Page 13 of The Order of Disorder
People part for him. They light up at his presence. He’s the man everyone wants to see, to know, to be. The king of the castle. Every laugh is louder when he’s nearby. Every woman looks just a little more eager. Every man stands straighter, his voice deeper.
As the night stretches on, the energy shifts—hotter, hungrier, more unhinged. It’s not just thugs and criminals pounding drinks anymore. It’s every kind of indulgence laid bare. The smell of weed is thick in the air, and there are more girls tonight than usual. A lot more. Dressed scantily and largely intoxicated.
Most of them aren’t associated with the club at all. You can tell by the way they move—the confidence. They’re here to earn, brought in for the night. Billy spends a lot of money on these parties.
Billy stops to talk to a big, older man with a long grey beard that spills over a fat belly, stretching his black t-shirt beneath a leather vest. A woman in a neon mesh dress is straddling him, hips grinding to the music while he palms her ass—yet he and Billy talk like she isn’t even there.
Across from us, another girl is on her knees in front of two guys near the pool table, taking turns sucking them both off. Nobody bothers to look away. A small group watches, enjoying the entertainment.
Then we’re walking again, and one of the Iron Order boys passes in front of us with a girl tucked under each arm, both of them topless, glistening with body oil and clearly high. On the staircase, a couple is fucking with their clothes on—his pants unzipped, her dress hiked up, like they couldn’t wait for privacy and don’t care who sees.
We stop so Billy can admire a woman in latex being led on all fours by a leash, and her handler and Billy exchange pleasantries about their respective pets like they’re out at the local dog park.
“Beautiful tits,” the man comments, eyes drifting over me without bothering to look at my face. “Nice tight pussy, I bet.”
“Exquisite,” Billy says proudly, and then we’re off again, weaving through the crowd of Billy’s admirers, the pain in my feet the only thing that’s keeping me grounded in reality.
Finally, Billy leads us to a group of men gathered on a half-collapsed leather couch and several folding chairs and crates. They clear the couch for us without a word, and I sink into it, relief flooding my calves and heels. My feet are screaming. My spine aches.
The men—some I’ve known for years, others strangers—light up around Billy. They lean in, jostle for space, offer him smokes and stories, like he’s been off fighting a war and just returned. One of them cranes his neck and barks toward the bar, “Cash! What the fuck you waiting for?”
Cash appears a second later. “What’ll it be?” he asks.
Billy barely glances at him. “Tequila. Bring the bottle.” Then he stretches out, legs wide, hand resting heavy on my bare thigh, just to keep me in place. To let me know he’s there.
“You hear about the cartel job?” one of them asks. “Fucking legendary.”
Billy gives a dry smile and lights a cigarette.
“Legendary don’t mean shit if the feds are on your tail. A job’s only clean when the money is.”
That earns a round of knowing chuckles.
Billy launches into a story I’ve already heard three times this week about a deal that almost went sideways in El Paso. I tune most of it out, letting the sound of voices wash over me. My eyes scan the crowd. Damaged people playing at being invincible. Broken souls clinging to each other. Showmanship and meaninglessness.
And then I seeher. Just a few feet away at the bar, perched on a tall barstool, is the redhead I noticed earlier today.
She’s wearing black denim shorts now, and a triangle bra. Ink covers one arm, silver rings stacked on her fingers. Her combat boots hook onto the rungs of the stool, coppery hair falling loose over one shoulder. She’s sipping from a glass andtalking to another girl—petite, punky, with pink hair and a nose ring. They’re close. Really close.
Then the pink-haired girl leans in and kisses her.
It’s not a peck.
It’s slow. Lingering. Sensual.
I blink, jolted by an unexpected reaction. Surprise or envy, I’m not sure. I don’t know why it hits me the way it does. The freedom of it, maybe. Or the sensuality.
The kiss ends, and the pink-haired girl sits back upright and sips her drink. The redhead’s eyes flick across the room, scanning lazily over the crowd, and for half a second, I swear she looks at me.
Billy shifts beside me, noticing the direction of my gaze.
“Oh,” he says with a sly grin. “You’re into her.”
I look away. Too late.
He laughs under his breath and lifts a hand, waving her over. “Rox! Get over here! Bring your friend!”
The two women look over, and the redhead grins, says something to the pink-haired girl, then takes her hand. They slide off the barstools and start making their way toward us.
