It’s been a long fall for the kinksters at Mclean House, but soon the house will finally be ready for action again. If anything, the fire only brought them closer as a community, and that’s how they’re mastering the rebuild—together.
They have one week to get the second floor finished for the upcoming event, Senseless, and there isn’t a minute to waste. But of course, hard work doesn’t mean there’s no time for the Sadists and the brats of Mclean to multitask and have a little fun too. Reese promises cuddles in the dark and possibly a ball gag, Kit is super-excited about a gift he’s won for Daddy Colt, Kingsley can’t help but picture a future with Tate in which they start a family, Noa has a bratty surprise, poor Greer is having his chest shaved for a frigid photo shoot—actually, so is Colt. Those about to watch are really looking forward to that.
I’m down to clown, as Corey would say!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
MONDAY
Reese | Shay | River
Reese Tenley
One AM. Let’s get this over with.
“He’s back for a new round, guys! Acton is five foot nine and weighs in at 170 pounds of sleek muscle, the give-no-fucks attitude we’ve come to love, and all those sexy tattoos. Place your bets!”
Yeah, already covered the betting part.
I folded my arms over my chest as the underground club went ballistic. Some five hundred degenerates filled the place, all eyes on the steel fighting cage at the center of the floor.
The atmosphere was made up of smoke, cheap perfume, sweat, and broken dreams.
Shay took another drag from his smoke and extended the cigarette through the fence.
River accepted it and took a final puff from it before putting it out on the floor.
Then we watched Shay’s opponent enter the cage, some tribal-tatted juicehead from Newark our boy had faced before. And I had to hand it to the man; his confidence hadn’t wavered, despite he’d never come close to defeating Shay.
“Steroids are bad for you, sunshine,” Shay informed the man.
I chuckled under my breath and scratched my nose.
“Fuck you, Acton,” the juicehead growled. He went by the name of Jersey, and that made sense. He was a walking stereotype.
“Not in your wildest dreams.” Shay wrapped a hand around his knuckles, making sure the tape was on right. Then, as the woman on the speaker told the men to get ready, he inserted his mouthguard and rolled his shoulders.
River and I had accompanied Shay to these fights for a few months now, and it was enough to know that the biggest risks were faced outside the cage. Jersey was mobbed up as fuck, everyone came heavy—including Riv and me—and trust was just an empty word hustlers and wiseguys threw around.
You can trust me.
Nah, motherfucker.
We didn’t trust a soul in this establishment. We hadn’t even trusted the man who used to be Shay’s sidekick. With a name like Weasel, who could blame us. Shay had insisted the man had never fucked our boy over, and we believed him, but this was our stipulation. If Shay wanted to keep participating in illegal cage fights to secure his baby brothers’ college funds, Riv and I would be by his side.
It went without saying that we wanted him as far away as possible from this place, but one of the reasons we’d fallen ridiculously in love with him was his strong will.
Besides, River and I had no room to play saints. We’d done our fair share of shit in our day too.
Once the fight started, part of the crowd got louder, while another piped down.
River and I were on high alert, keeping one eye on our surroundings and one on the fight.
The number of times Shay had been approached to throw fights…
He did throw some. There was good money in being an otherwise undefeated champion suddenly going down in the fourth round. But, of course, that invited more undesirable attention from connected people.
Some drunk fuck bumped into River, and I cocked my head and did my best to rein in my temper. “Step off.”
“My bad, my bad,” the bastard slurred.
I cleared my throat and returned my stare to the fight.
“Easy, brother,” Riv cautioned.
Yeah, yeah.
Jersey tried to get Shay to lower his guard with a fist to the head and a kick to the side, but our boy was fast. He dropped low and rammed a foot against Jersey’s shin, only to shoot up and grab hold of Jersey’s shoulders and slam his forehead against Jersey’s nose.
I winced and made a face.
The audience roared.
Jersey backed away, his nose bleeding, but threw himself into the fight a beat later.
Shay was a fucking vision as always. Tattooed grace in three-quarter-length sweats and nothing else. Aside from a jockstrap and taped-up knuckles.
Jersey managed to deliver two swift blows to Shay’s side—the force strong enough to make me livid.
“Finish him!” I yelled.
“Why does he have to play with his victims?” River asked irritably.
Good question.
Shay was enjoying himself too much. He’d studied Krav Maga for years and knew how to end a fight quickly. But his love for more structured martial arts like Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, sambo, tae kwon do, and kung fu made him want to prolong every round.
Not a second passed before Shay came back with a rapid snap kick to Jersey’s gut, sending him flying backward. And he didn’t stop there. With sweat and sadistic glee rolling off him, he lowered his guard, and Jersey took the bait—stupid fucker. He ran for Shay, who ducked sideways and went through a series of kicks, from sideways, back, to the fucking high roundhouse kick I’d told him not to use.
The moment Shay’s foot made impact with Jersey’s temple, I knew the fight was over.
“For fuck’s sake!” I slammed a hand against the fence and glared.
How many times were we gonna have this argument? He thought I wanted him to stay away from that move because it left him exposed—and it fucking did, if his opponent was worth his salt—but it had fuck-all to do with that. I didn’t want him to be arrested for goddamn murder when one of his kicks caused his opponent’s brain to hit the skull.