Born to burn

1. LET’S GO B.ITCH. __________________________

PHOENIX POV

•

Friday morning in South Rainier, Seattle – where the gutters always whisper back.

•

„F.uuuuck…” I groan, voice hoarse like I smoked a pack of razors last night. Another day in paradise. My head is pounding like something was trying to crawl out of it while I was sleeping. I don’t even open my eyes right away. What’s the point? Nothing changed overnight. I’m still trapped in this crypt of peeling paint and ghosts that like to breathe down your neck when it’s too quiet. I sit up, the cold floor under my feet and breathe like smoke in the air. No breakfast. No shower. Just a gulp of rusty tap water and out the window I go, quiet as hell, how else? The front door’s cursed. Every creak is an invitation, and I don’t feel like being someone’s punching bag before 8 a.m. My boots hit the alley. Wet cement and neon buzz from the liquor store across the street. Welcome to the edge of Seattle. South Rainier. The place people pretend doesn’t exist unless they want to point out what failure looks like. I pull my hood up. Make sure the knife’s still tucked in my boot. I don’t trust safety. Never have.

•

At school they call me “popular,” but they mean infamous. I walk down those halls and people watch me like I’m the wreck they can’t look away from. They want pieces of me, my body, my secrets, my silence. But friends? Real ones? No. Can’t afford that. Too many of them smile with crooked teeth. I sell what I have, even if it’s my body, but pills, mostly. Stolen from my stepmother’s stash when she’s too high to count. A few lines traded, a few favors earned. Sometimes I blow smoke. Sometimes I blow lines. Sometimes I blow lies and sometimes c.ocks… but always on my terms. Always with a price. You learn to make your own rules when the world gives you none.

•

After school let-out, I go right to the only one you could consider my friend. Donovan’s a dealer. His girl, Franchesca, runs the books. They’re not my friends, but they let me crash at their place when I need to disappear. I sit on their busted couch, fingers tapping a beat only I can hear. They pass a blunt. I take a hit. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to soften the edges. Just enough to not feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin. We talk trash. Laugh at stupid videos. Pretend the world isn’t drowning outside. They don’t ask questions. I don’t give answers.

•

Today is Friday, which means party and money. I show up like smoke. Tight white top. Tight black jeans. Steel in my spine. People stare. They always do. Half of them want me, and the other half want to be me, or maybe just survive like me. The music’s loud enough to bury thoughts, so I sip something cheap and pretend I don’t taste the rot. Lights strobe across sweat and sin. Someone offers a bump. I take it. Not because I need it. Because I can. Control. Always control. And inside my head? Constantly flowing thoughts. White lines, red flags, blackouts. But I don’t disappear. I stay present. And I know exactly who I am.

I am Phoenix, and I don’t break. I burn.

They see scars. I see maps. They see ruin. I see survival. And tomorrow? I’ll still be standing. Because no one gets to write my ending but me.

•

Anyway, shall we go to the party already? Sure. It’s a little past midnight, and the bass is thudding like a heartbeat on a bender, and the walls? Old brick and industrial grime, sweat along with the bodies grinding inside. This isn’t a real party. It’s a purge. Smoke in the air, someone’s cologne burning your throat, weed, sweet and lazy curling through it all. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be at home. But f.uck "supposed to." That place isn’t home. That place is a cage. This? This is freedom dipped in vice. Donovan’s already half-bent over the table, a fat roll of bills tucked behind his ear like it’s a decoration. He flashes that dealer grin when he sees me.

„Yo, look who crawled back.” Franchesca’s next to him, legs like damn art, resting across his lap, red nails glittering like wet glass.

„About time.” She purrs at me.

„Your pretty ass always shows up just when I need someone to raise the vibe.” I smirk and take the rolled-up hundred he offers. One bump. Then two. Sharp. Bitter. Like lightning in the throat. Just enough to slice the fog in my head and leave room for fire. My heart kicks faster. Music tastes sweeter. I drag my tongue across my teeth and look straight at Don.

„You holding out on the real s**t, or you being cute again?” He laughs and hands me a cup. Vodka, maybe. Gasoline, more likely. I drink it anyway. I’m not drunk. Not high. Just awake. The beat drops harder, and I don’t wait for permission. I move. The crowd’s thick, bodies brushing, but mine? Mine knows how to carve space.

