The Brotherhood 4: Good Luck Piece Read online

Simon’s heart bucked and squeezed. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God -- the Irishman had found him! He knew he shouldn’t be as terrified as he was, but he couldn’t help it.

  It would come down to a contest of blows, he knew it. He thought he was a little taller than his pursuer, but they’d be equally matched in mass and muscle. It would be a close and dangerous thing.

  Why was he planning for a fight? For all he knew, the man just wanted to tell him he was heading toward staff-only areas of the club. But he couldn’t believe him that innocent. Better to be prepared. Far, far better. So he needed -- a weapon. Yes, something to fight with. He didn’t think the Irishman had anything but his own two hands.

  What could he ... ah!

  Simon reached up and jerked hard at the leather bands across his chest, yanking and tugging until, with a wet, living snap! they broke free and the mass of them slithered, tentacle-like, into his hands. Now his chest was bare and all the more vulnerable, but he could wind the bands’ ends around one fist and use them as a whip if need be.

  Still running, he practiced one whish-crack! through the air. It made a deeply satisfying noise, although the thought of using it on someone, even a man bent on chasing him down like a dog, made his stomach flip with nausea. He wasn’t one who wanted to do the whipping ...

  No. No! He had to keep his head on straight. Had to keep going. Surely he’d come to an exit sooner or later. There had to be a way out into the Charleston night.

  Didn’t there?

  Holy mother of ... Finn’s tongue almost unfurled like the wolf from those old cartoons as Simon unexpectedly ripped off his vest-like get-up of straps, bits and bobs, leaving a nicely firm back right above a seriously shapely ass and two fine, sturdy legs with muscles working ever so nicely as he fled. Not to forget gloriously bare arms pumping with the rhythm of a habitual jogger, someone who knew how to run and do it right ... er, yeah, that was a bit of a shame, given the current situation.

  But ye gods and little fishhooks! If Simon hadn’t upgraded himself from cordon bleu to filet mignon with that little maneuver. Finn was so entranced by keeping an eye on the man while both of them ran that he almost missed what Simon was doing with the strips of leather until he heard them crack! against the air.

  His hackles raised. Oh, no. No proper sub would ever dare take up the whip. And Simon was going to be his sub, yes, indeed he was, but Finn planned to be a proper Master. None of this humiliating, sharing round-about, and cruel jokes for him. He’d give Simon his head when he needed it in public; in private, he’d love him and lash him until they were ready to fuck each other through the floor ...

  A bolt of pure lust shocked through Finn’s loins. His already swollen cock gave a jump for joy at the mental image of Simon on his knees, head bowed, not in fear but in love and respect. Easy! he scolded it. Hard enough to run fast enough to keep up with Simon without being ... hard.

  He just prayed Simon kept everything else on.

  Once again, Finn’s mouth jumped ahead of his brain. “Those pants had better stay on,” he muttered, “but even if they don’t, I think I can keep a hold of myself ...”

  R-r-r-r-r-r-i-p-p-p-p-p-p-p!

  Both Simon and Finn came to a momentary, terrified stop as Simon’s PVC and plastic trousers fell apart at their seams, flapping and slapping down around his feet and leaving him in nothing but what he’d been born with. Simon’s head turned around, and Finn got a good look at the horror on his face. He opened his mouth, as if to apologize --

  -- and the second proviso of his ill-wishing kicked in.

  Loosing a roar from the very pit of his belly, Finn’s id took over, and what it wanted, right away, no waiting, was Simon, on his knees, taking Finn’s own hardened cock deep down his throat. If Simon thought he’d been running fast, Finn would just see what kind of match the man was for a leprechaun with his own pot of gold in sight!

  Simon kicked off the remains of his pants, then fled again. All the same it didn’t look like the race would last too much longer. Just ahead of them, far enough that the sounds of feet pounding and breath heaving lasted fit to drive Finn mad with insensate lust, but close enough that he knew he’d developed a maniacal grin of glee, was the end of the road, a dead end. No rights, no lefts, just a full stop to a blank wall. Bless Amour Magique and all her quirks!

