To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  I smile. “You don’t say? You have a New York accent.”

  Grinning wider, she flips her purple hair over her shoulder. “Yup. Queens, born and raised.”

  “My family is from New York,” I tell her, even though I’m not sure if she really cares. “I’ve been to the city a few times. It’s crazy fun.”

  “Yea, I love it,” she sighs. “My stupid mom made me move since the asshole stepdad opened up a new headquarters for his business here. I wanted to live with my real dad…” Her voice trails off and she shakes her head. “Anyway, you gonna tell me your name or what?”

  “Oh! Sorry,” I stutter, feeling like an idiot for being rude, swept up in meeting someone new. She seems cool, and different from the other girls in this school. “I’m Traci Wright.”

  “Nice to meet you, Traci Wright,” she slams her locker shut. “Please tell me you’re in my grade. I could use a friend. This place is boring as hell.”

  I giggle at her candor. “Yea it is. But I don’t think we’re in the same grade… You look like a senior.”

  Merci laughs out loud and I have to chuckle along. “Thanks for the compliment, but I’m a freshman. I just actually know how to use makeup, unlike all these other bitches.” She looks me over for a moment. “You don’t seem to need it, though. How old are you anyway? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “No, I’m thirteen.”

  “What?!” She shrieks in my face, causing me to flinch. “Girl! You need to get a fake ID! We could go clubbing! I bet guys think you’re old enough to party.”

  My cheeks flush against my will, and I glance at the floor, trying to hide it. “Yea right.”

  “No, I’m being serious. I don’t lie, and I don’t sugarcoat things. You’ll learn that about me. So what class do you have? Wanna skip and show me around?”

  I stand there with my mouth open for a moment, because I’m not sure how to respond. She just threw a lot at me. Clearly she’s a talker, this girl, which is the opposite of my own personality. But I can’t deny that I like her already. She’s an enigma, with her crazy hair color, badass eye makeup and New York accent, seemingly opposite from the Barbie clones in this damn school, and I love it already.

  I’m tempted to take her up on her offer, but I know I should still get to class. Doing what I’m told is ingrained in me, especially when it comes to school.

  “Come on, Trace,” she pleads with a wicked grin, sensing my hesitation. I smile at her use of the nickname my dad calls me.

  I mean, what has following the rules ever gotten me, anyway?

  “Alright, fine,” I concede and she squeals in excitement. “But if we get busted, I’m blaming you.”

  “I’m fine with it,” she takes my arm. “I’d do the same to you. What are friends for, right?”

  When I come home from school, I’m in a great mood.

  I walked around for over an hour with Merci, showing her the campus, talking crap and laughing at how outrageous she is. I’m not sure if she really wants to befriend someone younger, but then I’m basically an old lady in a teen’s body anyway, so what’s the harm?

  Stomping inside, all I want to do is see my dad and tell him about my new friend. I know he’s been worried about me not fitting in and becoming socially awkward, though he’d never say that. Still, I get where he’s coming from. He wants the best for his daughter. What he doesn’t understand, and I’m sure really no one would, is that when I’m alone is when I feel at peace. I don’t have to fake interest in things I don’t care about or make forced small talk.

  On my own I can just be. But people aren’t supposed to feel like that, so I keep it to myself.

  Flinging my backpack on the floor in the hallway, I trudge into the kitchen in search of my father.

  “Dad!” I bellow, swinging around the marble island and opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “Are you here? Guess what happened today!”

  I spin and gasp out loud when I see someone who’s very much not my father standing right behind me.

  “What happened today?” Lazarus asks, his face still and uninterested. His usual look. He brings a glass to his lips and takes a small sip, creepy gray eyes glued to mine.

  My body goes stiff. Normally I wouldn’t think twice about his presence, especially since for the last year he’s been here almost every day. But after that night a few weeks ago, when I ogled him in his boxers against my will, I’ve been finding it difficult to look at him without remembering the lines of solid muscle all over his tattooed body.

  I swallow hard over my suddenly dry throat, pleading with my eyes not to drop to his chest, visualizing the broad, defined pectorals decorated with sparrows and fire. Blinking myself out of the trance, I recall that he said something, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was now. So I go with the obvious question.

  “Where’s my dad?” I hate that my voice comes out small and adolescent.

  “Not here,” he grumbles, and says nothing else, which is only minutely infuriating. He sips his drink again, eyeing me with indifference.

  “Okay… So then why are you here if he’s not?” There’s attitude in my tone and it surprises me. It’s as if I can’t help being snippy with him lately. It just comes out and I can’t control it.

  Lazarus cocks a brow at me and a strange flutter tickles inside my belly.

  “Fuck if I know.” He finishes off his glass, smacking it down on the island next to me before turning and waltzing out of the room like he owns the damn place.

  It irks me more than it should. The guy is just so aloof. After everything that’s happened in the last year, and all he’s been around to help me and my dad through, he still acts like I’m an insignificant little cretin he can’t be bothered to speak with.

  With my jaw clenched, I follow him into the living room, a silent fume resonating in my bloodstream. Again, I have no clue where it’s coming from, and why I care what Lazarus thinks or what he says to me. But it’s suddenly impossible for me to let it go.

