by Nyla K
“I do. I still go out, and I have fun with you, too.” I’m trying to convey a serious tone, but I don’t know if it’s getting through. He seems despondent, and now I’m feeling the guilt, big time. I don’t want to leave him alone if he’s upset.
Some might say I’m enabling him, or being codependent, but I can’t see it like that. He’s my best friend, and if I think he needs me, I have to be here for him. I know I’m supposed to give him more space, but it’s easier said than done.
“Okay. So then don’t feel bad about leaving to see your girls,” he grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I stare at him for a moment, and he back at me. I wish he would just say what’s on his mind, because I feel like he’s bullshitting me, telling me he’s fine when he really needs me to stay. But eventually I cave and stand up, forcing myself to leave him be.
“You know I could set you up… If you were interested,” I tell him, an easy tone hopefully keeping the uncertainty out of my offer.
He makes a face. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“I get it. Just something to think about.” I squeeze his shoulder before turning to leave the room. “See you tomorrow, alright?”
“Have fun,” he teases, and I squint at him in a scolding manner that has him laughing to himself.
That’s the interesting part of this new Damien. His once frequent little grins and chuckles are now so coveted, it gives me a buzzing thrill in my gut when I cause them. I end up beaming with pride for several minutes over it, while I get into my car and drive the ten minutes to my house.
When I get home, I putter around, getting ready for Kim and her friend to arrive, all the while thinking about my best friend.
It’s all for the best. This is how it has to be.
My doorbell rings and I greet the girls, blonde Kim in her slinky black cocktail dress, and her brunette friend, Leanne, in a yellow number that really highlights her dark complexion. They’re both gorgeous, and I’m already satisfied with my decision to give the Kim rerun a shot. Something tells me tonight will be very worth it.
Bringing the girls to my bar, we pour some wine. They talk, I pretend to listen. They compete for my attention, I let them. They touch me subtly, I fake them out a few times, which makes them desperate for more.
It’s very choreographed for me at this point. I know the game well, since I’ve been single my whole life. No serious relationships in the books, not even in high school or college, and as odd as it may sound, I’ve gotten all the genuine love and affection I need from Damien and Ophelia. I get the sex from the many, many random women who move through my bedroom like a revolving door of faces and bodies, and it has always just worked.
Yet now that I’m in my thirties, I do find myself occasionally wondering what it would be like to have a real relationship. Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of love like that. Like what Damien had with Lia.
Honestly, I find it hard to even imagine such things. I’m an orphan with a broken soul. I don’t think I qualify for true love. Marriage seems like such a foreign concept, I can barely wrap my head around it, especially with two naked women in my bed, touching each other and pleading with me to let them touch me.
It’s better this way. After all, you can’t have the good without a little bad.
I wake with a start, feeling a shift in my bed.
My jaw clenches instinctively, though it’s usually always tight in my sleep. I grind my teeth as a reflex, because I’m always on high alert. I have a night guard for it, but sometimes I forget.
I can smell him already, and it turns my stomach. Stale cigarettes and Jack Daniels. It makes me want to puke.
He’s not doing anything, but I can feel him. Just sitting there, at the edge of my bed, probably staring at me like the fucking creep he is.
One of these days, I swear to God, I’m going to get bigger. I’m going to eat everything I can get my hands on and workout nonstop so I can beat this asshole into the ground. There’s never enough food around here, but maybe I can start bribing the lunch ladies at my new school to give me extra. They like me. I can charm a few extra sandwiches out of them, I’m sure.
I’ll need it. I need the strength. I can do some damage now, but it’s not enough. I’ve been defending myself against bullies since I was old enough to swing my fists, but this guy is just too big. I need more time.
“We’re gonna send you back,” he slurs in the dark and I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting. Just waiting.
Any second now I’ll need to get up and start fighting. I hate it.
I’m so tired, I just want to sleep.
“You wanna go back to that school? Back to that neighborhood… Place is a fuckin zoo.”
Anything’s better than being here with your nasty ass.
“Answer me, boy. Look at what we’ve given you. A nice house, food in your belly. A school full of rich kids. You don’t belong here, and we’re giving you a shot. Be grateful.”
Fuck you, I rage inside. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of responding, because if I pretend to be sleeping, maybe he’ll go away, though that’s rarely the way it goes down. He’s trying to get me to react, and it’s really fucking difficult not to, when all I want to do is scream in his disgusting face.
Send me back there. I’d go if I could. Anything is better than this shit.
“Do as you’re told,” he grumbles, his fat hand appearing on my waist over my comforter.
I start shaking, my adrenaline jacking up instantly. I need to get the fuck out of here.
If I had anywhere to go…
Maybe I could call Damien. He’s a new friend, and I’m not sure if I fully trust him yet, but he lives nearby. I’m sure if I needed to I could crash there tonight.
I shake those thoughts away. I can handle this myself. I’ve been handling shit myself since the day I was born. No reason to back down now, not when I’m so close to the finish line.
Only three more years. Three more years and I can go to college, leaving all this bullshit behind. This drunk pervert and his clueless wife. The memories of my last three.
Fuck it all and burn it down.
