The Drazen World: Unraveled (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Delaney Foster

  My heart drops. Falls into the pit of my stomach. Pounding. Beating. Nervous.

  “I should go. Renee is probably freaking out right now.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh and turns my hand loose. I immediately miss his touch. “I’m not taking you back there. Not tonight.”

  I don’t know if I could even go back there tonight.

  “Can you take me home?”

  A smile tugs at his lips, like he’s relieved I didn’t put up a fight. He taps the screen on the dash until the GPS comes up.

  “Tell it where you want me to go, and I’ll take you wherever you like.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Deacon

  My hand wraps around the silver chain in my pocket. I know it’s morning by the orange hue that bleeds through from outside, but I can’t see anything beyond the fog on my windows.

  If I’d have known the night was going to hold a chill, I would’ve packed a jacket. Then again, I never planned on sleeping in my Range Rover on the side of the road. I just wanted to bring Grace the necklace. The one she loved that day at the harbor. I wanted to wrap the chain around her delicate neck. Touch her skin one more time.

  When I found out where and when she worked, I didn’t expect to find her standing in the middle of the parking lot being chased by adolescent wannabe badasses. But, I’m glad I did. The guy in the Camaro wasn’t pulling any punches. He had his foot on the gas, and Grace had a target on her back.

  For the first time ever, though, I think it shook her. I think she realized that she can’t help everyone all the time. That the world is ugly. And life is harsh. I know this because I watched her heart break the moment it hit her.

  I wanted to take her in my arms, to tell her she’ll be okay. She’ll adjust. She’ll wake up and the sunrise will remind her that the beauty isn’t all lost. But that’s not who I am. That’s not what I do. I’m not a comforter. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

  I offered to stay with her, to make sure she’s safe. And when she politely said no, I parked across the street and slept in my car.

  My finger scrolls down my contacts until it reaches David’s name. I’m curious to see how his first night back home went. On the flight from South Africa to California, he finally found the courage to tell me what they did in the three weeks the radicals held him captive. He’d been locked in a dark closet, forced to lose all sense of reality, for days at a time. For hours on end, he was made to kneel in the heat of the day on the streets of their compound. Once, he tried to escape, and that’s when they broke his ankle with a wooden bat.

  The sheer joy on the faces of his wife and son the second they saw him walk through the gate at the airport was enough to make even me envious of that kind of closeness. Those moments make the darker ones worthwhile. They bring light to the sins I’m driven to commit, hope to the shadows that dance on my soul.

  A light tap on the glass grabs my attention. So, I turn the ignition to lower the window. It’s Grace.

  “I hope you take the cheap stuff. It’s all I’ve got,” she says, holding up a small red gas can. She’s pulled her hair up on top of her head, and her face glows even without makeup.

  “I didn’t run out of gas.” I can’t help but chuckle at her assumption. She sets the plastic container on the ground beside her then leans in the window. The morning sun kisses her skin, but her eyes are heavy from a sleepless night. Yet still, she’s beautiful.

  “How long have you been here?”

  And chatty.

  “Since you went inside last night.”

  Not the answer she was expecting, obviously.

  “So, sleeping in cars. That’s your thing?”

  “Only when I need to make sure someone’s safe.”

  A pained expression flashes across her face. Surely, I’m not the first person in her life to look out for her. This woman who does so much to help others can’t possibly be alone in this world. She clears her throat and stands up straight.

  “Thank you. But, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I’ve slept in worse.”

  Her brows bunch together as she mentally processes what that might mean, but she doesn’t ask. I don’t use words to flatter or comfort. I’m not trying to make her feel better. She’s only just beginning to learn about the world we live in. And I’ve been exposed to it since I was nineteen years old. I’ve slept in six-foot holes, behind rocks, in the freezing rain. Spending the night in the protection of a luxury SUV to make sure no one followed her home was nothing.

  “I have coffee,” she says, fending off all the questions I can see behind her curious eyes.

  “Coffee sounds fantastic.”

  Her face brightens with a smile that makes her eyes light up.

  “Okay, then. Follow me.”

  “The bathroom is down that hall. Second door on the left,” she says once we’re inside, allowing me to avoid asking the obvious question.

  The first door I pass is open just enough for me to peer inside. It’s very different from the rest of the house, which is cozy and warm. That room is crisp and modern. Misplaced.

  Grace sits with one leg tucked under the other in the corner of a white, linen sofa, both hands around her coffee cup as she cools the liquid with her breath. Her plaid pajama pants hang past the bottoms of her feet, and stray locks of hair fall from the pile on top of her head and around her face.

  “Maybe tonight we can spring for you a hotel. Unless sleeping in cars is your thing,” she says with a playful tone as she hands me a mug. I take a seat next to her, careful not to spill.

  “I own some property here. Normally, that’s where I stay.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise as she lifts her head to look at me.

  “Oh. So, you must come here often.”

  I know she isn’t trying to pry. I’ve told her nothing about myself. Who I am. What I do. Where I’m from. And she’s always been very respectful of that. Even now, her questions aren’t invasive. Not intentionally. She doesn’t know my past, or why I had to leave. Or why it’s better if I stay away.

