Against the Rules

by A. R. Barley

  Time to go rescue Prince Charming.

  The Roadhouse was thirty minutes away.

  Fifteen if he hurried and didn’t hit any speed traps.

  But first, they needed to stop at his apartment for some equipment.

  Kelly had been to the Roadhouse twice before, once as a kid to meet one of his father’s friends to go fishing and then again after his father’s accident on the dead man’s curve between the bar and town. The owner had promised to throw a wake, but between the bikers out front and the hookers doing business in the back, Kelly had only stayed twenty minutes.

  The place was smaller than he remembered. The floors were black and covered in something sticky. Most of the patrons looked like they hadn’t seen the inside of a shower in a week.

  Kelly sat at the bar and ordered a beer. “With a whiskey chaser.”

  The bartender frowned. “Gonna need to see your cash, kid.”

  He handed over a twenty. “That cover it?”

  “And the next round.” He got out a bottle of Budweiser and followed it with a shot of no-name whiskey. He took the twenty and made change, placing the slightly soggy bills on the counter.

  Perfect. Kelly tossed the whiskey back—biting back a curse when the cheap alcohol burned its way down his throat—then picked up the beer and took a swig. He turned slightly on his seat to watch the crowd. Some of the men were playing pool in the far corner. Others were gathered around an old jukebox. Most of them were drinking and more than a few were giving him the eye. Like predators who’d just spotted something cute and fuzzy.

  Bastards. He took another long pull on his beer. Had they been here the night his father died? Would they answer him if he asked? Or, would they just give him the beating he’d asked for by walking through the door?

  Metal squeaked as a wiry man sat down beside him. Hair slicked back under a red bandana, hands dark with grease, the guy had half a dozen tattoos that Kelly could count, including an eerily detailed profile of a raven in flight peeking out from behind one ear.

  “Come here often?” Kelly asked.

  “More than you.” He stared straight ahead, bowed lips barely moving as he spoke. “You got a name, blondie?”

  A familiar burst of adrenaline surged through Kelly’s veins. He hadn’t come to the Roadhouse looking for a hookup, but maybe if he said yes...maybe if he smiled and flirted and told this stranger all the things he wanted to hear...maybe then he could forget...

  Except, that would mean cheating on Ian and turning his back on the one good thing in his life.

  He’d rather gouge out his own eyes.

  Coming to the bar had been a mistake. He’d known that as soon as he walked through the door, but now he could feel it in his bones. He pocketed his change—leaving a tip on the counter—and stood to go without finishing his beer.

  The crowd near the door thickened, coalescing like a dark cloud on the horizon. They formed a wall of leather vests and evil looks. One man pursed his lips, sending air kisses in Kelly’s direction, and another spat his toothpick onto the ground.

  Kelly bit his lip and checked for other exits. There weren’t any. He pulled out his cell phone. The damn thing was out of battery.

  Hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sauntering into the Roadhouse, Ian didn’t need to search for Kelly. Not with the crowd gathered three deep around a patch of blond hair and bad attitude plastered against the bar.

  Fuck.

  For a moment Ian was sent reeling back in time to another bar where men didn’t just wear leather because they rode a motorcycle. It had been an off night, Ian hadn’t made any plans, but he’d gone to his favorite club looking for a cold drink and a hot scene with his favorite sub. Then he’d walked in and seen David on his knees, blindfolded, surrounded by a dozen other men.

  “Get away,” Ian had said.

  “Don’t worry.” Lou—a dominant Ian had shared scenes with in the past—laughed. “You can have him when we’re done.”

  Ian had held on to his hope that David would use his safe word, but it had never come. Instead, his slim shoulders had bent under the force of blows from Lou’s paddle, and he’d gasped and groaned as multiple hands stroked him from every direction.

  “David!” He’d needed to shout to be heard over the excitement of the crowd. “Stop it. Let’s get out of here.”

  And David had turned his blindfolded head toward him and laughed.

