The Brotherhood 2: Bite Me Page 4

  The caller chuckled -- no, giggled. “Bree, you’ve no idea who this is, do you?”

  “I -- uh -- I --”

  “Need I remind you how tasteless it is to drink hard liquor before, how do you call it, happy hour?”

  “How did you know --”

  “Irrelevant, Bree. This is Liam, of the Brotherhood. Do you know me now?”

  Liam! Fuck. Yeah. How could he have been confused? Liam’s freakazoid accent was one of a kind. Bree sagged in relief. He’d dealt with the kind of weird that Liam put off. He could handle this. “’Course I do. Yeah, got off early,” he lied. “What’s going on?” A thought occurred to him. “Who the hell gave you my home number?”

  “Simon, of course. He has a very tidy, thorough Rolodex in his home. I took the liberty of copying down everyone’s contact information after our decision to visit Amour Magique together.”

  “Amour Magique?” Bree repeated stupidly.

  “But of course. Tonight. Bree, surely you hadn’t forgotten?”

  Well, yeah, he had. He’d had more important things on his mind than a happy little field trip to Gay-O-Rama. Still, he’d voted for it ... he thought. “Nope, didn’t forget,” he said. “I’m in. What time do we meet, again?”

  “Nine p.m., outside the doors. You do know where Amour Magique is located?”

  Not a clue, but he’d get a map or something. “Sure.”

  Liam laughed again. “Excellent. Do take care to look your best, Bree. This will be a fine night for love. Or sex. In quantity as well as quality.”

  Love? Yeah, right. Sex, on the other hand ... Bree’s deflating erection tingled, reminding him that it wanted a little more attention. “I’ll be there.”

  “Do you promise?” Liam’s voice fucking twinkled.

  “Yeah. Promise.” Another wacko chill ran down Bree’s spine. He shuddered despite himself. Why did one simple word suddenly give him the creeps? Geez, it wasn’t like he was offering up his soul or something. “Promise,” he repeated stubbornly.

  “Good! Until then, Bree.”

  “Sure. Later.”

  Liam disconnected. Bree stood stock-still, receiver frozen in his hand, staring at the phone. Something wasn’t right. Definitely not right. He felt ... God, he actually felt frightened.

  His thoughts clinked together like ice cubes in a glass -- then tumbled over with a click Bree almost heard. Glaring at the phone, he slammed it down and then managed to jerk the plug out. No more of that shit. He wasn’t gonna put up with any more shit, not tonight. Not from Liam, not from anyone.

  Oh, he’d go to Amour Magique. Dress up, even. But he’d do it his way, and to hell with the consequences. He’d be Bree, and fuck to anyone who said anything about it.

  Still naked, stomping again, he made for his dresser and a small box that had once held cigars. The flimsy lid flipped open to reveal his stash of good jewelry. Sterling silver hoops, labrets, studs, beads, and bars. A pricey eyeliner pen, charcoal black, lay tucked in with the tangle of metal.

  Bree pulled it out and held it to the light. “Come to your old man,” he whispered, curling his tongue behind his teeth and baring them in a grin. “It’s show time.”

  Chapter Three

  Waiting for the traffic light to change, tapping his scarred leather boots on the pavement in impatience, Bree found himself scanning the tangled crowds still out and about. Weekend traffic in Charleston, road and foot, was a bitch.

  Bored now. To amuse himself, he targeted a prime example of Touristus Americanus, easily identified by its Bermuda shorts, sandals, and black socks. The guy didn’t realize he was being watched. Just kept standing there with a cigar in one hand and a neon-green snow cone in the other. Chatting to some scrawny, chain-smoking woman with badly dyed blonde hair, a “Charleston ROCKS!” T-shirt, and much shorter shorts. Probably his midlife-crisis redneck princess.

  Yeah. Whatever.

  The light changed, and Bree roared on ahead of the traffic. Buying this bike, and keeping it in shape, had been the best use of his money besides condoms and lube -- well, back when he still kept a supply of sex stuff on hand. After James, he hadn’t had a reason or money to spare to go buy more, damn him.

