Flawed Justice

by Tibby Armstrong

  Though from the rough sound Matt made in the back of his throat and the way his lips parted, he wasn’t exactly unwilling.

  Very good to know.

  “The usual would involve me bringing you to the dungeon, Matt. This isn’t about my ‘standards’. You’re not ready.” Lawson’s lips curved when Matt’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t resist flicking his tongue over Matt’s bottom lip and watching the man’s pupils dilate as he shifted and tried to school his features. “I will demand nothing of you, but for your safety, for your brother’s…don’t challenge me again. Not in front of the members of The Asylum. Not until you’ve earned their respect and their trust.”

  “How do I do that when they think I’m nothing but your…” Matt chewed on his bottom lip as though searching for the right word and coming up short. “You won me from Curtis.”

  That wasn’t a question, but Lawson answered it anyway. “I won your freedom.”

  Matt’s brow rose at that. He looked pointedly at Lawson’s hand on his wrist.

  “If I allowed you to punch me outside of the ring, my authority would be questioned. Neither of us wants that.” He waited to be sure Matt understood, then eased away from him, pulling his keys from his pocket and taking the second set for his loft and the doors that separated the living space from the bar off the keyring. He pressed it into Matt’s palm. “You are not my prisoner, Matt. If you’d like to continue paying off your debt to Curtis, I will not interfere. It will go much faster if you fight—and we will discuss the terms. You will be paid for any work you do here. You and your brother are under the protection of The Asylum either way.”

  “In exchange for the members believing that you own me.”

  No matter how mildly Lawson tried to word how their relationship would be perceived, that was the truth. Which might have been unnecessary if the details of Matt’s circumstances hadn’t been revealed to the club, but there was no taking back the events of the night.

  So he inclined his head and held Matt’s gaze. “Yes.”

  Nodding slowly, Matt looked at the keys in his hand. “Or I can leave.”

  “No one will stop you.”

  Dropping his head back against the wall, Matt let out a heavy sigh. “Could this get any fucking worse?”

  One brow arched, Lawson retreated a step to give Matt some space. “Should I be insulted?”

  Matt gave him a dry look. “Is that even possible?”

  He should not be amused, not after Matt’s little outburst, but as intolerable as the behavior was in front of the club members, he did enjoy how the man stood his ground once he’d stopped being terrified of absolutely everything. There was something about Matt that told Lawson he wasn’t accustomed to letting fear rule him. He was out of his depths, but once he found his footing he’d be a good addition to The Asylum. Perhaps as a member, rather than simply an employee. Remaining somewhere in the middle, without a contract signed to confirm his understanding or willingness, made things more difficult.

  For both of them.

  One step at a time. “Go move your things. We will continue this discussion later.”

  “I can’t wait.” There was some bite to Matt’s words, but not as much as expected. Hopefully he was beginning to understand Lawson was acting in his best interest.

  The doors to the ring opened and those who’d stayed for the fight scheduled shortly after Curtis and Lawson’s match began flooding the bar. Several glanced their way and Lawson put a heavy hand on Matt’s shoulder before he could duck into the hall.

  He leaned in, keeping his voice low. “Whatever else you believe, do not doubt your worth again.”

  Inhaling slowly, Matt turned his head, his gaze wary. “Why not?”

  “Because if you were worthless, you wouldn’t still be here.”

  With that, Lawson released him, nodding when Matt hesitated as though to ask if he’d been dismissed. The set to his shoulders made it clear all was not well between them, but to any observers, the man understood his place.

  Which was now in Lawson’s home.

  One he hadn’t planned to share. And likely wouldn’t find peace in anytime soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ridged metal bit into Matt’s palm, grounding him. Reminding him to breathe. Standing outside Lawson’s door, clutching the man’s loft key, he realized he’d walked through a lot of new doors recently thanks to the man. Not all of them good. But not all of them bad either. Whatever kind of experience he found behind door number three, he had a feeling it would be up to him.

  “No pressure.” He muttered, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. Before he could chicken out, he inserted the key. “If there’s a room full of chains and car batteries in there, I’m leaving.”

