Hard Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 3

by Bianca Sommerland

  Jaw working, the man took a measured breath. “Who. Brought. You?”

  “Oh!” That he could answer. “My limo driver.”

  “Your—” The man pushed away from the bar and stood back, gaze sweeping him from head to toe.

  Jamie returned the favor. The man was fucking huge. Muscular thighs encased in road-scarred motorcycle leathers put Jamie’s ‘play’ clothes to shame. A jacket, still zipped, and a helmet on a nearby table, said he’d ridden here, probably just arrived. The man’s body was seriously dope, but his face? A fucking wet dream. Brown curls, a little wild, offset heavy brows and those light gray eyes. Chin, mouth, nose were a study in beautiful cruelty.

  “Whose guest are you?” The man asked another question Jamie could answer.

  “Jacks’. But he’s…” Frowning, Jamie looked to the bar clock. “Probably still at work with that fucking miserable boss of his.”

  The man leaned in. “You kiss your Master with that mouth, boy?”

  Boy? Master?

  Those terms were used in some of the porn he’d watched. Swiping the point of his tongue at the corner of his mouth, he searched for the right answer. “I’m, uh...sorry, sir? I’ve never kissed Jackson.”

  The look crossing the man’s face was pure confusion, followed by a dead calm belied only by the vein at his temple that didn’t give Jamie any comfort. “Are you his submissive? Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m his…” He searched for a word that wouldn’t make the guy have an aneurysm. “Friend. We met at an L.A. fashion show about six years ago.”

  He didn’t bother to introduce himself. If the dude didn’t recognize him, all the better. Jamie wouldn’t clue him in. Last thing he wanted before he made sure this place wasn’t in fact the fucking insane asylum was to advertise his identity.

  Belatedly, he tacked on what seemed like the customary greeting around this place. “Are you a submissive?”

  The man laughed, which was a relief. Shaking his head like he’d heard something adorable, he grabbed a chair by the back and swung it over the bar to deposit it on the other side. “Have a seat.”

  Jamie looked from the man to the bar and back. He wasn’t sure, but that looked kinda like a naughty chair. “Thanks. I’m good here.”

  “Sit.” Pointing at the seat, the guy kept his eyes fixed on him even when the bar door opened and three men came in on the bartender’s heels. “Or leave. Your choice.”

  Not really a choice at all, because beyond The Asylum’s walls was a world of trouble he didn’t know how to handle. At least the crazy in here had a face…

  And probably a name.

  “Okay...” Moving gingerly—his ribs fucking hurt—Jamie went to the chair and sat.

  “Don’t say a word, don’t move, until Jackson comes to fetch you.” The man pinned him with a hard look before he turned toward the three men who’d halted at the end of the bar.

  Two lighter haired, one dark, all taller and more muscular than him, they looked—gaze skipping over their faces, Jamie took in their expressions—absolutely horrified, pissed, and intrigued. The last, he knew how to work with. The other two? Well, he’d talked himself out of and into worse places. They all went off to some other room to ‘talk’ and Jamie sighed. This was not going as well as he’d hoped.

  Wren cast him a sympathetic look as he passed him behind the bar and began mopping up the mess from Jamie’s near-death experience.

  As the man tossed the bar rags into a dirty pile and reached for a tray, Jamie tried to get the info he needed to start figuring this place out. “Dude, are you not allowed to talk to me or something?”

  Bending to wash his hands, Wren looked over his shoulder and smiled, pointing to the string around his neck when he straightened. That fucking gorgeous dimple popped to life, making it impossible not to smile back. Coming closer, Wren pointed to Jamie’s neck, then to his own again.

  “Oh, my collar?” Jamie lifted his fingers to the band of leather. “I got it online.”

  That got Wren biting his lip, then shaking his head. Casting a quick look toward the room where the other men had disappeared, he quickly reached out and unbuckled the collar and harness, drawing both away, leaving Jamie feeling a bit naked.

  Shoulders hunched, he brought his knees to his chest, feet on the seat.

  Fisting the leather, Wren pointed to a bin under the bar.

  Jamie nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

  After disappearing around the other side of the bar, Wren returned. He placed Jamie’s bag on his lap.

