Hard Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 3

by Bianca Sommerland

  Yup. This was a very, very bad idea.

  The redhead tipped his chin downward, smirking. “Boys…”

  He exchanged a glance with Wren, who gave him a warning head shake.

  More Doms.

  “What do you think, Mike? A nice game of high-low stud?” Balding, with a sexy-as-fuck smile and bright blue eyes, the second Dom winked. “I’ll fuck ‘em high and you fuck ‘em low?”

  Okay… Maybe that smile isn’t so sexy after all.

  The way Wren widened his eyes, glancing at Jamie, told him everything he needed to know. They couldn’t exactly refuse, but they didn’t want to lose either.

  Jamie whispered in Wren’s ear, “Strip poker. Five-thousand buy-in. Winner takes all.”

  With a hesitant nod, Wren bent over the table to write down the terms.

  Instead of backing down from the risk of losing clothes and a big chunk of cash, Mike widened his smirk into a leer.

  “You’ve got a deal, boy.” He leaned in, ribbing the other man. “Too bad we’re not allowed to take pictures, huh, Linc?”

  A crowd began to gather around the table, ‘Jamie Kent’ being passed around in whispers like the world’s first and only unerring game of telephone.

  Fucking great.

  Catching sight of the paper he’d written on, Wren paled, then bit his lip.

  Jamie shot him a look that said ‘I got ya. Don’t worry about it.’

  There was something he was missing, but he didn’t have time to figure it out as Linc dealt everyone in for a five-card draw. Jamie downed his beer, working his throat until the bottle was empty. Wiping his lips against his sleeve, he lifted his cards.

  Forty minutes later, judging by the bar clock, he was down to one sock and his underwear. Wren had most of his clothes on, and Mike wore his wrist band while Linc sat naked as the day he’d been born, out of the game.

  Shit, if Wren wins, he’ll have fifteen grand.

  That’d be fucking awesome. If he could, he’d make it happen. Peeking at his hand, he blinked. A royal flush. Wren poked his tongue between his lips, frowning. Jamie twisted his, pretending to consider, then held up two fingers, trading in his ace and king for a six of spades and a three of hearts.

  And lost his sock, while Wren lost his pants.

  The next hand, both he and Wren lost. Which meant Jamie was out. The crowd around the table went absolutely mental. Hooting, they made suggestive comments about Dangle, Glam Grenade’s most recent hit single about love being like a high wire act.

  Fuck.

  Blowing out a breath, he realized that Noah’s handprints were all over his ass. The crowd around the table hemmed him in. Like the time security had failed in Chicago and twenty-nine screaming fans rushed the stage. He had escaped with a broken wrist after his clothes had been torn to shreds.

  “Shit.” Breathing hard, he broke out in a sweat, looking around for his escape.

  He hooked a thumb in the waistband of his briefs, sliding them down and off without standing. Knees drawn to his chest, he kept his junk hidden.

  One member held up a phone. Jamie ducked his head toward his knees, using reflexes honed over the last eight-and-a-half years. A blur knocked the phone away. The black case landed in the middle of the table.

  Noah fisted the guy’s shirt, dragging him out of the press of bodies surrounding them, then shoved him toward the exit. “Don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome.”

  Absolute silence reigned when Noah returned to the table, parting the crowd like fucking Charlton Heston in leather pants.

  Entire bottom lip between his teeth, Wren lowered his head, keeping his eyes down. Jamie had a feeling he should follow suit, but he couldn’t look away from the oncoming car crash.

  Expecting Noah to drag his sorry ass from the chair, he frowned when the man simply crossed his arms over his chest and issued a two-word command. “Finish it.”

  Wren’s win took three more hands, during which Jamie sat at the table, a sea of unfamiliar faces surrounding him. Men gawked at his exposed skin, his discarded nipple rings on the baize, talking about how thin he was, how plump his ass looked in comparison. They picked him apart like a kinky version of red carpet commentary, whispering about the quality of the ‘grenade with exploding flowers’ tat on his right shoulder.

  Whatever they saw, whatever they thought now or after the news hit tomorrow...

  I’m not for fucking sale.