  Sometimes Bree wondered if James had put a curse on him. Wouldn’t put it past the guy, especially after Bree took him to court. One of the few cases Simon lost, on account of James was too slippery for even the Brotherhood’s leader to grab by the balls. Had his hands in every dirty pie. Yeah, bet he’d gone to some voodoo woman and had her dangle chicken feet over a picture of Bree’s naked ass in bed while chanting, “May you never get laid again.”

  Scary thing? He really could see James doing just that. Money wouldn’t have been enough to take from him. Wouldn’t make a satisfyingly deep mark. He’d want to hit Bree where it hurt most, for humiliating him.

  Great.

  For a second, Bree entertained the idea of begging a loan from Simon or Micah or maybe David -- a nice enough guy even if he didn’t have a clue about, well, anything -- and hiring a professional to take James down.

  Uh-huh. From what he’d heard, the guys who knew what they were doing didn’t even open their doors for less than four figures, usually five. If the whole Brotherhood ponied up for the cause and he threw in all his savings, he still wouldn’t have close to enough. Shit! Bree pounded one handlebar with a fist. He had to get that bastard somehow. He’d think of a way. He was Bree, damn it, and he wasn’t going to put up with James screwing his life forever.

  He could feel his pulse pounding at his temples. That little vein he got on his forehead when he was really pissed was probably throbbing. What had Alex, the EMT, told him? Learn how to chill out, or watch his heart go ka-boom with high blood pressure. Fuck. He’d thought he wouldn’t have to worry about such crap for at least twenty years. But, nope, Alex said Bree would be heading for a heart attack if he didn’t learn “anger management skills” and “healthy expression of strong emotions.”

  Bull. Shit.

  What was he supposed to do? Push it down, or let it all hit the fan? Advice like Alex’s didn’t make any sense. Besides, he hadn’t had a choice, most of the time. At his job, it had been cork it up or get fired. Which, what with his jumping on James, proved the point. He vented some around the Brotherhood by being a general wiseass, just enough to blow off the steam. If it got bad enough, he either rode the hell out of his bike, full throttle, or kicked fresh dents into the apartment building’s garbage cans. Didn’t help for long. For months now, he’d been feeling this primal scream building up, just waiting to tear loose. Add that to frequent blue balls and, yeah, Bree figured he had a right to get pissed off easily.

  But he needed to calm down now. He’d almost hit the gay district, and Amour Magique wasn’t far in. He seriously doubted the place was all that Liam claimed, and he hated the deafening techno music dance clubs usually played, but there might be one or two hotties in the mix. One thing he knew: men on the prowl didn’t go for someone who had a kill-or-be-killed death glare on their face. So, bottle it up one more time, play the club game, and, if there were any merciful gods listening to horny gay men’s prayers, at least get one good dance in, if not someone to take home or go home with. That’d be too much to hope for. But a dance ... that wasn’t too much to hope for, right? Right?

  On the surface, Charleston’s gay mecca looked like any other street, full of foot traffic and shops with classy, Old South window displays. Well, classy until you looked closely at what they displayed. Amour Magique stood out like a rhinestone on a silver ring. A big honkin’ rock of lights, muffled music, and ... Bree’s jaw dropped. Holy fuck! The line to get inside, herding its way through velvet ropes, stretched around the block!

  He pulled his motorcycle up, double-parking beside some sad schmuck’s moped, and turned off the ignition. Whipped off his helmet and stared. Da-a-a-a-a-a-mn. He hadn’t known Charleston had that many gay men. That many hot ... muscled ... young ... gorgeous ... gay men.

  At some point,
his mouth had fallen open. Oddly enough, he didn’t care.

  “Bree!” a familiar voice called. “Bree, we’ve gathered over here, just by the ropes! Come and join us!”

  Bree shook his head and turned, trying to peer through the crowds. Liam’s face appeared through a gaggle of milling bodies. He was waving eagerly, beckoning Bree toward him. That wasn’t what caught his attention, though. Bree zeroed in on the handful of brightly colored tickets in Liam’s waving hand.

  Oh, hot damn. Tonight, we play. I hope.

  Without a second thought for the moped’s owner, Bree yanked his keys out of the bike’s engine and leaned it on its kickstand. He swung one leg over the saddle and landed already not quite running, but moving faster than normal, for sure.

