Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,2

fists even tighter.

Then flung the scrunched-up wad of paper in his palm at Damon, snapping his hand out sharply and sending the paper towel arcing across the room.

Damon didn’t even move.

He just watched, deadpan, as the paper ball sailed right at him.

And bounced square off the center of his forehead.

His brows rose slo-o-o-wly, one fraction at a time, his coldly irritated expression never wavering from its dry displeasure.

“Feel better?” he asked sardonically.

“No,” Rian muttered and folded his arms over his chest, looking away sharply and glaring across the room. Really, that had been rather childish of him, but this—this asshole just—ooh! “I just thought, since you scoffed at courtesy, I’d try to match you in being rude.”

Damon let out a long, drawn-out, impatient sigh. “You want courtesy, Falwell, you can do me the fucking courtesy of telling me why the hell you’re making Northcote skip football practice.”

“I’ll do that once you do me the courtesy of telling me why you think I’m making Christopher do anything,” Rian flung back. “Skip practice? He dashes out of here at last bell like his bottom’s on fire every day. Like you’ve put the fear of God into him.”

Or something else.

Like the irritation sparking in that dark gaze, embers scorching against that ice to make them smolder. “Don’t fuck with me. Chris hasn’t been to practice in almost a week. Says he’s staying after class to work on your projects. Looks goddamned miserable, too. So what the hell’s going on? He failing, and you’re making him do extra credit?”

“Failing? He’s the top student in the class, he—wait. Stop. Back up.” Rian eyed Damon warily. “Mr. Louis, he’s not staying in my class after school. I’m not keeping him. I thought he was with you. So if he’s not with me, and not at practice...”

Damon went still—an odd quiet falling over him, a certain arresting motionlessness that made him seem like a living statue, a thing of strange-sculpted art in tones of bronze and copper and gold and deepest iron black.

Before he groaned, tilting his head back, baring the strong lines of his throat. He swiped a hand back through his hair, pushing it back from his face and shaking a few droplets of sweat free to patter down on his shoulders like raindrops falling from tree branches after a storm.

“Mother fuck,” he said. “I think Northcote’s been lying to us fucking both.”

* * *

Damon Louis couldn’t quite believe Rian Falwell had just thrown a fucking balled-up paper towel at his head, like they were in grade school trading spitballs.

But then he couldn’t believe Falwell was staring at him like he’d happily gut Damon, too, his imperious little pale mouth twisted in a knot and his previously bone-white cheeks flushed with anger that reflected in glittering hazel eyes.

People didn’t glare at Damon.

They didn’t even make eye contact.

But Falwell didn’t have the slightest qualms about glaring at him, standing there like the lord of his five by five domain, slender presence bristling fit to fill the tiny cubicle he’d commandeered as his... Damon didn’t even know what to call it. Studio. Workroom. Junk closet. Dumpster. Especially when Falwell had cluttered it wall to wall with kitsch, this kind of...whirlwind of clay and paint and pictures and delicate bits of papercraft that fit together in a bizarre aesthetic chaos, where it all coalesced in an esoteric pattern like some strange art installation in and of itself.

While Rian himself was part of it, lit in white and amber by the single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and the golden sunlight falling like pale whiskey through the narrow, long bank of windows bumping up against the ceiling on one wall.

The whole room was too warm, as if it had marinated in that sunlight and Rian’s body heat until Damon couldn’t even tell it was autumn, despite the fact that the drafty halls of the ancient wood-slat building were always chilly.

And it smelled like earthy, cool clay in here.

Clay, and something else.

Something rich, sweet, soft.

Candied, like molasses.

For a moment, he wondered if that scent came from Rian himself.

Damon had never really paid much attention to Rian Falwell over the last few years. He vaguely remembered the day he’d noticed a new hire at the table in faculty meetings, mostly caught by the startling fountain of rippling black hair that fell over the man’s body like a shawl and trailed to his hips—but he couldn’t say if that had been Falwell’s first day there, or if he’d been there for