Luck of the Draw

By BA Tortuga

Scooter is just out for a good time, and maybe a friendly roll in the hay, when he meets up the members of the most fascinating band he's ever seen. There's something about all of the hot musicians that turns Scooter on, but it's slow-talking, sizzling Justin who convinces Scooter that a roofer from Texas might just be the perfect driver for the tour bus.

Driving the bus puts Scooter smack in the middle of the lives of a band of the sexiest vampires on earth, and put him in the worst danger he's ever known. Tension between lovers and dark forces put Scooter, Justin, and the rest of the band in the horrific position of having to choose who lives and who dies, if any of them can get out alive at all.

Author's Note: This is a work of horror with romantic elements

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turtlehat Creatives
• Release date: Jul 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781951532222

Book preview

1

Scooter settled on a bar stool, panting like a dog, laughing hard enough to beat the band. Lord, he hadn't been to the city in too long if a handful of dances felt so good. The big old cowboy grinning down on him was looking pretty damn good, too, all working-man muscle and barrel chest and sloe gin smile. Thank God for Austin and the Rainbow Room offering a redneck night. They'd found each other about an hour ago, found that Scooter's compact size fit right nice against big, tall and tanned.

Yeah. It'd been too damned long.

You, uh, you want a beer, man?

Beer. Blowjob. Little snuggle. He was easy.

Bud Light, thanks. Scooter stretched and hooked his boot heels into a rung on the stool, whistling away with the fiddle player on stage. The band wasn't great, but they were good enough that all you heard was the song, solid and relaxed, like they'd played these covers forever. Not only that, but there was a mandolin and a piano, so it felt like good old country.

Scooter approved.

Even if they did all wear big-assed Montgomery Gentry type hats so you couldn't hardly get a good look at 'em. He wasn't sure how he felt about that whole mysterious cowboy thing.

Well, it looked pretty damn good on Tim McGraw…

The band finished their set to a smattering of applause that got covered up by George's new song on the juke box, the dance floor doing that ebb and flow thing that always happened between tunes. Oh, man. He loved this song. Made him bouncy and put him in the mind of Marty Robbins. Long-short-short, long-short-short.

A longneck appeared in front of him on the bar, wrapped in a nice little napkin and all. So sweet. Scooter grinned up as he nodded his thanks, the cold brew just what the doctor ordered. Oh, hell yes. That's what I needed.

Oh, now, that was a wondrous smile, just lighting up that tanned face. Yeah. There ain't nothing like a cold one after dancing.

No shit. Scooter chuckled and guzzled the second third of the beer, daring to reach out with the toe of his boot, rub once along the starched denim. He was leaning hard toward willing and able and God knew he'd have to get back home tomorrow. Ron Laring had asked him to re-roof the First Baptist Church and he needed the job, needed the money. He needed an orgasm that didn't come from his own hand more, though. Hell, he hadn't been this close to willing and able since Chuck and Warren had broke up and Chuck had come looking for a willing relief and release going on two years ago. Lord.

Looked like the pretty cowboy was leaning, too. Hooboy. One hand slid across the bar, fingertips just touching his wrist. There's a little alley back there. Nice and quiet…

Ew. Alleys. Cops. Dumpster stench. Nasty. Scooter thought on it. How about the bathroom, honey? I don't need my ass tossed in the slammer for a friendly blowjob…

I… Pretty Cowboy looked around, just a little nervous. Damn.

Oh, for fuck's sake. The least you could do is offer the little guy a room. I mean, bloody fucking hell.

Excuse me? Oh, Pretty Cowboy puffed up nice…

What my rather base compatriot means, my large friend, is you appear to like the pretty lad well enough to toss him, dance with him, but you don't want your rather specious buddies to see you with him.

The voices were very definitely not local. Not anywhere near local – maybe England or something. Australia? Whatever. They weren't from here. Damned foreigners. And rude as hell to boot. The snotty dude was utterly out of place – dark suit (complete with a prissy little red and black tie), salt and pepper hair, little wire-rimmed glasses and a glass of wine in his hand.

Who the hell wore a tie to a honky-tonk?

Not only that, who'd drink wine from here? Shit knows how long it had fucking sat there.

The other guy was dressed better – jeans and a T-shirt, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, cheekbones like razors. They made a nice picture, one draped on the other. Damn, one of the guys in the band. Guitar player? Bass? Scooter'd been busy dancing and they all had that big hat thing on stage…

Did they have country music in England? Maybe it was Australia…

Still, pretty foreigners or not, he didn't want to lose the first chance he'd had in two years to get some, and he could feel his good chance slipping away. Y'all got a problem, man?

The long, thin nose wrinkled up like he was a bug or something. Not at all. I just believe if one is to have a casual sexual encounter in a respectable establishment such as this, one should, at the very least, do it in a place that isn't offensive.

The long-haired man laughed, the sound low and husky, dark-dark eyes dancing. In other words, lovely, just because the man is gargantuan doesn't mean he knows how to use what all he's got. You could do better than shagging in an alley with slime seeping in your jeans.

Oh, ew.

Not only that, but I would wager he's quite married and is here on the sly.