  Ian forced himself to take a deep breath. His hands curled into fists. This wasn’t the same kind of situation. Whatever Kelly had been thinking when he walked through the bar’s front door, this wasn’t what he wanted.

  Nick was clearing a path to one side—moving fast—but Ian couldn’t wait. “Get out of my way.” He elbowed a guy in the side and kneed another in the guts.

  An oversized man with barbed wire tattooed up and down his arm was reaching out to touch Kelly. Like hell. Ian lunged forward to slap him away. No one was going to put a hand on his boy.

  They didn’t have permission.

  “Step off,” Mr. Barbed Wire snarled. “We found him first.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Ian gave another shove so he was standing squarely in front of the bar. “He’s mine.”

  Kelly’s cheeks were pale, but otherwise his outward calm was intact. A stranger would have thought he was ice cold. But anyone who’d spent enough time with him would recognize the tension in his muscles and the panic in his piercing blue eyes.

  When Kelly saw Ian, his mouth dropped open. His eyes widened in surprise. It was like he was looking at the promised land for the first time and seeing his salvation. He swallowed hard. “Sorry, boys, but this is my ride.”

  “You’re not leaving,” the Barbed Wire Bandit sneered, “and neither is he.”

  The threat was obvious, especially as other bodies started pressing in closer, crowding Ian from every direction. He reached around to his back pocket, fingers wrapping tight around the leather-wrapped tool he’d picked up on the way to the bar. “You’re going to want to rethink that.”

  “You’re going to need an army.”

  “He’s got me.” Nick finally made it through the crowd like a siege engine breaking through the walls of a medieval castle. He hadn’t broken a sweat, but that hadn’t stopped him from leaving a trail of panic and ruin in his path. Ian spotted at least three men doubled over and another who was crying and cradling his arm.

  A redheaded man in a black vest with patches on the front leaped onto Nick’s back. What happened next was graceful and automatic. Nick didn’t even have to think as his entire body shuddered, twisted, and the man ended up sprawled on the floor in front of him. A second attacker got a smooth uppercut to the jaw and then everything quieted down in that corner of the room.

  Damn, Ian was glad the six-foot-six bouncer and all-around badass was on his side. He wouldn’t want to face Nick in a fight.

  Barbed Wire blinked in respect, but Nick was still a good ten feet away. His lips pulled up into a cold sneer, like he knew exactly how much damage he could do while reinforcements were crossing the gap. His meaty paws curled into fists.

  Ian let him take the first shot. It was a solid punch to the gut that knocked his breath out of him. Then he moved forward. He didn’t fight with the same easy grace and familiarity Nick had used to put his opponents on the ground, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hold his own. His hands lifted quickly into position—there wasn’t enough space to bring his whip into play anyway—and he delivered a quick jab to the gut followed by an uppercut to the jaw that had his opponent gasping for air.

  Asshole.

  Barbed Wire tried to take another shot, but Ian caught his hand midpunch. Strong fingers caught the pressure point on his wrist. The move was one he’d learned in his earliest training session in a club in
Chicago. It was supposed to be used to make a sub writhe in excitement, but it wasn’t the first time he’d used it in a fight.

  Barbed Wire let out a yelp of pain. Good. It was no more than he deserved.

  “I told you...” Ian growled. “He’s mine.”

  A new attacker came in on Ian’s left side, too fast for him to react. He held his breath, bracing himself for impact. “Fuck off.” Kelly stepped forward to intercept the attacker. His punches were loose and wobbly, but he had good speed and he knew enough to protect his face. One. Two. The blows flew before Nick managed to grab the attacker from behind and haul him back into the crowd.

  “Enough.” The motor-oil-coated pile of humanity on the barstool next to Kelly straightened and turned around. The oil covered the man’s fingers and stained his clothes, mixing with the dark ink of his tattoos. A crooked scar ran across his cheek, but otherwise his nose was straight and there was a decided lack of scar tissue around his hazel eyes.

