Hard Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 3 Read online

  Copyright © October 2019, Bianca Sommerland & Tibby Armstrong

  All Rights Reserved

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  Cover by I’m No Angel Designs

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  License Notes:

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, actions and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact or recommendation of the activities herein. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, in any manner by any method, existing or not yet envisioned, without the written permission of the author.

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  WARNING:

  This book contains adult language and themes. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws in the country of purchase. Store books and secure devices where they cannot be accessed by under-age readers.

  Hard Justice

  The Asylum Fight Club Book 3

  Bianca Sommerland

  Tibby Armstrong

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About Bianca Sommerland

  About Tibby Armstrong

  Cold Justice Excerpt

  Chapter One

  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.

  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.

  “Damn it, boy!” A dark-haired man, granite eyes flashing a serious version of freaked-out fury, bore do
wn 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?”