The Drazen World: The Tryst (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Milana Raziel

  She was being so ugly about Missy, I saw red. God, I want to punch something. But Margie never panicked or showed emotion. Yet she was standing in front of me doing both. Bad shit was going down.

  "And by the way, if we weren't 'us,' I would tell you that you're lucky to have such a smart, hard-working, talented person in your life. But we're the Drazens and she is N.O.K.D. It won't end well. For her. For you." She looked at me hard, as if she was willing the words to sink in.

  When I didn’t respond, she continued. "Jon, it's not just the girl. Dad vowed to destroy the Chiltons after what happened at Westonwood—whatever it took. And it took a lot. I've been robbing Peter to pay Paul just to keep up appearances. Theresa can find money and follow money; I can stretch money. But you, dear brother, are the only one in the family with a talent for making money. I've seen your personal portfolio. I figure that if we don't do something now, there's maybe eighteen months before it all comes crashing down. Dad is willfully ignoring all of this. He's gotten a taste for vengeance and is consumed with protecting the family and our image. He's salivating for the next target." Something between a gasp and a sigh escaped her lips.

  I finally got past the veil of my anger and realized that Margie was bone-tired, desperate, and at the end of her rope. Dad had a talent for sucking everyone around him dry. A classic narcissist, but Margie refused to see it.

  "It's really bad, Jon. I need your help."

  My sister was a Chanel-clad Boudicca, always moving, thinking, working. Dispenser of wisdom wrapped in the disguise of sardonic one-liners. But for the first time, I really saw the miasma of sadness that clung to her. It hadn’t been there when I left for Penn.

  And with that, I realized that I needed to grow up and protect my family from my father. Margie had shielded us from the ugliness for all these years and never asked for anything. Ever. Even when she was living in New York. That had to change. I'd agree to manage portfolios and whatever else it took to give my sisters, especially Margie, peace of mind. The bubble I had been living in the past few months dissolved in the blink of an eye.

  I took a page from my Margie's playbook. It was time to be resolute and all business. "When are you due back in LA? Did you bring the paperwork to get me access? Go up to the office and I'll fire up some coffee, and we can get to work."

  Thus, without consciously realizing it, I terminated my contract with Missy. We met another time or two, but I found I was using my schedule and the new demands on my time as an excuse to avoid our weekend appointments. I couldn't be with her and maintain any sort of emotional distance anymore. Class became a bit awkward, but it was easiest to let her think indifference had killed "us." I didn't even give her the courtesy of telling her I wanted out.

  I'd be lying if I didn't admit that my sister's warnings were drifting through my head as I lay awake at night. Messalina/Missy/Lena. She was an extraordinary woman. There was no way I would let her and her dreams be crushed by the Drazen family machine. If I had to make her lose respect for me or even hate me to do it, protecting the life she was working so hard to build for herself was worth it to me. Putting my selfish desires above all else and fallout be damned was a Declan Drazen signature move. It wouldn’t be mine.

  MISSY

  Jon and I never went off the rails. There was no fight, no scandal, not even the hint of a disagreement. Although looking back, our dynamic changed a few weeks after New York. We went from things going extraordinarily well to over and done in the snap of a finger.

  It wasn't just the start of baseball season. Jon showed up in class one Tuesday with a Blackberry in his hand, and it was as if that thing sucked all the joy out of him. He became cold, distant, and aloof. Every spare minute prior to and after class, he had his nose in his Blackberry, tapping away and barking orders into his phone, presumably to some stockbroker. He transformed into a mogul before my eyes, and clearly there was no room in that world for me.

  Given my own insecurities, I lay awake, foolishly wondering whether I was to blame. The novelty wore off. I'm not good enough for his real life. Maybe I just wasn't that good a sub. I was just plain bad in bed. My mind raced through a thousand soul-crushing possibilities, but in the end, it boiled down to the fact that I was fooling myself all semester by thinking I could compartmentalize this fiasco. So much for that contract ensuring against emotional fallout. It just kept the turmoil and drama locked in my head and heart. And so much for keeping my heart out of it.

