To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  My home life was always a giant clusterfuck. From the dirt-poor Two who could barely afford to feed themselves anything other than heroin let alone provide me with clean clothes or a decent dinner. To Father of the Year, Four, whose drunk ass frequently found its way into my bedroom at night, for one reason or another. After all that, after what happened to Three, it seemed implausible that my life story would have a happy ending. In fact, with my track record, an early demise surrounded by blood and flames was pretty much a given.

  I wanted to believe in myself. I was smarter than most kids in my class, and despite living through nothing but drama from the day I was born, I had a good head on my shoulders. Breaking free from the curse was my ongoing plan, but I still wasn’t sure if I was enough.

  Until I met Damien Wright.

  He saved my sorry ass with his friendship and support, giving me a fresh new perspective. I could have the life Damien’s family had. I just needed to earn it, through hard work and some serious dedication.

  Things like that have never scared me, though. I mean, once you celebrate your eighth birthday by burning your finger trying to cook yourself a frozen pizza, or get thrown down the stairs by a drunk asshole because he can’t get his dick hard for his wife, very few things frighten you after that. So I quickly got on board with the idea that I could get the past my bullshit history if I just pushed and stayed breathing.

  But one thing I never expected to see in my future was messing around with my best friend and business partner’s eighteen-year-old daughter behind his back. Life sort of threw me a curveball with that one.

  And I’m used to curveballs, too. Like I said, I’ve lived through some serious shit, and made it out stronger on the other side. You’d think I would have prepared myself for bullshit like this to sink me.

  But I didn’t. I wasn’t prepared at all.

  I have absolutely no idea how to handle things with Traci. I’m at a loss, which isn’t something I’ve felt in many years, and it makes me want to tear all my hair out and scream at the top of my lungs.

  Why the fuck are you doing this shit to me again?!

  In case you can’t tell, I’m harboring immense guilt over what happened in the shower at the yoga studio.

  It was one of the best afternoons I’ve had in a long time, which is interesting because I bed gorgeous women all the time, and they’re always hot and down for whatever. What I don’t understand is how in the holy hell this tiny little doe-eyed black-haired thing has nestled herself deep within the confines of my rigid heart…

  How she’s managed to completely uproot everything I’ve been working for my entire adult life.

  Sitting in my office now, I’m getting hard in my tailored Tom Ford trousers just remembering her flesh trembling, dripping wet from the shower and her arousal for me as I licked and kissed and sucked her until she found euphoria in my arms.

  It was the best, and worst thing that’s ever happened to me, all wrapped into one detrimentally fucked up package.

  I can almost hear God laughing at me, I can’t believe you thought you were going to just coast through the rest of your life, hot, rich and swimming in pussy.

  My mother named me Lazarus before she lost me to the state of New York, since she was gravely addicted to drugs and not at all fit to care for a newborn. Lazarus, the beggar who Jesus brought back from the dead after four whole days buried in a tomb.

  To be honest, I used to see being transferred to that damn foster home in Westchester as my resurrection. Despite the horrors I faced in that house, it was also when I met Damien. He gave me the strength to rise from all the bullshit of my life up until that point and make something of myself.

  But now, with everything that’s happened between me and his daughter, I’m questioning it all. Maybe I was supposed to stay dead in the tomb, and Damien should have left me in that goddamn house to rot.

  I’ve been avoiding my best friend for two days, since everything went down with Traci, and I feel like the biggest pile of shit that’s ever existed. We haven’t had many meetings since signing Haskill, so I only came into the office today to finish a few things for Lana. But Damien wanted to grab lunch, and I told him I was busy, a total bullshit lie that had me choking on my hatred for myself as I spoke it.

  I don’t lie to Damien. I never have. And now I’ve complied so many lies I need to brief myself before I see him to make sure I can keep them all straight.

  Taking a sip of scotch, I run through the rest of my emails, checking my watch. It’s almost six, later than I usually stay, but I needed to act like I was buried in work to avoid leaving at the same time as my best friend a half-hour ago.

  I’m evil. He’s going to castrate me.

  I groan to myself and take another gulp, rubbing my temples with my fingers. How did everything get so jacked up? What is this bizarre power Traci Wright seems to have over me? And how do I break it?

  Or do I even want to?

  As I squeeze my eyes shut, a memory tries to break through my personal anguish. It’s a good memory.

  A snowy January evening in New York City. I can still hear the clanking of the radiator in our old West Village apartment…

  My phone buzzes on the desk next to me, and my eyes shoot open, breaking free from the reverie I hardly ever allow myself to get swept up in. I pick it up to check the text on the screen.

  From Traci.

  A clash of excitement and unease tightens my jaw.

  Tracien: Are you pretending I don’t exist?

  Such a simple question, and yet it sparks so many emotions, most of which crush my chest like there’s a ton of bricks stacked on top of it.

  Me: I could never do that

  Tracien: No texts or calls… You haven’t come to drive me home :(

  I swallow hard and shake my head. I didn’t want her to think I was ignoring her. I just needed a couple days to think. But now that it’s out there, the guilt of having her get home from that dicey club on her own has fear and fury rippling through my muscles.

