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Chapter nineteen

Trayton

“ W anna go to the pub?” I murmur to Kal as I lie back against my headboard, eyes locked on the relentless white ceiling above. My arm aches tonight after today’s session. There was definitely more shading this time. I can’t stop looking at it in the mirror. I’ve already shown Kal five times. He was interested the first time but got bored with me shoving it in his face the second, third, fourth, and fifth times. I’ll give it an hour before showing him again.

“Na,” Kal mutters, too absorbed in his phone to even glance my way. For the past two weeks, every evening has been the same: him, lost in the glow of his screen, his mood darkening the moment that little rectangle lights up—far worse than his usual sulk. I narrow my eyes, straining to catch a glimpse of whatever has his attention, but the screen is too distant. With cautious steps, I inch closer, bending over to steal a better look. A blonde girl fills the frame—who the hell is she?

I lean over his shoulder and, half jokingly, I add, “I mean, if I weren’t gay, then one thousand percent, yes.”

In an instant, Kal whirls around. His eyes widen in shock as he snatches his phone from his hand and hurls it upward, as if he’d been caught red-handed with his dick in his hand by his mom for the first time. “What the fuck, Trayton?” he yells, his anger palpable as he grabs me roughly by the shoulders. The force of his grip sends me stumbling backward, leaving a bitter taste of discomfort. He was always the laid-back one. Believe it or not, the guy usually has more jokes than me. But right now, he’s a volcano ready to erupt.

I manage a weak joke. “I give her a strong nine.”

But there’s no hint of amusement in his enraged stare—only shock and disbelief.

“Why the fuck are you peering over my shoulder and digging into my shit?” he growls. His fists clench at his sides, veins visibly pulsing against his skin. I recoil slightly but then straighten, lifting my chin defiantly as I push my hands out toward his rigid arms.

“And since when have you turned into this?” I snap, my resolve fraying as my last flickers of playfulness vanish. I’m fed up with his snappy moods at the moment.

“Is it because of a girl?” I shout now, unable to hold back any longer. “You’ve been acting like this because of some fucking girl?”

“Trayton, don’t—” Kal starts, but I cut him off.

“Yes, Trayton, do!” I shout louder, desperate to force him to spill it all. “Get out whatever’s weighing on you right now. I’m about to call Brayden, and we’re going to nail this down.”

Kal shakes his head as if wishing the ground would swallow him. “I can’t,” he rasps, his breaths coming in ragged, sharp puffs that seem to punctuate every word.

My patience snaps. “No, you know what—I’m not about to risk having my teeth knocked out over this. Get dressed; we’re hitting the gym. And don’t fucking say no. I’m calling Bray, and we’re going to the gym, where you’ll finally tell us what the hell is bothering you. And if words don’t cut it, well, we’re going to punch it out.”

Kal’s eyes lock onto mine, a heavy silence stretching between us. For a moment, I brace for his refusal—it’s Kal, after all. But then, his shoulders slump, and to my surprise, he nods.

My brows shoot up in shock, but I quickly compose myself and give him a sharp nod. Kal never listens, yet here he is, finally agreeing. Maybe we can finally unravel whatever’s been eating at him.

When I call Brayden to share that Kal’s ready to vent his frustrations at the gym, I can almost hear the relief in his voice.

The gym, the boxing bags—they’ve always been our sanctuary.

We learned as kids that fighting each other solved nothing; it only brought more pain.

“You go first,” Brayden whispers. We’re watching as sweat flies off Kal’s forehead with every punch he lands on the bag.

“I brought him here. It’s your turn,” I say, my eyes glued to Kal. I’ve never seen him this intense. Whatever it is, it’s bad. “Maybe she cheated,” I murmur, my eyes widening as I glance at Brayden.

“God,” Brayden mutters, running a hand over his face. “Kal,” he calls out in the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard from him.

“Pussy,” I mumble, earning me an elbow in the ribs from Brayden, making me grunt.

Kal pauses, gripping the bag to stop it from swinging. “It was when I went to that charity event with my dad a couple of years back,” he says, taking deep breaths. “I spent the weekend with a girl and… fuck, she was amazing.” He laughs, shaking his head, his mood turning somber. “She had this attitude, a no-fuck attitude, and her confidence—it was unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a woman.” He turns to face us. “I’m not going into the details, but I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Both Brayden and I sag simultaneously. This is what we needed—to get Kal to open up, even a little. Talking about his feelings is like cracking a code, but this is a huge step.