  Noah crooked his finger at someone. A guy about his age loped over with a mobile credit card machine in his hand. Money zipped in the form of ones and zeroes from his, Mike, and Linc’s cards, into a holding account where Wren would be able to collect it later.

  “Thanks, Reed.” Only Linc spoke, handing over his card.

  “All right, we’re done here.” Noah looked around at the crowd and everyone scattered, back to the ring and up to the dungeon.

  Not a single person other than Reed, the one who’d cleared the tables earlier, remained. It was like someone had screamed ‘Incoming!’ except no one made a sound. At all. Which was scarier than any fucking thing Jamie had encountered in The Asylum so far.

  Focus on Wren, Noah sat. Steepled his fingers, elbows on the table, his tone mild. “Was there something unclear about ‘no gambling’?”

  Jamie breathed in, sharp.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “I didn’t realize we were going to play for money until it was—” Wren broke off the sentence, closing his eyes. “No, sir.”

  “Jamie, go upstairs. Don’t come back down until I tell you.” Noah issued the order without looking at him.

  “It was my idea.” He at least had to try to save Wren.

  A cold smile flirted with Noah’s mouth as he finally looked Jamie’s way. “I know.”

  Beer curdling in his stomach, Jamie stood, reaching for his clothes.

  Noah’s fingers curled around his wrist, jerking him to a halt. “Leave them.”

  Lips parted, he blinked repeatedly, a refusal on his tongue. Noah’s fingers tightened hard enough to bruise. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jamie inhaled through his teeth. Noah released him only after a “Yes, sir,” tripped off his tongue.

  Head down, hands over his junk, he somehow made his way through the empty bar, up the stairs, past the closed dungeon door, to the fourth floor. He tried not to think about what would happen to Wren, whose name painted him as far more delicate than Jamie hoped he really was.

  Stumbling to a stop before the bed, he laughed. At least he wouldn’t have to undress.

  He slid between the sheets, leaving the light on. A habit he’d begun in his teens when shows took him to several different cities a week. He’d woken up in a cold sweat nine times out of ten, disoriented and shaking.

  The covers were smooth against his naked skin as he curled on his side, knees to his chest. His second-to-last thought before drifting off was that he hoped no one here got the early morning papers. Wren and Noah consumed the remainder of his conscious musings.

  I really fucking hope he didn’t discover bamboo shoots.

  Waking up the next morning, alone, was a surprise, because he couldn’t remember where he was and somehow he’d been sure this room was Noah’s. The lights were still on, and the smell of coffee hit his back brain before his front was completely awake.

  He stumbled out of bed into the bathroom and took a leak before splashing cold water on his face. After finding his duffel, he dressed, doing his best not to think about the wreckage of his life. About losing everything he’d known. Everyone he’d thought he’d loved.

  Tried to just stay fucking numb.

  Crossing into the main living space, he slowed to a halt. Noah, shirtless, back to him, stood over the gas range, flipping pancakes and sipping coffee. Jamie stared, drinking in muscles he didn’t know existed on the human anatomical map. Skin gathered in scars over that rippling topography in a way that would give any makeup artist waking nightmares to cover. Puckered lines and thin stripes warred, telling a story Jamie b
et very few people knew—one he found himself wanting to explore with his fingers and tongue.

  Unsure if he was allowed to speak, he sidled up to the counter and cleared his throat. When Noah didn’t turn, he scowled.

  Fuck it.

  “Good morning.”

  Noah kept his back to him. “Sit.”

  What am I, the replacement for the missing closet dog?

  “Thanks. Is Wren okay?” He approached the stool as Noah nodded. Sitting, tip of his tongue between his teeth, Jamie looked around the loft as if he might be able to make Wren appear. His leg bounced with agitation. “Where is he?””

  He didn’t know why, but Wren’s well-being seemed more important than his own right now. Maybe because he knew his own day was going to suck no matter what. Someone’s should be better than the ass-end of a shit explosion.

  Laying down the spatula, Noah considered him. “What, exactly, was your purpose in coming here?”

  “I—” Well, that seemed a little unfair. “—asked you a question first.”

