The Brotherhood 4: Good Luck Piece Page 4

  “You’re on. He’s way too much of a chicken-shit to bully someone around without backup.”

  “How many of them? Two? Three?”

  “My money’s on four.”

  “I call six.”

  Finn’s gritted teeth ached. He longed to bang his fist onto the table. Not fair, not fair, by all the gods, it wasn’t fair! More than anything, he yearned to be able to bust loose of the Last Chance, plow his way to the dance floor, and yank Simon as far and fast away from Zachary as he possibly could.

  But -- ha! Amour Magique didn’t want the likes of him out and about. It wouldn’t let him out the doors of this bar, much less into the main drag. No. He had to sit quiet, still, tortured, and watch the scrumptious sub with his heart as plainly on his lack of sleeve as his beautiful Irish tattoo. Observe as Simon was drawn down into the depths of humiliation ...

  “Come on, Shamrock,” Master said, hooking Simon via one finger through a leather strap that crossed his chest. “I want you to meet some people.” He raised his voice. “Boys! Boys, come here. Look what I found for us to play with.”

  Simon felt the pressure and heat of several bodies surrounding them on all sides. He dared a peek up through his eyelashes to take in the sight. At least six men, all muscled and close-clipped as Master Zachary, grabbing each other’s asses, pinching nipples, seizing hard, biting kisses. Each one’s grin was equally predatory as they reluctantly separated to obey Zachary’s bidding. If they weren’t playing a game he’d think they were vicious, as if they looked forward to biting chunks out of his hide.

  Hands, too many of them to count, pawed down his shoulders, arms, back, and across his ass and hips. Murmurs of “Oh, yeah” and “What a pretty little boy” filled his ears under the thrumming of the music, the deep bass beat and the electronic tempo. He couldn’t help swaying, caught up in its spell.

  “You like the music, don’t you, Shamrock?” Zachary asked, pulling Simon closer to him. “Love the way it feels, racing through your veins. Makes you hot, makes you horny, makes you hard.” He groped Simon’s stiffened cock as best he could in the PVC pants, slowly molding themselves to him as the material warmed up.

  Simon nodded, his head as loose on his neck as a broken daisy stem, lazy and drunk on sound and sensation. “It’s wonderful,” he breathed. “I never dreamed.”

  Zachary dealt him a cuff to the jaw. Simon flinched and almost reared back to protest, but no. No, it hadn’t really hurt, and this was all part of the game, wasn’t it? He couldn’t break the scene, not without driving his admirers away. He couldn’t bear it if they left him all alone. Not now, not when he was as high on their interest as he’d seen men on uncut cocaine.

  “Did I say you could talk, Shamrock?” Zachary growled. “No? You’ll know better next time, won’t you?” He pushed Simon a few steps away from him, laughing as he staggered. “You want to dance, don’t you? Nod yes or no.”

  Simon hesitated, then tentatively nodded.

  “Good boy.” He sensed Zachary look around at his friends, forming a circle around Simon. “So, dance. Show us what you’ve got.”

  Simon stood frozen with a sudden twinge of fear.

  “Go on, Shamrock,” Zachary warned, his voice promising punishment and pain. “Dance.”

  Simon swallowed down his doubts and uncertainties. He took a deep breath, letting the music fill him.

  And, all alone within a ring of men, he raised his arms and danced.

  The Last Chance Bar & Grill roared with laughter.

  “Oh, my God! He looks like a chicken with its head cut off!”

  “I thought I didn’t have any sense of rhythm.”

  “Man, how can any one person be that bad?”

  “He must have sucked up all the spazz vibes everyone else checked at the door.”

  Hoots and howls and high-fives sounded behind Finn, who decided, right about then, he -- had -- had -- quite -- enough -- thank you. Slamming his beer down onto the table, he noticed with satisfaction that he’d put enough force into it to make the can crumple.

  Sudden silence drowned the Chancers as he made for the doorway. So he might not be able to get any further than the ashtrays just outside the entrance. He could at least be there when Simon showed up, and maybe be a pair of sympathetic arms for the man to run into.

