With a look of utter sneering contempt, Drew said, “I just gave him what he wanted. If he’s old enough to wanna work, he’s old enough to take responsibility for his own goddamned deci—”
Damon felt that hard, trembling fury rising to a break point...but before he saw it coming, a pale hand came plowing in from his peripheral vision.
As Rian drove himself forward and, with all his weight, flung himself at Drew and smashed his clenched fist right into the middle of Drew’s face with enough force that he cut off mid-word in a garbled cry, his mouth slewing to one side, his nose flattening, his head rocking back.
Before Drew dropped to the ground, stumbling and crumpling and lying there in a groaning heap, his keys spilling into the dirt, his jaw and the corner of his mouth already puffing with a thick purple bruise, a trickle of red spilling from one reddened, busted nostril.
“Uh.” Damon stared down at Drew, shock knocking the fury right out of him to just leave him confused and frozen. Then he looked up at Rian, who stood over Drew, breathing hard, his hair wild, eyes snapping, face flushed, knuckles a hard-hit red. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
“One of us had to. You wanted to, I would gather.” Rian offered him a strained smile that did little to hide the brimming anger leaving him vibrating with tension. “I’ll not let you get in more trouble than I would for it.”
Damon smiled back grimly. “Watching you was satisfying enough.”
“Fuck you,” Drew slurred, forcing the words around his swelling face as he clumsily dragged himself upright, sitting up and starting to gather himself to his feet. “You wanna go to jail on assault charges? I’ll—”
He cut off with a strangled sound, cringing back, as Damon dropped into a crouch in front of him, bracing his hand between his spread thighs and leaning forward—nice and close and fucking personal.
“You are going to sit the fuck down,” Damon said firmly. “Because we got some phone calls to make ourselves. How you feel about twenty to thirty in prison, Drew? You even know what the Massachusetts child labor statutes are? ’cause I’d bet my next year’s paycheck you don’t have a youth employment permit signed by his parents. Not even a forged one. I doubt you even checked his fucking ID.” And while horrified, angry awareness dawned in Drew’s shallow eyes, Damon rocked back, standing. “Sit there,” he ordered, looking down at that disgusting excuse for a man, contempt rising up on the back of his tongue like sickness. “Stay. Don’t try to ditch town, either. I will fucking find you and drag you back by the scruff like the dog you are. And don’t even think about retaliation.” He tossed his head toward a still-glaring Rian. “You come after him, you deal with me. Got it?”
Drew looked like he’d rather swallow raw meat than agree—but after a few moments he nodded slowly, looking at Damon with such pure loathing it filled the space between them as if it had physical substance, texture.
And Damon let it roll right off him, smiling and showing all his teeth. “Good boy.”
He turned away, then, catching Rian’s arm and nudging him gently. They needed to leave—now, before this turned into a brawl and they all ended up down at Omen’s little two-room police station explaining things to the town’s full complement of seven police officers. They ought to get the cops out here anyway, and quick, before Drew panicked and thought maybe running was a good idea after all.
They’d only made it a few steps before Rian twisted to throw a huffy demand over his shoulder. “And stay away from Chris!”
Damon was glad he had his back to Drew, because fuck, even when Damon was still so angry he could spit he couldn’t help smiling at Rian. “C’mon,” he murmured, guiding Rian toward the Jeep with a hand against the small of his back. “Had to get that last little bit in, huh?”
“...it had to be said,” Rian mumbled guiltily, then winced and shook out his right hand with a hiss. “Ow.” He looked down at his hand, spreading his long, thin fingers; the knuckles were definitely a mess, and Damon glimpsed blood in the creases of pale skin; fuck. “Punching someone really hurts.”
“You tucked your thumb inside, didn’t you? Good way to break it.” And with Drew fucking watching because Damon didn’t give a shit what that asshole thought, Damon slipped his hand down between them and caught Rian’s unbruised hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. “I’d prefer if you didn’t make a goddamned habit out of punching people, but if you’re gonna do it, don’t break your own fucking fingers, Ri.” He answered Rian’s startled, flushed look with a grin, tossing his head toward the Jeep. “C’mon. We’ll get you patched up at my place. If Walden sees you like this, he’s gonna shit bricks.”
* * *
By the time they made it back to Damon’s suite, Rian’s knuckles were quite swollen—and hurting like hell, throbbing as angrily as the red color they had turned.
He sat on the footrest of the recliner while Damon perched on the coffee table, and tried to hold still while Damon gently wiped witch hazel over his knuckles. It stung, and the only thing that made it a little better was how carefully Damon cradled his hand in that broad palm, his thumb swiping softly along the side of Rian’s hand in soothing, repetitive strokes while he worked carefully to clean the little cracks of blood out of Rian’s knuckles, eyes lowered and his handsome face set in lines of distracted concentration.
After a few moments, though, Damon murmured, “Nice bluff about the photos.”
Rian smiled slightly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Hadley had—ooh, ow.” He hissed, flinching but trying to hold still as Damon hit a particularly deep split in his knuckles, pain stinging raw and burning.
He hadn’t meant to hit that distasteful, slimy man that hard. Or at all.
He’d just—just—oh, he’d been so angry.
How dare he treat a child that way?
Damon’s lips quirked; his grip on Rian’s hand firmed, holding him in place. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said softly. “Clocked him pretty good, though. I’d be surprised you’re so strong, but I’ve felt your nails in my back. Got one hell of a grip on you.”
Rian sucked in a breath, his stomach bottoming out. “Damon!”
White teeth flashed as Damon grinned. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Damon set the pink-stained cotton swabs aside on the coffee table and rummaged into his little first aid kit, coming up with a roll of adhesive bandage tape, but as he lifted his head, dark brown eyes flashed warm at Rian, brimming with unspoken laughter. “Not in the slightest.”
“Terrible,” Rian huffed, but even to him it felt like he was saying...something else. But as Damon began to carefully wrap his knuckles, one at a time, Rian bit his lip, sobering. “Damon...what do we do now?”