Chapter 31. Jude
The evening is one of those where you believe nothing bad can ever happen.
Angel is asleep upstairs. Ford is beside me on the couch with a first edition of something leather-bound, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his free hand resting on my ankle where my feet have invaded his lap.
The house smells like the risotto we made for dinner.
Ford stirred, I narrated, we argued about the wine-to-broth ratio. Everything is perfect.
And perfect never lasts.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I glance at the screen expecting a meme from Alfie. But it's not a text. It's a call. And Alfie doesn't call. Alfie texts, Alfie emails, Alfie sends voice memos, but Alfie does not call.
I pick up. "Alf."
The first thing I hear is breathing. Then his voice is wrong.
"Carlos is back." Two words. He says them the way you'd say the building is on fire. "He's been calling. He showed up at my office yesterday. And tonight he… Jude, I think he's coming here."
My feet are off Ford's lap. I'm standing before the sentence finishes.
"I'm coming," I say. "Don't open your door. Don't answer if he knocks. I'm coming right now."
Ford has put down his book. His reading glasses are off, and his eyes are already sharp. I hold up one finger. Wait.
I end the call and grab my jacket from the back of the dining chair where I threw it hours ago. I'm feeling sick.
"Alfie's ex," I say. "Carlos. His old Dom.
He's dangerous." I shove my arms into the jacket.
The denim catches on my elbow, and I yank it through.
"It took me six months to get Alfie to leave him, and another year to get him to stop flinching when someone raised their voice.
He's back. He's threatening Alfie. I need to go. "
Ford is on his feet. "I'm driving you."
"No. Angel's asleep. Martha's not here. You stay. I'll be fine. I'll text you the address."
"Jude…"
"Daddy, I have to be there now." I stop. "I would walk into a burning building for Alfie and not think twice about the fire. I need to do this. He needs help."
"Text me the moment you get there," he says. "I mean it. I will text Martha and Rose to come watch Angel." I try to say something, but he stops me. "Don't argue with me on this."
“Yes, sir," I tell him. I kiss him. Fast, hard. The truth is that I'm afraid of Carlos too. He's much bigger than us, and he was violent. He is violent.
I drive. I remember the bruises. The ones that weren't part of any scene. The ones Alfie hid under long sleeves in summer, under turtlenecks that didn't suit him, under lies that got thinner every time.
I remember the night he called me from a parking garage, his voice so flat it sounded automated, and told me that Carlos had choked him during a scene and hadn't stopped when he safed out.
And the silence that followed when I asked him why he hadn't left yet.
The silence that meant because he told me I deserved it, and I believed him.
I remember rebuilding him. He disappeared for a couple of months. Being hurt by someone you gave that level of trust to… it breaks something different. Watching him flinch at raised voices for a year. Watching the flinch slowly, slowly, slowly recede.
And now Carlos is back.
Alfie's townhouse appears at the end of a quiet street. I pull up to the curb and my headlights sweep the scene and my stomach drops through the floor of the car.
He's already here.
Carlos stands on the sidewalk in front of Alfie's door, pacing. He's bigger than I remember. Tall, broad-shouldered, thick through the middle, his arms sleeved in dark tattoos. His dark hair is buzzed close to his skull, and his jaw is clenched tight. He looks angry.
My hands are shaking. My stomach is twisting. But I need to be brave for my friend. I need to protect him. I type the text with thumbs that don't want to cooperate.
Carlos is here. Outside Alfie's.
I attach my location. I hit send.
I get out of the car.
My body knows this is a terrible idea before my brain catches up.
"Hey," I say, and my voice comes out bright and steady. I don't want him to think I'm here to threaten him. "Time to leave, Carlos."
He turns. He recognizes me. Of course he knows me. I'm the one who convinced Alfie to leave. I convinced Glynn to ban him from BratWorld. I'm the voice on the other end of the phone calls that pulled his property out of his hands.
"This isn't your business," he says. "What the fuck are you doing here, Jude?"
He steps forward. We're close now. His chest is broader than mine by a wide margin. I swallow hard and pray he doesn't see that I'm shaking.
"You should get back in your car," he says. "Before I put you in it."
"Compelling pitch. But I'm going to pass."
"Your mouth is writing checks your body can't cash. As usual."
"Alfie doesn't want to see you. He didn't want to see you eight months ago, he didn't want to see you yesterday, and he definitely doesn't want to see you now, standing on his sidewalk like a restraining order that learned to walk."
"You don't know what Alfie wants. You never did. You're the one who poisoned him against me."
"I didn't poison anything. I just showed him that love is consensual. Revolutionary concept, I know. Takes some people longer to learn."
The flicker of the porch light catches movement behind Carlos. Alfie. He's wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, no jacket, his arms wrapped around himself. He's nothing like the Alfie he usually is.
