To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  These are all just reasons why I need to find him. Spoken from my recent experiences with horrible awful shit and dealing with it in a relatively healthy way, I can say with certainty that him avoiding human contact will only work for so long.

  He needs to speak to someone. And really, I’m the only one who will understand him right now.

  I throw the comforter off me - I had to burrow myself underneath it since the air conditioning never stops in this place and it’s colder than a polar bear’s pussy - and swing out of bed, ready to go try that door in the east wing again. But before I can, I hear something.

  For a moment I think I imagined it, holding my breath to listen closer.

  There it is again.

  It sounds like a scream. Or more like a roar… A guttural cry, like you’d expect from a monster or beast in extreme pain and agony. It’s not a happy sound.

  Before I can react, or even process what I just heard, there’s a crash. Loud. So loud that it rattles my door, even though it doesn’t sound like it’s happening anywhere near my room. Noise certainly carries in this house, but it’s alarming to me that whatever is crashing is shaking the foundation of the whole place.

  Sighing, I rub my eyes with my fingers.

  Oh, Lazarus…

  I don’t even need to investigate to determine that the ruckus is coming from him. Wherever he is, in his bedroom, or some miscellaneous room somewhere that no one else frequents, he’s having a major freakout.

  I wish he would come to me, instead of screaming and smashing corners of his house by himself.

  I walk slowly to my bedroom door and open it a crack, peeking out into the dark hallway.

  Another scream makes me jump. The simultaneous sounds of things being flung and thrown all over the place are jarring. He’s making a mess.

  I feel bad for the cleaning ladies.

  Bravery is lacking, so rather than heading out into the war zone to find him, I turn and scurry back to my bed, crawling in and nestling all the way under the covers. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and block it out, pleading with my brain to shut down before painful memories take me over.

  My heart is hurting, too. Just like his.

  I miss him, too. And I miss her. I miss them both so badly, it’s hard to breathe without them.

  Through the screams and crashing, I drift. Uneasy sleep washes over me like the waves of the nearby ocean.

  With the window down, my hand flows through the air, surfing the waves being made as our car speeds across the bridge.

  One of Mom’s favorite nineties songs plays on the radio as we drive, a man’s voice singing about your eyes. I glance up to the front of the vehicle and smile at my parents’ hands, clasped together over the center console.

  It’s their nine-year anniversary, and we’re driving down to Key West, which is where they were married. To celebrate and see my Grandpas, I assume so they can watch me while Mom and Dad have alone time.

  They like their alone time, especially on an anniversary.

  We drive over the teal ocean water for a mile, on a long stretch of highway, and the entire time my hand rides the breeze, fighting the force that pushes against it.

  It’s freeing. I like to feel free.

  Once we’re over the bridge, the drive gets more lively. Through each Key, we pass different shops and landmarks my parents love to rave about.

  “Oh my God, babe, that’s where we got those crazy Pina coladas, remember?” Mom squeals, tugging Dad’s hand over and over while he chuckles.

  “I do. You and Lazarus got sloshed,” his voice rumbles as he shakes his head, though he looks anything but displeased by this memory. “Good thing I could drive.”

  “I’m gonna text him a picture,” Mom says and digs her phone out of her purse, snapping a photo of this tiny stand on the right, Dad slowing down a bit so she can get it.

  Mom immediately starts typing on her phone, giggling and holding it up so Dad can see whatever she wrote. To which Dad laughs in return.

  I want to ask what’s so funny, but I’m sure it’s an adult joke I wouldn’t understand, like what sloshed means, and why the Pina coladas made Mom and Lazarus that way.

  Plus, it’s always like this. Mom and Dad and Lazarus. Even when he’s not around he is, because they talk about him nonstop. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get it.

  Lazarus is… Well, he’s unique, that’s for sure.

  He’s sort of creepy and quiet, and he has these scary eyes that look like they’re going to possess you if you stare into them for too long. But he’s my mom and dad’s best friend in the world. They’re practically family, and when he’s around the two of them he actually seems nice.

