Page 29 of Shattered Hate

“Take care of it,” Daxton says as he finishes wrapping my arm. “No soaking in water for the first couple of weeks. Use the aftercare lotion I’ll give you. And if you have any problems, call me.”

He hands me a business card with his number on it. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and I tense.

I really needed that fucking blowjob last night.

“Cool.” I sharply nod as I move around him and more or less run toward the door. My tattoo, the one I haven’t stopped going on about? Yeah, long forgotten.

All I know is I need to get out of here. I despise the way my body is acting right now. As soon as the door closes behind me, I suck in fresh air and roll my head back, looking up at the sky. I close my eyes and then take my phone out of my pocket, searching up one of my many hook-up's.

Me:

Get to my dorm ASAP. I got an emergency.

Chapter fifteen

Daxton

Ican’t stop the infectious grin that stretches across my face as I flick through the pictures on my phone for the tenth time since I’ve been back in my dorm room. After Trayton more or less bolted out of the shop after throwing some cash at me, I tidied up and headed out front where Max was chilling. Apparently, Trayton had exited so fast he didn’t even notice Max manning the counter. I had planned to suggest to Trayton that he show Max, but clearly, he had other plans. I ended up showing Max the photos, and even though it’s mainly just an outline at this stage, I couldn’t stop beaming with pride. Max even mentioned that he thinks it’s going to be one of the best sleeves ever done at the studio. Compliments are something I’ve rarely received in life, so I was mortified by the way my cheeks burned with embarrassment when he said that.

“I take it the tattoo went well,” Cope observes, walking out from the bathroom. He returned from the gym about half anhour ago and headed straight for a shower, so I haven’t had the opportunity to tell him about it yet.

“Really good,” I reply with a broad grin. I can feel Cope’s eyes fixed on me, and I glance up to meet his gaze as steam billows from the bathroom, swirling around him as he stands there with just a towel wrapped around his waist. “What?” I ask, my smile faltering slightly. His smirk is laden with an expression I can’t quite decipher.

“Nothing,” he says, biting his cheek as if trying to prevent the grin from spreading further. He then saunters over to his bed, leaving me confused. I narrow my eyes at him, suspicion creeping in. “Seriously, what’s that look for?”

Cope shrugs, but the smirk doesn’t leave his face. “It’s just nice seeing you… smile, I guess.”

I feel my cheeks heat up again, and I turn my attention back to my phone, scrolling through the pictures once more. “It’s a big deal, okay? This tattoo means a lot to me. I mean… designing the tattoo means a lot,” I correct.

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Cope says, his voice filled with something that sounds dangerously close to knowing. “And I’m sure the person receiving it had nothing to do with that grin, right?”

My head snaps up, and I meet Cope’s gaze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, the towel slipping slightly. “Nothing, nothing at all. Just an”—he waves his hand in the air like he’s trying to find the right words—“observation.”

I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re reading way too much into this, Cope. It’s just a tattoo design.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies, clearly unconvinced. He flops onto his bed, arms behind his head, still wearing that infuriating smirk.“And I’m sure you put this much effort into all your drawings and designs, right?”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. He’s not entirely wrong. I’ve been obsessing over this particular design for weeks, tweaking every little detail until it was perfect. But it’s not because of who it’s for. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Look,” I say, attempting to regain some composure. “It’s my first tattoo. It’s a big deal for me. That’s all.”

Cope seems to let it go, but I still catch that smug grin lingering on his lips. “How was your archenemy today, then? Do I need to have words?”

“Words?” I question.

“Yeah, was he rude to you?” he asks, speaking so nonchalantly it almost sounds like he would truly march up to Trayton and confront him if he caused me any trouble. Cope has been friends with Trayton for years; why would he prioritize me over Trayton?

“And what if he was?” I probe, curious to see his reaction.

“Then I’ll beat his ass on and off the ice,” he declares.

I tilt my head, scrutinizing Cope’s expression to detect any hint of sarcasm. But he simply furrows his brows and mirrors my gesture, tilting his head back at me. It’s as if he can sense the turmoil his words have stirred within me. His eyes soften, and he shifts his position, sitting up straighter as his towel slips dangerously low, prompting me to avert my gaze rapidly.

“I know it’s hard for you to believe, but people really don’t hate you, Dax,” he says, his voice gentle. I fixate on my fingers, tugging at the loose skin around my nails, a nervous habit I can’t shake, one that had me nibbling all morning.

“I know not everyone does,” I acknowledge quietly. “Just a few,” I finish, my voice barely above a whisper.

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