Hard Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 3

by Bianca Sommerland

  Poking the screen, he rolled his shoulders and cracked the tension from his neck. He swiped at his face, tossing his head back, unwilling to give the man another minute of his life. They were done.

  His shower was a quick scrub that avoided all of his tender spots. Though he took time after to appreciate the heated red splotches that decorated his ass. Noah’s marks. His lips quirked when he thought about telling Noah he’d fired Frank. He would, later, when Noah wasn’t so pissed at him. Maybe tomorrow while they lay in bed, Jamie would cuddle into him, fingers running over heavy pecs and thick biceps, and tell him word-for-word exactly what he’d said.

  He had a feeling he wasn’t going to taste soap for that one.

  Noah’s dick, maybe…

  Grinning, he toweled off and squeezed his tender ass into the sequined shorts and tank that would match Reed’s. A few of the red marks on the backs of his thighs—damn but that man spanked everywhere—showed below the sparkling material. Biting his lip, Jamie wondered if anyone would notice and decided he didn’t care. Noah could mark him wherever and whenever, and he’d wear the evidence of his Dom’s ownership on his skin with pride.

  Garet’s outfit was far more tame—sequined trousers and a jacket to match, along with a black top hat the kid rocked. There was nothing outright obscene about any of the outfits, but Matt had taken exception to the idea of his brother showing quite that much booty, and Jamie couldn’t blame him. Garet and Ezran would be allowed in the club for the performance. Then Tracey planned to take them back to her place.

  A black silk robe hiding his clothes, Jamie plucked his phone off the counter and slipped it into his pocket. He stopped in the bedroom and flopped onto the bed, not really in the mood to go downstairs. Trevor had always made fun of him for wanting to be alone before a show. Had called it his artistic temperament and usually went out without him to have some drinks and find some groupies.

  His eyes drifted shut and he slipped into a light nap, waking up several times and checking his phone until ten p.m. when he got up and slipped on his shoes. Noah was already on dungeon duty when he headed out. They’d agreed to close the rest of The Asylum from eleven until one, so everyone could enjoy the festivities. He’d be down shortly before Jamie, Reed, and Garet’s performance at ten after eleven.

  Sticking his head in Wren’s door on his way by, Jamie smiled, taking in the man’s pajamas. “Not coming down?”

  “No. The last big crowd was...hard. And Noah wasn’t exactly thrilled that I took a chance with it.” Sexy-as-fuck dimple popping to life, Wren put down his book and jutted his chin. “Show me your outfit though?”

  Jamie slipped his robe off, twirling this way and that, arms out to his sides. “Reed picked them out when we were in New York.”

  Wren whistled, appreciative. “The man has taste in booty shorts.”

  “Mhm.” Grinning, Jamie shouldered into his robe and tied the belt.

  “Speaking of booty, yours has to be sore.” Wren winced, though light danced in his eyes. “I thought Master Noah was going to pop a blood vessel when you were two minutes late. Fifteen was…” He shook his head. “Ballsy.”

  Jamie rolled his eyes at himself. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I lost track of time, and then Doc stopped me in the bar.”

  At the mention of Doc, a flush stole across Wren’s cheeks, turning fair skin a mottled red. “Oh? What did he want?”

  Licking his lips, Jamie stared over Wren’s shoulder. “To forgive me…” He huffed a laugh, because nothing with Doc was ever simple. “Finally.”

  Wren’s solemn nod showed his appreciation. “You impressed him. That’s really good.”

  A self-conscious laugh had Jamie shaking his head. “Yeah. I was only ever ten minutes late for him.”

  “For Doc?” Wren looked absolutely horrified. “And he forgave you anyway?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.” Rolling his eyes, Jamie shifted the robe closed. “When I was working on the club. Same reason. I’m surprised I don’t still leak water when I walk.” He shuddered, seriously glad Noah didn’t use that particular punishment. “The man was, as Noah says, ‘unimpressed’.”

  Wren wet his bottom lip with his tongue. “I can imagine. Is...everything all right, though? He’s a tough Dom, but he helped you a lot. You got better at things. If you’re like, sick or something, Noah should know.”