  He wanders over to the loveseat and flops down with a grunt, kicking up his feet, eyes glued to the television which is playing some baseball game. “Hey, pour me another drink, will you?”

  I actually look around for a moment to see if there’s someone else in the room, since there’s no possible way he’s talking to me right now.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not your slave. Get it yourself.”

  “You don’t have to be my slave to get me a drink.” His eyes break away from the TV for a split second to give me a quick look. The color of his irises is very overwhelming, and that one-second glance just made me crazy nervous.

  What is this bizarre reaction I’m having to this jerk all of a sudden?? I don’t like it. It’s very annoying, like him.

  “Well, you didn’t say please.” My eyes fall to the floor. “And even if you did, I wouldn’t get it for you.”

  “Mmm… you sure about that?” His smug voice taunts as he watches the game, like I’m the background noise.

  “What?” I scoff. This guy is an asshole, and he doesn’t even make sense.

  Lazarus looks up at me again from where he sits, this time letting those rings of captivating gray stay on my eyes until I squirm.

  “Will you please get me another drink, Princess Tracien?” His tone is condescending as hell, oozing that cocky I’m a hot billionaire patronization that makes my blood boil, even more so now because I actually notice it. I never used to think he was a hot billionaire.

  “Ugh,” I turn and stalk away, fully prepared to go up to my room and leave him to get off his arrogant ass and get his own damn drink.

  But as soon as I’m in the kitchen, I find myself picking up his glass and bringing it to the bar to pour more of Dad’s favorite scotch, all the while mumbling to myself about his general rudeness.

  I bring his drink to him, handing it over while shooting a glare at his face that I seriously hope is coming off snarky and not desperate for his attention.


  He accepts the glass and mutters thank you under his breath, still focused solely on the stupid baseball game on TV. My mind begs me to leave and go upstairs, but apparently it’s not strong enough to make my body react.

  “I could’ve drugged you, you know,” I smirk, eagerly awaiting his reaction to my little comment.

  He rumbles, “But you didn’t,” without even looking at me. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit invested in this conversation, which has me vibrating with frustration.

  My hand rests on my hip. “How do you know?”

  “Because people don’t generally drug other people and then tell them about it, kid,” he huffs out a smug little noise resembling a chuckle, and it’s as irritating as it is shocking. Lazarus never laughs at anything I say or do. His laughs are reserved for people he considers worth his time.

  And unfortunately it’s the last straw for me.

  “You’re so annoying!” I throw my hands up. He doesn’t even glance my way. “I was having a great day, and all I wanted was to tell my dad about my new friend, but no. Instead I’m stuck talking to you. The guy who doesn’t give two shits about anything.”

  I turn to stalk away, but his growly voice catches me before I get far. “Alright, so tell me then. Jesus.”

  I spin to face him and he’s still watching the TV, though his gaze flicks to me long enough to showcase his eyes rolling in annoyance. “Well? Talk.”

  “No…” I quietly resist. I don’t want to talk to him about anything, because he’s rude and I know he’s only listening to me because I’m his best friend’s kid and he feels obligated. Still, I can’t seem to make myself leave the damn room, either.

  “Who’s your new friend?” Lazarus turns in his seat to face me, at last, slowly raising the glass to his lips.

  “I know you don’t really care,” I hum, and he shrugs. Biting my lip, I ease into the feeling of his undivided attention. I don’t know if I’ve ever really had it before, but it feels good, in an odd and nerve-racking kind of way. “I made a friend today. She’s new at school… From New York.”

  He nods, appearing very uninterested, though still watching me as I stand in my living room, shifting my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

  “Her name’s Merci and she has purple hair, and she’s really cool,” I go on, forcing myself to slow down, despite my nerves. “She’s different from all the other basic bitches at school. I like her.”

  Lazarus’s lips twitch. “Fascinating.”

  “You’re a jerk,” I whisper, unable to sound anywhere near as hard as I’m going for. My words come out like a compliment instead of an insult, and I think he can tell.

  Suddenly there’s noise coming from the foyer and my heart jumps in my chest, startling as if I’m doing something I’m not supposed to. My dad’s footsteps clomp toward the kitchen and I can hear him shuffling things around. Lazarus smirks and turns back to the TV while I use my scratchy throat to swallow down all these weird emotions bounding through me.

  “Trace!” Dad’s voice calls, but before I can reply he’s sauntering to the doorway. “Hey, muffin. How was school today?” His eyes dart to Lazarus for a moment, but then they come back to me and he smiles, stepping into the room to wrap an arm around me.

  “Good,” I croak, disguising this bizarre reaction I’m having like an allergy.

  “Traci here made a new friend today,” Lazarus rumbles from across the room. He peeks at Dad. “She’ll tell you the story. It’s truly riveting.”

  His gaze lands on mine for a moment and I roll my eyes, to which he winks at me before turning back to the game.

  Dad simply chuckles, kissing my hair. “I can’t wait to hear it. Come help me with dinner.”

  He nudges me and I fake a smile, following him into the kitchen while seriously hoping he can’t tell that I’m breathless.

