Part 3 (1/2)

”Need I remind you how tasteless it is to drink hard liquor before, how do you call it, happy hour?”

”How did you know --”

”Irrelevant, Bree. This is Liam, of the Brotherhood. Do you know me now?”

Liam! f.u.c.k. Yeah. How could he have been confused? Liam's freakazoid accent was one of a kind. Bree sagged in relief.

He'd dealt with the kind of weird that Liam put off. He could handle this. ”'Course I do. Yeah, got off early,” he lied. ”What's going on?” A thought occurred to him. ”Who the h.e.l.l gave you my home number?”

”Simon, of course. He has a very tidy, thorough Rolodex in his home. I took the liberty of copying down everyone's contact information after our decision to visit Amour Magique together.”

”Amour Magique?” Bree repeated stupidly.

”But of course. Tonight. Bree, surely you hadn't forgotten?”

Well, yeah, he had. He'd had more important things on his mind than a happy little field trip to Gay-O-Rama. Still, he'd voted for it ... he thought. ”Nope, didn't forget,” he said. ”I'm in. What time do we meet, again?”

”Nine p.m., outside the doors. You do know where Amour Magique is located?”

Not a clue, but he'd get a map or something. ”Sure.”

Liam laughed again. ”Excellent. Do take care to look your best, Bree. This will be a fine night for love. Or s.e.x. In quant.i.ty as well as quality.”

Love? Yeah, right. s.e.x, on the other hand ... Bree's deflating erection tingled, reminding him that it wanted a little more attention. ”I'll be there.”

”Do you promise?” Liam's voice f.u.c.king twinkled.

”Yeah. Promise.” Another wacko chill ran down Bree's spine. He shuddered despite himself. Why did one simple word suddenly give him the creeps? Geez, it wasn't like he was offering up his soul or something. ”Promise,” he repeated stubbornly.

”Good! Until then, Bree.”

”Sure. Later.”

Liam disconnected. Bree stood stock-still, receiver frozen in his hand, staring at the phone. Something wasn't right. Definitely not right. He felt ... G.o.d, he actually felt frightened.

His thoughts clinked together like ice cubes in a gla.s.s -- then tumbled over with a click Bree almost heard. Glaring at the phone, he slammed it down and then managed to jerk the plug out. No more of that s.h.i.+t. He wasn't gonna put up with any more s.h.i.+t, not tonight. Not from Liam, not from anyone.

Oh, he'd go to Amour Magique. Dress up, even. But he'd do it his way, and to h.e.l.l with the consequences. He'd be Bree, and f.u.c.k to anyone who said anything about it.

Still naked, stomping again, he made for his dresser and a small box that had once held cigars. The flimsy lid flipped open to reveal his stash of good jewelry. Sterling silver hoops, labrets, studs, beads, and bars. A pricey eyeliner pen, charcoal black, lay tucked in with the tangle of metal.

Bree pulled it out and held it to the light. ”Come to your old man,” he whispered, curling his tongue behind his teeth and baring them in a grin. ”It's show time.”

Chapter Three

Waiting for the traffic light to change, tapping his scarred leather boots on the pavement in impatience, Bree found himself scanning the tangled crowds still out and about. Weekend traffic in Charleston, road and foot, was a b.i.t.c.h.

Bored now. To amuse himself, he targeted a prime example of Touristus America.n.u.s, easily identified by its Bermuda shorts, sandals, and black socks. The guy didn't realize he was being watched. Just kept standing there with a cigar in one hand and a neon-green snow cone in the other. Chatting to some scrawny, chain-smoking woman with badly dyed blonde hair, a ”Charleston ROCKS!” T-s.h.i.+rt, and much shorter shorts. Probably his midlife-crisis redneck princess.

Yeah. Whatever.

The light changed, and Bree roared on ahead of the traffic. Buying this bike, and keeping it in shape, had been the best use of his money besides condoms and lube -- well, back when he still kept a supply of s.e.x stuff on hand. After James, he hadn't had a reason or money to spare to go buy more, d.a.m.n him.

Sometimes Bree wondered if James had put a curse on him. Wouldn't put it past the guy, especially after Bree took him to court. One of the few cases Simon lost, on account of James was too slippery for even the Brotherhood's leader to grab by the b.a.l.l.s. Had his hands in every dirty pie. Yeah, bet he'd gone to some voodoo woman and had her dangle chicken feet over a picture of Bree's naked a.s.s in bed while chanting, ”May you never get laid again.”

Scary thing? He really could see James doing just that. Money wouldn't have been enough to take from him. Wouldn't make a satisfyingly deep mark. He'd want to hit Bree where it hurt most, for humiliating him.

