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

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  Table of Contents

  Dominate | by Tara West

  Thanks To...

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  five

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  seven

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  Books by Tara West

  About Tara West

  Dominate

  by Tara West

  Two months. That’s how much time I have to woo Hollywood before I have to go back to my job in Houston, teaching high school drama. I don’t have time to be patient, and I damn well am not about to settle for being a stereotype. They got the wrong Latina if they think Ariana Delarosa Alvarado is going to play by their rules.

  I’ve got my own set of rules, especially in the bedroom, and I plan on enforcing them between auditions. I can think of no better way to relieve my stress than by seducing my neighbor, tall, toned, and delicious Dr. Brad Thorensen. I only hope I don’t scare away my Nordicgod before teaching him how to enjoy my brand of kink.

  Thanks To...

  Special thanks to C.D. Reiss for the honor of asking me to write a Drazen World story. It’s not just that you’ve created an amazing world and characters, but it’s the way you weave a story with such poetic grace that has made me a lifelong fan. I hope I did your series justice.

  Ginelle, Shéa, Sheri, and Tracy thanks so much for your honest feedback.

  Theo, thanks again for being the God of Grammar and for saving my ass with your red pen of shame.

  one

  I spent last summer in Austin, whose theme is “Keep Austin Weird” so it’s not like I wasn’t used to strange. The women in Beverly Hills just had better tans, smaller waists, and bigger, faker tits. I couldn’t crack a whip without hitting a Botoxed, bleached blonde with a designer handbag and a nameless face. They were everywhere, littering the streets of LA like collagen confetti in a Fiesta parade.

  Me, in my vintage thrift store dress, nose stud, and comfortable flats, looked like I belonged at a Mexican flea market, and I’d escaped my zip code, defiling Blonde Boulevard with churros and Virgin Mary statues.

  I looked far too natural for this crowd, with the exception of the tattoo on my wrist, my straightened black hair, thick eyeliner, and red lipstick. Usually, I preferred the retro look. After all, my body was made for 50’s dresses that flared at the hips and showed off my genuine D cups. My curves filled a saddle perfectly, or a lover while I was riding him like a bucking bronco.

  I knew what the people of Rodeo Drive thought of me by how they stared at me, or rather, how they didn’t stare. It was as if I didn’t exist. I wasn’t worth a scowl or laugh because I was worthless.

  Or so they thought.

  Mamá didn’t think I was worthless. Neither did my step-dad, Angus, nor my best friend, Savannah. No matter what happened in California this summer, if I failed to land a movie or television role, I’d go home to family who valued me. What did these plastic princesses have over me? After they charged up their husband’s credit cards, they’d return to a grand, yet cold and unwelcoming home. They’d eat dinner alone and promptly throw it up. Then, they’d pop a few appetite suppression and anxiety pills and sip a margarita by the pool, admiring the muscles of their Latino gardeners while their husbands bent girls like me over their office desks, jamming their cocks into their young, tight asses so they wouldn’t get slapped with paternity lawsuits.

  I saw the woman too late. She walked with purpose, her stride a long, confident swagger in three-inch heels as she balanced two oversized shopping bags on each arm.

  I tried to move aside, but the corner of one bag smacked my elbow, slicing open my skin, bright red pooling around the cut almost instantly. She stopped to examine the bag as if I’d somehow purposely defiled it. That’s when I saw something silver poking out. What the hell? Was that a blade or the tip of a wire hanger?

  She turned up her nose and scowled. “Watch where you’re going.”

  I could’ve pointed out the obvious, that she was the one who’d injured me. But where was the fun in that?

  Attitude locked and loaded. Ready. Aim. Fire. “Bitch, I’d so fuck your husband.” Truthfully, I wouldn’t knowingly sleep with a married man, but she didn’t need to know that.

  She arched a penciled brow. “Excuse me?”