  Me: I’m sorry.

  My response is a copout, but I don’t know what else to say. I’m confused by my feelings for Traci. I don’t think or act like myself when I’m talking to her, and it’s bewildering. I’m considering therapy.

  I. Don’t. Fucking. Get. It.

  Tracien: You’re forgiven… If you come over tonight

  A small smile tugs at my lips, puzzling me even more until I wipe it away.

  Me: That sounds like the opposite of a good idea

  Tracien: Come on. It’ll be fun

  Tracien: We could Netflix and chill ;)

  I squint at my phone. The smiles are becoming harder and harder to smother where she’s concerned. She just drags them out of me, and I’m left at her mercy.

  Making me smile and laugh and feel things… What is this little girl? A goddamn witch or something?

  Me: I don’t “Netflix and chill”. I’m forty.

  Tracien: Lol

  Tracien: I’ll teach you

  A few minutes go by where I’m seriously considering going to her tiny ridiculous apartment in the middle of gang territory, just to see her young, beautiful face light up the way it always does when she sees me.

  I guess I should have seen it over the years. The way she always lit up when I’d walk into the room. I used to tell myself it was just a phase or a crush; something her hormonal teenage mind couldn’t control.

  But then as she grew up more, it changed. And the craziest part is that I think I liked it. I think I still do.

  Traci makes me feel special. More than. She makes me feel like I deserve every resurrection that came my way. Like I’m someone who could sit beside Jesus Christ. Not quite God, but somehow more than mortal.

  Tracien: Please Lazarus. I really just want to spend time with you. I promise we don’t have to do anything...

  My resolve is breaking, my willpower crumbling before my very eyes, especially when I remember how good she tastes and how it felt like the sk
y was falling over our heads in a spectacular display of apocalyptic starfall as I kissed between her thighs and she sang my name in the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard.

  I gulp and blink.

  Me: You’re not working?

  Tracien: I have the night off and Merci’s at work. So I’m all alone

  Her little pouty-face emoji is the preface to me imagining her alone in that sketchy building, with all those delinquents just down the hall.

  I need to make sure she’s okay. Above all else, she’s Day’s daughter and I have to protect her. Her safety is more important than any of the fooling around we’ve done. I know I’d never be able to live with myself if something happened to her.

  And these thoughts are the excuse prompting my response.

  Me: I’ll come over after work. Like 9ish

  Tracien: Yay! Bring cupcakes pleaseeeee

  I cover my face with my hands and groan into them. Partly because I can’t believe I’m still doing this, but also because I’m fucking excited and it makes less sense than anything else in my life ever has.

  Leaving the office an hour later, I go home and change. Then I pace around my bedroom for thirty minutes, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

  God dammit. She’s too young for you.

  And she’s Damien’s daughter. That should be point number one.

  I’ve never really given a fuck what people think about me. But Damien has always been the exception to all my rules, and I can’t hurt him. Whether she’s eighteen or my same goddamn age, she’s his kid. And it’s wrong.

  And I need to stop.

  And I get in my car. And I drive to her apartment.

  Because I’ve never been all that good at talking myself out of things.

  Hopping out, I grab the little package I picked up on my way home from work before I forget it, then make my way to her building.

  This time the downstairs door is locked, which is good, since it should be. I try pressing the button for her apartment, and it obviously doesn’t work, which I could’ve told you just from looking at it. I pull my phone out of my pocket to call Traci, but before I can the door buzzes.

  I squint at it, tugging it open before it stops. Looking up, I see Traci hanging out her window on the third floor, waving at me.

  “Hi!” She chirps, all smiling and carefree and beautiful, black hair hanging around her face, framing her youth and beauty.

  I force myself to stop staring before it becomes anymore embarrassing.

  “It’s like a ghetto Romeo and Juliet,” Traci smirks at me from a few floors up, and I give her one of my scathing looks that she seems completely immune to.

  In fact, she seems to like them because she giggles and disappears back inside her apartment, leaving me entering her building and climbing the stairs, all the while scolding myself for doing something I desperately want to do.

  The halls are surprisingly quiet tonight. No one’s hanging around outside giving me dirty looks as I wander over to Traci’s door. I knock and take a deep breath, preparing myself for her. I wasn’t aware I’d ever need to prepare myself for my best friend’s daughter, but as we now know, life is having a little fun with me.

  Which becomes apparent when she answers the door in some gray sweatpants and a tight black crop top that shows off her flat stomach and hourglass figure. She even has a piercing in her belly button.

  I know I’ve seen it a million times before, but fight now it looks new. And special.

  And sexy.

  “I’m glad you came,” Traci purrs, wasting no time grabbing me by the arm and tugging me inside her apartment, closing and locking the door behind me.

  “I really just wanted to make sure you were safe, I mutter, fooling literally no one with my stupid words.

  It makes her roll her eyes. “Whatever you say, Lazarus. You want a drink?”

  I think for a moment. “Do you have any liquor? I mean, you’re eighteen so how would you?”

