Chapter 4. Ford
I told him I have a bedtime, but it doesn’t matter when all I can do is stay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about our night.
I know I should have said no to Dave right away.
Why would I go to a club? Me? I have nothing to do with the scene.
My last sub was a casual partner I saw once every month, at most, and who never demanded anything from me.
I wasn’t looking. I was perfectly content with my life, despite what Dave and Mom have to say.
So, I don’t know what kind of demon possessed me to go to BratWorld.
And worse! Brats!
In Angel's room, I've memorized the placement of every object, so I can find everything in the dark. I turn the nightlamp to its lowest setting. The soft blue glows across the nursery. Angel's cries intensify at the sight of me. Her tiny arms reach up, fists clenched.
"Good morning, my love," I whisper, lifting her. Eight months old and she’s so, so big already.
When she was a newborn in those first chaotic weeks after her birth, full of joy for her, full of grief for her mom, I thought she would never grow up, despite people telling me time would fly. But she did, of course she did.
The bottle waits downstairs. I retrieve it with one hand, my other arm cradling Angel against me.
While the bottle warmer hums, I inhale Angel's scent. It reminds me of Sarah. Not one day goes by without me thinking of Sarah. My sister's absence is so strong that there are days I’m sure she’ll come out of the room, saying she was there all along.
I have to keep busy so I don’t fall into a pit of horror and depression.
Some days are harder, I feel like I must cling to anything that keeps me from spiraling.
I can’t let depression win. Angel needs me.
The bottle warmer beeps, and I test the formula on my wrist, confirming the temperature, then we go to the living room.
We settle into the leather recliner. Angel's tiny fingers grasp at my robe as she drinks, her blue eyes fixed on my face. Sarah's eyes and mine as well.
"You're growing too quickly," I tell her, adjusting her position slightly.
Angel responds by grasping my index finger, her grip surprisingly strong. I run my thumb across her cheek, feeling the soft skin, the perfect curve of her face. I force myself to focus on the present moment. I’m here with Angel. Everything is good.
But last night keeps flashing in my head.
He has this ridiculous blond, almost white hair that looks so good with his square chin and defined jawline.
He caught my attention from the second I put my eyes on him, across the dancefloor.
He was drinking like a sailor and his movements were loud, exaggerated, exactly what I knew wouldn't work for me. Yet…
Angel finishes her bottle, and I shift her to my shoulder, patting her back in a rhythm. She burps with surprising force for such a small being. It always makes me chuckle.
"He disappeared for a year," Dave had told me earlier that night, watching Jude across the room. "His last Dom broke his heart. It was messy."
Devotion. That is a word I love. It's a word present in my everyday life, at every moment. When I go to church, when I take care of Angel, when I follow my routine with discipline.
As I carry Angel to the changing table, I try to focus on the fresh diaper, the familiar motions. But I keep seeing him. The way he staggered between barstools, shots lined up like ammunition. A mess. An obvious, visible mess.
"He used to be like a king here," Dave had said. "Everybody wanted to be his friend."
I think about how Jude looked when he was leaving.
How something in my chest tightened at the sight of him walking away.
That's when I'd turned to face him deliberately, caught his eyes across the room, and invited him over without a single word.
He came, just as I hoped he would. Obedient, even if unconsciously.
I focus on Angel again. Focus. Present moment. But the thought of Jude persists. He was pretty. No, more than that. He was really handsome. Funny and witty. Definitely a little demon.
Dave's voice again, from last night: "This kid is suffering. It's obvious. And it's been so long."
He's right. Under all that bravado, Jude looked like he just needed someone to hold him and tell him it was alright. My Daddy instincts started screaming, but I shook my head then, and I shake my head now. There's no way in heaven or hell that this would work.
I try to think of something else but the thought of him seems to linger. Dave definitely owes me one for putting me in this situation.
"Ridiculous," I mutter aloud.
Angel gurgles in response, her tiny hands batting at the air. I secure her sleeper, lifting her back into my arms. We return to the recliner, where I rock her gently, watching as her eyelids grow heavy. But as her breathing deepens toward sleep, my thoughts betray me again.
