RAPTURE: A NOVEL Read online

  RAPTURE

  A NOVEL

  N. N. Britt

  Copyright © 2019 by N. N. Britt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design by Wicked Good Book Covers

  Edited by Loredana Elsberry Schwartz at www.elfwerksediting.com and Megan McKeever

  Copyedited by R. C. Craig

  Proofreading by www.judysproofreading.com

  Due to strong language and sexual situations this book is intended for mature audience only.

  Created with Vellum

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  N. N. Britt

  For Mom

  "The path to paradise begins in hell."

  Dante Alighieri

  Contents

  1. Hazel

  2. Justice

  3. Hazel

  4. Justice

  5. Hazel

  6. Justice

  7. Hazel

  8. Justice

  9. Hazel

  10. Justice

  11. Justice

  12. Hazel

  13. Hazel

  14. Justice

  15. Hazel

  16. Justice

  17. Hazel

  18. Hazel

  19. Justice

  20. Hazel

  21. Hazel

  22. Justice

  23. Hazel

  24. Justice

  25. Hazel

  26. Hazel

  27. Hazel

  28. Justice

  29. Hazel

  30. Justice

  31. Hazel

  32. Justice

  33. Justice

  34. Hazel

  35. Hazel

  36. Justice

  37. Hazel

  38. Justice

  39. Hazel

  40. Justice

  41. Hazel

  42. Justice

  43. Hazel

  44. Justice

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1 Hazel

  I hate numbers.

  I hate how uniform and indisputable they are.

  I hate how they have taken over my once colorful life completely. How they’ve turned every neat stroke of baby blue into an ugly blob of infinite black. The black I’ve been waking up to for the past two years, one month, and twenty-six days.

  Guilt and hunger twist my stomach as I struggle with the stubborn luggage that doesn’t want to come out of the trunk of my Prius—a farewell present from Owen, my soon-to-be ex-husband on paper, although he hasn’t actually been a husband in over two years.

  Once the heavy bag makes it to the ground, I smooth my burning palms over the fabric of my winter coat and give myself a few seconds to process the view in front of me—a small private lake house hiding behind the multicolored line of trees, their wind-tortured tips desperate for the attention of afternoon sun. The golds and the reds up above, so typical of fall in Tahoe, look almost lost amidst the heavy gray clouds racing across the November sky.

  Agreeing to my friend Rayna’s house-sitting arrangement didn’t seem like a bad idea when she offered. It does now. Besides, she and her husband never needed a house sitter in Tahoe before.

  The blanket of dead leaves shielding the cold ground rustle beneath my boots as I shuffle my feet to the front door.

  Painful memories of the happy moments spent here with Owen cause my chest to stiffen.

  Life doesn’t end at twenty-six, does it?

  For some, like my son, River, who was diagnosed with congenital leukemia only two days after his birth, it ends at four.

  Here we go—numbers again.

  My fingers are numb, just like the rest of my body, when I thrust my hand into the pocket of my pea coat and fish for the key. As soon as I step inside, the faint smell of pumpkin traps me in a bubble of more memories. The time of my life before River. When things were simple. When it was only Rayna, Clay, Owen, and me. And our wild Tahoe weekends.

  The cabin looks exactly like it did years ago, unaffected by the storms in our lives. Its vintage rustic interior is warm and inviting. There are lots of carpets, artwork, crafts, and plenty of windows overlooking the lake, its glassy surface almost taking my breath away. But the hint of a feeling lasts only a fraction of a second.

  I drop the luggage and cross the living room, my eyes zeroing in on the glimmer of the stainless steel appliances peeking out from the kitchen. Walking over to the fridge, I pull the door open, only to find a package of turkey and a lonely can of tomato juice on the top shelf. My phone buzzes in my pocket when I’m searching for bread. And possibly wine or beer.

  "Hey, hon." Rayna’s voice is hesitant and somewhat uneasy on the line. "How was the drive?"

  "Long and boring." I walk back to the island with a stack of the paper plates I found in one of the cabinets. "How was your flight?"

  "Clay almost went crazy. Eleven hours on a plane." Rayna forces a laugh. I wish she hadn’t, though. Not for me. "Are you settling in okay?"

  "Yep. About to make a sandwich."

  "Oh God!" She gasps. "You’re not going to use the turkey in the fridge, are you? It’s been there since Labor Day. I told my cleaning lady to get some groceries for you. Her name is Ester and she usually comes on Thursdays or Fridays. She has her own key."

  "Okay, thanks." Looking around the spotless kitchen, I realize today is actually Friday. And if Ester was here earlier, she probably didn’t get any groceries because Rayna didn’t even know I was coming until I got in my car this morning and took off.

