by Willa Okati
THE BROTHERHOOD 11:
NOTHING LIKE EXPERIENCE
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 sexual practices).
The Brotherhood 11: Nothing Like Experience
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 © February 2007 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 978-1-59632-407-7
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Olivia Wong
Cover Artist: P. L. Nunn
Dedication
To Jet, JL, Ally, LM, & Kimber -- couldn’t have done it without you!
Chapter One
“I already told you; I’m not going.”
“Ah, so you say. I think you may change your mind.”
Allen sighed. “Look, Liam, it’s not that I’m ungrateful for the tickets, but a dance club? You should know that’s really not my thing.”
“That is your opinion at this moment. Again, I say that you will see things differently soon.” Liam sounded deadly serious; he wasn’t messing around with this whole group outing to Amour Magique. “Say, at least, that you will consider attending.”
“Will that make you happy?” Allen asked in exasperation.
“If your answer is honest. You are, as you often remind us, thirty-seven years old, not a youth who can get away with pretty white fibs. Go on! Get back to your work, but keep me in mind. I am a hard fellow to forget, yes?” Liam teased. “I have a feeling that your life will soon take a turn for the better. Perhaps even before Saturday night.”
“You and your feelings.” Allen drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. “I’ll think about going. Seriously. And I’m hanging up now.”
“My work is done here.” Liam sounded supremely satisfied. “Fare you well, Allen.”
“’Bye, Liam.”
Allen clicked his cell phone off and shoved it into the hip pocket of his loose pants. He stayed seated for a moment, shaking his head in dismay and amusement. A gay dance club? Him? Not in this lifetime. But there was something damnably hard about telling Liam no.
He’d see what happened. Either he’d end up going, drinking something fruity while being miserable in the midst of hot young studs, or he’d stay at home with the latest shipment from his subscribers-only mystery book club and be absolutely content.
Gee, what a choice.
Allen decided that he’d thought about the big outing long enough. His answer would be “nuh-uh.” With that decided, he turned back to his computer to focus on what he’d been writing before being interrupted by Liam’s phone call.
His promotional blog.
Allen didn’t like talking about himself, but his agent insisted that he do this. Usually it amounted to “I went to work today. I went home. Then I slept. Whee.”
He’d give it a try, though. One for the home team.
Location: Charleston, South Carolina. Charleston Regional Animal Clinic.
Date: None recently.
Allen frowned and corrected the entry.
Date: T-1 and counting.
Comments: If I can’t talk Liam out of this dance club thing, I’m going to hang myself with my own tie.
He paused, his thumb resting on top of his keyboard’s space bar. The cursor blinked in servile obedience, waiting for him to add a spectacular bon mot or perhaps a profound observation about life.
Too bad he couldn’t think of a damn thing to write about.
After erasing what he’d typed and closing his blog, Allen sat back in his office chair, rocking into the misbalance of one missing wheel. He tucked his hands behind his head, running his fingers through his somewhat overgrown brown hair. Well, most people wouldn’t consider it too long, but it’d been a while since his last shearing, and it had grown out just enough to be hopelessly messy. He tsked when he encountered a tangle.
For the hell of it, he opened a Word document and entered: Get a haircut. Soon.
Allen sighed and reflected that as days went, this one had been pretty bad. Not one of the deep-down, bone-rotten kind that could have a man looking for a bottle of sour mash whiskey with a chaser of self-pity, but foul enough.
It hadn’t been a long day, but he had aches on top of his aches. First, he’d wrestled with an overgrown Newfoundland, and then he’d done a fun little fandango with a cantankerous cat who didn’t want his ears cleaned out. The rough animals he could deal with, though. It was their overprotective owners who’d given him a headache to go along with the kinks in his back and legs.
He’d also been reminded of Everett, his forever love who had been taken all too quickly by cancer after they’d spent ten years all but joined at the hip, when he had come across a photo of the quirkily handsome man in the bottom of a desk drawer. The sight of Everett’s face never failed to stir him into a yearning wistfulness and provoke regret over what a short time they’d had together.
Then there was the “hit me baby, one more time” call, quickly aborted, from a slightly psychotic one-night stand, the one who’d been so determined in his homicidal attempts to keep Allen for himself that Allen had had to get involved with sad-sack Simon -- who was, despite his demeanor, a devil in the courtroom. Simon was also the founder and leader of the Brotherhood, which consisted of other men who had gone to the lawyer for help for one reason or another. Allen’s nephew, Alex, the poor confused kid, was a member as well. At some point, Liam had managed to join their group but Allen wasn’t exactly sure when. In any case, following Simon’s advice, Allen had taken out a restraining order against Joey, the ex, but that hadn’t stopped the guy too well.