He was good at banter, and he loved every second of every word I said.
I could see what Dave meant. He gave his complete attention to the conversation, even if we were strangers; he looked at me with those penetrating eyes, as if I were the only person that ever mattered to him.
He laughed, nodded, getting drunk on my words.
It reinforced me more than anything could.
And he didn’t seem to be doing that in a manipulative or fake way; hell, maybe he couldn’t even be manipulative or fake at that time, as he was so drunk.
It seemed that was truly Jude, completely unarmored.
The word flashes in my head again: devotion.
Jude's voice echoes in my memory. Boring Dom. Maybe not even a Dom.
I shift in the chair, annoyed. Brats know how to make my blood boil. Angel stirs slightly, and I force myself to relax, to focus on her again. I don’t even know what all this fuss is about. I won’t even see him again.
But who am I fooling? I want to see him again, there’s no denying.
The doorbell chimes at 6:00 AM. My mother. I ease Angel into her bassinet beside the couch and move to the door.
"You don’t need to come so early, Mom," I say, opening the door. I told her that many, many times, but she insisted.
“Nonsense,” she says, getting in the house. She’s a tiny chubby woman. Her brown hair is lighter than mine, but exactly the same as Angel’s. She’s our world. I don’t know how I’d have survived Sarah’s death without her.
"Angel is just drifting back to sleep," I inform her, closing the door with a soft click. "She took her full bottle."
She bends over Angel without touching her but with the biggest smile. I think no one loves Angel more than her, and that’s saying something as the amount of love I have for Angel is infinite.
"She's getting Sarah's chin," she says without looking at me. "Strong. Determined."
I nod, because that’s too much for me to bear now, so I just ignore it.
I go to the kitchen to prepare coffee. She follows me and starts tidying up the house, even though the housekeeper is about to come at 8am.
"The pediatrician says she's advanced for her age.
Her grip strength especially," I casually comment.
My mother straightens. "She's thriving, son. You're doing so well with her." A pause, then the inevitable: "But you deserve more, you know. And so does Angel. It does you no good to be alone all the time."
I pour water into the coffee maker, focusing on the task rather than her words. "We have everything we need. The nannies are excellent and you're here every morning. I’m not alone. I have you. And her."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it." She moves to the fridge, opening it and arranging an old almond croissant on a plate for me. "Children need warmth, Ford. A house full of voices, of laughter."
"Angel laughs frequently," I counter, retrieving mugs from the cabinet.
My mother sighs, the sound that screams how much of a disappointment I am, a sound I’ve heard many times in my life, unfortunately. The coffee maker beeps, and I fill our mugs, grateful for the momentary distraction. "My life is precisely as I want it. Structured. Predictable. Safe."
I hear Jude’s words in my head. Boring.
"Is it really what you want?" She accepts the coffee, adding one teaspoon of sugar. "Or is it what you've convinced yourself to accept because it's easier than being vulnerable?"
Oh, wow. Mom, it’s not even seven am.
We eat quietly after that. She always knows how to touch my insecurities. Of course she does, she’s the one who put them there: I’m just like her.
The doorbell chimes again, 7:00 AM. The day nanny, Marianne, always punctual. After she leaves in the afternoon, the afternoon nanny comes, Theretha. And finally, the night shift belongs to Rose, but she’s only here when I can’t sleep at home. All of them incredible.
"That's Marianne," I say, using the interruption as escape. "I need to get ready for choir practice."
My mother touches my arm as I pass. "Think about what I said, Ford. I only say that because I love you more than anything. I’m tired of seeing you so alone."
I greet Marianne with relief, providing her with the usual detailed instructions for Angel's day while gathering my things to leave. She’s a young woman, in her thirties, with straight brown hair, always neatly arranged in a bun.
I straighten my shoulders and check my watch.
7:12 AM. Still time to review the choir arrangements before rehearsal.
I focus on this thought, this schedule, the present moment, and ignore the image of Jude's challenging smile that tries once more to surface in my mind, and my mom’s words that sting more than they should.