Grace's Bookstore

Chapter 1:

Mavis Freestone was a goddess amongst men, Noah thought to himself, not for the first time, as her voice rang loudly through his earbuds. He held his link in his hand, the blue screen off and dark, as the monorail zoomed over the streets.

His bag sat on the seat beside him, his gaze fixated out on the towering buildings above and cars below as he leaned against the window. He grinned openly as one of them punched vertical, sick of the traffic, and rose into the air, shot overhead.

School had been a long collection of tiring and testing minutes, endless lessons and notes, documents and worksheets, and now he had a paper due Friday and a project due next week. He could feel it stacking against him.

But he didn't let it bother him. This crisp February afternoon, the sun shining down, the bustle of the city around him, the heat of the monorail warming his cheeks and frigid fingers. His view was interrupted as they shot past another train, the cars flying past his window before he could even really register they were there.

He was in the Transportation Zone, the heart of the city. Trains, monorails, subways, skyglides, blimps, buses, cable cars, and trams shot out in all directions, connecting all parts of the city. If the elevated highway system was the backbone of the city, the public transportation was its blood, pumping people out everywhere.

He didn't live here, with its luxurious steel and glass skyscrapers and incredibly expensive designer malls, but he went to school here. The Nightingale Institute for Gifted Youth, a high-class school for the truly brilliant, and mind bogglingly rich. If he wasn't on a full scholarship, there was absolutely no way he would even dream of attending.

He shifted uncomfortably in the uniform, loosening his tie. He couldn't wait until he was at the store, and he could slip into the bathroom and change into something far more comfortable.

Grace had no dress code, simply invited her three employees to wear whatever was most comfortable for them. For Noah, that meant baggy sweats and a t-shirt, maybe an oversized sweatshirt depending on the weather, though it was always warm in the bookstore.

For Camille, that meant tight-fitting jeans and looser t-shirts, combat boots and a windbreaker. She often tied her beautiful curls back, wore a black leather necklace with a small stone at the end, and flashed a brilliant smile, complete with dimples.

For Damien, that meant black jeans that showed off his muscular legs and shirts that showed his muscular. It meant khakis and white button-ups that were rolled to the elbows. It meant boots or sneakers, depending on his mood. It meant dressing as hot as he wanted.

A small flush rose across Noah's cheeks as he thought about Damien, the broad-shouldered, dark-haired, mocha-skinned Italian beauty. Dark eyes and small grin, perfect white teeth.

His mind was already typing out the paper, brainstorming and plotting out ideas. The project he was less prepared for. The fire drill in the middle of class ate up most of the time and they hadn't had a chance to pick their partners yet.

He knew who he wanted it to be, but he was not near daring enough to ask him. Damien DiAngelo, of the rich DiAngelo's. The uncomfortably rich DiAngelo's. His coworker and classmate.

Noah was gay, open and proud, supported by his brother and mother and few friends. It wasn't that he was unable to make friends, people liked him, he just didn't really know how. He was quiet and shy with other people, but sarcastic with friends. He only really had four friends, Copper, Mare, Cara, and Wyatt, and he guessed Iris, but was friendly with their friends.

He sat at their lunch table, even when his four weren't there, and, though he mostly zoned out, it was nice to have someone to eat and laugh with.

With a start, he straightened, eyes leaping from the window to the holo-screen across the door. It flashed the next station, Lake Park, and he sighed in relief. He still had two stops until his, until he would be back in front of that three-story brick front.