  An inner voice screeched at Finn, all but yanking at his ears to get his attention.

  You’re gonna scare the poor man witless, you fool! He’s had quite enough to deal with tonight without having a ravening Irish boggart chewing at his heels! How much do you think he’ll enjoy being forced to his knees, all but raped, while your own ill-wishing does irreparable harm?

  And, hey, here’s this -- what d’you think Liam is gonna do to you and your family jewels when he finds out you abused his friend? Eh? Think on that, you gormless tit!

  Finn struggled to catch hold of that screaming harpy, at first wanting to smash it silent against the wall, but then realizing it spoke the truth.

  Calm, he had to calm down, and he had to say the words. Change his ill-wishing, even if it confused and alarmed poor Simon. Better a little bafflement than a full-body bashing or worse.

  Apparently, Simon had recognized the dead end for what it was, too, for he had his hands out to brace himself for impact when he banged smack into it. Rebounding just a bit, still light on his feet like a natural runner, he sucked in deep and lusty breaths, his shoulders working, then turned to face Finn straight on, head held high.

  Head high and proud, and erection very much to the fore, wrapped up pretty as you please in a leather-and-silver cock ring. Finn came to a halt himself, fixated on and fascinated by the sight of Simon’s prick. A finer specimen he’d never seen, and he’d seen many a pecker in all his years. Simon’s was long enough to impress, but not to go playing hockey with, thick enough to make a man’s mouth water, but not to make him want to cross his legs and squeak.

  The smell rising off him was pure honest sweat and male musk and, for those who could scent such things, courage rising triumphant over terror. Finn looked at Simon’s face, at the frightened eyes, the firm-set lips, the stubborn chin, and knew. Here was a man who knew he might go down, but by God, he’d do it with some dignity.

  If he’d had a hat, Finn would have whipped it off in respect for the man’s balls. Which, by the way, were wonderfully shaped, full and heavy, and ... He shook himself.

  Back on task, man, back on task.

  Slowly, forcing the words through lips that didn’t care to cooperate, he said, “I am not responsible for what I do.”

  Sweet relief swept over him. Whining and howling, his disappointed inner sex beast crept back to its cave within his psyche, leaving only the Irishman to deal with the sub who had long and lovely legs. Tension ebbed almost tangibly from the air, so much so that Finn realized even Simon could feel it.

  Frowning, the man demanded, bold and brave in his need for answers, “What just happened? Who are you?”

  Finn opened his mouth to explain -- then shut it in dismay. Oh, by all the gods. How the hell could he explain himself to anyone non-paranormal and have a prayer of being believed when every truth was a lie, and every lie the truth?

  How did he get himself into fixes like this?

  Chapter Six

  Well, this is another fine mess. Only you, Finn, only you. Face to face in Amour Magique with a man who’s got the balls to stand up to you -- and may I say again ’cause it bears repeating, some delightfully fine balls they are -- and you’re frozen to the spot like a brainless nit.

  Look at him! You think you got off on giving chase? Dare say he got off on being caught. His cock, your cock, fully cocked and loaded. So pull the trigger, man, and go boom, would you? It’s been long enough and that’s a fact.

  Finn scowled at his inner leprechaun, which was wagging its finger coyly at him. Sod off, you prick. How exactly am I supposed to get close enough to get him to let his guard down? I’ve got this little problem with my speech patterns
, or hadn’t you noticed after what, five, six hundred years? I can’t tell him to believe me, or he’ll be convinced I’m the worst liar ever.

  Can’t tell him I won’t hurt him, ’cause then he’ll have a heart attack from fear right before I rip him into gooey shreds. And if I play by the rules of this tongue-tie, he might do as I want, but I know he won’t connect words to actions, or even if he does, he’ll be terrified and confused.

  Bugger it! Bloody, fucking bugger it!

  As the thoughts raced through his mind, Finn drank in his fill of the vision that was Simon. Just the sort of man he fancied, on his own accord. Older, no callow youth or dangerous jailbait, and probably experienced, knowing what he liked and how to help another fellow get off to their satisfaction.

