The Drazen World Read online

  Table of Contents

  Broken

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Epilogue

  ~~The End~~

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Flip City Media Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Drazen World remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Flip City Media Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.

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  Broken

  A Drazen World Novella

  By Bree Dahlia

  One.

  The room was a predator, swallowing me whole. My listlessness made me easy prey. I had to get out while I still had a shred of fight or flight left.

  I collected my binder and stood, swinging my purse over my shoulder. I didn’t plan on coming back.

  A hand circled my wrist, and warm brown eyes stared up at me. Too warm.

  “I can’t sit here anymore.”

  Ian freed his hold. “I’ll come with you, then.”

  I let my head drop momentarily, and when I lifted, I wore my best fake smile. Crinkled eyes and all. The one anyone would buy except for him. But it’d become so entrenched. I didn’t mean to insult him, but I no longer bothered to filter.

  “I think I can manage to step out into the hall on my own. I just need some fresh air.” Or a whiskey sour at the hotel bar. “This stuff’s important. You need to stay. Let me know what I miss, okay?”

  “Jacque.”

  God, I was so tired of the pity looks. So tired, period. I just wanted to get out of the fucking room. Where was the crime in that?

  “Ian. Don’t.”

  He nodded, not pushing any further. I took quick strides towards the door, hoping to escape before drawing any undue attention. I slipped into the hall and inhaled deeply. What the hell was I doing? This was my future here. I leaned my head against the cold wall. I was screwing everything up, but at least I could breathe again.

  I righted forward and made my way to the snacks. By the end of our afternoon break, everything had been picked over, but that didn’t bother me. Coffee was my only concern. I needed it strong and scalding.

  I filled a cup, took a sip, and almost laughed. It was weak and tepid. The bean-flavored water was my counterpart. I glanced towards the bar. A shot of Jameson wouldn’t be the worse idea.

  A movement in my peripheral had me glancing back. It was him. Again. He was so near to the refreshment table, it had me questioning my sanity more than usual. I swore the space had been empty when I’d stepped into it. Formidable men didn’t just creep through a room undetected.

  I moved aside so he could access the coffee dispenser. Out of all the solitary breaks I’d taken over the past several days, this was the first time he’d approached.

  I heard the rustle of ice then cubes dropping into a glass. Before contact was made, I had to leave. I discarded my nearly untouched cup and made it a few paces before turning back. I’d forgotten my binder.

  Only my binder was no longer on the table. It was clenched in his hand.

  “I wouldn’t want you to forget this.”

  His thick accent threw me. I couldn’t place it. His entire being threw me into a place I had no business going. There was no way those eyes were real. Nature didn’t create blue that shocking. Even the autumn sky was an illusion.

  “Thank you.” I snatched it from him, tucking it under my arm.

  “You’re welcome, Jacqueline.” My head tilted. And how exactly did he know that? “Your name tag.”

  I glimpsed down at the bright white sticker smashed against my chest. Right. Name tag.

  I double-checked my purse was still secure on my arm. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back.” I gestured towards the conference room.

  “You’re not going back.”

  “What did you say?”

  “If you were planning on going back, you would have left your belongings in the room.”

  My brain tried formulating a snarky response, but it was so damned useless lately. I opened my mouth to tell him I’d changed my mind. Problem averted. Minimal thinking required.

  “My next stop is the lounge. Join me for a drink?”

  “Ah.” My jaw was still hanging open. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “My name’s Deacon.”

  “Well, Mister Deacon, knowing a name doesn’t explain why you’re inviting me to the bar. I’ve seen you around several times now. Do you work here? I know you’re not part of the workshop.”

  “No, and you’re correct. I’m here on business.”

  He was an extremely attractive man, more so at close range. I gauged him early to mid-thirties. I was always a sucker for dark hair, and the scar on his upper lip piqued my curiosity, but I needn’t worry about going off the deep end. I had no energy for it. But I did have enough oomph to park my ass down in a chair.

  “Sure, what the hell.”

  So, I didn’t know the guy. I wasn’t leaving the building with him. I had even less of a desire to return and listen to the professor’s monotone voice, and it was a welcome diversion to be around someone who hadn’t the first clue about me.

  I walked beside him to the bar area, neither of us speaking. When we passed the room I should’ve been in, I had a slight twinge of what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-me, but I stuffed it down with the rest of the trash festering inside.

  “Have a seat.” He motioned me to a leather chair near the fireplace. “What can I get you?”

  I swung my purse forward, unzipping it to find my cash. “Oh, I’ll come with you. I have money.”

  “I don’t want your money.” He nodded once more at the chair, and this time I sat. If for no other reason than his eyes. They held the opposite of pity. “What can I get you, Jacqueline?”

  Did I still want that whiskey sour? Double Irish coffee? Jack and Coke, minus the Coke? “Red wine, please.”