  I squeezed my aching arm to slow the ebb of blood as I transformed into Bitchzilla and unleashed my fire. “While you’re at your surgeon, getting the cellulite sucked out of your ass, I’ll be on my knees on the balcony of the hotel room he booked with his secret credit card, his cock buried down my throat.” I looked directly into her eyes—hazed over by a society-sanctioned pharmaceutical addiction—and I plastered on a smile. “And when I’m done making him beg for mercy, he’ll wish he’d made you sign that prenup back when the only fake parts on your body were your tan, tits, and hair.”

  I sucked in a deep breath, glaring at the woman. She looked ready to explode in an inferno of oxycodone and silicone, which would have been bad for the environment, not to mention painful.

  “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me or my husband.” If it was even possible, her plastic face tightened as her skin flushed all the way to her stiff, platinum roots.

  “I know you’re not a happy woman, because if you were, you’d apologize when you rip open someone’s arm.” I jammed a bloody finger toward her jewel-encrusted, leathery collarbone. “But since you’re a miserable old hag, you’d prefer to make everyone around you miserable, too.”

  One corner of her top rubber lip turned up in a snarl. “Tramp, you have no idea whom you’re talking to.”

  As if I gave two fucks. “Bruja.” I laughed harshly before turning on my heel and waving her off as if she were no more significant than a piece of hay sticking out of a manure pile. “Hasta luego.”

  Fuck her and fuck this town. One day I’d have all these stuck-up assholes bent over my desk, and they’d be taking my Texas-sized grudge right up their asses. Until that day came, no way was I playing it cool, no way was I playing it safe. They’d gotten the wrong Latina if they thought Ariana Delarosa Alvarado was going to play by their rules.

  I dug into my shopping bag. “Sorry, Savannah,” I mouthed as I took the tissue paper out of the present I’d bought for her and wrapped it around my arm.

  The lady behind the counter had packaged the bracelet nicely in a beautiful aquamarine bag and silver, sparkly tissue. I still couldn’t believe how much I’d spent for two Goddess Collection bracelets. Luckily, I was using Savannah’s money.

  I crossed the street to where Dr. Brad Thorensen, aka Nordicgod, was texting in his convertible, totally oblivious to the fact that I’d just been sliced open.

  I jerked open the door and sat in the passenger seat.

  “That was quick.” He set down his phone, flashing a fried chicken and cornbread smile. The kind of smile that had almost made me want to fuck my new neighbor’s brains out the first night I met him. But that was two weeks ago. My tastes had since evolved. At least, that’s what I kept trying to tell myself.

  “I told you it wouldn’t take long,” I grumbled, squeez
ing my arm tight. It was throbbing pretty badly as blood continued to ooze around the tissue.

  He frowned, nodding at the injury. “What happened there?”

  I glared at the woman in the Mercedes convertible, who flew past us, her stiff hair hard-on not even bending in the breeze. She shot me the middle finger before nearly plowing into the back of a flower delivery truck. Was I evil for being disappointed when she didn’t crash?

  “That bitch cut me open with her bag.” I gestured at the retreating car, hissing as the rip in my skin widened.

  “Let me see.” He slipped off his sunglasses and held out a hand. I still couldn’t believe a guy with such thick fingers was a heart surgeon, which made me wonder if he had another thick appendage on his body.

  I reluctantly gave him my arm, twisting it so he could get to my elbow. “Aye!” I screamed as he ripped off my paper bandage. “Watch it!”

  “Damn, Ariana.” He let out a low whistle. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

  “Wow. You a doctor or something?” I flinched when he touched the skin flap. That bitch had butchered me.

  He raised his brows, wrinkling his forehead and marring his otherwise smooth perfection. “Glad to see the loss of blood hasn’t affected your wit. Hold still.” He grabbed gauze out of his glove box—because, you know, everyone keeps spare gauze in their glove box—and wrapped it around my arm.

  I looked away as he tightened the makeshift bandage. Not because I didn’t find Brad’s baby blues attractive. Quite the opposite. Something about the intimacy of his touch sent a jolt straight to my lady parts, turning them to liquid lava.

