Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
He rattled off ten digits, followed by a soft thank you, then pulled the phone away from his ear, looking down at it pensively for several moments before tapping the button to end the call.
“I didn’t want... I didn’t want to give too many details on the phone,” he said, almost apologetically. “What if she listened to it late at night and thought she couldn’t call back until school hours? What if...what if she was up all night worrying about her son, pacing, frantic? Or what if someone else handles her voicemail and I’d given away confidential information, or...or...”
“Hey.” Damon squeezed Rian’s shoulder tighter. “You handled it just fine. Stop worrying. You can explain when she calls back, or if she comes up to the school.”
“...yeah. I guess so.” Rian kept his gaze fixed on his phone, while the call screen automatically flashed out to the list of most recent calls.
Damon instinctively averted his eyes out of courtesy—not his business to be snooping in someone else’s phone—but couldn’t quite un-see the quick glimpse he got; practically seized on the distraction with a low whistle. “Eighteen missed calls from the same number. Stalker ex?”
Rian smiled weakly, gripping tighter at his phone as if clutching a comfort object. “Worried parents.”
“I thought you said you liked your parents.”
“That’s the thing. I do.” Rian swallowed, pulling his phone to his chest. “I just don’t want them to try to help me. I don’t need help. I don’t need them judging. I’m... I’m good here. I like it here.” He bit his lip. “I like doing things for myself.”
“You’re not half bad at cooking stir-fry.” Damon managed a smile. “So why not just tell them that? Just say it up front, instead of avoiding them?”
“Apparently it’s easier with Chris’s parents than with my own.” With a sigh, Rian leaned against the chair enough to thunk his head against the padded back, looking up at Damon. “I guess I’m afraid they won’t understand it. They just...live in this different world that doesn’t even seem real, compared to here.”
“You used to live in that world, too. And you looked outside it.”
“Guess I did.”
“See anything interesting out there...?” Damon teased softly.
Rian flushed, his lashes flickering as his gaze darted searchingly over Damon’s face, before he looked away. “...yeah. I think I did.”
It hit Damon, then, that he was still holding on to Rian’s shoulder, that slim curve fitting comfortably into his palm, fine articulated bones pressing against him and body heat soaking into his skin.
And they were alone in his apartment.
Again.
Only this time a kiss they hadn’t spoken of and so much more stood between them, and Damon couldn’t ignore the charge in the air and the heaviness in his gut.
He pulled back quickly, sliding off the arm of the chair and standing. “You want something to drink?” he tossed over his shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck. “I could put water on for tea.”
“Tea would be nice, thank you,” Rian said faintly at his back, after a pretty long damned pause. “I... Damon, what do we do now?”
“We wait.” Damon checked the coffee pot, then lifted out a soggy filter full of grounds and dumped it into the trash. “You can go ahead and use my laptop to send that email, if you want.”
“Sure.” The whispered sound of typing, quick-fire patters and clicks, followed...and then, quieter, more hesitant, “But... I...” The rattle of typing stopped. “I wasn’t just talking about Chris.”
Shit.
Tension caught Damon up in an iron claw, but he forced himself to keep moving, keep focusing on practical things. Spraying a little food-grade cleaner into the filter basket and wiping it out, so the water passing through wouldn’t pick up the lingering flavor of coffee; rinsing out the already-clean glass carafe just in case; filling it from the sink and using it to top up the tank in the back of the pot. Mundane things. Ordinary things. Anything to keep from dreading what he knew Rian was about to ask.
“You weren’t?” he answered carefully.
“You. Um.”
Here it came.
He could feel it barreling toward him in the audible intake in Rian’s breath; in the strain in his voice.
“Damon, you kissed me,” Rian said. “And I kissed you back. And then you wouldn’t talk to me for a week.”
Damon winced as he flicked the pot on to heat. He suddenly couldn’t shake this need to keep moving—pulling down two mugs from the cabinet, rummaging in a countertop bin to see what kind of tea he even had on hand.
Then again, he’d been like this all week.
When the reason he hadn’t even been able to talk to Rian was because every time his thoughts ran up against the memory of that kiss, his brain came to a screeching halt and refused to process everything that came after. How Damon felt about kissing Rian. How he felt about Rian kissing him back. What it meant, what he...what he wanted, when he just...