Hard Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 3

by Bianca Sommerland

  “Say something, please…”

  But Noah seemed to look right through him. A stranger.

  He laughed, a little hysterical, through tears he couldn’t stop. “I guess I should’ve listened better… Maybe I’ll write a song and call it Milk. Expired.”

  Slowly, he fisted his wallet. His gaze went to the collar beside it on the dresser. Discarded. Like him. Fingers curling, he wondered if he had enough money in his wallet to buy it. If Noah would let him. He couldn’t possibly want the reminder of him—of everything he’d done wrong. All the ways he’d not been good enough to keep the privilege of serving him.

  He gathered up his clothes from his drawers and looked for the duffel he’d arrived with. It hung from a hook in the clothes closet, and he crossed in front of Noah, the line of his neck and back tingling, drawing tight. Nudging the bag off the hook, he took the opportunity to kneel as gracefully as he could, to show he still knew how not to embarrass his Dom. Noah was right. He needed to leave without begging. He could honor that order, Noah’s last, and leave them both with the memory that he was a better boy...a better submissive than when he’d arrived.

  Shoving the clothes inside, he remained on his knees, because fuck it was going to take everything he had in him to stand. Took out his phone to call the limo service, asking for the driver who had brought him here. Gave The Asylum’s address, then waited for the man to give him his confirmation number and a time. Twenty minutes.

  A lifetime.

  Not long enough.

  He looked up, breathing in Noah’s scent. Surrounded by his clothes. Shoes. Memories spilling over him. The shirt he’d worn at Tracey’s when he’d given Jamie the paintings that were...somewhere being professionally framed and would be delivered to The Asylum when he was no longer here.

  Reaching up, he fisted the soft material and tugged, bringing the shirt to himself to slip it over his head. It was too big for him, just like the man, but damn, Noah owed him. Glancing over his shoulder, he dared him to say something. Noah gazed at the wall, hands curled into fists by his sides.

  The closet door frame steadied him when he stood, slipping his feet into his boots, feeling small and yet not small enough to compensate for the amount of shame he’d brought to Noah’s doorstep. To Reed and Lawson, and even Doc. None of them deserved what he’d done to them.

  Stopping in the doorway, gaze sweeping the room where he’d learned to love the man whose back remained to him, he whispered, “If you’d let me… I would have stayed forever. I know it’s pathetic to have the balls to say it now, but I love you. Thank you for showing me… For showing me.”

  Noah didn’t move, didn’t nod.

  Jamie turned, expecting his footsteps, needing to hear it had all been a mistake. The kitchen was dark. He knocked softly on Wren’s door. If one person here might be his friend after everything, it would be the man behind that door, and he’d be fucked if he’d let himself lose him too.

  “Wren? It’s Jamie.” He spoke through a sob, unable to hold it back.

  The door opened and Wren stared at him, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red, his glasses in his hand. “Jamie...I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. I just...you did good. You did so good. This isn’t fair.”

  “I—” He tipped his head back, struggling for control, and breathed deep. “I’m so sorry. Do you want my number or email, or should I just not…”

  Tears streamed down Wren’s cheeks. “I can’t...there’s no way for me to reach you like that. But...is there somewhere I can write to you? You can keep practicing. I’ll keep the letters short.”

  “Yeah. Yes.” Swiping at his face, Jamie motioned for a pen. “Thank you. Wren, I can’t fucking breathe. Why does this hurt so much? Just...I have to make it stop or I won’t make it to the door.”

  Wren had moved to grab a pen from his desk, then stopped. He brought his hand to his throat and lay his glasses on his dresser, tugging at the twine that was still around his neck, looking about ready to fall apart. “Things...change. And it hurts. But you’re strong, Jamie. You’re so strong and you can do this. I wish you didn’t have to, but...you can.”

  That Wren, the best sub anywhere, thought so meant it had to be true. He gave Wren his address, a place he’d thought he might never see again, and backed slowly away from the door. “You’re his only boy now, Wren. Take care of him for both of us.”

