Hard Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 3

by Bianca Sommerland

  At the visible relief in Shea’s eyes, Noah gave him a dry look. “I wouldn’t have let you keep him.” He glanced over at Jackson. “Your concern should be on another sub at the moment.”

  “I…” Jackson blinked. Looked to the bar. “Shit, Jamie, I’m sorry I’m late.” He started forward, then slowed. “My boss was riding my ass and…” His brow furrowed. “Jamie?”

  Behind the bar, Jamie had gone still, holding his lollipop and staring at Wren.

  Wren bit his bottom lip and shook his head.

  Both subs remained silent.

  “He does not have permission to speak.” Noah leaned close to Jackson, speaking low. “When one is careless with their pets, they lose them.”

  Jackson’s lips parted. “But—”

  “The bar isn’t open yet, but you may avail yourself of the gym and exercise equipment.” Noah cast one last, cold glance at the man. “Go.”

  To his credit, Jackson didn’t argue, but he did shoot Jamie a concerned look before Shea’s firm hand on his shoulder propelled him forward. The men disappeared behind the double doors which led to the ring. Lawson had unlocked them before heading back upstairs, presumably to fetch his sub.

  Who Noah was eager to meet, if only for the fact that Lawson seemed to be staking a few claims. His submissive must be not only tolerant, but exemplary. Otherwise, the man was stretching himself much too thin.

  He wants to question who’s really in charge here?

  Noah had no problem pushing him until he snapped.

  But one problem at a time. He considered the two subs behind the bar. Wren, he didn’t have to worry about. The sub had a way of disappearing in any room, eager to please but never demanding attention. He’d been vulnerable in prison, which was why Noah had Rhodey secure his release, rather than worry about his own. He still stirred all of Noah’s protective instincts, but he’d no longer use him to satisfy his lust. A sub like Wren would be too easy to break and Noah didn’t have the light touch the man needed.

  Or anyone needs.

  There was no way to spend almost two years in prison and come out without some rough edges. Noah had plenty of them before he went in, thanks to his uncle. He’d always be grateful, but he had no illusions about who he was. Too fucking hard and cold to claim any man for more than a few nights of pleasure. A man who would submit to him and expect nothing.

  All he had to offer was protection, which he’d given his wards for six years so far. And his other ‘strays’ for longer. Wren could be counted as the latter, though he wouldn’t need the same hardcore level of training, he’d benefit from the control.

  Another project would be a dangerous distraction. Jamie was a member. A submissive. Jackson had been reckless with him, so Noah would find someone else to take him on. He was new. Responsive. Easy enough to mold into the ideal sub with some time and patience.

  But there was some desperation to him that made him vulnerable. If he’d planned to go home with Jackson after his night at the club, where did that leave him now?

  Noah stepped up to the bar and folded his forearms on the edge. “Where are you staying, little cat?”

  Pulling the lollipop from his lips with a soft slurp, Jamie ducked his head. “I...there’s a motel on the edge of Anniston Falls I was—”

  “No.” Noah had half a mind to go after Jackson and smash his skull in. Nevermind not caring for his potential submissive, his friendship clearly had no value. That goddamn motel was a well-known gang hangout. He was going to get this soft boy killed. “You’ll stay with me. Wren, show him to my loft. Bring his bag.”

  “With...you?” Jamie’s mouth popped open as he stood, resisting Wren’s tug on his arm. “You live here?”

  Noah tapped his finger under Jamie’s chin to close his mouth. “This is my club.”

  Jamie swallowed hard. “Jackson told me about two of the owners… Are you Curtis? Lawson?”

  “Noah.”

  “But the other owner—”

  “Just got out of prison.” No need to bullshit the man. He’d hear it eventually, but from his expression, the knowledge might scare him enough to make accommodations unnecessary. Which might be best. Lips slit into an icy smile, he curved his hand under the sub’s jaw. Leaned in, his tone soft. “Ready to run now, little cat?”

