To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  Damien.

  Thank God.

  I mean, oh cool, he’s here. That’s sorta dope, I guess.

  While the fucker is distracted by Damien’s presence downstairs, I stand up quick and shove him backward, his wobbly ass toppling over like a drunk Weeble.

  I dart to the stairs and practically jump down them, brushing past Damien, grabbing his arm and tugging him out of this Hellhole before he gets dragged into the nonsense.

  “What’s going on?” He asks while we stumble to his car. “What happened?”

  I open his door and shove him inside, then dash to the passenger side, jumping in, ignoring the sounds of the Foster Prick Four shouting things at me from inside the house.

  “Go go go,” I huff breathlessly, slamming my door as Damien takes the hint and peels out of the driveway.

  He says nothing as he drives us to his house, speeding the entire way like we just robbed a bank. It makes me want to smile, but I don’t. I never do.

  When we arrive at his mansion of a home, in a massive gated community only about ten minutes from the shitty part of town - New York is so strange - he parks in his garage and kills the engine, turning to face me.

  “Tell me what he did to you,” he demands, his tone much less casual than normal, which makes me feel strange.

  “Nothing,” I rub my eyes. “Not yet, anyway. It doesn’t matter, just… Thanks. For letting me stay here.”

  He takes in a long breath and shakes his head. “Lazarus, it’s not right… What he does. You need to report him.”

  I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? I tried telling the social worker before. She basically told me to stop exaggerating.”

  Damien lets out a scoff of indignation that brings a warmth to my gut.

  “They don’t trust me. Because of…” My voice trails off and I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be legal in a couple years. I can make it.”

  Damien is quiet for a while, and I don’t really want to look at his face, in case he’s giving me a look similar to the one he gave me last week, when he found me at the gas station.

  I can’t take that right now. I’ll crumble.

  But eventually I turn my face and peek at his. He’s staring at me, shadowed from the lack of light, but his green eyes are still visibly sparkly. I hope he’s not realizing how much of a disaster I am…

  I don’t want to lose him as a friend. There, I admitted it.

  “I’m here for you, Lazarus,” he finally hums. I blink in shock. “I know you don’t need me to be, but I want to be. You’re stuck with me and guess what?”

  I swallow hard before whispering, “What?”

  “I’m not letting you go. I promise.” He gives me a comforting smile, and I can’t help but chuckle.

  “You’re a freak,” I grunt through my laughter, which makes him burst out loud. “What are you, the guy from Titanic or something? Don’t let go, Jack!”

  Now we’re both laughing so hard we’re snorting.

  “Never letting go, Rose,” he sighs, and I punch him in the gut.

  “I’m not the chick,” I growl. He just laughs harder.

  But I can’t stop smiling. Because for the first time in my life…

  I think I have a friend.

  And I’m never letting go, either.

  Chapter Forty

  Lazarus

  My vision ripples as I stagger through my living room.

  Scotch splashes from my glass all over the floor as I stumble around, no idea where I’m even walking or what I’m doing.

  I’m drunk as fuck. Again.

  I’ve been drinking myself into a stupor almost every night for the past two months. It’s the only way to stop the memories and flashbacks from assaulting my brain.

  During the day, I’m alright. I manage. I go to the office and work, praying each day that my best friend will come in. Or call me… Email. Text. Anything.

  He only communicates with me through our assistants. He won’t even speak directly Lana, for fuck’s sake. It kills me.

  Each day feels longer than the last, since Damien Wright showed up at my house and tried to kill me for sleeping with his daughter. And every day I wish he had. Because the pain of losing both of them is so much more than I can bear.

  I’ve always tried to prepare myself for pain, but when it comes to Damien, he smashes through all the shields and walls and protective guarding my heart has ever had. The loss of his friendship is very much real, present and gut-wrenching. It’s this guilt I have for what I did to him that’s been eating at me inside for two months like a flesh-eating bacteria.

  And then Traci…

  Jesus Christ, she fucking overdosed. And that was my fault, too.

  I’m a curse personified. An evil, wicked, soulless monster who destroys everyone who loves him. Anyone who gets too close is swept into my decaying darkness, chewing them up and spitting out their bones.

  I should’ve seen the signs. I’m the only person in the world who really knows Tracien other than Damien. I’ve known her all her life, and I was with her for weeks when Day wasn’t. I knew something was off with her, and I did nothing. I just sat by and let her get fucked up, watching her strip and get high and drunk without once stepping in, like the self-centered, egotistical fuck-face I am.

  No, that’s not true. I did do something. I fucked her. Literally.

  I was too busy sticking my dick in her to realize that she was calling out for help.

  I’ve never felt lower in my life than the night I saw her in the hospital.

  I wasn’t supposed to go, but I know people at the hospital who let me in after-hours, when I was sure she’d be sleeping. And sure enough, there was my tiny Little Trick, looking exhausted and burnt out, lying there with tubes in her arms, my best friend curled up on a chair by her bed.

  Seeing them like that was a pick-axe to the gut. I’m responsible. I ruined them both.

  And I’ve been alone ever since.