  He forced himself to slow down as he drew closer to Liam. He had a rep with the Brotherhood. Bree, the bad boy. Rough guys did not run like schnauzers in heat at the sight of mouth-watering asses packed into painted-on jeans, standing in line like snacks on a tray. Cooling down to a saunter, he ambled up and gave Liam, standing in front of the gathered Brotherhood, a brusque nod. “Made it,” he said, pleased to hear that he sounded a little bored. “You come through with the tickets?”

  Liam’s eyes sparkled with glee. “But, of course!” He flashed the neon chits at Bree a second time. “I am a creature of my word, Bree. May I say that you look spectacular tonight?”

  “Feel free.” Bree gave the men his best wicked grin. Their reactions ranged from a startled blink or two to Simon’s stifled gasp of horror.

  Yeah. He’d gone all out for this. Why not? Let them see what no guts, no glory was all about. Every single piercing he owned had been slotted into place, from eyebrows to nose to cheeks to chin to lip to ears, hoops and bars and studs, all shining titanium polished up to a brilliant gleam. Niobium chains thin as a whisper linked several of the loops together, trailing across his face spider-web fashion. He’d gone heavy on the makeup, not only ringing his eyes with black liner, but adding some charcoal shadow and a coat of crimson lip gloss. His nails were painted black.

  More, Bree hadn’t bothered with a motorcycle jacket, so they all got a good, instant look at his see-through mesh shirt topping his tightest pair of black leather pants. High school vintage. What the hell, he’d call it retro. Besides, they were two sizes too small -- and therefore, just right. Good, beat-up, steel-toed shit-kicker boots finished off the look. Bree grinned at them, knowing he’d gotten it right. Scared the bejeezus out of them and, if he read them right, caused a few boners to pop up.

  He trained his gaze on the most prominent bulge. “Collin,” he drawled. “Didn’t know you liked your meat tough.”

  The businessman spluttered and coughed. “You dare to --”

  “Please. You know you want a piece of this.” Bree swaggered in close enough for his chest to brush Collin’s in its immaculate yuppie-wear. He leered up a few inches. “You man enough to take me on?”

  “Bree, enough!” Simon butted in, looking shaken. No sign of life stirred in his shorts, unless the tailored pants were good for hiding more than a little desk-jockey spread.

  Bree looked the lawyer over, deliberately acting bored. “Yeah? What?”

  “Please contain yourself. We are in public.”

  “Not for long. Looks like I’m the last one here. Let’s get moving.”

  “Yes.” Simon straightened his tie. Holy hell, he’d worn a fucking tie. “We thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Miss this? Nah. I had a few offers, but I figured I’d check out the action here first.” No need to tell them his offers had involved ferrets and skinny, babbling nerds. It was impressions that counted, yeah?

  Liam thumped his shoulder in approval. “Excellent! I knew you would not let us down, Bree.” He pressed one ticket into Bree’s hand. “Here. No matter what, do not lose this, not even once you are inside. The enforcers do random checks for authorized guests, particularly on weekends.”

  Huh. Bree studied it. Looked like a plain movie ticket to him, even if the color threatened to blind him. No name on it, just “Admit One.” Well, whatever. First things first. He jerked his head at the growing line of studs and stallions. “So, do we wait in line for a couple hours, or what?”

  “Oh, no, no!” Liam shook his head. “Come, all of you, follow me.” He passed out the rest of the tickets in a neon blur, beamed at the Brotherhood, and took off like a hoppy, happy little bunny blissed out on speed. He bounded up a short flight of stairs and beamed at the surly bouncers, twice his weight and a good foot taller, beckoning them down to his level. He whispered in one set of ears, then another, and for some reason, pointed up above the doors. The bouncers looked startled, then respectful, and ... awed? They unhooked a barring rope and motioned Liam forward.

  “Come on!” Liam called, making hurry-up gestures. “Follow me!”

  Down the fucking rabbit hole, man, Bree thought in admiration. Now this is more like it! Still, he kept his pace lazy as he followed, bringing up the rear of the pack ... and bumping into them as they cleared the doors and stopped, en masse, in their tracks.

  David whispered one word, audible above the thumpa-thumpa of the music. “Wow.”

  Bree stared. “Yeah.” Wow summed it up pretty damn good.

  Liam almost glowed. “You see? Amour Magique is all that I promised, isn’t it?”

  “And then some.” Collin’s voice sounded strangled. Simon spluttered a little, but, thank God, kept quiet.

