Page 13 of His Holy Chaos

"No. See, I told you I'm a good sub. I'm persistent and can endure a lot."

"A masochist," I correct. He laughs and takes his coffee to his lips.

"A masochist indeed," he agrees.

I drain the last of my coffee, using the action to compose myself. "We will never play together, Jude. I'm sorry if that disappoints you. It's not you, sweetheart. It's me," I say, softly. Way softer than I thought possible. He opens his mouth to say something, but I don't give him the chance. "I'm old and I'm… boring, like you said. You like clubs and parties, getting drunk, you have a ton of friends. I'm just a lonely wolf who likes routines and structure. I have nothing to offer you. I don't have the time or a place for this in my life. I'm sorry."

I know I sound way more vulnerable than I'm ever ready to be, and that surprises me. My mom would be proud, I think, bitterly.

He sets his empty cup down and leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. He has that mischievous smile as usual.

"Jeez, you really think you know me. Arrogant much? You're wrong about all you think I want. Okay, Mr. Dom. If that's the case," he asks, "why did you accept coming here with me?" He winks and I find myself momentarily speechless.

I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. Any answer I could give would either be a lie or an admission I'm not prepared to make. What would I say? I'm trying to convince myself not to give you a chance because I know you'll turn my world upside down? The realization settles uncomfortably in my chest. I'm attracted to him. There's no denying. To his brazen confidence, his quick mind, even his maddening persistence.

"We should go," I say finally, standing and collecting our empty cups. "I'll take you home now."

"Nah. It's okay. Thanks for the coffee. See you later, Mr. Dom," he says. He gets up and he's out the door before I can say anything else. I sigh a long sigh.

Chapter 8. Jude

The café door swings shut behind me. I walk. I don't know where I'm going for the first three blocks because my legs are on autopilot and my brain is stuck in a loop, playing Ford's voice on repeat. I don't have space in my life for someone who needs more than I'm prepared to give, or something like that, and it's not Ford's voice anymore, not really. It's Emmett's. It's always Emmett's.

I don't have time for this anymore, Jude. You ask too much of me. I'm busy. You can't be the main thing in my life. That's what Emmett said. Not in those exact words, but almost. The problem was that he said this without a single previous warning. We were happy, then he broke me. Ford said it differently, fundamentally incompatible, established routines, not in a position, but different vocabulary and the same conclusion: You are too much, and I don't want to carry you.

I make it to my apartment. The door is unlocked, which means Noa is home, but the place is quiet. His bedroom door is closed. I drop my keys on the counter, and I make it to the couch before my legs decide they're done cooperating. I should thank my legs for cooperating at all.

I sit. Then I'm not sitting, I'm curled into the corner of the couch, and my face is wet. Not the dramatic kind of crying, just the pathetic quiet kind. The kind that's been living in my chest for a year, surfacing whenever someone says the wrong words in the right order. It's not Ford's fault. He didn't say it to hurt me. I'm just already hurt. So hurt that anything makes me bleed. The tears slide down my cheeks, dripping off my jaw onto my jacket. My ribs ache with the effort of holding myself together, and I realize I'm not holding myself together at all. I'm just holding myself.

Ford's face dissolves behind my wet eyelashes, and it's Emmett's face that takes its place. It's always Emmett's face. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget you. Not in a million years. I will still remember this ache.

My brain does what it always does. It takes me back.

Two years ago. BratWorld.

The main playroom is the same light violet and red. I used to find it poetic, as if we were all in a music video. The bass line from the speakers vibrates through the floor and up through my boots. I can feel the music in my heart, both the same rhythm. I am so fucking alive and so happy. I can barely remember how it feels now. It feels so long ago. Like this happened to somebody else, not me.

Pierce is beside me with his blue hair catching the neon, his septum ring glinting every time he throws his head back to laugh, which is often, because we're both drunk and everything is hilarious and good. His mesh top shows off his nipple piercings. He's wearing a studded belt that jingles when he walks.

"Another round," Pierce announces to no one in particular, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward people near the bar. "Come on, let's make everyone terrible decisions."

I'm carrying a tray of tequila shots that I got through a combination of charm and mild theft from the bar. Glynn will add it to my tab later, or pay for it themselves, they always do. I move through the crowd like I own the room, because in some ways I do. I know every face here. I even know their safewords, their limits, their drink orders. This is my living room, my kingdom, my church.

Across the playroom, Alfie sits in one of the oversized leather armchairs, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a glass of red wine resting in his hand. At his feet, Glynn kneels on a cushion, wearing nothing but a collar, a leather harness that crosses their pale, freckled chest, covered by a binder, and black leather briefs. Glynn's ginger hair is immaculate despite the position. They look serene. Alfie's free hand rests on the back of Glynn's neck, not gripping, just there. He's quiet in a way that makes everyone want to confess their sins to him. When our eyes meet across the crowd, he gives me a slow smile.

I blow him a kiss and keep moving.

"Shots!" I announce, approaching a group of regulars sprawled across a leather sectional. "Everyone drinks. Non-negotiable. I don't care if you have work tomorrow. I don't care if you're driving. Actually, I do care if you're driving. Drink anyway and take a cab. Then, cause chaos. I want all the rules broken!"

They groan, they cheer, they laugh, they drink. I am magnetic and insufferable, and I know it. Pierce takes two shots in quick succession and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming. It's the reckless joy that only fellow brats understand.

That's when I notice him.

Emmett is sitting on a leather couch just beyond the group, and he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. He doesn't come that often. He's rather new. His posture is perfect, spine straight, legs crossed, watching the scene like a predator. He's holding a glass of something amber that he hasn't touched. His dark hair falls past his shoulders in a way that looks like he spends hours in a salon. He has the kind of face that makes you forget your own name, sharp jaw, pointy chin, big warm black eyes with those crinkles at the corners. His lips are full, red, delicious. He's wearing a cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing forearms that I immediately want wrapped around my throat.

I approach with my tray, grinning. "Shot?"

He doesn't take one. He doesn't even look at the tray. His eyes stay on mine.