His hand squeezes and trails down. And now I fling upright.
I guess we’re doing this.
“There he goes,” the scumbag laughs, his ugly face shadowed by the lack of light in here. “Relax, boy. I’m just messing with you. We’d never send you back. You’re here to stay.”
“Drop dead,” I growl, eyes wide and hardened, shooting fury in his direction.
He laughs again, and my fists clench. “You won’t get outta this that easily. Not like last time.”
My heart splinters around the edges, and I falter.
That wasn’t my fault. I found her, but it wasn’t me.
I swear to God, it can’t be me. Is there really a goddamn curse on my existence?
What did I do to deserve this…?
He senses that my guard is down and lunges, grabbing my hair and pulling me forward. Grunting, I struggle against his grip, freeing myself and shoving him until his drunk ass crashes off the bed. I jump up and dart toward the door. Just as I’m about to reach it, he slams it shut in front of my face, shoving me into it. He traps me against the door with his body weight and I fight with all my strength, trying to wriggle free.
“Why are you fighting so much?” He snarls from behind me, a hand now on my stomach. “You think I want to fuck you or something, boy? Please. I ain’t no faggot.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you.” A hiss shoots through my ragged breaths.
“Like you killed her?” He laughs, and I use the opportunity to break an arm free, elbowing him in the gut.
He coughs, bending over to catch his breath while I whip open the door and sprint. Through the house, out the side door and around to the backyard. I’m running so fast I can barely breathe, but I refuse to look back. I’ll sleep in the goddamn woods if I have to.
I’m not going back there. I don’t
deserve this. I know that now.
When I was six, and ten, it was different. I thought it was always my fault. I brought this pain on myself, like a bad omen lives inside my soul somewhere.
But now, I’m old enough to understand the truth. My mother may have been a goddamn junkie piece of shit, but she gave me my name, and that’s the only talisman I need.
I’m going to rise from these four. I’ll get the fuck out.
And then everyone will be sorry.
Chapter Eight
Traci
Dad has always called me obsessive. He jokingly tells me I have OCD, because I fixate on little details, letting them fester in my mind like a wound left untreated.
But my obsessive compulsions don’t live in the need to flick light switches ten times, or touch different surfaces before I touch the one I want. It comes from my mind’s need to linger on something that sparks my curiosity; whether good, bad or ugly. In struggling to move away from things I should let go.
I don’t really see it as a problem, except that it sometimes makes focusing difficult. I like to observe and study things that draw my attention, in turn filling my head with all this noise. My thoughts run wild, like an untamed animal.
I’m too curious for my own good. That’s another thing Dad always says…
Curiosity killed the cat, Tracien. So watch your whiskers.
I had my first dream about Lazarus Weston a couple weeks ago.
It was quick. He was standing out back by our pool, in swim trunks that looked awfully similar to the boxer briefs he was wearing that time I saw him in the kitchen.
He glanced in my direction, but this time rather than looking through me like he usually does, his eyes found mine. And he smiled.
It was startling to see, because he’s only ever smiled like that for Dad. It’s not something he blesses me with but trust me, when I got it, it felt like a blessing in every sense of the word.
With those grayish-blue irises on mine, holding my stare, I felt complete. Whole.
I wasn’t angry, or sad anymore. I was no longer grieving, or lonely, or lost. I felt replete for the first time in a long time, and all it took was a look and a damn smile. Even in my dream, I remember thinking, I am so done for.
“What do you think, Trix?” His deep voice was almost illustrious, laced with that Lazarus bored amusement, yet echoing sensuality. It slipped inside my ears and I trembled from head to toe.
I still hate the nickname, but I would let him call me any name in the world just to hear that perfect voice for as long as possible.
Dream Traci wasn’t sure how to respond to his question, so she stood there like an idiot.
“Tell me everything…”
The voice began to fade, and I grew desperate with the need to hang onto him. I could feel myself waking up and I didn’t want to. I ran over to him, but it only made him disappear faster. The last thing I saw was a shy smile, aimed right at me, creating a buzzing electricity in my lower stomach.
That was when I woke up, clutching my pillow and sweating through my pajamas.
Adding to the torture that is my life, I come downstairs this morning to Lazarus cooking bacon and eggs.
My dad is reading the paper at the breakfast bar, and he looks up when he hears me, showing a tired smile which I return, hesitantly, because it’s taking all my strength not to look at his best friend.
When I’m sure Dad is focusing back on his paper, I allow my eyes to travel to Lazarus.
He looks painfully good, in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that hugs the curves of definition in his torso while also hindering my breathing. His jet black hair is tousled atop his head, angled jawline dusted in day-old stubble, giving more of an edge to his look that it certainly doesn’t need.
Stunned into place, I still can’t possibly comprehend why I’m overcome with nervous chills just from looking at him, when a year ago I saw him as nothing more than my Dad’s crabby best friend and business partner.
Hasn’t he always looked like that though?
“Over medium coming up,” Lazarus says to my dad, who glances up at him with raised brows.
“Can you really do over medium?” Dad asks, skeptically. “No one ever does it right.”
