TB9 Tunnel of Love Read online

  Praise for the writing of Willa Okati

  The Brotherhood: Amour Magique

  What an intriguing story to start a series with! Ms. Okati has come up with a novel idea of an incubus who needs friends and wants to help them. But I’m not surprised, her stories are always creative and unique. I can’t wait for the next book.

  -- Joyfully Reviewed

  With a unique plot and a host of sexy characters, The Brotherhood: Amour Magique is a winner... From humor to intrigue, to sexual sophistication, this is a first-class read.

  -- Nancy Jackson, Coffee Time Romance

  The Brotherhood 2: Bite Me

  Tie me up, tie me down, do whatever you want as long as I enjoy it as much I enjoyed The Brotherhood 2: Bite Me. The writing is fabulous, with thought processes that are just funny as hell, and when the characters start talking to themselves it’s damn hilarious.

  -- Sin St. Luke, Just Erotic Romance Reviews

  The Brotherhood 3: The Dragon’s Tongue

  I'd have read this in one sitting if real life hadn't intruded. Ms. Okati knows how to draw in a reader and keep them engrossed. Collin is very lovable. You will find yourself rooting for him to find love, and have a few giggles along the way.

  -- Astraea, Enchanted Ramblings

  Amour Magique, Bite Me, and The Dragon’s Tongue are now available from Loose Id.

  THE BROTHERHOOD 9:

  TUNNEL OF LOVE

  Willa Okati

  www.loose-id.com

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * * *

  This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (homoerotic sex).

  The Brotherhood 9: Tunnel of Love

  Willa Okati

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

  Carson City NV 89701-1215

  www.loose-id.com

  Copyright © October 2006 by Willa Okati

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-59632-295-0

  Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor: Olivia Wong

  Cover Artist: Skyewolf

  Dedication

  To Rere, always there for me.

  Chapter One

  “Boss, Keith is strung out on E again. He’s in the john, pukin’ his guts up.”

  “Oh, dear God. Someone get back there and watch him! I don’t want anyone falling out in my club. The kind of press we’d get, shit, some days it’s not worth even coming in ... And find someone to take his dance. Get Rich. Is Rich available?”

  “Rich is on stage right now.”

  “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Find someone to do the goddamn dance. You do it.”

  “Me? I’m not up for three more songs.”

  “Well, now you’re double-booked. As soon as that music cues up, you get your ass on stage, or you’re out of a job.”

  “But, boss --”

  “Didn’t I make myself clear, or do I have to spell it for you? F-I-R-E-D. Now move it, you fuckin’ Nellie.” Hands clapped briskly together. “All right, the rest of you ladies, get your asses in gear. Is someone keeping an eye on Keith yet? Okay, great. Andrew, no, you can’t wear the tangerine. Not everyone can pull it off, and with your complexion? Uh-uh. Who’s on after Rich? Christian? Christian, are you next?”

  Christian sat alone at a rickety table, gazing into the long mirror that had been placed on top of it. His chair was uneven, making it tilt to and fro. He rocked absently as he stared at himself and watched his own eyes staring back. There was a weird trick he could pull where he just sort of popped right out of himself if he did it long enough ...

  “Christian! You’re next. Are you dressed? Oh, good, at least someone in this place knows what they’re doing.” A giant hand slammed down on Christian’s shoulder. The paw had an incongruous manicure of crimson fingernails. Incongruous. Christian had used the word in a paper he’d written earlier in the afternoon. Out of place. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I’m ready,” Christian said absently, waiting for the moment when he’d pop out. He gazed into the mirror, waiting patiently.

  “Now what the fuck is wrong with you? Shit, don’t tell me you took a hit of somethin’, too. Are you sober?” The fingers with their irreconcilable nails snapped in front of his eyes, breaking his concentration.

  Christian looked up into the face of “Big Mikey,” the boss man. With his beer gut and his white hair shaven into a buzz cut, he should have been the epitome of gruff old manhood -- kind of like George C. Scott. Patton, Christian thought to himself. Patton was general in ...

  But Patton didn’t wear eyeliner and lipstick.

  As Christian gawked, feeling pale and gray around the edges, Mikey slung on a bouffant blond wig and pulled at the hair, adjusting here and tucking there.

  “I gotta get out front and make sure everything’s goin’ down okay. That goddamn bartender is ripping me off again, I just know it, and I’m gonna catch him this time. He’s keeping all the tips for himself instead of puttin’ them in the jar. But you’re good to go, right? Don’t need anything? You got your bra stuffed and your nuts tucked back?”

  Christian closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah,” he answered after a moment. “I just have to finish my makeup and I’ll be done.”

  “Well, hurry it up, shake a leg, all that good stuff.” Mikey adjusted his own C-cup, stuffed with twin bags of rice, and tucked his T-shirt into his jeans. The faded blue fabric had a logo across the fake tits reading Michelle’s Pleasure Palace. He smelled of cheap beer and cheaper cigars as he leaned over to check his lips, puckering them, then spitting on the floor.