  “What?” The word gusted from him on his laugh. “Dude. No. It was a joke. I think Noah would’ve noticed when he fucks me if I’d become a human water balloon.”

  Face beet red, Wren shook his head. “I didn’t mean that. I meant...nevermind. I’m glad you’re not in too much trouble. With either of them. Though…” He lowered his voice. “I’d rather Noah mad at me than Doc. Neither is better, but...is that weird? It’s probably weird.”

  Understanding bowled Jamie over and he lifted a finger, wagging it between Wren and an imaginary Doc. “Are you two…?”

  “God, no!” Eyes wide, Wren shook his head hard. “He’d never— He’s not that kind of Dom. I mean, I’m not—”

  “Oh.” Laughing, Jamie grinned. “Yeah. He’s probably someone’s taste, but I can honestly say after two weeks in his company that it’d take a more hardcore player to survive him than you or me.” He gave a mock shudder. “And you are far too tender of a morsel given the other guys I’ve seen him play with.”

  Wren looked down at his feet, attention absorbed by his bedroom slippers. “Yeah.” When he lifted his head, he looked toward the door. “I shouldn’t keep you.”

  “Sure.” Reaching over, Jamie squeezed Wren’s shoulder. “Have a good night.”

  A small smile lifted Wren’s lips, not quite reaching his eyes. “You too, Jamie.”

  Downstairs was chaos. The last fight had just ended. Jamie pushed through the crowd, the scent of sweat and alcohol mingling with cigar smoke and cologne to form a pungent aroma that he knew he’d forever associate with The Asylum. It was all male, all testosterone, and he loved it. When he stepped into the gym, it was empty. Someone followed him and he turned to tell them the area would be closed for another five minutes.

  “Hello, Jamie.” Frank smiled at him like an old friend, his palms coming up with his shrug. “Can’t blame a man for trying. I missed you, kid.”

  Licking his lips, Jamie shot a look over Frank’s shoulder to the bar. Fuck. He needed to get set up with Reed and Garet—who were probably already in the club. This was no time for a scene, not when they’d all worked so hard. He didn’t want his old life to come crashing in and ruin things for everyone.

  Not again.

  “Look.” Jamie raked a hand over his hair, fisted it, then closed his eyes. “I don’t know how you got in, but you can’t be here. You’re not a member.”

  Frank’s smile widened thin lips. “I’m Jackson’s guest.”

  Nausea rolled over him. Dammit Jacks. Have you learned nothing? Probably the guy had just been taken in, thinking he was surprising Jamie, but no way was Noah going to listen to reason if he found out. And he would find out, because Jamie wouldn’t lie to his Dom, even by omission. Tomorrow, he’d tell him the truth, but for now he had to get Frank the hell out of the way so the show could go on. That, at least, he knew how to do.

  “I’ll listen to what you have to say. Later.” He sighed, catching a shadow out of the corner of his eye that he dismissed when it disappeared as he looked toward the locker rooms. “Come get a drink and don’t fucking talk to anyone.”

  Frank nodded, following him. “Guess which underwear brand wants you to model now that you’ve gone gay?”

  Jamie shoved into the club and pointed to the sofa near the booth. “Sit, and for God’s sake, be quiet before someone hears you saying shit like that.” Shouldering his robe off, he handed it to Frank like he always did before he went on stage. “Don’t talk to anyone but Jacks. I don’t want a scene tonight.”

  Reed and Garet chatted in the DJ booth, setting up the music. Reed trotted out as Frank nodded eagerly. “Su
re, kid.”

  They all went into the men’s toilet together to await the music that would signal their entrance. Reed looked at him, puzzled, and leaned against the sink while Garet took a leak in the stall. “You know that guy?”

  “Friend of Jacks’.” He sidestepped and guilt settled on his shoulders, stealing his joy. “I’ll explain later.”

  “Sure.” Reed wrinkled his nose, but voices filled the club along with shouts and laughter, and his gaze cut to the door his lips parting and eyes glazing.

  Oh no. I recognize that look.

  “Dude. You’ve got this.” Leaning in, he gave Reed a quick kiss, just a brush of his lips, and smiled. Curtis’s sub tasted like bubblegum and cherries.