  I wasn’t supposed to be sexually attracted to my neighbor. The guy was like ten or fifteen years older than me, even though he didn’t look a day past thirty. Dr. Brad Thorensen was too sexy for words. He had beautiful blue eyes, sun-kissed brown hair, a strong, square jaw, and a ripped chest. But if we ended up fucking, and things turned awkward (as they usually did once I explained my bedroom rules), I’d have to deal with him for the next two months.

  He ran his fingers over my injury, his gentle touch causing my flesh to rise. I hated the objective way he looked at my elbow, as if all these years working at a hospital had desensitized him to my suffering.

  I bit my bottom lip as a drop of blood dripped onto his jeans. “I’m not responsible for your dry cleaning.”

  He clucked his tongue. “You’re going to need stitches.”

  “Stitches?”

  “‘A quick trip to Rodeo Drive,’ you said.” He put the car into drive and rolled his eyes. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  He pulled out into heavy traffic. The cunt in the convertible was only one car ahead.

  “Hang on. I’m getting her license plate.” I grabbed my phone and jumped out of the car. I ran up behind her and snatched a picture of the plate, chuckling under my breath when she panicked and put the top up.

  I laughed out loud when the Botoxed bitch honked at the flower truck to get out of her way. Where exactly was the truck supposed to go? There was a line of cars ahead of them.

  I got back in Brad’s car and strapped on my seatbelt. “She is so paying for my deductible.”

  Brad shook his head, snickering. “Ariana, if she shops on Rodeo Drive, she’s probably got lawyers on retainer just to wipe her ass.”

  I jutted my elbow toward his smug face. “This was assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “I’m sure you said something to her that inflicted ten times as much pain.”

  I turned up my chin and inwardly smiled. “I did.”

  He held out a silencing palm, a dimple puckering his smooth skin as one corner of his mouth hitched up in a grin. “I don’t want to know.” He pushed my arm off his console. “Don’t drip on my leather.”

  How rude! Brad Thorensen, you have officially moved to my DNF list. Such a shame, too, that I had to let such a prime piece of man meat go to waste in the land of the Do Not Fucks, but if it was one thing I despised, it was insensitivity, especially when I was clearly in pain. My cut throbbed like a motherfucker.

  I turned from Brad with a scowl, focusing on the lineup of expensive cars between me, some stitches and a bottle of prescription painkillers. Ugh. This town sucked hairy bull balls.

  * * *

  Three hours, eight stitches, a big, fat tetanus shot, and one heavy-duty prescription later, Brad pulled into his driveway in Echo Park. My arm had stopped throbbing, thanks to my painkillers. I still couldn’t believe I’d gone through all this because of a shopping bag or whatever was poking out of the bag. I let out an exasperated breath before climbing out of Brad’s car. My head was swimming, so Brad walked me to my house, my temporary home while I looked for acting jobs this summer.

  The view from my summer rental was breathtaking. We were on what had to have been one of the tallest hills in Echo Park, giving me an expansive view of older homes with lots of character piled on top of one another like dominoes. So different than the manure piles and haystacks back on the ranch. I leaned on Brad as he helped me up the porch stairs, across the hardwood living room, and into bed.

  The mattress springs creaked when I sat down. I couldn’t help but think what delicious noises that mattress would make if I fucked Brad in this bed.

  Shut up, Ariana. Not your type. Too vanilla, remember? “Thanks, mí amor.” I patted his cheek and crawled beneath the sheets.

  His handsome chiseled features blurred like a faded dream. “Get some rest.”

  “I’m not that tired.” I fell against the pillow, my arms flopping by my sides. Truthfully, I was exhausted, but if I admitted it, Brad would leave. I wasn’t ready for him to go just yet.

  He stood to his full height, bearing down on me with a scowl. “That’s an order.”