  Happy. Normal, maybe. Or as normal as he could ever be.

  I don’t mind feeling left out of their jokes. I like to be alone, anyway. I like quietly observing the world. It gives me a sense of power and thrill, knowing that my silent studiousness is an upper hand over people who talk nonstop.

  Listeners are the best people. That’s just a fact.

  Another forty-five minutes of Mom’s phone pinging, she and Dad snickering about their text conversation with Lazarus, we stop at a small crab-shack for some lunch. The place is practically empty and there’s sand on the floor, but I love it. I’m used to places like this, being from Miami.

  Land of sand and sun, palm trees and great food.

  I sit down in the seat next to my mom and she immediately wraps her arm around me, pulling me into her side and kissing my hair. I make a face as if I’m annoyed that she’s babying me, but she just laughs it off. We both know I don’t care. She’s my best friend in the world.

  Glancing across the table at my dad, he winks before picking up his menu.

  They’re the best parents in the world.

  “You like oysters, Tiny?” Dad says, brushing his golden hair out of his eyes.

  “Ew,” I cringe, scouring the menu for something fried.

  “They’re actually good,” he chuckles. “You eat them raw.” I give him a horrified face to which he grins wider. “Slurp ‘em back like this.” Then he makes this gross noise like he’s hocking a lougie and I almost throw up in my mouth.

  “Dad, that’s disgusting,” I murmur, though my smile is bright.

  “I don’t think oysters are your thing, Trace,” Mom steps in with an amused sigh. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Not ever,” I scrunch my nose at her.

  “You say that now, muffin, but some stuff grows on you,” Dad says. “One day you’ll wake up and see the world a bit differently. That’s what happens when you grow up.”

  He and Mom share a look, their smiles familiar, though I have no clue what they’re talking about.

  “And when that happens, I’ll be waiting there with a shotgun,” he goes on. “To murder any boys who come near you.”

  “Damien, way to ruin a nice fatherly moment of wisdom,” Mom laughs, shoving him from across the table, to which he chuckles in return.

  “You don’t even make sense,” I mutter to his comments.

  “Trust me, kiddo, someday you’ll meet someone who turns your world upside down, like your Mom did to me.” He smiles at Mom, and she smiles back, taking his left hand with hers. My eye catches on their wedding rings. “And you’ll see it all differently.”

  I shrug him off as the waiter comes up to take our order. I get a Shirley Temple and fried lobster tails, and we enjoy a nice family meal in this small, secluded little piece of heaven, as Mom calls it.

  And the whole time I think about what my dad said, about seeing things differently. I can’t imagine my life being any different than it is right now. But in all honestly, if I were to find someone who looks at me the way my father looks at my mother, or who makes me want to look at him the way she does in return, I can’t see that being anything but good.

  I wouldn’t mind seeing someone differently… As long as he sees me, too.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Traci

 
It’s official.

  I’ve been living in Lazarus Weston’s house for a month, and I still haven’t so much as peeped his face.

  He’s here. I know he is.

  All his cars are here, they never move, and not to mention I still hear him screaming and smashing things almost every night.

  As twisted as it sounds, it’s become something of a comfort to me. Hearing him having his breakdowns seems to stop me from having my own. It’s as if he’s taking on enough grief for the two of us, and just listening to his strangled cries and sorrowful tantrums gives solace to my broken heart.

  His painful soundtrack has become my lullaby.

  For the most part I’ve stayed in the house, though I moved my morning meditations to the backyard here. There’s more than enough space, minus the awesome foliage that mine has, which I miss. I’ve also been keeping busy helping Pete and Frankie with the event for Dad’s charity. I’m able to do most of it remotely, which is cool, but I will have to go down to Key West for the event itself, next month.

