The Drazen World: The Lesson (Kindle Worlds Novella) (3 page)

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 hair, 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.

Both my head and my heart said, "Fuck it." So I hopped up onto Beau's lap and wiggled my ass for good measure. A girl, even a resolutely "not fun" girl like me, would have to be crazy or dead to turn down the chance to dance with baseball gods while Charles English spun in a purportedly haunted, abandoned theater. I may regret it come dawn, but I wanted to be reckless and young for a change. My college experience to date had consisted of swapping one prison for another. Maybe it was time to tear down some walls—at least for a night. Time to try on "flirty Missy" for size.

"Both of you better be prepared to dance your asses off. Well, maybe not off. They're both pretty hot—what I could see of them."
Well! That got a reaction from Beau at least. A very healthy one.

My squirming and Beau's discomfort garnered us both a sharp look from Jon.
Interesting.
I instinctively snuggled into Jon's neck, reveling in his scent of sandalwood and soap, in an attempt to soothe him. The last thing I wanted was testosterone overload to ruin what was shaping up to be the most fun I'd had in Philadelphia.

We rolled up to what must have been the stage door of the theater during its vaudeville heyday. The alley was still partially cobblestone, and with the only light coming from the gooseneck fixtures hanging over the door, it could pass for the punk version of the portal to Hell in a pinch. Jon parked next to the door, the remains of a sign for a long-closed production of
Aida
flaking off the brick. He refused to relinquish his keys to someone who may or may not have been a valet, but he nonetheless tipped. He carelessly tossed his coat on the driver's seat, and Beau and I followed suit. Before we even got in the door, the thump of the bass was creeping up my spine, along with Jon's hand. It had found its way, hot and possessive, under my shirt. I locked arms with Beau and brought him close to me as well. We were all in this together. I was afraid of flying solo too close to the sun that was Jon Drazen, and if I had to, I'd use Beau as a buffer.

Through the door we went, down a narrow, dark passage that suddenly opened up in an explosion of light and sound. We found ourselves on the stage, its planks worn slick and smooth over a thousand performances. The promoters had transformed the stage into a dance floor with makeshift bars set around the perimeter. The DJ booth was set up on the catwalk over the stage, and from his perch, Charles English looked like a sorcerer using his music to work an enchantment over the throng of people below him. The setting was surreal, the tattered curtains still in place on either side of the stage and a dark, empty cavernous space where an audience had once sat. The lighting effects brought in for the party did little to dispel the eerie atmosphere, the shifting colors and strobes intermittently revealing the crumbling embellishments that hinted at the theater’s former opulence. The decaying beauty and hypnotic music created the sense of a place out of time—the perfect place to let my hidden self come out to play.

We stood at the edge of the throbbing crowd, their energy crashing over us like a tidal wave of movement and heat and longing. The sexual energy all around us was palpable and contagious. I grabbed them both by the hand, and we plunged into the crowd as the strains of The Damned
Alone Again Or
came over the sound system. Shimmying and flailing to the music, I let the beat carry me. I just didn't care if I looked silly—it felt so good. Neither of them let me stray more than a step or so, and they were both incredible dancers. It wasn't just their athleticism either; they were channeling the music. Beau was playful and joyous, flirting and cutting up. Not surprisingly, Jon was a bit more polished, no doubt due to some antiquated cotillion class he had been forced to take, and that polish just enhanced his feral grace. Make no mistake, they were both predators. Beau was like a young wolf with a bit of the puppy, but no less dangerous because of his youth, while Jon was a panther, stalking the floor and me with a lithe grace.