Page 10 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

When I open my eyes next, the room is bright, the red glow gone, and every fucking inch of me feels so used that I don’t know where I begin or where I end.

“Sebastian.”

I blink again as my eyes adjust to the light. My throat feels dry. “Jackson?”

Then he’s there, raising me up carefully, cradling me against his body, an open bottle of water pressed to my lips. “Drink,” he says. “You gave me a fucking heart attack.”

Without thought, I obey, sipping at the cool, refreshing liquid, before raising my hand to wipe my mouth. “What happened?” I ask, a strange and elusive lightheadedness still clouding my thoughts.

“More,” he commands, without answering my question.

Again, I drink. Each small sip revitalizing me. I sigh and lick my lips when a third of the bottle is gone.

Jackson tosses the still mostly full bottle off the bed. No shits given. “How do you feel?” he asks, his brilliant baby blues searching mine.

I shrug in his arms. “I guess … dizzy. Not all here yet,” I answer. “I feel light and heavy at the same time. It’s bizarre.”

“You had some kind of fucking seizure,” says Jackson, worry etched on his features. “You came like a fucking firehose, bucking and gagging all at once. Then you went all fucking rag doll on me. You just collapsed, floppy as shit, like a broken doll. I called the fucking ambulance. They’re on the way.”

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, laying my palm against my forehead. “What the fuck? I’m in perfect health.”

“Apparently not,” says Jackson, brushing my black locks from my eyes.

Swallowing against the pain in my throat, I smile weakly. “I really wish you hadn’t called the ambulance.

And then the Dungeon Master is back, his unmistakable brand of authority and dominance fills the room. “We take no chances here, love. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill subspace zone-out. Something’s wrong, and I won’t have any patron of The Dungeon not properly cared for, especially my damn boyfriend.”

A chuckle bubbles out of me as I reach up to touch his face. “You called me your boyfriend,” I tease.

“Watch it, brat,” says Jackon, humor lightening his tone. “I’m still your damn master. Don’t fuck with me.”

I almost laugh at that, at the playfulness hidden behind my Jack’s brutish exterior. But then the door to our private room bursts open and a team of trained paramedics storm in, swarming me like crazed ants fighting over a sugar-glazed donut.

Chapter Eleven

Jackson

The paramedics bundle my brand-new boyfriend onto a gurney and wheel him through the emergency exit and out into the alleyway behind The Dungeon where the ambulance is parked.

“I’ll follow you,” I say, squeezing his hand, before they wheel him away. Better safe than sorry. I quickly wash up, before collecting Seb’s clothes and phone from my office where my cleaner so thoughtfully put them—having found them discarded by the Saint Andew’s Cross earlier—I pop them into my black leather satchel and sling the bag over my body.

Picking up my phone, I hit the speed dial for my assistant manager. “Hey, Darren. Yeah, sorry to interrupt you. But I need you to come in now. We’ve had a code red here, and I need to follow a patron to the hospital. Can you make it in? Thanks, man. I owe you one. I’ll text you later. Okay. Bye.” Slipping my phone into my bag, I grab a bottle of water on my way out and slam it down, tucking my motorcycle helmet under my arm as I go.

I stroll through The Dungeon’s lounge, and jog down the stairs to the bar. “Hey, Juliet,” I call. “I’m heading out. I’m going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. I called Daz, he’ll be in shortly. You think you got everything under control?”

Juliet nods. “We’re good, boss. Nothing’s going down between your bouncers and the security team.”

That’s true. I don’t imagine there’s anything those boys couldn’t handle. I hired the best. “All right then, Juliet. I don’t know if I’ll be back in tonight, so if not, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No problems, Jack. I hope Mr. Crenshaw’s okay.”

“Me too,” I say, before disappearing out the back of the club. Two minutes later I’ve got my helmet on, and I’m revving my Harley. Tearing out of my personal garage at the club, and out onto the main road, traffic is light. It always is in the city. Most rely on public transport or catch taxis or Ubers. No one wants to drive when they’re coming into social central to get smashed and either fuck or dance the night away.

The multicolored and neon lights around me flash by as I weave my way between traffic. God, I love my bike. Nothing is as freeing as straddling a steel horse and blazing off wherever the fuck you desire. Outside of managing The Dungeon, it’s what I live for. I’m a one-percenter without a club or chapter, what most in the culture refer to as a Nomad or a Lone Wolf. I’m not down for being bound to others when I have my own goals and ambitions, and notions about how I want to live my damn life. I’m no one’s bitch.

For the most part, I’m left in peace. Patched members make up a fair few of my most loyal patrons, and those guys would defend me and my establishment if push came to shove. Especially as I deal from my club. No one outside the specific clientele I sell to would know that I make the best crystal meth in the city. It’s pure as fuck, and my product ends up all over the nation. Transported in bulk by a select few—men I can trust not to rat me out and bring down the club.

Pulling into the hospital, I park my bike, pay for a damn ticket, and head inside. Approaching the administration desk, I remove my helmet and tuck it under my arm. “Hi. I’m looking for Sebastian Crenshaw. He was admitted not long ago. The ambulance picked him up from my club. I’m a friend.”

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