Page 3

Chapter two

Daxton

F or the first time in years, I finally feel the chains loosening around my neck. I stare at the letter the dean handed me. I have a dorm. I don’t have to stay in this prison anymore. I let out a deep breath, feeling a mix of relief and excitement as a weight lifts off my shoulders.

I take one last look around the dingy room, the stained walls, with the smell of stale smoke and despair. This place has been my prison, a drug den where hope came to die. But now, with this letter in hand, I can leave it all behind. The thought of a clean, safe dorm room feels like a dream come true.

My dad doesn’t know yet, and I can’t bring myself to tell him. I cling to the false hope that once I’m in the dorm, he won’t be able to do anything about it. Not in his state.

Marley might still cause trouble, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

I can’t live this life anymore. I refuse to be the kid from a drug-dealing, addiction-ridden family. The kid trapped by his pathetic dad. The kid who gets beaten for his dad’s entertainment. The kid exploited daily to sell drugs and make money, seeing hardly a penny. I knew I needed to get out.

We both did.

Bex and me.

The guilt that engulfs me every day rears its ugly head as I think about Bex. Bex, who had his whole life ahead of him. Bex, who deserved the chance I’m getting right now. He will never get any of that, and it’s my family’s fault.

It’s my fault.

I shake my head, trying my best to release the thoughts from it, even if it’s only for a moment. They’ll come back later when I’m lying in the dark.

They always do.

I know Bex would want me to get out of this. He didn’t want this life for me; he told me that so many times. He told me that when he left, he was taking me with him. I always thought we were getting out of this together.

I glance up at the wall, a drawing I drew for Bex, which he stuck up above my headboard. A drawing of London, all the tall buildings, the big Ferris wheel. The water. He told me he was taking me and Brayden there one day.

Now Brayden is there, seeing it all without him.

Life is so unfair. I really fucking hate it sometimes.

I harshly swallow, trying to keep the emotions at bay. I allow myself two more seconds to stare at the picture before quickly storming over and taking it off the wall. I was going to leave it; I knew if I didn’t, I would stare at it every day, beating myself up, knowing Bexley would never get to go there, but we made a promise to each other. We would get out of this life together. He may have left physically, but he still lingers on. He’s still here with me in some way.

“Let’s go, Bexley,” I whisper before closing the door on a room I hope I never have to see again.

“Okay, Daxton. These are all your papers. This is your dorm key and number. I think that is it.” The dean smiles tightly at me before slightly dropping his head to look at me. He seems a bit too serious over the rim of his glasses perched on his nose. “You missed a lot of classes last year. I need you to work extra hard this year, Daxton,” his voice says softly but with a slight edge to it. I know after everything that happened with Bexley, and then Brayden and Mr. Stiles, that the dean discovered a lot of stuff. He found out about my home life, and I truly think this is why they have offered me a dorm and a scholarship.

Last year, Marley paid for my education. Well, with all the selling I did and barely seeing a penny, I technically paid, but in Marley’s eyes, he paid. He never let me forget that.

This year, I was given the education and dorm, but it means I have to work extra hard, and I will.

“You missed out on quite a bit in your major last year, Daxton, so your final paper this year is going to be complex. I’ve spoken to Mr. Jenkins, and he has helped pull this together. We believe you can do something magical with what we’ve put together.” The dean clears his throat. “All the details are in the envelope. I suspect you may have some questions, so please do stop by to see me or Mr. Jenkins if needed.”

I nod. “Anything. Whatever I can do to bring my grade up, I’ll do it.” The way the dean eyes me makes me kind of wish I didn’t say that.

“Then you won’t have any problems with your final then.” He smiles tightly before nodding his head to his door to dismiss me.

Once I close the dean’s office door, I let my eyes drift down the hallway. The doors are all glass, and digital nameplates display the professors’ names and departments. Cool art pieces decorate the walls, and interactive screens showcase student projects and event info.

The floors are polished concrete, reflecting the bright LED lights in the ceiling. There’s a soft hum from the electronics and quiet chatter in the air. Sunlight streams through the big floor-to-ceiling windows, lighting up the space and giving a great view of the busy campus outside. I never really took in before how amazing this college is and how lucky I am right now. I can’t stop the grin that appears on my face. I make quick work of heading across campus toward the dorms, excitement increasing with each step I take. As the building comes into view, I can’t help but laugh a little to myself, trying to keep my head aimed low when I do so people don’t think I’m weird. Well, they already do, but weirder than I already am. Picking up the pace, I make it to the door when a guy holds it open for me, and when I enter, there are doors upon doors and stairs leading up to more doors. I look at the sign and see that my dorm is on the third floor. I take the stairs two at a time. I know I’ll be sharing, and I just have to hope it will be with someone who has no idea who I am. Or someone who does and is willing to ignore me so I can work on what’s necessary to get through the rest of the semester. Scanning each door as I pass, I look for my number, and when I land on 314, I take a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever’s on the other side. Opening the door slowly, I peer in, and my first thought is, thank God—whoever lives in this room isn’t messy. There isn’t one thing out of place or any clothes lying around. One thing I can’t deal with is a mess. I haven’t been able to be in control of much in my life, but having a tidy room was the one thing I was in control of. I take a few tentative steps, scanning the room, two beds on opposite sides of each other, bedside tables with a wardrobe in the middle of them. I glance to the left and see a tall cabinet with a decent-size TV sitting on top. A few posters of some half-naked women litter one side of the room, and then I freeze when my eyes land on trophies. Not just any trophies—hockey trophies.

