15. Brayden

Chapter fifteen

Brayden

O nce more, I awaken to a pounding headache, but this time I recall everything. I remember the anger that still simmers in my veins, waiting all night for my brother to turn up. I can still remember the doors opening and closing, and each time I held onto a glimmer of hope, thinking he might appear.

One night that is all I asked of him. One fucking night.

I told Kal and Tray too; they knew how excited I was for him to come out with us. He made me look like a dickhead in front of my friends.

Then, the anger fades, and his images quickly come to mind.

Mr. Stiles.

What the hell was that last night? Was that all a figment of my imagination? The way he stared at me, the way he touched my arms and brushed his fingers along it. I hate the feeling it created in me. It was the drink it had to of been. When I see him later, it will feel as if nothing occurred, and the alcohol simply intensified the situation.

I think.

I grab my phone from my pants pocket and when it lights up; I see I have an unread message. It's from Bexley. I grip the phone tightly; the anger returning as I read the one simple sentence.

Bexley:

I'm sorry, bro.

That text was sent at 4 a.m. He was out all last night selling for that piece of shit instead of being at the bar with me. And not only my friends but people that want to be his friend as well. I know Tray would speak to him if he had only come.

Me:

Fuck you.

I'm not saying anything else. I'm too pissed right now. I know Bexley and he won't reply. He's a fucking coward sometimes.

I open up Instagram and then wonder if it was my story that prompted him to text me. I remember in my drunken sulking state putting up an indirect story clearly for him to see. I glance quickly to check who watched the video, but I don't spot Bexley's name. I have two hours until first class, so I scroll through out of curiosity.

Because my profile is public, I receive a lot of views on my stories from people who know me from hockey. I often get asked by puck bunnies if they can turn me bi for a night. My attention is drawn to a name, causing me to frown. Who the hell is @thestilestman? My mind is focused on ‘stiles,' which is why I noticed it. But I'm also intrigued by the use of ‘stilest.' Is it a different spelling for ‘stylist'? Intrigued, I click on it too, which causes me to gasp.

It's Mr. Stiles. Why was he looking at my stories? And how the hell did he come across my profile?

There isn't a lot on here, only four pictures. There are three men: one who resembles him, possibly a brother, and another younger-looking man. All three of them are good-looking, clearly showing their familial connection. I proceed to the next one and there he is, accompanied by a stunning girl. The camera captures their bright smiles. She appears slightly younger, but not by a significant amount. Maybe it's an old girlfriend. I notice a picture of him with a woman who appears to be roughly in her forties. I don't know why I'm so intrigued to find out who these people are. I notice a comment on one of them by an account called @RyStiles saying "two of my favorite people." I try to access her account, but it's private.

I return to Mr. Stiles' profile and check out his most recent photo. He captured a photo of the beach with an incoming storm indicated by the dark black clouds on the horizon. The caption of the picture reads, ‘We hate storms, don't we, Jace?'

Who's Jace?

When I examine Mr. Stiles' pictures, I can't help but notice his lack of happiness in real life compared to these photos. I understand pictures don't reveal everything about a person, but something feels off. As I lock eyes with Mr. Stiles and smile, I can't help but wonder what caused him to lose his shine.

I arrive early to class and wait in my usual seat, but it appears Mr. Stiles is running late or not coming at all. I become restless in my seat, questioning if he changed his mind about revealing everything to the dean regarding yesterday's shit show.

"What's up?" I glance up at Kal, who is seated beside me, his brows furrowed as he gazes at me. His eyes scanning my face, likely attempting to figure out what is wrong.

"You know what I told you last night about Mr. Stiles coming to mine and the thing with Karl." Kal nods.

"Well, last night—"

"Sorry I'm late all," Mr. Stiles strolls into the classroom, his hair disheveled as if he's run his fingers through it multiple times and his eyes bloodshot as he scans the room. He looks like he didn't sleep a wink. My mind tracks back to the picture on his Instagram and how put together he appeared. How alive and energetic he looked. No sign of tired eyes, no signs of dark shadows under his eyes. I glance at him and notice how utterly drained he appears. I give Kal a quick glance. "I'll tell you later."

