The Drazen World: Irrelevant (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Text copyright ©2016 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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  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgement

  About irrelevant

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Epilogue

  Other Novels by allyn lesley

  About allyn lesley

  Stalk allyn lesley

  Acknowledgment

  CD Reiss, thank you for creating such memorable characters and allowing me to play with them.

  Welcome to my version of a few of CD Reiss’ characters who are beloved by you. Flip through each page with an open mind, knowing that irrelevant is a work of fanfiction where characters’ personalities and backstories have been altered to give you a different reading experience. I hope you fall in love with these characters as much as I do.

  About irrelevant

  The secret keeper ...

  Jonathan Drazen is a man who others envy. Charmed with looks, money, and everything at his fingertips, he always gets anything and anyone he wants.

  The irrelevant ...

  Growing up in the elite Faulkner household, Katherine “Katie” Smith has never quite fit in. As the outcast half sister to one of New York’s most beautiful socialites, Katie is forced to accept she isn’t wanted or valued by the Faulkners.

  Deceit, revenge, lust, and the interwoven lives that pay the price ...

  When her sister marries Jonathan, Katie’s life begins to change drastically. Suddenly, she finds herself the object of his desire. Katie’s sister is far from pleased with her husband’s yearning and unleashes unbearable mistreatment on Katie. When Jonathan takes matters into his own hands, revealing a past nobody expected, will the irrelevant Katie finally become the relevant woman she was destined to be?

  Want to read more romances about alpha heroes and the women who tame them with their love? Join here.

  One

  “Do you need anything? Should I plump your pillow? Get you more ice?” As soon as the last question leaves William Faulkner’s lips, an ice cube is at Camaria Smith’s mouth.

  “No,” she grunts out, squeezing the love of her life’s fingers. “Just ... ” She can’t speak. The pain is too unbearable. No one mentioned how unbearable the pain would be.

  “You have to practice your breathing, Cami.” Then he shows her how. “Hee hee ooo. Just like they told us during the childbirth classes. Hee hee—”

  “Shut up.” She swats at the closest body part to her. His arms, hands, and fingers will need medical attention by the time she delivers their first child. “Stop it, Will. I’m in agony. All over hurts, and no amount of hee hee—” Just then, another contraction grips her insides, ending her pain-riddled complaints.

  “Hold her leg,” an older midwife orders from between Cami’s brown thighs.

  Will gives the sweating woman’s cheek a peck before rushing to do as he’s told. Once there, he looks down.

  “Push,” the midwife orders.

  “Is-is that ... ”

  No one pays Will any attention. Mother and child are the two most important individuals at the moment. The blood drains from his face, leaving it cotton ball white, just before he faints to the floor.

  “Will? Oh God,” Cami says when she hears the loud smack to the ground.

  “Don’t worry about him. I’ve seen it a million times. He’ll come to later, hun. Now, I need you to push. Push.”

  “I can’t. It hurts too much,” Cami cries, tired and out of breath. Her small hands rub the sides of her tight stomach.

  “I see the head. Now push, I tell you. I swear this’ll be it.”

  Cami lifts her head off the pillow. Determination makes her face resemble stone, smooth and rock solid. Sweat pours off her but she isn’t concerned about that right now because another sharp pain hardens her stomach. She closes her eyes, concentrating on pushing and bearing down. Cami grunts and bites into her bottom lip until it bleeds. She breathes through some of the pain but still yells through most of it and only stops when the sweet cries of a newborn are heard in the room.

  The midwife hands the baby to Cami, who looks down at the mucus-covered child who’s kept her up at nights. In that split second, she falls in love. A peaceful smile graces Cami’s full lips as she silently counts all her baby’s fingers and toes. She’s pleased with everything her eyes lands on.

  “Perfect,” she whispers, cradling the child to her breast.

  Mother and her newborn daughter are one, connected by an unconditional love that blooms even more as she’s nursed.

  I stare at the last sentence again. I’ve re-read the words many times from my notebook, filled with the love between Will and Cami as well as the love between Cami and her daughter. My fictional start in life is much better on paper than in real life. I wasn’t as fortunate as the baby in my made-up story. My mother didn’t fall in love with me. She didn’t count my toes or fingers. She didn’t play with the light-colored patch of hair at the front of my head. No father fainted on the floor, nor was he helped to his feet so he could cut the umbilical cord.

  My delivery was hard, long, and led to my mother’s quick death despite her youth. The midwife, who was my maternal grandmother, did all she could to save her only child—her last living relative—but nothing she did could stop death’s hands from strangling my mother’s heart.

  My murderous entrance into the world branded me for the rest of my existence. I kill families and marriages. That’s my fate in life. Some will call me a modern day Hester Prynne, while others will use baser names like whore and home-wrecker. I’m sure most women whose lovers have strayed will gloss over my story and dismiss it as insignificant. In the middle of my story, I may appear weak—a slut who deserves hatred and a severe tongue-lashing. I’ve learned that life isn’t as black and white as I’ve always viewed it. It’s more nuanced shades of colors unexpectedly thrown in.

