Switching Gears (Serving his Master Book 7) Read online

  Romance Unbound Publishing

  Switching Gears

  Prequel to the Serving his Master series

  Claire Thompson

  Edited by Donna Fisk & Jae Ashley

  Cover Art by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Copyright 2018 Claire Thompson

  All rights reserved

  Chapter 1

  Janis Joplin’s strong, bluesy voice echoed through the small Brooklyn auto shop. Closing his eyes, Jack let her raw power pound through him. Her music, as it always did, loosened the tight coil of emotions he normally didn’t allow himself to feel.

  Through the pulsing sound, he heard the chime that indicated the door to the shop’s reception area was being opened. “Break another little bit of my heart, now darling, yeah,” Jack sang along under his breath as he pulled his head from beneath the hood of a car and wiped some of the grease from his fingers.

  The service bell on the counter dinged several times in rapid succession. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Jack called, turning off the music. He pulled open the door that separated the garage from the reception area and entered the space.

  Ronan Grant stood in front of the counter, his finger poised over the bell. The song lyrics echoed in Jack’s head, his cock hardening without his permission as he stared at the handsome man in front of him.

  Though Jack normally preferred Ronan in the black knit tops and black jeans he usually wore at Drew’s Pub, the low key gay bar where they both hung out most weekends, he had to admit the guy cleaned up pretty good. That morning he was dressed in an elegant suit, cufflinks gleaming against his snowy-white shirt. His soulful eyes glittered beneath strong brows, his dark, wavy hair brushed straight back. Something in his penetrating gaze always made Jack feel as if the guy could see right into his secrets, and the feeling was disconcerting.

  When they’d first met a year or so ago, Jack had tested the waters, not averse to the idea of taking the guy home and fucking him senseless. But Ronan had made it pretty clear he didn’t consider Jack to be in his league. As hot as he was, the guy was arrogant, and anyway, Jack wasn’t interested in some pretty boy who had probably never done an honest day’s work in his life.

  Seeing him reminded Jack with an unpleasant jolt that he’d forgotten to call him. Hopefully Ronan would understand, since it involved Ryan Kennedy, a fellow pub mate, and Ronan had always had a hard-on for the guy, or so it had seemed to Jack.

  “Oh, shit,” he said aloud. “You’re here for the tires.”

  Ronan lifted a brow. “Oh, shit?” he echoed. “Does that mean there’s a problem?”

  “Yeah, uh, about that. I meant to call you. I’m really sorry—it totally slipped my mind. Ryan Kennedy had an emergency yesterday. Some prick slashed the tires on his 911 Turbo S and he was desperate. I had your P Zeros here, and when he called”—Jack shrugged—“it just made sense to help him out, you know?”

  Ronan frowned, and Jack rushed on. “I’ll have a new set for you by tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest. I’m really sorry you made the trip for nothing.”

  “Nice of you to help out a friend in need, I’m sure,” Ronan said dryly. ”But I require the tires today.” He sat down on one of the plastic molded chairs in the waiting area. “Not Tuesday. Not Wednesday. Today. I suggest you get on the phone and call whomever you have to call to make that happen.” Ronan looked at the gold watch on his wrist and back at Jack. “I have an hour. I’ll wait.”

  This is business, Jack reminded himself. Stay cool. “Look, I’d love to get your tires today, but the tire dealer that I get the P Zeros from is closed on Mondays and—”

  “Then I suggest you call another dealer,” Ronan cut in. He looked Jack slowly up and down, his lips lifting with the arrogant trace of a smile. Jack was wearing his usual uniform of a black T-shirt and denim work shirt over ancient jeans, scuffed black work boots on his feet, but he suddenly felt naked as Ronan’s eyes raked insolently over him.

  Jack’s fingers curled of their own accord into fists. A good right hook delivered to that smooth jaw would wipe the smug, superior look off Ronan’s perfect face. It would feel so fucking good…

  The door swung open, and Carlos came in, a box of donuts in his hands. “Hey, Jack. Sorry I’m late. My kid’s got the flu.”