“Can’t you just message her?”

Kal interrupts, his head shaking, cutting me off. “It’s complicated,” he mutters, a bitter laugh escaping him. “And now she’s moved on.” He forces a tight-lipped smile. “A family and everything.” His eyes flicker with pain. “I know I need to forget about her, but it’s hard.”

“How do you know she’s moved on?” Brayden asks, his brows knitting together in confusion as he stares at Kal.

“Facebook,” I interject, recalling the blonde woman Kal had been looking at earlier. Kal glances at me, then back at Brayden, nodding in confirmation.

“You need to block her,” I state firmly. “Watching her from afar won’t help.” Kal nods again, his gaze dropping to the floor. After a moment, he lifts his eyes first to me, then to Brayden. “It’s just hard… I fell for her, guys.” He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Pussy whipped in one weekend.” Both Brayden and I laugh, but it’s a hollow, sadder laugh. Seeing Kal like this is gut-wrenching.

“Some things happened last year,” Kal continues, glancing quickly at Brayden before staring at the floor again. “I thought it might have been some fucked-up sign. At first, I tried to hold myself back, but then I started believing it was a sign to go see her. So I searched her up on Facebook for the first time, and that’s when I saw her with a man and a kid.” His eyes fixate on a spot on the floor, lost in memories.

Kal, usually the one with all the answers, the straight-and-narrow guy, is anything but that right now. He’s been breaking, drowning right in front of us, and we just let him. We let him brood, thinking it was best. It wasn’t.

Kal’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper, his eyes narrowing. “If you dare tell anyone I said this, I will ruin your fucking life.” He pauses, then adds, almost inaudibly, “But I could really do with a hug from my brothers right now.”

“Shit, I wish I recorded that,” I mutter as Bray and I step forward. Kal’s arms open, and we wrap him in a tight embrace.

“See why I’m gay? You don’t get this shit,” I mumble into Kal’s shoulder, feeling his grip tighten around mine.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Brayden chimes in, pulling back slightly to look at me as Kal loosens his hold. “You just haven’t found the person that’s worth the pain, Tray.”

“Why pain? What kind of love is that?” I frown, puzzled.

“Everyone hurts you, Tray. Whether they mean to or not,” Brayden says softly.

“You just need to find the one worth hurting for,” Kal finishes.

I don’t bother telling them that it won’t be me because love doesn’t exist. Not true love. I learned that a long time ago.

After we finish wrapping our hands and spend thirty minutes relentlessly pounding the punching bags, Cope finally joins us. Sweat drips from my brow as I lean against the wall, grabbing a quick gulp of water from the fountain before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“You don’t usually come to hit the bags this late, do you?” I ask Cope.

He gives a nonchalant shrug, eyes fixed on the floor. “I was bored,” he replies.

I smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “Your roommate not providing any decent entertainment, huh?” I joke, but Cope’s expression hardens, his frown deepening as he looks away.

“Geez, relax, man,” I say, raising my hands defensively. “It’s just a joke. I’m not taking a dig at your bestie.” I roll my eyes and start to turn away, but something makes me stop and face him again.

“Actually, no.” I step back toward Cope, who’s now bent over, cupping his hands for a drink from the fountain. “I was your friend first,” I declare, jabbing a finger at my chest. “Why am I being painted as the villain here?” I furrow my brows, trying to convey my frustration.

Cope straightens up and meets my gaze. “Well, because you are,” he states bluntly. “If Daxton had done something truly awful to you, I’d understand and keep my distance from him. But he hasn’t. If he had, you would have told me.” He holds my gaze for a moment as if waiting for me to reveal some hidden truth about Daxton.

But how can I explain about Bex? How do I tell him that Daxton took him from me and relished every single moment of it? How do I reveal that Daxton isn’t the person everyone believes him to be? I can’t find the words, so I just shrug.

“He’s scum,” I declare, frustrated.

