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."

The administrator smiles politely. "I'm sorry, sir, but only relations and family can visit at this time. He's still being monitored."

I clear my throat. "I'm his partner ," I clarify. "Sebastian is my boyfriend."

"Oh," she says quickly, pursing her lips. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, sir. He's on level two, room four of the Jonathon Herbert Ward."

"Thanks," I say, turning on my heel. God, that felt so strange to say aloud. But it's true. Crenshaw is my bitch, baby. And I'm here to make sure he's all right. Taking the elevator, I find Sebastian's room in no time.

He's in bed, hooked up to fluids, with a pulse monitor on his finger.

"Hey," I say, as I knock on the open door.

"Hey," says Sebastian, a smile lighting up his face. "I didn't actually think you'd come."

I frown, dropping my satchel on a nearby chair, and place my helmet on top. "I said I was coming, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but we just…"

"Just hooked up? Just made things official?" I ask.

"Yeah, that."

"I always keep my word, Seb. If I say something, I follow through. And aside from being my boyfriend, you're someone I respect, and have known for years—even if from afar. I wasn't going to not check up on you. I mean, it's kind of my fault you're here in the first place."

"How do you figure that?" says Sebastian.

"Have you forgotten that earth-shattering, brain-blitzing orgasm already?"

Sebastian cracks a grin and shakes his head. "No, no, I absolutely have not," he admits. "Don't know that I ever will."

With my hands in my pockets, I wander closer to the bed. "But seriously, what've they said? Do they know what triggered the seizure? Are you epileptic?"

Sebastian shakes his head with a grimace. "It's the first one I've ever had to my knowledge, and they say I seem fine, but they want to keep me under observation overnight, just in case it happens again."

"You know, I've heard brutal orgasms can cause seizures. It's really fucking rare, but it does happen."

My boyfriend smirks. "Just my luck, huh? It must be God's way of saying, ‘fuck you,' right? Experience the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life and he's like, ‘Nope. There'll be none of that shit,' so he smites me like a motherfucking cunt."

"Well, if I believed in that sky fairy crap, it sounds just like the sort of shit he'd do," I agree with a lopsided smile. "I mean, he got shitty that one time and wiped out all of humanity. Flooded fucking everything, apparently. Bitch seems easily triggered. Probably just sore cause he's missing out on a good deep dicking."

Sebastian cracks it at that and it's fucking good to see him smile again.