Chapter TWO
Declan leaned back against the lockers and kicked his
heel into the one below. His heart hammered, his chest heaved, and tears
threatened. Don’t you dare cry, de
Quirke. Freakin’ keep it together, man.
“You will retake your seat immediately, Master de
Quirke!” Professor Lowe ordered as he strode toward Declan.
“I just need a minute,” Declan breathed as he rubbed
the tears from his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
“I will not have this insubordination!” Professor
Lowe grasped Declan’s elbow in an attempt to lead him back to class, and he
jerked away.
“Please, just a—”
“Professor, if I may explain.” Jean-Isidore’s deep
voice resonated from behind Professor Lowe.
This cannot be
happening! The last thing Declan needed was for the gorgeous Adonis to see
him cry.
“Now, see here, Master de Sauveterre, back to your
seat as well!”
“Professor, please allow me to explain,” Jean-Isidore
said politely but firmly.
“I will not! Off to Headmaster’s office! Both of
you!”
Thank God
school started on a Wednesday and the week is only three days long, Declan
thought sourly as he sat under Headmaster Brassington’s angry glare.
“Explain,” Headmaster Brassington ordered icily.
Declan remained silent. Though the tears had ebbed,
he was still humiliated beyond belief. What could he say? Ah, Headmaster Brassington, sir, I freaked because Prof Lowe is an
insensitive ass.
“May I, Headmaster Brassington?” Jean-Isidore asked
politely.
Now the gorgeous Adonis was going to defend him. Epic embarrassing.
“Please,” Headmaster Brassington said crisply.
“Professor Lowe asked that we say our name and
something of our family. When it came to Master de Quirke, Professor Lowe
pressured him for information about his father. The memory of his father’s
death beset him, and he left the room sans permission. Professor Lowe demanded
that he return to his seat. I left my seat and attempted to explain the
circumstance and, well, here we are.”
The overbearing headmaster had defrosted but an inch.
“Master de Quirke, we are all aware how difficult things
are for you; however, you must pull yourself together. You have the whole of
your life ahead of you, and it isn’t to be spent pining over the death of your
father.”
Pining? What
the hell? Okay, no pining. How about I find a way to humiliate Professor Lowe?
Is that allowed? “Yes, sir,” Declan said through gritted teeth as he looked
away.
“Master de Sauveterre, we don’t tolerate interference
in matters of discipline. This is your only warning. That having been said, it
was courteous of you to come to the aid of Master de Quirke. Dismissed.”
Lunch in the dining room proved to be a raucous
event. Declan sat silently amid the noise, no longer in the mood to be social.
“Hey, man, don’t emo on us. We got your back.” Mason
punched his shoulder lightly.
“Yeah, sorry, man.”
Mason gave him a considering look. “What did Little
Lord Fauntleroy have to say?”
“Who?”
“Little big man.” Mason gestured across the dining
room with a hitch of his head.
Declan turned to see Jean-Isidore sitting with a
group of frightened-looking nerds. Their eyes met briefly, and Jean-Isidore
turned away quickly. Why should he be
embarrassed? He wasn’t the one who’d lost it and cried. “I don’t know. I
didn’t talk to him. Something about trying to explain about my dad.”
Isidore’s breath caught at the sight of Declan’s blue
eyes, and he looked away quickly. Declan hadn’t said a word, not even a mumbled
thank you, when they left Headmaster Brassington’s office. He had simply walked
away. Yet, now Declan looked at him. Why? Was Declan angry with him for trying
to help? He hoped not. He didn’t want any complaints from the school. His
father would send him back, and he could not go back. He would not. He would
kill himself before he would be sent back.
“Did you tell him about your dad?”
Declan shook his head. “He must have heard like
everyone else.”
“You’d think Prof Lowe would have known.”
“He did—does. He just likes to hassle me.”
“Hardcore, man.”
Declan shrugged a shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve
given him enough grief over the years.”
“Aye, lad, ye have. Ye black Irish always were a
rotten lot,” Mason teased with the very accent Declan fought hard not to show.
Declan threw a wadded napkin at him.
“Care to wager?” Mason asked.
“What?”
“I get the redhead before you do.”
“I’ll wager that you’ll be a father or have a disease
before we graduate.”
“Oooooh, no way, man. Mason Fairchild Brassington the
third is invincible. Besides, my father would cut my balls off. You playing
rugby this year?”
Declan shook his head. “Trying to hang with Mum
more.”
“I understand that, but you gotta step out too, man.”
“Hey, sexy, prom’s with me this year.” Declan started
at the soft whisper in his ear and turned to find Jessica Billings, his
longtime suitress, behind him, her posse of worshippers behind her.
“Hey, Jess, good to see you again.” Not. She slid into the seat next to him
like the snake from the garden of Eden, her ample breasts brushing his shoulder
in the process. Hella-gross.
“So, you’re back from England again.”
“Ireland ,”
he corrected.
“Whatever. Are you here for the whole year?”
“Yeah, then off to university.”
“Oh, which one?”
“Haven’t chosen.”
“Oh, hey, I heard about your dad. I’m really sorry,”
she said as she rubbed his thigh with a too-intimate hand. Her sympathy sounded
like the shallow afterthought that it was.
“Thanks.” He gently lifted her roaming hand and set
it in her lap.
Jean-Isidore spied nonchalantly as a chesty girl
whispered into Declan’s ear and sat next to him. He cringed when he saw how she
pawed him and couldn’t help but look away, unable to bear the sight. Of course, Declan liked girls, imbécile.