Fuck.

A clean person and someone who didn’t play sports. That’s all I wanted. It wasn’t too much to ask, but apparently, it was.

Groaning, I drag myself and my bags inside, flopping on the bed that doesn’t have naked women surrounding it. I eye up the trophies, wondering if there’s a name on them. Do I want the surprise, or do I need to prepare? There’s one person who I would rather shit in my own hand and clap than share a room with, and that’s Trayton King. As long as it’s not him, I can do this.

I stand up, taking steps toward the trophies like something is about to jump out at me. When I reach them, I bend down to get a closer look at the plaques. The first few I scan all say Devil Hawks, which is the name of Hawksview’s hockey team, but then my eyes snag on one with a name.

“Er, can I help you?” A deep voice from behind me causes me to go rigid. Fuck.

Turning around, my eyes land on my new roommate.

“Hi, Cope.” I smile, well, I try, but I think it comes out as more of a grimace. Cope doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me, blinking. He probably hasn’t been told. “I’m your new roommate,” I mumble. Cope blinks a few more times before nodding slowly and then turning around to look at my bed, seeing my two small garbage bags, which literally hold my world in.

“Why have you brought two trash bags in with you?” He scrunches his nose, still not moving from the spot he’s standing in, and he still hasn’t closed the door to the dorm, like he thinks he’ll need an escape route.

“That’s my clothes,” I deadpan.

“Oh,” he says, his mouth forming a small o shape and staying like that for a few seconds before he scratches the back of his head in an awkward move. I point behind me to the trophies.

“I didn’t know who I was sharing with, so I was just finding out.”

“Cool,” he says, nodding again and walking toward his bed. The whole ordeal was just as awkward as I instantly imagined as soon as I saw Cope Jackson’s name. It then dawns on me as I stare at my new bed.

This was Brayden’s room. He shared with Cope.

But now he lives with Mr. Stiles.

Move out one trailer park kid and move another in. Good ole Hawksview U.

Cope rustles around with something on his bed and then turns, heading straight for the door, leaving and shutting it lightly behind him.

Cope knows who I am. But he’s never been hostile toward me. He’s always left me alone, so I’m hoping it stays that way. I only ever existed in one person’s world, and he’s gone now, so it’s just me, and that’s the way I like it. Hopefully, he treats me like I don’t exist just as everyone else has. Sighing, I begin emptying the trash bags and open some drawers near my bed, thankfully finding them empty. I fold up the few clothes I have, all black, of course, and place them in the drawers.

Within ten minutes, the bags are empty, and everything is put away. I hold the picture I drew for Bex in my hand, staring down at it, and debate whether I should fold it up and put it away. But then I think twice and stand on my mattress, fixing the picture to the wall above my headboard.

“Look over me, Bex.” I smile.

I flop down on the bed, instantly realizing how comfy this mattress is. A lot more comfortable than my bed back in the trailer. I stare at the envelope the dean gave me. Eagerly, I grab it, wondering what he and Mr. Jenkins have put together. What they think I will be so good at doing.

God, I hope it’s street art. That’s my favorite, and Mr. Jenkins has already said it’s my specialty. “You’re fantastic at putting a story and so much emotion into one image, Daxton,” he once said. I already have so many ideas that I could create, and my fingers tremble from excitement as I pull the papers out of the envelope. I scan the first few paragraphs, which detail the grades I could get, and then my eyes move down.

No.

No.

FUCK NO.

Rising quickly, I snatch the keys from the bed and storm toward the door, slamming it shut with a resounding echo. I refuse to do this, and I’m about to confront the dean, insisting on any alternative, anything but this.

Bursting through the mass of students and hurtling down the stairs of the dorm building, I shove the doors open, gulping in the air that my desperate lungs crave with each frantic breath. My gaze drops as I clutch the paper once more, scanning the words in disbelief, praying this is some cruel illusion.

But it isn’t.

The words stare back at me in stark black ink.

This year’s final paper will focus on: “The Art of Ice Hockey.”