12. “Lines” - Alfie Jukes
“Lines” - Alfie Jukes
Heath
I don’t know how long I can survive this. While the Archives is impressive, with its tall ceilings, dark wooden bookshelves, and old books, there is a definite lack of sunshine and balmy breeze. Not to mention the addition of the one person guaranteed to drive me mad.
I tried to distract myself. Looking at my phone worked for a while, but then she would tuck her hair behind her ear or bite her lip while concentrating on the spines on the shelf. How the fuck is a guy supposed to lose himself in a game when every move she makes is like a siren to his dick?
I hardly slept last night. Sleep became nothing more than a distant possibility the minute I found out I would be seeing her again in a matter of hours.
And not just seeing her, but be alone with her.
There are a few people scattered throughout the aisles of this place, but we are as alone as we would be if we were in the back of my car right now.
I scrub that picture from my mind. I have no business imagining myself alone with her anywhere, but especially not in the back of a car .
I make my way to the front desk. I’ve been here maybe twice with my mum, both times becoming bored enough that she sent me home with the driver.
“Excuse me,” I say to the woman who greeted us earlier. I smile when she looks up from her home design magazine. “I’m looking for resources on a particular person.”
“Of course.” She puts the magazine down and wakes her computer by moving the mouse. “Who are you looking for?”
Damn it. I should have taken a photo of the bio I was reading. I’ve already forgotten the guy’s name. “He’s a famous author? Something with ‘Hunt’ in it, I think.”
“G.R. Huntington?” she asks.
“That sounds right. Gothic horror?” I ask, just to be sure.
“That’s him,” she says. “We have a special room dedicated to all of the resources we have on him.” She stands and makes her way around the desk. “I can take you there.”
She leads the way through the arches. When we approach the bookcase I left Walker at, I ask her to wait a moment. Then I motion to Walker to come with us. She pulls her brows down the way she does when she’s frustrated or confused.
I want to grab her hand and make her laugh. Instead I say, “Come on.”
To her credit, she follows me, but she doesn’t hold her tongue. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I smile.
Her frown deepens.
The librarian leads us all the way to the back, then down a narrow corridor with several small doors coming off it. She opens one of them and stands back so we can enter.
It’s the size of a small bedroom, each wall lined with rows of books. In the center is a large library table and several chairs. An octagon- shaped stained glass window lets in a pinprick of sunlight.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” the woman says before closing the door.
“What is this room?” Walker heads to the nearest shelf.
I know how much she likes finding the answers herself, so I stay quiet and wait for the realization to dawn.
Several seconds later, her head whips around. She looks at me for a moment, then turns back to the books. Her fingers quickly skim the spines. She moves to another shelf on the other wall. Her fingers dance upon the titles as she takes it all in.
She stops as suddenly as she started. She stays facing the bookcase, and I picture her swallowing.
She reaches to tuck her hair behind her ear.
The scent of that coconut conditioner she still uses floats across the room to me.
My dick responds by surging against my pants.
It remembers all too well what that scent means.
When she turns, there’s something in her eyes I can’t identify. Caution maybe, but something else too. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
I sink into one of the chairs. “No big deal. Let me know if you want any help.” I pull my phone out of my pocket again, then proceed to fail the same level twice. This isn’t going to cut it. I drop my phone back on the table. She doesn’t look up, engrossed in a book the size of a Bible.
Her hair falls across her face, shielding it from my view.
A pang reverberates through my chest, but then she sets the book on the table without breaking her concentration and pulls her hair back into a knot at the base of her neck.
She’s only inches away, and I can practically taste her conditioner now.
My eyes linger on her wrist. I still can’t believe she had the tattoo removed. Laser removal is no small deal, and she avoids medical intervention whenever possible. Was she that desperate to wash all traces of me from her life ?
She looks up from the page and catches me staring. “What?” She swipes at her cheek like she has remnants of her breakfast there.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just wondering if you have a book recommendation for me.”
She stares at me without blinking. “Sorry, what?”
“A book?” I say again. “By Huntington?”
“Very funny.” She returns to her reading.
“I’m serious,” I say. “I liked Emily Blanchard . What should I try next?”
Her eyes dart to me. She thinks I’m messing with her, but the truth is, after she left, I was a mess. I was so fucked I was willing to do anything to feel connected to her again. She’d left the book in my bedroom, and I ended up reading it cover to cover. It took me five weeks, but I finished it.
Her teeth inevitably find her lip again. My groin aches as she bites down gently. Eventually she has mercy on me and releases it to say, “Try The Haunting at 83rd Street .”
Her attention snaps back to the open book on the table, leaving me to find the novel she’s recommended on my own. I don’t mind. It gives me something to do and keeps me from hauling her across the table and into my lap.
It’s thoughts like that that will wreck this entire thing.
I locate the book with ease—there’s a whole shelf of all of Huntington’s works—and an hour passes as I lose myself in Victorian-era Wesbourne. I have to keep moving around, of course, but I’m surprised at how much time has passed when Walker speaks.
“You like it?”
I look up to find her watching me. I close the book and set it on the table. “It’s good,” I say.
A tiny smile plays at the corners of her mouth. I would do anything to see it in full bloom. “Can you do something for me?”
She could ask me for a kidney, and I’d cut myself open with a pen knife to remove it. I have to get out of this fucking library. “Sure.” My voice catches, and it comes out strained.
“I need to send Dr. Riordan an update. I was wondering if you could take a photo of me in front of all the books.” There’s a shyness in her voice that I haven’t heard in so long.
“Who’s Dr. Riordan?”
“My professor.”
“You send updates to your professor?”
She hands me her phone. The camera app is already open. “He’s supervising my dissertation.”
I take the phone and hold it while she positions herself in front of the bookcases. She spreads her arms wide, and a huge smile lights up her face. I snap the picture and hand the phone back.
I try to get lost in my book again, but the moment has been killed. My hands clench around the sides. I close it before I rip something and walk to the window instead. I can’t see anything due to the colored glass, but being close to the outdoors makes me feel better.
Who the fuck is this guy she’s sending pictures of herself to? And more importantly, why do I want to rip his head from his shoulders for making her smile like that?