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’s fingers itched with the urge to reach out, to brush Rian’s hair back from that smooth brow, touch his thumb to the worried dimple in the corner of his mouth; he curled his hand against his knee instead, keeping it to himself.
One impulsive kiss was already one boundary crossed too far.
“Hey,” he said, offering the best smile he could manage to dredge up. “What happened to ‘to hell with Walden’ and all that stomping around? Thought you’d punch through the floor.”
“Funny.” Rian’s smile was weak, but there—though it faded as he lowered his eyes again, idly stroking his thumb over his phone screen, back and forth until he lifted it off and the lock screen came up, bright-lit with an image of sunlight shining through stained glass in palest blue. “Just...are we making the best choice? Is this really what’s best for Chris?”
“You tell me,” Damon said—and this time gave in to that urge, not to brush Rian’s hair back, but to at least touch him, the comfort of human contact, the warmth of Rian’s slim shoulder under Damon’s fingers as he rested his hand to the curve of it. “You said if your parents had been a little more neglectful, you’d be like these boys. This is your world more than it is mine. So if Chris was your kid...would you want to get that call?”
“Yes,” Rian said emphatically, with a sharp nod. Then he turned his head toward Damon, his smooth cheek brushing Damon’s knuckles. “But if Chris were my son, I would never send him here in the first place. So I don’t know, Damon. I know I’d want to know my son was hurting. But I’m not them. I’m not the Northcotes. They may not care.”
Such distress in Rian’s voice; such pure, open emotion for someone who wasn’t even his blood. Fuck, Damon didn’t want this tension between them, this...whatever it was, making the air fraught and pushed aside only by the looming importance of this issue with Chris; making it hard to do something so simple as offer tactile comfort without it being so laden and significant. But after a moment, he shifted his hand enough to trace his thumb along Rian’s jaw, watching how his eyes widened, his lashes trembled, his chest swelled with his roughly indrawn breath.
“It doesn’t matter if they don’t care,” Damon murmured. “It’s still the right thing to do.”
Rian smiled shakily. “Walden’s going to kill us.”
“I’ll hold him off while you run. I’m a much bigger target anyway.” Damon made himself withdraw his hand, then, nodding toward Rian’s phone. “Go ahead. Or if you don’t want to, I can.”
“No—no, I’ve got it.” Rian pressed his lips together, ducking his head, staring at his phone screen again—but then rapidly punched in the unlock code, and took a deep breath as he tapped the phone app and swiped his thumb over the numbers in quick sequence, glancing at the laptop. “Here we go,” he said, hovering his thumb over the call button. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it. Like you said—you’ve got this.”
Rian flashed him a quick smile, grateful...and genuine.
Then hit the button and lifted the phone to his ear, holding himself tense, still, his eyes a little wide. Damon could hear the faint repetitive sound of the call tone coming through the speaker, ringing again and again and again, and he couldn’t help but hold his breath as he counted the rings and waited and hoped.
But that hope was dashed in less than thirty seconds as, with an audible click, the call picked up on that telltale staticky silence that warned of voicemail even before the detached sound of a pre-recorded voice came over the line; a woman’s voice with a faint mechanical edge from the fuzziness of the phone’s projection.
“You’ve reached Aurelia Northcote. I can’t come to the phone right now; please leave a message, and I’ll contact you at an appropriate time.”
Rian’s next breath hitched, his posture shifting as he sat up straighter as if the recorded woman on the other end of the line could hear him, and he darted Damon a nervous look. “Hi—er, hello, Mrs. Northcote.” The pleasant edge to his voice sounded strained, forced, to Damon; as if he was trying to sound like he was smiling when his expression was troubled, withdrawn. “This is Rian Falwell. I’m one of Chris’s teachers at Albin Academy. I—”
He faltered, stopped; his mouth drew up tight, his eyes closing, brows knitting.
Come on, Damon thought, and reached over to squeeze Rian’s shoulder again. You can handle this.
Rian opened his eyes, and his gaze locked on Damon—and Damon caught that sense of pleading again, that quiet entreaty, that wordless need.
But Rian’s voice was steadier, as he continued, “I’m calling about a matter with your son that we need to discuss. It’s urgent, and I’d appreciate your call back as soon as possible. I’ll also send you an email, if you’d prefer to speak that way. My number is—”