  Either he wasn’t a fighter or he always won.

  It didn’t matter; he still sent a shiver down Ian’s spine. He didn’t have Nick’s height or mass, but something about the sinuous way his muscles moved underneath his golden skin was like a wildcat stretching in the sunlight.

  The stranger reached out and thumped Kelly hard on the shoulder, like they were two old friends waiting for the next round of beers together. “You never told me your name, blondie,” he said with a slight Latin accent. “Tell me. Now.”

  “Kelly. Kelly O’Connor.”

  “Nice name.” He stepped forward and the crowd moved like a liquid entity, flowing out of the way to make room for him. His gaze lifted slightly, sweeping from Nick to Ian and back again. “These your friends?”

  “Yes,” Kelly said quietly.

  He nodded slowly, the action drawing attention to the tattoo tucked onto the back of his neck. A death raven. “You wandered into the wrong bar, Kelly. You and your friends.” His voice was low but clear. “There are other bars in town. You’ll stick to them from now on.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Ian’s hands fell to his sides, so their new “friend” could see he wasn’t a threat. He took a half step backward. “We’re not looking for trouble. We just want to leave, peacefully.”

  “There’s a nightclub on the other side of town,” their new friend continued nonchalantly, like they’d just stepped in for a cup of tea. “Over near all the pretty houses, entiendes. Ale Mary’s.”

  “You don’t say?” Nick shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, hands curling into tight fists.

  The man—their rescuer?—flashed his teeth. “No offense, Moretti. It’s a nice place. You’re doing good things there.” He took another step forward and the crowd moved again. “The margaritas are quite tasty.”

  Like Moses parting the Red Sea, he continued walking, leading them toward the promised land that was the door to the parking lot.

  Ian held out a hand, nudging Kelly in front of him. He couldn’t hold his hand in this crowd—not unless he wanted to start a riot—but there was no way he was going to let his boyfriend bring up the rear.

  The entire bar was quiet. The only sound came from the rattle of bottles behind the bar.

  They were less than ten feet away from the bar when a spectator snorted. “Fuck you, Victor. You think you’re all high and mighty.”

  Crunch. Glass broke somewhere in the distance. A bottle shattering against table? Ian didn’t know and he didn’t care. Kelly was still alive—still standing. That was the only thing that mattered. He wasn’t about to let one of these assholes touch him.

  Not if he could help it.

  He spun in one easy motion, slipping the big bullwhip from his back pocket and striking a firm stance. One hand went up in a practiced motion and then came down again.

  Crack.

  The whip was made out of smooth braided leather. The cracker attached to the end of the whip moved faster than the speed of sound, creating a sonic boom. In the confines of the bar it was louder than a gun.

  Ian pulled back and sent a second strike, aiming this time.

  Crack.

  The broken bottle jumped out of their attacker’s hand and ended up on the ground.

  This time when Ian turned around no one followed them.

  Outside in the parking lot Victor walked them all the way to the waiting car. “I maybe came on too strong,” he said, turning to shake Ian’s hand. “Moretti is a good man in a tussle. You can take care of yourself, but your friend—” He glanced at Kelly. “I think you are a lover, not a fighter.”

  “I can hold my own.”

  “Of course.” Victor chuckled. “But you remind me of my brother. He can take a punch too—if he needs to—but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I figured you’d need help. It seems I was mistaken.”

  “Better safe than sorry.” Ian squeezed the guy’s hand, returning his powerful grip with equal pressure.

  Victor shrugged, then walked away.

  “Where do you know him from?” Kelly asked Nick, his teeth chattering.

  “I don’t.”

  Wasn’t that just fine and dandy. Ian’s nostrils flared. Victor’s presence made him itch. He was an unknown quantity with dubious motives.

