The Drazen World: The Lesson (Kindle Worlds Novella) (2 page)

My foolproof plan to get to graduation, honor Lucius's directive, and stay out of trouble went straight to Hell when a blast of frigid air to my back signaled the arrival of new customers. When I turned, I realized, in that moment, that the likelihood that my plan to avoid dating would fail spectacularly was practically guaranteed. Temptation had just walked in the door. Eve with a whole bushel of apples level temptation.

Jon Drazen.

Cheeks ruddy from the wind and copper hair dusted with snow, he shrugged out of what had to be a Burberry cashmere pea coat. Definitely not in the quick and ultimately forgettable category—he defied categorization. Simply put, he was my kryptonite. Once I tore my eyes off the perfectly cut jeans that caressed his lean hips and luscious ass and drank him in from head to toe, I noticed that he wasn't alone. He had one of the prospects with him—a beautiful black-haired man-child with the emphasis on man. He was taller and broader than Jon. Probably a power hitter, from the looks of the perfectly sculpted arms and shoulders his tight-fitting Henley couldn't hide.

It was an NCAA recruiting weekend for baseball. Jon and several other senior players had been tasked with convincing prospects to sign with Penn by showing them "student life" on and off campus. Penn's recruiting was low-key compared to some of the flat-out pandering and bribery employed at the Southern schools. We may not use hookers and blow, but we were still plying high school kids with booze and horny sorority girls as a way to convince them to sign a letter of intent with Penn. The fact that they were at Kovac’s could only mean that something was seriously off.

Instead of ejecting them, which he had done every other time Penn frat boys and jocks mistakenly wandered in, Big Mike put down the glass he was drying and nodded a greeting. "The usual?"

What the fu--?

Before I knew it, my personal space was full of the crisp, cool smell of winter mixed with sandalwood and man, and Jon Drazen's powerful frame. He extended his hand in greeting, grasping mine with the perfect amount of pressure. He couldn't be just rich and gorgeous and smart; he had to have irritatingly impeccable manners too. And with that chaste, but very physical bit of contact, my brain short-circuited.

"Missy, what a surprise! Meet D. Beaumont Warren. Beau, this is Missy Corradi."

Shit. He does know my name.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Corradi."

Reciprocate the social niceties. Blah. Blah. Blah. Oh my God. Jon's eyes are so green. How did I not know that? Did I let go of his hand? I should let go of his hand.

"Missy's the tutor assigned to the team. She's brilliant—double major. Art history and accounting and Eddie’s only chance of staying off academic probation."

He's smiling at me. It's like the sun came out and I'm sunbathing naked. I feel it everywhere. What is wrong with me? How does he know so much about me? Say something.

"The asshole who insists on calling me Shelly? What an obnoxious dick. My sympathies," Beau said.

Beau was gorgeous, and that knowing look made him seem a hell of a lot older than nineteen. All rock-hard legs, and those shoulders and arms... he was a god in his own right. But he had the misfortune of standing next to Jon Drazen. Any other time . . .

Eddie. Blah. Blah. Blah. My cross to bear.

Those hands. That dusting of ginger hair on his knuckles. What would those calluses feel like on my skin? Brushing across my nipple? Would he pinch them hard? I hope so. And that scruff against my thighs.
A shiver ran through me.
Did I purr? Oh, my God, he heard me purr? He must have. That shark smile. He's looking at me as though I'm dessert. Get it together, Corradi.

"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 beauty 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."