32. Brayden

Chapter thirty-two

Brayden

T oday's classes have been a slow, relentless grind. Last night's straight tequila was a desperate escape, a wasted attempt to drown my inner havoc. If it weren't for my slipping grades, I'd have skipped today altogether. But here I am, trudging through every class, including the extra one Mr. Stiles begrudgingly arranged for me. The timing couldn't be worse. This morning, regret weighed heavy and still does hours later.

I can't believe the venom I spewed last night, fueled by alcohol and my own sharp tongue. It's why I shouldn't drink when I'm angry. Nothing good ever comes out. Bohdi shouldn't have shown up at the pool, but that's him—caring and concerned. And I repaid him with cruelty.

Anger still rumbles within me, yet, deep down, I know Bex's relapse isn't Bohdi's fault. An addict will always twist any excuse to justify his actions. I grasp this truth, yet it doesn't excuse what Bohdi said to Bex. I know Bex and that would have played in his head over and over. If Kal or Tray had uttered those same things, I'd react just as angrily. Perhaps I overreacted, but anger blurs the reason, But I hate how much my heart ached remembering what I had said to him last night. I wish I could walk into the next class and tell him how sorry I am for what I said last night, but my stubbornness won't allow it. Maybe heartbreak is the price of pride.

As I step into Bohdi's class, I keep my head down, avoiding his gaze. Will he be hurt? Angry? The weight of last night presses on me. I climb the steps to my usual seat, eyes fixed on the desk. Kal and Tray follow, flanking me on either side.

"You good?" Kal nudges me, concern etching his features.

"Just hanging," I reply, forcing a chuckle.

"Who were you with last night?" Kal glances at his laptop. "I saw your Instagram story. Who were you in the school pool with?"

"I bet it was ‘Sir.'" Tray nudges me, and my eyes involuntarily dart to Bohdi. He sits there, eyes cast downward, the pain clear as day to me, but to everyone else he appears as his usual Mr. Stiles.

"Quake." Kal nudges me again, his focus shifting between Bohdi and me. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" I fake innocence.

"You were staring at him weirdly," Kal observes, his eyes moving over my face as if he's trying to read every emotion.

"I was just . . . being myself," I retort, my frustration bubbling.

"Well, I'd stare too," Tray whispers. "Did you see those muscles, the tattoos? And the way he swings that bag in the gym? Damn." His words hang in the air. "He's hot as fuck."

"Enough," I snap, my anger catching Kal and Tray off guard. Jealousy rears its ugly head before I can even think about it. Both Kal and Tray stare at me wide-eyed.

My gaze remains fixed on him, the way he moves, commands attention. Not just from guys, but girls too, their eyes starry. Rage simmer within me; I clench my teeth, jaw ticking as I survey the room. All eyes are on Bohdi, and I despise it.

I really fucking hate it.

The class drags on, and he doesn't glance my way even once. Why do I feel so desperate, craving his attention like a needy fool? I'm supposed to hate him, right? I wanted him to stay far away from me. So why does the idea of our extra session, just the two of us, ignite a flutter in my chest? I leave my laptop untouched, Tray and Kal rising from their seats, their eyes fixed on me. Damn, I never told them about the extra classes.

"Uh, those extra classes? They're with Bo—Mr. Stiles," I stammer, scratching my neck under their scrutiny.

"How long have the classes been going on?" Kal's eyes bore into mine.

"Not long." I shrug, guardedly.

Kal eyes me a little longer than I'd like, then nods slowly. "Ok. Cool. Call me later," he says, slapping my shoulder.

Kal's my confidant, my personal diary. But right now, there are some things I can't share.

"Yo, who's going to Thompson's Thanksgiving party tomorrow night?" Tray's voice echoes through the classroom, drawing cheers from everyone as they pack up their laptops. "Remember, we're celebrating Halloween for Thanksgiving. No shit outfits."

Bohdi scans the room as students filter out. "Remember to stay safe this weekend. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He smirks. His happiness grates on my nerves. Why isn't he as miserable as I am? Doesn't he realize how furious I am with him? Clenching my teeth, I leave my desk and stride to the front, chin held high.

"Daxton, can you wait behind, please?" Daxton visibly sighs and stands by his desk, looking awkward as hell.

"I take it if I ask you to leave, you won't?" Bohdi raises an eyebrow at me.