  At first it seemed like Wren would say something, but instead he simply nodded, pulling Jamie in for a hug. Finally, he whispered to him, so quiet there was no way anyone else would hear, but the small breaking of the rules showed how much this hit him too. “I’m going to fucking miss you.”

  Without a collar to worry about, Jamie smiled through his tears. “I’m going to fucking miss you too. Close the door or I can’t leave.”

  Drawing away, Wren pressed his eyes shut. He took a step back, hand on the door. Then nodded, bowing his head as he closed it.

  On his way out, Jamie looked toward Noah’s door, fighting to keep going past the sofa, one foot in front of the other like when he got on stage in a too-big arena and accidentally imagined what would happen if the crowd all decided to rush the stage at once. He’d be drowned, consumed by the tidal wave of people who wanted a piece of him. Who worshiped an idol they didn’t understand, loving a carbon copy of him enough that they would be willing to destroy him just for the chance to touch him.

  Somehow, he was on the landing, outside Doc’s door. Then on the stairs and walking past Reed and Curtis’s door. All shut. Even the door that led to the second floor. He reached in his pocket and realized he still had Noah’s keys. No way was that on purpose. Chewing his lip, he undid the two keys from his ring and bent down to place them on the bottom step, tears dripping from his lashes like a river he couldn’t dam.

  The fire escape door opened, winter’s chill hitting him like a slap. Damp, cold, gray. New England seemed to catch on to his mood, throwing him a backdrop he could work with. Shouldering his duffel, he swiped at his face and climbed down the stairs, each footfall hollow against the metal, and made his way to The Asylum’s gates. A buzzing sound made him jump, and he looked over his shoulder toward the front door. Closed. He looked up to the fourth floor. Noah’s bedroom window, and tried to memorize the building. When he turned back, he couldn’t find his smile. He’d left it somewhere inside. With Noah and his other life. His real life.

  He stepped through as the flashes and barrage of questions began, the gates closing behind him. Though he knew it wouldn’t do him any good—would only give the news some good footage of his ass—he began to walk toward downtown and the direction the limo would come from.

  “Jamie—” A journalist trotted next to him, snapping photos. “Did Reed break up with you?”

  “When did you realize you were gay?”

  “Was it the drugs?”

  Two tumbled into each other and elbowed one another out of the way. A third got in his face, the flash a blinding strobe that hit his hangover-bruised brain like a gunshot. He dropped his bag and swung, fury and grief turning molten. When he was finished, the man huddled at his feet, blood gushing from his nose, a nasty gash under his eye. Jamie looked around at the circle of reporters, their cameras still capturing his every move.

  “Stay the fuck away from me.” Leaving his bag on the street he walked away. The circle parted for him as the limo driver rolled up.

  He opened the door himself and slipped inside. Closed his eyes when they passed The Asylum’s gates.

  “Where to, sir?”

  The title snapped his eyes open and he blinked. No one had called him that in months. “It’s Jamie. The nearest airport where I can book a…” He almost said chartered flight. Bit his lip and stared out the window. “Commercial flight to L.A.”

  Nodding, the driver signaled and turned right.

  He knew where he was going, had lived there all his life.

  But it would never be home.

  Chapter Thirty

  L.A., long bo
ulevards, and endless avenues. Jamie stuck to the canyon roads. Harsh sunlight cut through the edges of his sunglasses on a curve. He leaned into it, wind on his face, and tried to find the thrill. Fear. Anything at all. Was surprised when he made the sharp bend without going off the road into the ravine below.

  At least that’s something.

  Weeks in, and he had nothing behind his eyes when he chanced looking in the mirror. This morning he couldn’t take it anymore. Roots grown out, his face haggard from too much booze and too little sun, he’d forced himself to go to his stylist. Drop an obscene amount of money on getting his look, if not his attitude, adjusted. He snapped at the least little thing—parking attendants, fans who wanted autographs. Headlines about him were unflattering, but he didn’t fucking care. The world could burn.

  Claws, little cat.

  Noah’s voice rolled over him.

  “I can’t…” He shook his head. “Just please get the fuck out of my head.”

