To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  “I know. I love you, too. I always will.” He pulls me closer until we’re pressed together. “Remember what I promised you when we were kids?”

  I nod, eyes drooping shut as his lips hover over mine. “You’re not letting go.”

  “I’ll never let go,” he hums then kisses me, soft and warm, filling me with so much good, I think for a moment he’s erased all the blackness from inside my tragic soul.

  Damien is my light in the darkness. He always has been.

  In the thirty seconds that our lips spend together, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like… If we were more.

  I wonder if I could be with him. If we could love each other in the open.

  Hold hands and smile at each other, laugh and kiss and be happy.

  Is there a reality where Damien Wright could be mine? Would it work? Could it…?

  But when he pulls away, he takes those fantasies with him.

  It’s just imagination. Pretend. Make believe.

  Damien Wright is too good for me. He deserves more from his life. He deserves a real partner, a love untainted and untarnished, like he had with Lia. And I can’t give him that.

  I’m broken and complex; scarred. A jagged edge to his smooth surface.

  I’m not sure if he’ll ever be in a place to find a real relationship again. I know no one will replace Lia in his world, but he could find another great love.

  But it won’t be with me. It’s not meant to happen that way.

  Damien opens his eyes and gazes at me for a moment, his forest-irises reflecting back at me the same doctored images I was just seeing. His lips part like he wants to say something…

  Something that might ruin us.

  So I sit up before he can, wincing and stumbling out of the bed. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up, then I’ll grab those Gatorades, your highness.”

  I shoot him a look over my shoulder, catching him sitting up and shaking off the feelings.

  He shows me a soft grin and nods. “Sounds good.”

  I wash up and slip on my boxers before heading down to the kitchen, where I chug a Gatorade standing in the open refrigerator. I wind up running into Traci down there. It’s super awkward because I’m barely dressed, and then Damien calls me from upstairs, making it seem insanely obvious to anyone with a pulse that something was happening. But hopefully she doesn’t think that.

  She’s just a kid, anyway. I’m sure she’s not suspecting that I did something I wasn’t supposed to do with her dad.

  When I come back up to Day’s room, he’s in the shower. And when I go to tell him goodnight, he lures me in, and I’m far too weak to say no to something so tempting.

  We stay in the shower until the water runs cold, and then I get dressed.

  And I go home, at four-thirty in the morning.

  Tonight was a revelation, for both of us. But it won’t happen again. It can’t.

  I have to be fine with that.

  Damien is my best friend in the world. He’s my family. The only person I have. I can’t ruin that by pushing for something that we both know would never work.

  Pain is just a part of life, after all. If you get ready for it, it’ll hurt less.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Damien

  It’s probably not safe to drive right now. Not in the state I’m in…

  I’m not drunk at all, though I wish I was. I’m not high on anything, though the thought definitely crossed my mind after that bullshit phone call from Ted Jennings.

  I’m completely sober, and yet I’m vibrating at such a high frequency, I can barely grip the steering wheel of my Benz with white knuckles.

  Lazarus fucking Weston. I knew the day I met him he would eventually cripple me in some way.

  It used to be because of how inherently fascinating I found him. And how purely essential he became to my existence after I met him in the hallway of our high school. All scrawny and pale, with huge gray eyes that reminded me of a cloudy sky right before it rains. Ready to take on the world with his furious fists and that perpetual scowl that no one had ever successfully flipped into a smile… Until me.

  And then, five years ago, I thought it would be by turning him from my best friend into my unexpected lover.

  Lazarus has always been exactly that for me. A brutal and brilliant hurricane, with the potential to cause so much damage, though all you want in the world is to watch it with curious eyes, and maybe get close enough to see if it’ll let you exist near it without it killing you.

  But it never happened. That night… That perfect, deeply unhealthy and yet somehow healing night, when we did what we really shouldn’t have, and it felt more right than any right thing I’ve ever done in my life… It stayed isolated.

  We agreed it was purely physical. A one-time thing, never to be discussed or repeated. And certainly not to contain any real meaning or change our lives in any way.

  I don’t believe it was meant to, but I can’t possibly fathom that this was why.

  Something seemed off to me, sure. Ever since the party, I’d been thinking about the ride home Lazarus gave Traci, and why he hadn’t volunteered to tell me where she was living, or made any comments about her new home, neighborhood, or building.

  Why I didn’t see him, and why I couldn’t get him on the phone for a full day after, though he kept responding to my text messages.

  I felt strange about the whole thing, even more so when I saw that pizza delivery to the apartment I deducted was Traci’s on our account. I know it seems idiotic to base any kind of questioning thoughts on a pizza delivery, but everything about it was just odd. How she used our account to order, which she’s never done before. How she used his card to pay. How she ordered the pizza that only him and I like - Hawaiian with bacon.

  It didn’t sit right with me, but I ignored it. Because I had no real reason to be suspicious, and it made no sense to even spend time thinking about it.

  But then Lazarus was a mess at dinner last night. A total train wreck. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that. He seemed like there was something eating at him, and he refused to talk to me about it. That on its own is weird, since we tell each other everything.

