Four Alpha Brothers Hunted the Ghostwriter, Now He Sleeps in Their Bed novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Ash Wednesday

At midnight Emile spits out what four years at $300 a song cost him, Gaston sets forty days of terms, and two brothers take him in their mouths on the library sofa.

Somewhere on the lawn a clock struck midnight, and a roar went up from the crowd.

Fat Tuesday was over.

In the library nobody moved, and the receipt shook in Gaston's fingers.

"Four years," Emile said. "You say it like I was lost."

"You were," Gaston said.

"I was in a dish pit in Breaux Bridge. Ninety minutes from here. Anybody could have found me."

"We tried."

"You tried?" Emile laughed, and it came out ugly. "I get three hundred dollars a song."

Thibault stopped smiling.

"Three hundred," Fabien said. "Total?"

"Flat. Per song. Thirty-eight songs, and an agreement that says I vanish if I ever say my own name."

"Ledoux told us you refused money," Sylvain said. "He said you wanted nothing and wouldn't meet."

"Ledoux told me you'd never heard of me."

The four brothers looked at each other.

Emile watched an argument pass between them in glances, quick and old and complete.

"He lied to all of us," Thibault said at last.

"You put your names on the albums."

"We put yours on the last track of every one," Fabien said. "Just an M. We've paid Ledoux two million dollars in royalties for you."

"I never saw a penny."

"I know that now."

Emile stood with his back to the desk, shaking with four years of anger.

He had wanted to scream at them tonight.

But the oldest brother was looking at him as if he had found something he'd been digging for.

The anger had nowhere to go.

"Then you owe me," Emile said.

"We do," Gaston said. "Name it."

"Every dollar," Emile said. "My name on every record."

"Done," Gaston said. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Open the door."

Gaston did not move.

"I can't do that yet," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because if you walk out tonight, you've met four strangers who wanted to eat you."

Gaston's voice dropped.

"And I've lost you again."

The other three had come closer without a sound.

Emile felt the heat of four bodies at his back and his sides.

"Forty days," Gaston said. "Tonight is Fat Tuesday. In a minute it is Ash Wednesday."

"Forty days of Lent, and then Easter."

"You want me to give up sex for Lent?"

Thibault choked on a laugh.

"I want you to give us forty days," Gaston said. "In our house. In our beds. On our terms."

"I'm not a toy."

"You said that like somebody has called you one." Thibault was at his shoulder now.

His hand lay light on the small of Emile's back.

"Tell him what you are, chou."

"A man who writes your songs."

"A man who's going to sit on that sofa," Thibault said, "and be spoiled until he forgets his own name."

Emile's knees nearly gave.

Fabien took his wrist gently and led him to the leather sofa.

Sylvain pulled the borrowed jacket off his shoulders.

Thibault dragged the shirt up over his head.

Emile let them.

He stood in the firelight in his jeans, ribs showing, scarred forearms bare.

Four brothers looked at him in silence.

"Terms," Gaston said. "One. You sleep in our house."

"Two. Anyone puts hands on you, you tell us whose. Three. You never leave a room without telling us."

"Four," Emile said. "I keep my songs. Twenty percent of everything. In writing."

Gaston's mouth moved. It was almost a smile.

"Done."

"Then say the part about spoiling again," Emile said, and sat down. "Slower."

Fabien knelt between his knees.

He had the face of a saint on a church wall, and his eyes had gone gold.

He smiled up at Emile and undid the button of his jeans.

"May I?" Fabien said.

"Yes."

Fabien drew the zipper down.

Emile was hard already, and Fabien looked at him, long and appreciative, and breathed out against his skin.

"There you are," he murmured. "Four years I've sung to a stranger. And you're beautiful."

He took Emile into his mouth.

It was hot and slow and wet, the best mouth Emile had ever felt.

A groan tore out of his chest, and his head fell back.

Thibault caught it in both hands, turned it, and kissed him.

It was deep and filthy and sure, a tongue sliding along his, teeth catching his lower lip.

"Open," Thibault said against his mouth. "That's it. Let me taste the song."

Emile kissed him back, clumsy and starving.

Below, Fabien took him deeper.

His tongue worked along the underside of Emile's cock, and one hand wrapped around the base.

Emile's hips jerked.

Fabien held them down with no effort at all.

"Don't," Fabien said, mouth full, and the word hummed along him. "Let me."

Sylvain perched on the arm of the sofa, panting, and pushed his fingers into Emile's hair.

"You look so good on him," Sylvain said hoarsely. "God. Look at your face."

Gaston stood behind the sofa and said nothing.

His big hands rested on Emile's shoulders, thumbs pressed into the hollows of his collarbones.

He watched.

"Take it, Marais," Gaston said at last, very low. "All of it."

The name did it.

Emile came with a cry, hard, pulsing down Fabien's throat.

Fabien swallowed every drop and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with his thumb.

"Sweet," he said. "Sweet as the first verse."

Emile was still shaking.

He dragged Thibault's mouth back to his and sucked at it, chasing the end of it.

Thibault laughed against his tongue.

"Greedy. I like him."

"Your turn," Emile said between kisses. "Somebody."

"Oh, chou." Thibault dropped to his knees and spread Emile's thighs wide. "I thought you'd never ask."

He took Emile's cock into his mouth and sucked it back to hardness in under a minute.

It was nothing like Fabien.

Thibault was greedy and loud and delighted with himself, sloppy, tongue flicking the head.

Two of his fingers slid lower and pressed at the base.

Emile cried out and fisted the leather.

"Listen to him," Thibault said, pulling off with spit on his chin. "He's gonna scream the house down."

"Let him," Sylvain said, and kissed Emile roughly.

Thibault went down again, deeper, and swallowed around him until Emile's vision whitened.

One finger, wet from Thibault's own mouth, rubbed over his hole.

Emile bucked.

"Not yet," Gaston said from behind.

Thibault grinned around Emile's cock, and pressed once, teasing, and let go.

Emile came a second time, with Sylvain's tongue in his mouth and Thibault's lips closed around the head.

He fell back against the cushions, chest heaving.

Silence, and the fire.

Gaston came around the sofa and looked down at him.

He had not touched himself.

He had not even loosened his tie.

"Twenty percent," Gaston said. "In writing. You'll have it by morning."

"Good."

"Now stand up."

Emile pushed himself to his feet on weak legs.

Gaston took his jaw in one broad hand and turned his face up.

"Now bend over my desk."

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