  Mikey clapped Christian on the back again. “Okay, kid. You look great. Add a little more color and you’ll wow ’em. Oh, by the way, your song is Pressure. DJ’s choice. You cool with that?” He guffawed. “Not like it matters. Just move with the music, baby, move with the music.” He gyrated.

  Christian watched him dully. “I’ll move,” he said, knowing he sounded flat as an out-of-tune guitar string. “Shake my groove thing. That’s what it’s all about.”

  The hokey-pokey was lost on his boss. “You’re a good kid, Christian. Chris. God, I gotta get out there. You do your best, now, and ... well, you know what to do.”

  Christian nodded. There really didn’t seem to be anything to say. Mikey gave him a third hard, teeth-rattling thump, and pounded away, probably to chew a second asshole in the bartender. As if Christian didn’t know Mikey and Joe were screwing each other blind after the rest of the staff went home.

  He knew a lot of things other people didn’t know.

  Pressure, huh? Christian knew that song pretty well. Sometimes it played over and over in his head while he was taking an exam, or when he was putting on his face, or when he
sat through one after another of the Brotherhood meetings. There would be times when he couldn’t get it to stop.

  Strains of Alanis Morrisette chimed in his inner ear. Ironic. He’d used that word to describe Oscar Wilde. But what she’d sung about wasn’t ironic. It was unfortunate.

  Unfortunate. Another word. Christian liked words.

  He reached for a tube of “Harlot Red” and began tracing his lips with the oily stick, watching them turn carmine. The shade matched his outfit, a body-hugging red catsuit made out of spandex. He was better with the fake boobs than some of the other guys; his looked natural. Didn’t feel that way, not at all, but looks, after all, were what counted in this business.

  He applied kohl around his eyes and tried to regain his earlier focus. If he could just pop from his own skin, he’d be good for the dance. He could do this one more night. Get enough in tips to grab lunch and dinner the next day, and put some aside for the next tuition and fees bill that would be coming soon. His regular paycheck went toward the cost of the house he shared with seven other guys his age, all noisy as hell, but not nosy. Noisy/nosy.

  He combed his hair back, applying enough product to make sure it stayed in a smooth, flat cap. There was always the option of going down to a buzz like Mikey did, but he hated the way that looked when he was out of drag. God. Drag. Christian didn’t have anything against gay men who looked like this because they wanted to, but having to tuck it back so he could eat ...

  The wig came next. He had a feeling Mikey would want him to go for a blond -- customers liked blonds -- but he chose a rich brunet instead, not as pouffy as some others and longer. It fit closely to his scalp, the netting inside itching a little. Not as badly as his legs, though. He’d forgotten to shave them, and spandex was a bitch on stubble.

  They never mention that when it comes to superheroes and their outfits.

  Did his cheeks need some more color? Probably. Christian hurried through applying blusher, mostly because he could hear the end of the Creedence Clearwater song playing on the stage. “Proud Mary”? Probably. He cocked an ear, listening to the muted sounds. Who is Mary, and what’s she so proud of?

  The final notes played, and there was a smattering of applause from the audience. After a pause, Rich sauntered back in, trying to look cool in his tight black dress ... and failing completely.

  “Hey, so no one wanted to take you for a private dance, huh?” someone cracked.

  “Hmph.” Rich made his way to the mirror and stood next to Christian, examining his own makeup. “I’ll get someone before the night’s over. They can’t resist a lady in this kind of outfit.”

  “Probably have a better shot when you do your second dance in the cowgirl outfit.”

  “Save a horse!” The whole room whooped. Except for Christian.

  Rich nudged him with one bony hip, hard. “You have a problem or something?” he asked, his Puerto Rican accent coming through stronger and with a more guttural twist. “What are you staring at, pretty boy? Pretty girl? You having trouble getting it up again?”

  Christian let his eyes shut to the vision of himself looking like a ten-dollar hooker, Rich at his side looking like he cost five bucks more. “I don’t have a problem,” he said quietly. “Just ... leave me alone. Okay?”

  “Oh, he wants us to leave him alone!” Rich threw up his hands, backing away a few steps. “The princess wants some private time, eh?”

  “No.” Christian stood, opening his eyes toward the stage door. “But my number’s up next. I have to get ready.”

  “You ever have a problem with me, I’ll kick your skanky ass,” Rich muttered. He picked up an ancient, yellowing atomizer and spritzed himself with something that smelled like talcum powder gone bad. He preened in front of the mirror. “Don’t see how anyone could have turned this down,” he said petulantly.

  Christian ignored them. Ignore. He pushed his feet into stiletto heels, the same blinding red as his spandex, and strutted -- God, you couldn’t help but strut in these -- to the stage entrance. The first bass notes began to sound, and he knew what he had to do.

  The Hero’s Journey. The Black Moment.

