Twisted Fate: A Reverse Harem Urban Fantasy (The Harlequin's Harem Book 1)

by Tansey Morgan

  I shook my head. “Yours and my definition of perfect are totally different.”

  “Whatever. If you aren’t going to encourage this, then I’ll have to do it on my own.” Lucia turned around to face the mirror, pushed her breasts up, then turned around and grabbed the tray with the three beers she had just poured. With a wink, she said, “Watch the queen at work.”

  “Luce, no!” I hissed, but she was already gone, wiggling her ass all the way to table nine, and as much as I loathed the idea of her trying to get their numbers, I also couldn’t look away. She was in many ways like a predator, only she didn’t use claws to trap and kill her victims; she used her sexuality.

  I watched her flirt, and smile, and lean appropriately close to Mister Manager while giving the tattooed one a view of her ass. With her dark skin and long, flowing black hair which she also kept in a tail while she worked, she was reminiscent of a panther hunting in the jungle, and they were all lesser creatures, lapping her up. What I would have given for a sliver of her confidence… although I would never tell her that, though. No need to inflate her ego more than it already was.

  Having said, when I looked over at Mister Manager, I caught his eyes bearing down on… me, not Lucia.

  When she was done getting what she wanted, she turned around and started on her way back to the bar, stopping at table one to collect their finished plates, and then dropping them at the window to the kitchen. She shot me a smug look as she walked behind me and went over to the till, but I couldn’t help noticing she hadn’t come back with a piece of paper and three numbers on it.

  “Did you just fail?” I asked.

  “Nope,” she said, grinning, “We’re going out.”

  “What? You and which one?”

  “Us, and all three, tonight after work. You’re definitely going to have to watch Survivor tomorrow, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “N—”

  I was about to object, but Lucia pressed her hand against my mouth again. “Nope. You’re coming, and that’s final. It’s gonna be a really good night, and you’re gonna thank me in the morning when you’re waking up next to one of those beautiful men.”

  She released my mouth. “As if,” I said, “They don’t want anything to do with me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  The phone rang again, and Lucia answered it. As she did that, I walked around the restaurant clearing checks and tables, answering requests for more drinks, more ketchup, and more complimentary bread and butter—we made the softest in-house rolls this side of the Mississippi, and no one else on the street could claim that.

  Every once in a while, I would feel a set of eyes on me, and whenever I’d glance back, there was a chance I would catch one of those guys looking at me, maybe figuring me out, or sizing me up, I wasn’t sure. In the end I decided to go out with Lucia and those three good looking men, not because I thought it would be good fun, but because I didn’t trust those guys, and I needed to make sure Lucia was going to be okay. New Orleans did have the highest missing person per-capita in the entire United States, after all.

  Tonight wasn’t going to be the night, as the feeling I’d had suggested; it was going to be a long night, and there was a difference.

  CHAPTER TWO

  They had waited until our shift was over. They had waited. That meant two things; one, they really didn’t want to let us out of their sight, and two, I wouldn’t have a chance to go home and get changed before going out for a few drinks. I didn’t understand why I was even considering going home and getting changed, given that I didn’t even want to go out tonight, but there I was, wanting to make sure I looked good for a night out in Crescent City, but actually looking like a frazzled farmer after a long, sweltering day in the sun.

  Lucia, however, looked smoking hot as always. Where I had a tendency to wear the same pair of faded, ripped grey jeans and a different top—tonight it was a black tank top—, picked out not necessarily by how good it looked but by comfortable it was depending on the ambient temperature and humidity, Lucia seemed to not be motivated by the same worries as me. When she stepped out of the back, wearing a mustard yellow crop top and a pair of denim short-shorts, showing more legs, arms, and stomach than I ever had in my life, I almost wondered what chance I had with any of those three guys.

  It’s not too late to run home and catch Survivor, you know…

  “Ready?” Lucia asked as she hopped over to where I was standing.

  Reapplying my red lipstick seemed like a waste of time now, but I did it anyway because why not? “One drink,” I said, staring at her through the mirror. “I’m giving this one drink, and then I’m going home.”

  “Isn’t that what you said the last time the two of us went out?”

  “I don’t remember anything about that night.”

  Lucia winked and took my arm. “Maybe not, but I do, and you had an awesome time. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  The restaurant was still busy as we walked past it, the next shift having fully taken over from Lucia and I. Outside, the three men were waiting, talking amongst themselves. It occurred to me I didn’t even know their names yet, and that I’d have to ask for them even though I’d spent at least an hour waiting on their table, except for the time Lucia had brought them their beers and secured this quintet of a date.

  Seriously, if you run, you can make it.

  “Ok, you go out and talk to them,” Lucia said, snapping me out of my own mind, “I’ve gotta hand the keys over to Jada.”

  “Me? Talk to them?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said, hurrying me out the door.

  I hadn’t been looking forward, too busy trying to stop Lucia from shoving me, so I didn’t see the large tower of muscle I was about to bump into until I did. He spun around when we bumped and reached a hand out to stop me from tumbling any further. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I caught myself staring into his magnificent, almond shaped eyes. Earlier I had called them hazel, but that descriptor didn’t do them justice. They were in fact green, a clear green, and flecked with gold. In the sunlight, I thought, they would look incredible, mesmerizing, but even now under the harsh light of fluorescent street lamps, they were stunning to look at.