  “Dude. You’re awesome. Thanks.” He could’ve gotten the thing himself, but no point in pissing anyone off more than he already had by moving.

  Bag unzipped on the bar, he dug inside, choosing a dark green T-shirt with a Gothic design woven in gold and pulled it over his head. A pair of underwear and some strategically ripped jeans tempting him, he cast Wren a look. When the man turned to give him some privacy, Jamie yanked off his boots, then lifted his hips to peel off his leather trousers. Worked himself into his white briefs without standing.

  A door opened and he froze. Wren’s horrified look over his shoulder, with his ‘hurry up’ motion, sprang Jamie into action. Standing, he jammed his legs into the denim, tripping a little as the guy who’d put him in what, from Wren’s expression, had been an adult version of time-out, came around the corner. Guilt nagged at him as he plunked hard into the seat, clothes and boots scattered around him on the floor.

  The man cut him a hard look, but before Jamie could speak, Wren pointed at him, shook his head, then pointed to himself.

  Nodding once, the man crooked his finger, motioning to the spot in front of him.

  Eyes downcast, Wren went to the man, who hooked a thumb and forefinger in another signal. Jamie watched, rapt, as Wren bent at the waist, hands on the bar. The man undid and lowered Wren’s jeans, revealing the pale swell of his ass.

  Oh shit.

  Before the first smack landed, Jamie shot up, latching onto the man’s wrist over the bar.

  No way was Wren taking the fall for what he’d done.

  Chapter Two

  Prison made more sense than whatever the fuck Noah Leonov had just walked in on. Behind the bar clothes were scattered all over the floor, like a goddamn college dorm room. In a panic, Wren gaped at him while Jackson’s wayward twink scrambled to pull on a pair of jeans.

  The expensive—obviously meaningless—collar strapped around the man’s neck had disappeared, along with the harness. Back in his appointed seat, his wary expression was much more appropriate than his earlier careless one. The clothes were an improvement as well. Since when did Jackson truss up a sub like he belonged in an advertisement for a cheesy leather porn flick?

  But the man had called Jackson his friend. Not his Dom.

  Either way, Noah’s orders had been ignored. His focus shifted to Wren, who motioned to himself as responsible for the disobedience. Very well. The newbie-sub would benefit from a display of what he could expect here. If he didn’t bolt it would be interesting to learn why Jackson believed he’d be a good fit as a member.

  In any case, dealing with this clusterfuck was much more appealing than his other dilemma. Namely re-assuming control of The Asylum. Despite the warm greeting he’d gotten from the two Doms he’d trained, and his ward, Reed—who’d become a member and was now collared by one and answered to both—there was some underlying tension. Curtis, he could handle. A snap of his fingers and the man would kneel for him as sweetly as any sub, whether he’d admit it or not.

  Lawson, however, would pose a challenge.

  His lips slanted as he considered the firm hug the man had given him while speaking for Noah’s ears alone.

  “He’s mine. Don’t test him.”

  That the man had gone from wanting to kill Curtis, to being ready to kill for him was a nice change, but Lawson was treading on dangerous ground. Noah had promised Reed that he wouldn’t take Curtis from him. A promise he wouldn’t break. But he’d reserve
judgment on whether or not the relationship was best for the man he’d helped raise. Right now, Reed seemed happy. And he wasn’t running wild. His needs were being met as a submissive, and if Curtis was half the Dom he deserved, the boy’s position at the club should be secure. Safe.

  But any indication the members still see him as ‘Dom Bait’...

  He shook his head, resisting the urge to laugh as he pictured the red and gold rugby shirt Reed wore tonight, a fairy on the chest and the words DOM BAIT in gold on the back with the number 69. Cute and very fitting of Reed’s sparkly personality, but not something Noah would allow his own collared submissive to wear.

  Especially at the request of another Dom.

  Lawson was right. Noah was testing Curtis. So far, his grades indicated he needed a refresher course. But that would have to wait.

  With a crook of his finger, he beckoned Wren and gave him the hand command to assume punishment position. Braced against the edge of the bar, Wren held still as Noah deftly undid his jeans and bared his ass. He landed one solid smack.