  Jonathan S. Drazen III swept into my life like a whirlwind, showing me he was a force to be reckoned with, demanding my undivided attention, and refusing to accept anything but my complete acquiescence to his indecent proposal.

  What was an irrelevant woman like myself supposed to do?

  Two

  This particular day in April proves to be a good one for a wedding. Today there’s none of that April showers blah, blah mess. There’s not a jittery cloud filled with angsty rain in sight. It’s a warm, sunny, gorgeous day. The setting outside compliments the man and woman who I can barely see over the elaborate updos and other intricate hairstyles inside the cathedral.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your lovely bride,” the priest cheerfully yells into the microphone.

  Immediately everyone is on their feet and completely blocks my view. I tip my head back to look up at the Jumbotron giving an instant replay of any missed activities at the front of the church. The kiss is evidence of the couple’s passion and oozes with their lust. When his hands squeeze her butt cheeks, the man of the cloth reddens, and the new Mrs. Drazen does her best to maneuver
out of the daring hold. The guests hesitate for a spilt second, not sure how to react, before the groom’s side of the church breaks out into raucous applause, which forces the rest of us to join in.

  Unofficially, I’ve been trained to be seen and not heard. To be part of the landscape but never take up more space than need be. From my place—the last row on the left side—I tap a few fingers in the palm of the other hand. This side signifies either I’m a friend of the bride or part of her family, that I know the bride intimately.

  And I do. She and I have two things in common: shared DNA from our father and a childhood home address in White Plains, New York. However, my specific seating—the last row—is more telling. Blood and that broken down fourteen-acre farmland are the only ties that bind me to the woman with the dark brown hair at the front. I play no significant role in her world, which is the reason I was placed in the last row.

  My sister’s relevant. More so now with her new prestigious last name.

  And me? I’m the exact opposite.

  I stand with the rest of the congregants as the Drazens stroll down the aisle. I’m captivated by her beatific smile and his gracious one as they clutch each other’s arms while silently acknowledging their well-wishers. Soon I’m following behind the rest of their guests outside the cathedral and into the late spring afternoon. Because I’m not needed to be part of the bridal party or even a wanted guess, I stay back in the cooler shadows of the church.

  Candid photos are taken of the pair next to their limousine by expensive-looking phones and a few cameras.

  Rose petals are tossed in the air and fall over the beaming couple’s heads.

  Doves are strategically released to the striking blue sky.

  Quicker than I’d thought possible, they’re whisked away by their enviable ride.

  Maria, my half sister’s mother, catches my attention as she fusses with the bow at the front of her over-the-top beige dress. Her ever-present husband, William, appears slightly off kilter as he looks around for something. The insistent waving of one of his hands in my direction lets me know that I’m the something he’s in search of. I keep my distance from the couple who stand near the open door of the waiting family car.

  “Katie, where the hell have you been?” This William Faulkner is no romancer of words like his famous namesake. His tone is biting and, in the last year or so, a constant weariness sharpens his words then weighs down the corners of his mouth.

  “I’ve been here.” I point back to the top of the stairs to show him I was in plain sight, if he’d bothered to look. But he never does, preoccupied as he always is with his wife and Monica.

  He and I both pretend we don’t hear Maria’s loud groan before she decides our conversation doesn’t matter in her universe and she enters the vehicle. I stare at the tall, balding, pot-bellied man in front of me attempting to see him as my mother’s lover twenty-two years ago.

  I have questions. So many.

  Was the seduction mutual or one-sided?

  Did my mother lure him away from Maria with her youth, or did he use his wealth to sway her into an affair?

  I’ll never get the nerve to ask him; moreover, he’d never answer any of them.

  “Get in the car. We’re cutting it close as it is.”

  He doesn’t wait for a response. When I duck my head and enter, he clicks his tongue, communicating with the driver to leave the cathedral. The back of the vehicle is quiet while the car weaves smoothly through Manhattan’s hectic traffic, and before long, all three of us exit the vehicle and walk through the wrought iron Vanderbilt Gate.

  The bridal party has already arrived, and the photographer is placing them around the bride and groom. Different poses are called out. The photographer requests changes in facial expressions from everyone except the cheerful bride and the somber-looking groom. A hairdresser interrupts the picture-taking process to fix a few strands that had the nerve to stray out of place and onto Monica’s face. The makeup artist takes the same opportunity to reapply foundation and mascara to her already breathtaking features.

  Instead of continuing as a lurker, I venture toward the back of the garden. I’ve never been inside the Conservation Garden before even though I’m a born New Yorker. I take in the garden’s intimate atmosphere and inhale the myriad of scents coming from the flower beds, which litter the garden. I wouldn’t mind exploring area again when I’m by myself especially when all I can hear is chattering from behind me. One in particular is the nasally voice of the makeup artist commenting that most of his clients use the larger Italianate Center Garden, and this is his first time in the smaller, English-style garden.

