31. Bohdi

Chapter thirty-one

Bohdi

A s I finish grading the last of my papers, I begin tidying up my desk, preparing to leave. Suddenly, the room door slams open, and in strides Brayden, his face flushed with anger.

"What's happened?" I ask immediately, concern etching my features. Why does he look so upset?

"How dare you?" Brayden's anger catches me off guard, especially since it's directed at me. Frowning, I rise from my chair and step around the desk to face him.

"Excuse me?" I question, bewildered by the sudden confrontation.

"I just visited Bex," he seethes. "He's a mess, telling me all this nonsense about how he can't escape this life. According to him, he drags me into the darkness, taking away any good in me. He's convinced he holds me back." A sinking feeling settles in my gut. "Who put those thoughts in his head?" Brayden's fury burns in his eyes; he clenches his jaw.

"Listen," I begin, but he cuts me off.

"No." He points a finger at my face. "Bex is my brother. I can say whatever I damn well please to him. But you? You have no right. None." His voice echoes through the room, leaving me stunned.

The room feels charged, emotions sparking like live wires. Brayden's anger crackles in the air, and I tread carefully, my own pulse racing. "This was when I didn't know you or the situation," I reply, my voice steady, though my insides churn. His laughter is bitter, a slap against reality.

"That's even worse," he retorts. "You didn't know him—you didn't know us." His face scrunches up, a mix of frustration and hurt. "Stay away from him," he commands, vulnerability flickering in his eyes. I want to reach out, to bridge the gap, but he steps back, shaking his head.

"Bray," I murmur, my voice soft, pleading. But he's unwavering.

"No," he says, finality in his tone. "Stay away from me too."

He retreats, walking toward the door. And all I can do is watch him leave. As the door slams shut behind him, my heart sinks. Chaos swirls in my mind, and I'm left wondering how everything crumbled so quickly.

***

I've messaged Brayden repeatedly, but he remains silent. The texts show as read, yet no response. It's driving me to the brink. I've apologized countless times, pouring my regrets into those messages. Despite that, nothing.

I realize now that what I said to Bexley was impulsive, a momentary lapse fueled by thoughts of Jace. It wasn't about Brayden or Bexley; it was James and Jace haunting me. Bexley bore the brunt of my anger and was unfairly compared to James. Now, cradling this whiskey bottle, I find comfort in its bitter taste. Glancing down at my phone which shows Brayden's profile, my gaze drawn to it repeatedly tonight, hoping for a sign that he's posted something—anything, but he remains silent. But when I glance at the screen again, the colored circle surrounds his picture, and my heart races as I open it—it's him. He's standing waist deep in a pool, droplets of water cling to him, clutching a bottle of what appears to be tequila. His bold middle finger is aimed at the screen. No need for a scientist to determine who this picture was meant for. I decide to respond to his story.

@thestilestman: If you're going to drink, at least do it out of water.

My stress spikes as I notice the half-empty bottle in his hand and his bloodshot eyes. His immediate reply stings.

@ Quakeontheice Fukc you.

Frustration clenches my jaw, and I slam the whiskey bottle onto the table. He's drunk in that damn pool. What if he's all alone?

@thestilestman: Where are you?

@quakeontheice: Yr brothas huse.

My brother's place, huh? I switch back to Brayden's story and observe the background. This little shit is in the school's gym, clearly using the code I gave to him when he needed to go in at night and let off some steam. To make matters worse, he's now drinking on school property. My frustration boils over—I jump off the couch, open the Uber app, and order a ride to the school.

Within fifteen minutes, I arrive at the school and head toward the gym building. From the outside, it's pitch-black, and there's no sign of anyone inside. Perhaps he keeps them off, so people don't know he's in here. As I enter the code and step inside, darkness envelops me. I navigate the gym floor and pass through the locker rooms, following the faint scent of chlorine. Finally, I reach the swimming pool area. The only illumination comes from the pool lights. In one corner, Brayden floats with his arms draped over the ledge, head tilted back, and body suspended in the water. He still clutches the tequila bottle. As I stand over him, our eyes lock, his lips curve into a smirk, but it's a fragile facade. His bloodshot eyes reveal a storm raging within.

