chapter 12; oleander

35.8K 2K 613
                                    

A week had passed. A week since the wolves and the tea and Alexander. A week since he wished to never see Quentin Bronx's devilishly handsome face again. And for every day he made that wish, Jaylin had found himself in the exact opposite situation.

Quentin came in night after night to borrow the herbal recipe book, but instead of taking it home, he'd take a seat at the nearest table and leave his own notes on the empty pages. An hour. Exactly an hour, he'd stay. From nine PM to ten, Jaylinwas stuck to his seat, trying much too hard not to spare a glance at Quentin Bronx.

He never approached Jaylin, never said a word. He just sat, with the book in one hand, a pencil in the other, eraser tapping against his lips. When the clock struck ten, Quentin would gather his things and leave without a word.

Sometimes Alex would stop by, too. Usually with some kind of pastry Quentin had cooked up. On Tuesday, it was rhubarb pie. On Thursday, pumpkin pecan bread. Today, maple butter cookies. And Jaylin always waited until the both of them had left before he took a single bite.

It didn't alleviate the frustrations of having to exist within a thirty-foot radius of Quentin Bronx. No. Even now he was at it, pencil sprawling against paper, the noise like a conductor for the volatile frustrations burning up every last of Jaylin's nerves.

"Jaylin, are you serious. Are you serious?" Tisper was flinging herself back in her chair, biting at her closed fist. "Oh my God, he's so hot."

"Tisper, shut up," Jaylin whispered back.

Across the room, he could recognize a slight smirk on Quentin's face. A small, knowing tilt to his lips while he studied the pages in front of him.

"He took you back to his place and you somehow managed to leave with your pants around your waist? What is wrong with you, Jaylin?"

"Shut up."

"Maybe there's an explanation for the werewolf thing. Like maybe it's one of those gay slang words—like a bear, you know. But harrier."

Quentin was biting his pencil now, his grin too wide for misunderstanding.

"He can hear you."

"Oh god," Tisper covered her face and sunk down in her chair, peeking sheepishly through her fingers. When Quentin returned to his work, she straightened and turned her wrist to take a peek at her watch, gathered her things together and flung her bag over her shoulder. "I have Saturday classes anyway. I should go home, get some sleep. Four hours a night isn't cutting it."

She promised to call him in the morning, bid him good night with a kiss on the cheek and threw the large library doors open—both of them, not just the one. Even with the weary exterior of a starving zombie, Tisper had a thing for dramatic exits.

With her comfort gone, Jaylin watched the clock tick on. As the minutes passed and Quentin still hadn't left, he grew increasingly impatient. He couldn't focus like this. With that tick, tick, tick of his pen against the table. With his deliberate gazes to the window on the far wall, mulling over the words on his head before he put them to paper.

The problem wasn't that Quentin was here. It was that Jaylin had never seen him here before now. As if his thoughts weren't already so full of "werewolves" and the sight of blood bespattered headstones, this man—this sure reminder of those things—was haunting him in plain sight. He needed to say something. He needed to draw his line in the sand and he needed to do it now. But Quentin didn't flinch when Jaylin brought a palm down at the table where he sat. He didn't acknowledge him at all.

"Hey, asshole," Jaylin presented himself.

But Quentin was focused on the pages in his book, reading until the end and then flipping to the next one over.

(FREE TO READ) Bad MoonWhere stories live. Discover now