by Willa Okati
He dropped to one knee, all the better to gather his strength and look Liam in the eye. “Liam ... how can I explain? How do I make you understand where they -- we -- are all coming from? They’ve gone to courts of law to find some sort of justice against the kind of damage caused by the idiotic love-’em-and-leave-’em hook-ups you’re deliberately influencing the men to try again. Have you lost your mind?”
“Oh, no, no, not at all. I --”
“You can’t lose what you don’t have,” Simon said bitterly. He hunkered down to vacuum up a red clay smudge from his pristine carpet. It smeared wetly into a Rorschach splotch and refused to budge. He dropped his head onto his knee and sighed. “I should have put a stop to this before it ever even started.”
Silence ruled behind him. Simon vaguely registered the leathery slither of Liam lifting himself gracefully off the leather seat, but still jumped when he felt a slim, warm hand come to rest upon his shoulder.
“Simon,” Liam crooned. “So full of fears. You doubt and question every good thing that might come your way so that you do not have the sense to seize a blessing when it is handed to you. So accustomed to the worst of circumstances and luck that you cannot see the fortune for the trees bent in the force of the ill winds that blow.”
Simon gritted his teeth and rolled his shoulder, trying to shrug Liam off. “Don’t presume you know anything about me,” he warned. “I mean it. Stay out of my affairs.”
“Ah, but there lies the problem! You have no affairs. Not affaires de coeur, the affairs that matter.”
Liam had the nerve to begin rubbing Simon’s shoulder. “I know you fear,” he said softly. “The man who did you so very wrong and etched the dread of diseases and betrayal deep into your heart will not go unpunished in the long run, even though your own lawyer lost your case against him.
“I know this is why you have devoted yourself to helping out the Brotherhood, even though you scarcely like half and can hardly stand the others,” Liam recited with the cadence of a storyteller. “I know you think they laugh at you, Simon, but what do you do to discourage them?
“They see you as a stern father from olden times best forgotten, not a gay man, not a modern fellow, but one who is forever frowning and scowling, forbidding them to live and laugh and love again. If you were only to relax your grip on your determination to keep them safe from themselves ...”
Liam sighed. “You are like a parent, Simon. So fixed on keeping them from falling that you refuse to let them learn to walk on their own two feet. That is the purpose of this visit to Amour Magique. Some may be in for a tumble or two, but I believe most, if not all, will pick themselves back up and stride strongly toward a better future. You could join them, if you would only let yourself.”
Simon stayed still, face buried in his knees. He took deep breaths, steadying himself. He’d known everything Liam had just told him was fact, but gods, it hurt, having each of his faults laid out so plain and bare. “Liam, go away,” he muttered. “If you’re not going to call the Brotherhood, then I will.”
“It’s too late,” Liam said simply. His hand left Simon’s shoulder, and he stood. “In one hour, we are to meet outside Amour Magique. Many have already begun to travel or are making ready to. You cannot turn this evening aside. Neither a change of venue, nor a motion to dismiss.”
“You dare to mock me with my own vocabulary --”
“I dare, I dare, I dare.” Liam sounded impatient. “Swallow this truth, Simon, bitter as it may be, for you will not allow yourself any sugar to sweeten the dose. Our adventure tonight has been decided upon, it shall be accomplished, and the only thing I may suggest to you is this -- make the best of it.”
Simon shook his head. “It’s dangerous,” he whispered. “Do you know what kinds of things can happen to people who trust strangers without making sure they know that person inside and out? It’s what brought us all here. Only fools trust.”
“Why do fools, then, fall in love?” Liam asked quietly.
Simon found he had no answer.
“Simon,” Liam said, still calm and patient. “You fear disaster so much that you refuse to take a chance on victory. Here, let me give you a gift. No matter how awful things may seem, any piece of bad luck can be changed to good fortune, and fortune favors the brave among us. Fear not, but sally boldly forth. You, too, may find the pot of gold that men quest for, the prize you sought before you became too afraid to hunt.”
