Page 26 of Shattered Hate

I trace the ripples of the waves with my finger and then move up to the lifelike trees. I stare straight at the glow peeking through the branches.

Why have I seen this?

I tear the page out of the sketchbook and place the book back down beside my bed. I lay my head down, keeping my back to Kal, and continue to stare at the picture. It feels so real that I swear when I close my eyes, I can hear the waves crashing together.

I keep my eyes closed and allow sleep to take me.

That night, I dream of the waves, the trees, and that glow.

Chapter thirteen

Daxton

This week has felt like a journey through hell. All I wanted was to hide away in my room for the weekend and ignore the world, but of course, that wasn’t an option. The chaos and drama of the past week have consumed me, causing me to forget that today is the start of Trayton’s tattoo. It may seem insignificant to some, but for me, it’s a big deal. It’s my first time tattooing someone, and wouldn’t you know it, it has to be my archenemy.

It’s funny how life works sometimes.

It’s really not that funny, actually.

As I sit in the shop, checking over my preparations for what feels like the hundredth time, I can’t help but feel anxious. I have all the necessary supplies laid out in front of me—ink, wipes, and the tattoo machine—yet I can’t shake this feeling of doubt and unease. One more check won’t hurt though.

Just as I finish going over everything once again, the bell rings from the front of the shop. Max already texted me, saying he’d be running late, so I opened up on my own this morning. Walkingthrough to the front of the shop, I see Trayton standing there, his gaze fixed upon one of my art pieces hanging on the wall. I remember when Max first saw that piece and how impressed he was with it. It was at that moment that he agreed to let me work here and later asked if we could display it in the shop. I don’t think I’ve ever said yes so quickly before. Every time I come into this shop and see that painting hanging on the wall, it brings a smile to my face despite myself. And hearing Max tell me what Trayton said when he first saw it… well, that just made it even better.

He’s it.

When Max gave me Trayton’s name as my first client, my stomach dropped. I was excited to finally have someone to tattoo, but deep down, I knew Trayton wouldn’t agree to it. However, when I read through the notes he provided for his tattoo design, I knew I could do it. I was determined to create something that would make him struggle to say no. Even though I had expected him to reject me, there was a part of me that wanted to impress him. To make him feel something other than hate toward me, even if it was just for a moment.

Let’s not get it twisted though—I hate Trayton. I hate the things he’s said and done to me, both physically and verbally. But there’s something satisfying about proving people wrong, especially those who see you as nothing more than scum. They think you’re worthless, that you’ll never amount to anything. So when given the chance, I take great pleasure in proving them all wrong. Even if it means impressing someone I despise.

Trayton clears his throat, and his piercing gaze meets mine. Our hatred for each other is palpable in the air, but at this point, what else is new?

Each time I see him, Trayton’s presence fills me with fear and anger. He still thinks he can intimidate me like he did last year, but I won’t let him. As he approaches, I resist the urge to scowlor make a snide comment. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he gets to me. But despite hating his actions, I can’t deny that Trayton is ridiculously good-looking.

His basketball shorts hang low on his hips, showing off his toned muscles and rippled eight-pack in a tight white tank top. The backward cap, with tufts of brown hair sticking out at the sides, tops off his effortlessly cool and sexy look. Meanwhile, I feel like an outcast sitting here looking at him, trying not to show how much he affects me. It’s frustrating and infuriating all at once. As he gruffly asks where I want him, I try to fight the urge to roll my eyes. I lose that battle. But when he hovers over me, it’s like a weight pressing down on my shoulders. Trying to maintain some semblance of control, I point to the chair next to me without looking up at him.

I focus on my work, trying not to let Trayton’s presence distract me. But his piercing gaze follows my every move as I carefully trace the design onto paper. “Don’t screw this up, Rivers,” he warns in a tense voice.

I bite back a retort and continue working, trying to ignore the tension between us. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but somehow also exhilarating. This is my chance to prove myself and show that I’m not just some Quiet Boy who’ll back down from bullies.

“No pressure,” I mutter under my breath, mentally kicking myself for even engaging in conversation with him. He’s made it perfectly clear that he wants nothing to do with me. “Before we start, were you happy with all the placements?” I ask, trying to remain professional.

“If I wasn’t, I would have said something,” he fires back.

God, this guy is unbearable.

Without another word, I carefully place the tracing paper on the front of his arm and smooth it down so it sticks fully. I feel his eyes boring into me as he watches my every move. “Gettingyour first tattoo is always exciting,” I grumble, then inwardly cringe at my own words. Stop making fucking small talk with him.

“Who said anything about this being my first tattoo?” Trayton snaps, breaking my train of thought. “You don’t know me, Quiet Boy. You don’t know what I have or haven’t done.” His biting words anger and frustrate me, but I take a deep breath and clench my jaw. His words continue to linger in my mind, reminding me that I don’t really know this arrogant guy who has caused me so much pain. I knew the boy he once was. Not this version. Yet, here I am, helping him achieve something that will stay with him forever. It’s a strange and conflicting feeling, but for now, I push it aside and focus on getting the job done.

When I was at the game last week, I watched Trayton, Kal, and Brayden bantering back and forth after a grueling training session where Trayton played fucking amazingly, as much as I hate to even think it. He was basking in the glory, and I just had to smile. Memories of me and Bex flooded my mind while I watched them. When the days were bad, they were horrendous for us, but when they were good, they were fucking incredible. It was rare for me and Bex not to have constant chaos, whether it was someone not paying us after ticking from us the night before or my dad starting some shit with someone who me and Bex then had to go and deal with. At other times, my dad would have one of his turns and use me as a punching bag, and Bex would automatically jump in and also become a target. Then there were the days when Bex would get so high that he couldn’t even lift his head, let alone talk to me. Those moments were a stark contrast to the times when we felt invincible, like nothing could touch us. The highs were euphoric, but the lows were a brutal reminder of the reality we lived in.

On the good days, we lived like there was no tomorrow. Even if it was just chilling in my room, playing video games, or Bex watching me as I sketched. Those were our golden moments, our sanctuaries from the chaos that was always just a breath away. I miss those days. I miss him so much.

Of course, in that fleeting second when I was lost in the memory and actually smiling, Trayton’s eyes just had to find mine across the ice. My face fell instantly, and I quickly looked away, but not fast enough to miss the flicker of anger in his gaze.

As if on cue, my phone started ringing. First, it was my dad, and then Marley called moments later. The odd text and voicemail hadn’t prepared me for this onslaught, making me feel more uneasy. I haven’t been back to the trailer since moving into my dorm, and I hate to admit it, but the thought of facing him or Marley terrifies me. The memories of the turmoil, the constant tension, and the fear—it’s all too overwhelming. My phone kept ringing relentlessly. Each shrill tone sent a jolt of dread through my body, gnawing at my insides. I couldn’t bring myself to answer it. I just stared at the screen, my eyes fixated on the growing list of missed calls, each one a silent scream for attention. The anxiety clawed at my belly, a hot flush washing over me repeatedly, like waves of panic crashing against a fragile shore.

My hands turned clammy; my breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. The familiar grip of a panic attack tightened around my chest. Desperation seized me, and I bolted. I ran, I fucking ran to the gym, seeking refuge in the locker room toilets. I locked myself in and crumpled to the floor, the cold, dirty tiles pressing against my skin. I laid there, wishing that it was a heart attack and not just another panic attack.

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