  Sliding one leg out from behind the curtain, he let the rest of his body ooze forward to the catcalls of the crowd. Christian didn’t dance like the rest of the men, and the audience knew it. He was one of their favorites exactly because he didn’t shake it all in their faces.

  I’m just doing this to earn some cash. It’s short term, really it is ...

  Christian took his slow, sweet time strutting down the catwalk, gyrating his hips to the low bass beat. When the vocals kicked in, he’d timed it just right to be at the pole, which he caught and began to spin around.

  When he danced here, his mind went on autopilot, autonomous of his body’s actions.

  Autonomous.

  As Christian moved, he thought about a hundred different things, each one floating as lazily through his mind as a scudding storm cloud across a sullen gray sky. He thought about school, the paper he had yet to finish, and the lab he’d been in that afternoon. Rocks and minerals.

  About how David was getting to know him too well, asking too many questions, how he might already suspect the truth. He liked David but, God, if his secret ever got out ... maybe he could trust David. Maybe.

  About his first boyfriend, Thom, whom Christian’s parents had disowned him over -- and who’d left him but not before taking all his savings.

  About the Brotherhood, who bored him to tears when they weren’t making him furious, and how he’d die if any of them ever came in and saw him dancing.

  Would they? Any of them? Ever?

  Christian didn’t think so. David was too shy; Laurence wasn’t out; Micah, too prissy; and Collin, too cold. Bree? Bree might. A shiver went down his spine at the thought. Bree would actually be just the kind of person who’d walk in here for a laugh some night. Would he be able to recognize Christian behind all the makeup and the costume? Maybe.

  His heartbeat, already fast from the way he was fucking the pole with his dance, thumped a notch harder and faster.

  Liam. There was no telling what Liam would do, where, or when. And people didn’t give the man enough credit; Liam knew everyone’s secrets. They didn’t give Christian enough credit, either. He knew he was a smart guy, himself. After all, he’d noticed that one day Liam had been there when he hadn’t been the day before. Everyone had accepted the man as if he’d always been part of the Brotherhood. But Christian knew different; he just hadn’t figured it all out yet.

  Mystery. Conundrum. Enigma.

  He gave a last twirl around the pole and went to shimmy at the men surrounding his catwalk, blowing fake kisses at them and making their crumpled dollar bills disappear. For the most part, they all looked the same -- middle-aged, give or take a few years, worn and haggard, or just plain tired. They either didn’t have the cash to afford any other kind of club, or they put up with the drag for the boys inside the clothes, or pretended they were ogling women.

  Christian’s dance name was “Sunshine.” Illuminating. He doubted anyone believed for a second that that was what people really called him. But, then again, up there on stage, he didn’t matter. He was just a body, a face, a set of fake tits, a mouth. A dancer. Entertainer. He put on a show, and they watched or they didn’t.

  He brought his head up, the full mane of brown curls tangling in front of his eyes, and as he tried to clear it gracefully, he thought he saw something blue glinting toward the back of the club. As he shook the hair free, he got another look. It was a pendant on some kind of necklace. He couldn’t see the face of the man wearing it, but Liam had a piece of jewelry just like that.

  His heartbeat increased. No. God, no.

  Turning his back to the corner where the blue pendant was, Christian returned to the other side of the catwalk, cooing and pouting at the other row of men. One of them, a pale guy with dark-framed glasses and spiky black hair, had his mouth slightly open. He dug in his pocket and offered Christia
n a ten-dollar bill.

  Rules were rules. Christian bent low enough to give the man a kiss, leaving a carmine stain behind on his benefactor’s mouth. As he strutted away, over the music he could hear a kind of nicely rough voice asking Christian if he would stay after the dance, but for ten bucks? No way. Too bad. The guy had been cute in a chess club kind of way. A brain, probably. Oh, fuck, was he a student at the university? Did he recognize Christian?

  His thoughts sped up, but as he kicked, twirled, and thrust out his pelvis, Christian kept his face cool and his lips in a seductive pout. This was why he’d gotten the job, why he’d been able to keep it, and why he was so popular. He knew how to work the room.

  And sometimes, he got results.

  A thin, balding man stood at the edge of the walk nearest to the staff entrance. His grin knowing, he held up a one-hundred-dollar bill and snapped it between the forefingers of both hands, showing Christian exactly what he’d get. Christian hesitated (indecisive, uncertain), then gave the man a curt nod. Grinning to himself, the guy disappeared backward into the crowd.

  Then, as the music ended, Christian did a split with his legs splayed wide, and it was over for the night. At least it was up on stage.

  Keeping his face implacable, he ducked back to where the rest of the “girls” were still arguing and bitching, grabbed a foil-wrapped square from a fishbowl, and adjusted his wig. Once fallen, the damn brunet strands kept trying to come down in his eyes.

  Catcalls went up as the other dancers saw what Christian was doing. “Ooh, ooh, he got one!”