Simon felt Liam’s warm fingers brush through his hair, trailing across the tips. “Someone to love, who will love you in return. What does it matter where you meet him -- in a pick-up club or on the job or through a Yenta who has matched you point for point? Love comes where it will, to whom it will, and I have gone to much great trouble to give every Brother his best chance tonight. Perhaps their last chance.”
Liam chuckled softly, though Simon couldn’t see the humor. “Be brave, Simon. I know what’s on your mind and in your heart.”
Simon stiffened. Liam couldn’t -- He didn’t -- How? “What?” he rasped, looking up.
Liam was smiling at him, beatific as an angel, far more beautiful than any being had a right to look. He held out a brown paper bag, the top neatly folded down, which Simon had stashed next to his briefcase.
“Here,” he said. “I am not easily fooled, you know. You crave one hour in the glory of the spotlight, Simon, and I believe that you will get it. But do not expect the world to conform to your standards, or you will be sorely disappointed.”
He placed the bag by Simon’s foot. “I go now and will leave you in peace. But I trust you will arrive at Amour Magique by the appointed hour,” he said. “Carry this in secret if you feel you must. But trust me, Simon, when I say that tonight is the first night of the rest of your life -- if only you will let it happen.”
Simon rested his head on his knees again, too embarrassed to look up at the other man. He heard the sounds of the nancy little Nelly mincing out, graceful as a danseur, shutting the door behind him with a dignified soft click.
Only then did he relax his total self-control and begin to shudder. Liam did this to him every time. He knew things he shouldn’t. Things he couldn’t. He slipped into a man’s mind and twisted his thoughts like a sourdough pretzel, leaving one kinked up in mental knots for hours. He’d done that since the first day he’d been with them ... whenever that was.
Simon didn’t remember exactly when Liam had joined the Brothers. There was a gray spot in his memory, fuzzed-out like a photograph out of focus, where Liam had entered his life. One day, not there. The next day, exploding in their midst. Simon didn’t like what he didn’t understand, and he didn’t understand Liam. Never had and, he suspected, never would.
Sometimes -- and there, he stifled a laugh -- he wondered if Liam was really human. It often seemed like he couldn’t be. Everywhere at once, knowing every hidden secret ... like the contents of the brown paper bag. Simon hadn’t seen him open it, hadn’t heard the paper crinkling, so unless Liam had been lurking behind a rack when Simon had made his purchase, there was no way he could have been aware of the contents. Yet he was. And, of all things, it felt like he’d given Simon his blessing. As if he needed Liam’s approval!
Simon sank back onto his ass, letting himself be even more undignified for the moment. He knew what he had in mind was farther down the crazy path than Liam’s idea to attend Amour Magique en masse in the first place. Yet from the moment the idea had become a plan, Simon hadn’t been able to shake his crazy yearning to be ... free.
He knew he was a hopeless fogey. Just thirty-eight years of age. It was his job and his duty as the head of the Brothers that had made him ... careworn. He knew how to have fun. Honestly, he did. Still, the role he played made him too old to be attractive, too starchy to be appealing as a friend, and too cautious to be any fun. But for one night -- no, not even one night. For one hour, he ached to let his hair down. To do everything he’d counseled against with all his common sense strongly at the fore.
/> He wanted to laugh. To love. To dance. To live. Just for one hour.
And Liam knew it.
Simon stared at the shopping bag, half-tempted to throw it in the garbage, then lock the door to his condo, unplug the phones and indulge in the good Scotch he kept for special occasions and drink himself to a solid, dreamless, stupefied sleep.
He would, if he could have taken his eyes off the bag and stopped himself from dreaming about what lay inside.
Slowly, slowly, he reached out and picked it up. The sounds of rustling paper, sliding raw silk and the slithery notes of leather sang a sweet song of temptation in his ears, infecting his mind. Simon could feel his good sense sliding away like a protective shell, and it terrified him.
He hugged the bag to his chest and let out a deep sigh. “Just one hour,” he promised himself. “One hour, and no one else ever has to know. And I’ll be careful. I’ll watch out for the Brothers the rest of the time. I’ll keep me -- them -- safe. I swear.” A broken chuckle escaped him. “I don’t care about luck, good or bad, but I want my one hour in the sun. God help me, I want it too much to say no.