  Chapter Three

  Jamie wasn’t sure what he’d pictured from this club or its owners—maybe whips and chains wielded by guys in assless chaps? But not a murderer with a spanking fetish. The painful heat in his ass became a warm, nicely aching current, registering every time he shifted his hips. Sitting on that hard chair, sucking on a lollipop, had been the most fucking erotic thing he’d ever experienced. Once he’d gotten over the embarrassment of being tipped over Noah’s lap and having his ass slapped like it was a basketball at a Lakers’ game, he’d ended up eager for...more.

  Whatever the man had to offer, he’d buy.

  Except…

  “Did you really kill someone?” He winced the second the question flew out of his mouth.

  Behind the bar, Wren made a strangled sound that had Noah cutting him a look.

  Fingers briefly tightening around Jamie’s jaw, Noah stroked one finger down his cheek. Sinister in his gentleness. “Answer the question.”

  Danger looked really good on the dude, but probably not something to indulge in too often. Unless he wanted to experience more than an ass whipping while he was here. Being spanked like a kid over Noah’s knee had been the wrong kind of kink, though the end result still felt uber delish. Not that he knew what the right kind of kink was, exactly.

  Or if I even have a kink.

  “Um—” He tried to calm his racing mind long enough to remember what the question had been. “I’m not going anywhere?”

  Not with the press soon-to-be breathing down his neck, and so many interesting things to explore right here in this bar. His stomach did a sideways cartwheel. Everything here felt so real. Not some Hollywood glammed-up, false-fronted building, bullshit. More like life and death and a whole lot of sin.

  “I mean, it’d be really cool of you to put me up like that.”

  Noah blinked. Though his expression didn’t change, Jamie felt his energy shift. He released Jamie’s chin with a final warning tap. “Go upstairs with Wren. He’ll settle you in.”

  Jamie gave him his full-frontal-glam smile. The one the entertainment outlets loved to splash everywhere. “Thanks, dude.”

  Shouldering Jamie’s duffel, Wren stilled, lips parted. He stared at Noah as though waiting for something.

  Noah’s gaze swung toward Wren with a look. “Fix that.”

  The expression on Wren’s face said he planned to as he motioned Jamie to follow. Past the door closest to the bar, up a flight of stairs, there was a door on the first level that looked like it belonged in a castle or fortress. Maybe the dungeon space Jacks had talked about? He hadn’t understood half of what Noah and the other Doms had discussed, but he felt bad for getting Jacks into trouble with the man. Though, Noah probably didn’t punish other Doms the way he did the club submissives.

  I hope.

  They climbed up a couple more flights to the fourth floor. A wide landing had two doors, one made of brushed steel, the other an aged and fire-blackened wood he thought might be oak. Wren unlocked the steel door and pushed it open on well-oiled hinges.

  The apartment beyond easily covered half the building. Brick walls, broken only by a few doors, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases defining each wall in the loft-like space. A soapstone island lurked like a sacrificial slab in an open-concept kitchen, while comfortable, dark leather furniture created a seating area near a gas fireplace wall. Blue flames licked in a single line behind the glass, casting shadows on what was likely the original wide-planked floor. Scarred from years of use but polished to a glass-like finish, more than anything else, it reminded Jamie of the guy downstairs.

  Whistling low, Jamie turned around. “Wow. This is seriously nice.”

  Wren grinned
and nodded toward the back. Jamie followed him, peering at the books on the shelves. There were catalog numbers on little chalk plates. Someone completely anal had organized this shit.

  The bookshelves gradually melted into a real wall, the lingering shelves biting into the sheetrock construction in toothy chunks until they disappeared entirely at another matte steel door. Following Wren, Jamie stepped over the threshold into a room dominated by a piece of furniture that should’ve been for sleeping, but clearly had many other more active uses.

  “Shit. That’s seriously fucked up.” He shook his head. “But not in a bad way.”

  Wren sighed, plunking his bag on the floor. “I tried to tell you in the bar. You can’t swear, Jamie. I mean, not unless you like the taste of soap on your tongue.”

  “What?” He turned to see if the man was joking, but Wren’s nose wrinkled, like he had a mouthful in his gob at that very moment.