  Besides, he couldn’t bear to see what would happen next. Bad enough he could hear the roars of hilarity not from the Chancers, but from the view screen, which had chosen that moment to give one of its rare doses of sound feed-through. A circle of men, cruel bastards to an inch, were laughing their foul asses off at Simon, who’d only wanted to have a good time.

  At his Simon.

  Finn’s brows lowered and he stalked onward, so deep in his black mood that he didn’t notice Amour Magique was letting him in until he realized he was turning a corner. The club was allowing him to exit from Last Chance.

  He stopped stock-still, frozen. “Holy shit!” he murmured, almost too amazed to move.

  Not quite, though. He considered it far the better part of valor to run on as fast as he could, before whoever or whatever decided that turning him loose had been a mistake or realized he’d broken out of the paranormal Alcatraz. He had better things to do than stick around and wait to be caught, thanks.

  He had Simon, a sweet Shamrock, to find and tangle in his own, much kinder sort of web.

  All that glitters is not gold, Simon thought dizzily as he staggered away from the dance floor, legs like rubber beneath him. He cursed his clumsiness, then blamed it on his shattered nerves and kept on going. He had his gaze fixed on the double doors, and he didn’t plan to stop until he was back outside and safe again -- or safer at least.

  In tune with the shouts of vicious, gleeful laughter following hot on his heels, Simon giggled to himself, the sound a little crazy even to his ears. I thought I would shine, his jumbled thoughts formed into sentences chiming inside his mind. I thought I’d gleam like gold. But they showed me the truth -- I’m a tarnished old brass ring. No one knows what those are anymore, and no one wants to grab them. Instead, they use them to yank your chains and show you how archaic you really are.

  He’d done as Mas-- no, Zachary, the bastard! -- had asked. He’d danced his best for the group of men, and he’d been lost in the beauty of the sound and fluidity of his muscles, but then ... then ... He’d heard them start to cackle. Forgetting himself long enough to look up in surprise, he’d seen a look he recognized all too well on every haughtily handsome face -- scorn, derision. High school-maturity pointing and grinning at the trained ape making a fool of himself to try and win their favor. When he’d stopped dancing in shock, he’d stumbled, landing flat on his ass.

  Oh, they’d really laughed then. Almost fallen down themselves, hanging on to each other for support, the pack of jackals.

  Zachary alone had stood tall, his grin cold and cruel. “Go back home, normal,” he’d said, each word sharp enough to cut, digging deep. “No one wants you here, even if you have wrapped yourself up like a present. Get out of this place and go where you belong, Loser. You’ve probably even lost out on your Last Chance.”

  He’d even kicked at Simon, huddled on the floor. “Go on, or if you have the balls, stay and let me and my boys take what we can from you.” Zachary had leered, no longer an appealing look, but a terrifying one. “Do you want that, Shamrock? Hmm? Want us to pass you around like a toy? The way you’re dressed, I bet you’d be glad to give us anything we want. Suck my cock, lick his ass, take one up your hole while another goes down your throat and --”

  The air had escaped from Simon’s lungs in a noisy gasp. He’d skittered backward, crab-crawling on the floor. Zachary had exploded with mirth.

  “Thought you were just mutton pretending to be a lamb,” he mocked. “Go on, get! Go before we decide to take you without bothering to ask what you want, Amour’s rules be damned. Go!”

  And Simon had gone, never before in his entire life so humiliated as he was just then. All he’d
wanted to do was run, run, run, get away from there. Shed his stupid, idiotic costume and hide himself back in the three-piece suit. Scrub off his makeup and comb his hair back into neat precision. Put on the mask and armor that he knew too well. At least if people scorned him then, he’d have a reason why, and he could to fight back.

  Yanking open the doors that would take him off the main dance floor, Simon charged forward -- and banged directly into another body, a warm, male body, almost knocking the other man to the floor. The stranger cursed loudly and fluently in what sounded like Gaelic as he stumbled back a few steps, then -- looked up to meet Simon eye-to-eye.

  Both men stopped, utterly still. Simon felt his lips falling slightly, softly apart. Dear God. He’d thought Zachary’s rough bluntness attractive? He could never compare with this man, whom Simon had almost pile-driven over.

