The Drazen World: The Lesson (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Milana Raziel

  "Kovac’s isn't part of the approved NCAA debauchery tour. What's up?"

  "Beau's going to Stanford. No need to dazzle him with the beauty of Philly in January. The dog-and-pony show is over."

  "So you bring him to this old gin joint? It's totally not your style."

  "You noticed my style? I'm flattered. Tell me about 'my style.'"

  "Brannigan's,” I said. “With awful, poppy Top 40 dance music; vapid, horny sorority girls; and a cloud of Cool Water and eau du frat boy hovering over the crowd. That's your style."

  Oh shit. Old Missy just came out to play.

  Jon clutched his chest and fake staggered. "You think so little of me. I'm wounded. Actually, the kinky sister's friend introduced me to Kovac’s and Big Mike."

  Did I piss him off, is he flirting, I don't know that charm, what did he just say, he's looking right into me nonono.

  "Kinky sister?" I managed to sputter. Does he somehow know? Does it say “I love bondage” on my forehead?

  "Actually, I have seven. The prissy one. The artsy one. The kinky one. The holy one. The earthy one. The missing one. And the bossy one. Yep. That's all of them." His eyes were twinkling, and a dimple came out to play as he used those sinfully long fingers to tick them off.

  "She's not really kinky. You're just joking, right?" I tried not to look like a kid caught shoplifting.

  "Nope. I'm pretty sure she's kinky. She used to get tied up naked by her ex, Deacon Bruce, in public. They called it performance art. Sounded like good, old-fashioned kink to me."

  He knows Master Deacon, which means he may know Lucius oh my god this is going off the rails get it together get control of this conversation think Corradi quit staring at those beautiful long fingers and thinking about them inside you

  "So what makes it kink? Why don't you think it's art? Thinking the artistic aspect is debased by the display of the naked human form is such an unenlightened attitude." Phew. Talk about art, Corradi. That's your safe place. It's all good now.

  His green eyes sparkled as he refused to break contact with mine. "He fucked her with audience participation. Pretty sure that makes it kink."

  JONATHAN

  I not only rendered that firecracker, Missy Corradi, speechless but now she's turning a beautiful shade of pink. The evening is looking up immensely.

  My senior year to date has been nothing but a cluster fuck. Last summer, dear old Dad pulled the plug on my plan to go to Wharton under the premise that I needed to be closer to the family. It was Stanford for grad school, or all my trusts would be pulled. I had spied on the various family accounts during my junior year. Something big was up with all the money shuffling, but as long as my lifestyle in Philly was fully funded, I didn't have the energy or interest to look into the family accounts any further. To my way of thinking, being the baby and only boy in a filthy rich, Irish Catholic family obligated me to be a self-absorbed, entitled asshole. But I've been wondering lately whether I should have been less entitled and more interested. It feels as if trouble is brewing.

  The next thing I knew, my sister Theresa wouldn't speak to me for most of the summer, and Fiona wouldn't stop. Stories of my "full and varied" social life made it back to California, thanks to the sorority gossip mill. Theresa got wind of it all, and to say that it did not meet with my sister's approval is an understatement.

  I only hooked up with girls who came looking for it—if they wanted to walk on the wild side, I was happy to oblige. After all, I was raised to respect a lady's wishes, and if it included leaving marks, all the better. Being the starting pitcher got me a lot of pussy and a lot of leeway with the administration, so things tended to escalate. It was all in good fun, and I always made sure the girl got off. It wasn’t my fault that they loved to brag about the marks they begged for.

  I took silence and discretion for granted in California. The rich and the bored that I ran with in L.A. had invented the first rule of Fight Club, and with the exception of Westonwood, gossip never had a real impact on my life. I assumed that it would be the same at an Ivy League school like Penn.

  I assumed wrong, and it bit me in the ass.