  Smoothing his features, Wren looked around as though he’d never been in Noah’s bedroom before. “You have to treat Doms with respect, which means…” He brought up one finger. “Don’t use foul language.” Another finger joined the first. “You call him ‘sir’.” Three fingers now. “And do not touch him or his property without his permission.”

  “Jesus.” Jamie combed his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure I can remember all of that all the time.”

  Usually it was the guys with fragile egos who got riled up when their asses weren’t kissed. He thought of his bandmate, Trevor, and laughed. Dude was always getting pissy about someone ‘dissing’ him.

  A wry smile twisted Wren’s lips. “Oh, you’ll remember...eventually.”

  Jamie laughed. If he got his ass beat every time he fucked up?

  Yeah, that’ll be hard to forget.

  “Um…” Wren glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure they were alone. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but—”

  “What am I doing here?” The question had been inevitable.

  Hands jammed in the pockets of his dark wash jeans, Wren nodded. “I mean, if it’s too personal, I get it.”

  Shaking his head, Jamie plunked himself down on the bed. Arm looped around one of the massive bedposts, he considered Wren. Could he trust him? Dude was kinda casual in a clean-cut wholesome way. His blue crewneck sweater and loafers with no socks screamed prep school. Tortoiseshell glasses picked up the brown in his eyes and the gold streaks in his deliberately windswept brown hair.

  He’d stuck up for Jamie with Noah, but that could’ve been because he knew who Jamie was. Lots of people were nice just because they knew he was famous, and he could usually—but not always—tell the difference. Hell, having someone here he could trust would be cool—especially since Jacks clearly wasn’t going to be able to come through for him.

  But…

  Wren was not Asylum material, as far as Jamie could tell.

  Which could be good… Or bad.

  Throwing caution to the wind, he decided to take a chance.

  “Glam Grenade broke up. It’s gonna hit the press tomorrow.” He rested his temple against the bedpost. “I need a place to get away from the publicity. The reason we broke up, it’s...ugly.”

  Brown eyes filled with concern, Wren fussed with the cushions on the bed. “I’m sorry, that really sucks. I like your music.”

  Jamie sighed. “Thanks. It’s been a good run though.”

  Eventually, he’d expected that he, Trevor, and Danny would move on from the band they’d been part of since before they’d hit their teens. But not like this. They were his best friends. Or had been, once.

  Needing a change of topic, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “How do you know Noah?”

  Gaze shuttering, Wren turned away. “I have to get back downstairs.”

  Okay, wrong question.

  Before the other man could walk out, Jamie stood. “Wait...”

  Hand on the jamb, Wren regarded him warily.

  “Do you want to, I don’t know, have a game of cards later or something?” It seemed like a pretty safe way to observe the other members without ending up with his ass under another hard palm.

  Interest lit Wren’s face, then fell away. “Sorry. Can’t. I’m on speech restriction...” One brown brow rose. “And so are you.”

  “Fuck.”

  Snickering, Wren gave an exasperated shake of his head. “You’re going to be spending a lot of time over Noah’s knee.” His lips quirked. “I’d call you a lucky bastard, but I don’t know if you’ll feel that way for long. Word of warning? Don’t push him. You won’t like the results as much as you seemed to today.”

  Jamie rolled his eyes. “It’s not like he’s going to put bamboo shoots under my nails.”

  Lips parted, Wren stared at him. “Please don’t ever give him that idea.”

  No problem there.

  Jamie pushed to his feet. “If I can find a way for you to play poker with me without us talking, are you up for it?”

  There was some uncertainty in Wren’s eyes as he tongued his bottom lip. “Um. Sure?”

  “Awesome.” Clapping his palms together, Jamie glanced around the room for inspiration, then pointed at a notepad by the old-fashioned phone on the nightstand. “You can use paper and pencil, and I’ll use hand signals. I just need a shower and I’ll be down.”

  A genuine smile lit Wren’s face. “You’re sleeping in here.” He nodded toward the bed, then showed Jamie the master bathroom before heading out. “Get cleaned up and feel free to take a nap if you want. I’ll be pretty busy until the first fight, then I should have time for a game. See you in a bit.”

