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)
Let it go.
He’d managed not to send his phone ricocheting across the room with how hard he’d kicked his jeans off last night, and he fished it out of his pocket now, sinking down to sit on the arm of his recliner. “I’ll try calling this time. If she sees the same number twice and she’s avoiding dealing with her kid, she might not pick up.”
“Okay,” Rian said—quiet, absent, as if he was hardly listening, but after a moment Rian drifted over to the recliner and sank down on the opposite arm, folding his hands gracefully in his lap. He darted Damon an uncertain look, then looked away. “Is there anything you need me to do?”
“Depends on if she picks up. Give me a second.”
Fuck, Damon was just...glad for something to occupy him, to pull his attention away from Rian and the frustration building up inside him. He leaned over to flip his laptop lid up—and ignored how close it brought him to Rian, Rian’s thigh warm and almost touching Damon’s shoulder. He lingered only long enough to wait for the black screen to light up, still on the intranet page with the Northcotes’ contact information, before he pulled away to tap in the number and lift it to his ear.
Every ring that passed grated on his nerves; nails on a goddamned chalkboard, taking his already unsettled mood and pulling it into a knot of chaotic yarn, impossible and tangled and frustrating him far more than it should. And when the call flicked over to voicemail after five rings, it took everything in him not to snarl into the phone; he stopped himself, swallowed back the sharp words on his tongue, and forced his tone to even out.
“Mrs. Northcote,” he said. “This is Coach Damon Louis at Albin Academy. I’m following up on my colleague’s call from last night; it’s—” really fucking goddamned “—extremely urgent that you call us back about Chris as quickly as possible. You can reach Mr. Falwell at the number he left, contact the school administrators, or call me at...”
He spilled out his number—then hung up the phone quickly, before the voicemail could catch the “God damn it” bubbling up into a snarl and spilling past his lips.
Troubled hazel eyes watched him. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” Rian offered.
“It feels like twenty-four fucking years.” Damon stared down at his phone, squeezing it so tight it cut into his palm. “Is it that hard to pick up the goddamned phone?”
“Apparently so. The fabulously busy lives of the wealthy.”
It came out as bitter as Damon felt. He clenched his teeth, then asked, “Did you ever finish that email last night?”
“No.” Rian shook his head and fretted his hands together, then reached for Damon’s laptop, only to pause with his hands hovering just over it. “Is it still okay...?”
“Go ahead.”
With a soft sound of affirmative, Rian nodded and scooped the laptop up; Damon tried not to even look at him, let alone notice that Rian made the most overly serious face of concentration while he was typing, nose scrunched and the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.
Nope. Not looking at all.
And completely unprepared to be caught not looking as Rian abruptly lifted his head, spinning the laptop against his thighs and turning the screen toward Damon so Damon could see the draft.
Clearing his throat, Damon leaned in, narrowing his eyes at the screen and not the pale hands framing it.
Mr. and Mrs. Northcote,
I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but my coworker Coach Louis and I have been trying to get in touch with you regarding Chris and urgent matters pertaining to his performance at Albin Academy. Please reply to us at your earliest convenience, either by phone or email. We absolutely must speak with you regarding Chris before the end of the week.
Thank you for your time,
Mr. Rian Falwell
Art & Media Curriculum Instructor, Albin Academy
He frowned, leaning back. “Pretty vague.”
Rian gave a listless little shrug. “Personal assistants. More likely to see the email first.” He turned the laptop back to face him, balancing it on one thigh, his fingers hovering poised over the touchpad. “We’re supposed to be protecting confidentiality, aren’t we?” His gaze flicked over the screen, the image of the intranet email client reflecting in his eyes, turning them to golden mirrors. “His student file says his parents are agents representing some rather big names in Hollywood. They themselves aren’t often the focus of the spotlight, but their clients are. Paparazzi do hover, looking for a way in through any back door they can find.” His mouth tightened at the corners. “And if they’re anything like my parents, it’s possible they have an idea of some role in the spotlight for Chris in the future. He’s attractive. Charismatic. He’d sell well on the big screen. So he’d be a target, too.” Rian’s voice had turned soft, wistful, reflective as he spoke—but now it flattened, professional and cool. “I’m just trying to protect him from that possibility. We just don’t know who’ll be receiving this, in the end.”