  Trust me when I say there's nothing more unsettling than your older sister opening pledge, informing you that she thinks you're definitely a dominant, probably a sadist, and instead of referring you to a therapist, she hooks you up with a mentor, a sadistic Dom who just happens to be teaching your senior seminar in manipulation of financial markets. Then she tells you to keep a lid on "that shit." This coming from a woman who was committed to a mental hospital for attempted murder and sundry public antics that would make rock stars blush, and was infamous for brazenly sharing her shit with the world. Coming from the notorious Fiona Drazen, that advice was rich.

  But she had a point. For whatever reason, I was on my father's radar, which was never a good place to be. The last thing I needed was my deviant father sticking his nose in my sex life again. So I approached my senior year decidedly warier. I took Fiona's advice, kept my dick in my pants, and struck up a friendship with said professor. I learned a lot about myself while sitting in this very bar, sharing a bottle of Irish and some of my deepest secrets.

  I was a sadistic motherfucker. I had no shame about that fact, but what I really craved was control over my lovers. I figured exercising some self-control would be a good start since my aforementioned dick now had a permanent residence in my pants for the foreseeable future. Not surprisingly, my fall semester was wholly uneventful. So much so, the highlight was Eddie harassing me about that fact. Losing his status as my wingman adversely affected the quality and quantity of pussy he could access. He was not pleased.

  We ended up at Kovac’s tonight because Beau was up front about his intentions to sign with Stanford and his loathing of noise and large crowds. He had questions about California, and Kovac’s seemed like the best place for a private discussion. Off campus and student free. Or so I thought. But sitting at the bar was a dark-eyed angel holding court, a badass in a motorcycle leather and Doc Martins with a cloud of black hair undulating down her back. It was only when she leveled her gaze at me that I realized said badass was Missy Corradi, the team tutor—and she was looking decidedly out of character. By that time, there was no backing out. No ducking out and heading to the tavern across the street. Not that I wanted to after a glimpse of what lurked under her work-week armor of ill-fitting khakis and button-downs. And that hair. I wanted to be the one to set it free from its bindings—just as it was in this moment—and spread it against crisp white sheets. How had she been under my nose for three years and I never hit that? I decided to just brazen it out.

  With a glance, Beau and I took the stools on either side of her. Mike was already pouring a not-so-wee dram of my favorite Irish from the secret stash—a fact that wasn't lost on Missy. It garnered me a curious look from her, but it wasn't enough to stop the lecture coming my way.

  "You do realize that sex in all its permutations has been depicted in art since people were drawing on cave walls. Just because it doesn't meet your heteronormative expectations doesn't make it any less artistic. In fact, non-mainstream sex practices have been depicted—"

  "And the artistic dialogue has been dominated by the male viewpoint for centuries. Blah blah blah glorification of subjugation blah blah blah don't forget the objectification of genitalia. I took the required semester of gender studies just like everyone else on this campus, Missy. I want to know what you think. Don't spew the departmental party line."

  She thought about it for a moment. "I think sex in art is beautiful. Regardless of who shapes the narrative." With that decidedly simplistic, non-PC answer, she ducked her head and looked up at me, almost daring me to continue the attack.

  Be careful what you wish for, beautiful. "Even if it's bestiality?"

  She didn't miss a beat. "Bestiality gave us some of the sexiest paintings in history. Leda and the Swan. Michelangelo's and da Vinci's Titian's Rape of Europa. There's something wrong with you if you reject their beaut
y based solely on the subject matter. And speaking of subject matter, weren't you and Beau here so you could talk about California? Don't change your plans on my account."

  BEAU

  I was sorry they stopped. Watching the two of them battle was kind of hot. Drazen is supposed to be one of the smartest players in college sports, but Missy took him apart in a minute. I'd love to have a girl look at me like that, full of challenge and fire, but to most, I'm just a big dumb jock, not worth the effort of a battle of wits. I've never been much for school, but when something intrigues or inspires me, I can manage my distractions and focus to the point of obsession. Baseball is one of those things. Sex, on the other hand, is a tool for finding that focus. I haven't been able to keep a steady girlfriend, thanks to my baseball obligations and my adventurous appetites, but any number of cheerleaders, prom princesses, and community college girls in western New York have been more than happy to help me “focus.”