  My cheeks flushed bright red, though luckily this was barely noticeable in the dim, ambient night light. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, “I just tripped on the step.”

  “Step?” He scanned around me and, obviously, didn’t find one. I had made it up.

  “Yeah… it’s there. I, uh, didn’t catch your name. Any of your names, actually.”

  “Logan.” He offered me one of his large hands and I took it, shaking firmly. “This is Eli,” he said, pointing at the other big guy in their party, “That’s Damon.”

  Damon, Logan, and Elijah… could those names be any hotter?

  “It’s really great to meet you all,” I said, struggling to make eye-contact. “So, um, Lucy tells me we’re going out?”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Eli said, his accent southern—local, “What do you think about going for drinks on Bourbon Street?”

  I arched an eyebrow. “I think that’s for tourists.”

  Eli clasped his hands together in a praying gesture. “Yes, thank you. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell these two. You don’t go partying on Bourbon Street unless you’re a tourist.”

  “But we are tourists,” Damon said, his voice cool, almost cold.

  “Not as long as you’re with us you aren’t,” Eli said, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, “You let the locals take care of you and you’ll have an awesome time in New Orleans. Am I right?”

  He smells so good. The mesmerizing scent of his cologne wrapped me up and sent me into the clouds. Not only did he look like a man who enjoyed taking care of himself, and in fact was incredibly meticulous about the way he presented himself, he also smelled like a million dollars, and now he had his arm around me, too. I had to remind myself to speak, to even breathe.

/>   “That’s right,” I said, “New Orleans is bigger than the French Quarter. You go party on Bourbon Street, you’re asking to get scammed.”

  “Scammed?” Logan asked, folding his arms in front of his chest. “How?”

  Eli turned his eyes down at me and grinned. “You wanna take this one?” he asked.

  I looked at Logan, eyeing him up and down. “Alright… so, I’ll bet you five dollars I can tell you where you got your shoes.”

  “My shoes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright, you’re on.” Logan stretched his hand out, and I shook it for the second time, this time noticing just how warm his touch was. It was as if he carried a furnace inside of him.

  A smirk crept across my face. “You got them on your feet.”

  “On my… feet?” Logan asked.

  Damon turned his head to the side, revealing a faint sliver of a smile.

  “Pay up,” I said, holding my hand out.

  “Wait a second,” Logan said, “You told me you could tell me where I got my shoes from.”

  “I didn’t say from—only where you got your shoes. You didn’t listen to what I said.”

  Logan narrowed his eyes, but then grinned at me while rummaging around in his pocket for his wallet. “Alright, that’s a good one,” he said, fishing a five dollar bill out and handing it over.

  “You just got scammed by a local,” Eli said, “Congratulations, you’re a statistic now.”

  I took my winnings and stuffed it into my pocket.

  “You took the money?” Damon asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you just scammed him.”

  “I did, but we still had a deal, and a deal is a deal. Little bit of free advice for you guys, never let anyone hang a set of beads on your neck outside of Mardi Gras. It’ll peg you as a mark, and you’ll get hit by every scammer in the French Quarter.”

  My heart was racing as I spoke. I hadn’t realized it until then, but my chest was starting to tremble. I wasn’t sure exactly why my heart rate was elevated, though it could only have been because of the company I was keeping. Maybe it was the confidence with which I was speaking, or the way I had just fake-scammed Logan, or maybe it was just the fact that I had their undivided attention, and I had never felt quite as captivating as I was feeling then.

  All of the above?

  Lucia joined us, then, stepping out of the restaurant with a spring in her step. “What’s this I hear about a party on Bourbon Street?”

  “Andi has suggested we don’t do that,” Damon said, “But we haven’t been given an alternative.”

  “Oh, she did, did she? Good call. I know a place where we can go for a few drinks and a little music.”

  “You talking about Wake?” Lucia asked.

  “The Wake?” Eli asked, “I’ve never heard of that place.”

  “It’s on the other side of the French Quarter.”

  “I thought you said we shouldn’t party on Bourbon Street,” Logan said.

  “The French Quarter is bigger than Bourbon Street, big guy. Trust me.”

  “Is it far?” Damon asked.

  “We’re literally in the French Quarter now. We can walk.”

  “I never thought I’d say this to another local,” Eli said, “But lead the way.”

  Lucia reached for my arm and linked it with mine, and together we walked in front of the three guys, walking them through the French Quarter. Around us, the sound of music was never distant. Whether it was a bar competing for sound-real estate with other bars, some douchebag in an escalade with tinted windows, or a small street-side band churning up some jazzy tunes, there wasn’t an instant where your ears weren’t being touched by music, and that was one of the reasons why I loved this place.

  The other reason was the food. New Orleans was the place to go if you wanted to, either, binge eat your favorite, greasiest foods—burgers, fries, pizzas—or if you wanted to try new tastes like alligator meat or gumbo. Just like the music, there were few places you could go in central New Orleans where you were far away from the salty, greasy aroma of fried food, or the sweet, fluffy scent of fresh Beignets.