  His tone had taken on a much darker edge than I was used to, causing gooseflesh to rise on my arms. “I don’t take orders from men.” My arms felt weighted with sandbags as I tried to pull myself up. “They take orders from me.”

  I thought I saw amusement in his eyes, but it was hard to tell as my vision fogged up like a humid Houston afternoon.

  “Is that so?” His smooth brow furrowed. “Well, consider this a doctor’s order.”

  “Are you my doctor now?”

  His laughter was throaty and rich, reminding me of coffee spiked with Irish rum. “For tonight, yes.”

  Wow. I hadn’t seen this bossy side of Dr. Brad before. It was kind of hot. Usually, he was the easygoing guy who played weird video games and reluctantly chauffeured me around town, but this new side of him was a total turn-on. Not that I liked dominant men in bed, but I sure enjoyed the challenge of subduing them.

  Hmmm. Maybe I’ll take you off the DNF list.

  I patted the bed, doing my best to smile, even though the act of moving my facial muscles was like bending hard clay. “Sit for a minute.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his forced smile making him look either constipated or completely not into me. Either way, odds weren’t in my favor.

  So why didn’t I take the hint?

  “I feel like I need to thank you.” I smoothed a hand across the sheet while biting my lip, discouraged when I got no response. Damn. These painkillers were making me awkward. Usually I was an artist when it came to seduction, the penis my medium, and my tongue the brush. Tonight I was painting by numbers, and the colors were all wrong.

  I should’ve stopped at the lip biting, but the way he stared at me as ominous clouds swirled in his eyes made me think maybe he was turned on, too. I could master him while drugged-up. Who knew? Maybe I could explore my talent with more abandon. Maybe I’d even give into my white knight and let him ride on top for a bit.

  Before I knew what was happening, my hand had slid onto his thick thigh, riding up to that bulge beneath his jeans.

  I gasped when he grabbed my hand, squeezing it with surprising strength. My sweet, handsome doctor didn’t strike me as a dominant. Had I been mistaken? I sure hoped not, because I had to be the one i
n control. Always.

  “Goodnight, Ariana,” he said, brushing my hand off his thigh and rising.

  “But I told you, I don’t want to go to sleep.” I pouted. “I want to show you my appreciation.” My voice slurred a bit as my tongue grew heavy. Damn. How was I supposed to suck his dick like this?

  I heard the door shut and realized too late he’d left me. What the hell? Wasn’t Brad interested in redeeming his reward? I’d been all ready to suck and fuck him into oblivion. My stupid eyelids grew heavy, and I shuddered, sinking into the bed as if I was falling through quicksand.

  Dammit, Brad. You could have gotten some of this!

  I thought about going after him, but my resolve weakened as my eyes finally shut. I stopped fighting my fatigue, deciding I’d pay the doctor a house call after a quick nap.

  I. Just. Needed. A little. Rest.

  two

  I woke up to the sound of someone’s car alarm, a rude awakening, but not as annoying as the cackling rooster that used to sit on the fence post beneath my bedroom window at the ranch.

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as memories from yesterday slowly unfolded like the fuzzy, crackling reel of an old home movie. Because I sucked at parallel parking, and because I was nearly out of gas, I’d asked—no forced—Brad to drive me to Rodeo Drive after my best friend Savannah called, begging me for a Goddess bracelet. She’d even offered to pay for my bracelet, too.

  Savannah and I both had girl crushes on our favorite singer, Monica Faulkner, another reason I’d absolutely had to rent this house for the summer. Apparently, this had been Monica’s childhood home. That’s what the guy who’d swapped houses with me told me, and that’s what Brad had confirmed my first day here. Up until a few years ago, Monica Faulkner had lived here, practiced her music here, and had probably even gotten laid in this very bedroom.

  My heartrate quickened as I pieced together sketchy memories of Brad and me in bed. I vaguely remembered something awkward happening between us. Had I flirted with him? Impossible. Brad wasn’t my type. He was too boring, too predictable, too vanilla.