  I need to eat something, but the thought of going out to a store on my own sends a cold shiver down my spine. Part of me ached to escape L.A. because of the holiday crowds. People are overrated. Most people, anyway. "What’s your first stop?"

  "Paris."

  Owen and I never traveled farther than Arizona, where we went to see his family. "Send me some photos later?"

  "Of course." She pauses. "Clay told me you guys are calling it quits… Is it true? Did Owen file for divorce?"

  "It was bound to happen sooner or later." I lean against the kitchen island; my tired body is starting to fail me. Being trapped in a car on a lonely highway for eight hours will do that to you. "I guess it wasn’t meant to be." I can’t believe I’m saying this. Ten years ago, when Owen
crashed into my life, I didn’t think it was possible to fall for someone harder than I fell for him. But look where we are now. Instead of falling for each other even more, we’re just…falling apart.

  The doom of my divorce suddenly hits me hard, fast, and repeatedly. The shadow of my marriage has been slowly suffocating me from the inside out for over two years. We don’t do anything together anymore—we don’t have dinners, we don’t watch TV, we don’t even talk. Truth be told, I wasn’t surprised at all when Owen brought up the divorce. I’d thought about it too but didn’t have the heart to tell him. It’s been so long since he’s shown any affection that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be hugged, kissed, or simply touched.

  Not that I need or want any of that.

  "Hazel?" Rayna’s voice jolts me back to reality.

  "Sorry." I hold my breath as a painful spasm attacks my stomach.

  "I know you hate when I do this, but you need to start getting out. At the very least, do some shopping or get a haircut. You can’t spend the rest of your life locked up in your room. You’re twenty-six. Not sixty-six. You need a change. Please, just do it for me."

  After I tell her that I’ll try, we wrap up our phone conversation, I toss the expired turkey and tomato juice into the trash can, dispose of my coat and boots, and haul my luggage to the guest room. Being in this house by myself feels strange. Owen and I used to crash here almost every weekend. His parents hated the fact that he was dating an aspiring painter just as much as my parents hated the fact that I was dating the school’s biggest troublemaker. Who knew Owen would eventually settle down and make his dream of getting his real estate license come true?

  Part of me wants to turn around and run like a scared little girl, away from the memories, but part of me knows that running won’t make any difference. It’ll still hurt.

  I kneel in front of my luggage, unzip it, and absently look through my things. Seven years of marriage and four years of motherhood stuffed into a leather Kate Spade suitcase as if those parts of my life never existed. After setting aside some of my clothes and bathroom essentials, I pull out a stack of photos from the side pocket and study them one by one—the photos of my little boy, the photos Owen didn’t want to keep, the photos that used to decorate the walls of our Encino house. When tears start pricking my eyes, I put all the mementos away and head to the bathroom.

  Rayna may have done a shitty job of stocking up her kitchen, but she’s made sure there are enough beauty products to host a pageant. And while I try not to look at my reflection in the vanity mirror as I undress, my eyes stare anyway. Even though they don’t like what they see.

  It’s your own damn fault that Owen wants a divorce, Hazel. Look at you. Why should he care about you when you don’t?

  Shaking off the unsettling feeling, I turn on the water to fill up the tub, adding some vanilla oil from what Rayna left for me. I grab my hairbrush and run it through the strands of my once beautiful golden locks. After a few minutes of fighting the tangled mess, I give up. New hair isn’t going to make Owen change his mind. I don’t even want him to; it’s too late. Our marriage can’t be salvaged.

  Tossing the hairbrush aside, I carefully lower myself into the tub and rest my head against the ceramic wall in an attempt to relax, but my mind is still reeling from the long drive. Anxiety, fear, and an empty ache—all mixed into one weird, dull sensation filling the hollow parts of my heart isn’t letting go of me. All I can think of is River, about what he would look like today, what he would be wearing, what he would be eating for dinner, what he would be asking for for Christmas. Even the flowery scent of the body wash reminds me of the bubble baths I used to make for him.

  I’m not sure how much time passes before I finally snap out of my daze, the now lukewarm water almost reaching my mouth, and I can’t help but wonder how much time it would take for someone to discover my body if I were to drown while taking a nap.

  I hate being awake and sober.

  The second, more thorough, kitchen raid leaves me with one twelve-ounce can of Diet Coke. If I wanted to drown my sorrows, that’s not enough and definitely not the drink I’d choose. Frustrated and thirsty, I stomp back to the bedroom and pick out a pair of skinny jeans and a sweater from my suitcase. Does Rayna really think a haircut and some shopping will make a difference?

