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)
The man he was waiting for right now, while Rian stood stiffly and awkwardly with his hands clasped together in front of him like an errant schoolchild waiting for the bus, feeling like a complete and utter ass and not quite sure what to do with his hands—or himself—at all.
He was...he just wanted to keep things casual. That was all. Not give away how nervous he was at the idea of seeing Damon again, even after just a few short minutes apart; not betray the erratic skip-hop beat of his heart, how he couldn’t seem to even out his breaths, how just the faintest throb of the subtle bruise-marks Damon had left on his waist made Rian’s face ignite with a blush he couldn’t exactly conceal when he was the kind of pale that couldn’t tan even if he spent all day staring right into the sun.
He wanted to be able to smile and mean it, when he saw Damon.
Smile, mean it...and not make Damon uncomfortable having to deal with Rian’s head and heart rioting all over the place and thrashing about where they didn’t belong.
So. Casual posture, right? Relaxed. At ease.
No problem at all.
He tried leaning his shoulders against the wall next to the door and crossing his ankles, but then he felt like he was playing coy and simpery with his fingers laced together in front of him. Maybe arms folded over his chest? He tried that, but now he was all hunched in on himself uncomfortably and standing so stiffly, the posture completely unnatural for him and his hands tucked under his arms like he was trying to stay warm on a cold day. Hm. Okay. Straighten up, then. Hands in the pockets of his jeans...except he was just...scrunching his shoulders up and planting his feet awkwardly wide and he must look like a complete and utter dork, and once again his hands and arms were the problem when he kept jutting his elbows out like turkey wings.
When did standing get to be so hard?
He stole a glance down the hall, but no sign of Damon yet. Good. The last thing he needed was Damon coming down the stairwell from his corner room and spilling out into the hall to find Rian frozen in the middle of these odd social acrobatics, posing himself around like a bizarre doll and making a total weirdo out of himself.
Maybe if he just...leaned one hand against the wall, let himself slouch lazily, he could pull off casual and natural instead of ready to jitter out of his own skin.
Why had he forgotten how to occupy his own body?
I feel like a sack of bees in a human-shaped bag.
Grumbling to himself, he braced a palm against the frame of the infirmary door and leaned, cocking his foot so his toes propped against the floor, only to—
“...what are you doing?” rumbled over his shoulder.
“Oh—!” Heart stumbling, Rian whipped about...and barely caught a glimpse of Damon towering over him, looking down at him with the most puzzled expression, before Rian’s palm slipped on the door frame and he went reeling to one side, stomach going end-over-end while Rian tumbled toward going ass-over-elbows.
Only for a strong arm to hook around his waist, hefting him up easily, and this time his stomach flipped for different reasons when for just a second, that hard grip pressed him against the full length and breadth of Damon’s body—so much warmth soaking into him, like standing against the sun, and the hard-crafted chisels of Damon’s physique pressing into Rian from neck to toe, reminding him of that heavy shape pressing him down to the bed and...
They sprang apart as if by mutual agreement, Damon’s arm dropping away and leaving Rian free to stumble back, catching himself with his back against the wall and taking several shallow, shaky breaths before composing himself.
Just.
Keep your shit together Falwell, and it sounded so much like Damon that Rian almost smiled, holding on to that and calming himself the hell down when he was the one who said they should be adults about this, instead of acting like nervous teenagers.
“Thanks,” he managed to get out, and was almost proud that it only came out slightly strained.
Damon looked rather pointedly across the hall, rubbing a broad hand against the back of his neck, his expression blank; his hair was still wet from a shower, and it dripped darkened spatters against his light green T-shirt, and idly Rian wondered if Damon deliberately bought his shirts one size too small, or if they’d all conveniently shrunk in the wash.
“Yeah,” Damon muttered.
“I wasn’t—I thought you’d be coming from that way.” Rian jerked his chin down the hall.
“Stopped by my office first. Wanted to see if there was another contact number for the Northcotes on Chris’s permission slip.”
“And...?”
“Not a damned thing.” Damon’s shoulders moved restlessly, more of a jerk than a shrug. “So. We get Chris to talk, or we wait for his parents to call and they can get him to talk.”