by Willa Okati
Praise for the writing of Willa Okati
The Brotherhood: Amour Magique
What an intriguing story to start a series with! Ms. Okati has come up with a novel idea of an incubus who needs friends and wants to help them. But I’m not surprised, her stories are always creative and unique. I can’t wait for the next book.
-- Joyfully Reviewed
With a unique plot and a host of sexy characters, The Brotherhood: Amour Magique is a winner... From humor to intrigue, to sexual sophistication, this is a first-class read.
-- Nancy Jackson, Coffee Time Romance
The Brotherhood 2: Bite Me
Tie me up, tie me down, do whatever you want as long as I enjoy it as much I enjoyed The Brotherhood 2: Bite Me. The writing is fabulous, with thought processes that are just funny as hell, and when the characters start talking to themselves it’s damn hilarious.
-- Sin St. Luke, Just Erotic Romance Reviews
The Brotherhood 3: The Dragon’s Tongue
I'd have read this in one sitting if real life hadn't intruded. Ms. Okati knows how to draw in a reader and keep them engrossed. Collin is very lovable. You will find yourself rooting for him to find love, and have a few giggles along the way.
-- Astraea, Enchanted Ramblings
Amour Magique, Bite Me, and The Dragon’s Tongue are now available from Loose Id.
THE BROTHERHOOD 4:
GOOD LUCK PIECE
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 substantial explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (homoerotic sex).
The Brotherhood 4: Good Luck Piece
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 212-29
Carson City NV 89701-1215
www.loose-id.com
Copyright © March 2006 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 978-1-59632-239-4
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Olivia Wong
Cover Artist: Skye Wolfe
Dedication
To my editor, O.W., because she’s always there when I need her and has been an unending source of help and encouragement. Mwah!
Chapter One
“There’s a place, a sad and lonely place, they call Last Chance Saloon --”
“Oh, God, he’s singing again.”
“Trey, shut him up!”
Finn ignored the hecklers. Opinions were like ... well. Everybody had one, and everyone was a critic, besides. He took another sip of his apple martini, which he hadn’t ordered and didn’t want, and made a face. You never got what you wanted to drink in the Last Chance. Part of the rules, he supposed. If you were loser enough to be in the “time-out” corner of Amour Magique, you certainly didn’t rate a frosty microbrew for your buck.
Tilting back his head, he warbled on. “If it happens that you end there, you’ve lost your silver spoon --”
“Your silver what, now?”
“What is he talking about?”
“Singing, you mean.”
“You call that singing? Hey, barkeep, come on!”
Trey, the bartender, gave Finn’s hecklers one of the long, blank looks he’d perfected during his years in the Last Chance. It said, If I have to listen to it, so do you. Shut up.
Finn chuckled to himself. “What rhymes?” he asked. “One hundred blazing bayonets, one hundred queer dragoons --”
“You don’t even know what a dragoon is!”
“What is a dragoon?”
“Is he mispronouncing ‘dragon’?”
“You bunch of heathens,” Finn tsked, abandoning song for wine, but thankfully not for women as well. “I’m giving a perfectly good floor show, and the lot of you are all but throwing rotten tomatoes at my head.”
“We’ve got a floor show,” one of his compatriots pointed out darkly, jabbing a finger at the security feed monitor that hung as heavy as the threat of a thunderstorm over Trey’s ill-polished bar. Currently showing -- as if it ever had any other feeds -- was a view of the main dance floor at Amour Magique.
At this time of the evening, early still, with a bit of sunlight yet remaining outside, the eye candy was scarce. Thin enough that the men who were dancing kept looking around themselves, obviously feeling more or less like fools. That was unless they were one half of a definite couple, wrapped so tightly around each other that you couldn’t squeeze a credit card between them.
Finn focused on the lone pair of men all but fucking on the dance floor, sighed, and lifted his glass. “Best of luck to you, lads,” he said mildly -- and waited.
“God, Finn! You moron!”
“Why’d he have to go and open his mouth?”
“Man, it’s like someone walking out of the original showing of Empire and shouting to the people in line, ‘I can’t believe Vader is Luke’s father!’”
“Or walking out of Titanic and saying, ‘the boat sank and that kid died!’”
Finn winced. Bad enough that the Last Chance was filled with geeks, dorks, dweebs, putzes, spazzes, no-hopers, and sad sacks -- did they have to be painfully plebian and almost Trekker in their tastes? Not that he’d anything against Trek, mind you. Riker, now ... there was a man who’d send you off to happy, sticky dreams.
Of course, he knew why they were protesting. A good-luck wish from Finn himself meant absolutely the worst was sure to happen as a result. He gave the ooey-gooey, lovey-dovey, happily humping dance partners six hours -- or possibly six days if they were particularly entwined. Most of that time, though, would be spent bitterly fighting, coming up with suspicions of cheating, embezzling, or finding pet peeves swollen fit to bursting with unbridled irritation.