Scooter heard the cowboy gasp, and he sighed. Like he gave a shit. He wasn't looking for Mr. Right. He was on the prowl for Mr. Right Now. Hell, he didn't know the dude's name. Come on, cowboy. We don't have to listen to this shit.

I hate to seem confrontational, but actually I think you do, dear. I think you do have to sit and listen for a bit.

He frowned, popped his knuckles, and met the older guy's eyes, fixin' to take this shit outside. If they were lucky he'd not break the one guy's fing…

Oh. Wow.

Without the glasses that man's eyes were huge and green.

The heat at his back disappeared suddenly – quickly enough that Scooter almost expected to hear a pop, a sonic boom as the air rushed in around him. Oh, now. That's much better. See? There's simply no reason to drive yourself into a fury. We'll just sit and listen to the band, won't we?

I. No. I mean. I was going to… Get laid. He was going to get laid, damn it.

Oh, nonsense. He hadn't a bit of talent. Trust me, I have an eye for such things.

But I haven't-- Not in too long, which was a shame because he was thinking he could die from terminal blue balls.

Well, then, I think your dry spell should end with more a torrent than a tiny squall, hrm? He got a grin -- teeth white and oddly smooth, only catching his attention for a moment before those eyes caught him up again.

A rush of warmth hit him, and Scooter swayed, blinked and found himself nodding. Green eyes with flecks of pure gold inside. He'd never seen anything like it. Not at all. Wait a second. Huh?

Ollie. Love. I think you broke his wee brain… His chin was lifted, face turned side to side by callused musician's fingers. He's older than the last few.

Younger wasn't helping. Perhaps this one will know his mind.

Or freak out and run screaming into the bloody night, love.

Nonsense, darling. He is, exactly what the doctor ordered.

The doctor? Bullshit.

Oh, and I suppose you know just by looking, do you? Oy, son! What's your name, now?

Scooter. Scooter Martin. He didn't need a doctor. I think I should go find my friends.

Bah. You showed alone. What do you do, then?

For fuck's sake, it was hard to follow those accents. Do where? I came to dance.

Of course you did. His wallet was held up, license and condoms in the pale fingers. He is licensed to drive commercial. No family photos. Address is a post office box.

Hey! Where did you get that? He fumbled for his pockets, glaring over.

I saw the little bugger that picked it. He was thoroughly reprimanded. Tell me, how does one get the formal name of Scooter?

Was my grampa's. He grabbed his wallet, growling as the picker snatched his license.

Oh, Ollie. I bloody well owe you a blow. You're something at this.

I do have a fair bit of practice, my love. Please round up the others and get them on stage before Justin decides to get decidedly moral. This young man and I are going to have a bit of a discussion, aren't we?

Scooter swallowed and did his damnedest to follow along with what everyone was saying, but shit, he was feeling fuzzy. The pretty picker reached out and patted his cheek on the way back by him, the touch odd and gentle and unnerving. Arousing.

He heard the band start up, heard a few songs play like background music in his head. Scooter began to wonder if the beer he'd had wasn't spiked, because the bartender seemed to zip around the bar, moving fast enough to leave light trails, simply fascinating him. Periodically he thought about either panicking or getting up to pee – both of them seemed like probable things, but damned if he could reckon the hows and details. Hell, the state he was in he'd walk into the beer cooler, get the tip of his dick stuck on a keg and end up getting frost-dick. Dick-bite. Something.

Christ, his head hurt.

The lights dimmed and that made it a little easier, the sounds in the club seeming to change, the bustle easing.

The foreigner – Ollie? Yeah, Ollie - in the suit stood, one pale, thin hand offered to him. Short.

The dude was short.

Weird.

Ollie-in-a-suit hadn't seemed short before.

Come now, dear boy, let's find a quiet booth, shall we?

Oh. Oh, man. Wait. He didn't… not with men he hadn't even danced with…

I have no intention to seduce you, child. You are approximately three hundred years too young. Honestly, I simply want you to see the band play. I promise you, there's a magic there, if you watch. They moved across the floor, Scooter following like he was a pup on a leash, the wail of the fiddle starting up and sending a shiver along his spine. It was like there was a voice inside the melody – a mixture of a cry and a moan. Those green eyes never left his, short little legs taking one careful backward step after another. You hear it already, I can tell. I will say, I find it quite fascinating to discover a person who can see as well as you can. I imagine you didn't even realize it was in you.

In him. Nothing was in him, except one or two too many beers. Maybe some weird-assed drug.

The guy kept talking and talking, even after they sat down, but Scooter just sorta stopped listening. He watched the band, fascinated by the call of the fiddle and the way they all seemed to move together. Oh, man. How could he have thought they were mediocre?

The mandolin player's fingers moved so fast they were a blur, the fiddle set aside for now. The bass and acoustic guitar followed right behind, the piano filling in the empty spaces. Whoever was at the drums seemed to be a demon almost, spiky blond head the only one without a hat, eyes like ice as they stared out into the club.

And then there was the singer.

Good lord.

He is beautiful, is he not?

Uh-huh. Lord, that man was the sort of cowboy fantasies were made of – lanky, long, high cheek bones, painted on jeans. Voice like pure sex, and the hands that were wrapped around the microphone were tanned and square, the kind of hands that knew their way around a man's body.