Just Like This (Albin Academy)

by Cole McCade

  Also available from Cole McCade

  and Carina Press

  Just Like That

  Also available from Cole McCade

  The Criminal Intentions Serial

  The Blossom + Bite Series

  The Crash Into Me Series

  The Undue Arrogance/Cocky Series

  Over and Over Again

  PinUps

  Also available from Cole McCade writing as Xen

  Shatterproof

  From the Ashes

  The Whites of Their Eyes

  Sweet Vermouth

  Cracks

  Some content in Just Like This may be triggering for some readers, due to depictions of trauma or other topics that may be difficult to read. Content warnings for this story include:

  Depiction of a minor child (age sixteen) in extended distress involving flagging grades, mistreatment, lying, physical abuse, exploitation, fatigue, dehydration, malnutrition, collapsing/passing out under strain and self-harm through negligence.

  Repeated discussions of neglectful parents in various contexts.

  Depiction of restrictions placed in education systems preventing educators from intervening even when it may be needed.

  Discussions of drug and alcohol abuse.

  Discussions and depictions of bullying and physical abuse.

  Depictions of initial relationship conflict based in misunderstandings, assumptions and antagonism.

  Navigation of privilege and racial issues between a character of Indigenous descent and a white character from a financially privileged background.

  Discussion of adoption, including issues framing it with absent or dead parents and the numerous fraught identity and systemic issues involved in an Indigenous character adopted by white parents.

  Discussion of racial dynamics impacting an Indigenous character.

  Discussion of systemic racism impacting Indigenous persons from the Mashpee Wampanoag nation, including recent real-life current events regarding Mashpee land and federal attempts at seizure.

  Recollections of traumatic and violent events during military service, including discussion of wounds/injuries, death and the consequences of war against both the soldiers and the nation under siege.

  Discussions of controlling parents in a privileged environment.

  Depiction of an extended hospital/infirmary stay, including with IV (needles, ouch, needles).

  Penetrative cis male/cis male sex without a condom, including exchange of bodily fluids.

  Depiction of retaliatory violence against an abusive character (physical altercation involving a single thrown and landed punch, and the care required afterward).

  Discussions of drunk driving deaths, accidents and related negligence.

  As always, if you feel you can’t handle these subjects, I’d rather you put the book down and walk away than hurt yourself. Take care of yourselves, loves.

  Just Like This

  Cole McCade

  I’d say this is us, but we were never enemies. You’re still my favorite resting gromp face.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Discover Criminal Intentions

  Excerpt from The Secret Ingredient by KD Fisher

  Chapter One

  Rian Falwell had a problem.

  And that problem was currently staring at him through a messy tangle of black hair, from beneath a brow dotted with gleaming beads of sweat that—beneath the glassy afternoon light streaming through the windows—turned to glistening motes of amber against dusky brown skin.

  Honestly, if Damon Louis was going to come barging into Rian’s studio like this...

  He could at least have the decency to wear a shirt.

  The P.E. teacher took up far too much space inside the tiny cubicle of a studio, his shoulders so broad they had almost touched both sides of the door frame as he’d stalked inside. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of the gym, with his wide, sculpted, scar-rippled chest glazed in a sheen of sweat and a pair of loose black track pants hanging off his hips, the elastic waistband barely clinging to the narrow line cut below his iliac crest. His shoulder-length tumbles of dark hair clumped together, completely drenched, droplets dangling from the tips.

  But as overheated as Damon looked?

  His dark brown eyes were completely cold—glossed to reflective ice as he folded thick, brawny arms over his chest and took a slow look around the cluttered space of Rian’s studio.

  Rian could track the line of his gaze—starting with the gloppy pile of clay on his pottery wheel; a pile that would eventually become a vase, but right now was just misshapen lumps of gray.

  Then to the thin sheets of handmade papyrus parchment drying on a clothesline strung across the room, pulped and pressed from the fallen early autumn leaves of the trees around Albin Academy, an experiment Rian had been quite pleased with when it resulted in fine paper with a green-gold translucent fragility, flecked with bits of brown from the leaves’ veins and stems.

  Next, the many half-finished canvases propped about on their easels, slashed with angry, bold strokes of paint in abstract designs.

  The anatomical diagrams pinned to the walls.

  And the extra large sketchbook left open on his worktable, displaying loose, light sketches of male bodies in motion, focused on capturing the flow of sinew in the turn of the waist, the tightening of an arm as it drew back, the extension of the body and curve of the spine during a long, lazy reach.

  Damon’s eyes lingered longest on that one, his dark, expressive brows rising fractionally, almost mockingly—and Rian’s face burned.

  All of these were his personal projects, all unfinished, but still things he put everything he had into.

  So why was this stone-faced, unsmiling jerk standing here looking over them like he was about to assign Rian a failing score?

  What was he even doing here at all?

  Those dark brown eyes snapped back to him as if Damon had somehow heard the question snarling in the back of Rian’s mind.

  “So,” Damon drawled, and Rian realized this was the first time he’d actually heard Damon speak in his three years at Albin Academy, rather than noncommittal affirmative mutters during staff meetings. His voice was deep, raw, gritty, with a subtle pull to it that didn’t quite seem to echo typical New England accents around Massachusetts. “I thought this was some kinda broom closet. Chambers and Walden know you’re using it for...” He tilted his head. A damp ripple of hair fell across the refined sharpness of his cheekbone, the tip practically licking at the corner of his wide, full, stern-set mouth. “...this?”

  Rian tensed.

  More at the implied scorn dripping from this than at the fact he’d been...uh...

  Caught using school grounds for unauthorized purposes.

  He doubted Pri
ncipal Chambers and Assistant Principal Walden would particularly care. Especially when Rian had been using the storeroom as a studio since he’d been hired, and no one had really noticed—though considering Lachlan Walden had only been hired last semester, the assistant principal had more things to worry about than one rogue art teacher moving a few brooms.

  So Rian drew himself up, lifting his chin as he reached for the wet rag hanging from the edge of his wheel and began wiping the thick patina of clay from his hands, peeling off the cold, clinging layer.

  “My broom closet,” he said firmly. “Attached to my classroom. I’m allowed to use it as I deem necessary as long as it’s for educational purposes.”

  This...counted...technically.

  He was the art teacher.

  He couldn’t exactly teach his students if he was out of practice himself, but there wasn’t space for a studio in the tiny shared faculty apartments—and considering he was expected to be on campus as an RA even when he wasn’t teaching, renting 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.”

  “Don’t.” Hard, cold, skeptical. “You know who I’m talking about. Northcote.”

  ...Christopher Northcote?

  The sophomore in Rian’s afternoon class.

  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?”

  “Why you—you—”

  Rian spluttered.

  Balled up his 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.