Chapter 3

“Damn it, boy!” A dark-haired man, granite eyes flashing a serious version of freaked-out fury, bore down on him. “What the hell were you doing?”

Jamie coughed, then laughed. The whole situation was absurd. Too goddamn funny for some fucked up reason.

Oh shit…

I almost died.

Imagine the headlines that would’ve inspired. The best one could be framed and fill one of those empty spots on the wall. His version of a ham sandwich, to make Mama Cass’s ghost proud.

“He was teaching me how to tie a cherry stem with his tongue, sir.” The guy behind the bar spoke, shocking Jamie out of his hysterics.

He blinked at the dude. “You can talk?”

“Wren, go find Lawson and Curtis.” The man who’d saved his life jerked his chin toward the other side of the room where all those locked doors were. “Let them know I’m here.”

“Yes, sir.” Eyes down, the bartender rounded the bar, palming a ring of keys to unlock a door leading to a set of stairs.

When the door closed behind him, Jamie shook his head, coming down from the adrenaline high. He hiccupped, gaze locked on the beer foam spreading over the gleaming bartop.

Not dying is fucking messy.

“Sorry, I should clean this up.”

Before he could move, the giant hemmed him in, arms on either side, hands braced on the bar. Looming over Jamie, filling his senses with the scent of leather and clean, cold air.

“Answer my question, sub.”

Had there been a question? Jamie came up with nothing, but his lips quirked. “Forty-two?”

Jaw working, the man took a measured breath. “Who. Brought. You?”

“Oh!” That he could answer. “My limo driver.”

“Your—” The man pushed away from the bar and stood back, gaze sweeping him from head to toe.

Jamie returned the favor. The man was fucking huge. Muscular thighs encased in road-scarred motorcycle leathers put Jamie’s ‘play’ clothes to shame. A jacket, still zipped, and a helmet on a nearby table, said he’d ridden here, probably just arrived. The man’s body was seriously dope, but his face? A fucking wet dream. Brown curls, a little wild, offset heavy brows and those light gray eyes. Chin, mouth, nose were a study in beautiful cruelty.

“Whose guest are you?” The man asked another question Jamie could answer.

“Jacks’. But he’s…” Frowning, Jamie looked to the bar clock. “Probably still at work with that fucking miserable boss of his.”

The man leaned in. “You kiss your Master with that mouth, boy?”

Boy? Master?

Those terms were used in some of the porn he’d watched. Swiping the point of his tongue at the corner of his mouth, he searched for the right answer. “I’m, uh...sorry, sir? I’ve never kissed Jackson.”

The look crossing the man’s face was pure confusion, followed by a dead calm belied only by the vein at his temple that didn’t give Jamie any comfort. “Are you his submissive? Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m his…” He searched for a word that wouldn’t make the guy have an aneurysm. “Friend. We met at an L.A. fashion show about six years ago.”

He didn’t bother to introduce himself. If the dude didn’t recognize him, all the better. Jamie wouldn’t clue him in. Last thing he wanted before he made sure this place wasn’t in fact the fucking insane asylum was to advertise his identity.

Belatedly, he tacked on what seemed like the customary greeting around this place. “Are you a submissive?”

The man laughed, which was a relief. Shaking his head like he’d heard something adorable, he grabbed a chair by the back and swung it over the bar to deposit it on the other side. “Have a seat.”

Jamie looked from the man to the bar and back. He wasn’t sure, but that looked kinda like a naughty chair. “Thanks. I’m good here.”

“Sit.” Pointing at the seat, the guy kept his eyes fixed on him even when the bar door opened and three men came in on the bartender’s heels. “Or leave. Your choice.”

Not really a choice at all, because beyond The Asylum’s walls was a world of trouble he didn’t know how to handle. At least the crazy in here had a face…

And probably a name.

“Okay...” Moving gingerly—his ribs fucking hurt—Jamie went to the chair and sat.

“Don’t say a word, don’t move, until Jackson comes to fetch you.” The man pinned him with a hard look before he turned toward the three men who’d halted at the end of the bar.

Two lighter haired, one dark, all taller and more muscular than him, they looked—gaze skipping over their faces, Jamie took in their expressions—absolutely horrified, pissed, and intrigued. The last, he knew how to work with. The other two? Well, he’d talked himself out of and into worse places. They all went off to some other room to ‘talk’ and Jamie sighed. This was not going as well as he’d hoped.

Wren cast him a sympathetic look as he passed him behind the bar and began mopping up the mess from Jamie’s near-death experience.

As the man tossed the bar rags into a dirty pile and reached for a tray, Jamie tried to get the info he needed to start figuring this place out. “Dude, are you not allowed to talk to me or something?”

Bending to wash his hands, Wren looked over his shoulder and smiled, pointing to the string around his neck when he straightened. That fucking gorgeous dimple popped to life, making it impossible not to smile back. Coming closer, Wren pointed to Jamie’s neck, then to his own again.

“Oh, my collar?” Jamie lifted his fingers to the band of leather. “I got it online.”

That got Wren biting his lip, then shaking his head. Casting a quick look toward the room where the other men had disappeared, he quickly reached out and unbuckled the collar and harness, drawing both away, leaving Jamie feeling a bit naked.

Shoulders hunched, he brought his knees to his chest, feet on the seat.

Fisting the leather, Wren pointed to a bin under the bar.

Jamie nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

After disappearing around the other side of the bar, Wren returned. He placed Jamie’s bag on his lap.

“Dude. You’re awesome. Thanks.” He could’ve gotten the thing himself, but no point in pissing anyone off more than he already had by moving.

Bag unzipped on the bar, he dug inside, choosing a dark green T-shirt with a Gothic design woven in gold and pulled it over his head. A pair of underwear and some strategically ripped jeans tempting him, he cast Wren a look. When the man turned to give him some privacy, Jamie yanked off his boots, then lifted his hips to peel off his leather trousers. Worked himself into his white briefs without standing.

A door opened and he froze. Wren’s horrified look over his shoulder, with his ‘hurry up’ motion, sprang Jamie into action. Standing, he jammed his legs into the denim, tripping a little as the guy who’d put him in what, from Wren’s expression, had been an adult version of time-out, came around the corner. Guilt nagged at him as he plunked hard into the seat, clothes and boots scattered around him on the floor.

The man cut him a hard look, but before Jamie could speak, Wren pointed at him, shook his head, then pointed to himself.

Nodding once, the man crooked his finger, motioning to the spot in front of him.

Eyes downcast, Wren went to the man, who hooked a thumb and forefinger in another signal. Jamie watched, rapt, as Wren bent at the waist, hands on the bar. The man undid and lowered Wren’s jeans, revealing the pale swell of his ass.

Oh shit.

Before the first smack landed, Jamie shot up, latching onto the man’s wrist over the bar.

No way was Wren taking the fall for what he’d done.