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Ignoring his taunts, I burrow deeper into my journal, the words flowing from pen to paper like a desperate escape. Headphones clamped over my ears, I shut out the world, but Daxton, ever the attention-seeker, decides to up the ante. With a swift snatch, my journal disappears from my grasp.
The action breaks through my carefully constructed barrier. "Hey!" I cry out, frustration bubbling up as I yank the headphones free, letting them dangle around my neck. Daxton, in his typical infuriating fashion, doesn't even bother to glance at the pages filled with my private thoughts. He simply slams the book shut, demanding my undivided attention.
"I was talking to you," he says, his voice laced with mock hurt, "and you couldn't be bothered to acknowledge me."
"Look, can I get my journal back? I'm not in the mood for your games right now," I pleaded, my voice strained with frustration. Every interaction with him felt like a fight, and I was tired of being the one on the defensive.
"But I find our little games quite entertaining," Daxton countered, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.
"Seriously? Just give it back!" I snapped, my annoyance simmering just beneath the surface.
He smirked, reveling in my irritation. "'Playful pursuit' for your beloved journal? What do you say?"
As much as I yearned to ignore him and walk away, the knowledge that my precious journal lay hostage in his hands held me rooted to the spot. If it weren't for the weight of the words it contained, I wouldn't have hesitated to turn and leave.
"Please," I forced the word out, gritting my teeth. "Just give it to me."
Daxton chuckled at my plea, finding amusement in my desperate attempt. Echoing his earlier statement, he observed, "You're always scribbling away, no matter where I encounter you - the classroom, the library, the lakeside, the school gardens, you name it. If you're not writing, you're engrossed in a book!" It was as if he had been clandestinely observing my every move. He couldn't resist adding, "And now, here you are, writing away in the club. It seems I can never pass by without catching a glimpse of you and your pen."
I rolled my eyes towards the heavens, projecting an air of nonchalance, when I mustered the strength to reply, "So...?"
Daxton, with an air of exasperation, questioned my endeavors with a condescending tone. "Why waste your time penning this garbage when you should be relishing your final moments in high school?" Little did he know, it would also be the last time I ever laid eyes on him, at least for now.
A white-hot anger surged through me, fueled by his mocking dismissal of my work.
I wanted to scream that this wasn't "garbage," but a testament to my dreams, my aspirations, my very essence.
But before the words could tumble out, he cut me off. "Don't even think about telling me this... this... drivel is your idea of a celebration or a plan!" He dismissively waved my journal like it was a discarded tissue.
Unflinching, I stood my ground. "It is, in fact," I countered, my voice laced with a quiet defiance that surprised even me. "Writing in this 'garbage' is precisely what I'm celebrating right now." His harsh words stung, but I wouldn't let him diminish the importance of my writing. "Now, please hand over my 'garbage,'" I added, my tone firm and final. "This conversation is over."
But Dax, never one to back down, persisted. "I'm not finished talking to you," he asserted, his voice unwavering.
I met his gaze with unwavering resolve. "I am," I declared, my voice laced with urgency and a hint of desperation. I needed my journal back, away from his prying eyes.
He smirked, his amusement evident. "Let's see what you've written..." He flipped open the journal, his fingers eagerly skimming the pages. "Maybe it'll be my next source of entertainment."
My heart pounded in my chest. "Stop it!" I cried out, my voice sharp with panic. This was my haven, my sanctuary, and he was going to tear it apart with his callous disregard.
In a flash, I stood before him, hand raised, and connected with a resounding slap across his face. It was a primal reaction, a release of the pent-up frustration that had been simmering within me for far too long. And in that dimly lit club, for a fleeting moment, I held the power over my tormentor.
At least for now!
But as adrenaline and fear coursed through me, the potential repercussions of my actions settled in. My slap wasn't meant to inflict pain, but to liberate the emotions trapped within me. Yet, his response was unexpected.
He laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but a strange, unsettling sound that sent chills down my spine. It hinted at something darker beneath the surface, a flicker of something that made me wonder if he needed more than just my slap.
"Go ahead, Skye," he taunted, his hand brushing the spot I had struck. "Do it again. I like it." He took a final swig from the champagne bottle, its empty form landing with a soft thud on the floor. His lips were pressed together in a way that spoke of depths I couldn't fathom, a darkness that mirrored the shadows around us.
"Just give me back my journal, Daxton," I pleaded, my voice trembling with a mix of desperation and fear. "Please, there's no need for any more trouble."
He leaned closer, a menacing gleam in his eyes as he licked his lips again. "Oh, Skye," he purred, his voice dripping with faux concern, "trouble has a way of finding you, no matter where you run."
The trouble he spoke of was none other than himself, a fact I am fully aware of.
Panic clawed at my throat, but I refused to let him see my fear. My journal, clutched tightly in his hands, lay bare for anyone to see. My deepest secrets, the ones I'd never shared with anyone, not even Tresa, were written on those pages. The thought of him reading them, discovering my true feelings, sent a shiver down my spine. Why, oh why, did I ever agree to come to this club? High school was supposed to be over, but here I was, trapped in another nightmare with my tormentor.
Dax's presence in this dimly lit club, a stark contrast to his usual privileged world, was a puzzle I couldn't quite solve. After all, he was the golden boy of Rosedale Academy, basking in the glow of his family's immense wealth and his own formidable intellect. Idolized and practically worshipped by the masses, his every move was a spectacle, a consequence of his father's status as a top billionaire.