  “Well, that would be a shame.”

  Matt jumped, heart thudding somewhere north of his chest, and turned.

  Doc stared back at him with idle interest, lazily swinging his medical bag. “Matthew.”

  Dressed in a dark blue polo that contrasted with his fair coloring and salt and pepper hair, he appeared professionally casual. Apparently, he’d been expecting work tonight and not whatever pleasures the dungeon had on offer.

  “If you’re here to patch up my boo-boos, I already took the sutures out myself.” Matt indicated the high point on his cheekbone that Doc had stitched up over a week ago.

  “So you did.” Doc stared at him, unblinking. “Are we going to stand out here all night waiting for you to get up your nerve, or shall we go in?”

  Matt flushed, turning. He’d be inside already if the guy hadn’t interrupted him. Swinging the door wide, he swept out an arm. “After you.”

  Doc entered the apartment and threw on the wall switch before heading to the kitchen. Matt looked around, clutching his bag’s canvas strap. Well-placed lights illuminated an expansive great room complete with ponderous wood beams and high arched windows. The scent of warm leather and Lawson’s soap filled the space, both comforting and unsettling. The place wasn’t nearly as chopped up as Curtis’s, Matt noted, closing the door behind him and pocketing the key. It had a city feel that spoke of a natural comfort with money and all the power it afforded.

  The furniture was large but filled the space with the same powerful assurance Lawson wore whenever he entered a room. Matt wiped his hands on his jeans, his gaze landing on the couch. It was firm, masculine, not overstuffed, and its cushions gleamed in a way that pleather never could. Two well-placed chairs were arranged companionably across from a dark slate coffee table on polished brass casters. Everything in here looked way nicer than anything Matt had ever planted his ass on. No way would Lawson want him bedding down on that swanky couch, ruining the leather.

  Thoughts of bed and Lawson jump started his arousal, and he ran his tongue over his lips. The kiss the man had planted on him downstairs had been a surprise, the hard line of his mouth at once gentle and unyielding. Even now, Matt could feel himself bending to the implicit demand that he submit himself to everything Lawson had on offer. Touching his fingertips to his wrist, he examined the newest mark Lawson had left on his skin and breathed deep. Shook his head to clear the erotic memory.

  He hoped a guest room lay behind one of the room’s two doors, because he wasn’t here to warm Lawson’s bed as part of the deal. The man had plenty of other guys he could go to for that kind of thing. The whole interlude downstairs had been for show, to make sure that the club’s members knew he was under Lawson’s protection—that Lawson cared what happened to Matt under his roof—and that was all it had been. No matter what Matt’s hard-on said, then...or now.

  Moving to the closest door, Matt opened it and felt around for a switch. A desk lamp illuminated an office with all the standard stuff, except expensive enough that he automatically began to back out of the space. Fingers on the switch, he stilled, his attention falling on a framed photograph by the door. Three men, two with dark hair, one light. Obviously, Curtis and Lawson, and some other man. Curious, Matt studied the picture that had
been matted and framed with care. Lawson looked...young. His hair was still short, but not quite so un-mussable. And the grin on his face? Well Matt didn’t know Lawson’s lips could bend that way. Fuck, the guy actually looked happy, his arm slung around the shoulder of the guy in the middle. Curtis, well he just looked like Curtis, with that knowing grin tilting his mouth. Matt studied the third man, who gazed at the camera with a steady calm that Matt felt even through the photograph. Something settled in the pit of Matt’s stomach just looking at him.

  Reaching up, he touched one finger to touch the glass.

  “That’s Noah.”

  Matt snatched his hand away, facing Doc. “I was looking for the guest room.”

  “I figured.” Doc leaned back against the open door, his gaze on the photograph. “He’s in prison.”

  “Why?” The question sailed out.

  A pained expression flitted across his face and was gone. “For doing what was necessary to protect his own.”

