Page 38 of Shattered Hate

After we finish wrapping our hands and spend thirty minutes relentlessly pounding the punching bags, Cope finally joins us. Sweat drips from my brow as I lean against the wall, grabbing a quick gulp of water from the fountain before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“You don’t usually come to hit the bags this late, do you?” I ask Cope.

He gives a nonchalant shrug, eyes fixed on the floor. “I was bored,” he replies.

I smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “Your roommate not providing any decent entertainment, huh?” I joke, but Cope’s expression hardens, his frown deepening as he looks away.

“Geez, relax, man,” I say, raising my hands defensively. “It’s just a joke. I’m not taking a dig at your bestie.” I roll my eyes and start to turn away, but something makes me stop and face him again.

“Actually, no.” I step back toward Cope, who’s now bent over, cupping his hands for a drink from the fountain. “I was your friend first,” I declare, jabbing a finger at my chest. “Why am I being painted as the villain here?” I furrow my brows, trying to convey my frustration.

Cope straightens up and meets my gaze. “Well, because you are,” he states bluntly. “If Daxton had done something truly awful to you, I’d understand and keep my distance from him. But he hasn’t. If he had, you would have told me.” He holds my gaze for a moment as if waiting for me to reveal some hidden truth about Daxton.

But how can I explain about Bex? How do I tell him that Daxton took him from me and relished every single moment of it? How do I reveal that Daxton isn’t the person everyone believes him to be? I can’t find the words, so I just shrug.

“He’s scum,” I declare, frustrated.

Cope leans against the wall, arms crossed, his expression calm but firm. “He’s my boy. And you won’t be going around making his life hard just because you’ve got a bee in your bonnet over him handling drugs now and then. Remember, the guy you call your brother over there,” he says, nodding at Brayden. “He was brought up around all that stuff too. You’d do anything to protect him, so what’s the difference?”

“Brayden wasn’t a drug dealer,” I shoot back, my voice sharp. “Don’t even try to put them in the same picture.”

Cope leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, making sure Brayden can’t hear. “His twin was,” he reminds me. “Is that why you hated Bexley so much? Because of the drugs?”

I glare at Cope, feeling the heat rise in my chest. “I hated Bex for the pain he put my best friend through.” It was only half the truth though. The sight of Brayden wrestling with stress and heartache had fueled my resentment of Bex, but there was more I wasn’t saying.

Cope shakes his head slightly, a hint of irritation in his eyes. “Well, you need to take your head out of your ass, Tray. Dax is cool, he’s a good person, and I’m happy he’s moving on with his life.”

“You sound like a proud mother,” I scoff, rolling my eyes at his seriousness.

“Hopefully, the guy he’s on a date with right now sees his worth,” Cope adds with a touch of sarcasm, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. I turn to him, squinting in suspicion, but he just winks, sauntering past me toward where Kal and Bray are standing at the bags. “And no, he doesn’t play hockey. He’s into investment banking,” he shouts over his shoulder.

“What’s the wink for?” I call after him, but he only laughs, flipping me off with a playful smirk.

I pull out my phone, my fingers moving almost instinctively to tap on the tracker app icon. The screen flickers as it beginsto load, but there’s a nagging hunch in my gut that he’s already discovered I’m tracking him. Finally, the app opens, and a small, blinking dot appears on the digital map, pinpointing his location. He’s at some semi-upscale restaurant downtown, a place with white tablecloths and dim lighting that tries a little too hard to impress.

I lift my gaze from the screen to the guys nearby, deep in conversation. They are oblivious to my plans. My eyes drop back to my phone, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.

Time to shake things up a bit.

“Guys, I’ll catch you later. Just going to meet someone real quick,” I call out over their chatter. Without waiting for their response, I turn on my heel and head to the exit.

I rushed back to the dorm and threw on a pair of faded jeans and a snug-fitting T-shirt. I knew this semi-upscale restaurant wouldn’t let me in wearing my ratty sweatpants and a tank top. As I approach the restaurant, I fish my phone out of my pocket to confirm that he’s still inside. The screen glows with a notification from the app. He’s definitely here.

Trying to be as discreet as possible, I linger near the restaurant window, peering inside at the dimly lit tables. My eyes roam the room, initially not spotting him, but then I catch sight of his unmistakable black hair, and there is Ashton808.

He is undeniably attractive, his features sharp and eyes intense. My mind betrays me with an intrusive thought: he’d look incredible on his knees. But then I noticed the personsitting across from him—a green-eyed man who is even more captivating.

I curse my brain for these intrusive thoughts that seem to uncontrollably bubble up. I can’t see Daxton’s face clearly, but the way Ashton is looking at him is unmistakable, like Daxton is the most delectable thing on the menu. It’s written plainly in Ashton’s gaze how and where he wants Daxton.

On all fours, with Ashton’s dick deep inside him.

I am certain Daxton is a bottom; I can read men like an open book when it comes to being gay. It’s my special talent detecting their preferences: top, bottom, or switch. Daxton shows bottom vibes, while Ashton seems versatile but probably leans toward topping. Just like me.

I stride confidently to the restaurant’s entrance, where a man with a crisp white shirt and a bow tie stands behind a cocktail table, a large black reservation book open before him.

Damn. It’s reservation only.

“Good evening, sir. Do you have—” he begins, but I cut him off, slipping a couple of hundred-dollar bills from my wallet into his hand with practiced ease.

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