  Outside of that, I spend my days on the internet, researching things, like how to start a small business. I was thinking of enrolling in some online courses. Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  I’m not sure I have it in me without Dad around to scrutinize my every move when it comes to education, namely business education.

  Really, I just like going into Lazarus’s library. It’s massive and stocked with just about every book on running a business I’d ever need to teach myself. He also has a lot of fiction, which isn’t really a surprise. He’s a damn genius. Of course he’d be well read.

  I spent today I poking around every spare surface of the house, to see if I could locate my godfather. I know he’s around somewhere. I can sense him.

  But he never shows his face, and it’s driving me insane.

  I’m not even mad anymore. At first I was. For the first couple weeks, I was irritated that he refused to speak to me. After everything we’ve been through, I can’t even get so much as a hello… It’s offensive.

  But now that I’ve spent every night of the last month listening to him fall apart, over and over… I just want to see him.

  I want to touch him and hold him, and feel his heart beating beneath his warm skin.

  I want to know that he’s alive. I need that comfort right now, because I’m beginning to fear I may have lost him too. And if that happens, I’m sure I wouldn’t survive it.

  I pick at my food for a while in the living room, with the TV on, muted. Lazarus’s personal chef, Anton, started cooking for me, since apparently I’m the only person who eats in this house. He made me a delicious butternut squash ravioli with fried sage that I haven’t been able to enjoy because I can’t stop thinking.

  I came here to escape my loneliness, yet I’m as alone as ever. I can only keep myself so busy before my mind drifts, and it hurts too much when that happens.

  Maybe I should try to go see Merci tomorrow. I haven’t seen her since before I moved in, and while we text regularly, it might be time to visit my bestie. She’ll bring a little color back into this dull, gray wasteland I call a life.

  After dinner, I go upstairs and take a long bath. I soak in the clawfoot tub for a while, surrounded by the smell of jasmine and chamomile from these fancy bath salts I found, reading some romance novel that makes me scoff more than swoon.

  Because love like that doesn’t truly exist. It doesn’t conquer all, not for me, anyway.

  Maybe my heart is just too cynical.

  When I finally drag my pruny ass out of the bath, I’m ready to crash. I pull on one of my Dad’s sweatshirts, one of the few things of his I brought with me because it’s soft and it still smells like him, and crawl into bed. With all the lights out, not even any moonlight to be seen from outside the windows, the eerie darkness in this bedroom looms.

  As I lie there, I wait anxiously for the nightly sounds of Lazarus losing his mind. I listen for screams and breaking and pain noises, but they don’t come.

  The house is silent… Unnerving.

  My eyelids droop as sleep overtakes me until something jolts them open. I can’t tell how long I was out, but it’s still just as dark outside the windows.

  And now I can see gray eyes, shining at me.

  At first I think I’m dreaming, because I’ve certainly had this one before. Yet the more I stare at the eyes, the more alive they look.

  Cloudy, overcast skies shimmer in the irises, accentuated by the lack of light. I blink a few times, reacquainting myself with my surroundings until I realize that more than just eyes are in here. There’s a whole shadowy figure, standing across the room.

  Sitting up a bit, my groggy mind registers the form, stock-still and staring at me. His broad chest moves up and down with breaths which seem aggrieved, and yet still so quiet. He barely moves or blinks; just stands and stares and breathes.

  “Lazarus?” I whisper into the dark, my voice almost unrecognizable to myself.

  But when his name leaves my lips, it seems to snap him out of his trance, and he slowly steps away from the door, closer to my bed. As he approaches, I know with certainty this isn’t a dream. I can already smell him, awakening my senses. He still smells just as delicious as always, like the woods and spice and earth; camping and ghost stories around a fire.

  He stops at the end of the bed, and blinks down at me, saying nothing. He’s so tall, so large, wearing only a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his muscular arms covered in tattoos that make him look dangerously sexy. Like he could snap me in two if he wanted.

  I almost want him to.