  Reed grinned at him, eyes shining. “Let’s do this?”

  Garet bounded out of the stall, arms wide. “Ready for my closeup, bitches!”

  Forgetting Frank, Jamie whooped and gave his crew high fives, his blood pumping as wildly as if he was about to strut onto the stage at Madison Square Garden. Garet led first, his hands clapping above his head, then Reed, and Jamie last, mic fisted in his hand. He broke into song and the lights strobed overhead, everyone cheering as he sang the opening lines of Born this Way.

  On the raised dance floor, Garet and Reed busted into their moves, a combination of acro-dance and booty shaking—the latter all Reed—as Jamie tipped his head back and sang before joining them in a synchronized routine that had wolf whistles cutting over the music. Reed caught the mic Jamie threw to him and did the speaking vocals, rapping out the lyrics with staccato swagger. Jamie tipped in, twirling around him and took over the mic to bring the song home.

  They rolled straight into a new song he’d written and composed in the booth over the past few weeks, a dance tune he’d titled Good Bad Boys. Reed pole danced to one side of him while Garet went to grab Curtis and shoved him into a chair on the stage. Reed moved from the pole to the chair, giving the crowd a dirty pout before he bent forward, ass toward them and bounced, his lips inches from Curtis’s while he mouthed every dirty word Jamie had jammed into the bridge.

  The music kicked back up, and Reed returned to the pole, undulating his back against it, his arms over his head. Jamie grinned wickedly, catching Noah’s eye as he broke into a low crouch and bent back, thrusting his hips to the rhythm. The plug bit his ass with each move, and he growled a little too authentically into the closing vocals.

  Reed pulled Curtis off the stage along with the chair, disappearing into the crowd as Garet lowered the lights to the spot that they’d arranged for the next song. He caught his breath, unable to see the crowd, but cut his gaze to where he remembered Noah had stood. The light Strains of Lana Del Ray’s Fuck it I love you hit soft and quick, and he opened his mouth to sing as Reed and Garet joined him on the stage with microphones to lend depth to the vocals.

  He sank into the music, wringing sweetness out of every note, caressing the hard consonants on the refrain. Hypnotic on the verses. The music wound around the guitar at the end and he closed his eyes, bringing the microphone down.

  The crowd went nuts and rushed the stage, joining him, Reed, and Garet to dance to Adam Lambert’s Superpower. Lights strobed across the dance floor, changing the atmosphere from a show to a party. Still using the mics, he, Garet and Reed danced and sang along. Reed dipped into a breakdance move, kicking his heels forward head back, mic to his lips.

  “Dude! You could seriously have a career!” Jamie shouted above the music and Reed licked his lips, eyes shining, hips thrusting to the beat.

  The rest of the night was lost to him as someone handed him a drink, then another. He was the hero of The Asylum. Him and Reed. Garet disappeared at some point, likely at Matt’s insistence, while things got truly wild. By the time they shut the place down, he’d forgotten about Frank. His robe was over the couch where his manager had sat. Relief coursed over him, hazy with the alcohol swirling through his brain. He was done with the man, and good riddance.

  Upstairs, he tiptoed into the bedroom. Noah, who still wore out easily, slumbered in the bed, where he’d likely been for hours. Divesting himself of his clothes and the plug, Jamie stumbled and swore softly, then finally managed to wriggle the rest of the way out of the shorts. He left them on the floor and tripped over something hard—his phone. Grabbing it, he plugged it into the charger next to the bed, following Noah’s rules.

  He clapped himself on the back and intoned, “Good boy.” Then giggled, falling into bed next to Noah.

  Noah rolled, throwing an arm over him and snuggled him close. Jamie closed his eyes and sighed.

  Sunlight cut across his eyes along with a buzzing and chirping that made him wince and throw an arm over his face. Far too early judging by the angle of the sun across the room. It had to be only noon. The bed next to him was empty. He grabbed his phone and fisted it, seriously tempted to throw it across the room, and caught sight of one of the text messages. From Reed.

  Shit dude. What the hell?

  A link followed.

  Several more messages came in from people he hadn’t heard from in ages. One from a news agency. Outside, he heard a familiar whirring and the sound of van motors. Noises that had been absent for many, many weeks. He didn’t have to look out the window to know what he’d see. Paparazzi. And somehow he knew why.