  Pulling up to his gates to his private estate on the Malibu coastline, he waited for them to swing open, hands fisted around the steering wheel of his Bugatti. The car would have to go. It all would have to go. He wasn’t sure when or where or how. Just that it did and would. In the rearview mirror he caught his reflection and blinked.

  The white tufts Noah had loved were gone.

  Gabriel had done a great job, coloring his hair, adding natural highlights so they matched what would have grown out of his own head. Dark brown. Honey tones streaked through. His natural waves lay against his head with minimal product. No kohl-lined his eyes. No gloss on his lips. And after the facial, his skin looked less yellow. His cheeks at least held a hint of color.

  The gate started to close again and he gunned the engine to make it through in time. Pulled into his empty drive and sat back when he shut off the car. Quiet, the wind in the trees and the thunder of surf, should have soothed him. Instead, each booming impact of waves on the cliffs only spiked his agitation.

  “Fuck it.” He shouldered out of the car, then slammed the door.

  There was only one place he could get away from the sound, the sunlight, the world. Inside, he grabbed a protein shake from a six-pack he’d had delivered and closed the door on the otherwise empty fridge. Padding barefoot across cool tile floors, he shut the blinds as he went toward the center of the house. Toward his studio.

  Inside, the world was hushed and dark. He glanced to the sleeping bag he’d thrown on the black leather couch and considered sleeping the afternoon away again. Staying up all night to write and record had become his new routine. His world was completely upside down, but at least when he sang he saw something behind his closed lids that wasn’t Noah’s face when he’d said those words.

  ‘Get. Out.’

  Plunking himself down at his keyboard, he shoved headphones over his ears, working his way back into the song he’d been hammering out until six a.m. Two more tracks, and the album would be ready. He’d put his message in the fucking bottle and throw it out to the electronic sea, solely produced, written, and released by himself.

  No more studios.

  No more contracts.

  He laughed at that last thought. If only the paper it was written on had been worth something, Noah would have had to let him come back at least to play. At least to see his face.

  The thought had him glancing at his phone where it lay on top of the instrument. He lifted it to look at the time. Five p.m. on a Wednesday night in L.A. translated to eight p.m. at The Asylum. If Wren were tending bar on the usually quiet night, he might be downstairs. No one had said he couldn’t call, and it was a fucking free country.

  Dialing before he could lose his nerve, he put the phone on speaker on top of his chest and lay down on the couch, eyes closed.

  “The Asylum, this is Lawson, how can I help you?” The Dom’s tone was polite. A bit distracted.

  Jamie smiled, eyes closed, picturing the mild frown on the man’s face, noticing not for the first time that he was the only one who didn’t simply snatch the phone up and say ‘Asylum’ as if it were a complete invitation to conversation. “Hello, sir. It’s Jamie.”

  There was a slight rustling of paper, like Lawson closing one of his ledgers. “Jamie, it’s nice to hear from you. I hope you’re doing well?”

  Yeah, clearly no one there keeps up with the tabloids…

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry for leaving without apologizing for the mess. I...figured it was best, the way things happened, and with how fast…” The familiar ache pulsed in his middle, but he swallowed it down. “I won’t bother you. I just wanted to say hi to Wren if he’s in the bar tonight.”

  “It’s no bother, my boy. He’s obsessively cleaning the galley. Give me a moment and I’ll get him for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” Eyes closed, he let himself picture Lawson moving through the bar, past the line of stools toward the window, to push into the galley.

  A few moments passed, then Wren’s voice rushed over the line. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to talk to you again. I didn’t think of the phone here. I’m sorry. But I already wrote you a few letters and Lawson said to put them in one envelope and he’ll mail them for me next time he goes to the post office. I wasn’t going to ask anyone, I was thinking of going myself, but then I was worried it might...he noticed me thinking, it was strange. But then I told him. I watched one of the old movies you like the night you left and it helped me sleep. So now I watch it every night. It’s horrible, but I kind of love it.”

