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.”
Or something else.
Like the irritation sparking in that dark gaze, embers scorching against that ice to make them smolder. “Don’t fuck with me. Chris hasn’t been to practice in almost a week. Says he’s staying after class to work on your projects. Looks goddamned miserable, too. So what the hell’s going on? He failing, and you’re making him do extra credit?”
“Failing? He’s the top student in the class, he—wait. Stop. Back up.” Rian eyed Damon warily. “Mr. Louis, he’s not staying in my class after school. I’m not keeping him. I thought he was with you. So if he’s not with me, and not at practice...”
Damon went still—an odd quiet falling over him, a certain arresting motionlessness that made him seem like a living statue, a thing of strange-sculpted art in tones of bronze and copper and gold and deepest iron black.
Before he groaned, tilting his head back, baring the strong lines of his throat. He swiped a hand back through his hair, pushing it back from his face and shaking a few droplets of sweat free to patter down on his shoulders like raindrops falling from tree branches after a storm.
“Mother fuck,” he said. “I think Northcote’s been lying to us fucking both.”
* * *
Damon Louis couldn’t quite believe Rian Falwell had just thrown a fucking balled-up paper towel at his head, like they were in grade school trading spitballs.
But then he couldn’t believe Falwell was staring at him like he’d happily gut Damon, too, his imperious little pale mouth twisted in a knot and his previously bone-white cheeks flushed with anger that reflected in glittering hazel eyes.
People didn’t glare at Damon.
They didn’t even make eye contact.
But Falwell didn’t have the slightest qualms about glaring at him, standing there like the lord of his five by five domain, slender presence bristling fit to fill the tiny cubicle he’d commandeered as his... Damon didn’t even know what to call it. Studio. Workroom. Junk closet. Dumpster. Especially when Falwell had cluttered it wall to wall with kitsch, this kind of...whirlwind of clay and paint and pictures and delicate bits of papercraft that fit together in a bizarre aesthetic chaos, where it all coalesced in an esoteric pattern like some strange art installation in and of itself.
While Rian himself was part of it, lit in white and amber by the single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and the golden sunlight falling like pale whiskey through the narrow, long bank of windows bumping up against the ceiling on one wall.
The whole room was too warm, as if it had marinated in that sunlight and Rian’s body heat until Damon couldn’t even tell it was autumn, despite the fact that the drafty halls of the ancient wood-slat building were always chilly.