  I wasn't in the right head space to allow for logic. I wanted to wallow in emotion. But in all likelihood, our dissolution was probably just due to the fact that both of us had too much to do and not enough incentive to keep each other in our lives. We had entered into this arrangement recognizing that it would have a limited shelf-life and that it would end with our college careers. Little did we know that those college careers would consume us and shorten the fuse on an already doomed relationship. The fallout was just a month early. The fragile thing between us was killed by the crush of our hectic lives and the threat of our impending termination date.

  I really shouldn't even call it a relationship. It was a sexual services contract. We’d agreed that there would be no relationship. It was part of the deal, and I was trying to stick to it.

  But the words on the paper and the agreement we had forged didn't do their job. The simple fact was that the thing we’d had grew beyond the four corners of the document (as lawyers loved to say) in those few months. Jon was supposed to be a commanding distraction. The Saturday night scratch for my itch. The balm for my loneliness. I’d never imagined he would turn into a cause of it. His playboy charm, ridiculously broad definitions of aftercare and a Dom's responsibility, and disarming way about him weaseled their way into my psyche. He’d made me feel cherished and valued—and maybe even a little bit loved. Something I'd admit only in the rare moments I was brutally honest with myself. He taught me that I should ask for more in life. And I could get it.

  Sitting next to him in class twice a week was torture. He was there but not. And the space between us felt like miles. He was polite and always mannerly, but he was keeping me at arm's length. I did the same with him. Thank God our joint project had been submitted. We could barely be in the same room, let alone work together cooperatively.

  Thank God my schedule filled up quickly as well. I received word I had been accepted for the internship at Sotheby's, but it was bittersweet without Jon to share it with. Now that my acceptance at Columbia was confirmed and my scholarships were in place, Lucius drifted back into my life and took it upon himself to play life coach/school counselor/New York helicopter parent. We didn't rekindle our Dom-sub relationship though. I just wasn’t ready to go there again. I wasn't sure if I'd ever be ready to go there again. What I’d had with Jon made me realize that I wanted the whole package, not just the power exchange. But I found myself craving the endorphins that only a mix of pain and pleasure created for me, so I asked Lucius to make arrangements for me to become a service sub at his private club in New York after graduation.

  Since I was a glutton for punishment, I made a point of following the baseball team far more closely than I had in the past. I picked the perfect year to do it too, because they were on fire. Jon had truly thrown himself into the role of leader, and together, they fought their way into the finals of the College World Series. Campus was ablaze with baseball fever, and their hero was Jon. I was cheering right along with everyone else, knowing how much this meant to him. After this run was over, Jon was hanging up his cleats forever—not because he wanted to but because he had to.

  We got our score on the joint project in Professor Fabian's class on the last day of class. Not surprisingly to me, we scored the highest in the class with our commentary on class, gender, and sexuality in impressionism. Jon, however, had never been quite as sure of himself in the class or with the project. When it was handed back to us and he saw the ninety-five percent, the old Jon peeked out. He was so full of joy, he scooped me up and spun me around. It w
as like fireworks when he touched me. We reveled in our connection for a moment, then it vanished just as quickly as fireworks in the night sky.

  He left immediately after that class. They were playing the final series of games to determine the championship, and the games were right here in Philadelphia.

  Saturday was a make-or-break game. Penn was ahead three to two in the series, and this game could clinch the championship. Rather than watch in the dorms or any of my usual spots, including the field house with the rest of the department not actually at the game, I elected to watch it with Big Mike on the big-screen TV at Kovac’s. The one thing that hadn’t changed with all the inner turmoil I was going through was my affinity for the place. Mike could sense that there had been something between Jon and me and that whatever it was had fallen apart. But God love him, he never asked a single question and never offered a word of unsolicited advice. He just poured me a bourbon whenever I showed up and kept me company.