  Before he could land another, the twink launched onto the bar, grabbing his wrist.

  Brilliant green eyes, framed with smudged black liner, locked on Noah’s as he spoke in a rush. “He didn’t fucking do anything! If anyone should be punished…” The color left his face, but then his chin jutted up. “It should be me.”

  The edge of Noah’s lips kicked up at the twink’s brave stance. Admirable, but rather unwise. The boy had his attention. He motioned for Wren to straighten and fix his clothes. Shaking his head, the sub gestured for the twink to get back behind the bar. A pointed look from Noah stilled him. He lowered his gaze and went to pick up the scattered clothes.

  No more than twenty-one, the young man facing Noah had a pampered look about him. Smooth, well cared for, lightly-tanned skin. Soft wisps of platinum blond hair reminded Noah of the Persian his mother had adopted from a local shelter when he was a boy. The man’s lithe form was more suited for a ballet stage than a boxing ring. Definitely not a fighter, but that could change. His fluid movements told Noah he’d be fast. With the right training, he could land some wicked hits, dancing out of reach before his opponent had a chance to react.

  He’s a sub, Noah, not a potential student.

  True, and he clearly lacked training in that as well. He still gripped Noah’s wrist as though letting go would put Wren in danger. Held Noah’s gaze defiantly, though by his slight tremble he realized he was in way over his head.

  Smart boy.

  “Continuing to hold my wrist is making this much worse for you.” Noah’s lips slanted when the twink’s eyes widened. He immediately let go, sliding back to the other side of the bar. Froze when Noah shook his head. “No, don’t back away now, little cat.” He pointed to the space directly in front of him. “Here.”

  Tongue poking at the edge of his bottom lip, uncertainty in his eyes, the young man slid completely over the bar, dropping to his feet. Stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Immediately pulled them out again to clasp in front of him, nervously fidgeting with his fingers.

  Noah tucked a finger under the young man’s chin. “Name?”

  “Jamie.” He sucked in a breath. “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “Are you?” Noah’s brow rose. “Most subs apologize to me on their knees.” He tapped under Jamie’s chin when he began to lower and clucked his tongue. “I won’t accept your apology. Not yet.”

  The thoughts rushing through Jamie’s mind were practically written on his face as his brow creased. “Oh. Umm…” He glanced at the bar. “Should I—”

  “For failing to follow a simple command?” Noah was intrigued by the man, but not so much that he’d hold his hand through the basics. Jackson was a fool for sending him here alone, but if Jamie’s membership had been approved by Curtis or Lawson, he’d been given the welcome packet and signed the forms. “Did you read the rules before you agreed to follow them?”

  The man’s nod was a little too quick. “I…” He lowered his gaze. “Not as well as I should have.”

  “Clearly.”

  “But I broke the rules and I get it. I’ll...take the punishment.”

  Noah inclined his head. Waited.

  Biting into the tip of his tongue, Jamie eyed the bar. Wrinkled his nose, then copied Wren’s earlier stance, though he’d misjudged his reach, stretching out too far. He’d fall on his face the second Noah touched him.

  This won’t do.

  Noah reached out and grabbed the closest chair. Jamie’s jeans were still undone, which would make things much easier. Catching the young man’s wrist, Noah pulled him forward as he sat, swiftly flipping the newbie-sub over his lap. Tugged jeans and briefs down to bare his ass.

  Squirming, the man covered his face with his hands. “Oh, fuck.”

  “We will be working on your language, little cat.” Noah latched on to one dangling wrist, pinning it to the base of Jamie’s spine to secure him. “Quiet now.”

  The first solid slap tensed Jamie’s whole body. Three more and he began to shake. Noah rubbed his hand over the heated red flesh of the plump butt bared so nicely for him, making a soothing sound until Jamie relaxed. He continued, harder this time, pleased his little newb didn’t try to kick or roll off his lap. At twenty Noah decided he’d had enough.

  “Good boy.” Noah straightened Jamie’s clothes, eased him off his lap, then motioned for him to kneel. Cupping a flushed cheek, he wiped away a stray tear with his thumb. “Now you may apologize. I’ll accept the words. This time.”

