Free Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance by Aubrey Irons

I need a drink .
     
    Well, no, what I really need is something young, willing, and strange that I can sink my cock into until I forget all about Chloe Caulfield. I need a distraction; a drug, a drink, a lay I can forget about five minutes after like usual. I need anything to get my mind back in focus instead of this lingering obsession I have on the last girl in fucking Britain I need to obsess over.
     
    Then of course there’s the raging case of blue balls I’m gritting my teeth at as I shove my way to front of the line outside the trendy club in Hoxton.
     
    “Oy, chill there little lord.” A huge guy with dreads and a suit holding a clipboard steps between me and the door, “Feeling like a special fuckin’ snowflake tonight are we?” He narrows his eyes at me and nods his chin at the hundred or so people glaring at me from the line that runs down the length of the block.
     
    “I’m meeting someone.”
     
    He laughs, “I bet you are, son, I bet you are.” His arms fold over his chest and the smile drops in an instant, “Back of the line, and don’t make me do it for you.”
     
    The funny thing here is that I was raised amongst tough guys like this. Wannabe gangsters and villains like this taught me how to lift a wallet from tourists in Leicester Square, or flip stolen handbags alongside Camden when other kids were learning to ride bikes and do their homework.
     
    Needless to say, I’m not intimidated by thugs in suits working nightclub front doors. Not to mention, I need a drink fuckin’ ten minutes ago, and I’m on the list.
     
    I’m about to say something about the man’s mum that’ll most likely make things wild real fast, when the door behind him bangs open and a man in a top suit with a bird on both arms stumbles out, laughing. He stops suddenly, and his mouth spreads into a grin as he sees me, “Ollie! Oy you little shit, c’mere!” 
     
    He pushes past the scowling door man, shrugging off the two tarted-up girls on his arms as he grabs me into a big bear hug. 
     
    Danny Cole; the Danny Cole, as in one of the most recognized chefs on the planet. As in, three fucking stars in Michelin, Danny Cole. I get blog posts, Danny gets the New York Times.
     
    “The young prince deigns us with his presence after all, eh?” He pulls back, grinning at me, “Didn’t think important chefs like you could make it out to social functions like these.”
     
    He’s yanking my chain; purposely being a dick to rattle my cage. Anyone else in the world would get popped in the mouth right quick for that type of shit, but then again, anyone else in the world isn’t the man who taught me how to cook and got my ass off the street.
     
    If you believe in them, you might say Danny Cole is a sort of guardian angel. That is, if you also believe guardian angels drink like Irish dock workers and fuck anything with a pair of tits that moves. 
     
    “Sorry, late night at Jolie , and-” I shoot the bouncer a withering look, “Had a bit of a problem with the list it seems.”
     
    Danny shakes his head, “Oy, well, get your ass in there son; you’re gonna love it in here.” He turns and pats the bouncer on the shoulder. “Easy there boy-o, he’s with me,” Danny says as he passes him a wad of notes. He grabs the two girls he walked out with and drags them back inside, jerking his head at me to follow.
     
    “Yeah, boy-o, ” I say with the fakest smile I can come up with as I clap the big bouncer on the shoulder too, “ Down boy .” His eyes narrow at me, but he doesn’t say shit as I follow Danny inside the club.
     
    *****
     
    It’s fuckin mad inside; and that’s even before Danny leads us through the crowd back to the VIP area he’s commandeered. The VIP area full of champagne, booze, and fuckin’ gorgeous girls just gaggling to hang out with him.
     
    Jesus, celebrité suits Danny well.
     
    When we sit, we’re instantly surrounded by girls with bedroom eyes; girls who drape themselves over the