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Chapter ten

Trayton

T his week has seemed to drag on endlessly, each day feeling longer than the last. I’ve barely been able to sleep all week out of excitement to discuss my new tattoo and to possibly see the first draft of it. Every morning, I’ve imagined what it will look like, and finally, today is the day. I’ve been up since six this morning, and now, as I glance at the clock, it’s only eight. Despite being fully showered and ready for the day, I find myself sitting restlessly on the edge of my bed, impatiently waiting for Kal to wake up so I can share my excitement.

But waking him would be a mistake; he’s not a morning person, and he’d surely kick my ass if I disturbed his sleep.

There is one person who always seems to be up early.

Brayden.

I glance up at the impressive two-story house in front of me—Brayden’s new home with Bohdi. A grin spreads across my face as I jog toward the door and knock quickly a few times. I wait anxiously for a response, and soon enough, I hear shuffling behind the door. It swings open to reveal a shirtless Bohdi, his dark hair sticking up in all directions.

“Trayton?” he says groggily, rubbing his face with one hand while trying to tame his hair with the other. “Is everything okay?”

“Hey, Mr.—Bohdi,” I say with a chuckle. “Is Brayden around?”

He looks at me with surprise, then shakes his head. “Yes, yes, of course. Come in.” As I enter their spacious living room, I take in my surroundings with admiration. This is my first time visiting Brayden since he returned from London, and, wow, this place is on fire.

Bohdi’s voice echoes through the house, calling out for Brayden. Moments later, Brayden appears in the kitchen, a towel loosely wrapped around his waist and a faint pink tint to his cheeks.

“Oh shit,” I mutter to myself, watching as Bohdi hands me a bottle of water from the fridge. He tosses another one to Brayden, who catches it with ease.

“Trayton, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Brayden asks, with concern etched on his face.

“Yeah, I’m good” I reply nonchalantly, taking a sip of my water. “I just wanted to come say hi.”

Brayden’s eyes shift from me to the clock on the wall. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning, Tray?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Sorry, should have called first,” I say awkwardly, glancing between Brayden and Bohdi.

Bohdi rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss Brayden on the head before whispering not-so-subtly, “I’ll be in the bedroom. Don’t take too long.” He places another kiss on the side of Brayden’s neck.

Brayden flushes scarlet as he watches Bohdi. The other man’s fingers trace over Brayden’s cheeks.

“My favorite,” he mumbles under his breath.

“You two are honestly sickening,” I interject playfully.

“Oh, Trayton, don’t act innocent,” Bohdi teases as he heads toward the stairs. “I saw that video of you at that party last week.”

Brayden joins in on the laughter as I roll my eyes. “What can I say? When a guy crawls to you, you don’t say no. Am I right, sir?” I wink at Bohdi, causing him to throw his head back in laughter.

“I sometimes miss you, Trayton,” Bohdi says with a hint of humor in his voice. “Only sometimes, but not right now. So please hurry up with my man so I can have him back, okay?” With that, he disappears upstairs, and Brayden is left standing in front of me, still slightly flushed but also wondering why I’ve shown up so early just to say hi. “All right.” I raise my hand. “I’m going to see the first draft of my tattoo today. They told me to be there at ten, so I’ve been awake since six. Kal was knocked out, and you know how he gets when he’s woken up, even when he’s not being a hormonal bitch. So, I thought I’d come see you and share my excitement with someone.” I plop down on the couch. “Do you have any Pop-Tarts? I need some sugar,” I shout over my shoulder.

“Yes,” Brayden grumbles as he shuffles to the kitchen.

“Don’t be mad at me, Bray, Bray,” I sing. “Bros before hoes!”

“I’m not a hoe,” Bohdi yells from upstairs.

“A hoe for Brayden,” I whisper.

In a few minutes, Brayden comes back, still wearing only a towel and carrying a container.

“I’ll get excited once you’ve seen it,” he says, and I stare at him in shock. “Here’s your Pop-Tart.” He hands me the container. “Take your time walking over there, and enjoy your treat.” He points toward the door like I’m a dog being told to go to his pen with his treat.

“Are you seriously kicking me out right now?” I grudgingly stand up and take the container from his hand. “I need new friends.” I sigh as I make my way to the front door.

“I’ll call you later.” Bray slaps me on the back, pushing me out of the doorway too quickly for my liking. As soon as the door closes behind me, I open the container and grab my Pop-Tart, tossing the trash onto the front porch step. As I walk down the pathway to the street, I hear someone calling my name. I turn around to look at the closed front door, but then I glance up at one of the windows and see Bohdi poking his head out.

“What was that ‘bros before hoes’ thing, Tray?” Bohdi laughs as I raise my hand and flip him off, with my breakfast still hanging out of my mouth.

