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)
Damon dragged his gaze back to Rian—and found hazel eyes watching him from beneath heavily shaded lashes. Those same smoky-smudged wisps of eyeliner, but this time accented with tiny traceries of glittering gold, and Damon realized he’d spangled gold dust into his eyelashes, too—until those deep, liquid eyes were all black and amber, darkness and stars.
And Damon’s heart turned over, strange and slow and warm, as Rian offered him a slow, small smile. “I bet those boys would say there’s somewhere you belong,” he murmured. “That’s why you like football, isn’t it? Because it’s not about competition. It’s about making a place for yourself, and for them. A place where you can all feel like you belong.”
Fuck.
How much had Damon been laying himself open these last few days, that Rian could just...just...pluck that out of him like Damon was some strange fruit, all these little morsels of quiet hurting; these longing things Rian could roll over his tongue the way he rolled those quiet words?
Damon parted his lips, but nothing...nothing would come out.
Because once again, as happened much too often in the last few days...he didn’t know what to say.
He was afraid to know what he’d say, when the first damned instinct was to thrust back, reject that gently offered understanding, because fuck if he knew what to do with Rian like this.
Fuck if he knew what to do with this feeling.
Other than to run from it.
Is that what you want, Damon?
To run from the very damned thing you claimed to want?
He didn’t—he just—
“I’m late,” he muttered, stepping back, feeling for the doorknob. “Practice. Sorry. Gotta go. I...” He swallowed. “I’ll update you if anything crops up with Chris.”
Rian didn’t say anything.
So Damon just...left.
Jerked the door open, backed out into the hall, walked away.
And told himself he wasn’t running from...from...
From wanting something from those soft, pale lips that never quite seemed to smile just for him.
Chapter Seven
Anything new to report?
Rian sprawled against his desk, his chin resting on one forearm, his other arm draped out in front of him with his phone clasped loosely in his hand, the unsent text waiting below a line of unanswered ones. He hovered his thumb over the little icon of a paper airplane, scowling at the previous text history.
[Monday, 5:42PM]
Chris seemed the same in class today.
[Tuesday, 8:01PM]
I washed your plate and left it outside your door.
[Thursday, 7:14AM]
Are you going to the faculty meeting next Monday?
He didn’t even know why he’d sent that last one. Of course Damon was going to the faculty meeting; they all had to go to the faculty meetings, he just—he—
He just wanted that stubborn, rude, irritating rock to actually answer him.
They were supposed to be working together on this, weren’t they? Keeping an eye on Chris and reporting in, but if he didn’t know better...
He’d think Damon was avoiding him.
Rian deleted the unsent text with a grumble and let his wrist go lax, flopping his phone face-down on the desk.
Jerk.
What was all that mess about being sorry he was such a jackass, only to keep acting like the exact same jackass? And why the hell was it annoying Rian so much?
Well...what if something happened with Chris?
What if...what if...
There was no what if.
If Rian had sent something about a problem with Chris, Damon probably would have answered in a heartbeat.
Which meant Damon was just refusing to answer because it was him.
Well, so what?
Hate him anyway.
Dick.
He can go right there on that shelf with the ceramic ones.
And stick his head right in that freaking kiln.
With a groan, Rian thunked his head against the desk, closing his eyes and burying his nose against the crease of his sketchbook, the untouched pages, when he couldn’t bring himself to draw anything when the last time he’d tried, he caught himself sketching the low bridge of Damon’s nose, the way the corners of his mouth dimpled with that wry, mocking, arrogant smile that made his already full lips seem so much richer and softer and—
“Uh... Mr. Falwell? You okay?”
Rian opened one eye, peering past his arm and his hair; one of the last period sophomores—Jay? His brain didn’t want to stick on names right now—eyed Rian nervously past the papercraft project he was working on; a few of the other students gave him odd looks, too, and Rian lifted his head with a small smile, propping his chin in his hand.
“I’m fine,” he said. “You’re not the only ones who fall asleep in class sometimes. Storms always put me right to sleep.”
That got him a few oh-look-the-adult’s-trying-to-be-funny laughs, dutiful, but they settled back to work, talking amongst themselves. As if trying to underscore his rather sad comedic timing, the gray sky outside let out a rumble; it had been coming down like cats all day, raining in a steady sheet of silver occasionally punctuated by crackles of lightning.