Page 35 of Shattered Hate

Last week, I cornered Daxton in the restroom, expecting a confrontation. I thought he’d retaliate, maybe throw a punch at me. Part of me wanted that to happen, just so I could have a reason to retaliate and explain to the coach later why Daxton and I had come to blows. Self-defense would have been a pretty convenient excuse.

But he didn’t react the way I expected. Instead, Daxton just stared at me with wide eyes, his expression frozen in surprise. It was as if the Daxton from last year had returned, and at that moment, I realized something unexpected—I didn’t want the old Daxton back. I craved the new, fiery version of him, the one who could ignite something within me.

He didn’t look scared though. His expression was hard to read, like a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite identify. Maybe it was just pure shock. After the bar and the whole tequila shot, I didn’t expect to go back to my dorm that night, obsessing over the shape of his lips, then falling asleep and dreaming of them in places they absolutely shouldn’t have been. It’s been years since I’ve had a vivid dream like that, and yet Daxton’s lips were enough to leave me waking up to an embarrassing mess.

Sometimes, I really worry about my brain. It works in mysterious ways; I tell you that.

As I walk in, I notice Max behind the counter. He wasn’t there when I was last here—I think. I nod to him, determined this time not to glance at that damn piece of art on the wall. There’s something about it that seems to mess with my head, softening my disdain for Daxton, and I can’t afford for that to happen.

Daxton’s sitting sideways when I enter, slouched in the chair next to mine, completely absorbed in whatever is on his phone. His hair is slicked back, but a few rebellious strands hang down, casting shadows over his forehead. His long, dark eyelashes flutter against the bright screen, drawing my attention. I let my gaze drift to his tight black tank top that clings to his torso, accentuating muscles I hadn’t noticed before.

Has he been banging it out at the gym?

He wears baggy jeans with a few chains clinking and dangling from the side, and his outfit is completed with a pair of worn Vans. He doesn’t dress like most guys our age, but he pulls off this style effortlessly. It’s his unique look, a blend of rebellion and individuality. I can’t stand it.

My eyes travel up his body, tracing the intricate black tattoo that starts at his fingers, swirling and curling as if smoke is rising from his skin itself. It winds its way up his arm, wrapping around muscles and veins, and continues its ascent all the wayto his neck. It’s an impressive tattoo, a work of art really, but I’d never admit that to him.

My gaze shifts to his face, the face that invaded my nightmares the other night, turning them into something more than just dreams—into haunting memories. No matter how incredible his lips felt around me, it was still a nightmare. Anyone would react if they had lips on them like that, but it doesn’t mean I have to like him. It was just lips; they could have belonged to anyone.

But those green eyes, the ones that locked onto mine while he took me in as if it was his sole purpose in life, they weren’t just anyone’s eyes, were they?

And here we go again. My body betrays me, remembering vividly, as heat courses southward while I watch his tongue dart out, tracing his bottom lip and gliding over that silver hoop piercing. My mind rebels against me, and a groan slips from my mouth. Daxton’s eyes snap up, meeting mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

Those damn green eyes.

For the love of all things, I grab the back of my neck, twisting it side to side, hoping the sound of cracking joints will mask the involuntary moan that escaped me.

Daxton lets out a dramatic huff as if the sight of my face is the worst catastrophe he could face this week.

Maybe it is.

After all, he’s tangled in the mess of my nightmares too.

“Scum,” I say on an exhale, weaving around the oversize leather chair with its worn armrests.

“Sewer,” he mutters under his breath, a hint of defiance in his voice. A smile starts to form on my face. This is exactly what I want. Watching someone who thinks they’re invincible slowly unravel is far more entertaining than having them submit too easily.

After Daxton gets started, a sharp ping cuts through the hum, coming from the smartphone resting beside him on a cluttered table. My curiosity piques. I’m nosy by nature, always craving to know more, plagued by FOMO—a fear of missing out on anything, no matter how small.

Daxton halts the tattoo gun, hovering above the delicate pattern he’s working on, and checks his phone. It’s too far for me to see what it is, but squinting, I recognize a familiar dating app icon. I feel his gaze sear into my face, and I meet his eyes with a raised eyebrow, silently communicating my indifference to being caught snooping. Honestly, I couldn’t care less.

The tattooing resumes, though Daxton’s phone continues to chime incessantly, the same symbol flashing repeatedly. It looks like a hook-up app. I tried it once, but I’ve since abandoned dating apps. My social life thrives in the bars.

There are plenty of dick-sucking lips and asses begging to be filled there.

Daxton pauses and picks up his phone, typing at an astonishing speed. I watch him, noticing how his lips twitch before he bites his cheeks, clearly trying not to smile.

“I’m paying you to do this tattoo, not to slut around.” His lips stop twitching, and he glares at me with disgust. Perfect. I grin broadly, nodding at my arm. “Get on with it.” Daxton exhales loudly as if holding back, and I grin again, daring him silently to lose his cool in front of his coworkers, but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and returns to my tattoo.

As expected, the sharp sting of the needle follows shortly. This time, I don’t flinch. Instead, I lean back in the chair and laugh out loud. I catch his colleague glaring at me with pure hatred—she seems more inclined to confront me than Daxton is.

Oddly, I start feeling sleepy, maybe because of the machine’s buzz. “I’m taking a five-minute break,” Daxton mumbles,rousing me. Before I can protest, he abruptly stands and storms off.

What a sucker.

I hear the pinging of his phone. He left it behind. I glance over to where the girl was sitting—she’s gone too—and then at the door that Daxton exited through. After a moment, I lean over and grab his phone. The screen lights up, revealing notifications from the hook-up app with message previews. I chuckle to myself, quickly checking the door again to ensure he’s not returning yet.

I look back at the lock screen, skimming through the first few messages. Rolling my eyes, I move on to the next one. People on dating apps are just the worst.

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