"Nope." I smile, settling down at the desk.

"I can't keep seeing you with your face like that. It's getting worse, Daxton. I'm going to need to tell the dean." Bohdi scrutinizes Daxton's battered face, and even I have to admit, this is the worst I've seen him. He can barely see out of one eye.

He exhales, fingertips grazing the raw edges of his face, wincing as they brush over the cuts and bruises. "Not my father," he mutters.

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "Mr. Stiles hasn't met Marley yet," I interject, rolling my eyes, waiting for Daxton to reveal who Marley is. Bohdi's unwavering gaze remains fixed on Daxton.

"It wasn't Marley," he confesses, head bowed, avoiding eye contact.

"If not your uncle or father, then who?" I scoff, knowing he's evading the truth. "I tried, Bray," Daxton's eyes lock with mine, sorrow and guilt etched in their depths. I furrow my brow, clueless about his hidden words.

"What do you mean, you tried?" I demand, the pieces finally clicking into place.

"Bex. I tried to keep him away from them," he admits, and realization dawns.

"No. Impossible. I won't believe it," I seethe. "My brother wouldn't do that." I rise, and Daxton winces as I confront him.

"Hey, calm down. Bray. Daxton, take care of those bruises," Bohdi intervenes, tugging at my arm.

"I'm sorry, Bray," Daxton murmurs, head bowed, retreating from the room.

I spin on my heels to confront Bohdi.

"He's blatantly lying," I seethe. The little shit won't take responsibility for his deadbeat family and instead pins it on my brother. Bohdi's eyes soften, their depths revealing a storm of emotions. He nods, as his gaze drops to his laptop, the silence between us heavy.

"Let me gather some notes I've taken," he finally murmurs, and my mind races.

Daxton's revelation is soon forgotten about because I can't stop wondering about why Bohdi isn't addressing last night. I feel the weight of my own words, the shame of my drunken outburst. Last night, I couldn't even call him Bohdi; his name on my tongue when I spit venom doesn't feel right. As if reading my inner thoughts, his eyes flicker to my neck, and he gestures to his own.

"I apologize for grabbing you," he says, his voice soft and weighed down with regret. "That wasn't me." His gaze meets mine, sadness etched into every line of his face. The memory of my hurtful words echoes, I can't leave it like this. It's eating away at me.

"Look," I begin.

"Mr. Stiles, sorry to interrupt." The feminine voice slices through the classroom, chilling my blood. My attention snaps to the door. I recognize that annoying voice. Ms. Banksy strides toward Bohdi's desk, her eyes bypassing me entirely. She doesn't care about me, her focus is fixed on the man before her.

"Sir," she purrs. The word grates against my clenched teeth, dripping with a provocative tone that sets my gears grinding.

"Ms. Banksy, how can I assist you today?" Bohdi's smile radiates, teeth on full display. Her cheeks flush as she hovers near his desk.

Yes, bitch, his smile has that effect on me— not you!

"Did you see my message last night? I need to discuss something." Her widened eyes communicate an unspoken message, one inappropriate for a student's ears. The previous night, she'd been texting him. Was it before he got hard for me at the pool, or after? Did my words truly drive him to Ms. Banksy?

"Ahh, yes." He smirks at her, as if they share some secret joke. "I have a lesson, and then I'll come find you?" His wink adds to the tension.

He fucking winks. She places her hand on his arm—his biceps, I might add—and squeezes. That's when I spot his phone sitting on his desk directly in front of Ms. Banksy. Screw this. In a hastily pissed off decision, I pull my phone out, quickly bringing up mine and Bohdi's text and type out:

Me: Hey, baby, thanks for last night. I can't wait to see you again tonight.

I click send and watch as the phone pings and the screen lights up. Of course, Ms. Banksy gets a front row seat to the text message.

"Oh," she giggles trying to mask her utter disappointment. Evidenced by her pinched eyebrows and the fact she can't take her eyes off the screen like she's reading it over and over willing the words to disappear, she fails. Bohdi snaps the phone up, reading the message, his eyes snapping to me.

"Actually, I forgot I have training. Rain check?" I don't wait for Bohdi's protest; I grab my bag and bolt. The gym is my first stop, a place to eliminate this shitty feeling from my system. Although that right there may have helped a bit. I bite my lip, trying to hold back my smile that is dying to break free.

Suck on that, Ms. Banksy.