  That, however, was at night; during the day, the French Quarter was usually quiet, and smelled way too much like raw sewage.

  It took us only fifteen minutes to walk from one side of the French Quarter to the other, going from the banks of the Mississippi toward North Rampart Street and the Louis Armstrong Park. The bar we were going to was on that side of the Quarter, facing the street and the park itself. Seen from the outside, Wake was a pretty unassuming place; a quiet little watering hole sitting on a spot from where you’d be able to catch occasional fragments of jazz wafting over from the park, depending on whether or not there was someone playing—though you could bet your bottom dollar that there always was.

  Inside, however, Wake lived up to its name. Decorative, multi-colored lights clung to almost every flat edge and corner, the mirror behind the bar was covered in pictures of famous New Orleanian musicians from Louis Armstrong to Lil Wayne, and the sounds of clinking glasses and laughter filled the air. Though it was a tiny place, there was plenty of room to sit, either in a booth along any of the walls, or on a stool at the bar. On the far end of the room there was a small stage, and on it, a man and his guitar were singing about life, liberty, and the pursuit of a good lay.

  I found us a curved booth by a window and waited for Eli and Logan to slide inside before slipping in behind them and settling on the edge. Lucia sat across from me, settling next to Logan. Damon reached the table but didn’t immediately sit. Instead he made a quick head count and said, “I’ll get this round. Five beers?”

  His question was met with nods from around the table, and then he left to buy us all a round of drinks, proving he wasn’t all douchebag.

  “So, Andi,” Eli said, resting his arms on the table and turning his head to look at me. “Where’d you grow up?”

  “Seabrook.”

  “Near the airport?”

  “Too close to it. The sound of jet engines still gives me hives. What about you?”

  Eli grinned. “I grew up in the Garden District.”

  “Get the fuck out,” Lucia said, “What?”

  “Yep,” he said, smiling brightly—those teeth, he had the most incredible smile. And the Garden District? That part of town was famous for three things; mansions, money, and history. “I bought one of the houses there a while ago.”

  “You bought one? Aren’t they meant to be super expensive?”

  “They are, but I got lucky.”

  “Lucky? How?”

  “Not to brag or anything, but I started a Tech company that sold for a few million.”

  “Sweet Jesus, what?”

  Lucia checked me a look and winked, but I shut her down with a frown. What kind of operation did she think I was running here? I was just being friendly.

  Damon returned with a tray before I or Eli could say another word. On it were five bottles of beer with the caps off, each of them sweating nicely. He set the tray down and offered a beer to each of us before sitting down next to Lucia, across from me.

  “This place was a good choice,” he said.

  “What did we tell you?” Lucia asked, clinking his bottle with hers before drinking. “Andi and I come here all the time, like, most nights.”

  “Most nights? I’m sure you can find better things to do than hang out at the same bar most nights?”

  Hot blood flushed to my cheeks, reddening them. “It isn’t most nights that we’re here,” I said, “Lucy’s exaggerating. This place is cool, though. That round couldn’t have cost more than a few bucks, and the music’s usually decent.”

  “And if you don’t like the music inside,” Lucia said, “You can walk across to the park and listen to a little jazz. It’s great.”

  “Gotta love that New Orleans atmosphere, huh?” Logan said, holding the neck of his beer with two fingers and taking a swig. “Not
hing like home.”

  “Where are you from?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.

  “Small place called Little Rock in Arkansas.”

  “I have an aunt that lives there,” Lucia said.

  “You’re not far from home, then,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t call the place home. It’s where I was born, but I haven’t been back there in ten years.”

  “Oh… why’s that?”

  He took another swig of his beer and remained pensive, quiet, his eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as if he were recalling memories which, though not necessarily painful, were thought provoking. I licked my lips as I stared at him, admiring the strength in his features, the hard lines of his jaw, his eyebrows, his lips. He kept his black hair buzzcut short along the sides, with a little volume along the top—just enough to run your fingers through.

  “I got out,” he simply said.

  “Got… out?”

  “Probably best if we don’t talk about Arkansas,” Damon said, inserting himself into the conversation.

  I decided to turn my attention toward him, but when my eyes found his, I wondered if he hadn’t in fact stolen my attention by simply speaking. He arched an eyebrow, then without taking his eyes off mine, took a swig of his beer. “What… what about you?” I asked, “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Chicago, originally.”

  “I’ve never been to Chicago.”

  He took another swig. “You aren’t missing much. Go to Boston instead, or New York—they’re much more interesting.”

  “Okay, what do you mean by that?”

  Damon shrugged. “Well, Boston is a hub of history and patriotism. New York is a hub of culture and life. If you’re the kind of person who enjoys any of those things, and I believe you are, you’ll get much more from a trip to those cities than you would to Chicago—if you had a choice.”

  That intensity. I almost couldn’t handle his stare, it was as if he had the power to undress me with just his gaze, the power to make me feel naked and vulnerable, even though my clothes were definitely attached to my body; I would have never admitted this to someone if they’d asked, but in that moment of vulnerability, I physically checked to make sure I was still clothed.