  Chapter Seven

  Lazarus

  If they could see me now…

  Well, let’s just say, given the events of my early childhood, they probably wouldn’t fucking care much.

  But that’s alright, because I didn’t do it for them.

  I built this life. This persona, my castle, my empire, everything I have. I did it all on my own. For me.

  My entire adult life has been one big middle finger to my upbringing.

  I know that’s what our new potential client likes most about the idea of working with Westright Holdings.

  Damien has the right amount of old-money in his name to comfort them. But everyone enjoys a good underdog story, which is exactly what I am. The ultimate worthless piece of garbage who rose from the pit - like a chance given from Jesus after four days of death - and made himself a billionaire.

  I’m sure I could have done it without Damien, but he made it a hell of a lot easier. And much more fun. We created this whole thing together, after all. Since college… NYU, running around campus and fucking off like two CEO’s in training, waiting for our chance to take it all; everything we were owed.

  The money. The women. The attention.

  It was all ours, by right. For Day, because he was born into it. And for me because, well… I made a promise to that fuck way back when.

  “You’ve had my business since the recommendation from Kline,” Jerald Cartwell, our newest potential client - ah, who are we kidding? We’re getting his business - grins, sipping from a glass of thirty-year Macallan I save for the really big fish we’re working on reeling in. “But I’m glad I got to come in here and see the office. It’s impressive.”

  He looks around, scoping out the view of Downtown Miami from my twenty-five-story office window.

  Then his chin juts in Damien’s direction. “Is yours this good?”

  Damien laughs out loud, a sound only I would recognize as fake. He’s good at putting on the needed performances for the clients. That’s why he’s the face of our empire.

  And I handle the numbers, because that’s my thing. Acting like I give a shit about rich old assholes isn’t.

  “Mine’s alright,” Damien answers, reaching for his own glass. “If I didn’t give him the bigger office, I’m sure he’d have found some way to get it.”

  I simply grin at my best friend, because facts.

  “Well regardless, I like what I see. I’m going to make my partners very happy with the money you two will bring in.” Jerald stands, and I have to appreciate that he’s not dragging this process out like some clients do.

  Damien and I stand as well, and we take turns shaking his hand.

  “We’ll have the contracts messengered over tomorrow,” Damien says.

  “I look forward to it.” We walk Jerald out and he stops at the door. “I must have you both out on the yacht one of these days. Break out the Cubans.”

  We both pull enthusiastic smiles, though Damien’s is still more convincing than mine.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  My assistant, Lana, has Jerald shown out to valet, while Damien and I stay back in my office. We’re quiet for minutes on end, because we don’t need to speak. We’ve known each other long enough to have a sort of telepathic bond at this point.

  And we’re sharing a very loud thought at the moment.

  We’re going to be very, very rich from this.

  I watch him carefully to see if he’s going to chug the rest of his drink. It’s barely four in the afternoon, and we rarely start drinking until the workday ends, around five-thirty or so. But the day is ending earlier this afternoon since we’re finally signing Cartwell & Jennings. We’ve been lusting after this account for years.

  Damien slouches back in one of the leather chairs adjacent to my large oak desk, staring off into space. I hope he’s happy, but I can never be sure anymore.

  My best friend suffered a great tragedy, and the more months pass, the more I’m beginning to fear he may never get over it. Not fully, anyway.

  I met Damien Wright when I was fourteen years old, and he was fifteen. His family lived in a giant house in Westches
ter, New York. And I had just been passed on to what fortunately ended up being my last foster home, in a much smaller, much more ordinary home about ten minutes away from his.

  I had to transfer schools mid-semester, which was already a clusterfuck. And to top that off, I was surrounded by rich douchebags, none of whom knew what it was like to defend yourself against a drunk foster father, or fasten a zip tie around your waist to hold up your too-baggy Salvation Army pants because you didn’t have a belt.

  In case you’re having trouble visualizing this shit, I’ll just spell it out for you. My life sucked.

  But little did I know, I was finally about to catch a much-needed break.

  On my first day at my new school, some football-playing scumbag tried starting shit with me in the hallway. I was much skinnier back then, obviously, but I learned how to scrap at a young age, so I knew I could handle myself against anything these Abercrombie dickheads would dish out.

  I was all ready to nail Football Ass-hat in the face when a dirty-blonde-haired kid with green eyes, who looked way too perfect for real life, stepped in between us.

  He told the football clown, who turned out to be his teammate, to back off, which he immediately did. You’d think I’d have been happy about being spared from a potential fight, but I wasn’t. I needed to prove myself in this new school, and I was more than prepared to do so with my fists.

  “The fuck you do that for?” I hissed at green eyes. And he smiled at me.

  Fucking smiled.

  It pissed me off even more.

  “I can handle myself with rich dipshits. It’ll do you good to remember that,” I growled, then stormed off toward my locker to get my enormous backpack stuffed to the brim with schoolwork I was already behind on.

  “I don’t doubt that at all,” the kid chuckled, following after me. “I just can’t have someone murdering my wide receiver before Friday’s game. I kinda want to win.”

  He was still smirking at me as I gave him a side-eye, opening my locker. “I mean, I wouldn’t have murdered him…”