Teddy Spenser Isn't Looking for Love - Kim Fielding Page 0,92
a week.
Until about thirty seconds ago, Damon had thought the slim wisp of a man in front of him was the cause.
And now—now, well, he really didn’t know what to think.
Because if Chris Northcote had been lying to both of them, assuming they wouldn’t talk...
Well, that was a problem.
Especially when Damon didn’t think Chris would lie without cause. He was a good kid. Almost too good. Straight A student, nice to every damned body. Honest to a fault. Thought he was everyone’s meat shield.
So if he was lying, it had to be for a pretty fucking good reason.
Which meant, in every mind except that of a desperate sixteen-year-old, it was probably a pretty fucking bad reason.
While Damon turned that over, Rian worked his mouth, wrinkling his thin, straight nose, before letting out a rather dramatic sigh and slumping his narrow shoulders. He was almost as tall as Damon, maybe an inch or two below Damon’s six foot four, but he looked like he weighed maybe half as much soaking wet—although the airy voluminous flow of his layered, taper-sleeved linen tunics in deepening shades of ivory, sand, and gold paired with wide-legged linen trousers obscured all but the vaguest outlines of his shape. With his skinny, bangle-draped wrists and delicate movements, he made Damon think of a butterfly, the drape and fall of his crinkle-edged tunics like the subtle twitch of a butterfly’s wings at rest. He carried himself with a certain elegance that reflected in even his smallest of motions, and it just made Damon grit his teeth.
Because it looked so damned affected, like he’d practiced the poise of some kind of Bohemian SoHo hippie princess but just came out looking...looking...
Stuck up.
But Falwell sounded less stuck up and more plaintively confused when he just let out a single soft, almost hurt, “Why?”
Damon shrugged. Now that the realization had slapped the damned temper right out of him, he—well, fuck. He didn’t have words, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to answer that question.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he forced out. “He sure as shit can’t afford to miss practice. Too much longer and I won’t have a choice but to report it. Participation’s part of his scholarship. He gets seven days without a doctor’s note. He’s on four.”
Rian’s brows wrinkled. His gaze slid off Damon, flitting over the room, before settling on him again. Those hazel eyes didn’t look shallow now; instead they looked troubled, the set of his mouth pensive. “I wasn’t aware Christopher was on a scholarship.”
“Rich private schools operate a lot like universities.” Damon snorted. “Most of the kids here are rich. We got a few, though. Academic and sports scholarships. Though Chris’s family’s pretty set, so don’t know why he even needs it, but he’s gonna lose it if he doesn’t stop skipping out.”
“So you’re worried about more than your code of discipline, then?” Rian tripped out flippantly, his velvet tenor lilting. “I suppose I’ll forgive your rather presumptuous intrusion.”
“What fucking code of discipline? You—”
Damon stopped himself short.
God damn, he wished he could’ve gone another three or thirty or three hundred years without being more than peripherally aware of this snotty little man’s existence.
Because Rian Falwell was getting on his goddamned nerves.
“Look,” Damon growled. “I don’t give a fuck what you think of me or my reasons. What I care about is that kid fucking up his academic year. And since he always looked like a fucking kicked puppy when he said he was staying after, I had my reasons for thinking something bad was going down. And if he’s lying to both of us, something bad probably is. So...”
Rian jutted his stubborn lower lip out, his brows loftily arched. “So?”
“So what the hell are we going to do about it?”
“We?” Hazel eyes snapped. “As if I would ever—I—oh hell.” Rian sighed, bowing his head, one slim hand coming up to press his fingertips to the indentations on either side of his nose, just inside the corners of his eyes. His skin was so pale that his hands were white as the iridescent edges of oyster shells save for the very tips of his fingers, the knobs of his bony knuckles, and a crescent moon curve at the heels of his palms, flushed pink as if all the blood in that translucent flesh had gathered there; Damon wondered if he knew what the sun outside even looked like. “... I suppose we’ve got a responsibility, don’t we?”