  "So, Beau, why not Penn? And you can't cop out and use the weather as an excuse. Consider this my obligatory recruiting activity." Missy shifted on her stool and gave me her undivided attention.

  "Baseball. But it's more than just the offer. Their strategy and style of play suit my physical talents and the way I process information on the field. And they have a far better chance at a National Championship than Penn, especially with him leaving. He's the brains of this outfit." I nodded toward Jon, who tipped his glass to me.

  "What about your major? The rest of your life?"

  "Baseball is life. It's the one place where everything is in sync. On the field, I can keep the chaos at bay."

  Her level gaze told me she understood what I wasn't saying. "Fair enough. So tell me about your run-in with the delightful Eddie Milpas. I'm painfully aware of his 'lovely' way with people. Give me details that I can torture him with at a later date. What's with the Shelly reference?"

  "My given name is Dashiell Beaumont Warren. I’m one in a long line of Dashiells. My family always called me Beau so I wouldn't be confused with my cousin or uncle. It's the curse of having an old Scottish family. Eddie found out what the D stood for and wouldn't let it drop."

  "He's just jealous because he’s named after a sycophant from a 50s sit-com. Personally, I love your name. You should invent a cool, film noir story to go with it. The girls will eat it up." She gave my bicep a squeeze and turned her attention to Jon. Losing that attention was like feeling the sun go behind a cloud. "And what about you, Mr. Number After Your Name? Obviously, your family is mighty attached to it. What does the ‘S’ stand for, anyways? Smug?" Missy sipped on her bourbon and gave Jonathan a saucy look.

  "Seamus. What else would you expect from a respectable, traditional Irish Catholic family? I'll have you know that the litany of Drazens includes just about every popular Irish female name as well. The only one we're missing is ‘Meg,’ and that's because Margie threatened to beat the shit out of anyone who called her that." He paused to sip on his whiskey. "Don't think you're getting off so easy, woman. I'd bet my trust fund that Missy isn't short for Melissa. It's not the Italian Catholic way. Spill it."

  Drazen dropped his voice with his inquiry, and it was fascinating the way Missy reacted. She glanced down before she answered in what seemed more like an unspoken signal than a bid to stall for time.

  JONATHAN

  Yeah. I’m not playing fair. I dodged the rest of the answer, having no interest in discussing my morally flexible ancestors. Their legacy is still at work and far too close to the surface to make cute jokes about it. As a testament to that hereditary moral flexibility, I’d used "the voice" to confirm my suspicions. Missy had a connection to Lucius and it wasn’t a shared interest in financial markets. Her body language said that it was something far more interesting and personal. The look that came over her as she acquiesced was breathtaking.

  "You're right on all counts. Melissa isn't a saint's name, so it's a no-go for sure. My family was from a town near Rome, and my mom picked an old Imperial name, Messalina, to honor our family's connection to the center of the ancient world. She thought it sounded pretty. Dad didn't have the heart to tell her exactly who Messalina was—just that she ruled the world. Try getting through life named after a promiscuous Roman empress who was exiled for being a horny, treasonous bitch. So I became Missy." She gulped down some bourbon then whispered, "Please don't breathe a word, Drazen. It'll make my life hell, especially if Eddie finds out."

  "Your secrets are safe with me." Every one of them.

  She squirmed in her seat—fetchingly, I might add. Ignoring my budding sadistic tendencies, I switched to a safer topic. Her discomfort over the name confession was enough to satisfy me for the moment. "Art history and accounting? You'd be wasted running a gallery or babysitting temperamental artists. Though Eddie probably counts as OJT for the latter. What gives?"