  Tall and slender, he was, though his bare forearms were as toned as Simon’s own, and pale as sweet milk with a dusting of freckles and a tangled mess of sunny red hair. His eyes, green as some exotic sea, stared back at Simon with shock, quickly changing to amazement and -- no, he didn’t dare trust it -- delight?

  The music seemed to stop, filling their ears with nothing but silence and the sound of one another breathing. The Irish stranger’s hand reached up slowly, shaking a bit, reaching out to touch Simon, to pull him close --

  Simon’s nerve broke. Stifling a low cry, he barreled past the man, running as fast and hard as he could away from him. He didn’t dare trust anyone. He’d known it once, and he’d learned his lesson six times over again this night.

  He ran, knowing only one thing for sure.

  He had to escape the clutches of Amour.

  Chapter Five

  Escape, yes, sure, escape would be wonderful, but where on earth -- or in Amour Magique -- could Simon go? Wait -- the washroom, where he’d left his suit. Unless someone had stolen it, blessed salvation lay waiting for him, neatly folded up in the paper bag tucked beneath a sink.

  If he could get there, he could get out of his awful, stupid, humiliating leather straps and stiff pants and peel off the three-times-thrice bedamned cock ring, just about to slide off his cock, flaccid as it was.

  Yes. He had to get out of this outfit. If he could only put his regular clothes back on, they would serve to protect him well. He’d be able to cope again, to face the world as Simon the Lawyer, leaving Simon the Stupid, Simple Simon, in his pit of shame back there on the main dance floor.

  He’d known coming to Amour Magique was a bad idea! Damn Liam!

  “Hey, stop, man. Stop!” the Irishman blurted behind him.

  Simon continued in a dead run for the men’s room. It shouldn’t be far. Just off the front entrance, and then --

  But there wasn’t --

  What the ...?

  As Simon passed the bank of phones, he screeched to a dead halt for the space of a breath. The rest room was gone!

  He hadn’t forgotten where it was -- he was absolutely sure of that. For heaven’s sake, the Jamaican and his mocha lover were still necking in a pay booth! But where the facilities had been, there was now nothing but a blank space of wall with a startlingly graphic piece of erotic art under a warm yellow light. Golden. Welcoming. Scary as hell -- a sub bound up in leather straps, kneeling before his Master’s cock.

  Simon panicked.

  Turning on his heel, he raced as fast as he could in the next available direction, back past the phones -- ignoring the Jamaican’s startled cry of, “Hey, man! What’s wrong?” -- and down a long corridor decorated with yet more art under gilded lights, each one an act that he’d dreamed of late at night, safe and alone.

  Slaves beneath their Master’s crops or paddles. Masters etching words into tender flesh with sharpened feather quills. Subs on St. Andrew’s crosses, their faces full of joy. Masters resting their hands on slaves’ shoulders, approving of them, allowing them to suck their cocks, nestle their heads against their Masters’ legs, loving and being loved. Each one of them drawn with reverent attention and respect and awe for what they depicted. Works of erotic art that a museum would kill to own.

  Simon couldn’t stop himself from glancing at each painting as he passed, but he looked away from them with a small, sharp moan of misery. What a fool he’d been! He could win prizes for being the moron of the year.

  Desperately scanning each side of the hall, he searched for a bathroom, a coat closet, a janitor’s cubby. Somewhere he could compose himself. Any place where he could hide until the club closed, and he could sneak out alone. Tuck his misery and humiliation away in a box within his mind, lock it, and throw away the key. Bottle it up and shove a cork in good and tight.

  He couldn’t allow himself to keep thinking about the laughter of Zachary and his bully boys. Neither could he let himself dwell on what a fool he must have looked, all decked out in his “sub special.” What an idiot he had been, to imagine for one second he could present himself as young, attractive, or the least little bit desirable.

  “Wait! Hey, wait, wait!”

  Simon stiffened. The Irishman! Calling to him. From the sounds of things, his feet were pounding along the carpet, running to catch up.

  Oh, no. Oh, God, no. The man had said “wait” -- and Simon found himself almost frantic to escape. He wouldn’t let himself be embarrassed again. Finding a new burst of strength, he added some speed and zoomed away down the corridor, determined that he would find some bolt-hole to flee into.