  Not bulgy as a stack of rocks piled together, then lightly coated with flesh. Just nicely toned, with muscles that were defined, not sharp-edged. A grand face, just the sort made for smiling or for being serious. He pictured it grimacing in the throes of passion, man’s ugliest and most beautiful expression, and went weak in the knees.

  Then, there was that delicious subby side he’d shown off earlier. Finn did love a round of “Master and slave.” To find someone like Simon, who enjoyed the play, yet promised to be a fantastic partner otherwise ... well, it seemed like a dream come true.

  Finn knew better than to believe in such good luck. There was always some little catch. Take, for example, his current situation: one hundred percent unable to convey a word of what he was thinking to Simon, lest he frighten the man to death or put him off the taste of Irish for life.

  Even now, Simon was looking nervously from left to right. Gauging whether or not he should make a break for it, no doubt. Finn’s pulse began to gallop. No, no -- he couldn’t have Simon slipping loose now, before he’d even had a chance to try his bad luck fortune.

  An idea occurred to him. “Run,” Finn said, his voice low and sultry. Dangerous.

  Simon blinked once, twice and again -- and settled down to stay put, even though his face registered fear. “Who are you?” he repeated. “No -- what are you?”

  Ah, God, he’d have to ask, wouldn’t he? Desperate, Finn tossed aside his worries and just went for broke. What could it hurt? He was sure to lose the tasty Simon anyway, so he might as well let ’er rip.

  It always hurt less when the wound was sharp and swift.

  “You don’t want to be here with me,” the Irishman said, moving stealthily closer to Simon. Simon stared at him, baffled. All the cues of human nature he’d learned through life and in the courtroom were belied by the differences between what the man said and how he moved and acted. His words signaled danger, but they made Simon feel warm and content, sleepy and sluggish and happy to stay put.

  Added to that, the man’s expression and demeanor suggested he was trying his best to put Simon at his ease and coax him to stay and listen. It made no sense at all, and in a way, it was worse than what Zachary had done. That had been a trick easily figured out, once he’d gotten a clue. Here, with this Irishman, Simon had no idea which set of cues were the real ones.

  He edged backward automatically, stopping when the Irishman looked surprised. “What’s your name?” he blurted.

  The man’s eyes widened. He paused, then bit off one syllable. “Finn.”

  “You’re Finn?”

  Finn winced. “No,” he said, sounding dejected.

  Simon shook his head, baffled. “I’ll call you Finn, then.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  This was beginning to make Simon’s head hurt. “Do you enjoy confusing the wits out of people?” he snapped.

  Woeful hangdog expression. “Yes.”

  Simon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. More than not understanding a thing about Finn’s moves and words, he couldn’t begin to fathom his own reactions. It was as if ... as if ... everything Finn said gave him a definite opposite response. If Finn told him to run for his life, that there was a dragon behind him, Simon felt sure he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from turning around to give a cheery wave into its vicious maw.

  What was going on? He had to understand. There had to be a key, a clue, an answer somewhere ...

  “Let me talk,” he said abruptly. “You nod yes or no. My name is Simon. Someone told you who I was. Yes?”

  Finn boggled at him. After a moment, not seeming quite to believe he could handle this, the Irishman nodded yes.

  It was a start. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  Finn seemed to be fighting within himself, given the expressions that flashed across his face. Finally, he shook his head no.

  Simon paused for thought. He looked ruefully down at himself. “I’m going at this like you’re on the witness stand,” he murmured, “but I don’t think I’ve ever been less appropriately dressed for court.”

  Unexpectedly, Finn grinned. Simon arched a look up at him. “You ... like this, don’t you? Like seeing me in the all together.”

  Pause and struggle, then a nod.

  “But it isn’t your goal to embarrass me, is it?” Simon probed.

  Pause. Shake of the head.

  “Why did you come after me?” Simon regretted the open-ended question the instant he saw Finn’s expression twist in misery. He struggled for a way to rephrase it, but his thoughts were broken by a soft and ragged whisper.

  “I had to make you run.”

  Finn looked unhappy as a man possibly could, shrinking in on himself in an effort to look harmless. Simon eyed him sharply. “Am I crazy?”

  Vigorous shake.