"Get out, Bray," I plead, my voice raw. I lean down, desperate to break through the haze that surrounds him. The tequila bottle slips from his fingers, but he clings to it as if it holds his fractured soul.

"Go away," he rasps, taking another swig. His eyes close, shutting out the world.

"I'll leave when you get out of the pool," I whisper, my breath catching. But he remains adrift, lost in the depth of his pain.

"Go home," he murmurs the words as a bitter plea. Another swig, and the tequila burns its way down his throat as he winces. "You reek of whiskey," he adds, his gaze piercing mine.

I swallow my own ache. "And you stink of tequila," I retort, my voice breaking.

"Go bother someone who actually wants saving, Mr. Stiles," he says, and the absence of Bohdi cuts deeper than any blade. In this deserted pool, we're both drowning, clinging to our weaknesses.

"I'm sorry, Bray," I murmur. He remains motionless, suspended in the water.

"I projected my own issues onto you and your brother," I continue, my gaze fixed on his face. "That wasn't fair, and I see that now. I'll personally apologize to Bexley." Still, Brayden doesn't react. "There are things I haven't shared with you," I confess, my voice faltering. "I'm not ready yet. It's not an excuse, but—"

"Can I ask you something?" Brayden's voice remains detached, as if my words barely registered.

"Yes," I reply, my heart racing.

His eyes open, locking onto mine. Coldness radiates from him, and I brace myself for what comes next.

"Tell me, Mr. Stiles, who do you think about when you wrap your hand around your dick at night?"

My jaw clenches, and I avert my gaze. I try to maintain composure, recognizing that he's drunk—this isn't the real Brayden.

"Because I think we both know it's not Ms. Banksy, is it?" he says, swimming toward the edge. He stops right in front of me.

"It's me." An icy smile stretches across his face. It's as if I'm staring at an entirely different person.

"Do you think about sinking your dick into my mouth?"

"Brayden," I stammer, my inner turmoil churning. Despite my hate at his words, my twisted mind has conjured these scenarios when I wrap my own hand around my dick in the darkness.

I despise my vulnerability, the way he sees right through me. And what I hate most? How I'm hardening for him right now, despite it all.

He chuckles, the tequila bottle forgotten, sinking to the pool's bottom without a care. His hands grip the ledge, pushing himself up. My eyes betray me, tracing the contours of his glistening body as water cascades down, leaving nothing to the imagination. He kneels before me, settling on the floor, his face inches from mine. The scent of tequila wafts from the puffs of air that leave his mouth. His lips brush my ear, sending an involuntary shiver through me—a connection he feels too, as his lips curve upward near my ear.

"Do you think about sinking yourself so far inside me until we both don't know what planet we're on?"

Yes, I've thought about it—more times than I care to admit. My body betrays me with a pathetic, guttural groan. His words hang in the air, a blade slicing through my defenses. It doesn't escape me that as he leans over me, his dick is hard against my leg, which causes me to gulp.

"I just want you to know that," he says, locking eyes with me. "Those moments will forever be illusions of your mind. I'd sooner fuck a pig than let you touch me again." The venom in his voice stings, and I struggle to hold on to the truth: this isn't Bray. Not my Bray. Anger simmers, threatening to erupt.

He stands in front of me, his hard dick bobbing in my face. "Maybe Lan will handle this for me," he adds, and my resolve shatters. I rise, closing the distance from his retreating form, my hand wrapping around his neck. His eyes dance with mischief, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I meant what I said," I hiss. "Touch an inch of skin on that kid and you'll fucking regret it, Bray." He frowns, confused.

"Who said I'll be doing the touching?" His wink is a taunt. I tighten my grip. Fire blazes in his eyes.

"Let go," he grits out, my fingers constricting his windpipe. I release instantly, regret biting at me. My resolve crumbles.

"Bray," I plead, but he steps back, hands raised.

"Stay away." As he walks away from me for the second time today, shards of glass pierce my heart.

This time, it feels like heartbreak.