Finn knew all of that, of course, just as he knew his fellow losers in the Last Chance absolutely hated to see a good love story go belly up. He’d nothing against the gropes-and-groins types, but what the hell? If he didn’t have a prayer himself of ever finding happiness with a man, why should they get to have fun?
Childish, yes, and most days he might be inclined to let them walk on by. Just not this day. His fellow romantics had been criticizing his singing, so he thought he’d teach them a lesson.
“Boys,” he said, twirling the stem of his martini glass, “Don’t be greedy. I’ve got plenty of wishes to go around. Who’s first? Step on up.”
The Last Chancers drew back as if he were waving a bloody axe in their faces.
“N-n-n-n-no, Finn, that’s okay,” one bulgy, spotted type in a Wookie T-shirt hastily piped up. “We’re fine with you doing your thing. Go on ahead.”
Finn smiled to himself.
“Then tell me how much you like my singing.”
There was a moment of utter silence. Though he couldn’t see them, Finn could almost feel the Chancers staring at each other in terror. He took pity on them at last, tilting his head back to laugh. “Oh, relax, would you? I’ve had my fun for tonight. And, look here, I’ll fix it.”
“You? Fix it?” a braver geek than most dared to ask. Finn could hear the young man taking off his glasses and polishing them nervously. Squeak-squeak-squeak. “I didn’t think you could ...”
Finn shrugged. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.” He glanced up at the view screen. The dancing couple had already pulled apart to talk -- or rather, start an argument. For all the angry words their lips were shaping, they were still plastered over each other like putty on drywall.
“Better give it up now,” Finn said solemnly. “You’ll never find a way to make this relationship work. You’re no good for each other, and you never will be. Walk away, and never see each other again.”
A breathless pause fell over the Last Chance. Finn took a cautious sip of his martini and waited.
On the view screen, the couple’s angry expressions melted into ones of fondness, and they moved together for a tender kiss. A kiss that should have had the backing of an orchestra, music swelling as triumphantly as the cocks in their tightly fitted jeans. The Chancers provided their own Greek chorus of, “Aww!” Even Trey gave a terse nod before flipping a grubby polishing towel over his shoulder and schlepping away to avoid refilling an empty glass.
Finn gave a silent, shuddering sigh and tipped back the last of his drink. Really, he hadn’t been sure his reversal would do the trick. Sometimes it worked, but most often he couldn’t undo what he’d done. Maybe it was a sign -- or a good omen.
He snorted a quiet laugh. Good omens? Him? He was there to tell anyone who’d listen that the twain would never meet. He’d been plagued with bad luck and the curse of ill-wishing for hundreds of years, ever since he’d been unceremoniously booted off the ould sod and onto the first ship passing by. His kin had wanted nothing more to do with Finn, claiming he was an embarrassment, a throwback, and possibly a half-blood.
Frankly, he couldn’t blame them, although he did heartily enjoy hating them from guts to garters. After all, how else did you explain a six-foot-tall leprechaun who looked younger than forty, had lost his pot of gold, couldn’t see the rainbows for being color-blind, and screwed up every single wish he was asked to grant?
No wonder the only room Amour Magique would allow him in was the Last Chance Bar & Grill. Filthy, noisome place it was, full of pimply faces and pudgy bellies, the sad sacks of the gay world, whether paranormal Jakes or ordinary Joes. Not his choice of company, nor even a good watering hole, but, eh, sometimes you wanted to go where everyone knew your name -- and had a taste of healthy respect for you.
He just wished it extended to Trey, who took perverse pleasure in blocking off the beer taps and mixing whatever frou-frou drink took his fancy instead of pulling pints of hearty stout a man or beast could properly savor. He’d have loved to know Trey’s story. Mortal, or so it would appear, until you considered he’d been moping sullenly behind the Last Chance bar for at least a couple hundred years.
Not that the drinks mattered so much to Finn. He didn’t care if any of the blokes in the Last Chance thought he looked daft holding a glass of day-glow green liqueur, because he could just as easily turn around and hoot at them for their own fruity drinks with the little umbrellas and cherries on sticks.
Besides, he couldn’t get drunk. And wasn’t that a rotten shame for someone who hailed from Ireland? All part and parcel of the curse, though. Alas.
Finn sent his glass careening down the rough, well-scarred bar top toward Trey. “Another, my good man,” he said genially. “Looks like it’ll be an interesting show tonight.”
He hid his grin when the yowls of indignation started up again, and began singing under his breath. “Oh, they call me cotton-pickin’ Finn, and this is where I will begin, deep in the house of rolling sin, and this is the song that never ends ...”
Laughing to himself, he took his astonishingly, actually refilled glass -- something garish and pink this time -- and raised it to the view screen. Challenging Amour Magique to do its best or its worst.
