Page 32

Chapter thirty-one

Trayton

R egardless of what Daxton has done or said, he’s here because of me. He’s in this state because of me. I keep telling myself that I deserve whatever he throws at me, but when it comes to my mom, I can’t hold back my anger. I make my way through the bar, shoving him toward the exit. Every so often, he bumps into someone, and as soon as they shoot him a look, I return it with a glare that warns, “Say one word to him, and you’ll catch my damn fist.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he mutters as we step outside.

“Keep moving,” I bark, guiding him along the sidewalk by his waist. We eventually reach a bench, where I sit him down. I pull up the ride-share app on my phone, hesitating over the button for a moment as I glance behind me at the large hotel sign. I’m uncertain if I can simply take him back to his room and leave him there. I know that once he wakes up, the hatred in him will be even stronger, and I’ll have to explain—though right now, I’m at a loss for words.

Why did I do what I did with Ashton? Because I wanted to hurt him. How can I confess that I wanted to cause him pain and humiliate him, just as they did to me when I was sixteen? Even the thought makes me feel weak and immature. Why is it that I can never get over any of this with Daxton? Why does he manage to get under my skin so badly?

“Come on,” I say, grabbing him as his head droops, and he moans when I lift him up. I pull his hand over my shoulder, and he lurches upright.

“Where are we going?” he mumbles.

“To get some sleep,” I reply as I guide him into the hotel lobby and sit him down again. “Stay here and don’t move.” His head lolls back, and his eyes close. I scan the area to ensure no one is watching him too closely, and once I’m convinced he’s all right, I head to the reception desk.

“Do you have a room for two, please?” I ask. The receptionist sizes me up before shifting her gaze to Daxton, who has slumped sideways on the couch I placed him on.

“Rough night,” she remarks.

I flash a smirk and add, “Don’t worry. He’ll be out like a light as soon as we get into the room.” She raises an eyebrow in acknowledgment, then looks at her screen.

“Twin room?” she asks, glancing back at me.

“King room,” I reply with a smirk. There’s no way he’s sleeping in a separate bed. She nods and glances back at her screen.

“We have a king room available,” she confirms. Then she hesitates, eyeing Daxton, who’s passed out behind me. “Given your friend’s level of intoxication,” she continues, “I’ll need to add a fifty-dollar housekeeping fee, just in case of any accidents.” I arch an eyebrow, suspecting this charge isn’t part of their standard policy, but I don’t care right now. I just want to get him safely into the room.

“Fine, whatever.” I sigh. She processes my details.

“That’ll be four hundred and fifty dollars,” she says. I hand over my credit card and glance around the luxurious lobby. This hotel is fancy as fuck, and while the cost is high, it’s not a big deal. My father will foot the bill. As soon as I have the key, I turn to find Daxton sprawled on the sofa, mouth agape, as people pass by, wrinkling their noses at his clothing—tight jeans, chains dangling, hair covering his eyes, and silver rings on all ten fingers. To them, he must seem like a menace to society; to me, he looks good enough to eat. I walk over and lift him off the sofa as he groans, pressing his face into my chest.

“Tray,” he mumbles.

“Dax,” I reply, guiding him to the elevator.

“Where are we?” he asks, tilting his head to take in his surroundings. “Is this a mansion?” he wonders out loud, gazing at the ornate ceiling. I chuckle, thinking he probably hasn’t been anywhere like this before.

“Something like that,” I answer as he turns his head toward me.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks quietly as we step into the elevator.

“No.”

“But I am mad at you.”

“I know, and you should be.” We ride in silence until we reach our floor, and I lead Daxton toward our room. As I let go to grab the key, he stumbles slightly, murmuring “Sorry” before regaining his balance. I push open the door and nod for him to enter first. He moves in slowly, his head surveying the luxurious space—a couch is paired with a TV, there’s even a small kitchen area, all making the place seem somewhat worth the price. When his gaze shifts left, he spots the large, white king-size bed in the center of the room. He glances at me and then turns his attention toward the couch.

“I’ll sleep on here,” he declares.

“No way—you’re sleeping in that bed with me,” I step over and pull him close. I know he’s drunk, and while I would never take advantage of that, right now, all I want is to taste him. His eyes flick from mine to my lips and back again.

“I’m mad at you,” he repeats, his breath reeking of vodka, though I barely register it.

“I’m mad at you too.”

He frowns. “You said you weren’t.”

“I lied.” I lean in, placing a gentle kiss on his lip ring, And he shudders.

“You lie a lot.” He breathes. To silence him, I slam my lips onto his, my tongue invading his mouth as he moans into the kiss. Amid the taste of vodka, I still recognize Daxton—the flavor that has become maddeningly addictive. His hands slide around my back and into my hair, sending shivers down my spine—I love it when he grabs my hair. I pull back and meet his lust-filled, heavy gaze. “I want you.” He breathes out the words. “Mad—and all.”

“Not tonight.” I step back, and he watches me as if I’ve just dropped the worst news imaginable. “Not when you’re like this.”

