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“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 ofemotions. 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.
Chapter thirty-three
Bohdi
The music blares as I step into the house, surrounded by bodies swaying, drinks in hand, and who knows what else. But I’m not interested in the crowd. My focus is solely on one person: Brayden. The stifling heat inside my Halloween costume threatens to overwhelm me, but I had to choose something that would completely conceal my identity. Ghostface was my last-minute choice—a mask that clings tightly to my head, its black cape and gloves hiding my arms and tattoos.
Navigating through the crowd of people, I cringe internally as some of my female students fawn over Ghostface, their hands grazing my chest and shoulders. I tune out the inappropriate questions thrown my way as I continue pushing my way through the party.
When did Ghostface become a character for both girls and boys to romanticize?What’s wrong with these people?
Ah, my age is definitely showing. I scan the sea of faces in the crowded mansion. The sheer number of people here isstaggering, finding Brayden will be a marathon. I weave through the crowd; the heat intensifying with each passing minute. Thankfully, I know what he’s wearing from his Instagram story: Jason from Halloween. So far, I haven’t seen a Jason, which is good I suppose because what if there were more than one?
I don’t really know why I’m here, but all I know is I need to see him. I know his walls that he builds so God damn high were slowly crumbling for me earlier and then Ms. Banksy went and walked in. I get how it looked; it didn’t look great, but she needed to ask me something about a presentation. I could see it in his face, in his eyes, his walls built back up quicker than I could blink. The anger, the false hatred, simmered in his eyes for me again. I need to see to see those walls crumble. I need him back.
He’s never had to worry about Ms. Banksy, but he certainly doesn’t anymore. She hightailed it out of my room as soon as Brayden left. I don’t think she will be bothering anymore. I gave Brayden a silent cheer for that text and also; I loved the jealousy that was clearly displayed on his face. He wouldn’t have sent that text if he didn’t care.
These last five days have been hell. I’ve come to realize that not only seeing Brayden is something I need, but seeing him happy is something I crave. Something I struggle to go a day without seeing. I have the picture—which I may as well framed and set next to my bed, with the number of times I stare at it. But knowing he’s angry with me, it doesn’t help. Scanning the crowd, I can feel myself getting impatient. He’s definitely here . . . unless he’s left already. I do another lap and as I walk into the kitchen, which heaves with people drinking from some type of punch. My eyes snag on someone dressed as a zombie-looking priest.
Trayton.