“That’ll be enough for me. It will have to be enough.”
Opening his eyes, Simon gazed at the bag as if seeking absolution. It crinkled back at him, offering nothing but temptation.
A treat he knew he couldn’t resist biting into.
He stood, straightening his crumpled suit. Tucked the bag under his arm and made for the door that would let him out into the big, bad world. To his surprise, he found himself singing softly, under his breath, “Some enchanted evening ...”
Chapter Three
Nine o’clock, and all was definitely not well -- at least not for the sorry bastards stuck in the Last Chance Bar & Grill, Amour Magique’s home for the hopeless. Trey didn’t seem fazed at all. However, as the view screen filled with writhing bodies, some half-naked, some oiled down deliberately, and some slick with sweat, humping and bumping and grinding, the Chancers grew ever more glum and dour. Most had long since sagged into their parti-colored glasses of filthy-tasting mixed drinks.
Finn watched the main dance crowd with a mixture of awe and jealousy. Gods of Old Ireland, had he ever been that young, that enthusiastic? These hot-blooded gay men threw themselves into the music and the crush of eager, horny bodies as if they had only a few hours left to live -- live, dance, and fuck. They tore into the thumping beat like death row inmates devouring their last steak dinners.
Finn found himself drooling and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a crumpled bar napkin he’d been playing tic-tac-toe on. Smudged his one-man losing streak all to hell, but what did it matter?
To amuse himself, he waved his napkin at the screen like the Queen of Olde Merrie. “Pip, pip, boys, good show!” he chirped. “Carry on!”
“Finn!”
“Finn, shut up!”
“You’re gonna spoil it!”
Other napkins, wadded up, used straws, and bits of unsalted pretzel, burned popcorn, and bitter peanuts flew threw the air. The luck of the Bar & Grill would have caused most to miss, but Finn’s own twist meant that almost every projectile pinged off his scalp or tangled in his elf-knotted hair.
“Hey!” He twisted around and glared. “Anyone in here want me to wish them the best night of their lives? Huh? Anyone?”
The Chancers shrank back into their seats, suitably quelled. Finn harrumphed and settled down to watch the show. He tilted his head with interest as a knot of unknown men entered. Unknown except for the one fellow whom he recognized -- Liam, the incubus. He who’d bartered one of his mother’s -- Lilith’s -- tears to Silas for some big-time favor. Lots of folks talking about it, but no one knew the truth. He wondered, idly, what Liam had reckoned worth trading.
Then he wondered who the hell Liam had seen fit to drag in there with him. A crowd of men, twelve all told, of the flavors a good fellow came in and only one of them not a mundane. They’d end up as tasty treats for some ravening beast if they didn’t watch out. Some were hauled into the dancing mob right away, a few ran as fast as they could and others -- well, they went blip and vanished off the screen.
Finn knew what that meant. Amour Magique had other plans for them. He almost raised his glass, then carefully put it back down and pressed his hand atop the rim. He wouldn’t wish this lot of men good luck. He actually wanted them to have some.
Wistful, he glanced back up just as the camera zoomed in on Liam’s laughing face. All curls and laughter, smiles and fine times. Marvelous things followed in the wake of an incubus bent on blessing his chosen friends. Especially if they liked sex.
Gods, would Finn like some sex. Lots of it, yes, please, the good old meat and two veggies, with a side of prime beef and some cheesecake for dessert. He looked the crowd over, idling for a second over a daydream involving the incubus himself. Some whipped cream, cherries and, possibly, yes, possibly chocolate syrup or melted caramel ...
Ding!
Finn flinched as he, and the rest of the Chancers, looked up automatically. The bell over Trey’s bar only rang when another loser had entered the club.
Someone who’d never find anyone outside in the sweaty masses yearning to break free and boogie.
Someone doomed to enter the Last Chance itself and spend his evening, his week or the rest of his life waiting with a hope that would never ripen into reality.