  Hence why I’ve taken to getting shitfaced at night. Exhibit A: me stammering about with more scotch in my bloodstream than actual blood at this point.

  The glass slips out of my fingers, smashing on the marble of my floor, and I don’t even acknowledge it. My place is trashed. The cleaning ladies only come twice a week, since I’ve never needed them more than that, but lately they’ve been pretty pissed off with the state of my home.

  Shards of glass, broken decor, holes in walls, bottles everywhere.

  I told you, it’s bad. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, but all I can think is that this is exactly.

  What.

  I.

  Deserve.

  My last conversation with Damien was over a month ago. He told me to stop calling him or he’d block me. I had no choice but to adhere to his wishes…

  Especially since he said we’re nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  The word echoes in my brain all the time, and the alcohol is usually the only thing that keeps it at bay, but lately even that hasn’t been working as well anymore.

  Bursting through the back door to my yard, I stumble over to the pool.

  Maybe I should just end it all…

  I’d be doing everyone a favor, I’m sure. I ruined Damien’s life. I ruined his daughter. Stole her innocence. Marked her and claimed her, only to leave her in battered pieces.

  I’m better off dead. End the curse once and for all.

  I collapse at the edge of my pool and cover my face with my hands, growling into them.

  I need Damien back. I need my best friend back.

  This can’t happen. I can’t let him get away.

  Despite my feelings for Traci, Damien is… he’s…

  “Ugh!” I roar and punch the cement beneath me, the pain that lances through my knuckles dulled from all the booze.

  I’m so confused. It doesn’t just feel like I lost my best friend. This is worse.r />
  It’s like I lost… More. He’s just… more.

  Fuzzy and hazy and broken, I tug my phone out of my pocket and try to focus my blurry vision on the screen as I pull up a message to Damien.

  I know he told me to stop calling him, but I haven’t sent so much as a text in weeks. I need to try him again. He can’t cut me out forever. We need to talk. He needs to know…

  What happened with Traci wasn’t just sex. It meant something.

  I think I love her. But I love him, too.

  I’m so fucking fucked up.

  My fingers type out a message slowly, the autocorrect taking over where my dexterity is lacking.

  Me: I love you

  Biting my lip, I press send, immediately regretting it.

  He’ll hate that message. I know him. It’s going to piss him off so bad, but maybe it’ll piss him off enough to get a response out of him. I don’t care what he says, but I just want him to talk to me.

  Minutes go by with no reply and my eyelids droop. It’s after midnight and I’m cocked. I know I shouldn’t pass out by the pool, because it’s a great way to get eaten alive by mosquitoes. Plus, it’s winter, so it gets a bit cooler at night. But I can barely summon the strength to drag my pathetic ass back inside.

  Rolling onto my side, the weight of my depression makes it hard to stand. And then my phone buzzes beside me and I startle.

  My nerves are rattle as I lift the phone, blinking at the screen.

  Day: Fuck you

  A laugh bubbles from my throat. It’s such a foreign sound, and feeling, it actually confuses me for a moment.

  I knew Damien would hate my text, and I’m not at all mistaking his response for playful, because I know it’s not. He fucking hates me.

  But at least I got him to respond. Progress.

  As much as I want to write back, I refuse to push my luck. If I wait until tomorrow to reply to him then he won’t be able to resist telling me to fuck off again.

  I know him, after all. I know him better than anyone.

  I somehow manage to get myself into the house right before it starts down-pouring, which is lucky. Then I find the bottle of scotch and drink until I pass out on my living room floor, clutching an empty bottle and murmuring nonsense.

  Lana just finished running through my schedule when some kind of commotion stirs on our floor.

  We share a look, both of us creeping to the door of my office and peering out into the hall to see what the hell is going on.

  My stomach flops out of my body onto my ten thousand dollar Oriental rug.

  Damien’s here.

  He’s walking past the reception desk on our floor, talking to his assistant, Bridget, while Javier and Valentina follow behind him like eager puppies. He’s a sight for sore eyes, not just for me, but clearly for everyone. He hasn’t been into the office since before everything went down, three months ago. And apparently the whole office is excited to see him.

  I swallow hard, my eyes darting to Lana, who’s staring up at me with a look of concern on her face.

  “Get back to work,” I grunt and turn, stalking to my desk.

  I refuse to acknowledge how she’s still looking at me before she leaves my office and goes back to hers. As soon as I know she’s gone, I suck in a deep breath, my face falling into my hands. There are so many emotions swirling inside me, I’d need years of therapy to identify them all. I can’t stop shaking. I feel like such a loser, but I can’t even think straight.

  Damien’s here, in the office. And I just know he won’t talk to me, or probably even look my way, which weighs me down in my expensive office chair.

  The most contact I’ve had with Damien recently are the nightly text messages. Each night for the past two weeks I’ve texted him either I love you, or I miss you. And he’s responded with either Fuck you, or You’re evil. Or the occasional I’m going to murder you.

  We haven’t spoken at all about what happened, and I’m dying to just hear his voice again. I want to talk to him, although the idea of doing so brings on a wave of dread, because I wouldn’t even know where to begin, despite having over three months to figure it out.