  “I used to. Not anymore. Not in a very long time.”

  “So, why now?”

  “Business.” Her face falls. Disappointment replaces the playfulness in her tired eyes. I remember the chain in my pocket. “And you.”

  She looks up, her gaze locked with mine. Her lips part, just slightly, enough to inhale a sharp breath. I caught her off guard. She takes a sip of her coffee to distract herself.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  I tuck my hand into my pocket and pull out the necklace. “Don’t say anything. Here. I thought you’d like this.”

  I hold the chain at each end, letting the diamond dangle in the middle. She doesn’t say a word as I stand then move behind her, latching the chain around her neck. She clutches the solitary diamond at the base of her throat and looks back at me.

  “Deacon, I… This…” She shakes her head in denial. I lean forward and speak against her neck.

  “It’s just a gift, Grace.”

  “Thank you.” She turns her head away from mine, the smooth skin of her bare neck just inches from my mouth. I fight for control. “I don’t… This…” She waves her hands around the area between us. “This isn’t something I do. The harbor. The restaurant. The coffee. This,” she says, grabbing the necklace again.

  “A woman like you should experience all of those things. And more.” I could show her so much more. I walk back to the sofa and sit beside her.

  “Sometimes life doesn’t give us a choice.”

  “You always have a choice, Grace.”

  Choices are life’s versions of safe words. We aren’t forced to lie back and accept things outside of our limits. If we don’t like something, we change it.

  “Maybe that’s true for some people.”

  “It’s true for you.”

  “You don’t know that.” She pulls her leg from under her, straightening her posture. She sets her coffee on the table be
side her and grabs a pillow, cradling it against her stomach. She’s defensive. “You don’t even know me.”

  Her words come at me like a blow to the chest. If I were standing, I’d have stumbled backward. “Then change that. Tell me who you are.”

  Silence. Her gaze holds mine as the silence wraps around us like a vice. Clenching. Suffocating. Ending us before we even begin. Don’t do this, Grace. Let me in. She lets out a long, steady breath, and the ropes that threatened to bind us break loose. Setting us free.

  “Do you know what I do?” she asks, her eyes never letting go of mine.

  “You’re a doctor.” She smiles, and I remember the first time we met, in Johan’s room. “And I’m not,” I smile back.

  “Yes.” She nods. “I’m a doctor.” She moves the pillow to the side, breaking away at the ties that bind us, opening the wall that stands between us. “Neo-natal.” I knew that from her profile. She’s one of the best in the state, and she’s got the credentials to prove it. Her smile fades. “But do you know why?”

  “No.”

  She clears her throat, the way I’ve come to learn she does when she’s deciding exactly what to say and how to say it. Her eyes fall to her lap as she finds the courage to let me in.

  “I’d just started med school when I met Brent. We dated a while. It got serious. But my father was so headstrong. And I was so afraid of disappointing him. Get your life together. Finish college. There will be plenty of time for love later.” Her voice drops deep in her throat as she mimics his words. “Then there was a week in St. Tropez.” She takes in a deep breath, carefully choosing her next words. “I forgot my birth control pills. But Brent told me not to worry about it. He made promises and convinced me no matter what happened, we’d be okay.” She laughs at some unspoken memory. “I don’t know if subconsciously I forgot my pills on purpose. To rebel against my father. Who knows. But, it happened. And I got pregnant. I thought my parents were going to kill me. But, they didn’t say a word. They just did what parents do. They supported me. My mom. She was amazing. She told me what to expect. She took me shopping. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was actually excited.” Her eyes start to glisten with tears, but she quickly blinks them away. “The baby was born ten weeks premature. There was nothing anyone could do.” Jesus. I can see the pain in her eyes, hear it in her voice. It cuts through me as if it’s my own. “He had a name. A heartbeat. Ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. And I held him in my arms until the moment he stopped fighting.” She clears her throat then looks across at me. “I can’t imagine the thought of any mother feeling what I felt that day. So, I do everything I can to save them. Both.”

  The inches between us seem like miles, stretched as far as the eye can see. She’s carried this pain alone for so long. I can’t let her do it anymore. I lay my arm across her shoulders and pull her body to mine, burying my face in her hair, inhaling her sweet scent. She rests her head against my chest, and we sit there in soft broken silence.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grace

  I never meant to tell Deacon any of this. It’s not a story I tell anyone. I keep it locked in the vault. The one that stores all my broken pieces. And I never, ever let anyone have the key.

  But, I trust him. I’m drawn to him. It’s like we’re being pulled by something stronger than both of us, something outside of ourselves. And fighting it is like swimming upstream. Pointless.

  “And Brent?” he asks, breaking the silence between us.

  “He didn’t even have the balls to come to the hospital after he found out. He packed his clothes and his promises in his Eddie Bauer suitcase and walked right out the door.”

  He kisses the top of my head. I don’t know why, but sitting here with him, letting him hold me like this, feels more intimate than the night he touched me under the table at the restaurant.

  “We aren’t all like that.”

  “I know.”

  His body tenses beneath me, so I lift my head from his chest and scoot to the side. Just enough so that our thighs are still touching. I guess this is new for both of us.

