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)
Chris lay on the floor in an ungainly sprawl, and Rian only let himself feel half a second of chest-shattering relief that Chris’s backpack had apparently cushioned his head from impact before Rian dropped to his knees next to him, pressing his fingers to his throat, under his jaw; bending over his face, he turned his cheek to feel the exhalations from Chris’s nostrils, his parted lips. Breathing, pulse slow but there, skin ashen. The boy didn’t move even a fraction, eyelids firmly closed, body limp as Rian cradled his face, patting his cheeks gently to try to shock him to alertness.
“Chris,” he pleaded softly, while the golden light from above dimmed as the boys, suddenly quiet, gathered around, staring, their shadows falling across him. “Wake up. It’s Mr. Falwell. Please wake up.”
Chris didn’t wake up.
His head lolled between Rian’s palms, and Rian’s heart turned heavy.
Focus. Focus. Think.
Move.
He gently laid Chris’s head back down atop his backpack, then pushed himself to his feet. “Step back,” he said firmly, even as he backed away from Chris himself, toward the door. “Give him room to breathe.” Then he turned and quickly hit the emergency call button on the intercom next to the door, wired from every classroom to the school’s infirmary. “I need assistance in the art classroom, room one-one-six-A,” he said firmly. “A student has collapsed unconscious.”
A crackle came through the speaker, before the voice of Nurse Hadley barked over the room, sharp and clear and no-nonsense and seeming to promise that she’d take care of things; she’d make sure everything was all right. “I’m on my way.”
Yet that promise wasn’t enough to calm the sick, cold-shiver feeling in Rian; wasn’t enough to ease the tight clutch of fear digging claws into either side of his spine.
And he drifted closer to Chris, watching him worriedly, never taking his eyes away as he caught his phone up from his desk and tapped that simple black and white icon in his contact list, lifting his phone to his ear and begging, pleading.
Pick up, Damon. Please, please just...
Pick up.
* * *
Damon didn’t remember leaving the gym.
He didn’t remember putting his phone down.
He didn’t remember bolting down the halls, vaulting up the stairs, racing across the gnarled wooden floorboards on the third floor.
He only remembered the sound of Rian’s voice on his voicemail.
And then suddenly he was outside the infirmary door.
Damon, please. It’s Chris—he’s just collapsed in class, I’ve called the nurse, just please pick up, please...
He didn’t know what tore his heart apart more, cruel and sharp and shredding that beating muscle into nothing but feebly twitching pieces.
The ragged, frightened sound of Rian’s voice, pleading for Damon to be there.
Or the sight of Chris in the infirmary bed, sprawled there pale as death save for the fever-bright spots in his cheeks, his uniform replaced with a thin smock, an IV inserted in his inner elbow and attached to a bag of clear fluid suspended from a pole.
And his shoulders and arms, where they were visible...
Covered in bruises.
Some large, some small, but in colors ranging from sickly green-black to livid purple, anywhere from weeks old to days—or less, fuck, some of those looked like they could have happened hours ago.
“What the fu—”
“Shh,” Nurse Hadley hissed from Chris’s bedside, her head snapping up, her red-painted, stern mouth—the only splash of color beyond the graying, tight bun of her strawberry blond hair against her pale skin and white uniform scrubs—tightening as she glared at Damon. “He’s trying to rest.”
Chris’s eyes fluttered open; they were glazed, worryingly dark, murky. He lifted his hand limply, flicking his fingers in a shaky wave. “Hey, Coach.”
Damon forced himself to bite back the curses building up into a lump in his throat, his jaw so tight he felt the strain pulling in his neck and pushing up into his temples, but he forced a smile for Chris. “Hey, kiddo. You look pretty banged up there. Been playing with another team?”
Like hell.
Bruises that bad didn’t happen even in practice. That was what the fucking gear was for. There might be a few red marks, a few sore spots, but any coach who let a kid get beat up that bad was doing something wrong.
What the hell was Chris involved in?
On the opposite side of the bed from Nurse Hadley, Rian hovered at Chris’s side, looking down at him with his hazel eyes darkened to deep tiger’s-eye by worry, his mouth a crumpled line of upset, his brows wrinkled; he fretted his hands together, then touched Chris’s shoulder lightly before looking up at Damon, those glimmering eyes heart-wrenching in their frustrated anguish.
Felt like seeing every damned thing twisting through Damon thrown back at him in a golden mirror, until he had no choice but to feel it all.
But Chris laughed—raspy, hoarse, but sweet as ever, even if he winced as his body shook against the mattress. “Nah. Promise I’m fine.”