  That sounded an awful lot like Noah had murdered someone. Which couldn’t be true. Could it? Matt looked again at Noah, then to Lawson and Curtis. There was no hint of anything ugly about the moment or Noah’s demeanor. Nothing that said any of them could or would resort to that level of violence, but the healing bruises on Matt’s ribs and face told a different story.

  “Lawson’ll be back up here in a minute. Why don’t you come out here and let me look at you?”

  Not wanting to be caught snooping, even unintentionally, Matt left the room and shut the door behind him. Followed Doc to the kitchen where he’d laid out some ice packs, gauze, and a tube of Lidocaine.

  “Sit. Let me see your face.”

  “I don’t—”

  “For godsakes, Matthew.” Doc pulled him by the arm to a metal and wood barstool by the kitchen island and took his bag away to drop it next to the couch. Pointed at the stool. “Sit.”

  Matt sat. “Fine.”

  The man black swapped leather driving gloves that he always seemed to wear for surgical gloves as Matt watched. He’d hoped to avoid this little interlude by taking out his own stitches, but Doc’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he examined the area with a butterfly touch, penlight in his opposite hand. The light clicked off and he dug in his bag, coming up with a small tube.

  “Here. Put this on it twice a day and you won’t scar.” Doc’s lips compressed, as if he stopped himself from saying something more.

  Well, that had been surprisingly easy.

  Taking the ointment, Matt frowned. “I thought you were a…” He shook his head, realizing what he’d been about to say.

  Doc’s eyes glinted dangerously. Smugly. Verifying what Matt had guessed at before he answered. “Oh, I am.”

  “I’m...um...not. You know.” Matt swallowed, lifting one shoulder. “The other thing.”

  “A masochist? I know.”

  Apparently, that little tidbit hadn’t mattered as long as Matt had been The Asylum’s Enemy Number One, but now that he’d been exonerated by Lawson and Curtis, it did. Realization dawned, followed by a cold splash as Matt remembered his own heated words in the ring tonight. Lawson hadn’t just defended Matt’s honor. He’d been saving Matt’s life. Forcing Curtis to apologize, making that show in the bar about being his owner, or whatever the kind of arrangement he and Lawson had was called, hadn’t been intended as just another humiliation.

  He felt himself pale. “Did Noah… The Ravager who was killed a few months back. Was he involved?”

  “You’re quick when you haven’t just had a knock upside the skull.”

  “Shit.” No wonder Curtis always stuck so close when the club was open.

  Matt had read about the gang violence on this side of town for so long that all the events were a little blurred, but he did recall the national news vans that had parked outside the courthouse for a few weeks, and a headline that screamed GUILTY in black ink that had lain around the barbershop for a lot longer than most papers did.

  Suddenly, the fight club, the fortress-like building, and the tight-knit camaraderie among the members made sense. The men weren’t here just to fight and fuck. They protected each other and this place with their lives....or by taking the life of someone who was a danger to one of their own. Not a half bad arrangement, Matt realized, considering he’d hidden his own sexual preferences for over seven years just to feel safe.

  He passed his hands over his face, breathing deep. “I had no idea…”

  It seemed his life had become one of mounting debts. Not only did he owe the club ten grand, he owed Lawson his life. The former debt had been one he’d always been more than willing to repay, but the sum took on new meaning in light of Lawson’s sacrifice tonight.

  Doc settled onto a stool next to him, one forearm draped casually over the back. “Do yourself a favor, kid, and don’t mention it to The Law.”

  “I have to apologize.”

  The sound of his own voice, the things he’d said to Lawson in front of everyone, filled him with hot shame. His father had always said he shot off his mouth before he thought. Apparently, the old man had been right about something.

  Doc’s lips quirked. “Think of some other way to make it up to him.”

  Matt groaned, tilting his head back, but straightened when the door opened. Lawson stepped in, holding three beers in one hand, and paused, taking in Matt, Doc, and his home. If Matt didn’t know better he’d have said the look that crossed the man’s face was haunted, but it disappeared as his gaze finally settled on Matt’s bag.

  It was all Matt could do not to throw himself on top of the thing to hide the way its ugly canvas messed up the place. “Sorry. I couldn’t find the guest room.”

