Page 65 of His Holy Chaos

"What the fuck? Why am I the only one with no business cards?" I complain. They both laugh.

"Because you're a baby. And I thought we had discussed this mouth of yours? That's one tally."

"No, Daddy!" I protest. Alfie laughs again. He's a kinky freak.

"What are his consequences for a potty mouth?" he asks. Ford smirks.

"One day in chastity per tally," he says. Alfie whistles.

"Strict. Love it," he winks. They shake hands.

"Thank you for coming," Ford says.

"Thank you for showing up," Alfie replies, and the double meaning hangs in the air. Alfie turns and starts walking toward his car, and we go the other way.

"He's extraordinary," Ford says quietly, watching Alfie's retreating figure.

"He is."

"He loves you very much."

"I know. I love him too."

Ford's thumb traces a small circle against my spine. I lean into it.

Chapter 28. Ford

BratWorld hits you with a wall of bass that displaces the air in your lungs, followed by the darkness: violet and red neon lights that turn everyone's skin the color of a bruise. As we pass through it, I feel Jude change. Like a switch. His smile is wider, he's buzzing. He hasn't let go of my hand, but the grip has shifted from easy to electric. Noa and Henry, his roommate and his roommate's Dom, are with us tonight.

A man in a harness leans against the bar, laughing; two women share a booth, a kiss, and a cigarette; a group of leather-clad regulars occupies the far corner. The air smells like sex and booze.

"There they are," Jude says. He pulls me toward the cluster of bodies near the far end of the bar, and I follow, because following Jude into chaos is apparently my evening now.

Pierce sees us first. Tonight his blue hair is slicked back on one side and spiked on the other, and he's wearing a mesh shirt.

"The prodigal brat returns!" Pierce shouts over the music. He launches himself at Jude, and they hug each other tightly. Pierce's studded accessories jingle against Jude's collar - the day collar, the chain with a padlock. He never takes it off.

"Ford." Pierce peels himself off Jude long enough to acknowledge me.

"Pierce." I offer my hand. He ignores it and hugs me instead, which I should have expected. He smells like clove cigarettes.

The evening detonates from there.

It starts small: a drink knocked sideways by Pierce's elbow. The bartender, who has clearly survived previous encounters with them, simply sighs and reaches for a towel. Then Noa shouts something at Henry across the room: AMOK!

It's an inside joke: brats like to run amok. So all of the brats around start screaming AMOK, AMOK, AMOK, like a flock of deranged chickens.

Jude is at the center of it. He's always at the center of it. He's screaming, jumping in place, tugging at Pierce's collar, and Pierce retaliates by stealing Jude's drink and downing it in one swallow while maintaining eye contact with Elliot, Pierce's play partner for the night, who watches from across the room, amused.

The dares begin. Noa dares Pierce to ask the DJ for a song that has more curse words than normal words. Pierce dares Glynn to convince the bartender to put double shots into everyone's drinks. Glynn dares Jude to give the whole club something to watch.

Jude looks at me. Just for a moment. A flash of honey through the dark, checking. For my attention. For the assurance that I'm watching.

I raise my glass. A fraction of an inch. The smallest possible toast.

He grins. He is a good boy, deep down. He never does anything without permission. And then he's on the table.

He steps up: one foot on the seat, one on the surface. Jude finds the music immediately, hips first, then shoulders, then the rest of him. He's sexy. He's free.