  Anything but face another living person, even -- especially -- the Irishman!

  Simon ran as if his life depended on it.

  A small, warm hand had seized Finn by the upper arm.

  “Hey! Hey, there. What’s happened? What’s gone wrong?”

  Finn had done a double-take as the voice faded from a rich Jamaican accent to another, one made up of thousands of cultural influences, nothing you could pin down but as sexually inflaming as Spanish fly for the libido. Whipping his head around on his neck as if it were a pivot, he’d stared down and seen -- Liam.

  Finn almost had the urge to bow and give honor. He might have, if Liam hadn’t given his arm an impatient shake. “You are the leprechaun, yes? The one with a so-unfortunate height problem? From Last Chance?”

  When he nodded, the incubus got a determined look on his face that would have sent lesser men yelping into the night -- if they hadn’t been dead set on giving poor Simon a hand. Sensing Liam had much the same in mind. Finn paused a second to wonder how he knew that, then figured to hell with it. He’d suss out the details later.

  “They made a mockery of him,” Finn said hoarsely, jabbing his free thumb at the dance floor doors. “He needs comforting, yeah?”

  Liam eyed him up and down. “Comforting, yes. More than he knows, he also needs to cede control and let another person take the reins. In submitting, he will come into his power.”

  “Natural born sub, then, eh?”

  Liam slitted his gaze. “And I suppose you would know from the Master’s point of view.” It wasn’t a question, or an insult. Three more heartbeats thudded past, then the incubus nodded. “I was right. You can be the one to help him. Go to him, Finn, once of Ireland. Rescue him from himself and bring him into a better life.” He slapped one petite fist between Finn’s shoulder blades. “Go!”

  And Finn went. Yelling after Simon all the way.

  It was only when Simon put on the Road Runner burst of speed and became a blur in motion that Finn realized what he’d been doing. He stopped long enough to slap himself brutally hard on the forehead.

  Eejit! Of course he’s running like the devil’s on his heels, considering the curse your words always bring! Use your big head, man, and think!

  Finn looked up. Simon had vanished around a corner. He swore, silently, lest anything more absolutely awful happened, then started his chase again. He wasn’t a shape-shifter so he couldn’t track by scent, but he could see fresh, hasty footprints in the freshly-vacuumed carpet. And by gods and begorra, he’d find Simon
once more.

  And when he did? Well ... he’d be careful with his mouth and pray that Simon understood.

  Given his luck, though, he didn’t hold out a great deal of hope.

  Restraining a groan, Finn flew onward, following his would-be-conquest’s footsteps.

  Simon wasn’t even looking for a bolt-hole anymore. The impetus was on him to run, run, run and not turn around to see if anyone was following. He knew someone was, and it made his chest squeeze with the incipient signs of a panic attack to imagine some beast all but on his heels.

  This is stupid, a tiny corner of his mind tried to argue. There’s no one coming after you except that Irishman and, come on, face it, you think he’s more than handsome -- he’s beautiful. You want him, and you know it. Why don’t you stop, let him catch up and just see what he has to say for himself? Give him a chance. Come on!

  Simon shook his head and kept running. A stitch in his side added to the pain he felt in his chest, but he couldn’t stop. Terrified, he suddenly began to wonder if he’d ever be able to come to a rest, or if this was some twisted version of “The Red Shoes.” Just as the poor fairy-tale child had been made to dance forever, he’d be running from the dance forever.

  And what exactly was the situation here in this strangest of clubs? As long and as far as he’d been running, more or less in a straight line with a few rights and lefts here and there, he ought to have been halfway to the old district of town by now.

  Instead, he was still firmly ensconced within Amour Magique, tearing a path down hallways full of incredibly erotic art. Art that, despite his terror and his need for speed, aroused him until the cock ring squeezed tight again. A unique agony, given how he happened to be sprinting for his life at the same time.

  He would have laughed but it wasn’t funny at all from his perspective. Chased to death while he had a hard-on fit to break some rocks!

  “Hey!” a frighteningly familiar voice sounded some distance back. “Hey, you! Simon!”