  The confusion in Jamie’s eyes came as no surprise, but he nodded, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven.” Noah gave him a nod of approval. He was a sweet little thing. That he’d stuck up for Wren and taken his punishment with dignity was impressive. Whatever Jackson had to say on his behalf wouldn’t be the only reason to keep him here. Noah stood, returning the chair to its place at the closest table. “You may remain behind the bar to wait for Jackson. Do not speak to anyone besides Wren. Follow his example and you’ll avoid any further punishments.”

  Nodding quickly, Jamie waited until Noah gestured for him to stand, then went back to where Noah had put him before.

  Wren chanced a glance at Noah, his eyes warm, clearly pleased his new friend wasn’t being thrown to the curb. Which was what Noah should’ve done—the last thing he needed was another stray. And with the bag the boy had, he’d clearly come for more than the night. Did Jackson plan to take Jamie home with him?

  Will I let him?

  Ice clinked into a glass and Wren poured Jamie some water. The man thanked him without looking up, hand shaking.

  Damn you, Jackson.

  Snapping his fingers, Noah brought Wren’s attention back to him. “Give Jamie a lollipop. I know Reed has a stash back there.”

  Wren ducked down, then rose to present Jamie with a bright blue lollipop like a teacher rewarding his favorite student.

  A little curve to his sweet mouth, Jamie took the lollipop and opened it. Lifted his gaze to Noah, before sliding those soft, plump lips around the candy. There was some mischief in his eyes. He knew exactly what the provocative slip of his tongue, along with pulling the lollipop out only to suck it back in, would do to Noah.

  Brat.

  Noah gave Jamie a dark look when he licked his lips. Little cat indeed. The man was playing with fire, and Noah was tempted to burn him before Jackson had a chance to save his buddy from himself.

  A buzz alerted him that Jared—who most members called Doc—had admitted someone. His attention went to the door, eyes narrowing as Jackson came in with Shea, both Doms laughing and ribbing one another as they’d always done. If either was submissive, they’d likely be a couple—though an odd one, considering their contrasting personalities.

  Jackson was a pretty boy in his mid-twenties who’d traded a modeling career for a job at the local auto body shop when the limelight lost its appeal. A fairly competiti
ve kickboxer, he’d maintained many of the habits of his life on the catwalk, including perfectly styled golden-brown hair and a camera-ready smile. His taste for playful subs made Jamie an obvious choice, but he’d never spent enough time with any sub to introduce a new one to the club. Had that changed?

  Arms crossed over his chest, Noah waited for the man to notice him. His lips thinned when Jackson stopped short, forcing Shea to walk right into him, almost sending both Doms to the floor.

  “I didn’t know he was purposefully losing fights. And he’s a grown man, Noah.” Jackson held up his hands as if through by some force Noah could strike him down from the other end of the bar. “It was a light scene. I didn’t leave a fucking mark on him.”

  “What in God’s name are you going on…” The man wasn’t talking about Jamie. Noah’s jaw hardened. “Reed.”

  Shea stepped to Jackson’s side. His dark eyes level, the navy SEAL whose presence was rare, but always got the subs excited, didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Yes. Reed. Who’s a member here last I checked.”

  Noah nodded slowly and let his expression relax. Kept his tone conversational. “He is. Strange how you both waited until neither Curtis or I were around to challenge him.” He crossed the bar, glancing at Shea as he walked past him, amused at the way the man turned, tracking his every movement. “Did you enjoy taking him? He’s always been... So. Fucking. Tempting.”

  “It was one scene.” The certainty faded from Shea’s tone. His eye twitched. “If he’d been interested in more…”

  Noah cocked his head. “Continue.”

  “He’s a good sub even if he’s a handful. One any Dom would be proud to have.” Shea lowered his gaze. “I wasn’t using him. Neither was Jackson. Others may have and I’m sorry he went through that shit, but I would’ve made him my own if he’d let me.”

  Well then…

  As satisfying as breaking a few of the new stools he fucking hated with their skulls would be, he believed the man. Reed might be an adult, but Noah wouldn’t tolerate him being treated like a toy to be passed around. Which hadn’t been either of these Doms’ intentions.