  “No problem,” Jack replied, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “Look, this customer here”—Jack jerked his head toward Ronan—“needs some Pirelli P Zeros for his 911 Carrera S. See what you can do about getting a set muy rapido, okay? Do whatever it takes.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Jack shouldered through the door back into the garage. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his phone, starting up the music again, cranking the volume as loud as it would go.

  All the words Jack had bitten back while talking to Ronan gushed through his brain like hot blood. Who the hell did that entitled asshole think he was? Fuck him, his good looks and his money, the condescending bastard.

  Didn’t he get the concept of helping out a friend in need? Didn’t he understand that sometimes people got busy and forgot to make a phone call? And where did he come off, standing there in his fancy suit, giving Jack the once-over like he was something the cat dragged in?

  Rage ricocheted through Jack’s body, filling him with a dark, dangerous energy. The anger felt good. It was hot and filling and gave him something to cling to. It hurt when he smashed his fist against the concrete wall, but at the same time it felt good. So good.

  He hit it again, and again, and again…

  “Jack. Jack! What the hell are you doing, amigo?”

  Through the roar of blood pulsing in his head, Jack became aware of Carlos pulling at his shoulders, wresting him away from the wall, from the pain, from the darkness in his soul.

  “Santa Maria, madre de dios,” Carlos said. “What the hell are you doing, man?” They both stared down at Jack’s hand. The knuckles were streaming with blood. The gray concrete wall was smeared with it.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  The blinding, biting rage ebbed away, replaced with a sort of numbness.

  “I better call 9-1-1—”

  “No. No, that’s okay, Carlos.” Jack grabbed the greasy rag from his back pocket and wrapped it awkwardly around his hand. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” He knew it should hurt, but he couldn’t feel a thing. The blood began to seep through the rag.

  Carlos shook his head. “You gotta go to the emergency room, man. You could’ve broken something. You probably need stitches. What the hell were you doing?”

  “I, uh…” Jack blew out a breath as he tried to clear his head. “I hit the wall a few times, I guess,” he said, stating the obvious. “Just blowing off some steam.”

  Carlos shook his head. “That’s just blowing off steam? Jesus, I’d hate to see you when you’re really pissed off.”

  “Look, do me a favor?” Jack said, his brain functioning again. “Call Gordon Flanders.” He pulled out his phone and opened his contacts, sharing the number with Carlos’ phone. “I just sent you the number. He’s a medic and a friend of mine. He doesn’t live that far from here, and I think he’s off today. Maybe he’ll agree to have a look at it. Will that make you happy?”

  “Okay, boss,” Carlos said, clearly not convinced. “I guess it’ll do for a start.” He managed a smile, but Jack could see the worry in his eyes. Jack looked down at his hand again, which was finally starting to hurt. What the fuck was wrong with him? His hands were his living. He had built up a good reputation for his specialty work with Porsches. He needed to get control of his damn temper, no matter how obnoxious his customers might be.

  Which reminded him. “Did you find tires?”


  “Yeah. Dealer out in Queens. Cost nearly double what we usually pay. He’s gonna deliver, but not till this afternoon. I convinced Mr. Grant that he didn’t need to wait around. I told him we’d pick up the car and get it all taken care of.”

  “Okay. Good. Thanks, Carlos. You’re the best.”

  Jack was sitting in his auto shop reception area, his hand cradled in his lap, wrapped in a fresh rag that was already staining with blood when Gordon pushed through the front door, his medic bag in hand. “Jesus, Jack, what am I going to do with you?” he said in exasperation. He’d cleaned Jack up after more than one barroom brawl.

  They went back into the private bathroom in case a customer came in, and Gordon cleaned and patched up the knuckles as best he could. “The butterfly bandages will keep the wounds closed, but you should probably get this checked out by a doctor.”

  Jack stared down at his bandaged hand and looked back up at his friend. “Thanks, man. Looks like you’ve got it wrapped up pretty good. I’ll wait a couple of days and see how it’s healing. I bet I’ll be good as new in a week.”