  Lawson’s gaze lifted and he looked around the loft again. “That’s because there isn’t one.”

  Doc motioned to him. “I don’t have all night.”

  He crossed the room, held out a beer to Doc, who took it and placed it aside. Turning to Matt with the second beer, he frowned and pulled away when Matt reached for the bottle. “Are you old enough to drink?”

  Matt laughed. “Yeah. By a year.”

  “Hm.” Lawson pressed the beer into Matt’s hand, focusing on Doc. “They get younger all the time, Jared.”

  Hearing the man’s name on Lawson’s lips fucked with Matt a little, but humor danced in Doc’s eyes. “Couldn’t be that we get older.”

  “Definitely not.”

  In the kitchen, Lawson found a glass and tipped his beer over it. As he poured, Matt saw his attention land on the medical supplies Doc had laid out.

  Lawson sighed. “You’re not going to let me get away with saying I’m fine, are you?”

  One dark brow arched. “Have I ever?”

  “Let’s get it over with.” Setting down both the bottle and glass, Lawson stripped his shirt over his head much as he had in the ring. Matt tried not to stare and failed.

  Doc stood and snapped on his gloves. Lawson held his arms out to his sides, jaw tight, his stare somewhere over Matt’s head. This time, that naked expanse of flesh wasn’t so pristine. Angry red marks where Curtis had gotten in his fair share of hits covered Lawson’s ribs, and a particularly tender looking spot over his right hip bone extended to a gash above his belt buckle.

  “You could wear something more appropriate and not risk this.”

  Lawson glanced down at the spot Doc examined, then back up. “Less commentary, more fixing.”

  Doc ran his fingers over the spot and the man’s abs fluttered, though his expression never changed. “Does that hurt?”

  “I didn’t say anything, did I?” He spoke without moving his jaw.

  “You never do.”

  Matt bit back a grin. Doc was going to have to get his kink fix somewhere else tonight. The man didn’t sound disappointed, exactly. Probably Lawson would have punched him in the face if he’d appeared to enjoy the moment too much.

  Doc straightened, snapping off his gloves and making the same pronouncement he’d made in Matt’s cas
e, minus the disappointment. “You’ll live.”

  Lawson disappeared with his beer to the room Matt hadn’t entered, while Doc put away his things. He emerged a minute later with a pillow and a stack of blankets and sheets that he placed on one of the chairs. Shoeless, wearing a clean white undershirt that contrasted with his skin, he looked relaxed. At home. And sexy as fuck.

  Tipping his bottle to his mouth, Matt met Law’s gaze, daring to play with fire. The man’s expression darkened. A tug just above Matt’s groin made his nostrils flare, and his gaze shied away.

  One side of Doc’s mouth tilted in a way that Curtis would envy. “I’ll just see myself out.”

  Flustered, Matt tried to recover. “Thanks for the, uh…”

  Doc frowned. A warning.

  Realizing what he’d been about to say, Matt brought his fingers up and circled them close to his cheek. “You know.”

  “Twice a day.” Doc indicated the ointment Matt had put on the counter and left them alone.

  Matt slid off the stool, unable to sit still under Lawson’s scrutiny, and went into the kitchen to rinse out the empty beer bottles. There were drawers for recycling and trash. He dumped the bottle in the appropriate one and closed it, a little too hard. The thing caught and stopped before shutting the rest of the way. Smoothly. Soundlessly. Matt frowned at the cabinet.

  “Hey, I think this is—” He turned to find Lawson standing behind him. “Broken.”

  Back against the counter, he had nowhere to go.

  “Shh. You’re fine.” Lawson passed a soothing hand down Matt’s arm.

  Matt nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Lawson retreated to the living room where he began lifting couch cushions onto the coffee table.

  Matt, following in time to see him pull out a sofa bed, stumbled to a halt. “Oh!”

  In the act of smoothing out what appeared to be a never-used mattress, Lawson turned his head sideways. “What is it?”

  “I just.” Matt’s gaze found the floor.

  Lawson straightened. Folded his arms over his chest. “Just what?”