“Suck it, Stiles,” I mumble around my mouthful.

I did manage to take a relaxed stroll, and I ended up only being ten minutes early, which I consider being politely early, not overly eager. Stepping through the door, my eyes immediately land on that damn artwork again, the one that haunts me every time I close my eyes.

With trembling hands, I flash a strained smile at Max behind the counter. My heart is pounding frantically in my chest as I struggle to control my nerves. What if I hate it? Will they have to start all over again, making me wait even longer?

Why did I ever agree to this?

But then my eyes wander over to the art on the wall.

That’s why.

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Max says, a little eager if not a bit cautious. I force a tight-lipped smile and nod before entering through the door behind the counter. As soon as I step inside, my gaze is immediately drawn to the walls adorned with a variety of artwork. I can’t help but scan each piece, hoping to find some guidance or reassurance. Suddenly, a loud cough interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see a table off to my left. My body tenses up.

It can’t be.

“Trayton.”

My hands curl into fists, every muscle in my body tense, as I stare at Daxton with pure hatred burning in my eyes. His nonchalant sigh only fuels the raging inferno within me, and all I can think about is tearing his head off his shoulders.

“What the fuck, Daxton?” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. My anger is reaching its boiling point, my blood pounding in my veins like a volcanic eruption waiting to happen. “You knew,” I state through clenched teeth, not even needing to ask it as a question.

“I did,” he admits. He lets out another heavy sigh before standing up, but I can see the fear in his eyes now. “Listen, I knew if I told you about it, you wouldn’t want to go through with it.”

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” I snarl before turning on my heel and making a beeline for the door. To my surprise, Max is still standing there, his expression unreadable. “Sorry, Max. But this”—I jab a finger at Daxton, who now looks deflated by the door, but I couldn’t care less. There’s no way in hell I’m letting that prick near me with a tattoo gun—“is not happening.”

“Have you seen his work?” Max pushes an iPad in my direction, and despite my initial refusal to look, curiosity gets the better of me.

“No, and I don’t give a damn,” I start to say before my eyes land on the animated arm on the screen and my jaw drops at the sight of it. The bottom half of the arm is covered in intricate tattoos, each one holding meaning and significance for me. Multiple pictures show a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the design, leaving me speechless.

It’s perfect.

Even better than what I had envisioned.

A sense of awe and disbelief washes over me as my fingers trace over the three ice hockey pucks, each one bearing numbers. My sixty-nine, Bray’s thirteen, and Kal’s ten from our jerseys—all connected by silver chains held together by a heart charm. On one side of the arm, there’s a hawk with devil horns flying amid blazing flames. A broken chain dangles from its foot.

It’s everything I wanted and more; the visual surpasses anything I could have ever dreamed up. I look up at Daxton, who now stands with his head down.

“How?” I ask him, my voice shaking as emotions flood me. “How did you do this?” He shrugs, still avoiding eye contact, but I can see the slightest hint of pride in his stance. My anger fades away, replaced by a mix of emotions that leaves me feeling emotionally drained yet grateful beyond words.

“I took what you said and drew it.”

I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “No, I never described it like this. It’s… it’s.” I can’t even bring myself to give the prick a compliment, but how can I not get this? It’s everything I wanted and more.

“Watching you.” He stops as I glance up at him, frowning. “In training. It helped, I guess.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t just created a fucking masterpiece.

“Were you drawing this while I was training?” I know he’s meant to be doing the project, but I’ve noticed his eyes on me a lot more since the party. I couldn’t work out what it was.

“Yes,” he admits. “When I create art for someone, I observe them in their everyday life. It helps me form a connection”—he pauses—“with the art.” I nod slowly, my eyes returning to the screen, overwhelmed by the depth of what he’s captured.

“How long would this take to do?”

Daxton squints. “Obviously, I can only do weekends, so it will be over three or four Saturdays, four hours a time, and it will be every two to three weeks to give time for the tattoo to heal as we do it.”

“Okay,” I say, making a decision.

Daxton blinks rapidly, and his eyes widen slightly. “Okay?”

“Yes. I want this tattoo. Can we start next Saturday?” My gaze shifts to Max, who has a smug grin on his face, before quickly trying to hide it when he sees my annoyed expression. When I turn back to Daxton, he stares at me with surprise and his mouth slightly open, clearly not expecting me to agree so easily. “U-um, yeah,” he stammers out. I give him a sharp nod and then turn on my heels toward the door. I grab the handle, but Daxton’s voice stops me.

“You don’t want any changes? Most people want some adjustments made. I can send you the design so you can take a closer look and let me know if anything needs to be changed,” he rushes to say.

I turn sideways, but my eyes drift to the art on the wall for a moment and then to the iPad screen on the counter, and finally back to Daxton. “No,” I confirm. “It’s perfect just the way it is.”