Cope leans against the wall, arms crossed, his expression calm but firm. “He’s my boy. And you won’t be going around making his life hard just because you’ve got a bee in your bonnet over him handling drugs now and then. Remember, the guy you call your brother over there,” he says, nodding at Brayden. “He was brought up around all that stuff too. You’d do anything to protect him, so what’s the difference?”

“Brayden wasn’t a drug dealer,” I shoot back, my voice sharp. “Don’t even try to put them in the same picture.”

Cope leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, making sure Brayden can’t hear. “His twin was,” he reminds me. “Is that why you hated Bexley so much? Because of the drugs?”

I glare at Cope, feeling the heat rise in my chest. “I hated Bex for the pain he put my best friend through.” It was only half the truth though. The sight of Brayden wrestling with stress and heartache had fueled my resentment of Bex, but there was more I wasn’t saying.

Cope shakes his head slightly, a hint of irritation in his eyes. “Well, you need to take your head out of your ass, Tray. Dax is cool, he’s a good person, and I’m happy he’s moving on with his life.”

“You sound like a proud mother,” I scoff, rolling my eyes at his seriousness.

“Hopefully, the guy he’s on a date with right now sees his worth,” Cope adds with a touch of sarcasm, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. I turn to him, squinting in suspicion, but he just winks, sauntering past me toward where Kal and Bray are standing at the bags. “And no, he doesn’t play hockey. He’s into investment banking,” he shouts over his shoulder.

“What’s the wink for?” I call after him, but he only laughs, flipping me off with a playful smirk.

I pull out my phone, my fingers moving almost instinctively to tap on the tracker app icon. The screen flickers as it begins to load, but there’s a nagging hunch in my gut that he’s already discovered I’m tracking him. Finally, the app opens, and a small, blinking dot appears on the digital map, pinpointing his location. He’s at some semi-upscale restaurant downtown, a place with white tablecloths and dim lighting that tries a little too hard to impress.

I lift my gaze from the screen to the guys nearby, deep in conversation. They are oblivious to my plans. My eyes drop back to my phone, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.

Time to shake things up a bit.

“Guys, I’ll catch you later. Just going to meet someone real quick,” I call out over their chatter. Without waiting for their response, I turn on my heel and head to the exit.

I rushed back to the dorm and threw on a pair of faded jeans and a snug-fitting T-shirt. I knew this semi-upscale restaurant wouldn’t let me in wearing my ratty sweatpants and a tank top. As I approach the restaurant, I fish my phone out of my pocket to confirm that he’s still inside. The screen glows with a notification from the app. He’s definitely here.

Trying to be as discreet as possible, I linger near the restaurant window, peering inside at the dimly lit tables. My eyes roam the room, initially not spotting him, but then I catch sight of his unmistakable black hair, and there is Ashton808.

He is undeniably attractive, his features sharp and eyes intense. My mind betrays me with an intrusive thought: he’d look incredible on his knees. But then I noticed the person sitting across from him—a green-eyed man who is even more captivating.

I curse my brain for these intrusive thoughts that seem to uncontrollably bubble up. I can’t see Daxton’s face clearly, but the way Ashton is looking at him is unmistakable, like Daxton is the most delectable thing on the menu. It’s written plainly in Ashton’s gaze how and where he wants Daxton.

On all fours, with Ashton’s dick deep inside him.

I am certain Daxton is a bottom; I can read men like an open book when it comes to being gay. It’s my special talent detecting their preferences: top, bottom, or switch. Daxton shows bottom vibes, while Ashton seems versatile but probably leans toward topping. Just like me.

I stride confidently to the restaurant’s entrance, where a man with a crisp white shirt and a bow tie stands behind a cocktail table, a large black reservation book open before him.

Damn. It’s reservation only.

“Good evening, sir. Do you have—” he begins, but I cut him off, slipping a couple of hundred-dollar bills from my wallet into his hand with practiced ease.

“I’m not eating. I just need to sit at the bar for a drink. I’ll be in and out without anyone noticing,” I say, trying to sound casual. The host, a burly man with a neatly trimmed beard and a piercing gaze, stares at me with wide eyes and then shifts his focus to the crumpled dollar bills in his hand. He swiftly closes his fists and steps aside, allowing me to pass.

“Have a wonderful evening, sir,” he says with a little sarcasm. I nod, offering a tight-lipped smile, and step inside, my eyes immediately locking onto Daxton across the room. I can’t let him spot me.

