Hard Justice (The Asylum Fight Club Book 3)

The pout’s perfect, but I need a better rear view.

Jamie Kent twisted side to side, but only got the top curve of his ass in the reflection. Up on his toes, he tried to see over the chipped hotel vanity. Still no good, damn it. Back home in L.A. his walk-in closet mirror let him see everything—good and bad, so the latter could be eliminated—but the sickly yellow glow of the single bulb over the skeezy hotel bathroom mirror gave him nothing to work with. He needed proper lighting, an outfit fresh off a Milan catwalk, and a way to give himself a critical once over before some asshole paparazzi beat him to it.

Climbing up on the edge of the tub worked better, except socked feet and porcelain heights weren’t the brightest mix. A slip sent flashes of headlines reeling through his mind, all revolving on how he’d broken his neck and why. The tragic loss of the ‘Darling of Pop Music’ to a fashion faux pas.

Not today, Satan.

He jumped off, landing with a bit of flair, then executed a tap-dance move he’d been copying from old black and white movies since before he could even walk. Shoving on boots with a few inches lift, he gave inspecting his outfit another shot from the floor. Better. The leather pants cupped each high, round globe in buttery smooth black that didn’t leave much to the imagination. He popped his hip left, then right.

Yeah, this merch is not for sale.

At least not tonight.

His buddy Jackson ‘Jacks’ Turner, an ex-model who could’ve helped him with his wardrobe given a little more time—too bad public downfalls didn’t come with prior notice—had said to “Blend.” Every gay leather skin flick Jamie’d ever seen had lots of, well, skin and leather. The collar, not so much, but that came with the rest, and the outfit seemed off without it.

Trailing two fingers along the black length of leather around his throat, he checked the tightness. Swallowing hard made him a little dizzy, but not in a bad way. He dug the whole getup, but figuring out the ‘look’ without a team to work with had been tricky. Still, he’d pulled it off. The right amount of edge, with a hint of innocence that said there was still something left to corrupt.

Black-painted thumbnail flashing, he leaned in with gloss to slick over his lips, then moved on to touch up around his eyes. Definitely his best asset—directors and journalists dug the added edge when he did himself up like this.

‘Impossibly thick lashes frame painfully green eyes, delicately tilted at the corners. Jamie Kent is every teenage girl’s dream.’

After that article, he’d started wearing black liner, which had his manager ready to kill him until the slight appearance update landed him a couple gritty film roles. Then controversial headlines had albums flying off the shelves, leading to more money for them both. Even his defiance was marketable.

Past tense.

For close to a decade, fans and critics had been cataloging every aspect of his body and voice like some kind of boy band grocery list. Lithe muscles, check. Knowing smile, check. Large eyes teen girls loved to squeal over, double check. But he was too short, had a tapered chin that would never grace the poster of an action flick, and any bout of nerves had him coming off arrogant as fuck.

Or at least that’s what his manager said…

When I still had a manager.

Scowling, he snapped up a bit of gel with a light, beachy scent, squeezing a quarter-sized glob into his palm to work into bleached strands. The perfect just-climbed-out-of-bed-after-a-decadent-fuck look with soft little tuffs coming off almost effortless. He rinsed off his sticky hands as he ran a critical eye over his leather harness. Not his favorite part of the getup, but at least the straps showed off his faux nipple piercings. 24-carat. The only real thing in this entire charade.

He checked the time on his phone as his limo-driver-come-body-guard knocked. Grabbing his wallet from the bathroom counter, he looked for a place to put it, but nothing on him had pockets. He took out his driver’s license and a credit card, stuffing them down his pants, where they immediately slipped down to rest against his junk. Adjusting only got them sliding lower. Shaving his pubes had been a fucking stupid idea. Who cared whether he manscaped or not? Like hell would he be taking off his pants tonight. He pulled the cards out and shoved them back in his wallet before checking his bills. He needed money. Enough to stay completely hammered and survive the next week.

Maybe longer.

The hideout Jackson had told him about was at an exclusive club called The Asylum. A place that prioritized the privacy of the members above all else. Jacks had even said they might put him up if the owners liked him. At this point, they could pierce his taint to prove he’d be a good fit if it meant escaping the paparazzi once the story of Glam Grenade's breakup—and the reasons why—hit the press.