Page 29 of Satan's Spawn
Does Crayton really seem like the type to abide by rules?
Most definitely not.
Point proven as he twists the top off of, what I assume, is alcohol in the brown bag and takes a swig, chucking the cap into the street.
He looks so…unexpectedin black jeans and matching hoodie.
This outfit doesn’t scream “I’m the rich sadistic asshole” like I assume he is.
It’s surprisingly mundane for a guy who probably commands every room he walks into. Including the bathrooms.
Similar to that day, I can’t ignore the pang of curiosity that hits me. The need to know where he’s headed comes even stronger. Maybe his whereabouts can shed a light on why Crayton looked as though he was a chemical shift away from going full serial killer in the hallway.
Don’t do it.My conscience warns, but I’m already lifting Potato up, moving in full stealth mode down the street after the guy.
The hoodie comes down with the next sip he takes, the lights around us bright enough to showcase buzzed golden hair, along with a partial of his creepy tattoo.
If there was any previous doubt, it’s obliterated with the sight of those horns taking up his neck.
I must look ridiculous, dodging between people and buildings to keep an eye on him, trying to make sure he doesn’t notice he’s being followed. Crayton doesn’t seem to, and we go on like this for about three minutes until we come up on the piers and he makes a right turn.
This is when I realize he’s been walking in the exact direction of the park I take Potato to.
Must be a coincidence. There’s more than just the park to be found here.
A couple bars. Shops.Definitely not the gates of hell where he belongs.
Nevertheless, I keep up my pace, patting Potato on the head for being a good quiet boy, and peek out behind the corner to find Crayton.
Except he’s vanished.
Damn, damn, damn.
All that effort for nothing.
I’m probably better off, knowing this would only end in disaster if he spotted me being a creep.
Setting Potato down on the ground, I accept defeat and we continue on our walk in a much less suspicious manner.
When we approach the park, I’m not surprised to find a couple people with their dogs, some on benches, some standing as the dogs run around.
I keep Potato on the leash at all times, walking in aimless circles around the small enclosed garden, stopping when he starts sniffing one of the trees.
I stare off at the water as he does what dogs do, getting lost in my thoughts as usual. This time there’s only one person at the forefront of them.
Why the hell was I following this stranger through the streets?
More importantly, why am I so drawn to him?
Crayton Shaw is a heathen. A bully.
Therefore I should be filling the space between us, not trying to close the distance.
Fate tests me right after this realization, because not even twenty feet outside this park is the man himself meandering toward the edge of the piers, still drinking whatever the hell is hidden inside that bag.
My immediate reaction is to jump behind the piss tree, Potato yelping as I tug him, hoping and praying Crayton doesn’t have some weird night-vision-super-hearing or some shit.
Not that he needs freaking night vision in a lit up park.