What did you expect? Isidore shook
his head, emptying it of inappropriate thoughts, and turned back to the insipid
conversation at the table.
Declan slung a towel around his neck as he headed to
the showers after gym. The game had been a good one and had allowed him to blow
off some steam. He rounded the end of the last row of lockers to find Archer
Williams and his gang snapping wet towels at someone. Probably a freshman.
Everyone had to pay their dues.
“Come on, little big man! Get it up! You French are
supposed to have the biggest cocks in the world! Prove it!”
The words registered, and Declan rounded on a heel
and headed back the way he came. He worked his way through the crowd to find
Jean-Isidore standing against the shower wall, his hands held protectively over
his groin. Red welts covered him, and a small cut offered a bit of crimson on
one cheek. The bronze beauty stood proud despite the abuse, refusing to cower
before the bullies.
“Back off, Williams!” Declan shouted.
Archer reached for the towel around Declan’s neck,
and he smacked his hand away. “Knock it off.” Archer snapped a wet towel at him,
and he ripped it from his hands, twirled it, and snapped his dick.
Archer screeched. “You’re dead, de Quirke!”
“Get out! Everyone get the hell out!” Declan shouted.
“I’ll get you, de Quirke! You’re fucking dead!”
Archer shrieked as he limped away, his hand holding his crotch.
Perfectly sculpted and proportioned—Declan hadn’t
been wrong when he thought Jean-Isidore resembled Adonis. Holy crap. Declan reached for a clean towel, went to Jean-Isidore,
and wrapped it around his waist. Unable to keep his eyes from admiring the guy,
his uncontrollable dick got hard. Damn,
de Quirke, quit staring at his body. Declan guided Jean-Isidore to the
nearest bench between two rows of lockers and sat next to him. “Are you all
right?”
Jean-Isidore sat frozen in place. Of all people who
could have come along, it had to be Declan de Quirke. This was simply cruel. Why
was this happening? What had he done to deserve this? Was God trying to drive
the vestiges of his sanity away? He could have lasted through the abuse. God
knew he’d suffered much, much worse. He began to tremble. His nervous system
was beginning to give way. The day had been too much. He wanted the safety of
his dark, the warm dark place in his mind. What should he say? That it was
nothing to worry about, that he was all right but oh, by the way, his mind
wasn’t? Silence. Silence was usually safe.
The gorgeous young man murmured in French, nearly
listless. He looked up, and Declan eagerly fell into the green pools of his
eyes, mesmerized once again. Tears welled quickly, and one faithless tear
spilled over and hobbled a jagged path down Jean-Isidore’s cheek. Ah, man, the guy was gonna cry. Declan
dared to put an arm around Jean-Isidore and was delighted to find that he fit
perfectly beneath it. To Declan’s surprise Jean-Isidore melted against his
chest, trembling like a newborn leaf. “Sorry. That was a stupid question. I
know you’re not all right.”
Declan’s arm around him felt like heaven to
Jean-Isidore. Safe. How long had it been since he felt safe? Was he hurt? No,
he wasn’t. Well, not badly. He was only falling apart at the seams. Nothing out
of the ordinary for him. Now the tears came faster. I am so very pathetic, an absolute disgrace.
Declan drew a deep, calming breath, the sweet, spicy
scent of Jean-Isidore’s skin wafting into his lungs. Lemon, cedar, musk, and
something he thought to be clove. It was intoxicating and immediately became
his new favorite scent. His dick got harder, and he prayed Jean-Isidore didn’t
notice the now fully filled towel around his waist. I hate you, dick. “Are you hurt?”
Jean-Isidore’s soft curls shook a trembling no against
his chest, brushing over and rousing a nipple to a taut peak. Damn body!
“We are even now.” Jean-Isidore’s words were muffled
against his chest.
“We are?”
“Oui, yes.”
Jean-Isidore seemed to collect himself as he raised his tear-stained face and
wiped his cheeks with the back of a vicious hand. “We have seen each other’s
tears.”
Declan smiled down at him. “Yeah, I guess we have.”
“De Quirke, what the heck are you doing?” Coach
Bingham bellowed.
They broke apart quickly. “Can I borrow the med kit,
Coach?” Declan asked quickly.
“Why?”
Declan gently lifted Jean-Isidore’s chin.
Coach Bingham hissed. “Who?” he demanded.
Jean-Isidore put fingers to Declan’s lips before he
could speak. They were soft and surprisingly warm, and he wanted to take them
into his mouth and caress them with his tongue. What is the matter with you, de Quirke? “Ten guesses, and the first
nine don’t count, Coach,” Declan said, sarcasm thick in his voice.
“Dammit! Admin’s going to have my head.”
“Maybe you could transfer him to a different gym
class.”
“Yeah. Dammit. De Sauveterre, I’m calling your
father.”
“Non, non, non!”
Jean-Isidore jumped up from the bench.
“Sorry, kid, got to.”
“No!”
That was a
definite no. “Why not?” Declan asked softly.
“He is an important person!”
Ah, well, okay. So was Declan’s mum. No big. Right? “Who’s your father?”
“The French ambassador to the US . We cannot bother him!”
No kidding?
“Call my mum, Coach. I’ll take him home.”
“I can’t, Declan, I’m sorry.”
“Then call his dad, but just say that he doesn’t feel
well. I’ll take him home.”
Coach issued a long sigh. “Do you know who his
assigned buddy is?”
Declan smiled, pleased to be able to say “I am.”
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