Navigating through the dimly lit, elegant restaurant, I cross to the bar. “Bud—” I start to order a Budweiser but catch myself. This place is upscale, with chandeliers casting soft, golden glows on the polished wood, so I decide to fit in. “Your finest whiskey on the rocks,” I say, attempting to channel my inner James Bond.

Oh wait, that was martinis.

The bartender, a tall man with a crisp white shirt and a skeptical look, eyes me critically. I reluctantly slide my fake ID across the counter, knowing it’s my only ticket to getting served. After scrutinizing it for what feels like an eternity, he finally relaxes and flashes a warm smile before preparing my drink.

I settle onto a plush barstool, keeping Daxton in my peripheral vision. Across the room, Ashton bursts into exaggerated laughter, and I struggle to fathom Daxton being anything close to amusing. His humor is as dry as toast, lacking any spark of life.

Great lips though. And eyes. Damn.

Impatiently, I glance at the bartender, willing my drink to appear. Soon, he places a fresh white napkin before me and sets down my whiskey. I take a deliberate sip, letting the amber liquid linger in my mouth before swallowing. The burn slides down my throat, a familiar and comforting sensation. Nearly fifteen minutes later, when Daxton finally rises from his seat, my whole body freezes with tension. For a split second, I’m sure he’ll spin around and catch me hidden in plain sight, but he simply moves on, striding deliberately toward the far end of the restaurant—straight for the restroom.

My moment has finally arrived. I down the remainder of my second whiskey, relishing the burn as I push myself upright and start toward Daxton’s table. There, Ashton sits with a furrowed brow, his face illuminated solely by the glow of his phone. I steal a quick glance toward the back door of the restaurant, take a deep breath, and clear my throat. I can’t afford to waste another second.

Leaning in close, I deliver in a trembling voice, “This is going to sound completely fucked up, and I’m truly sorry for interrupting you.” I strain to sound as sincere as possible.

Ashton lifts his eyes from his phone, a questioning smile already playing on his lips as he asks, “Sorry, who are you?”

Lowering my voice further, I say, “Look, I’m not going to give you all the details, but that guy you’re with—Daxton—he’s trouble.” I pause, waving my hand in front of me. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have come over. I’m really sorry for bothering you.” I start to retreat, and just then, I hear Ashton plead, “Wait, please go on.” I bite my cheek to hide the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, shut my eyes for a heartbeat as my expression softens, and steal one last glance at the door behind me before continuing.

Leaning in even closer, my face twisting into a grimace, I murmur, “Let me just say one thing: chlamydia. I learned it the hard way—I wish someone had warned me.” Immediately, Ashton recoils, his features contorting into an expression of disgust as he mutters, “Oh god.” Without waiting for another word, I spin on my heel and rush out of the restaurant.

Once outside, I cross the busy street and press myself against a lamppost, using it as a makeshift shield while I keep a wary eye on the entrance. I watch as Ashton bolts out the door, as he all but runs away from the restaurant. A wild, toothy grin unfurls across my face. It’s a moment of private triumph that I savor silently.

I remain hidden there, heart pounding, convinced that soon his moment of reckoning will come, and I’ll get to see the look on his face. Sure enough, less than five minutes later, Daxton emerges from the restaurant. He pauses at the doorway, glancing both ways as if expecting someone to appear. Slowly, I notice his shoulders droop in resignation as the reality sinks in—the person he was after has vanished into thin air. In that fleeting moment, it’s clear: his date has made a run for it. He fumbles with his phone, probably going on his dating app, but then his hand drops limply by his side. Standing frozen for a moment, he folds his arms as if trying to shield himself from a sudden chill; his head sinks low before he turns and shuffles away toward what I assume are the dorms not far from here.

A smile tugs at my lips at the sight—until, almost gradually, that smile begins to fade. I watch his hunched, defeated form retreat, his head bowed. I had expected a surge of satisfaction, a rush of victory, yet instead, I feel a dull ache bloom in my chest. My hand instinctively rises to rub the tight, throbbing space where my heart sits. Confusion and regret mix with the fading adrenaline, and I can’t help but wonder: Why does my chest hurt so badly right now?