  Gordon grinned. “Knowing you, you probably will be. You’re made of steel. Just don’t use it for a few days, if you can avoid it. And no slamming any more walls.” He eyed Jack. “What the hell was that all about, anyway? Did the wall offend you in some way?”

  Jack shrugged, embarrassed. “Ronan Grant was in the shop and—”

  “Ah, Ronan Grant,” Gordon interrupted with a smirk. “That explains it. Every time the two of you get going at the pub, we just sit back and watch the fireworks.”

  “Well, he’s annoying as hell. And who does he think he is—”

  Gordon laughed, shaking his head. “Harris. You might as well just admit it. You are so into that guy it isn’t even funny.”

  Jack frowned. He could feel his blood pressure rise, causing a sharp ache in his chest. He glared at Gordon. “Is that your idea of a joke? You couldn’t pay me to get involved with that prick. Shit, I wouldn’t fuck him with your dick.”

  “Uh huh.” Gordon continued to grin, which irritated the crap out of Jack. “Whatever you say.” He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Listen, Jack. No more of this wall bashing shit, okay? You’re really lucky you didn’t break something.”

  Jack grunted. “Yeah, okay.” He managed a smile. “Hey, I owe you one. Bring in your car next time you need work, or a tune-up or whatever.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Gordon laughed. “When I win the lottery and buy my Porsche, I’ll let you know.”

  “Nah, don’t let the specialty sign fool you. I always have time for my pals.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Gordon stood, hoisting his medical bag over his shoulder. “And Jack? Not that it’s my business, but you might want to get some help—you know, find a better way to deal with your anger. You don’t get a handle on whatever it is that’s bugging you, and it’s going to kill you.”

  Chapter 2

  Gordon’s words kept echoing through Jack’s head as he tried to concentrate on the TV show he was watching. His hand was pulsing like a beating heart, a constant, throbbing reminder of his rage.

  Yeah, Ronan Grant had pissed him off, but he couldn’t pretend this was the first time he’d lost it, letting his anger get the better of him. It was almost like a physical thing—something that rose up like hot lava and burst through him, beyond his control, almost beyond his awareness.

  Hitting something eased the pressure. Even when it hurt, maybe especially when it hurt, somehow it made him feel better, calmer. Lately he felt wound up all the time, full of nervous energy that had nowhere to go.

  Sex was a good release, sure. But he was thirty-four years old. How much longer did he want to go on picking up guys at the bars, taking them home for a quickie and then sending them on their way? The morning after nearly always found him still edgy, restless, like a boxer in the ring, itching for a fight.

  When was the last time he’d felt calm? At ease in his own skin? He closed his eyes, pondering. Man, was it really twelve years ago? Was Master Alexei still holding court in the various leather bars where they’d played? Jack had tired of that scene long ago, and they’d lost touch. The whole leather culture smacked too much of the military for his taste. Not since his discharge from the Navy had anyone dictated to Jack Harris who he could talk to and when, or what he should wear, and why it was significant.

  Alexei, one of the old guard leather daddies, used to coach him on the rules when he took him to scene events. A bottom should never initiate conversation. He should stare with respect at a Top’s boots during conversation. He should walk half a step behind his Top as a sign of respect. There were way too many damn rules—fuck that.

  Jack Harris bowed down to nobody, not even Alexei Spiros. Still, he couldn’t deny Alexei had been the one person who could slow him down. When he was with Alexei, the jittery agitation that was such a constant in his life just seemed to slip away. He’d never experienced that level of peace before or since.

  “I wonder how he’s doing?” Jack said aloud in the habit of people who live alone. “Maybe I should look him up.” He went into the kitchen in search of the old paper address book he hadn’t used in ages. It was quite possible Alexei didn’t even live in Manhattan any more, but what the hell—it was worth a shot.

  He found the little black book in the junk drawer and thumbed through the pages. He punched Alexei’s old number into his cell phone. “Hello?” It was not the deep, gravelly voice of Alexei, but that of someone who sounded much younger. No doubt it was someone else’s number now. Jack was about to hang up when the person added, “Spiros residence.”