  Bree decided that he’d died and gone to Homo Heaven. Yeah, Amour Magique sure as hell did live up to Liam’s hype. A good old raw-boned warehouse on the inside, tangles of spotlights blasting circles on the floor, and crowds, literally crowds, of hot bodies and lithe, thrashing dancers. Men pumped their hips, fucking with their clothes on, all to the sounds of music that infected his blood with the beat but didn’t bug like regular techno.

  His mouth watered. Hot damn. Even if James had cursed him, a place like this carried enough rainbow mojo to beat it down for one night, at least. He knew it.

  “I see your wow and raise you a whoa,” Christian whispered, eyes huge.

  Bree couldn’t help himself. He tilted back his head and laughed out loud. “You fuckin’ amateurs! What, you’ve never been in a gay dance club before? Shee-yit, you wusses. Stand aside and let me show you how it’s done.”

  He sauntered forward, feeling all eyes on him -- in shock, amazement, or in Liam’s case, absolute approval -- and flung himself into the dancers as if they were a mosh pit, letting himself be swallowed whole.

  Oh, dear God. Yes. Cock-rockin’ Elysium. The crowd parted like water to let Bree in, then closed around him. Hot, hard bodies slick with sweat pressed in, rubbing their chests against his. He felt himself grabbed by the waist and tugged backward against a solid, seriously well-sized cock just barely trapped in a pair of jeans, thrusting forward to the rhythm of the drums. Bree laughed again, then lifted his voice and howled out that primal scream he’d been waiting on for months now.

  He twisted around to face Mr. Well-Hung and planted a deep, wet, messy kiss on lips that opened sweet and obedient for him. The man’s hands, good strong hands, flew down to grope Bree’s ass as if he were desperate for it. For Bree.

  Oh, hell yes. It was going to be a good night. He spared half a thought for the Brotherhood, who he was technically supposed to be hanging with, then mentally tossed them aside. They were big boys. Let them figure out how to have a good time for once. They could watch him if they wanted pointers. Tearing away from the kiss, Bree turned in a half-circle and found yet another desperately eager body to kiss. This time, he was the one to grab a handful of booty, his first in way too long, and hang on tight. A solid cock bashed against his own, rising good and proper to the occasion.

  He was going to buy Liam a dozen roses for this, and fuck the cheese. He owed the weird little guy. But that’d be later. Right now, he planned on having the time of his life!

  Ditching his cock of the moment, he turned again,
almost dizzy with excitement, and blurred into the waiting arms of still another man. Mmm, good solid arms, bare to the shoulder. Leanly muscled. Smooth and white as marble. Strangely ... cold.

  A bell went off somewhere in Bree’s mind. Cold? Where had he felt ...

  His dance partner pulled him closer than any had before, letting Bree feel just how very interested he was in finding a pierced, tattooed punk to play with. The strength in those arms said he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon, not like the others. The way he thrust his hips and stiff cock against Bree’s pelvis let him know that this guy meant business. Rock-’em, sock-’em, hard-core fucking business.

  A wisp of his long red hair fell across Bree’s hands as he lifted them up to the man’s shoulders. They were as cold as the rest of him.

  Bree looked up in baffled wonder to meet a pair of familiar eyes, wise, all-knowing, blazing with bedroom heat. The kind of eyes that you knew belonged to a man who would best any orgasm you’d ever had. Eyes that managed to send a shot of adrenaline to Bree’s own cock and a yearning ache to his ass, even though he’d never bottomed enough to get a taste for it.

  Eyes that somehow seemed to know Bree. Recognize him.

  Claim Bree as his prize for the night.

  Eyes that he recognized, not just from Money Now! but from that tripped-out vision flash in his apartment.

  “Julian!” Bree blurted out.

  Julian smiled down at him. He reached to brush his hand across Bree’s cheek. “So, we meet again. But then,” he said, leaning down to whisper in one ear, “I did promise you we would.”

  Chapter Four

  Oh, no. No, no, no. I am not letting my night on the town turn into an episode of the Twilight Zone.

  Bree jerked back -- or tried to, anyway. Julian had a good grip on him and appeared to be a good deal stronger than he looked. Bree settled for his best homicidal glare. “You want to take your hands off me before you lose them?” he demanded.