  Jamie started giggling, the phone bouncing on his chest, halfway through Wren’s greeting. Still laughing, he sat up a little, picturing the way Wren’s brown hair fell over his forehead, the dimple in his cheek as he smiled and talked. “I didn’t think of the bar phone either. Until today. Just now. I’m—” He looked around, opening his eyes. “—in my studio, lying on my couch. Are you talking about the one where Fred Astaire dances on the ceiling? That movie is super trippy.”

  “Yes! I tried the others, but I couldn’t get through them. I remember you talking during this one, explaining things. It makes it better.” Wren sighed. “It would be so much more interesting if he fell. But I guess that would change the tone. Are you making more songs? I can’t wait to hear them. Reed gave me his earbuds before he left and told me to use them when I’m listening to your stuff so no one gets grumpy. He gave me this really old iPod he had and no one minds me using it. It’s not connected to anything, just has the music files… He put everything you ever made on it.”

  “Yeah. I’m putting out an album next week. I’m finishing up the tracks tomorrow. I’ll be on the radio in L.A. if you can get anyone to stream the interview. It’s an indie station.” He laid back, hands under his head, and closed his eyes again. “I’m sorry no one there will hear it but you, but I’ll send you a CD in the mail and you can put it on the bar speakers to exact my bloody hearted revenge and think of it as a horror movie if you want.” He laughed darkly. “Just kidding. It’s all love songs. The album’s called Noah. How’s Reed? I’m glad he’s not so mad he won’t speak my name.”

  Quiet for a bit, Wren took a deep breath. “I don’t see him much. He came by yesterday for some stuff with Tracey. We talked for a bit. He’s...the only one who’s really...mentioned you. Or talked to me at all. It’s been...tense. I try to stay out of everyone’s way.”

  The sound tiles on the ceiling seemed to float away a little further as he listened to Wren’s description of life at The Asylum without him. “Maybe you could use Doc’s hearse and have a mock funeral for me, so people can move on? Then it’ll get less tense. Plus, I bet the bar would look cool decorated in black crepe.”

  “No...I think it’s better to just...not bother anyone.” Wren paused. “Lawson’s back. He’s giving me that look. Like he’s worried. But I’m okay on my own. Honest. I was when Noah was in prison. And with him gone there’s a lot of work to do around here, so I’m keeping busy to make things easier for everyone. Doc’s been at t
he hospital a lot so I’ve been taking care of his place more. But I don’t see him much. And then there’s Rhodey’s place, but I’m not allowed to dust. Just sweep and clean the bathroom.”

  “That’s...a little weird, about the dusting. But okay. I supposed the place is full of weird kinks.” Using the information about Rhodey as a firestop for his emotions, Jamie breathed deep. Wren shouldn’t be alone so much. It wasn’t good for anyone to be alone this much. All hours of the day and night, doing nothing but staring at the same four...walls. “I’m glad you’re doing okay, Wren. I miss you, but I won’t call again. I don’t want to cause more problems. But, it’s nice to hear your voice. Really, really nice.” He sat up, taking the phone off speaker and bringing it to his ear. “Before I go, he’s all right, right? Everything’s okay and he’s doing good? Moving on? Got some other sub?”

  Wren cleared his throat. “He’s...been at his mom’s. I haven’t seen him, Jamie. But the way people are talking, the last thing he’s thinking about is another sub. He’s just been...trying to keep the press away from Reed and Ezran. That’s all I’ve heard.”

  “Jesus. I’m so sorry. God. Of course he is. I’m—” Jamie shook his head at himself. “You take care, Wren. I’ll...I...just take care...Bye.”

  He hung up without waiting to hear Wren’s goodbye. He sat, holding the phone for long enough that his legs cramped when he tried to stand, and he immediately sat again, rubbing the pins and needles before he went to the keyboard and began to compose two songs to replace the harsher ones he’d put together. Worse came to worse, he’d take them out of the album altogether and not put anything else in. No way was he letting an angry word cross his lips in reference to Noah ever again. The man was where he should be, taking care of his family. He shouldn’t suffer and neither should they, just because he’d brought his fucked up life into their world.