Perigee [bxb] | Bad Moon Book II

6; {Matt}: clara

An; for those who got the update notifs, make sure you read chapter 7 too. Apparently wattpad didn't send out a notification for it and it's SUPER important so definitely don't skip it!

Shit wasn't usually Matt's first impression when he walked into a room. But scarcely did he find himself gazing upon a bed fit for two people, a bed he was meant to sleep on, with a half-naked man sprawled out on the covers.

The room was beautiful—everything from the TV on the wall, hidden behind two silver panels that closed to form a mirror, to the long, hefty red suede curtains that only part-way covered the glass doors of the balcony. It smelled like potpourri and expensive woods, and the slightest hint of alcohol—probably from Bailey, who slept with a pillow clapped over his head to keep out the noise.

Matt couldn't understand what it was he was tuning out; everything was silent, save for the static buzz of the radio beside the bed. He walked over to it and turned the switch off.

"Turn it back on," Bailey grumbled from beneath his pillow.

Matt ripped the pillow away and Bailey laid there, still for a moment. Then he turned over on his back and looked to Matt, his black locks a tangled mess over his sharp, dark eyes. "You wanna die tonight, Buffalo Bill?"

Matt challenged his glare. "I never agreed to take the floor."

"I never agreed to suffer your bitching, but you took the only extra pillow."

"Fine, just give me a blanket," Matt returned. But Bailey rolled back over onto his side, leaving Matt with nothing to glare at but his back.

There was a good three feet of space between Bailey and the edge of the bed, so Matt tossed himself down on the mattress hard enough to make them both jounce in the air, but Bailey didn't acknowledge him. He just laid there on his side with his arms crossed, grumbling into his pillow, "Turn the radio back on."

"It wasn't even playing any music. And I don't feel like listenin' to Bump N' Grind while I'm sleeping ass-to-ass with another dude."

"You're not my type."

"Your type?" Matt snorted. "What's that? Tall, dark and Quentin?"

Bailey turned over onto his back then and Matt could smell the scotch on his breath. "No," he said, "men."

Matt ignored the insult and laid there, watching the moonlight bounce from the glass of the stained chandelier above them. "Aren't you too young to drink?"

"Aren't you shut-the-fuck-up?"

"I shoulda let Jay jump your ass," Matt said. "The hell was I thinking, volunteering for this shit."

Bailey didn't respond to that—and for a moment, Matt thought he might have fallen asleep, an arm draped over his eyes. But then he heard a sound, through the walls behind their heads. A moan, ghoulish at first, like a ghost was trapped somewhere deep within the wallpaper. But when the next muffled groan crept through the wood, it was unmistakably sensual.

Sex. Of course the couple next door were having sex. It couldn't have been the ones down the hall or on the floor up above. It had to be the young, passionate couple that had crossed him in the hall, their fingers entwined in the sparse moments when their mouths weren't. Their bed was probably right on the other side of the wall. Matt felt an embarrassment rock through him. Two young, attractive werewolves were bumping uglies, inches from his pillow. And he was in a bed with another man.

A soft, humored sound came from Bailey. "Turn the—"

"I'll turn the radio back on," Matt said, and launched up from the bed. He took a pillow under his arm and ripped the duvet out from under Bailey, and after starting up that static again, Matt stalked off to the bathroom to sleep in the tub for the night.