To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  A really stupid one. Instead, I called him a robot vampire, which seemed a better fit.

  Lazarus looks up as Dad comes downstairs in his suit, ready for the workday. Laz gives him a little smirk, saying something I can’t hear from where I’m standing, and my father looks like he wants to smile but his face doesn’t remember the sensation. It twists my gut, because my dad has such a great smile.

  Something needs to get him out of this funk. Something has to make him smile again.

  I wander over to them and my dad gives me his fatherly eyes, stepping closer to press a kiss in my hair. My eyes sneak up to Lazarus who’s back on his phone, not paying me any mind. As usual.

  “I’ll be back later, Tiny,” Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Sarah from next door will come check on you in an hour or so. You gonna be alright until then?”

  I nod, because no, I’m sure I won’t be alright, but what else am I supposed to do?

  “I’ll bring dinner home,” he says and Lazarus looks up, lifting a brow. Dad rolls his eyes. “Okay, Lazarus will bring dinner home.”

  The corner of Laz’s mouth twists into the tiniest grin and it seems to light up my vision. For just a brief moment, things aren’t as terrible as they were, and there’s hope for all of us… Me, Dad, mankind as a whole.

  We’re all going to be alright.

  It’s gone in a flash, and my father and his business partner leave to get their day started while I stand, alone in the kitchen, missing the brightness they took with them.

  I’m lying in my bed, awake. It’s after two in the morning and I can’t sleep.

  My headphones are in and I’m listening to Mom’s playlist again. All these old love songs from when she was my age… They comfort me. They make me feel closer to her.

  The Spice Girls. She loved them. Dad and Lazarus used to make fun of her endlessly, but she never cared. Her first concert was a Spice Girls show when she was twelve, that’s how much she loved them. I couldn’t wait for Mom to take me to my first concert, but it never happened.

  I have no desire to go anymore.

  Since sleep continues to elude, and I decide to go downstairs for a drink. Leaving my headphones in, I meander down to the kitchen with a song about two becoming one playing in my ears.

  The girls are singing about making love as I round the corner and stop short.

  The entire downstairs is dark, minus a soft light streaming from the refrigerator. A tall form stands in front of it, slightly bent at the waist, rummaging. An odd sensation fills me as I watch. It’s something like a nervous flutter, beginning in my belly and moving up to tickle my lungs.

  I obviously know it’s Lazarus, standing at the fridge. I can tell right away because he’s a few inches taller than my dad, his skin is covered in tattoos, and he has inky black hair, which is currently all mussed up everywhere. His back is lined in elaborate cords of muscles, which run down his near-naked frame and disappear into fitted black boxer briefs.

  I swallow, confused at the excess saliva that’s suddenly filling my mouth. My breathing has also picked up and I have no clue why.

  Registering that the song is still playing a melodious beat in my ears, lyrics express setting your spirit free as my eyes refuse to leave Lazarus’s body. I’ve seen him without a shirt before, because I’ve known him my whole life and we live in Florida. Bathing suits are regular attire here, at our pool, at the beach… in many places.

  But this is different. Sure, it’s not uncommon for Lazarus to sleep over in the guest room if he’s had some drinks with Dad. But I’ve never run into him like this. In the kitchen so late.

  Why is he wearing only his underwear, chugging from a Gatorade bottle?

  And why can’t I tear my gaze off of him?

  After killing his drink, Lazarus stretches his arms behind his back, prompting some more strange tingles in my gut.

  Have his arms always been that muscular? Has he gotten bigger recently, or am I only just noticing the curves and slopes of definition all over him?

  Those broad shoulders, long arms, narrow hips and apparently a butt that fills out his boxers better than my own body fits into any of my clothes.

  And the tattoos… There are so many of them, so detailed and interesting. I wonder why I’ve never cared to look at them before now. They’re unique and beautiful, sparking in me a curious desire to study them all. And maybe touch them.

  While I’m still staring with my mouth hanging open, Lazarus glances over his shoulder and freezes. He has spotted me, his eyes widening in a panic I’ve certainly never seen on him before.

  He spins slowly, and now I’m gaping at his face; the angle of his jaw, lined with that stubble Dad gets when he doesn’t shave for a couple days. His eyes, dark and yet somehow they shimmer at me in the low light, like polished stones.

  We continue to stare at one another, both of us standing stock-still, while music fills my head through the headphones. My body temperature seems to have risen several degrees in the last two minutes, and I’m muggy enough that there’s a palpable sheen of sweat lining the back of my neck. I have the urge to step closer to the open fridge to cool off, but then the thought of getting closer to him right now brings a new sweat to my palms as well.

  Lazarus clears his throat, eyes darting briefly to the floor before he looks back up at my eyes. He appears to have been rendered speechless, and I can’t understand it. I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling like this either.

  This is Lazarus. He’s not a recent addition to my world by any means. And yet in this moment, I’m seeing him differently. He’s no longer the reliable fixture, present in my life merely through my parents. Right now he’s a half-naked grown-up, standing in my kitchen staring at me, eyes conveying something I can’t read.

  He still scares me, like he always has. But the thing is that right now, I think I like it.