Hips roll. Back arches. I drop low, one hand gripping the metal beam beside the speaker stack, the other trailing down my thigh as I start to move to the music like I own it, like it owes me. The room responds. Eyes find me. They always do. Some stare too long. Some whisper like I can’t hear them. She’s trouble. She’s too much. She’s so f.ucking hot. Good. Let them say it.

Because I don’t dance to impress. I dance to dominate. Donovan’s watching now. Leaned back, jaw slack, biting his knuckle like he’s trying not to groan. Franchesca raises an eyebrow, nudges him, but doesn’t stop watching me either. I bend forward, ass arched, jeans hugging every line, grinding like I mean it. A flick of my head my black-and-white hair catching light. I throw a look over my shoulder. Daring. Dangerous. Direct.

„Go on.” I say, eyes locked on Donovan, but loud enough for anyone close to hear.

„Stare harder. Maybe next time I’ll give you something to dream about.” That makes a few jaws drop. A few drinks spill. A few girls go quiet, suddenly unsure they’re the hottest thing in the room anymore. Spoiler, they’re not. I smile with all my teeth. Slow. Feral. Because in this moment, under this light, with this bass climbing up my spine? I’m not just the girl with scars anymore. I’m a f.ucking goddamn sin wrapped in skin. And for once? I like being watched. The beat kicks deeper. Filthier. Something slick with bass and old lust crawling through the room like heat. I see him leaning against the wall by the bar. Drink in one hand, the other half-curled like it’s already thinking about what he’d do if I gave him the chance. He’s one of Donovan’s friends. Not the usual dealers, more of a buyer. Older. Sharp jacket. Sharp jaw. And sharp eyes. They’re watching me like they know what I am and want a bite anyway. Perfect. I don’t ask. I don’t warn. I walk up, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him onto the dance floor like he’s mine, like he’s lucky I even touched him. He stumbles a little. Laughs. All cocky and curious.

„Didn’t peg you for the bold type.” He mutters near my ear, hot breath cutting through the smoke.

„Didn’t peg you for someone who could handle it.” I shoot back, dragging my nails along his chest as I turn, pressing back into him. Then I move. Low. Smooth. Controlled. I grind my big ass onto him like I mean it, like every sway of my hips is a threat and a promise wrapped in denim. I know exactly what I’m doing. I feel the way his body responds. All the ightening, twitching, getting harder as his hands are hovering like he wants to grab me, but knows better than to try. He’s breathing hard now.

„F.uck…” he mutters. I throw a look over my shoulder.

„You good, baby?” My lips curl into a smirk.

„G.oddamn, you’re dangerous.” I shrug, still grinding against his hard c.ock.

„So stop watching.” He doesn’t. He can’t. His hand brushes my hip lightly, like he’s testing if I’ll slap it away. I don’t. But I don’t encourage him either. Not yet. Because this is mine. This power. This control. This hunger he thinks he’s hiding and I’m feeding on it like smoke. When the song shifts into something darker, slower, dirtier?

He finally leans in, voice ragged, low, almost respectful. If I wasn’t grinding my ass against him, feeling his semi-hard average c**k between my ass cheeks, I might even believe it.

„How much,” he murmurs against my ear, „for something a little extra?” I stop dancing. Not slowly. Sudden. Sharp. I turn to face him. My eyes lock on his like a blade pressed against skin. He flinches, but he doesn’t back down and that earns him a half-smile. I reach up. Drag my thumb over his lip. Slow. Cruel. Then I whisper.

„Depends how quiet you are… and how clean your bills are.” He exhales like I just punched the air out of his lungs. I step back. Let the tension snap tight. Then I walk. Not fast and not shy. I let him watch me disappear into the back hallway like a f.ucking mirage in combat boots. The hallway hums like it knows what I’m about to do. We move past the crowd, heat and bass still pulsing like a second heart behind us. I find the side door. It’s old, barely hinged, marked "storage," but no one ever stores anything except regret back here. I push it open. Slip inside and he follows, of course, he does. It’s dark, but I don’t need light to own the space. My boots hit the concrete, my spine straightens and when the door clicks shut behind him, that’s when everything changes. I turn slowly. He’s standing there, nervous now. The mask cracked just enough. Money still clutched in his hand like it’s a lifeline, so I walk up and take it without a word. Tuck it into my bra like it belongs there. Then I shove him gently back into the cracked leather chair in the centre of the room.