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Definite nod.

  “Then here’s my theory, as outlandish as it might seem -- you can’t tell the truth. Or rather, you can, but everything you say has the opposite effect. If you told me I was sane, I’d be convinced I was a lunatic. Am I right?”

  Finn regarded Simon with wonder. Nod.

  “What sort of place is this?” Simon growled, placing his hands on his hips. He winced as the movement jarred his stubbornly persistent erection, still jutting out swollen, proud, and dark purple with arousal.

  God, he couldn’t help it! Just looking at Finn, even through all his contortions, sent Simon’s lust into overdrive. Slim yet strong, tall and well-shaped, sunset-red hair that begged to be tangled further by hands running through it ... not to mention that hard-on tenting the front of his loose jeans. If he wanted Finn, he somehow knew that no matter what Finn might say, the Irishman wanted him even more.

  It was crazy. Insane. It made no sense at all. But Simon thought he was beginning to understand. Amour Magique was a place where everyday common sense did not greatly apply. Liam had said anything could happen within the club’s walls. He had an inkling of how very right the little man had been.

  Had Liam known, Simon wondered. Known that he would come face to face with this mystifying Irishman? He’d have to collar Liam for an answer. But later, later. Right now, he had a riddle to solve. And he thought he had an idea worth attempting.

  “If I understand the way this works,” he said slowly, feeling his way, “it’s the listener who determines how your words affect them.” He tapped his chin in thought. “Try this, Finn. Tell me I won’t believe a word you say, and that I’ll be terrified of anything you tell me about yourself.”

  Finn’s eyes grew wide as saucers. He gaped for a moment, almost making Simon want to laugh, then stammered, “You won’t believe a thing I’ve got to say. I’ll scare you half to death with anything I have to tell.”

  There was a moment of silence. Somewhere off in the distance, someone dropped a tray of glasses or perhaps smashed a mirror. Mirror? Simon frowned. Why had he likened the sound to ... something about seven years of luck. Good or bad? He felt odd, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders. Like the air was cleaner and easier to breathe. He turned to Finn, wanting an explanation -- but the man seemed gobsmacked. The Irishman must have felt it, too. Simon thought that if he were a superstitious man, he’
d have sworn it felt like a curse was being revoked.

  Finn was blinking, working his jaw as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say next. “You ... you can understand me now,” he ventured carefully.

  Simon weighed his own response. Yes, the words had come through loud and clear. “I can,” he said. “Go on. Who are you? What are you?”

  Finn blushed, the way only a true redhead could, crimson from his ear tips, spreading down his neck. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m a ... a leprechaun.”

  Simon stared, then burst into laughter. Laughter that took him over from top to toe, bending him nearly double. His erection protested the vigorous movement, and the pain almost brought him to a stop with a yelp, but he couldn’t help it. “A ... leprechaun?” he gasped. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

  Finn glowered and shook his head.

  “Forgive me.” Still chuckling, Simon straightened up, wiping his eyes. “Aren’t you a bit tall for a leprechaun? Say, by about four or five feet? Where’s your pot of gold? Your yellow stars, blue moons, green horseshoes --”

  “I’m not the fuckin’ cereal elf!” Finn burst out bitterly. “I swear, if I could get my hands on the bastard who came up with that marketing idea ...” He gritted his teeth. “Leprechaun. Yeah. S’me, it’s what I am, only it’s not what I do.

  “I’ve got a height problem, you see, as you so kindly pointed out. I lost my pot of gold to the first prick who came looking for it, and I bungled nine out of ten wishes my first days out in the world. This would be several hundred years ago, in case you’re wondering. So they kicked me out of Eire and sent me wandering the world.”

  Simon’s grin was still broad and smirky, but at least he was paying attention, and trying not to burst into another fit of giggles or hysterics at believing Finn was indeed a creature of legend, albeit a rather fractured fairy tale. “How did you end up here?”

  Finn blushed. “Er ... Amour Magique’s a bit special. I’m guessing you’ve figured out as much? Yeah. It’s been around longer than I have. Jumps about from place to place. Whenever I find it, I come and have a drink.