  Seeing him again thrills me. It’s been so fucking long… So many days of waiting in impatient wondering, like being in limbo.

  And now he’s here. Still refusing to speak, but at least I see him.

  Maybe. I could be hallucinating.

  “Where have you been?” I can’t help but whisper as I gape up at his face, unable to hide the hurt in my tone.

  He blinks slowly, and his head shakes a bit. It’s barely a movement, but a strand of black hair falls in his eyes and I want so badly to brush it away with my fingers.

  As if reading my mind, or possibly just sharing my desire to be close again, he climbs onto the bed, mattress dipping beneath the weight of his large frame. He crawls over and doesn’t stop when he reaches me. Instead, he moves over me and releases a heavy breath, resting his head on my chest as his big body blankets mine.

  My heart expands behind my ribs like a balloon. This feels too good to be true. I can’t possibly comprehend that he’s here now, and I’m holding his beautiful head, stroking his silky hair while he breathes soft breaths and surrounds my waist with his arms.

  “I missed you…” I whimper, inhaling him. He shudders, squeezing me harder, still refusing to speak a word.

  It scares me, but then he used to always do that, so I guess we’ve come full circle. I can’t even be worried about it. I’m just happy to have him back. It’s been way too long… So lonely.

  “I needed you,” a tear slips from my eye while I touch him everywhere; every surface of him I can reach.

  His hair, his neck, his shoulders, back, sides, arms. He’s real, and he’s here, and I want him to glue my heart back together like only he can.

  He lifts his head and shines those gray eyes at me, lips parted but no words leaving them.

  “Lazarus…” my voice cracks.

  I feel him shaking, his body trembling just like mine, in sadness and relief; pain and pleasure, coldness and warmth. So many contradicting things, I can’t tell if we’re hurting each other or giving each other life.

  My hands slide up to his jaw and I hold it, holding him, treasuring the feel of him again; his stubble overgrown, eyes so damn tired and yet glimmering for me and me alone. Without even thinking, my body acting solely on need, I tug his mouth to mine. He resists, shaking his head, eyes closing while he bites his lip.

  “Please, baby,” my lips quiver out of breath, needing h
im detrimentally after all this time.

  He’s still the only thing I need to keep going, and I just want what we had. Something.

  “I need you,” I whisper over his lips, and he lets out a soft hum.

  He presses himself into me and I purr, spreading my legs wide to fit him in between. He’s hard as stone inside his pants, and the feeling of it at my center is almost more than I can bear, after many months of nothing at all.

  No contact, and no sex. He introduced me to a world of ecstasy then ripped it all away, and I’ve been aching for him this whole time, regardless of how badly I tried not to want it. Especially after losing Dad…

  It felt like a betrayal to continue lusting over his best friend, after all the heartache we endured because of it. But I can’t help myself; I’ve never been able to with Lazarus, that’s the problem.

  Fingers tangling in his hair, I yank his mouth to mine. “I want you inside me. Please…”

  He releases a raspy groan, hands sliding around to my front, ripping at my shirt while he breathes ragged over my parted lips. I’m crumbling apart with desire, and I think he’s really going to give into me, which is all I need.

  But then his movements stop out of nowhere, and he gasps a weakened sound, dropping his face to my chest again. I don’t know what happened, but he’s no longer rubbing himself between my thighs, and is just whimpering while tugging at my sweatshirt.

  Oh… The sweatshirt.

  He burrows his face in it and sniffs, and as bizarre as his silence is, the devastation in his movements cracks my heart wide open. His body tremors. It feels like he’s crying silently, sobbing almost, though nothing is coming out.

  He’s just gripping my shirt in his fists and rocking me. So I let him. I feel it, because I need to.

  I miss him too, Lazarus. My life isn’t the same without him, either.

  Then without warning, he jumps out of the bed and stalks away, sniffling as he goes, leaving my room and slamming the door hard behind him. I barely even have time to process that he left, let alone call out to him.