Page 1 of His Holy Chaos

Chapter 1. Jude

The rim of the shot glass is sticky against my lips. The drink crawls down my throat and burns. It feels terrible, and good, like most things in my life. I’m desperate to find anything that will help me forget him.

The bartender isn’t Glynn for a change, which is a big surprise. Glynn usually runs the bar too, because the owner's cheap as hell and this place is perpetually understaffed. I always tell Glynn to quit, but they love this place as much as I used to love it, when I used to come here several times a week. They will never quit, just suffer through it for minimum wage. Oh well, just as Doms like to rub in our faces: it’s the consequences of our own actions.

I’m liking this new bartender, though. Some new kid with shaky hands, dark skin, and an easy smile. If I weren’t here just to get absolutely wasted, I’d ask his name. He lines up three more shots without me asking and winks. Smart boy.

BratWorld pulses around me. There’s leather, people moaning, laughing, talking, and even crying. It’s a popular venue and we have public scenes. A guy called Maniac is tying up a poor little blonde girl with a complex bondage knot. She looks lost in subspace, that eerie look on her face, eyes distant, a big, easy and soft smile, loving every minute of it. Maniac and I never talked much. He’s big and chubby, with a long red beard and glasses. He told me that his nickname came from all the time he spent playing Call of Duty, which is lame. He was just a quiet nerd in his private life, just like most of us.

Anyway, he told me all of this a lifetime ago. Over a year to be exact. When I actually came here and had friends and a community.

Thinking about that, bitterly, I down one more shot. I shouldn’t have come, and I knew it. I wasn’t ready. No matter how much I tried to convince myself that I was. That it had been over a year, and I couldn’t possibly be still suffering over my last dynamic. That everyone else had moved on except me.

One more shot.

I listen to the symphony of leather, slaps, and muffled moans above the thudding bass. Violet and red lights paint everyone in the colors of fresh bruises. It feels like coming home to a house that's been robbed.

"Slow down there, Piaf. You planning on remembering any part of tonight?" Pierce slides onto the stool beside me, his blue hair catching the light. His nose has a septum ring, he’s maybe 5’6”, and is slightly overweight. He's one of my best friends. He's also always going on about how everybody misses me, how maybe I should try again, even after I tell him I'm done with kink for life. I know he doesn’t do it to hurt me. He actually misses me. Many people there do.

But I can’t. I shouldn’t.

One more shot.

I wink at him, downing the next shot without breaking eye contact. "Memory's overrated, darling."

Pierce laughs, that high-pitched cackle that always makes strangers frown at him. I love it. I can also feel Glynn watching us from the other end of the dancefloor, their ginger hair a flame.

I signal for another round, ignoring the concern that flickers across Glynn's face as they approach. They’re short, pale as a ghost, and their face is covered in freckles. They have the most beautiful green eyes, and I love them to death.

"Slow down, Jude," Glynn says.

“That’s exactly what I just told him!” Pierce exclaims, validated, and opens his big goofy smile.

Glynn goes up to the cute guy bartender and asks for water, bringing it to me.

“Come on!” I complain. “I want my shots.”

“No. Or I’ll have to whip your ass myself. The house has a limit. Even for you.”

“Fine, Daddy Glynn.” I roll my eyes. Glynn is a sub, but I often call them Daddy Glynn as a joke. They are the boss there, which means they can be a pain in the ass sometimes. "I'm just here because you two wouldn't stop blowing up my phone." I run my finger around the rim of the glass of water. Not feeling like drinking it. I've never met a brat who drinks water voluntarily. "One night of debauchery to shut you up. Then back to my monk cell."

Glynn's eyes narrow slightly. They've known me too long to buy the casual act. I can see they’re wondering if inviting me was a mistake. But that’s easy, I could answer it for them: yes, it was.

The DJ transitions to a new track, and the first notes hit me hard. It’s Enough for You by Olivia Rodrigo. Exactly the song that I cried to so many times while remembering him.

Suddenly I'm not here anymore.

I'm on my knees. The collar is snug around my neck, the leather worn soft from months of wear. Emmett stands above me, his fingers threading through my hair. The way he always was: gentle, kind, possessive, absolutely sadistic.

"Such a good puppy," he murmurs, and the praise flows through me, warm and sweet and addictive. I press my face against his palm, desperate for more contact, more approval. His smile is so loving. "You're perfect when you behave. Perfect for me. My good puppy.”

The memory shatters as someone bumps my elbow. My hands are shaking, I realize distantly. Trembling like I've been left out in the cold.

After we’d broken up, I saw him everywhere. In every song playing. In strangers’ faces in public spaces. I missed him when I went about my day, our routine, his laughter from all the jokes I now repeated to strangers. Every time I watched porn and saw someone doing anything we used to do. Every time I came. Cumming became a torture on its own and I spent months without even wanting to do it. Before, I couldn’t go a day without it. I missed him when I saw his favorite chocolate (dark with raspberries). My phone remembered him when I texted any word that started with D and the predictive text would suggest turning it into Daddyyyyyyyy. He left a hole where his presence had been.

The ghost of Emmett was still alive, everywhere around me.

"Fuck," I mutter, flexing my fingers to force the tremors away. "I need another."