  Alone in a place that didn’t make his skin crawl for the first time since he’d left L.A.—for the first time since he’d found out about what he knew the entertainment news programs were going to call ‘Jamie Kent’s Glam Scam’—he blew out a shaky breath, rubbing sweaty palms against his thighs as he poked around.

  Noah’s place smelled new, like paint and adhesives, and maybe someone else’s cologne, but it didn’t smell or feel like the man. He pulled open one of the giant closets and found it mostly empty other than a few shirts and one well-cut dark suit. A pair of ancient, well-loved, brown boots slumped in the corner. He shut the doors, opened the next closet, and froze, grip tightening on the knobs.

  “What the actual fuck?”

  Hand-fashioned wooden pegs lined one half of the closet. A super long whip, coiled precisely, hung on one, while a selection of canes and glossy paddles hung on others. A glass-fronted drinks fridge, filled with bottled water, each label precisely faced outward, hummed to the right. Jamie swept his gaze over some kind of wooden cage on the left.

  Seriously? Who in the hell puts a dog in their closet?

  Backing out, he closed the doors and went in search of the bathroom, picking up his duffel on the way. The shower and tub were normal, thank God. He pulled out his shampoo and soap, plunking them in the empty stall. Everything fucking gleamed like someone had meticulously polished every surface. The water pressure was perfect, and the black towels were plush. He relaxed, drying himself off. Caught the reflection of his ass in a full wall of mirrors.

  “Shit.” He whistled low, fingers going to the red hand-sized mark on one cheek.

  The left had a few splotches, but the right? It was a fucking masterpiece. He swallowed hard, not recognizing the alien thought, and turned resolutely away from the mirror. “Okay, weirdo. Get dressed and go play some cards.”

  Downstairs, things had livened up considerably. Men milled about the bar, drinking and talking. A trio played pool, the cracking of the balls a percussive addition to the music that played over a sick sound system. At the bar with another man Jamie didn’t recognize, Wren glanced his way. Smiling, he held up a finger before he finished making a Long Island Iced Tea.

  A few members entered the bar through the set of double doors at the back, laughing and exchanging money. “Are you kidding? Antonio is gonna murder him.”

  Beyond the open
ed doors, a small crowd clustered around a boxing ring where two men exchanged blows. The doors swung shut on shouts and catcalls.

  Yeah, no.

  Totally not his thing, but the place was seriously dope anyway.

  “Well aren’t you pretty—” A hairy guy in plaid flannel stepped in front of Jamie, blocking his way to the card table. Within half a second, his leer changed to stunned surprise. “Oh, holy shit.”

  Jamie smiled weakly, backing up a step. He licked his lips, looking over his shoulder for Wren, who was no longer at the bar.

  “My nephew fucking loves your music.” The guy shook his head, expression dazed. “Can I have an autograph?”

  Nodding, Jamie swallowed hard. If he spoke, he’d be punished. If he didn’t, the dude was going to think he was a snob…

  Or a sub.

  Which he was, but he’d rather not give the dude 'the memory of a lifetime’ by being bent over some low surface in front of all these guys.

  Maybe coming down here wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  “Here.” A grocery receipt and a contractor’s pencil were shoved at him. “Make it out to Peter Lewis.”

  “Hey, Peter.” Another member walked up to the Dom.

  Jamie’s lips twitched.

  Dude’s a fan.

  He chuckled quietly as he bent to sign the receipt with an illegible scrawl, then handed it to the man, who had turned three shades of pink.

  “Uh, thanks.” Peter hightailed it to the gym.

  Wren walked up to Jamie then, a pad of paper and a pen in one hand, two beers in the other. He nudged his chin toward the card tables, gaze wary as he led the way, avoiding the bigger groups of people. Definitely not a social guy.

  Between that and the no talking, how in the world had he ended up with a job as a bartender?

  As they sat at the one empty table another guy had cleaned so fast Jamie barely got a look at him, two men approached. Instead of wearing leather, they were dressed like they’d come straight here from some office job. They traded a look that spelled trouble. For him and Wren.