  With him facing me head-on, I’m unable to keep my eyes from sliding down the front of his torso, the way they did his back. There are more tattoos there; draped across the elaborate curves in his chest and abs, some disappearing into his boxers, which happen to sit severely low on his hips. And there are even more muscles on his front. Visibly firm pectorals and clusters on his stomach, more surfaces dripping with ink.

  My bottom lip quivers and I bite it.

  It’s still dark, but the glow of the fridge allows me to witness the faintest flush on Laz’s face, and I’m paralyzed.

  He’s never looked like this before.

  What is this?? What’s going on?

  The voices singing in my ear tell me tonight is the night.

  A faint voice reaches through the music. “Laz!”

  Someone shouts, I assume it was Dad, and simultaneously we both flinch, snapping out of this bizarre little trance. Lazarus’s jaw tenses visibly, and he grabs another bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator before slamming it shut and storming off.

  I’m not sure where he’s going, but I can barely even process any thoughts right now. There’s a tumbling deep in my belly I’ve never felt before. And I’ve definitely never felt it while looking at Lazarus.

  He’s my parents’ grouchy friend. When I was little, I used to giggle to myself at the robot vampire who sucked out people’s knowledge instead of their blood. He intimidates me only because he never smiles and always looks at me like I’m a foreign object with no earthly purpose.

  But now… Seeing him tonight made me tingly, and uneasy in a different sort of way.

  Stalking over to the fridge, I grab a bottle of water then rush back upstairs to my bedroom, closing the door fast. I’m out of breath and confused, and as I sit down on my bed, I notice that this same Spice Girls song has been playing on a loop the whole time. I glance at Mom’s iPod, realizing I have it on repeat.

  The lyrics and the slow beat lull me until I’m lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling as I listen and wonder. How would two become one, anyway?

  I’m guessing they’re talking about sex, since they keep mentio
ning making love. Mom told me about sex before, and I’ve learned much more than she or Dad probably wanted me to from TV and movies. And online. Sex is everywhere.

  But still, I’ve never had this kind of reaction to the words before. Warmth flushes to my neck as the song directs my thoughts to the image of Lazarus’s almost naked body.

  Heat pumps through my veins. That’s how he would look if he were going to have sex, I’m sure. He would get naked, even more than he just was. And he would put his penis inside a vagina.

  My toes curl. Thinking about him like that brings an awkward tightness to my stomach. He’s practically my uncle. I’ve known him my entire life. I don’t want to think about his penis…

  And what it looks like.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and flop over onto my stomach, smashing my face into the pillow.

  What is wrong with me??

  I should try to focus on my regular crushes, like Zayn Malik, or Harry Styles. They’re still older than me, but closer in age than Laz. My dad’s best friend. Who’s like a million years old.

  He doesn’t look old, though. His body looks incredible. Like he’s in his prime.

  Okay, stop.

  Forcing myself to change the song, I will my brain to shut off so I can fall asleep. But it still takes hours, because now every lyric to every song leads me to one final thought.

  Lazarus.

  The next morning I wake up tired.

  I barely got any sleep last night. My mind was running like crazy, and every time I closed my eyes I saw black hair, glowing eyes and tattoos. I contemplated sneaking one of Dad’s sleeping pills, but I didn’t want to be unconscious for hours. I wanted to wake up early.

  Not to see if I could run into Lazarus before he left, that’s for sure. Why would I want that, after all? I don’t care.

  At the smell of brewing coffee, I dart downstairs to find my dad standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup. My head bobs all over the place, but there’s no sign of black hair or tattoos anywhere.

  Good thing I don’t care.

  “Morning, sweetie,” he gives me a half-smile.

  He looks better than he has in a while. Still sort of tired, but fresh, with his dirty blonde hair wet and swept back away from his forehead. I have to acknowledge that my dad looks good for his age too, and I don’t want him fading away or aging faster than he should because of his internalizing depression.

  This morning he appears more sprightly than he has in years.

  Mustering a small smile for him, I sit down at the breakfast bar while listening closely for any sounds that could indicate someone else’s presence in the house. I hear nothing more than Dad’s humming.

  Humming??

  “You seem happy,” I point out and he coughs.

  “I’m just happy that I’m not hungover,” he brings his mug to his lips. “Me and Lazarus drank way too much last night.”

  So he did spend the night. That’s why he was in the kitchen so late. In his boxers… Showing off all those muscles.

  Enough.

  I want so badly to know if he’s still here, but I refuse to ask my dad about him, since I never have, and starting now would seem more than suspect. I haven’t cared about Lazarus Weston’s presence in this house before, and I’m not going to start now.

  “Dad, is sex the same thing as making love?” I blurt out, startling myself as much with my odd question as my father, who jolts in my direction, spilling half his cup of coffee on the floor.

  “Dammit…” he mutters, but he’s too busy gawking at me to clean it up. “Why are you asking me that?”

  I purse my lips and shrug. There’s an obvious reason you don’t ask your dad sex questions, and that reason is this, happening right now. His cheeks are literally blushing. And it makes mine blush in return, lamenting my stupid question, first thing in the damn morning.

  Blame it on my scattered mind.