  I still don’t have the slightest clue what to say to Damien if given the chance. I suppose that’s why all I can seem to text is that I love and miss him, because those are the only two things I still know with absolute certainty.

  My knee bounces repeatedly under my desk as I watch the glass doors to my office, staring and waiting to see if Damien walks by again. Then my computer pings and I glance at the screen.

  It’s a reminder for the meeting I have with Javi and Val in fifteen minutes. The plan was for us to have the meeting, then Lana would brief Bridget, and Bridget would brief Damien. That’s what it’s come to. Everyone in our company is being forced to dance around Damien and my falling out. It causes a permanent unease in my stomach.

  But if Damien is here now, does this mean he’s coming to the meeting?

  I’m suddenly sweating like a whore in confession beneath my suit, tugging the collar away from my neck because I’m goddamn suffocating.

  All I want is to see Damien again, for more than just one second while he walks past my office. I want to speak to him. I want to apologize, again, more than the fifty thousand times I already did, until he forgives me.

  I don’t care if I have to spend the rest of my life apologizing. I will if he gives me the chance.

  But the thought of being in a meeting with him provides me extreme discomfort. I just know it’ll be the most awkward meeting of my life, and that includes meetings with Jerald after his daughter left me at the altar.

  Fuck. This is going to be excruciating.

  I grab my cell and text Lana, asking her if Damien is coming to the meeting. She takes longer than usual to respond, which tells me she’s not sure and is trying to find out. Eventually, only five minutes before our meeting is due to begin, she replies with one word.

  Lana: Yes

  Okay, well that really helps me. Thanks a bunch.

  I groan and dart into my bathroom, splashing some water on my face and fixing my hair. I look like shit, and I have for months now. I haven’t shaved in days and I’m sporting some serious stubble. There are circles under my eyes from the lack of sufficient sleep, the excessive drinking and just my endless sorrow in general.

  But I don’t have time to worry about any of that because the meeting is about to start, and I need to go.

  I leave my office, nervous and jittery, walking as slowly as possible to the conference room at the end of the hall. Passing Damien’s office on the way, I see that he’s not in there, which means he’s already in the conference room.

  Great. Ugh, what is he going to do?

  Will he yell at me? Will he tell me off? Or worse… will he ignore me?

  That’s the most likely possibility, and as much as it sucks to think about it, I’m just excited to be in the same room as him again. I can’t wait to see his face.

  We’ve never spent months apart before, not once in the history of our friendship. The longest we’ve ever been apart was his and Ophelia’s two-week honeymoon, but even then they called me just about every day and texted nonstop.

  My heart lurches so hard I almost fall over, but I shake it off as I push open the door to the conference room, pulling my mask on to convey my usual bored disinterest. I know it doesn’t work on Damien, but I have to act fine in front of these other people.

  My eyes find my best friend before anything else. He’s sitting in his usual seat, at one end of our long conference table, talking to Javi about the account we’re here to discuss. He doesn’t even look up as I enter the room, which is exactly what I expected, so I can’t be too upset. Though I’m momentarily plagued by the idea that we might go the rest of our lives like this.

  Ignoring each other. Working together, but never really talking, or spending any time together. Being business partners, and that’s it.

  It sounds like a waking nightmare. The only reason I
even wanted to be a part of this business was because of Damien. If it weren’t for him, I probably would’ve been an accountant or a CPA or something. I have no desire to run this business without my best friend. I don’t want us to be like strangers who work together.

  My cringing stays internal as I take my seat at the other end of the conference table and I immediately bury my face in my cell phone to distract from how awkward I feel. Everyone knows there’s some drama happening with Damien and me, but they don’t know the details. Thank God.

  But I’m sure they’ve been gossiping about us and what could have possibly caused this sort of feud after twenty-five years of friendship. Damien and I have never so much as raised our voices at each other before. We rarely ever fight, and when we do it’s just small, petty arguments that are resolved in two minutes. We definitely don’t do it in front of our employees.

  But this is a different ballgame. This is more than just a fight. Damien told me we’re not friends anymore, and that hurt more than anything that’s ever happened to me.

  More than all the beatings from Four.

  The devastation of Three.

  The starvation of Two.

  The disinterest of One.

  Or the betrayal of Birdie.

  Damien Wright put my heart back together when we were kids, and then he smashed it to bits three months ago.

  And I totally deserved it.

  As soon as Lana and Bridget get settled with their laptops, Javier starts talking about the account. He and Valentina are sitting next to each other, bouncing ideas back and forth, while Lana and Bridget sit on the other side of the table, typing away.

  And Damien and I remain silent.

  I try to focus on the meeting, I really do, but I just can’t stop watching my best friend. I’m not trying to be obvious, just casually peeking up at him from my phone screen every five seconds to see if he’ll look at me. I’m desperate to see his eyes lock on mine.

  I just want to see what they’ll look like. If they’ll radiate anger, or sadness, or betrayal. Or maybe, just maybe, forgiveness.

  Maybe he misses me, just a little.