Page 17 of Satan's Spawn
Ihatethose fucking smiles.
They remind me ofher.
The older woman she’s walking with looks similar enough to assume she’s her mother, except the hair on her head is more golden, nowhere close to that ghostly white.
The sameghostly white that’s haunted me for years.
And is returning with a vengeance right now as I blink away the image of scornful blue eyes.
The sound of a horn honking from behind makes me jump out of my skin, and my reaction is visceral as I slam my foot on the gas, not realizing a taxi is slowing to a stop in front of me until it’s too late. I stomp my foot on the brakes right before there’s a loud crash of metal, and my body’s jolted forward.
Cursing, I put the gear in park, knowing for damn sure the front of my car will have damage.
Son of a bitch.
What the hell has gotten into me?
My knuckles are white around the steering wheel as I turn my head in the girl’s direction, only to find her attention focused this way. There’s concern fixing her features, and the smallest pout forms at her lips as if she’s contemplating whether or not to walk over and see if I’m okay.
I’ll make sure she regrets it if she does.
Anger rumbles deep inside me, not because there’s an old man screaming obscenities at me in front of my car, but because I feel unraveled with the sight of her: all innocent like it’s not her fault I just dented my car.
All noble like she didn’t just poison my mind with memories I thought were forgotten.
This girl must really be the nosey type, stupid too, because she takes a step toward me right before the older one grips her arm, saying something to make her stop.
Probably telling her to mind her fucking business.
And she’s right.
I’m a dangerous guy for a pretty girl like her—since I find pleasure in breaking pretty things.
Which is why when they walk away arm in arm, I’m feeling both aggravated and relieved.
I should be asking myself why the sight of this girl’s face was enough to bring me back to that other life, but I know it won’t matter because it’s not like I’ll have to see her again.
* * *
The second callto my dad this morning went a lot like he assumed the first would.
I told him how I fucked up, and he used his wallet to fix it.
Paid extra to keep the police report out of it.
Knowing him, he probably whipped out the Tums too, because this car had a custom paint job that cost over three months rent for some of his tenants.
It’ll cost me a lot more, though, since he’ll be expecting some sort of recompense, and I’ll have to use up my energy finding ways to avoid it.
I left out the details about the Little Ghost I saw in the street that brought me to this predicament, and instead insisted the taxi driver stopped short for no reason because he’s old and senile.
He believed it—or didn’t—either way my dad was never the type of guy to not take control of a situation.
Or leave me to my own devices.
It also helped that it was onlymy carthat got the real damage. Just a few scratches on the taxi.
Which is why, after the both of us pulled into a parking lot on the corner, it took no more than fifteen minutes of Cillian Shaw bartering with the old guy on the phone to have me turning my ass around and heading back to Riverside in a damaged vintage Mustang.