  He slipped off to the other end of the bar where he was barely visible. I placed my stuff on the small table in front of me and rested back. I was about to pat myself on the back for my sensible drink choice when my stupidity struck me upside the head. The lower alcohol content wouldn’t mean shit if it was spiked.

  My mind was racing with thoughts of Shannon, the girl in my third-year abnormal psych class who’d been roofied during a frat party, when Deacon returned. Rule number one when meeting a stranger, dummy: Never accept an unsealed drink.

  He set down my glass and what appeared to be plain ole water for him. That alone raised my suspicions another level. I eyed him—what exactly was his game? I’d become so familiar with going through the motions; I’d forgotten what it was like to have to think on my feet.

  “Thank you,” I said, leaving the wine to languish on the table.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He picked up my binder and paged through it without asking, acting as if it were his property. It stunned me, but only to a point. The blood-red liquid captured more of my attention as it called out to me. I wanted it to be safe, so I could polish it off and go back for another.

  “Psychology student,” he said. “What’s your specialty?”

  What was next? My purse? I clutched it a bit tighter against my side.

  “Um, clinical. Is there a reason you’re looking through my private things?”

  “I’m interested.” He glanced up, and I got a blinding dose of his eyes. “You’re interesting.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but no, I’m not. I�
�m just a transitioning grad student attending a workshop.”

  Without deflecting his stare, he reached over and scooped up my glass in his large hand, downing a hearty gulp. He set it down a little too gently. It was unnerving, considering I had no doubt he could’ve crushed it just as effortlessly in his fist.

  “It’s safe, Jacqueline.”

  My eyebrows knitted together until I realized how I was behaving. I smoothed my face and nodded, wondering what I was playing with here. I should’ve been upstairs in my room, drooling all over the desk I pretended to study at. Not sitting in a hotel bar, trying to figure out this mystery man’s story.

  But it was a novel sensation, compared to the past months, and that was the only thing stopping me from packing up and walking away. I claimed my wine and cradled it in my hands.

  “Do you enjoy your studies?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Then there must be another reason why you’ve needed frequent breaks.”

  I gaped at him. “I thought you were here on business, not… keeping tabs on me.” I tried to drum up some indignation, but the results were lackluster at best.

  “I am. I was. I stuck around because as I said, you interest me. I want to find out why you’re suffering.”

  “What?” What?

  A touch on my shoulder made me jolt. Deacon’s eyes had never wavered from mine, giving no indication that someone had come up behind me.

  “Ready to grab dinner?”

  I looked back and smiled. “No, you go ahead. I’m not very hungry yet.”

  “I’d rather not. Who’s your new drinking buddy?”

  “Deacon,” he answered before I did, his gaze transferring to Ian. “And we’re having a conversation, not indulging in an adolescent game of Quarters.”

  I sucked in a breath. I didn’t want there to be any problems. The wine yelled for my attention a second time, and I heeded the call. It instantly soothed, gliding down my throat like liquid tranquility.

  “Do you have a last name, Deacon?”

  Another sip, even better than the first. I placed my hand over Ian’s, reminding him to play nice.

  “Bruce. And you are?”

  “Ian Blackwell. I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “That’s because I haven’t been. I’m from Johannesburg.”

  “Long way from home.”

  Deacon didn’t respond to the obvious, and it made me uncomfortable. “Ian, please. I’m fine. Just go on without me, and I’ll meet up with you later. If I get hungry, I can always order room service.”

  How many times could I blow him off, and he’d continue to hold my hand? His concern was bordering on oppressive, and I hated myself for thinking this way. For treating him this way.

  “I’ll be back to check on you.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  He squeezed my hand, and I turned back once more to catch him giving Deacon a harsh look before taking off.

  “He’s rather protective of you.”

  “Overly. But as my best friend, he has a right to be.” I fiddled with the stem then slammed down the next several sips in one go. “So, South Africa, huh? That’d explain the accent. What language is it?”

  “Afrikaans.”

  I was about to ask him to say something in it but decided that was a bad idea. I might like it too much. “What would ever possess you to come to Boston in February?” Right, stupid question. He already told me why. “I mean, what kind of business do you do?”

  “I run a photography agency.”

  “And you’re here taking pictures?”

  “I’m here interviewing a new photojournalist for an assignment, confirming he’s the right fit before I hire him.”

  “And is he?”

  “It’s promising.”

  I stared into the fire, the undulating flames comforting me. Normally, I’d be freezing this time of year, but a surface chill was child’s play compared to iced-over insides.

  “Why are you suffering, Jacqueline?”

  I closed my eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Are you lying to me or yourself?”

  This was too heavy and personal for casual conversation, but I didn’t care. Caring took energy, and I didn’t want to waste what little I had. The chances I’d see this guy again were close to nil anyway.

  “When do you leave?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  I lifted my lids, bringing my focus back to him. Then I tucked my legs underneath me and finished my wine. The warmth it provided was temporary, but it’d hold me over until the next glass.