  "Making sure I don't leave anything on the table, I guess. I max out my courses every semester. It's the only way I can secure my future and feed my soul at the same time. A glittering future is kind of pointless if you're dead inside. But it looks like I'm postponing it all because Columbia Law made me an offer I can't refuse. Can't turn down more free education, can you?" The way she looked into that bourbon glass made me think she was hoping to find a different answer there. "Honestly, I'd love to find a way to use the business and law to protect art, not sell it, but that's a stretch."

  "Five courses?! Every semester? That's amazing, and a little insane." How the hell has she survived such a punishing schedule for three years?

  "It's no harder than your schedule during the season." She shrugged and looked away, apparently discomfited by my open admiration.

  Why did I ever think of her as a frumpy, snippy little schoolmarm? She's got brass balls bigger than Margie's, and she looks like a Goth Snow White. Her Docs even have roses painted on them. I've had my head up my ass for far too long.

  "Why finance? Why not pro ball? Coach says you've got the goods," she said.

  She keeps steering the attention away from herself. I'll let it go—for now. "Family expectations. Only son. Blah blah blah. My sister has been doing the job for years, but she doesn't have the main qualification my father's looking for—a dick. So it's all on me." And I let my bitterness show. It felt good to drop the facade for a moment. She gave me one of her secrets, so I gave her one of mine. It was only fair.

  After that, I steered the conversation back to the original reason for ducking into Kovac’s—Beau's questions about California. As we talked, someone fed a handful of quarters into the jukebox. Missy lit up with the music, her body a conduit for the beat. Beau and I had invaded her personal space, knee to knee on either side of her. He managed to take custody of her chair back, draping his arm around her, but that only gave me one place to rest my hand—her thigh. Her unconscious swaying to the music was like a caress that only served to get my dick's attention. As long as the conversation flowed, we were a cozy little trio, relaxed and laughing. We spoke about anything and everything. School. Sports. Our insane families. Anything but the buzz of sexual tension that was slowly building between us.

  As we neared the end of our second round of drinks, I suggested a pop-up night club of sorts in the abandoned Metropolitan Opera House near Center City . It was definitely off the Penn social radar so no worries about prying eyes. . The main feature was some big deal, retro alternative/house DJ from Detroit. The mention of his name got a squeal from Missy. She was in. God. I just want this girl writhing against me. If it has to be at a makeshift club with competition in tow, so be it. Who am I kidding? I want her riding my cock—I'm not settling for some fake fucking on the dance floor.

  I took care of the tab, and we gathered our belongings to head out. Missy tried to get ready to brave the elements, but I snatched the black beret out of her hand and stuffed it in my coat pocket. No way was that wild, shiny mass of dark hair going to be tamed and tucked away on my watch. In that second, it was all I could do not to go completely feral, grab her by that hai
r, and drag her back to my cave. Instead, I gave her my hand, feeling like a wolf cloaked in a gentleman's manners.

  With the snow crunching under our feet, we approached my stripped G-Wagon double-parked at the tavern's door. In Philly, the combination of the Penn athletic complex parking sticker and California plates was the equivalent of diplomatic plates. A perk of being an entitled prick that I intended to exploit as long as possible—or at least until the spring thaw.

  It took some cajoling from both of us, but Missy finally jumped in and settled in on Beau's lap. Thanks to the close confines and gearshift, her head was on my shoulder. Thank God it was a short drive. All I could think about was that hair caressing my body as she lay across my lap, her ass turning a lovely shade of scarlet with each smack, and gulped down tears with each stroke. I was getting hard just thinking about it.

  MISSY

  It was my moment of truth: climb into Jon's ridiculous, vehicular ode to testosterone and see where the night took us, or bolt for the campus bus stop and make a beeline to my dingy, depressing suite in the freshman dorms. Not even the financial aid office had the gall to call it a perk and count it against my scholarship. After my upstairs neighbor set my former apartment building on fire with his makeshift meth lab, Coach forced the administration to nominally call me an RA, entitling me to reside in the dorm.