Page 16 of Satan's Spawn
Her pussy is mediocre at best.
“Less worrying about my dick’s social life and more worrying about when yours will start having one.” I trudge ahead and he stays back, knowing better than to push me too far.
“Cold, Cray Cray, that shit was cold,” he says behind me, adding, “at least bring me back an everything bagel. You know how I take it. Buttered, a little brown. Just how I like my women.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
I hear Riggs whistling to who I assume is a girl he’ll never actually try to fuck, and reach for the phone in my pocket to call my dad.
He’s already picking up on the first ring by the time I get to Raven.
“Son,” he greets me. “Should I be grabbing the Tums?”
“Real funny.” I pull open the car door and slide inside, slamming it shut.
“Well, when I get calls this early I’m usually opening either those or my wallet.”
“You won’t be needing either. Just wanted to let you know I won’t be making it to the office later.”
“The reason being?” He waits.
I don’t have one, but I always think on my feet.
“They want us to help prepare the signs and shit for the start of the new year.”
“You? Help out?” he says these words as if the idea is a foreign concept.
Probably because it is.
“Yeah, you know me. Always the humanitarian.”
The explosive roar of the engine comes to life when I twist the key in the ignition, along with my bluetooth over the speakers as I pull out of the spot.
“Tomorrow, Crayton. No excuses.”
No promises.
“Loud and clear, pop.”
After my father goes through his usual spiel about responsibility and needing to work on my interpersonal skills, and how working for him during the summer is the best way to do that, I pretend I have another call and hang up.
The only reason I work for my dad on occasion is because of how much I respect him. And the only reason I make it a point to actually show up sometimes is because he’s the only person in my life who’s earned said respect.
Sitting in the usual city traffic, I turn up the volume on “‘Till I Collapse” by Eminem and ring my fingers around the steering wheel. The beat thumps off the windows as I bob my head to it, mouthing off with the lyrics as I wait for the light to change.
It’s hot today, and even with the AC blasting I can still feel the humidity choking the car from the outside.
The streets are packed—per usual for morning rush hour—and I won’t lie and say I’m not second guessing my decision to drive through this shit just for a sandwich.
They’re the best fucking sandwiches though, and always worth the parking ticket I end up getting.
Alfie, the peanuts guy, is setting up his stand on the corner, reminding me to grab a bag on my way back.
I’m about to accelerate when the sight of long white hair snags my attention.
And my ability to suck in air.
The invisible noose tightens when I take in the features on her face: pinched nose, high cheekbones, and a saccharine smile that makes my stomach pang with distaste.
