Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“Was there something you wanted to see me about, Mr. Louis?” he threw over his shoulder. “Or are you that interested in my working arrangements?”
A derisive snort filled the tiny space. “More interested in who you’re working,” Damon said. “I’m here about Chris.”
Rian lifted his head, frowning, and shut the water off. “Which Chris?” He ripped a few paper towels off the wall-mounted holder, drying his fingers. “We have at least seven on campus, and no less than three currently enrolled in my classes.”
“Don’t.” Hard, cold, skeptical. “You know who I’m talking about. Northcote.”
...Christopher Northcote?
The sophomore in Rian’s afternoon class.
The extremely talented sophomore in Rian’s afternoon class, who looked as if he’d been made for brawling, sports, hard labor—but whose surprisingly delicate fingers had a talent for working with clay sculpture, as well as a sensitive touch with paints and colored pencils. He seemed to enjoy art for art’s sake, absorbing himself in every project and focusing on the most minute details with absolute concentration and a skill that seemed effortless for someone his age. In fact, one of his sculptures—a delicate rendering of a wisteria tree, realistic in its exacting detail—was currently drying on a table in the classroom adjacent to Rian’s studio, waiting to be properly fired. Chris had just put the finishing touches on it this afternoon.
Before realizing he was almost late for football practice, and dashing out the door in a breathless rush with his hands still covered in clay.
As if he was afraid of displeasing someone.
Afraid of drawing someone’s wrath.
Like the wrath of the massive, cold-eyed man currently taking up half the space in the room with his overwhelming presence.
Rian narrowed his eyes, turning to face Damon, meeting that frigid, demanding stare. “I’m sorry, was he five minutes late for practice today? Is that what’s got your hackles up, Coach Louis? Heaven forbid he not race headlong into a traumatic brain injury. I’ll make sure to rush him out the door tomorrow, if that’s what you command.”
Honestly, the sheer arrogance—had Damon Louis really come, bold-as-you-please, into Rian’s studio to take him to task over a student being late?
Damon’s brows lowered thunderously. “He didn’t show up for practice at all, and you damned well know why.”
“Then you’ll have to forgive me for asking you to enlighten me,” Rian bit off. “Because I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t—” Damon let out a snarl that made Rian think of deep tectonic plates grinding together, low and slow. “The hell you don’t. What the fuck kind of game are you playing, Falwell? He failing, or there some other reason you’re pulling this shit?”
Rian balled up his fists until the paper towel in his palm compacted down into a knot scraping against his skin. “Good afternoon, Mr. Falwell,” he seethed. “I’ve got something I’d like to talk to you about, Mr. Falwell. A concern with one of your students, Mr. Falwell. Really, one of my football players might not be doing so well in one of your classes, Mr. Falwell.”
A slow blink lowered Damon’s lashes—drawing attention to their lush, thick black curves, the way they shaded his eyes until they looked languid and calm and thoughtful even when he stared at Rian as if he’d started speaking some alien language.
“You wanna start that over?” Damon said. “This time maybe making some fucking sense?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rian spat. “I thought we were flinging accusations at each other without explaining what the hell we’re talking about. And since you decided to come stalking into your colleague’s space and loom at me without even the slightest preamble, I thought I’d show you what courtesy looks like.”
“Courtesy—” With an incredulous sound, Damon strangled off, eyes slitting in a glare. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
“Why you—you—”
Rian spluttered.
Balled up his fists even tighter.
Then flung the scrunched-up wad of paper in his palm at Damon, snapping his hand out sharply and sending the paper towel arcing across the room.
Damon didn’t even move.
He just watched, deadpan, as the paper ball sailed right at him.
And bounced square off the center of his forehead.
His brows rose slo-o-o-wly, one fraction at a time, his coldly irritated expression never wavering from its dry displeasure.
“Feel better?” he asked sardonically.
“No,” Rian muttered and folded his arms over his chest, looking away sharply and glaring across the room. Really, that had been rather childish of him, but this—this asshole just—ooh! “I just thought, since you scoffed at courtesy, I’d try to match you in being rude.”
Damon let out a long, drawn-out, impatient sigh. “You want courtesy, Falwell, you can do me the fucking courtesy of telling me why the hell you’re making Northcote skip football practice.”
“I’ll do that once you do me the courtesy of telling me why you think I’m making Christopher do anything,” Rian flung back. “Skip practice? He dashes out of here at last bell like his bottom’s on fire every day. Like you’ve put the fear of God into him.”