"Jude," he says, and his voice is barely there. "Don't…"
Carlos turns. The pivot is fast, predatory, his attention swinging to Alfie. "There you are. You think you can just walk away from me? After everything I gave you? Everything I—"
I step between them. I don't think about it. I just move.
"Don't talk to him," I say, and now my voice has lost its brightness. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
Carlos looks at me. And what I see in his eyes is not anger. It's excitement. He can't wait to hurt me.
His hand closes on the collar of my jacket.
The denim bunches in his fist, the seams straining, and I hear the fabric tear.
He yanks me forward and my feet leave the ground for a fraction of a second, the world tilting, my balance gone, my face suddenly too close to his.
His other hand rises, the fist cocked back.
Time does the thing it does in these moments. It stretches. It gives me one long second to see the fist and understand what's coming and feel not fear but the furious certainty that I would do this again, every time, for Alfie.
Then: headlights. The screech of tires.
Ford's car. Ford's door opening. Ford. His raw authority, his dark eyes fixed on Carlos. He doesn't look like himself. He looks dangerous.
He reaches us. His hand closes around Carlos's wrist where it grips my collar. The contact is not violent. It's worse than violent. It's controlled. Carlos's grip loosens. Not because he wants to let go, but because he's shocked. I can see the confusion on his face. He has no idea who Ford is.
Ford steps between us. He faces Carlos, and there's barely any height difference. But the difference in everything else is vast. Ford carries the absolute authority of a man who has never once needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. And Carlos, for the first time, looks small.
"You have exactly one chance to leave," Ford says, and his voice is low and even. He's not afraid of Carlos. Not one bit. "Or I make a call, and you spend tonight in a cell. For starters. Then you'll spend considerably more time."
Carlos's face changes. The standoff lasts three seconds. Five. An eternity compressed into a handful of heartbeats. Then Carlos steps back. His hands drop to his sides.
"This isn't over," he says, the words aimed past Ford at Alfie, at me, at everyone except the man standing directly in front of him, because he's not brave enough to look at Ford.
Ford doesn't respond. He doesn't need to.
Carlos turns and walks into the dark. His silhouette shrinks under the streetlights, and the night swallows him.
I feel my knees going weak, but I won't fall. Not while Carlos could still come back.
Ford's hand finds the small of my back and guides us through Alfie's front door with firm, steady pressure. Alfie enters first, his movements jerky and disconnected, the autopilot of a body running on fumes. I follow, and Ford comes last, and he closes the door.
Alfie's living room is small and warm. Books stacked everywhere, a guitar propped against the wall, racks of tailored clothes, a single lamp that throws amber light across a worn green couch. The space smells like coffee and leather conditioner.
Ford moves through the space without asking permission. He checks the kitchen window: closed, latched. The back door: locked, the chain engaged. Alfie is beside me. He's leaning against me and I hold him with one arm.
Then the holding breaks.
It happens to both of us simultaneously.
Alfie's first sob arrives at the same moment my vision blurs, and then we're gripping each other.
His face presses into my shoulder, and I feel the heat of his tears through my jacket, the torn jacket.
I'm crying. The tears are hot and fast and taste like salt and terror. We're a mess.
Ford finishes his perimeter check. He stands at the edge of the room for a moment.
He finds a blanket, directs us to the couch.
We sit, still crying, and he drapes the blanket over both of us without a word.
Then his hand rests on my head, briefly.
A benediction. I'm here. And then he's moving toward the kitchen, giving us the space.
His voice carries through the doorway. The boardroom frequency. I can't make out the words. He makes three calls. Maybe four. Each one brief, final.
By the time he returns, Alfie and I have reached the other side of the collapse.
The tears have subsided into the particular exhaustion that follows them.
Alfie's head is on my shoulder, his eyes red but open, his breathing finally returned to something resembling normal.
My hand is in his hair, combing through it absently.
Ford stands in the doorway.
"I have contacts in law enforcement," he says.
His voice is steady and warm and does not apologize for what it's about to reveal.
"Carlos has outstanding warrants. Two, at minimum.
Violations of a previous protective order and failure to appear.
By morning, he'll be picked up. I've also arranged for additional monitoring of this address and yours.
" He looks at Alfie directly. "He won't come near either of you again. "
Alfie looks at Ford. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then he nods. "Thank you," he whispers.
"You're welcome, sweetheart," Ford says, and I can hear it. The same protectiveness he has for me, extended now to the person I love most.
"I'll make tea," Alfie says. He walks to the kitchen, and I hear the tap run, the kettle fill, the click of the burner.
Ford sits beside me on the couch. He pulls me against him and kisses my head. We don't speak.
Alfie comes back and sets the tea on the coffee table. Chamomile for me, black for Ford, something green for himself. Ford's thumb keeps circling my back. We drink in silence.