.”
Another friendly growl. “You will get something in your stomach because if you pass out I’ll have to threaten some asshole into carrying your scrawny ass back to Riverside.” He leans closer. “I don’t do well with inconvenience.”
“Real charming.” I fake a smile and push him away to stand, making sure to shoulder bump him too as I pass.
“You’ll get a hotdog or some shit.” He nods toward the small silver cart on the far corner.
“I’ll eat what the hell I want.” I shoot back, adding, “And what I want is to try one of those falafel things Mom always talks about.”
I order myself falafel and green tea, trying not to cringe when I see it’s in a bottle, and Crayton gets himself a hotdog.
“That’ll be fourteen-fifty.” The middle eastern man behind the cart says, and I reach into my bag for one of the twenties Roman gave me…then hold it out for him to take.
Except he doesn’t, because Crayton shoves my hand away.
“Here,” he says, handing the guy a twenty.