  Not that Ian cared. He was just grateful to have Kelly back with him. He tossed Nick the keys to his car. “Leave it in the university parking lot.” He wrapped his arms around his lover’s narrow waist as they turned toward Kelly’s big sedan. “We’re going to have to talk.”

  “Right,” Kelly said, but he’d stopped shaking. “I thought you were joking, but...you actually have a whip.”

  “Picked it up in LA.” It wasn’t a weapon he usually used for defense. He wasn’t Indiana Jones. It was a tool he wielded to bring his lovers pain laced with pleasure, and it was something Kelly needed to get used to...fast. He was going to be seeing a lot more of it before the night was over.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ian drove back to the house without saying a single word, and Kelly didn’t try to prompt him. If he wasn’t talking then at least he wasn’t yelling or asking what the hell Kelly had been thinking. It wasn’t like he had a good answer. Going to the Roadhouse had been a mistake. Even if it had seemed like his only choice at the time.

  They parked in the driveway and sat quietly. “Nora’s waiting for us inside,” Ian finally said. “She’s the one who called me. You’re going to apologize for worrying her. Down on your knees if you have to. Whatever happened today...she didn’t deserve to be a part of it.”

  “And after that?”

  “What do you think?”

  He didn’t even want to consider the possibilities. Ian could be a sadistic bastard. Ordinarily, that was one of the things Kelly liked best about him. He forced himself to take another breath, trying to center his emotions, but all he could feel was the sting in his hands where his knuckles had scraped against a stranger’s teeth.

  “I put myself in danger.” There was no denying his crimes. He might as well get it over with. “I made you and Nick come to get me. I deserve—I should be punished.”

  Ian nodded slowly. His gaze was straight ahead. His hands clenched around the car’s steering wheel like he didn’t want to let go. “You certainly need to learn a lesson.”

  They got out of the car and walked in through the house’s grand front entrance. Nora hit Kelly before he’d made it more than two steps through the door, barreling into him like a loose missile and wrapping her arms around his middle. “I thought—Colin said you were at the Roadhouse, and all I could think about was your dad.” She gulped for air through a curtain of tears. “Tell me you weren’t out there to end it like him.”

  Fuck, Ian had been right. Whatever Kelly had been feeling, it was no reason to worry his cousin...to make her t
hink he might take his own life. He hugged her back, holding on tight even while it felt like the pit of shame in the bottom of his stomach might swallow him whole. “Never.” He finally forced the word out. “Never think that. I would never leave you like that.” His gaze lifted until he was staring straight at Ian, letting him know that he was included in the promise. “Never.”

  He blinked as he saw the man he loved—really saw him—for the first time all night.

  Under his dark skin Ian’s face was pale, his usually healthy complexion gray with worry. His features were drawn. His clothes were rumpled. He’d stopped at his apartment for the whip—there was no way he’d been carrying that around in his back pocket at the university—but he was still wearing his professor clothes.

  Kelly’s stomach flip-flopped. It wasn’t just Nora who’d been worried about him. His love must have been frantic.

  His love...He blinked in realization. He cared about Ian more than he’d ever cared about any other man, and he’d hurt him with his stupid antics.

  They went into the kitchen and he made a fresh pot of tea—not ginger. Nobody said much. After a while he started talking, not much at first, but enough. He told them about Aunt Carly’s visit. How much she missed his mother and what she’d called the house...an anchor around his mother’s neck.

  She’d said the same thing about him, but he didn’t tell them that.

  “Do you want to sell the house?” Ian asked.

  Kelly shrugged. He felt spent, completely wrung out emotionally. He just wanted to crawl upstairs to bed and bury himself under the covers. For a month. By the time he made his way out again it would all be over—he’d have turned in his senior project, walked across the stage at graduation and lost out on a job he really should take.

  Nora finished drinking her tea and left.

  Then it was just the two of them in the big kitchen with its hardwood floors and granite counters. “Time for your lesson.” Ian’s voice was low and husky. He finished drinking his tea and put the cup on the countertop. “Where do you want it?”