  I’m not sure why I’m taunting her, but my condescending tone works because she narrows an annoyed gaze at me then brushes past, opening her fridge to reveal a whole slew of alcoholic drinks. Maybe this should be alarming, but I’m too busy staring at her tits in that tight fucking top to worry about the contents of her refrigerator.

  The look of her nipples is ingrained in my mind. As is the feel of them on my chest. The taste of them between my lips.

  I force myself to glance inside the open fridge and croak, “I’ll have a beer.”

  She smiles at me then grabs a bottle of Dos Equis, removing the top and taking a swig before handing it to me. I bring the bottle to my lips and gulp at it, before mumbling a sarcastic thank you.

  “I ordered takeout Cuban for dinner, and I got extra if you’re hungry,” she says, sweetly, if not partially detached. I can’t place my finger on it, but I think maybe she’s already a little drunk or something.

  I’ve never known Traci to drink all that much. Damien told me years ago that she takes medication for anxiety, so I’m not sure if that comes into play. Just another thing I never really thought much about until right now.

  “Oh yea.” I remember the package in my hand. “I brought you these.”

  She looks up as I toss the pack of Hostess cupcakes at her. She catches them and grins so wide I think her mouth is going to break her face in half.

  “Thank you,” the words come out quiet and subtly appreciative, flooding warmth into my stomach.

  I like making her happy.

  Cringe. Stop it.

  “Are you hungry?” She raises her brows at me in a questioning manner.

  My first instinct is to say no, even though I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I am in fact hungry. It was sweet of her to order extra food for me. I’m thrown off by it, which apparently makes me want to resist.

  I think she knows I’m about to say no thank you, so she pops her hip out and says, “Just eat something, Lazarus. Don’t be a pain in the ass, please.”

  I’m stunned, and again, I don’t know why.

  Traci is one of the two people who talk to me like this. But now that I’m seeing her as an adult, it feels different when she calls me out.

  It intrigues me. It makes me like her more.

  In case we haven’t picked up on it, I’m not really into women who are doormats. I like a girl to challenge me, though I’m a hypocrite, because I never let them get close enough to do it.

  But Traci is close enough. She’s closer than I ever thought she would be.

  I guess it’s all these crazy thoughts that have me nodding my head robotically, watching on as she fixes me a plate of arroz con pollo and sweet plantains.

  My favorite. Though I suppose she would know that, since we’ve eaten this food together for years.

  It’s strange, but I’m seeing all these details with fresh eyes now that we’ve hooked up. Before she was just Day’s kid. A quiet symptom of my lifelong brotherhood with him.

  And now… Well, I have no clue what she is now.

  She’s Traci. My Little Trick. The eighteen-year-old who gets my dick harder than any grown-ass adult has in a long while.

  “Come on,” she chirps, distracting me from all the troublesome shit meandering around in my brain like it’s okay for it to be there. “Let’s eat in the living room. I’m binge-watching Schitt’s Creek.”

  Oh my God, I love that show.

  Okay, calm down. It’s totally fine to like the same shows as other people. It doesn’t mean you’re connected in any way, other than having a preference for great television. Which is exactly what Schitt’s Creek is. It’s fucking exceptional.

  Traci brings our plates to her living room and places them on a coffee table in front of her couch, which is so low that when I sit down on it ,I almost knee myself in the face.

  Seemingly oblivious to my presence, she cuddles up on the couch and curls her legs under herself, holding her plate and picking at plantains while she un-pauses the show, immediately chuckling.

&n
bsp; I squint at her. “Are you alright?”

  “Yea,” she mumbles, peeking at me as she scoops some rice into her mouth. “Why?”

  I’m at a loss, so I just shrug and take a bite of my food, turning to the television.

  We end up sitting quietly for a while, just enjoying our food and the excellent TV show, laughing occasionally at the bizarre things Moira says, or how extra David is. She’s only on season three, and I choose not to admit that I’ve already seen the entire series, even the finale. I don’t want to spoil anything for her, because she seems highly invested in the story.

  Once we finish our food, she brings our plates to the kitchen and returns with a little device in her hand. I have little time to process what she’s doing before she plops down on the couch next to me. I mean, right next to me. Almost on my lap.

  I’m struggling to pay attention to the TV and not what she’s doing, because I don’t want to seem like I care. But then her fingers wind up at the nape of my neck, grazing in my hair, and it feels oh-so-good.

  Peeking over at her, I now recognize what she’s holding.

  She brings it up to her lips, but before hitting it she glances at me. “You want some?

  ”I shake my head slowly and she shrugs, taking a pull of the weed from her pen, holding it in, then releasing the familiar pungent smoke into the air.

  I didn’t know she smoked. Not that I really care, because in this day and age, who doesn’t smoke? Damien and I do it all the time at the end of a long night, of work or partying, or even the gym.

  Still, it’s peculiar to see Traci doing it. Another thing that presents her as an adult, not little Tracien Wright, the girl whose mother used to braid her hair in pigtails and sing stupid nineties love songs to her when she was crying.