Great.

For a second, Bree entertained the idea of begging a loan from Simon or Micah or maybe David -- a nice enough guy even if he didn't have a clue about, well, anything -- and hiring a professional to take James down.

Uh-huh. From what he'd heard, the guys who knew what they were doing didn't even open their doors for less than four figures, usually five. If the whole Brotherhood ponied up for the cause and he threw in all his savings, he still wouldn't have close to enough. s.h.i.+t! Bree pounded one handlebar with a fist. He had to get that b.a.s.t.a.r.d somehow. He'd think of a way. He was Bree, d.a.m.n it, and he wasn't going to put up with James s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his life forever.

He could feel his pulse pounding at his temples. That little vein he got on his forehead when he was really p.i.s.sed was probably throbbing. What had Alex, the EMT, told him? Learn how to chill out, or watch his heart go ka-boom with high blood pressure. f.u.c.k. He'd thought he wouldn't have to worry about such c.r.a.p for at least twenty years. But, nope, Alex said Bree would be heading for a heart attack if he didn't learn ”anger management skills” and ”healthy expression of strong emotions.”

Bull. s.h.i.+t.

What was he supposed to do? Push it down, or let it all hit the fan? Advice like Alex's didn't make any sense. Besides, he hadn't had a choice, most of the time. At his job, it had been cork it up or get fired. Which, what with his jumping on James, proved the point. He vented some around the Brotherhood by being a general wisea.s.s, just enough to blow off the steam. If it got bad enough, he either rode the h.e.l.l out of his bike, full throttle, or kicked fresh dents into the apartment building's garbage cans.

Didn't help for long. For months now, he'd been feeling this primal scream building up, just waiting to tear loose. Add that to frequent blue b.a.l.l.s and, yeah, Bree figured he had a right to get p.i.s.sed off easily.

But he needed to calm down now. He'd almost hit the gay district, and Amour Magique wasn't far in. He seriously doubted the place was all that Liam claimed, and he hated the deafening techno music dance clubs usually played, but there might be one or two hotties in the mix. One thing he knew: men on the prowl didn't go for someone who had a kill-or-be-killed death glare on their face. So, bottle it up one more time, play the club game, and, if there were any merciful G.o.ds listening to h.o.r.n.y gay men's prayers, at least get one good dance in, if not someone to take home or go home with. That'd be too much to hope for. But a dance ... that wasn't too much to hope for, right? Right?

On the surface, Charleston's gay mecca looked like any other street, full of foot traffic and shops with cla.s.sy, Old South window displays. Well, cla.s.sy until you looked closely at what they displayed. Amour Magique stood out like a rhinestone on a silver ring. A big honkin' rock of lights, m.u.f.fled music, and ... Bree's jaw dropped. Holy f.u.c.k! The line to get inside, herding its way through velvet ropes, stretched around the block!

He pulled his motorcycle up, double-parking beside some sad schmuck's moped, and turned off the ignition. Whipped off his helmet and stared. Da-a-a-a-a-a-mn. He hadn't known Charleston had that many gay men. That many hot ... muscled ... young ...

gorgeous ... gay men.

At some point, his mouth had fallen open. Oddly enough, he didn't care.

”Bree!” a familiar voice called. ”Bree, we've gathered over here, just by the ropes! Come and join us!” Bree shook his head and turned, trying to peer through the crowds. Liam's face appeared through a gaggle of milling bodies.

He was waving eagerly, beckoning Bree toward him. That wasn't what caught his attention, though. Bree zeroed in on the handful of brightly colored tickets in Liam's waving hand.

Oh, hot d.a.m.n. Tonight, we play. I hope.

Without a second thought for the moped's owner, Bree yanked his keys out of the bike's engine and leaned it on its kickstand. He swung one leg over the saddle and landed already not quite running, but moving faster than normal, for sure.

He forced himself to slow down as he drew closer to Liam. He had a rep with the Brotherhood. Bree, the bad boy. Rough guys did not run like schnauzers in heat at the sight of mouth-watering a.s.ses packed into painted-on jeans, standing in line like snacks on a tray. Cooling down to a saunter, he ambled up and gave Liam, standing in front of the gathered Brotherhood, a brusque nod. ”Made it,” he said, pleased to hear that he sounded a little bored. ”You come through with the tickets?”

Liam's eyes sparkled with glee. ”But, of course!” He flashed the neon chits at Bree a second time. ”I am a creature of my word, Bree. May I say that you look spectacular tonight?”

”Feel free.” Bree gave the men his best wicked grin. Their reactions ranged from a startled blink or two to Simon's stifled gasp of horror.