He scoffs, stumbling toward the bed. “Oh, so you can blackmail me into sucking your dick, but you won’t fuck me just because I’ve had a few drinks? Aren’t you such a saint, Trayton.” He mocks me, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. “Your morals are flawless.”

“And you’re a fucking brat,” I growl, gritting my teeth. “Now get undressed and go to bed.”

“Suck my dick,” he snaps, flipping me off with a mocking eye roll.

Little does he know, I would swallow his dick whole if he wasn’t so fucking drunk. I need to get away before I end up dropping to my knees for him.

I head into the bathroom to wash my face, thankful for the disposable toothbrushes provided. After quickly brushing my teeth and washing my face, I strip down to my boxers and step back out, tossing my clothes onto the bed. Glancing sideways, I see Daxton lying on top of the covers, with four small empty whiskey bottles resting on his chest and the mini-bar door wide open.

“Fucking hell.” I exhale softly. His eyes are shut, and his chest rises and falls slowly with each breath. It’s hard to tell how much he’s had to drink. I lean over the bed, carefully removing the bottles from his chest and tossing them into the trash, trying to figure out how to proceed without waking him. I start with his shirt, lifting it up as his arms slump, and he groans, attempting to roll over as I free one arm. Gently, I roll him back onto his back, slip the other arm out, and slowly pull it over his head, tilting his head up gently. I take a moment to really look at him; despite the baggy tops and sweatshirts he usually wears, he’s more defined than he appears. I can’t stand the scars scattered across the lower part of his abdomen and along the sides of his ribs. Just seeing them fills me with anger as I trace one of the four-inch scars up his ribs with my finger. I sigh, sitting back on the bed, unfastening his belt, and carefully sliding off his jeans, leaving his boxers on. I step back to take in the sight of him. Even in sleep, he looks sad, with his brows furrowed and his lips slightly downturned. My chest aches as I watch him. He groans, turning onto his side, and I approach to pull the blanket from underneath him to cover him. His eyes flutter open slightly as he buries his face deeper into the pillow.

“Tray,” he whispers softly, glancing at me.

“Go to sleep, Dax,” I reply, meeting his gaze. His arm reaches out, lightly brushing over the small tattoo on my chest.

“What’s this?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No tattoo is meaningless; they always have meaning,” he whispers again, tracing the star map inked on my skin with his fingers.

“It’s just a star map,” I say, letting my eyes wander over his face, as his flutter open briefly before fatigue and drunkenness pull them closed again. “Did you love Bexley?” he asks between breaths. I frown at the unexpected question.

“What makes you ask that?”

He sighs into his pillow, still with his eyes shut. “Just answer it. Did you?” I know he’s drunk and likely won’t remember anything later, which is why I feel compelled to answer now.

“At the time, I believed he was everything,” I confess. “But I was young—everything feels amplified and dramatic in your teens.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No,” I immediately admit, convinced I owe him the truth. “I think it was lust, something I craved—an experiment. Bex was the one I always believed was out of reach, so I longed for him for years. But it was never love.” I look down at Dax, assuming he’s dozed off, and begin to stand.

“Have you ever been in love?” I pause and collapse back onto the bed.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “There was someone when I was young again, so I don’t really understand what it was. I don’t know if I can love, Dax.” Without knowing why, I reach out and push his hair away from his face. “Who gave you this scar?” I ask, my fingers tracing the marred skin from his eyebrow to his cheekbone.

“You,” he murmurs, the word escaping his lips like a soft sigh. My hand freezes, and I frown as I look at him. His eyes remain closed, his breaths measured and heavy, while my fingers explore the sorrow etched onto his face, lingering on his cheeks. His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with intense, unspoken emotion. Those deep-emerald eyes—once full of sparkle—now drown in sadness. I cradle his cheek in my palm, and he leans into the touch, closing his eyes again.

“Who hurt you, Dax?” I whisper. I feel a shift immediately; his body tenses, and the warmth drains from his face under my hand. His eyes snap open, pain flooding them as he says,

“You.” His voice is barely a whisper. “You hurt me the most, Tray.” I freeze, staring at him, my hand still resting on his cheek. The urge I once had to see Daxton suffer, to make him feel my own pain, now twists in my chest like a knife. His eyes close again, and my hand falls away as I stand, needing a moment alone. Everything aches—my heart, that relentless pain pounding in my chest.“Tray.” Daxton’s soft voice reaches me from across the room. “You mentioned not knowing if you’d ever been in love because you were young.” I remain silent, curious about what he’ll say next. His back remains turned to me. “When you think about that person, what do you feel?” I decide not to answer straightaway, but deep down, I already know. I often think about that person—the boy at the lighthouse, the one who hurt me the most.

“Pain,” I respond without hesitation because it’s the truth. It always aches to think of him, constantly wondering about the possibilities, what could have been if he hadn’t left like everyone else.

“Then you have been in love, Tray. Love always hurts. Believe me, I know.”