  “I heard it in a song.” I pick at my fingernail. “Forget I asked. Never mind.”

  “I, um… think it, uh, depends,” Dad attempts answering my question, but he’s blinking an awful lot, clearing his throat repeatedly.

  He grabs some paper towels and crouches down to wipe up the spilled coffee and probably avoid looking me in the eye.

  It depends? What kind of answer is that? Depends on what?

  When he stands up again, he seems to have composed himself a bit. “All you need to know is that you’re too young to be thinking about sex. Or making love. Or both.”

  “I know,” I murmur. “So you and Mom made love when you did it?”

  “Dear Lord,” he sighs out a pained noise and sifts his fingers through his hair. “I loved your mother, and she loved me. So yes. We made… love…” There’s a grunge in his voice as if he’s bordering on physical illness.

  I nod in acceptance of what he’s saying, thinking more about this bizarre conversation I started, and can’t seem to stop.

  And not that I want to think about it, but I hope that if my dad decides to have sex with someone new, he doesn’t make love with them. I can’t stand the idea of my father falling for anyone who isn’t my mom. It would kill me.

  “So… If someone does it with someone they’re not in love with… then it’s not considered making love?” I go for one last question, because I also suddenly despise the idea of Lazarus making love with someone.

  Or having sex with them in general. Just imagining it now has my stomach turning in revolt. But why??

  “Tracien, this isn’t exactly a first thing in the morning topic,” Dad grumbles. “All you need to know is that whether you’re having sex or making love, it should always mean something. And you should never do it with someone unless you care for them a great deal. And trust them…”

  Dad’s gaze goes far away, his green eyes set on something I can’t see. He must be thinking about Mom.

  And now I’m thinking about her.

  I wish she was here. She’d explain everything to me and give me some reassurance about the weird feelings that have popped up since seeing Laz shirtless last night. Truth be told, I’m bothered by it.

  Not only have I never looked at him like that before, but he’s also not the nicest person. He’s surly and way too quiet, and I can just tell from the general way he is that he keeps a lot of pain inside.

  Lazarus has no family to speak of, which is why my dad and him became so close when they were fifteen and Lazarus moved in with a foster family near Dad’s neighborhood. No one ever told me exactly what happened to his real parents, but I always got the impression it was something bad.

  After all, you don’t walk around scowling at the world if it’s been nice to you. And you don’t anticipate pain unless you’ve encountered a lot of it.

  But what’s tearing me up the most right now is that for the first time in my life, I want to know more about Lazarus’s past pain. I want to know what he’s seen. What he’s felt. What he’s lost.

  But again, why?? Why now? Just because I saw him in his boxers? Why would that give me this sudden flicker of interest?

  Dad’s voice tugs me out of my thoughts as he asks about breakfast and I decide to shelve this in my mind for another time. We talk about food, both putting our discomfort on hold for a bit to get the day started.

  I’ll have plenty of time to obsess about all this later, I’m sure.

  Chapter Six

  Traci

  “Are you sure you’re going to be alright, honey?” The school nurse, Ms. Petrokas, asks in her usual, gentle tone. “You can stay if you want. I’m sure Mr. Collins would let you skip if you’re not feeling well.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m fine. Thank you, though.” I grab my backpack and give her a weak smile. My temples are still throbbing, but I really shouldn’t miss gym class two days in a row. We’re just walking the track, anyway. I can handle that.

  “Alright, sweetie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ms. Petrokas waves at me as I leave, bag slung over my shoulder, heading toward
the girls' locker rooms.

  I go to one of the most prestigious private schools in South Florida, but it’s still pretty damn big. Even more so because the Junior High and High School levels are all together in the same building. I don’t mind it, though. I prefer larger groups to small, intimate classes anyway. Makes it easier for me to get by unseen, with no focus on me.

  I’ve grown up feeling invisible, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing in my eyes. It’s like I have a superpower. Invisible Girl has the ability to move amongst her fellow humans undetected. I can spy on people’s conversations, avoid unwanted circumstances, and ultimately stay by myself, which is what I enjoy.

  Don’t feel sorry for me or anything, please. My parents loved me hard, my dad still does, despite the tragedy that’s affected our family. I never went neglected, and I’ve been given the means to live comfortably, thanks to my father’s wealth and success. I just happen to enjoy the quiet, and the solace of being alone. The one person I always wanted to see me was my mom, and she always did.

  But now she’s gone, and I’m on my own. It’s okay, though. I can manage. It’s my power.

  “Shit!” A pitchy voice echoes through the empty hall, and I look up to see a girl with purple hair who just dropped a bunch of pencils everywhere.

  I know I’m going to be late for gym, but I could always just sneak out to the track and pretend I’ve been there the whole time. I’ve done it before. Invisible, remember?

  Rushing to help the girl, I bend down and scoop up the rest of her pencils. Once in my grip, I notice that they’re colored, and as I hand them to her, I see ink all over her fingers. She might be an artist or something.

  “Thanks, girl,” she smiles as we stand up, and I shrug.

  “No problem.”

  “I’m Mercedes,” she says, tucking all her things back into her locker. “You can call me Merci, though. I’m new here.”