  Fuck my heart…

  So when Ted called me a few hours ago, confessing that some stripper at a sleazy club in Wynwood told him that my daughter, who’s apparently been working there, stripping, for weeks, has been leaving night after night with my business partner… My best friend, her fucking godfather… It froze time.

  Something felt sickeningly correct about his words. As if they weren’t the usual bullshit that asshole spouts for fun. He said Traci actually told this other stripper that Lazarus was her boyfriend.

  For one brief moment, my heart stopped beating, and I think I died inside.

  Twenty-five years flashed before my eyes like a broken slideshow, and the weight of this impending secret knowledge tightened its hands around my throat, strangling every last bit of life out of the husk formerly known as my body.

  Going to my daughter’s apartment, that small, cramped little shithole where she’s been residing - hiding, from me - I didn’t want to believe it. I would’ve done anything in the world to make it not true. I would have given up all my money, sold my earthly possessions and moved to a hut in the wilderness, just to know that my best fucking friend had more love and respect for me than that.

  And then I found his watch in her bedroom. His antique Rolex, the one he bought for himself when we signed our first client. The one he’s worn every single day since, except last night at dinner.

  Because he left it at my daughter’s apartment, after he fucked her.

  My baby girl, the best part of me… the only remaining part of my dead wife.

  Lazarus Weston fucked her. And he fucked my heart in the process.

  I don’t need confirmation from either of them. I don’t need the details of what they did, or how long they’ve been doing it, and I can’t even comprehend what Traci was trying to sa
y to me a few minutes ago while she was hyperventilating on the floor. I already know it’s true, in that broken, obliterated organ in my chest.

  My best friend screwed me, and then he screwed my daughter.

  And now I’m going to kill him.

  It won’t be easy. Even now, driving into his gated community, my hands are shaking so hard I can barely enter the code to get in. I’ve loved Lazarus Weston since I was fifteen and no, it wasn’t romantic, though there were times that I thought about it…

  Small, infrequent flashes in the timeline of our friendship, when my mind would trail off into a hazy, confusing reverie of what-ifs. Lingering touches, a zap in my stomach from that penetrating gaze…

  Or the way my body seemed to react to every single thing about him during those two times we fooled around. The way he resisted everyone else in the world, but gave himself to me, like a precious gift.

  I thought I wanted it for a split second. Even outside of that blip, he’s been mine for so long.

  And now it turns out it was all fake. He used me, and I feel like a fucking moron.

  I am a fucking moron. For letting him in, for believing in him. For trusting him.

  He was right. Pain always replaces joy eventually.

  He’s always fucking right. Convenient.

  Shaking my head as I pull into his driveway, I barely even shift into park before hopping out of the vehicle and storming up to his door. I ring the bell, jaw clenched, adrenaline jacked, and every ounce of willpower in me being used to keep from kicking the goddamn door down. And I wait for what feels like an eternity before the door finally opens and I see his face.

  His evil, beautiful, traitorous face.

  He doesn’t say a word, as if he knows exactly why I’m here, and for some reason that pisses me off even more. My vision turns the blood red of pure wrath as I swing my fist into my best friend’s face, sending him jolting back.

  But I’m not done.

  I lunge at him, rage commandeering my body, tackling him to the floor. He doesn’t fight me at all, just lies beneath me on the floor of his foyer as my hands circle his neck, thumbs pressing into his throat.

  Time stands still for a moment, while I consider if I can actually murder my best friend.

  Looking at Lazarus, I see the hard exterior of an intimidating man; that disguise he wears for everyone else in the world, with the muscles and the tattoos. Dark hair and slate in his eyes, glowering like he’s still that fourteen-year-old kid the world fucked over time and time again.

  But then I can’t help but remember the tender ways he touches, and kisses… The featherlight brushes of his fingers, and the fluttering of his dark eyelashes, and the way his lips shiver when he’s nervously awaiting…

  It’s all contradicting the anger; battling the need to end his existence before he has a chance to hurt me anymore.

  I remember so much about this man; so much that makes it impossible for me to truly hurt him. Which sucks because apparently for him it wasn’t that difficult a decision.

  What we did together… It was more than physical. Of course it was.

  It did mean something. I’m still not sure exactly what, but I need to know I wasn’t fooling myself. I’ve known him since we were kids, for God’s sake. I need to know he hasn’t been playing me this entire time.

  Indecision weights on me, my hands tightly gripping his throat, while certainly not tight enough to cut off his breathing completely. I want to, but I can’t, and the anger inside me over this fact rises until I’m seething.

  “You’re not doing it hard enough,” Lazarus has the nerve to criticize from beneath me.

  “Funny, I don’t remember that being a problem the last time I was on top of you.” My thumbs apply more pressure, but I just can’t make myself go harder.

  “Mmm so that’s what we’re doing then?” He croaks. “You want to fuck away your feelings again?”

  “Fuck you,” I hiss. “Don’t turn this around on me. This is your fucking fault.”

  Harder. Come on, just do it.

  “You’ll never kill me like that, Day.”

  “No shit, fuck face. I can’t fucking kill you.” Pressure builds behind my eye sockets, as sturdy as the force behind my thumbs in my best friend’s windpipe.