"I may sound like any other nineteen-year-old student, but funny enough, my alarm didn't go off," Mr. Stiles says with a laugh, removing his blazer and hanging it on the chair. With a clap of his hands, he shifts his attention to the class. I fixate my focus on him the entire time, but he never once glances in my direction. I sneak a glance at Kal, who appears completely absorbed and oblivious. I don't know if it's only me, but it's becoming more and more obvious that he is avoiding me during class. I'm certain he hasn't glanced at this side of the classroom even once. He assigns us the task of researching our end-of-year presentation topic. Our task is to create a product and present it to the class. Additionally, he's developing an online poll that will be included in our college newsletter. This will allow everyone to view the presentations and vote for the best product.

I'm supposed to be researching, but my marketing teacher won't acknowledge me. I'm anxious that he might have informed the dean, or that I said something wrong while drunk last night. Is he angry because he caught me drinking?

Tray kicks my leg, "Stop bouncing your knee, it's annoying."

"Sorry," I mutter, nervously chewing on the skin around my nails as a distraction.

I continue to stare at Mr. Stiles, hoping for that quick glance, but he doesn't give it. All it takes is one look to assure me that everything is fine. The more I worry, the angrier I become. How dare he have me here feeling like this? He's supposed to be my teacher. Are teachers meant to make you feel this way? Should teachers be giving you inappropriate glances? Should teachers be watching your Instagram stories? My mind abruptly stops at the thought.

What was the reason for him watching my stories?

As soon as the bell rings, people grab their belongings.

"I'll meet you at practice," I say to Kal and Tray as they eye me skeptically. "I need to speak to Mr. Stiles." They both nod, walking past me as I pack away my stuff slowly. While making my way down the stairs, I catch sight of Daxton getting ready to leave. He pauses, peering up at me, and gives a nod. His left eye is marked by a dark black bruise, and a noticeable cut on his lip mirrors the injury. Even though I'm aware this is a consequence of yesterday, I can't muster up any concern. It may not be Daxton's fault directly, but it's his flesh and blood who is the reason Bexley is the way he is. His uncle and dad groomed Bexley. As I grew older, I began to realize that what they did was exactly like that. We needed money, we needed food. They were always at our trailer with my mom. They provided everything we needed all of a sudden. But it came with a price. My brother's fucking soul. I know Daxton deals, too. His dad isn't in charge, his uncle is. According to Bexley, that's how Daxton got into this school. He wanted an education, so he had to work for it. He may not take the shit they sell and may not be as weak as Bexley, but he's still one of their minions.

"Daxton, can you hold back a minute?" Mr. Stiles' voice causes me to snap out of my thoughts. I grit my teeth and focus on him. He still doesn't look at me. Taking a seat at the front, I slouch back and kick my leg out before dropping my bag on the floor.

I'm not going anywhere until he speaks to me.

"Brayden, you can leave." His voice, firm and commanding, ignites a violent desire in me to throw a desk against the wall. While saying it, he doesn't bother looking up at me and instead busies himself with papers on his desk.

"I'll wait," I grit out.

"The matter I need to discuss with Daxton is confidential. Please leave." His eyes finally meet mine and I hate that it hurts to see exhaustion there. But I'm still mad and confused as to why he's being the way he is toward me today.

"What I have to tell you is confidential," I say, grinning. "Daxton, you can come back, right?" I arch an eyebrow at him, observing his gaze shifting between me and Mr. Stiles. Mr. Stiles appears on the verge of scolding me, and Daxton mumbles a reluctant, "OK," before promptly disappearing.

"I don't appreciate you dictating to my students when they can and can't be here. Don't forget that I am the teacher here, OK?" With anger oozing from him, Mr. Stiles walks around his desk and fixates his eyes on me. Strangely enough, I find solace in the fact that he's paying attention to me, even if it's with contempt.

"Why did you avoid me all class?" For a moment, he stares at me in bewilderment, then chuckles and bursts into laughter, throwing his head back. "This isn't the Brayden Anders show. I have other students." He shakes his head, walking around the desk and sits down in the chair beside his desk again. He continues, without making eye contact, "Brayden, I'm too busy for this immature nonsense. My afternoon is packed. Please leave." My veins throb with anger as he casually picks up his pen and begins to write, disregarding me like an annoying little kid.

"I'm immature, huh? If I'm that immature and annoying to you. What made your eyes stay fixed on me at the bar? What made it impossible for them to stop staring at me when they shouldn't have? Could you please remind me, sir, how you found me last night? Oh yes, that's right"—I snap my fingers as If I remembered something—"Because you watched my Instagram stories like a fucking stalker." My voice oozes with sarcasm and disdain.

I lock eyes with him and only see pure fury.