“Bet it’s one of Liam’s friends,” Finn heard someone mutter behind him. He tensed, gritting his jaw. It had better not be. He didn’t know why, but he was rooting for all those blokes to succeed. Find someone well worth their while and have a happy round of orgasms to celebrate.
“Shut up,” he muttered, then winced and covered his ears.
Sure enough, the man who’d dared to snark started singing at the top of his lungs under Finn’s bad-luck curse. He decided not to lift the ill-wishing right away -- bastard deserved it for being such a sourpuss.
Of course, that meant he was in for some punishment himself. Hunched down to avoid another barrage of objects being thrown at him, Finn focused hard on the view screen instead.
Come on, he urged the knot of dispersing men who’d entered Amour with Liam. Come on. Win one for the home team, boyos! You can do it!
“I can’t do this,” Simon muttered to himself, even as he latched closed the bathroom stall door. “I have no idea what even caused me to begin to think that I could do this.” He placed his paper bag neatly on the back of the toilet, on the pristine lid, staring at it uneasily as if it might bite.
Pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, he groaned -- softly. This restroom seemed rather posh for what he’d expected out of a dance club, but honestly, from the stories he’d heard, one never knew what went on inside washroom stalls. He certainly didn’t want anyone thinking he was getting, er, “seen to” by an amorous lover. Oh, hell.
Yes, he did want someone to think that very thing. At the very least it would take away the sting from the looks the Brotherhood had cast at him as they waited outside Amour Magique.
Look at Simon -- he wore a suit! Can you believe it? A suit!
Disgust, embarrassment, amusement, and an arch, all-knowing look from Liam. It had been almost more than he could bear. He’d bee-lined into the men’s as soon as he could extricate himself, but now that he was here ... was he losing his small store of nerve?
The bag shifted slightly, contents settling, but Simon eyed it with sharp and wary suspicion. Was the awful thing tempting him? Taunting him? Challenging him that he didn’t have the ner-- the balls to take the contents and make good use of them?
Well, the hell with that. Simon gave his tie a sharp jerk, loosening it with the practice of a man who’d worn them every day for over a decade, and threw it to the spotless latrine floor. They’d see who was braver than whom, they would!
Then he bent and picked up the expensive scrap of silk hastily. Germs. Holding it between two fingers, he deposited it on the hook behind the stall door.
Reaching into the bag, Simon pulled out the items he’d bought three days before -- after midnight in a small downtown shop that catered to a certain ... clientele. He’d never have been seen in there during daylight hours, and if any of the Brotherhood had heard rumors of his visit, he’d have denied them to his dying day. But once he’d seen what hung in their windows, he’d been no more able to stop himself from going straight in to be fitted than he would be able to tell his heart to stop beating or his lungs to stop breathing.
The fitting had been an experience in exquisite torture. The shop boy had grinned and flirted, making no bones about the fact that he thought Simon was “damn edible, man,” all the while taking deeply intimate measurements and then kitting him out to the nines. He’d even insisted on Simon trying the whole ... outfit ... on, just to be sure it all fit.
Simon had almost, almost invited the boy back home Only good sense had stopped him in the nick of time. Who knew what diseases the stranger could carry? And he had good reason to know that, despite all precautions, condoms could rupture. He still broke out into a cold sweat at the thought of Roger and the diseases he’d carried, all unmentioned, until Simon had found out that his ex-lover had been cheating.
Simon paid for his mistake in trusting Roger once a month. So far all his results had been negative. He knew it was foolishness to keep checking, especially as he’d been celibate, but he still paid the lab bill every thirty days with a prayer of thanks that he had somehow escaped any diseases himself.
Sober now, he held up a handful of leather straps and gave them a serious look along with a series of light tugs. He thought he remembered how they all connected, complicated snaps and zips notwithstanding. The vest, the PVC pants, the boots, all of them in unrelieved black. They even displayed the tattoo he’d been foolish enough to get in his younger years -- an innocent enough shamrock and thistle, gotten to impress a fiddler in a Celtic band. The crush he’d had on that lovely, lissome young man ...
