Page 23 of Shattered Hate

Today felt like torture, watching every emotion flicker across his face as he looked at that damn iPad screen. The warmth that spread through me at the sight of him pleased with my work was both exhilarating and infuriating. I despise how my heart jumped at the sight of those piercing green, blue, and a tiny bit of yellow eyes of his as they met mine.

And when he said he wanted me to tattoo him, my entire body erupted in goose bumps.

It’s been too long since I’ve been with anyone, and Trayton is far from unattractive. Maybe it’s just my primal instincts kicking in after being surrounded by alpha males all week. That has to be it. That has to be why I can’t get his goddamn face out of my head since he walked out of the shop.

I’m not going back down this road again.

I can’t.

I reach for my sketch pad, desperately trying to distract myself from thoughts of him. My fingers wrap tightly around the worn fabric of my backpack as I lift it off the floor and retrieve my pad, laying it down roughly on my bed.

With fierce determination, I begin to sketch, letting my pencil move smoothly over the paper, creating lines and shapes that take on a life of their own. I pour all my emotions into the drawing, using every color in my stash to bring it to life.

Suddenly, Cope’s voice breaks through my concentration, and I jump, startled out of my thoughts. He raises an eyebrow at me, with a sly smirk playing on his lips.

“Earth to Daxton,” he says, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry,” I mumble, dropping the green pencil in my hand. “I was just lost in thought.”

Cope’s gaze shifts to my sketch pad, and I quickly close it, not wanting anyone to see my work before it’s finished. Showing unfinished pieces always leaves room for criticism and nitpicking.

“What were you working on?” Cope juts his chin at the pad.

“Nothing, just keeping my hands busy,” I reply.

“That’s how you keep your hands busy?” Cope raises his eyebrows at me.

I frown at him in confusion. “How else would I?”

Cope’s instant teasing smirk makes me feel like I’m finding my own dick for the first time again. I can feel heat rising in my cheeks instantly, and I hate how easily I blush.

“Oh, Daxton.” Cope laughs and then proceeds to throw his head back, laughing more. I sit there feeling like the absolute dick I am. Punnotintended. “I’m joking, Dax,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “But seriously, I’ve heard how talented those hands of yours are.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, trying to decipher if there’s a hidden meaning behind his words. Judging by his smirk, there probably is.

“Just came from seeing Tray,” he confirms.

Ah, now it makes sense.

“Yeah,” I reply with a grimace, waiting for Cope to call me out for not telling him about my work with Tray’s tattoo.

“You did good.” He laughs. “Man, he was raging.” Cope shakes his head, still chuckling. “He’s been going on and on about this tattoo for months, and then it turns out the guy he hates mostis the one who designed it.” Cope’s laughter grows louder, and I can’t help but join in. “It’s pure brilliance.”

“I don’t think he agrees with that,” I mumble.

Cope’s eyes widen, adding to the anxious butterflies in my stomach. “Oh, he definitely doesn’t,” he says with a slight softening of his expression. “But he can’t wait for you to get started on it.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I shuffle on my bed, avoiding eye contact with Cope. His words make me feel self-conscious, and I wish he’d stop talking so I can regain control over my blushing. Suddenly, a thought that has been nagging at the back of my mind pops up, and I tip my chin up to Cope.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I blurt out as I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, feeling flustered and awkward.

Cope tilts his head to the side, raising one eyebrow in curiosity. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he responds, genuinely confused.

“Because of Trayton,” I clarify.

Cope shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m not Trayton, am I?”

“No,” I confirm.

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