Page 22 of Satan's Spawn
“Yeah.” I smile, a bit shaken up. “I’m fine.”
The stranger still says nothing, and his gaze feels like pure fire on me.
“Think you can step aside, Shaw? She has to go to the bathroom.”
Shaw.
“Tell your little friend here to watch where the fuck she’s going,Beaumont.”
I’m about to flip this guy off and tell him maybe he should watch which damn bathroom he journeys into, but the asshole literally pushes past me to size up Archer.
I’m not going to lie, I expected the tour guide to fold like a leaf, and although he looks nervous, he still holds his own against the giant towering over him.
Please don’t let this turn to blows on my account.
No words are exchanged between the two of them, just icy glares and scowls—mostly from the jerk-off—until finally his lip curves into a cold grin and he takes off down the hall.
Where I watch every single one of his steps until he’s disappeared around a corner.
What the actual hell?
“Sorry about that.” Archer rolls his shoulders, his voice bringing my mind back to the bathroom. “He wasn’t hugged enough as a child.”
“Who was that?” I ask, still feeling the aftershocks of his viscous glare like tiny ants on my skin.
“Crayton Shaw. He’s another junior at the school.”
“A junior?”
That guy doesnotlook like a junior in high school.
In fact, he doesn’t look like a high schooler at all.
“Yeah, uh, you know, like right before a senior.” Archer sounds like he’s questioning my sanity, or whether or not I somehow managed a concussion.
“Of course.” I laugh it off, still rattled by the interaction with this Crayton guy.
“Although, technically, he should be a senior.”
Ugh. I hate that we have something in common.
I don’t know why I’m so intrigued by his mystery, but I can’t help the questions that keep pouring out of me.
“Why was he in the girls bathroom?”
Archer inhales a deep breath. “I’m sure once you go in there to do your business you’ll know.”
My eyebrows knit as I turn, pushing the door open and heading inside the large bathroom, which is lined with at least ten separate stalls.
Movement to the right snags my attention, and I find the stuck up brunette from earlier leaning over the sink wiping smeared lipstick off her lips with a paper towel.
Her shirt is even more revealing than it was outside, since at least two more buttons are opened, and the hem of it is hanging out of the waist of her skirt as if it was tugged repeatedly.
I guess this is what Archer meant.
I don’t even realize I’m staring until she sneers, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Sorry.” I rush into the nearest stall where I finally get to release the two water bottles I drank during the first half of the tour.