  “Why not?” His tone is accusing.

  “Because I still love you, asshole.” My voice almost cracks on that one.

  “Well, don’t,” he growls, gray eyes glassy and shooting fury right back up at me. “Press fucking harder and kill me. Stop loving me and kill me, Damien Wright. You and I both know I was never supposed to live this long so just dig your fucking fingers in harder and end it.”

  “Don’t do this to me,” I say in an almost whimper. “Why the fuck are you doing this to me?”

  “All I ever wanted was to make you happy…” he breathes ragged, slicing me deep. “But I fucked up. I fucking fucked up and I ruined us, and now… I need you to kill me. Please.”

  My head shakes over and over as his eyes squeeze shut. I can’t hurt him, physically or emotionally, not the way he hurt me. I desperately want to make him feel what’s roaring inside me, but my body isn’t cooperating.

  “Do it, Damien!” He shouts through a cough.

  My jaw grinds in fucking agony as he lifts his head enough to bash it on the floor under him, his fists doing the same.

  I keep shaking my head no as he screams.

  “Do it! Kill me kill me kill… me…” His snarls turn to sniffles, face contorting into anguish that matches the look on my own. I chomp the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “Please, just… kill me. Please.”

  “No!” I roll off of him with a roar and fall onto my back, covering my face with my hands.

  Tears are pushing uncontrollably from behind my eyes and I can’t hide it. I don’t understand what I’m feeling. This is all so confusing, and what’s worse, Lazarus is shaking beside me, breaking the fuck down.

  I’ve only seen him cry twice in my whole life.

  Once when I told him that my wife, his other best friend, had only days left on this Earth…

  And the first when we were in high school.

  We’d only known each other for a few months, and he was really resisting our friendship at all costs. I knew he didn’t want to need anyone, and I was fine with it. But I’d still been driving him to and from school every day in hopes that he would eventually find a friend in me, rather than just another person who didn’t really see him.

  That morning when I’d shown up at his house, he wasn’t there. I couldn’t get him on the phone, and I knew I was going to be late if I kept waiting, but something in my gut told me I needed to find him.

  So I drove around for a while until eventually I saw him at a nearby gas station, looking like shit. He was all dirty, wearing his ratty sweats and a hoodie that he’d obviously slept in, and fucking socks. No shoes whatsoever.

  He had black circles under his eyes, like he’d barely slept, and was inside the gas station trying to convince the attendant to let him use their bathroom.

  I’m no pussy or anything, but I swear to God, seeing him like that had me almost bursting into tears. I knew he would sooner die than need anyone’s help, so I played it off like I was stopping for gas and just happened to see him. Then I made a joke about him smelling like shit and talked him into coming to my place to take a shower and change.

  The second he sat down in my car, he crumbled completely. He told me all about his foster father, the drunk waste of human life who frequently came into his room at night, either to beat him or do God knows what. He told me he’d been able to escape it last night by running out and sleeping in the woods.

  In New York, in fucking October. My heart was bleeding for him.

  My new friend Lazarus broke into silent sobs in front of me, and I think I fell in love with him that day. Not that kind of love, maybe not all the way, but as mesmerized as I’d been by him before, after that I marveled at him. He was seriously the stro
ngest most badass person I’d ever met, and he was my age. It was like in his fourteen years of life, he’d already suffered more than any person could, or should, and I vowed that day to do anything in my power to help him.

  I was just a kid myself, but I’d been blessed with so much, and I was aware of that. I made it my mission to replace his pain with love, hoping that maybe in return he’d give me the real love and friendship I’d always been missing.

  Which was exactly what he did.

  I thought we could make it last forever. But now, lying on the floor of his mansion while we both cry and gasp for air, I think we’re too broken.

  We made it twenty-five years without hurting each other. I suppose it had to end at some point.

  I just don’t understand why…

  “I can’t believe you ruined us,” I wipe my eyes as I sit up. “I don’t understand…”

  “Neither do I,” he huffs, arms covering his face.

  “You know, I never thought you deserved anything that happened to you, Lazarus,” my voice comes out steady, though my entire body is still shaking. “I never thought anyone as perfect as you could warrant that kind of pain. Until now.”

  His chest wobbles a little, and I hear him sniffing through tears, but I force myself to ignore it.

  Because this is his fault. I don’t care if it hurts. He needs to hurt. He brought this on himself.

  “I… I’m…” His voice stutters and it fucking demolishes every semblance of a heart I once had. “Damien… please…”

  My phone starts ringing in my pocket. The last thing I want to do is answer right now, but I yank it out anyway and glance at the screen.

  I don’t recognize the number, yet I still swipe to accept.

  “Damien Wright,” I grunt, exhausted as my fingers comb through my hair.

  “Mr. Wright?” A shaky, vaguely familiar female voice chirps in my ear. “It’s Merci… Traci’s best friend.”

  The fact that she’s calling me and the tone of her voice have me leaping to my feet. “What is it?”

  “She’s um… She overdosed, I think,” the girl sobs in my ear. “I just got home and found her passed out and… blue. Fucking Jesus... The ambulance is here now and they’re bringing her to the hospital.”