Chapter 2

Shouldering his leather duffel, he shoved his wallet inside, making his way to the door of the seedy hotel room, where his driver waited. The man held out a wig and sunglasses. He donned both, looking left to right, then skulked toward the service exit. Outside, the place was pretty quiet for a Friday night. If this had been a motel in L.A., at least two photographers would have lurked by the back and another six out front after he’d checked in. He breathed deep, exhaling slowly while the driver opened the passenger door to the limo.

On the drive to The Asylum, he took in Anniston Falls’ small shopping district with its comic book store, a ‘glitzy’ clothing place with its half-lit sign, and an MMA dojo that appeared to be the best-kept building on the street. The city was kind of a shit hole, graffiti scarring buildings with shattered windows the further they got from the center of town. They bumped over some railroad tracks and passed a boarded-up gas station before pulling up to a high, smooth metal gate that had, of all things, electrified spikes along the top.

Jamie frowned at the fortress-like structure, leaning forward. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“It’s the address Jacks texted.” Reaching out the window, the driver pressed a button.

A tinny voice came over the speaker. “Mr. Kent is allowed entry. You’ll have to leave him there and drive on, sir.”

He wasn’t really surprised. Jackson had said the club had tight security and apparently he hadn’t been kidding.

When the driver met his gaze in the mirror, Jamie nodded. “It’s all right.”

Leaving the wig and glasses on the seat, he grabbed his leather duffel and shouldered out of the vehicle. A small door in the side of the gate clicked open and he walked through. Electric buzzing preceded its closing behind him. The parking lot was relatively empty except for three motorcycles and a black hearse. Jamie worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

Is there...some kind of wake going on?

Not that his timing could be helped. Still, he slowed his pace, as he peered up at the four-story brick warehouse with high, arched windows. The lower ones, as well as the sturdy front door, were made of frosted glass likely meant to let in light but keep out prying eyes. Not that many nosy people could peer inside without an invite, given the fencing. The place was so locked down, AK-47 toting guards flanking the front door wouldn’t be out of place.

According to Jackson, Fridays were one of The Asylum’s busiest nights. Members converged for no-holds-barred fights in a regulation ring, or to chill in the downstairs bar. Some scened in a space on the second floor that Jamie imagined would have black walls and lots of uncomfortable-looking metal racks.

Whatever. As long as my bed doesn’t have spikes, I don’t fucking care.

Looked like Jacks hadn’t gotten here yet, though. His buddy had told him the bar normally got going around seven-thirty, but to get there early so he could talk to the owners, Lawson and Curtis, and one other dude whose name he couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter anyway, because apparently the man was in prison for killing someone.

“Nice place.” Digging in his bag, he found his phone to check the time. Six p.m. Not too early. Not too late.

This whole intro would be a lot less awkward if Jacks had been on time, but standing outside after being let past the gates wasn’t much better. He sighed, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, then let his heavy boots carry him to the front door.

Locked.

He looked up at a security camera and the door buzzed.

Inside, tables, both low and high, were scattered around a large room divided only by rough-hewn columns. The space to the right had a couple pool tables with dartboards on the wall beyond. Black and white photographs, close-ups of men in leather or nothing at all, erotic but not obscene, adorned spaces between the windows. Darker patches above the bar said that something had hung there for a long time, but for whatever reason hadn’t been replaced after being taken down. Like a painful memory still too fresh to let fade away.

The bar itself was a beautiful piece. All brass and glistening wood, probably from some high-end auction, installed when the owners built the place. Cigar smoke, lemon polish, and something sweet tickled his nose. Overall, a decent setup. And not L.A.

Thank fuck.

A guy about his height, light-brown hair neatly-styled, glasses, and a quiet demeanor looked up, pausing while slicing some lemons. Mentally counting to ten, Jamie only got to three before recognition widened the man’s eyes and dropped his jaw.

He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair, then crossed to the bar. “Hi.” He dropped his bag onto the stool closest to some stairs. “I’m Jamie. Is Curtis or Lawson around?”

The guy nodded toward a door, then smiled, giving him an apologetic shrug.

Can’t the guy talk?

He felt weird as fuck being here without Jacks, nobody else here. “Um. Do you think you could get them for me?”

Lowering his head, the slender bartender...barback...strangest dude ever...continued slicing fruit like his fucking life depended on it, his hand briefly going to a flimsy strip of twine around his neck. The once-white packing string, black in places, gray in others, and frayed at the edges, was framed by the collar of a crisp white shirt with two buttons undone. The man’s outfit made him look a bit like he could be a young teacher’s aid with the light blue, crew neck sweater and dark jeans. Only thing missing was a tie.

The ticking of the metal clock over the bar filled the space along with the rhythmic chop-chop of the knife. Jamie wandered to the pool table, then across the room to a door covered in green leather that looked like it belonged to Harry Houdini. A set of double doors was padlocked shut and testing a third door proved it to be locked just as tightly.

“Weirdest fucking shit ever.” Muttering, he paced in a circle around the room until the sound of liquid hitting a glass brought his head around.

The guy behind the bar slid a beer toward him, one side of his mouth kicking up, a deep-as-fuck dimple showing on his pale cheek.

Relief poured over Jamie and he nodded his thanks. Sliding onto the stool at the end of the bar, he polished off half the pint in three swallows. “You’re fucking awesome, dude.”

The guy’s eyes widened, and he shook his head, pointing to Jamie’s collar. Hand going to the leather, Jamie furrowed his brow.

Am I underdressed?

Giving the guy a weak smile, he took another sip and caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The wig had kinda flattened his spikes. He used his fingers to make them stand straighter, then reached over to snag a maraschino cherry from the garnish well. Popping the whole thing in his mouth, he ate the cherry, toying with the stem until he brought the loop around his tongue and tied it in a knot. The bar dude watched him with curious eyes.

Jamie grinned and stuck out his tongue, the tied stem on display.

Brown eyes flashing with humor, the guy handed him another cherry.

Repeating the trick, Jamie did his best to explain how he pulled it off, muddling his words with the effort. “You hafta geh ih aroun the tih.”

He showed off the half-tied stem.

The guy shook his head and made him do it again, before trying it himself. Jamie laughed as cherry reddened lips worked in kissing motions while the man dragged the stem around the inside of his mouth. Music in the bar clicked on, a rough Nickelback song from a few years back. The atmosphere changed with the tune, and he sank into the moment, enjoying the grit.

“No.” He laughed again, a little tipsy on the beer he’d finished. “You have to fold it around.”

Shifting forward, he brought his face close to the other guy’s, mouth open. Brown eyes dipping, the dude leaned in to watch, close enough that Jamie could feel the little puffs of his breath on his nose.

“You have to totally fuck it. See?” He stuck out his tongue, then swapped the stem for another cherry.

And nearly jumped three feet in the air when a hand landed on the bar next to him, a stranger’s voice growling in his ear. “Who the fuck are you?”

He inhaled, his Jesus fucking Christ on his lips, and belatedly remembered the cherry. Which went sailing down his windpipe like it had only ever existed for one purpose. To choke him to fucking death. Hands to his throat, he gagged until his eyes watered. The thing snagged in his windpipe. Black spotted his vision.

Arms wrapped around him. A fist against his solar plexus. Light flashed behind his lids with a bone-crushing jerk. His beer and the cherry sailed over the bar. Another whack between his shoulder blades cleared his throat completely before giant hands whirled him around. Slammed him against the counter edge.