  Thumb and forefinger stroking his chin, Noah slid his gaze toward a door near the opposite end of the loft, then back to Jamie. “If he’s smart, he’s icing his hands. If not…?” He shrugged.

  “What did you do to him?” Jamie’s jaw dropped. “Why would he be icing his hands?”

  Noah faced the stove, flipped the pancakes onto a plate, then flicked off the burner. “Because it will help. Some. More importantly, it will be a long time before he gambles again.”

  Jamie’s stomach twisted. Picturing Wren with broken fingers and mangled flesh, he choked on his own spit. Flew off the chair toward the door Noah had glanced at. Without knocking, he flung it open and stormed inside. Light from the living area spilled into Wren’s bedroom, illuminating a well-proportioned space with its own small bathroom and a fairly standard, light wood bedroom set.

  “What…” Hair tousled, Wren sat up and winced.

  Jamie sat on the edge of the bed to gingerly take hold of Wren’s wrist. Was kinda surprised when Wren didn’t say a word and just let him look at the fine red wheals covering his palms from his fingertips to just above his wrist.

  Wren curled his fingers self-consciously, hissing in pain, but didn’t pull away.

  It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Not even close. Still, this was all his fault. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t supposed to gamble. But, this is just… ”

  “I knew…” Chewing his lip, Wren turned his face away. “It’s a problem for me.”

  Cupping Wren’s cheek, Jamie turned his face toward him. “It’s okay. We all have our stuff to deal with, yeah?”

  A sad smile lifted Wren’s lips. “Yeah. Thank you.”

  Light moved, then dark, as Noah stood in the doorway. “If you’re satisfied I’ve answered your question, I would like an answer to mine.”

  Adjusting his position on the bed, Jamie glared at the man. “Jacks knew I had an interest in...exploring. So, when I told him I needed a place to hang out for a while, he suggested I come here.”

  “And did you realize exactly what you were…” Back-lit, Noah tilted his head, expression extra-inscrutable in the dim light. “‘Exploring’?”

  Honestly? No fucking way.

  Except, outside of protecting a guy he’d rapidly come to consider a friend, he was intrigued by everything he’d found here. The whole BDSM thing was new to him, and he was unsure of his own reactions. Films and shit were full of the bondage part but missed the mark with Dominance and submission. Knowing he didn’t have a choice when Noah gave him an order both comforted him and turned him on in equal measure. From anyone else, it might get annoying.

  But not with Noah.

  He glanced at Wren, whose wrist he still soothed with his thumb. “No. Not totally.”

  Nodding once, Noah pivoted, leaving the doorway.

  After squeezing Wren’s wrist lightly, Jamie let go, then stood. “Do you want me to get you some ice?”

  “No, thanks.” Wren looked past Jamie as Noah’s footsteps returned. “Don’t fight. It’s better this way.”

  “I think you sh—” Jamie nearly bit his tongue on his next word.

  Hand latched around Jamie’s wrist, the man began walking toward Wren’s bedroom door. Thinking he was in for another spanking, Jamie dug in his heels. Found the world turning upside down, his abdomen impacting a hard shoulder.

  “What—”

  Noah kept walking. Out his door, down the first flight of stairs.

  It took Jamie a minute, but when he registered his bag bouncing against Noah’s opposite hip, he realized the guy was throwing him out of The Asylum.

  He closed his eyes on his quiet curse. “Look, you really don’t want to do this.”

  Halfway down the second flight, he began to panic. Struggled to get out of Noah’s grip. The guy had to hear him out. He went from limp to biting the soft flesh at Noah’s waist between one breath and the next. Noah’s grip slipped and he stumbled. A thud told him something besides his own shoulder had just impacted the wall.

  “Ow. Fucking fuck. Put me down.” Noah had him by the ankles now, barely hanging on to him as he twisted. His head barely missed a tread.

  The bag tumbled down the stairs as Noah reached around to scoop him to his front. They made it to the bar by some miracle before Noah dropped him onto the closest flat surface. A pool table.

  Breathing hard, Jamie gripped the edge. Glared at him. “What the f—”

  A hand covered his mouth as Noah bent over him, that vein in his temple working overtime.

  “Shut. It.”