Being stuck in the Last Chance meant he’d never find a man of his own, thanks to his own permanent case of bad luck. There’d never be a man for him unless some other poor sod came along with equally bad karma heavily hanging over his fool head, so he might as well enjoy himself vicariously and watch other folks get ... well, lucky.
“Here we are, now,” he said, mockingly. “Entertain us.”
He tilted back his glass and drank to love.
Chapter Two
“When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore ...” Liam warbled, flitting his way through Simon’s apartment like the greatest Nelly who ever lived, all but doing a little jig on the perfectly vacuumed carpet.
Simon winced at the sight of slightly dirty footprints scuffing up the neat ivory nap he’d paid more than a considerable sum for. He stifled the urge to run in the crazy little homosexual’s wake with a vacuum cleaner and a damp sponge. Liam being Liam, he’d either take it as a challenge, think Simon was playing a game or laugh him to scorn for being such an incredible priss.
Simon didn’t feel like being laughed at. He got enough of that during his everyday life, thanks. Even more whenever the Brotherhood met. Oh, they might pretend they were grateful to him for winning most of their cases in the courtroom, and they showed up for the support group-style meetings for the food and wine, but he knew they respected him about as much as -- he winced -- carpet fuzz.
“Liam, really!” he had to protest at last, when his unwelcome visitor burst into Figaro and began doing pirouettes. “If you must do that, at least take off your sneakers!”
Liam paused mid-swirl and grinned at Simon with a saucy wink. “What? Do you begrudge me my good mood?” he asked, the picture of innocence. “Come, Simon -- laugh, live, celebrate! Tonight we visit Amour Magique. I’ve dreamed of this moment for ages now.”
“All of a week or more,” Simon mumbled, giving in to his urge and going to hunt down his Dust Buster. He paused at the first stain on the carpet and stared in horror. “Liam, what is -- what did you walk through on your way here?”
“Oh, a bit of construction.” Liam waved Simon’s gasp aside. “Be at ease, tidy man. I shall see to it that a proper housekeeping staff comes to polish your oh-so-pristine condominium back into perfect condition tomorrow morning.” He gave Simon a sly wink. “If you wish for company besides that which you bring home, I mean to say.”
Simon huffed. He had a terrible urge to plant his hands on his hips and glare, but discarded the notion as being too fey even for dealing with Liam. “Please believe me when I say you can go ahead and place the call to a top-quality cleaning service right now,” he said flatly. “I have no intention of bringing anyone home with me.”
Liam made a moue with his lips. Almost girlishly pretty, his pout. Simon shuddered. “Spoilsport.”
“I am not. I’m just ...” Simon ran a hand through the short hair on the back of his neck. “Practical. God knows someone has to be, and it certainly isn’t you.” A thought occurred to him. “You haven’t been filling the other Brothers’ heads with this kind of talk, have you? Encouraging them to bring home one-night stands?”
Liam looked innocent as a baby angel and actually said, “Who, I?”
Simon felt his temper rising. “You have. Don’t try to cover your tracks. You have been filling their heads with stories about ...” He made a face. “... hot, sweaty musclemen aching for a heartbroken beauty, just waiting for them to come along. A real Cinderella story. I can almost hear you now, promising them sex like they’ve never dreamed of and pretty boys panting at their heels. It’s the kind of rubbish you’d come up with, and I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? Do you?”
Liam shrugged airily. “I have boosted the confidence of a few,” he said, as casually as if they were discussing lamb chops and peas. “Those who needed it. Bree, Christian, David, Quentin ...”
“Liam!”
“No, I am quite secure in my own appeal, thank you.” Liam dimpled at Simon. “You, on the other hand, now. I wonder if perhaps you do not need a pep talk yourself?”
Simon’s temper clicked up another notch. He was sure he could feel his blood pressure spiking. “Liam, you irresponsible, devil-may-care, fly-by-night, idiotic play-boy boy-toy, you have absolutely no sense of responsibility, and you were clearly off enjoying an orgy when they handed out a sense of moral conscience.”
In response to Simon’s tirade, Liam collapsed into a leather chair and laughed himself almost sick. He even rolled back and forth, holding his ribs while he gasped for air. Tears ran down his cheeks with each spurt of giggles.
The gauge on Simon’s temper reached its top and cracked. “Liam!” he thundered in his best courtroom voice. He reached for the young man’s cell phone and shoved it in his pretty face. “You get on here right now and call all the Brothers. Every single man. You’re going to tell them you made a mistake, and that this whole charade is off.”
“Off?” Liam snickered again, looking up at Simon with bewildering fondness. “Tonight will proceed exactly as planned. I have said this will happen, and so it shall come to pass.”
“I see.” Simon scowled. “And do you plan on paying for HIV tests, herpes medication, drug rehabilitation, and therapy bills, as well? Because unless you’ve been living in a cave for the past few years, you don’t understand the Brothers. Some of them may look tough or act rough, but they’ve all been hurt, Liam. Badly hurt.”