  Fucking Frank.

  He tapped his password into the phone.

  What did the man…?

  For the first time in his life, he wished he couldn’t read well enough to understand the headlines.

  Jamie Kent’s New Boy Toy

  Jamie Kent’s Disappearance Explained

  Reed Dane Kent’s New Love

  He turned on text-to-speech and let his phone read one of the articles to him, its monotone voice sawing through his skin right down to his bones. Mentions of Reed and Ezran’s past in foster care, Reed’s mother’s death, his father’s abandonment, scrolled past. Then the real kicker. Mention of an interview with Reed’s father about how he’d sent his ‘wild child’ into foster care when he couldn’t deal with his antics after Reed’s mother’s death.

  “Oh shit.” Flying from the bed, Jamie barely made it to the bathroom in time.

  The tequila he’d drunk way too much of last night tasted fouler coming up than it had going down. He threw up again. And again. His phone chirping on the floor next to him. Stomach wrung out, he flushed and leaned his head on the rim of the toilet as hot tears streamed down his face. When the door to the loft opened hard, impacting the wall, he jerked, but didn’t lift his head. There was no need.

  Pennies and pats on the ass wouldn’t earn forgiveness.

  Because this mistake couldn’t be undone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  If a New Year’s outlook reflected off how it began, Noah wanted a damn reset to the first few weeks. They’d looked so fucking promising. He slammed his fist against the doorframe in the galley where the monitors were set up for the cameras outside. What the hell had sent the vultures swarming this time?

  Last night had been amazing. Even with the punishment, Jamie’s excitement, simmering for so long, lit his eyes and showed such pure joy Noah stopped doubting this was where he wanted to be. Even more so when he saw what his boy had been up to.

  The new dance club section of The Asylum was incredible. Everywhere he’d looked he’d seen details that revealed exactly who had been involved in the project. Fabric on the chairs printed with a few of his edgier paintings that had his mother’s keen eye for detail all over it. An antique bar freshly refurbished, showed Lawson’s expensive taste and Curtis’s love for making old things look new again. The stripper pole he could either credit or Jamie or Reed, though Reed would definitely get the most use out of it.

  Not that I’d mind seeing my little cat show off on it sometime.

  Standing near the bar to shoot Lawson and Curtis dark looks for keeping this from him—which they saw right through because he absolutely loved it—Noah couldn’t take his eyes off Jamie a
s he danced, moving as though he’d been born for the stage, rather than groomed to perform for the profit of those who didn’t see how incredible he really was.

  But when he began to sing, everything else in the room disappeared. His talent...fuck, Noah should have spent some time listening to Jamie’s music, only he hadn’t wanted to experience it with a screen putting distance between them. He needed to be right there, where he could hold Jamie’s gaze and feel the impact of every word.

  By his side at the bar, drinking a virgin Bloody Mary, Ezran’s eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on Garet. “He shouldn’t be up there. He looks like an idiot.”

  Noah frowned, turning his attention to Garet. The teen was holding his own against two men who’d been shaking their asses for years, his movements not provocative, but the flow was natural and showed some skill.

  “Not sure what you’re seeing, kiddo, but from here it seems like he practiced hard and got the moves down pat.” He nudged Ezran with his elbow when his scowl darkened. “Aren’t you two friends? Be nice.”

  “Ha. He doesn’t need nice. He needs his ass kicked.” Ezran crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the bar in a stance almost identical to Curtis’s, who stood a few feet away, speaking quietly to Lawson.

  Only, Custis was grinning and nodding his head to the music.

  Despite his dark mood, several times Ezran sighed and a smile crept across his lips when Garet did a fancy spin or hit a note just right. He schooled his features quickly, but two things became very obvious.

  Ezran was starting to see Garet as more than a friend. And likely wouldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  The last sobered Noah as he considered why and struggled to get back into the upbeat music. When Garet pulled Curtis on stage and Reed gave his Dom some one-on-one time, Noah focused on Jamie. For a moment, everything was perfect. Jamie was in his element. Right here.

  Where he was meant to be.