  But Saturday was different. Next to my glass was a small robin's-egg-blue box.

  "He asked me to give this to you. As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't look any better off than you, and I don't think this is a 'pay off.' Take that for what it's worth." Mike walked off to take care of a regular, leaving me with my curiosity and a blue box most women would die for.

  Naturally, I succumbed. There was a note on top. "Golubushka, it's time to set you free to find your dreams. They're waiting for you. J." Nestled in the downy soft cotton was a heavy silver bracelet with a single charm—a blue-eyed dove.

  Mike worked his way back down the bar, serving customers. When he stopped in front of me, I wordlessly handed him the bracelet and put out my right arm.

  As he put it on for me, he matter-of-factly stated, "A lot of thought went into this. The platinum with the sapphire eye is custom. It's a statement piece."

  "No offense, but what does a barkeep know about jewelry?" I knew full well that Mike was much more than just a bartender, but I wasn't about to let the chance to get even an iota more of information slip out of my fingers.

  "I know about a lot of things. About people. About symbolism. About how hard it is to get Tiffany's to alter a classic piece. That piece is supposed to be sterling silver without embellishment. No eye. What you have on is platinum. The weight is a dead giveaway. It's meant to feel significant. Tiffany's rarely works in platinum because it's not popular and it’s a pain in the ass, and the sapphire is strictly a one-off commission. Guys generally don't go to that kind of trouble if they don't give a shit. And it's a mourning dove . . . that's for you to figure out." He abruptly walked away, his point made.

  Jon was pitching and everybody was sure that the championship would be cinched by Penn tonight at home. But I could tell something was off about Jon as soon as he stepped on the mound. The cool, commanding presence he usually exuded wasn't there. He looked exhausted and strung out, at least to me. His usual tics weren't there. I couldn't put my finger on it, but he just seemed distracted.

  His pitching reflected it—he was all over the place. Everyone noticed that. And as the game wore on, his distraction turned into frustration. Something I'd never seen. Jon didn't do frustrated. My Dom was falling apart before my eyes, and I didn't know what to do about it. My heart was in my throat, breaking a little more with each pitch. The game meant so much to him, and the culmination of all of his hard work was slipping through his fingers. As the innings wore on, Jon's tenuous control seemed to slip further and further, his pitches growing a little more wild as Stanford pulled ahead.

  At the bottom of the seventh, Jon threw a wild pitch that ended up hitting the batter. With that, Coach DeMaio pulled him out of the game, and for the first time ever, Jon's temper was on display for all to see. It wasn’t pretty. He was in the dugout throwing things, basically losing his shit. It was all so out of character for him.

  That's what happens when spoiled rich kids don't get their way. The announcer's words echoed in my ears as I prayed Jon would never hear them.

  I had to do something. I threw some money on the bar, grabbed my bag, and yelled a half-assed farewell to Mike as I flew out the door.

  We locked eyes, and he left me with one bit of unsolicited advice. "Whatever you do, take care of yourself and be careful. You know you hold the power."

  Mike knew exactly what had happened, but I didn't have the time to wonder about the how and why of it.

  I sprinted out of the bar and through the neighborhood to the Drake, barely noticing the beautiful spring night. The seed of a plan sprouted in my head, but I wasn't sure if or how I could bring it to fruition. As I burst through the brass-trimmed door into that lobby I loved so much, Mario popped up from behind his desk, the game still going on in the background. Penn was behind at the bottom of the ninth. Jon's meltdown would send them to a game seven.

  I gasped, "Mario, would it be all right if I waited for Jon in the lobby? Things aren't going well, and I think he might need a friend."

  "Miss Corradi, I can do better than that. I'll let you into his place. He always said whatever you need, I'm supposed to make sure you have it." He had come out from behind his desk to usher me to the elevator.

  "But, but, Mario, I don't know if that still holds true. We haven't spent much time together lately." I wasn't about to go into the nitty-gritty of our arrangement with someone who essentially worked for Jon—no matter how kind he was being.