Then there had been an e-mail from Ellie, the woman who had wanted more from Allen than he had been able to give, even though he’d tried to be what she needed -- whoo, what a mistake that had been -- which had made him feel guilty all over again, even though Ellie had been nice, as she always was. And, of course, there was his aborted attempt to get seats for a concert when the ticket website refused to put the spots on sale until a set time.
Small things, but they did add up.
Still, Allen couldn’t indulge in any kind of navel-gazing. He had business to conduct and patients to see. Possibly one patient, not plural, if there were no walk-ins.
Allen glanced up at his plain white, standard office variety, plastic wall clock, which read 4:40 p.m. His break had five minutes to go, but it wouldn�
�t hurt to be early. He straightened his tie -- or tried to -- by feel, made a futile attempt at trying to brush the worst of the dog hairs off his white lab coat, and then headed out into the sheer unadulterated chaos of a busy veterinary practice’s back rooms.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he exclaimed, putting his hands up as a technician charged past with a Siberian Husky that looked like he was aiming for a cat whose leg was being shaved for a blood sample. The tech with the cat yelped and tried to ward off Attack Dog. Another tech, lugging a huge parrot cage, wrestled by Allen, followed by a fellow vet with a harried expression and an invoice clutched in her hand.
Yep. Looked pretty much like a normal day in the bowels of Charleston Regional Animal Clinic. But even though they were busy -- nay, frantically rushed -- each employee took the brief second they needed to flash Allen a quick smile. He grinned back, appreciating the good nature of the staff and their easy camaraderie. This was a great place to work, even though he could have lived off the profits from his syndicated column about a gay professional and his day-to-day life.
Navigating the white-walled room with blue-and-gray tile and stepping over the drains, Allen headed out to the front desk. As he’d hoped, his favorite tech, Miranda, was behind a computer terminal. Young, pretty, and completely resistant to bullshit, she was one of the delights in Allen’s life. He liked all the other techs just fine, but this one -- Miranda just had a special quality. Allen liked to think of her as an occasionally bratty younger sister.
Looked to him like she’d just finished checking a patient out.
“Thanks for choosing Charleston Regional for your pet’s needs,” she said with a smile that made the young male spaniel’s owner gulp visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
Allen held back a chuckle. If he had swung toward women, he knew that smile would have had the same devastating effect on him, too. As it was, Miranda just looked like a good buddy to him. Pretty, sure, but not his type.
Allen snuck up behind her chair and put his hand on the stiff dark-blue upholstery on the back. “So?” he asked without preamble. “Did we get lucky?”
“Shit! Don’t scare me like that. And, no, not yet.” Miranda stabbed a few keys on her plastic-protected keyboard, shook her head, and frowned. “You gotta quit coming out here every ten minutes to check. The tickets don’t go on sale until five. I promised I’d wait in line for you, but the key word here is wait, you know what I mean? So ease off, Doc.” Miranda gave Allen a playful shove.
Allen pushed right back, chuckling when Miranda grunted and swatted at him. “Just keep your eye on the clock,” he warned. “I want those tickets. Or ticket, singular. Doesn’t matter to me if it’s just one, but if you can get two, go for it. You still have my card number?”
“By now, I have the digits memorized. You better be glad that I’m trustworthy.” Miranda gave Allen another nudge and swung her long, nearly black hair back off her shoulders. “Patient coming.”
She directed the full wattage of her smile on a probably thirty-something man who held a cat carrier. He looked like he had been confident before the advent of Miranda, even if she was wearing the practice’s dark-blue shirt, which was covered in various animal hairs. “Hi, welcome to Charleston Regional. Who are we seeing today?”
Now the guy was melted mush, stammering out the name of his pet and the complaint.
“Nothing but net. Go get him,” Allen stage-whispered. Then, before Miranda could turn around and smack him, he made good his escape. Only when he reached the end of the faux-marble counter did he remember what he’d originally come out for, and turned around. “Miranda? Do I have a four forty-five appointment, and is she the last one?”
“Excuse me just a second,” Miranda said to the cat owner, who looked like he would have given Miranda the world on a silver platter. She swiveled around to face Allen. “He and, yeah, you do.” She passed over a new-looking chart, crisp and thin, with only a few pages inside. “He’s in Exam Four already since it was freed up. Nice dog.”
“Yeah, and how’s the owner?” Allen didn’t think he could handle another white-haired, thimble-sized senior dwarfed by his massive Newfoundland who insisted that the massive, snarling animal was really gentle, really, and that his growling meant he was happy to be in the doctor’s office.
Miranda gave him an annoyed look, which Allen ignored. She had a stricter code of office decorum in front of the clients than he possessed, preferring to let people know right off that while he could be all business, he was also an approachable guy. “The owner’s patiently waiting,” she said, drumming her short nails on the desk. A slightly wicked gleam entered her eyes. “Better move it, Doc. You’re on the clock. Tick-tock.”