  “I’m not lying to either of us. One can’t suffer if they’re numb.”

  “Not feeling is the worst suffering of all.” I shrugged. “Are you mourning a man?”

  “There is no man.”

  I’m very sorry. There’s no heartbeat.

  I curled up tighter. One hand on my glass, the other around my waist.

  “You’ve lost someone close to you.”

  “No…” This was a dream; it had to be. I knew eyes like his couldn’t exist. I was probably passed out over my desk as we spoke, whacked out on some crazy delta waves.

  “I recently lost my father,” he said.

  The weight lifted. It wasn’t about me anymore. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “He was murdered on our family farm. Seven men came into the house, killed my father and locked my brother in the basement while they violently abused my mother and sister. They tortured many of our workers as well, a couple of them died. Seared with irons, hogtied and strangled, scalding water poured down their throats. I can go on if you’d like.”

  “God, no.” What the fuck? I wanted to erase what I’d already heard. My stomach tightened, the half glass of liquid churning inside. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded. “How long ago for you?”

  “Six months,” I whispered. “I was ten weeks. The beat was strong, and then it was nonexistent.”

  “And the father?”

  “Absent. Proposed then bolted. Lost the boyfriend, then a few days later, my baby.”

  “So you had no one to help share your pain?”

  “Sure, I did. I had friends, family to coddle me when all was said and done. Access to brilliant therapists to get me through those infamous five stages. I know what I’m supposed to feel. What I’m told to feel. What I’ll someday likely be telling someone else to feel.”

  “None of that matters. What do you feel?”

  “I told you. Nothing.” No pain. No pleasure. Subhuman.

  “No tears were shed?”

  I studied his face from across the table. The light beard shading his jaw, the small bump on his nose indicating it’d been broken a time or two. I didn’t know why I was even telling him anything, why I was opening myself up to a man I’d barely met.

  Yes, I did know. It was the eyes. They weren’t filled with sympathy, but with unattached interest. The way a scientist might observe a test subject. And deep down, I sensed how much I needed that objectivity.

  “I’m sure at some point I cried. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe my defective body couldn’t produce any tears.”

  I could barely remember anymore. It felt like many lifetimes ago, yet my brain was in this endless loop, preventing me from moving forward. Psychologically speaking, I was in the depression stage, but I couldn’t recall graduating from the others.

  “Did you experience a visceral reaction to the story about my family?”

  “Of course, I did.”

  “Then you’re not defective.”

  I placed my empty glass on the table and searched out a waitress. I’d noticed one making the rounds earlier. My short-lived serenity had made a swift exit, and it was time to lure it back. As soon as I spotted her, I lifted my arm to wave her over.

  “That was your only alcohol for the night. Perhaps, you should have savored it.”

  I lowered my arm.
“Excuse me?”

  “An intelligent girl like yourself, surely you know how little it serves you to drink to excess.”

  There was no way I was hearing him correctly. A tiny flicker lashed out of me, and for a brief moment, I’d morphed into my old self. I leaned forward.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but I control myself. If I want another glass of wine, I will have it. If I want an entire bottle, I will have it. No one else makes my decisions for me but me.”

  “And how is that working out for you?”

  I crossed my arms and sat back. How dare he? I hadn’t even finished a full glass. He’d taken half of it! But just like that, whatever stoked fizzled out. I didn’t have enough fuel to sustain it.

  He grasped hold of my chair arm and pulled me closer. “Give me your hand.” I blinked at him. “Give me your hand,” he repeated.

  I handed it over and he took possession. Once upon a time, a touch from a man like him, one who oozed sex like it was his responsibility, would have jump-started my hormones into next week.

  He traced lazy strokes up and down the underside of my wrist. If he was hoping to turn me on, well, good luck with that. I’d tried out three different men in the past few months, and it’d been as arousing as the lecture I’d slipped away from earlier.

  “I had to let one of my photographers go.” He moved up to my palm. “He was smoking the white pipe a little too often.”

  “The white pipe?”

  “Mandrax and Dagga.” My face went blank. “Marijuana mixed with ludes. It’ll give you a kick before mellowing you out for a couple hours. I can understand the need to escape unspeakable horrors; I’ve witnessed enough myself. Inducing an altered state has its place, but Central Africa isn’t one of those. The job is risky enough without adding to it.”

  Why was he telling me this? Was he insinuating I had a problem? He was as qualified as the valet driver to make judgments about me. He pinched the skin between my fingers, and I startled.

  “A shift in consciousness can be triggered by pleasure or pain.”

  “I know what an altered state is, Deacon. The temporary reduction in prefrontal cortex brain activity.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, shocking the hell out of me. It took that moment to realize a couple things. One: I hadn’t seen more than a twitch in his lips before then. Two: His hands had been stone-still until he’d decided to use them. Watching them move was oddly mesmerizing.