by Cole McCade
Artistic anatomy.
That’s all it was.
That, and it was too warm out here for a late September afternoon.
Especially when Damon, after dragging his discarded T-shirt over his face as a towel, gave Rian a flat look through the wet, coiled tangles of his hair. “How long have you been staring at me this time?”
It took everything in Rian not to splutter.
And to retort as if it was perfectly natural, “Just a few minutes.” He shrugged stiffly. “I didn’t want to interrupt practice.”
“It’s fine. They know the drills.” Damon draped his loose, sweat-marked shirt against his shoulder, letting it dangle down his chest and back, and glanced back toward the boys, watching them for several thoughtful moments before deep brown eyes returned to Rian, searching. “What’s up? Something happen with Chris?”
For some reason, Rian couldn’t meet Damon’s eyes—and he swallowed as he looked away, tucking his hair back with his fingertips. “Not quite? I just had an idea I wanted to run past you. For information gathering.”
“We being fancy about it now? ‘Information gathering.’ So covert.” Damon snorted. “Lay it on me. What’s the plan?”
“Merry Valdez,” Rian said. “Not exactly Chris’s best friend, but...”
“...less obvious than making up a reason to call in his roommate,” Damon finished easily. “So what’s the hook with Merry?”
“A C grade in art class.” Rian tilted his head, daring a look back at Damon from the corner of his eye—only for his heart to twist inside out in the most annoying way when he caught those brown eyes still locked so steadily on him. “It’s not criminal, something for his parents to deal with when report cards come around, but considering he’s maintained As and Bs in all other courses, it’s a valid excuse for a brief chat. A welfare check. Nothing to raise the alarm and let them know we may be suspicious of anything.”
Damon remained silent for a moment, then said, “That’s workable,” very slowly. “Question is...why would I be there? Valdez ain’t in any of my classes.”
Because I want you there, Rian thought, before he could stop his mind from wandering down those paths. Because we’re working on this together, and...and... I want you there as backup. As support.
As if he could say that to Damon Louis.
As if he could expect anything other than mockery or cold rejection if he did.
So he just spread his hands with a weak smile. “He probably won’t even think to ask,” he said. “We can wing it. Maybe you’re there to keep me from getting lost.”
He wished he hadn’t said it the moment it came out.
Because all he remembered was standing beneath the school’s tall spires, looking up at that bright-lit window, his phone in his hand, seeming to speak in Damon’s gruff, rolling voice.
Don’t get lost.
His skin shivered, prickled, as if he could feel that voice washing over him, submerging him, completely immersing him on all sides in its heat.
How could someone with eyes so cold have a voice so warm?
Yet Damon hadn’t said anything, he realized—letting the silence hold between them, heavy and waiting. And when Rian lifted his head...
Those dark, clear brown eyes weren’t cold at all.
Instead they simmered with something strange and burning-bright and demanding, a spark lit in the darkness like that single light remaining pale against the night to guide Rian back home.
“So,” Damon drawled softly. “Did you get lost?”
Rian’s mouth went dry.
He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from Damon, his skin burning under his jaw and beneath the collar of his tunic, and he didn’t—he didn’t—he couldn’t breathe, he—
“No.” He forced himself to look away, taking a step back and folding his arms over his chest, his stomach, tucking in on himself. But he could barely get out a strained mutter as he said, “I found my way back just fine on my own.”
“Yeah?” Damon asked a little too sharply. “If you like doing things on your own, why do you need me there with Valdez?”
“Are you coming, or not?” Rian shot back, and braced himself for an argument.
But instead Damon only said, “Name the time.”
Rian lifted his chin—but still avoided looking anywhere at Damon. “Tomorrow afternoon, after last bell,” he said. “I won’t make you late for practice.”
“No. You won’t.”
With a muffled curse, Rian closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. They just—they—God, Damon was such a blunt, rude asshole.
Whatever. He’d said what he needed to say, and now he could leave.
But when he opened his eyes to force out at least a perfunctory polite goodbye, he found... Damon wasn’t looking at him anymore.
He was watching the boys again, a faint smile playing around his lips as the next set of six crossed the finish line of the obstacle course, shouting and whooping joyously as they tumbled around like an excited litter of puppies.
And one of them thrust his arms in the air, calling out, “Hey, Coach! Were you watching? Think that was my best time!”
“You definitely cut a few seconds off,” Damon called back—easy, relaxed, a rumble of gentle encouragement in the words. “You did good, Kennison.”
The boy—Kennison—grinned wide, flushing with pleasure and pumping his fist in Damon’s direction; Damon draped one arm over the chain link fence, deftly avoiding the spiked prongs and leaning lightly against it while he raised his other hand in a wave of acknowledgment. That arm felt like it was invading Rian’s territory, violating the nebulous barrier between them, and he wasn’t sure why he so desperately needed to keep it in place.
But he did.
So he took another step back, putting more space between them—but he couldn’t seem to look away from Damon; away from the fond, almost sweet expression on that hard-chiseled face, softening and transforming it.