  Try it, Hazel?

  "Fine, you win," I tell myself after retrieving my tiny makeup bag. I haven’t opened it in ages. Not since before River’s funeral. What are the chances that the contents haven’t dried up or broken?

  Surprisingly, when I look inside, my eyeliner, mascara, and eyeshadow kit are still intact.

  I walk over to the bathroom and plant my feet in front of the vanity. The zombie staring back at me from the mirror is about to get a makeover.

  2 Justice

  Fame can be a two-faced bitch. More often so lately than back when I was in my twenties.

  Running my palm over my scruffy cheek, I drink in the crowd packing The Black Lagoon. I don’t hate shaving per se, but I do hate the fact that I have to do it religiously day after day when I’m on tour.

  Ditching the ritual for a few weeks feels good. Makes me feel…more human.

  "Back to the studio in January?" Tony, one of the bouncers working for Marvin, grins at me from his spot across the table, then shoves a handful of onion rings in his mouth.

  Marvin, the owner of the joint, went all out when I told him I was going to stop by to see my nephew, Jake’s, band. He called in extra security and loaded our table with every item on his menu. Not that it’s that big of a menu. The Black Lagoon is no Spago. Either way, I don’t have much of an appetite. I’m still on European time.

  "You know what they say. No rest for the wicked." I nod, watching Jake talk to his bandmates. Reminds me of my own first show here. Back when I somewhat worshipped my famous jerk of an uncle, Elijah, when his opinion about my music mattered to me, when my best friend, Chance, was still clean and sober. When we were merely a couple of local guys full of dreams, ready to kick ass, ready to rock ’n' roll. We had no clue our first EP would blow up the Billboard charts a few years later. We just wanted to play music. Dirty, loud, and unapologetic music.

  "You need a break, man," Tony says, shaking his head.

  Tonight he’s undercover, sporting a blue Dodgers jersey, jeans, and a pair of sneakers.

  TMZ rarely stalks me all the way to Tahoe, but since a leaked copy of my divorce papers is the hottest Twitter trend at the moment, having extra security by my side can never hurt.

  At the start of my career when I changed my last name, my publicist hired a few computer wizzes to clean up my presence on the net. The things money can buy. Elijah isn’t listed as my uncle anywhere. Not on my Wikipedia page, not in any of the fan clubs or socials. Press isn’t allowed to ask about my relation to the infamous Hale. Fuck that asshole and fuck The Gates of Hale legacy. I made it okay on my own.

  "It’s time to write another album, brother," I say, watching the crowd.

  It’s not that I disagree with Tony—after over a decade of nonstop touring, I could definitely use some rest. But the short breaks we’ve taken in between have always been deliberate, always coinciding with our longing to be back in the studio. It’s become as routine as brushing our teeth. The question is whether we need another album right now. We’ve got six of them. All platinum.

  Ready to turn my thoughts elsewhere, I take a sip of my beer that I’ve been nursing for almost ten minutes. Alcohol doesn’t have the same hold on me that it does on my soon-to-be ex-wife. Nikki has been to rehab more times than she’s done the red carpet. I consumed my fair share of booze and drugs in my twenties, but a sense of self-preservation kicked in after my first and only overdose. A wake-up call like never before. After that, the desire to keep getting fucked up dulled down on its own. I can still have a drink or two and be able to stop if needed, which makes me think that maybe I was never into that shit in the first place. Everyone in the band was doing it becau
se it was cool, because that’s what a bunch of dudes with tons of cash coming in do when they’re on tour.

  Play a show. Get fucked up. Bone some chicks. Pass out. Wake up. Repeat. Week after week. Year after year.

  Until someone slips.

  Chance was the one who slipped.

  Tony’s voice pulls me out of my reverie. "You’ve been on the road for two years now."

  "I’ll rest when I die," I mutter, relaxing on my bench.

  The booths weren’t here eighteen years ago. Marvin’s remodeled since then. The Black Lagoon isn’t simply a dive bar now, it’s a dive bar with class where rich assholes like me can hide out in so-called VIP sections. I laugh internally at Marvin’s idea of VIP. It’s just a fucking booth. And despite my pleas to not bring attention to my spot, he still put two extra bouncers nearby…in case anyone wants an autograph.

  Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I close my eyes and inhale the sharp smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sweat—the smell of live music. People are fools for thinking being in a rock band is glamorous. It’s anything but. The only glamorous thing about The Deviant is the posters. We’re bad motherfuckers in full gear, with our war paint and our stage costumes. Women all around the globe, and I suspect men too, want to lick us from head to toe. Sex appeal sells. And we’re going to keep selling it for as long as we can.