  Breaths puffing over the man’s palm, Jamie clenched his jaw, shaking his head. Noah adjusted his grip. Slid his hand over Jamie’s nose and mouth.

  He sucked in a breath. Couldn’t get any oxygen. Stilled, eyes widening.

  Dude’s a murderer.

  The warning whispered through his mind. His hands pulled at unmovable wrists, even as something else uncurled in his middle, sending delicious tendrils of heat outward to soak his limbs.

  Starting to float, lids fluttering, he moaned, hands dropping to his sides.

  And stopped fighting.

  Stopped wanting to do anything but exactly what Noah wanted. His tongue darted from between his parted lips, licking the salt from heated skin. Noah’s pupils shifted, forming wider circles of darkness Jamie wanted to pitch himself into. Headlong. Feet first. He didn’t give a fuck which.

  Fingers spreading, Noah allowed him a breath.

  He sucked in air, nostrils flaring, eyes fixed on the man’s face. What did he want?

  Whatever it is, he can have it.

  Every single bit.

  “Are you finished?” The inscrutable expression returned.

  Jamie nodded.

  Releasing him, Noah stepped back, went to get his bag and returned, holding it out to him.

  Heat flared in Jamie’s cheeks as he dropped his gaze to the floor. Whatever he’d just experienced, no matter how intense, Noah hadn’t felt a thing. Taking the bag, he slipped off the pool table and followed the other man to the door.

  Outside, the morning was extra-sharp in the way only fall in New England seemed to be. The world was quiet and cool and calm on this side of the security fence. He took one long, last look at The Asylum’s safe, sturdy brick walls while, at the gate, Noah punched some buttons on a pin pad.

  “Thanks for everything. You might want to step out of view before opening that gate.” He tried to warn the man.

  Who behaved as though he hadn’t spoken at all.

  Stepping to Noah’s side, he prepared to face—his lips twisted into an ironic smile—the music. Maybe Jacks was right and no one would have dared to call the paparazzi last night. He’d be able to find somewhere else to—

  Yeah...no.

  The gate slid open to reveal a fucking mob.

  Chapter Four

  Blinding lights flashed. All around were news vans. Cameras. Local TV and international. For a momen
t Noah wondered if his release had drawn more interest than either he or Rhodey had anticipated, but Lifestyle and The National Enquirer didn’t cover crime in small cities still not on some maps.

  By his side, Jamie squared his shoulders, his smile at odds with a face that had worn every expression from wonder to fear to lust over the past fifteen hours. It was too practiced. Too perfect. And the look in his eyes held resolve. He’d accepted his fate—the one he’d been trying to escape.

  Noah snapped his fingers, jaw ticking as that fake smile flashed his way. “Inside.”

  Jamie blinked at him. The smile faltered.

  But he didn’t move.

  I’m going to regret this.

  Dragging the gate shut, ignoring yelps as a few fingers got in the way on the first tug, Noah made sure the entrance was secure, then latched onto the back of Jamie’s neck. He led him inside. Lifted him onto a barstool, glancing over to the man behind the bar.

  “Get him some juice.”

  The man, built like a lightweight fighter with fair skin and golden-blond hair, hesitated, then sent an inquiring look to the far end of the bar.

  Curtis nodded, moving away from where he and Reed looked over the morning paper as they had every morning for the past few years. “Go ahead, Matt. You can speak to him, he addressed you first.”

  Matt…

  The name would have drawn Noah’s entire focus if he wasn’t dealing with more pressing matters. That the man deferred to Curtis over such simple matters of protocol was interesting. He filed the information away.

  Matt cleared his throat as he pulled out a glass, not quite meeting Noah’s eyes. “We still have some orange juice and grapefruit… I can go upstairs if he likes something else better?”

  Considerate.

  Noah gave him a nod of approval and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. The touch made him jump, but he lifted his head.

  “Do you like orange juice?”

  “Orange juice?” Jamie’s brow furrowed. “Who doesn’t?”

  The man’s tendency to skip around questions before answering them directly would need amendment. Noah stifled the urge to correct the newbie-sub and inclined his head at Matt’s questioning gaze.