  “I’m a father.” My heart stops at his confession. He hasn’t told me where he’s from. Or what he does. I don’t even know his last name. And here he is, sharing an intimate detail of his life with me. I picture him, stern but warm, a father very much like my own. “Well, there’s a 50/50 chance I’m a father.”

  Oh.

  His eyes, dark and complex, stay focused on me, not giving away a single hint at what he’s feeling. I don’t interrupt. I wouldn’t even know what to say if I did. We all have a story. And this is his to tell.

  “It’s every bit as complicated as it sounds. So, I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “Somehow I doubt the details would be very boring.”

  He laughs, quiet and short.

  “I was in love with a woman who fell in love with another man. She was given a choice. So, she made the choice that was best for her. Best for everyone.”

  “And the baby?”

  “When the time is right, we’ll know the truth.”

  “Why would you wait? Don’t you want to know?”

  I can tell by his tone it’s not a topic he speaks about often.

  “There’s no place in my world for children. My lifestyle isn’t exactly ideal for planting roots and settling down.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with roots.”

  “Yours are planted so deep, you can barely move.”

  “Isn’t that the point of roots?”

  Why do I feel like we’re arguing? Why am I worried about the decisions he makes with his life? His choices are his to make. If he doesn’t believe in settling down, that’s none of my business. So why does it bother me so much?

  The corner of his mouth turns up in a half grin. “I guess you’re right.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a wonderful father.”

  I see how protective he is. With me. With Johan. I’ve watched him stare at the sunrise and smile at the simple things. He’s cold. He’s sterile. He’s tough. He keeps his thoughts and feelings locked up tight. But there’s something else there. Something I catch glimpses of every once in a while. A warmth. I feel it in his touch. See it in his eyes. He guards it carefully, holds it dear. But for those bold enough to venture too close, it’s there.

  “Fiona is a smart woman. I respect her choices and trust her to do what’s right when it’s right.”

  “Fiona?” Not exactly a common name. I’m standing at the bottom of a mountain with a huge boulder at the top. The only thing holding it all together is the answer to my next question. “Drazen?” That’s Deirdre’s sister. It all makes sense now, the way he reacted to some of the things I said.

  Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time comes to a near halt. My heart pounds in my chest. Finally, he nods. I close my eyes. The diamond feels as though it weighs a ton on my chest. No.

  “You’re Deacon Bruce.”

  Silence.

  It all comes rushing in. Images flashing through my mind like lightning in a thunderstorm. A gorgeous socialite. Her photographer boyfriend. There was an accident. A stabbing. Deacon was hospitalized. She got thrown in rehab. He took the rap for her. Told the media it was an accident. That he fell. Then he disappeared. Wait. She just had a baby. Oh, God. It’s his. It’s Deacon’s baby. The doctor. The therapist who treated her after the accident. The one she’s with now. He’s the other man she fell in love with.

  Still silence.

  Time stops.

  How can I compete with that?

  Why? Why can’t I just find happiness?

  The only man in years I open the vault for gave his heart to a woman I can never be. I’m nothing like Fiona Drazen. I don’t even come close. The mountain crumbles, and the boulder falls. Tumbling down with the fragments of broken rock and green earth. And I am paralyzed. Held prisoner by my roots. The same roots Deacon finds so offensive. I’m about to be crushed, and there’s no
t a damn thing I can do about it.

  “Grace.”

  “I watch the news.” I hear my voice, but it’s somewhere far away. Like my mind is running at full speed to escape my body. He touches my hand, and I flinch.

  “That was a lifetime ago.”

  “You have a child.”

  “Possibly.”

  “But you love her?”

  Why is my heart breaking?

  The alarm on my father’s monitor floods the silence, reminding me exactly why I don’t invite people over for coffee, or open the vault and let them inside. Deacon’s eyes follow me as I jump from the sofa and run to the hall.

  My dad’s forehead is covered in sweat, and he’s struggling to breathe. He keeps trying to roll to his left side to relieve the pain.

  “Daddy,” I call out as I take his hand in mine. It’s clammy. “Daddy, can you answer me?” No. This can’t be happening. Not now. Please, God. Not my dad. Deacon stands in the doorway, watching in silence as I check his pulse. “Call 911. He’s having a heart attack.”

  ***

  The waiting room is cold. There’s a tv in the corner. I see the faces on the screen, hear their voices in the room, but none of it seems real. A man in a gray suit talks about how unusually chilly it is for October. A woman in a blue dress pops up after him letting the world know there’s another fire somewhere to our north.

  A couple not much older than me sits in two recliners on the opposite side of the room. So many chairs. Rows of chairs. Two in the middle and one on each wall. Why are there so many chairs? Is this room ever full? Do this many people have to face heartache so often that they had to have over a dozen chairs?

  The woman goes into an open room by the double doors that lead to the hallway and comes back with a cup of coffee and a donut left there by a good Samaritan. My stomach knots at the sight of food. I can’t eat. I don’t want coffee. I want my dad.

  One of the doors opens, and an older woman steps through. She approaches the man in the recliner, and he stands to hug her.