Allen rolled his eyes at her limping rhymes and nodded. With a casual wave to the cat owner, who was now looking completely puzzled, he straightened his tie yet again and headed for Exam Four. How his ties kept getting loose when he wore the things was always a mystery to him. Today’s neck-choker featured a dancing chicken. Maybe it had boogied too hard. Then again, he had the same problems with the playing card ties and the cartoon ties...
The protocol was to go in through the back door, but Allen figured it wouldn’t hurt to do things the other way around for once. He flipped open the chart that Miranda had given him and read through the standard opening notes written in sprawling cursive blue ink.
Dalmatian. Young, just over a year old. Slightly overweight. Owner’s name, Chance Masterson.
Allen snorted. Chance. The guy sounded about as young as his dog. God, the names people gave their kids these days...
Eyebrow slightly raised in anticipation of anything the new client could bring, Allen headed into the room. “Hi, I’m Dr. Michaels. And what are we seeing...” he checked the name “...Spot for today?”
He looked up and nearly dropped the chart. The young man eagerly hopping to his feet was... Well, good God probably best described most people’s reactions to him. Allen knew he felt his own heart stutter inside his chest.
Tall and slim, long-legged but graceful, the guy had the almost androgynous beauty of a male model’s face with wide blue eyes and a mop of tousled honey-brown hair that flowed over his shoulder down to his chest. Soft-looking, clean hair. Allen’s fingers itched to touch, to see if the locks were as smooth and pettable as they appeared, but he managed to hold himself back.
Easy, Allen. This guy has to be God knows how many years younger than you. Definitely not in your age bracket, even if he is good-looking. And besides, no perving over the clientele. It’s against ethics. I think.
Allen regained his composure with an effort, pulling an entirely neutral smile onto his face and reaching out with one hand to shake the other man’s. Chance gave him a grin in return that made him look even younger than before, and let go of his dog’s leash to shake back.
Spot took advantage of Allen and Chance’s distraction and tried to make a break for freedom.
Allen managed to shut the front door just in time. “Easy there, boy,” he said as he helped Chance ease Spot back to the center of the room. “You’re a live one, aren’t you, Spot?” Allen returned the leash to Chance, who took it gaze down, clearly embarrassed, and apologized.
“He’s just a little scared. I don’t think his first owner ever took him to a vet. That’s why when I saved up enough money, I brought him right in. I think he probably needs all his shots and everything.”
Allen scanned the notes again, noting how Miranda had recorded that bit of information as well. She was good on the intake and better on the uptake. Allen scowled a little as he read the attached Post-it note: If you don’t take him, I will.
Chance faltered. “Is something wrong?”
“What? Oh. No, there’s no problem.” Allen crumpled up Miranda’s note, tossed it in a trashcan beneath the sink, and patted the surface of the mottled black-and-gray exam table. “What do you say we get this big guy up here so I can take a look?”
He’d meant to give Chance a han
d, but Chance lifted the big Dalmatian as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of feathers. “You’re strong,” Allen remarked as he helped settle Spot into place. God, but he had a weakness for strong men.
Down, boy. And you, too, Spot.
Allen patted the Dalmatian’s rump. The dog seemed to have accepted the inevitable and was being a good boy regardless of the fact that he was trembling a little. “Looks like he’s a young dog, doesn’t he? Says in the chart he’s only about a year old. Is that correct?”
“As far as I know. I first saw him when he was a half-grown puppy.”
“He’s not a biter, is he?”
Chance widened those devastating baby blues and shook his head. “Oh, no. Not at all. That’s why I wanted him. He was always so nice when I took my morning run past his owner’s place. When I saw the ‘free to good home’ sign, I zoomed in as fast as I could. They had him staked out on a long tether on a picket.” Chance’s expression clouded. “I don’t know too much about Dalmatians, not really, but I figured that couldn’t be good for any dog. It’s not a kind thing to leave a dog by himself all day long and not even leave him water. They didn’t, you know.”
“No one should treat a dog like that,” Allen replied as his hands ran over Spot’s head and trunk. “Especially a Dalmatian. They’re friendly dogs. Absolutely love human interaction.” The primary examination looked promising, with nothing out of the ordinary that he could find. If Spot had been an outside dog, Allen would have expected to find some dirt or fleas, but the Dalmatian’s coat was squeaky-clean and the skin underneath was nice and pink. “You’ve been taking great care of him, looks like.”
Chance nodded eagerly. “I gave him a bath the way that Dalmatian Club website said to,” he announced as if he were proud of getting the basics right. “From the head back, and then between his toes, since that’s where fleas can hide. With special shampoo I bought at the big pet store on Maple. That was the way I should have done it, wasn’t it?” One of Chance’s fingers came up to tangle in a lock of his golden hair. “I mean, I wanted to make sure he was okay and all. Right?”
