Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,1
a studio down the hill in town wasn’t particularly optimal. Not...that he thought...a town as small as Omen would even have many spaces for rent, but...well...
He’d made do.
Especially since on top of being Walden’s subordinate?
Rian was also his roommate.
And Walden was a bit of a neat freak.
What business was it of Damon’s, anyway? Especially when the man was just looking at Rian, his lips twitching faintly as if Rian had said something absurdly funny. Rian scowled and turned away from the wheel to cross to the little janitorial sink against the wall, using the mostly-clean underside of his wrist to nudge the faucet on so he could thrust his fingers under the cold spray and scrub the last of the clay away.
“Was there something you wanted to see me about, Mr. Louis?” he threw over his shoulder. “Or are you that interested in my working arrangements?”
A derisive snort filled the tiny space. “More interested in who you’re working,” Damon said. “I’m here about Chris.”
Rian lifted his head, frowning, and shut the water off. “Which Chris?” He ripped a few paper towels off the wall-mounted holder, drying his fingers. “We have at least seven on campus, and no less than three currently enrolled in my classes.”
The extremely talented sophomore in Rian’s afternoon class, who looked as if he’d been made for brawling, sports, hard labor—but whose surprisingly delicate fingers had a talent for working with clay sculpture, as well as a sensitive touch with paints and colored pencils. He seemed to enjoy art for art’s sake, absorbing himself in every project and focusing on the most minute details with absolute concentration and a skill that seemed effortless for someone his age. In fact, one of his sculptures—a delicate rendering of a wisteria tree, realistic in its exacting detail—was currently drying on a table in the classroom adjacent to Rian’s studio, waiting to be properly fired. Chris had just put the finishing touches on it this afternoon.
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?”