Page 80 of Satan's Spawn
That’s when I catch her, Rebecca’s back to me as she looks slowly over her shoulder, wondering where I am and what I’m doing even though I haven’t taken my eyes off her or moved from this spot since she walked in.
Not yet, Little Ghost. I want you to think you’re winning.
She then glances at her friends, who are too busy dry humping each other to Drake to even realize she’s bored.
There’s the anger again, rising up like an overflowing river in the pit of my stomach.
If it was me over there I’d be asking all the questions, each and every one of them being about her.
Like why does she fiddle with that cross when she’s sad? Take medication? Need to be so in control?
Or a persistent pain in the ass?
All questions a decent date should be asking, but Felix is a tool, and it’s only a matter of time before Rebecca sees it.
I won’t be waiting too long, though, since I can spot her excusing herself when the Royal’s wide receiver gets the fucker’s attention.
I pin Saint with a look and rise out of my chair, winding over to the bar where Rebecca is headed without removing my eyes from her body. She sees me advancing but pretends she doesn’t, nervous hands running through her hair being the dead giveaway.
I park right next to Rebecca when she leans her elbows on the bartop, the rest of the kids waiting for the bartender scampering off without drinks.
I eye her from head to toe, taking in her bare skin already turning burnt from the sun—her shoulders, cheeks, the tip of her nose—all tinged with red giving Rebecca this doe like appearance.
A true semblance of a good girl trying to blend in a bigger, badder world.
I reach over the bartop, grabbing the bottle of Jose Cuervo and two shot glasses on the other side. “You enjoy making me mad, Little Ghost?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Crayton?” She huffs, staring straight ahead.
I slam the glasses down in front of her. “Did you show up with Fucker Felix in this little outfit to piss me off?”
“I look no different than any other girl here.” She states plainly, leaving out the part about her lame date.
It’s the lack of self confidence in her statement that has me fisting the tequila bottle as I pour it into two shots.
“You looknothinglike any of the girls here.”
Rebecca stares at me like a puzzle she can’t find the pieces to, but says nothing.
“I told you to stay away from him. Seems you have a hard time listening.”
“Nah, just a hard time letting go of my standards.”
Her bravado riles something inside me.
“Fucker Felix meets your standards, huh?” I pick up a shot, grab her hand, and slap the glass into it. Most of the liquor has spilled over the sides, but I don’t need it to make my point. “They must be pretty fucking low then.”
“You’re insufferable!” She shoves the shot into my chest, where I do the honors of drinking what’s left. “If you have nothing but insults to waste my time with then I’ll be getting my drink and back to the party.”
“With Mr. Standards?” I raise an eyebrow.
“If by that you mean Felix Crimson, then yes.” She shoots back, then asks the bartender politely to make her a Sex On The Beach.
“How ironic, the only virgin in the house is looking to have sex on the beach.”
Her face blushes from either embarrassment or anger. Either way proves true.
“Fuck you.” She leers at me. “Where I put my mouth or vagina is none of your damn business.”