  "Those were his orders just last week, and he's my boss. You're not. You're waiting in his apartment."

  And with that, he shepherded me into the private elevator and sent me upstairs. I made my way through the penthouse, setting lights on low and scrambling for the suede scourge I’d bought for him as a joke when we were in New York. Jonathan always hated the accoutrements of domination and much preferred to use whatever was handy. But it was cherry red and so, so pretty. Because I loved the feel and fall of suede against my skin, I had to buy it. I’d just never had the chance to convince him to use it.

  I stripped and knelt in the middle of the room, facing the door, back straight, head down, the scourge in my upturned palms like an offering. I waited like that until I finally heard the elevator open and the snick of the latch. Jon burst through the door.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" He stalked up to me—a ball of energy, anger, and fear.

  "I'm whatever you need me to be. Break me." I took a deep breath and looked him in the eye, willing him to take what I offered.

  With that, Jonathan took several centering breaths before he snatched the scourge out of my hand. "Be careful what you ask for, pet. You just may get it."

  "I hope so."

  Jonathan dragged the tips of the scourge across my shoulders and snaked them around my neck. The buttery-soft suede caressed my skin and only made me crave Jonathan's touch more. He continued to tease me with the tips of the scourge, brushing them across my breasts until my nipples were engorged, tickling my pussy, and lightly flogging my ass until every nerve ending was alive—the first time they’d felt alive in what seemed like a very long time. Had it been only a matter of weeks?

  I fought the urge to throw myself at his feet and maintained my rigid posture. My abs screamed when he landed the first sharp blow on my breast. I nearly wept with joy from the sensation undulating from my breast to deep in my belly and from the emotion that he set free. As a single tear rolled down my cheek, he let loose, flogging my breasts until I thought I'd scream. I felt the heat rising to the surface of my skin, my nipples so engorged I felt as though I wanted to pop out of my own skin.

  He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me over to the chaise, threw me over the headrest, and went to town on my ass until it was as red as my breasts. Every stroke was torture for my poor sensitive nipples—his hand splayed across my back forced me into the abrasive upholstery. I wept from the pain and the pleasure. But I never made a sound.

  He stopped, dropping the scourge, and rubbed his hands all over my ass. My cunt was drenched. It was as if every part of me
that could was crying. From the loneliness, from the longing, from the rightness of what was between us. Jonathan ran his hands all over me feverishly, almost as if he were convincing himself that I was really there—solid and not a figment of his imagination.

  Jonathan sat on the chaise and pulled me over his lap, then he proceeded to spank me like a recalcitrant child. To be so close to him again, breathing in the sandalwood, sun, and new grass smell that was quintessentially Jon. I drank it in, knowing that this would be the last time.

  He struck me again and again, murmuring to himself, "I need. I need. I need." It morphed into, "Lena, Lena, Lena." He suddenly stopped, coming out of his reverie.

  "What's your safe word?"

  "Cicero."

  "Use it."

  JON

  When I opened my apartment door and saw her, in all of her glorious beauty and dignity, I almost turned and ran. I didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve her. But she knew. Intuitively, she knew exactly what I needed. She knew it was her. Her trust. Her submission. The way she helped me make sense of my insane world.

  I would break her—because she’d asked me to and I couldn't tell her no. And I’d put her back together and send her out into the world, free of the drama and soul-sucking bullshit that was my life. I was never so glad in my life that I hadn’t acted on impulse and thrown away that scourge. I would take her gift and return it to her a hundredfold.

  The soft light glowed on her skin, making her look like some earthy, pagan goddess, setting off the shine of the dove on her wrist. I caressed her with the scourge, reluctant to lay a hand on her lest she feel me trembling. I was mesmerized by the patterns the scourge painted on her skin, scattered red welts blooming like exotic flowers. The soft noises she made both soothed me and urged me on. She truly was my little dove, and it was time to set her flying.