Chapter 8

Blowing out a breath, he realized that Noah’s handprints were all over his ass. The crowd around the table hemmed him in. Like the time security had failed in Chicago and twenty-nine screaming fans rushed the stage. He had escaped with a broken wrist after his clothes had been torn to shreds.

“Shit.” Breathing hard, he broke out in a sweat, looking around for his escape.

He hooked a thumb in the waistband of his briefs, sliding them down and off without standing. Knees drawn to his chest, he kept his junk hidden.

One member held up a phone. Jamie ducked his head toward his knees, using reflexes honed over the last eight-and-a-half years. A blur knocked the phone away. The black case landed in the middle of the table.

Noah fisted the guy’s shirt, dragging him out of the press of bodies surrounding them, then shoved him toward the exit. “Don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome.”

Absolute silence reigned when Noah returned to the table, parting the crowd like fucking Charlton Heston in leather pants.

Entire bottom lip between his teeth, Wren lowered his head, keeping his eyes down. Jamie had a feeling he should follow suit, but he couldn’t look away from the oncoming car crash.

Expecting Noah to drag his sorry ass from the chair, he frowned when the man simply crossed his arms over his chest and issued a two-word command. “Finish it.”

Wren’s win took three more hands, during which Jamie sat at the table, a sea of unfamiliar faces surrounding him. Men gawked at his exposed skin, his discarded nipple rings on the baize, talking about how thin he was, how plump his ass looked in comparison. They picked him apart like a kinky version of red carpet commentary, whispering about the quality of the ‘grenade with exploding flowers’ tat on his right shoulder.

Whatever they saw, whatever they thought now or after the news hit tomorrow...

I’m not for fucking sale.

Noah crooked his finger at someone. A guy about his age loped over with a mobile credit card machine in his hand. Money zipped in the form of ones and zeroes from his, Mike, and Linc’s cards, into a holding account where Wren would be able to collect it later.

“Thanks, Reed.” Only Linc spoke, handing over his card.

“All right, we’re done here.” Noah looked around at the crowd and everyone scattered, back to the ring and up to the dungeon.

Not a single person other than Reed, the one who’d cleared the tables earlier, remained. It was like someone had screamed ‘Incoming!’ except no one made a sound. At all. Which was scarier than any fucking thing Jamie had encountered in The Asylum so far.

Focus on Wren, Noah sat. Steepled his fingers, elbows on the table, his tone mild. “Was there something unclear about ‘no gambling’?”

Jamie breathed in, sharp.

Shit, shit, shit.

“I didn’t realize we were going to play for money until it was—” Wren broke off the sentence, closing his eyes. “No, sir.”

“Jamie, go upstairs. Don’t come back down until I tell you.” Noah issued the order without looking at him.

“It was my idea.” He at least had to try to save Wren.

A cold smile flirted with Noah’s mouth as he finally looked Jamie’s way. “I know.”

Beer curdling in his stomach, Jamie stood, reaching for his clothes.

Noah’s fingers curled around his wrist, jerking him to a halt. “Leave them.”

Lips parted, he blinked repeatedly, a refusal on his tongue. Noah’s fingers tightened hard enough to bruise. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jamie inhaled through his teeth. Noah released him only after a “Yes, sir,” tripped off his tongue.

Head down, hands over his junk, he somehow made his way through the empty bar, up the stairs, past the closed dungeon door, to the fourth floor. He tried not to think about what would happen to Wren, whose name painted him as far more delicate than Jamie hoped he really was.

Stumbling to a stop before the bed, he laughed. At least he wouldn’t have to undress.

He slid between the sheets, leaving the light on. A habit he’d begun in his teens when shows took him to several different cities a week. He’d woken up in a cold sweat nine times out of ten, disoriented and shaking.

The covers were smooth against his naked skin as he curled on his side, knees to his chest. His second-to-last thought before drifting off was that he hoped no one here got the early morning papers. Wren and Noah consumed the remainder of his conscious musings.

I really fucking hope he didn’t discover bamboo shoots.

Waking up the next morning, alone, was a surprise, because he couldn’t remember where he was and somehow he’d been sure this room was Noah’s. The lights were still on, and the smell of coffee hit his back brain before his front was completely awake.

He stumbled out of bed into the bathroom and took a leak before splashing cold water on his face. After finding his duffel, he dressed, doing his best not to think about the wreckage of his life. About losing everything he’d known. Everyone he’d thought he’d loved.

Tried to just stay fucking numb.

Crossing into the main living space, he slowed to a halt. Noah, shirtless, back to him, stood over the gas range, flipping pancakes and sipping coffee. Jamie stared, drinking in muscles he didn’t know existed on the human anatomical map. Skin gathered in scars over that rippling topography in a way that would give any makeup artist waking nightmares to cover. Puckered lines and thin stripes warred, telling a story Jamie bet very few people knew—one he found himself wanting to explore with his fingers and tongue.

Unsure if he was allowed to speak, he sidled up to the counter and cleared his throat. When Noah didn’t turn, he scowled.

Fuck it.