“Sit.” I say, soft but sharp. He does. I straddle his lap without waiting. Knees on either side. Hands braced on the back of the chair. I ground against him once. Slow and heavy, just enough to watch his breath catch.

„That's what you wanted?” I murmur, right against his ear. He nods, throat bobbing. I let him look and let him feel as I roll my hips again. Slower this time. Letting the denim of my jeans drag over the hard c**k in his pants. His head tips back, and a groan slips out. His hands twitch at his sides.

„Don’t touch me.” I say coldly and he obeys as I keep moving, grinding. Lap dance with purpose, control, rhythm like a goddamn weapon. My hands press to his chest, slow and deliberate, and I watch him unravel. He’s shaking before I even open his jeans and slide down to my knees, smooth as smoke. His breath stutters and his hand finds the wall like he’s steadying himself against a wave that hasn’t hit yet. When my mouth wraps around him? He stops breathing and I keep eye contact, always. Eyes sharp, hungry, unforgiving. His moans are low, broken and I control the pace. My hands pin his hips, my tongue traces patterns he won’t forget and my throat swallows him like it was starving for it. I give him more than he paid for, but only because I choose to, because I like watching men break, beg and plead as they finally fall apart. They always do it with my name half-buried in a whisper, head thrown back like they're praying. This is power. When is it over? He’s trembling. Still trying to figure out what the hell just happened as I rise, wipe my mouth, adjust my shirt and look down at him like I own him, because for five minutes, I did.

„Thanks for the donation.” I say, smooth as silk laced with smoke, while I can’t speak. His hands are still shaking when I open the door and vanish like I was never there at all.

I step back out into the haze like nothing happened, like I didn’t just kneel and take that man’s pride down my throat for a crisp hundred and a moan he’ll never live down. Like I didn’t make him come so hard he forgot his last name. But Franchesca? That b***h always knows. She’s perched on the speaker like a f.ucking vulture in designer heels, joint between her lips, eyes glittering.

„Well, damn.” She calls over the bass.

„Did he survive?” I smirk.

„Physically? Sure. Spiritually? He might be missing pieces.” She snorts and slides off her perch.

„Donovan said his hands were shaking when he tried to zip up. Baby boy looked like he saw God and forgot how to walk.”

“Man looked like he came outta confession and straight into cardiac arrest.” Donovan adds, strolling up with two drinks and zero shame.

„Respect, though. Clean work.” I take the drink. No idea what it is, but it doesn’t matter.

„Wasn’t about the money.” I say, sipping.

“I just liked the way he begged.” Franchesca cackles like she’s high on more than weed.

„That’s my bitch.” And then the three of us drift back to the floor, smoke weaving between us like it knows it doesn’t belong anywhere else. The night gets hotter, the music dirtier, the money better. We work the room like wolves in silk. Donovan slings fast pills, powder, baggies of neon-dusted high and people line up to pay. Franchesca keeps watch, gorgeous and dangerous, nails like switchblades. I move between them, the in-between, the fix-it girl. I charm, I tease, I collect cash and slip it into Franchesca’s thigh holster like we’re playing our own game of rich b***h roulette. By 3 a.m., the three of us are buzzing. High off the cash, high off the power and just enough coke to keep the edges sharp. Some asshole in a varsity jacket tries to grab my waist. I slap his hand away hard enough to make his drink spill and Donovan doesn’t even flinch when he laughs.

„She bites, bro.” Franchesca? She just smiles and says…

„If you’re lucky.” We laugh and the boy looks pale. We’re not friends. Not really. But tonight, we’re a f*****g crew. No one questions us. No one crosses us. And me? I feel alive. The bad kind. The reckless kind. The kind that feels like biting glass and laughing with blood on your lips. Because for a little while, just for tonight, I’m not a broken girl in a broken house. I’m Phoenix. I’m everything they warned you about.

•

The night’s at its end as Donovan's car rolls to a stop at the end of my street, engine still rumbling like it doesn’t want to let me go. Neither does Donovan, if the way he glances over the seat is anything to go by.

„You good, girl?” He asks. Voice low. Concern, maybe. But not interference. He knows better.

„Always.” I nod once. Franchesca twists in the passenger seat, mascara smudged and still the hottest b***h on Earth. She blows me a kiss.

„If the world ends tomorrow, just know your mouth could’ve saved it.” I smirk.

„If the world ends tomorrow, I’m charging extra.” They laugh and then they’re gone.