Nor could he seem to stop himself from murmuring, “They really respect you, you know.”
“That’s not what it’s about,” Damon answered absently, never taking his eyes from the next group of boys to line up at the start of the course. “I’m not trying to make them respect me.”
“Then what’s it about? What are you trying to make them do?”
“That’s just it,” Damon said. “I’m not trying to make them do anything.” His gaze slid to Rian sidelong, watching him through the veil of his lashes, but it was more than just those sooty black curves that shuttered his gaze to cool neutrality. “Most people will do things right if you give them a chance, instead of making sure they know you’re waiting for them to fuck up.”
“Damon Louis, an optimist and believer in human nature,” Rian said. “Who’d have thought.”
“I think most people are fairly decent.” The corner of Damon’s mouth quirked. “Only one who gets on my nerves is you.”
Rian hated how that stung. How from the very first moment, Damon seemed to have Rian’s nerves quite well in hand, plucking and pulling at them in little jerks until Rian was just an impulsive burst of emotions and temper and ill-advised words.
So he tried not to react—with irritation, with hurt, with the mess of things he couldn’t explain as he offered a neutral, “I’ve noticed that.”
No answer.
Just that guarded look lingering, as if to ask, Why are you still here?
Rian didn’t have an answer for that.
Which meant it was time to leave.
But as he took another step back, with another glance for the boys, he added, “...you really do talk to them like they’re your own sons. That’s...not a bad thing. Considering how many of them have just been abandoned here. They probably need that. Need you.”
“Maybe.” Grudging
, and Damon ducked his head, making a gruff sound. “It’s not really me. Some people just want to feel like they’re a part of something. Some people never had that, you know? So I just want to make sure they do. They don’t need me for that. They just need a place to belong.”
Oh, Rian thought. Oh.
Some people never had that.
Rian didn’t...didn’t think Damon was just talking about the boys.
Not with how raw and hurt his voice had been, when he’d talked about being adopted and feeling like he’d been ejected from the world he belonged in and into one that would never accept him, leaving nowhere that was meant for just Damon.
Nowhere that would accept Damon just as he was.
This felt like things Rian was never meant to know. Things he shouldn’t know about a near-stranger; a near-stranger who made it painfully clear that Rian was a nuisance to him and nothing more. Things that shouldn’t make him feel this lonely, aching need to just...just...
Reach out.
No.
Not when he would only get his hand slapped away.
So he only took another step back. Then another, and another, until he could no longer feel Damon on the air between them and he could breathe without being smothered in the thickly embracing aura of warmth the man gave off, when that warmth wasn’t for Rian and never would be.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” was all he said. “Last bell. I’ll make it quick.”
He didn’t wait to see if Damon would respond. Didn’t wait for another cutting remark, or another cool look that made Rian feel smaller than small.
He just turned and walked away, following that glimmering pale path back up the hill.
This space, this field, with these boys who looked up to Damon so much...
This wasn’t Rian’s place.
And he knew better than to stay where he didn’t belong.
Chapter Six
Damon had been right.
There was absolutely no reason for him to be here.
And he felt completely out of place, sitting in this classroom full of delicate paintings and spangly works of wire art and soft-glazed pottery in pastel colors, while the sunlight mingled with those stained-glass light covers to make the entire room shimmer like it fell under a waterfall of golden coins.
He felt too big.
Too awkward.
And like he should be anywhere else but here, as he leaned against Rian’s desk and folded his arms over his chest, waiting in silence while Merry Valdez looked between them with curiously skeptical black eyes, his mouth twisted cynically sideways.
“Am I in trouble?” the kid asked bluntly, slouching down in his seat at the center of the front-row work table.
“No,” Damon grunted, and Valdez immediately glanced at Rian, jerking his thumb at Damon.
“Then why’d you bring backup muscle?” he said. “I don’t even have P.E. this semester.”
Rian stood a few feet away from Damon, watching Valdez curiously. Today’s page from the Catalogue of Bohemian Fashion™ was a slim-fit, pale blue tank top paired with a completely see-through off-the-shoulder poncho that looked to be made out of an old trawling net, all diamonds of dark gray cord knotted with little periwinkle shells; the top cascaded down over those jeans that were more rips than denim, showing hints of smooth pale skin just shy of violating dress code, considering those rips started high up on Rian’s inner thighs, and Damon thought either there wasn’t any underwear under there or it was pretty microscopi—
Down, boy.
Why the hell was he even looking at Rian Falwell like that, anyway?
Including looking at the tall, slender column of his neck, bared today when for once Rian had bound the thick, cascading tangles of his hair up into a messy knot behind his head, dark locks sweeping back from his face and his throat flawless and enticing enough to make Damon want to leave a mark on it as dark and angry as the simmering feeling of frustration building up inside him for absolutely no fucking reason at all.
Why the hell was he on such a hair trigger today?
The answer to that question was currently watching Merry Valdez with a calm, pleasant smile, steepling his thin fingers together while Rian tilted his head as if picking out every word was of utmost importance.