  An employee? A sub boy? A lover?

  Jack cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I was calling for Alexei. Is he around?”

  “Who is this?”

  Just answer the fucking question. Jack took a breath. Gordon was right. He really needed to get a grip. “This is Jack Harris. I’m an old friend.”

  “Hold on. I’ll see if he’s available.”

  Jack waited. A few moments later the man returned to the phone. “He’s resting now. Can I take a message?”

  Worry suddenly shot its way through Jack’s gut. Alexei must be nearing seventy. “Is he okay?”

  “You—you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Alexei had a heart attack. I just brought him home from hospital a few days ago.”

  Jack reeled for a moment in shock. Back when he’d known him, Alexei Spiros had been such a powerhouse of strength and vitality. He’d been not only Jack’s mentor and partner back when Jack had been active in the scene, he’d been a friend, and maybe the only person who could tell Jack what to do without pissing him off.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jack managed. “I had no idea.”

  “He’s doing well. Full recovery expected. He just has to take it easy for a while. Did you want to leave a message for Alexei?”

  “Yes. We haven’t been in touch in a long time.” The guy’s second sentence now penetrated Jack’s head. I just brought him home. Whose home? A shared home? “You’re Alexei’s…friend?”

  The man chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that. We’ve been together nine years. My name’s Rusty. Rusty Dougherty. You know Alexei from where?”

  “It’s been over a decade. He was my, uh, that is, he and I…” Jack hesitated, not sure how much this Rusty knew of Alexei’s background.

  “You were his sub? One of his boys?”

  So he did know. Jack snorted. “I was never anybody’s sub. But yeah, we were in the scene together, I guess you’d say. I think of him more as my mentor. But I walked away from all that years ago. Not really my thing.”

  There was a brief pause, and then, “Would you like to leave your number? I’ll let Alexei know you called.”

  ~*~

  “You can do better than that. Come on. Ass out, arch your back.” Ronan, dressed in black leather pants, black boots and a black silk shirt, tapped the long bamboo cane im
patiently against his leg.

  The man standing in front of him at the exercise bar wore nothing but a jockstrap and a thick slave collar. Kenny was slender and blond, probably in his early twenties. His partner, Edward, also in his twenties, was swarthy and had a muscular, stocky build. He sat on a chair several feet away, watching intently.

  The place had originally been a dance studio, and the room had mirrored walls with wooden exercise rails built into them. Now there were strategically placed eyebolts on the ceiling and walls, as well as a few useful restraining devices.

  Ronan turned to address the seated man. “Now that you’ve practiced with the clothing dummy, I’m going to give you a live demonstration. Remember, a cane is very flexible. Although it may appear straight and stiff, in practice it is more whip-like. Proper technique is important so you don’t cut the skin. You want to flick it just so, so that the business end of the cane catches at exactly the right angle.” As he spoke, Ronan flicked the cane through the air, its whistle echoing in the empty room.

  Kenny flinched at the sound. Ronan leaned close, murmuring, “You can do this. Show him your grace.”

  “I can’t,” whimpered Kenny. “I’m afraid.”

  “Come on, Kenny, you know you love it,” Edward called out. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the trainer. Be a good boy and stick out that sexy little butt of yours. You do want to please me, don’t you?”

  Kenny nodded. Ronan couldn’t help noting in the mirror that the guy’s cock was so erect that the head was jutting from the waist of the jockstrap.

  Back when Ronan had first started as a trainer for The Quarters, a hardcore underground gay BDSM club, he’d been thrilled to discover so many sexy sub boys—his for the taking if he wanted them. The sessions were a nice break from his day job at the art auction house, where he had to keep up the proper façade.

  At The Quarters, he was able to be just exactly who he was. He didn’t have to pretend, either by direct lie or omission. He’d started volunteering for the training sessions several years back. He’d found them a great way to get a feel for a guy’s potential and limits, without having to actually commit to even a first date.