  “Either Monica’s father is a cheap son of a bitch, or there’s really no Faulkner money left,” he titters from behind his hand to someone standing next to him.

  “I have another artist on standby. He’s only a phone call away,” Maria says loudly.

  Having lived all my life with my stepmother, I know she’s not a woman backs down from, or loses, an argument. Quiet blankets the area as everyone nearby wait to see if there’ll be a response from the makeup artist. He blinks a few times and maybe have an internal conversation with himself before walking away. Thank God. I sigh, grateful that I won’t witness a verbal bloodbath where I’m sure Maria would be crowned the victor.

  In a flash, people are moving about the garden once more and everyone’s talking to swallow up the prior uneasiness. The photographer peers down at his camera, maybe reviewing pictures already taken. Monica’s drinking a bottle of her favorite imported water while her husband’s back is turned, and he’s on a cell phone away from everyone else.

  I stroll over to where Maria is sternly addressing my father who has a determined look on his face.

  “She’ll be in the family pictures and that’s final!” he grits out, then stomps off in the other direction.

  Maria’s blue eyes connect with my hazel ones. She and I are past pretenses with each other. By the age of five, I could spell my name, count to twenty, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Maria hated my guts. In the presence of her husband and outsiders, she makes only the slightest of attempts to mask her hostility.

  Her approach is measured. When she’s finally near my ear, she tells me, “If you even think about ruining these pictures for my daughter ... ”

  She doesn’t need to finish her sentence. I rub the chill away from my arms while she walks stiffly away from me.

  From the sidelines, I watch my father speak to Monica, whose smile flattens into a grimace the longer they converse. He looks over at me, then goes back to speaking with his firstborn.

  “Katie,” my father finally calls out. He points to the empty spot where I’m to stand.

  As I take my place, I bury the sting of Maria’s not-so-veiled threat. In the center, our father is wedged between a glowering Monica on his right and myself on his left.

  I dutifully pose as I’m told. I do not ruin the pictures for my half sister. There are a handful of images of the three of us before I’m cast to the side when Maria and my brother-in-law join Monica and my father for separate pictures.

  Three

  Seated, I sway my upper body to the music. It’s an over-the-top instrumental piece played at lavish receptions like this one. For a moment, I picture myself dancing with a broad-shouldered man. The kind who sweeps me off my feet with eyes that only see me, that look at me as if I’m his dream come true.

  I snort derisively, covering up my mouth quickly with my napkin to drown out the sound. That’ll happen when pigs sprout wings, I think, coming out of my daydream just as a waiter places unadorned water glasses in front of each guest. Another waiter fills each with champagne, and before my eyes, the simple water glass-shaped exterior reveals the recognizable champagne-glass silhouette inside.

  “Mon must have ordered all of MOMA’s inside-out champagne glasses for her wedding,” someone says from the next table. From the nickname, I assume the speaker is someone who knew Monica in high school. She’s
since outgrown the name and will take a knife to anyone’s throat who calls her Mon to her face. “She has such fine taste. This is one of their best-selling items.”

  I’m not given much time to fawn over the ingenious creation because a discreet tap on the microphone pulls my attention from the glass toward the front of the large ballroom.

  “Please stand and welcome Mr. and Mrs. Drazen,” the master of ceremonies commands.

  The applause is deafening. Even in the heels, my small stature doesn’t help me see much. On top of that, I’m seated at a far corner table, which makes it impossible for me to glimpse the happy couple as they walk the short distance from the doorway to the dance floor. Between the shoulders of my tablemates, I’m nearly blinded by the flashing lights from the different cameras going off capturing shot after shot of the couple’s first dance.

  I plop back onto the padded seat and reach for my champagne glass.

  I hate the envy I feel toward her. I despise that it’s choking the air out of me. I expel a breath as I place the glass back on the table. I doubt Monica has ever envied anyone a day in her pampered life. I’ve been relegated to my lofty irrelevant position since birth. I should be used to my invisibility, being forgotten, or more specifically, not even considered. But the older I get, the more it chafes like tender skin rubbed raw from a pair of uncomfortable shoes.

  Monica’s the one my father and stepmother are depending on to pull them from the lack of financial resources that’s suffocated their lifestyle for the last three years. Truthfully, as far back as I can remember, there’ve always been money issues.

  Once upon a time, the Faulkners’ wealth rivaled that of the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts, and Whitneys. These were the kinds of names the family resided near, socialized, vacationed, and went to private schools with. My father, William Faulkner V, grew up with servants at his beck and call, attended grand balls where princes and princesses from small countries were present, and rode to his elite schools in limousines driven by chauffeurs.