“Mr. Louis is just here as part of school regulations,” he said smoothly. “Whenever we call students in for a conference, it’s recommended to have a witness to corroborate everything.” He dropped his voice from its rather officious tone to a more conspiratorial whisper, leaning forward a bit with his eyes glittering. “It’s called the cover-your-ass clause.”
Damon rolled his eyes.
While Valdez just let out a snort, his thin shoulders jerking inside the dark gray of his uniform coat. He had a sunny face, faintly mischievous, his brown skin smooth and his eyes slightly angled. “So whose ass you covering? Yours or mine?”
“Neither. I’m just minding my manners so Walden doesn’t take that stick out of his ass and use it to beat me,” Rian said, widening his eyes with mock solemnity. “I have to live with him, you know.”
Damon didn’t expect his own barking laugh, startled out of him sharply; Valdez echoed it, his slightly tense posture relaxing. Damon had to give it to Rian; he knew how to use that glib tongue to put the kids at ease, instead of lording over them as an authority figure.
And Valdez was much more casual as he spread his hands and said, “So what’s up? What’s the big show over, then?” He paused. “...you didn’t find out about the dicks, did you?”
Rian froze. “...what dicks...” he strained out.
Damon bit back his grin.
Oh, this was gonna be good.
“Nothing!” Valdez said quickly, his voice pitching up and squeaking at puberty pitch. “Nothing about any dicks! I didn’t say shi—anything about any damned dicks!”
Eyes narrowing, Rian leaned forward slowly, toward the worktable. “What. About. The. Dicks, Merry?”
Valdez winced. “...do-over?”
“No do-over,” Rian retorted. “Explain. Or this goes from a casual conversation to stand-off with hostage negotiations way faster than you’d like.”
“...hostages...?” Valdez strangled. “What’re you gonna...?”
“You think I don’t know about the little plastic bags you keep in your sock drawer?”
Valdez nearly went white, eyes opening so wide his eyelashes practically touched his eyebrows. “You got nothing! It’s legal in Massachusetts!”
“It’s legal for over twenty-one, you’re seventeen, and it’s banned on school grounds,” Rian said firmly. “I know who sold it to you, too. And who else he’s been selling to. So we can keep this friendly and I can look the other way with your harmless little habit, or you can keep refusing to tell me what. Damned. Dicks. And next thing you know, you’re the most unpopular boy in the school when they find out it’s your fault their supply got cut off.”
Damon stared at Rian.
He didn’t know if he was more horrified that apparently half the kids on campus were trading weed and he didn’t know about it...
...or that in the middle of this entire fucking conversation about dicks, his own was starting to twitch hard and hot at the sight of Rian with his cheeks flushed with irritation, mouth set in a stern and commanding line, eyes narrowed and glittering flinty with a challenge that said he wasn’t about to back down.
Think I’m gonna need a few minutes with Iseya, ’cause clearly I got some unexplored issues that need analyzing.
At least Rian wasn’t looking at him, his entire focus on Valdez as Valdez shrank down in his seat, then groaned and slung his head back, thudding it against the back of the chair.
“...check the shelf behind the kiln...” he said in a tiny voice.
Rian gave him a long look, then pointed two fingers at his own eyes be
fore pointing them at Valdez.
Watching you, he mouthed, before sweeping past the tables toward the back of the class and the large, thickly squatting kiln taking up an entire corner, fishnet poncho trailing behind him.
Valdez craned around to watch him, teeth bared in a grimace, but whipped back to face Damon when Damon grunted, “Hey. Valdez.”
“...what?” Valdez eyed him warily. “Did y’all set me up? Is this a sting?”
“No.” Damon sighed and dragged a hand over his face. “Just...look. You don’t have to dime anyone out. No names. But any of the boys on the team on that stuff?”
A long, measuring look slid over him, clearly assessing the wisdom of solidarity against teachers versus every man out for himself. But finally, carefully, Valdez said, “Nah. Not anyone that runs with me, anyway. Like maybe once or twice, but not a habit. Couple of ’em said it messes with their breathing when they’re running yards and shit. Total buzzkill.”
Damon exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” he said, and didn’t even bother trying to hide his relief. “Total bu—”
“Seriously?!” rose from the back of the room in an irritable yelp.
Valdez cringed—then burst into snickers, before clapping both hands over his mouth, staring at Damon as if begging him not to give him away. Damon just sighed, quirking a brow and leaning to peer past him.
At where Rian reached around the kiln to lift a wooden plank off the wall-mounted pegs supporting it.
It, and a line of molded shafts in gray clay.
Over half a dozen of them, ranging from cartoonish things with ridiculous bulbous mushroom heads to almost disturbingly realistic, veined designs—and one with a pair of plastic googly eyes glued to either side of the head.
While Rian brandished the shelf out like he was presenting evidence in court, his pretty, delicate face drawn up in a furious scowl and flushed from his neck to his hairline.
“This is what you do when I give you a free project period?” he demanded scathingly. “Were you planning to use my kiln to fire these? Perhaps present them as Christmas gifts to your parents?”