“I’m offended,” Laz scoops some eggs out of the pan with a spatula and slides them onto a plate. “Tell you what, if they’re too hard I’ll eat them.”
My father gives him some kind of look, to which Lazarus rolls his eyes. I have no idea what’s going on here right now. I’m half tempted to back away slowly, when Lazarus finally looks up at me, and I’m disappointed to be getting his usual disinterest, not the lustful attention I got in my dream.
“How do you like your eggs, Trix?” He asks, as if he would really cater to my preferences. “Let me guess… Spoiled.”
Dad clears his throat and shoots his friend a warning look, to which Lazarus brushes him off with a smug chuckle.
“I meant to say boiled,” he winks at Dad. “Like, hard-boiled. You like that, right Trix?”
I don’t even have a voice to use to respond. My blood is boiling now, and I want to wipe that damn cocky smirk off his face, maybe by smacking him with the pan he’s using to cook those stupid eggs. I’ve gone from lusting after him to plotting his murder in seconds flat, which I’m beginning to think is par for the course when it comes to this man.
Knowing I can’t actually strangle him, I settle for gritting my teeth while I shrug and walk, as casually as I can manage, up to his side.
I mutter, “I’ll just have cereal,” and duck into the cabinet. Anything to hide how red my cheeks likely are.
Despite the eggs and bacon cooking in here, I can still smell him everywhere and it makes my mouth water more than food ever has. He has this scent that’s hard to identify, but it might come from his hair. Maybe whatever shampoo he uses or something… It smells delicious.
A foot kicks the cabinet shut in front of my face and I look up with a scowl.
“I was kidding,” he offers his most sincere tone, which still sounds forced. “Let me make you something. You want pancakes?”
“I’m all set.” My voice comes out harsher than I intended, but it doesn’t faze him.
“You have to eat,” he squints at me, standing his ground. “You’re too skinny.”
My mouth drops open in appall, and every insecurity I’ve ever had about my body swirls to the front of my brain. Teenage girls aren’t partial to feeling too skinny, so I can’t say I’m entirely put-off, but I know I don’t have the kinds of curves Merci has. Not yet, anyway.
I’m still waiting for my boobs. Maybe those will get his attention.
Jesus, what is wrong with you??
I gulp down all the nonsense flooding my system and nod slowly. “Fine. I’ll have pancakes and bacon. Please.” I give him a sugary-fake smile that he mirrors before turning back to the stove.
I take a quick peek at Dad, who’s reading his paper, ignoring our bickering, as usual. Maybe it would be strange for Lazarus and me to butt heads over nonsense all the time, but since I’ve known him my whole life, no one thinks twice about it. To the outside world, we’re practically an uncle and his niece.
Although that’s not true at all, and I’m glad for that fact. It would be much more awkward to have this intense sexual attraction to my thirty-six-year-old uncle.
Lazarus serves Dad his eggs and bacon, then immediately starts on my pancakes, which I’m sure he’s making ironically, as something to hold over me rather than an actual kind gesture. And the more irritating thing is that I’ll now be expected to eat his pancakes in front of him, and I can barely manage acting regular while standing next to him, let alone trying to do so while eating.
By the time my breakfast is ready, my father is done, adjourning upstairs to shower and get ready for whatever they’re doing today. It’s Saturday, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be working. Apparently the owners of billion-dollar companies don’t tend to observe normal, nine-to-five sche
dules.
Either way, now that Dad’s gone, I’m forced to sit and begrudgingly eat my pity meal with the chef.
He’s immediately on his phone, eyes scanning the screen, thumbs typing away in his busy, and yet still somehow perpetually bored, zone. I’m trying not to openly gawk, but I just find him so fascinating now. Maybe I always did… But I think when I was younger I was too busy avoiding the weird, eerie-yet-thrilling feeling I would get when he’d aim those electric gray eyes at me.
Plus, my mother always served as a bit of a buffer between us. Not that Dad won’t, but he doesn’t exactly have the time or energy to put the same focus on me that Mom used to. I can’t blame him. He’s always been the one who works, and Mom stayed home, being my best friend.
Pretty much being my everything.
But now she’s gone and Lazarus is here, the same part of our family he always has been, except that he started speaking to me, though I still wouldn’t call us besties. I have noticed him coming around less lately than he was right after Mom died. It’s almost as if he’s weening us off of him. And I’d never admit it to anyone, but I hate it.
That first year, I really didn’t give much thought to how much Lazarus was here. He was around for Dad, not me. But then things somehow shifted, and I began looking for Lazarus in my own home. I was expecting him, and if he didn’t come over for a night, I’d feel a stab of disappointment in my chest that I just couldn’t shake. It would eat at me for hours and hours, and the more it happened, the more crazed I’d become, until eventually I started full-on missing his presence.
Those cloudy eyes, his tall, large body to match an overwhelming presence; that blasé attitude and the way he’s so smug and annoying, but how it makes my toes wiggle when he actually talks to me, regardless of whether he’s teasing or being a grumpy douche.
Lazarus will never not be around, because he’s been around my entire life. Only now, I’m paying a different kind of attention, and I’ve gotten used to seeing him much more than I did before Mom died. I just don’t want him to move on.