Room twenty two the thre.., p.1
Room Twenty-Two: The Three Musketeers, page 1
ROOM TWENTY-TWO: THE THREE MUSKETEERS
CLUB SIN
ALANA WINTERS
Copyright © 2023 by Alana Winters
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by: Bookin’ It Designs
Edited By: Oopsie Daisy Edits
Created with Vellum
FOREWORD
All For One, Three For Her.
Ilaria:
I work tirelessly at a homeless shelter in the heart of the city of New Orleans trying to make a difference. We just received devastating news that our shelter is on the brink of closure. Now I’m facing a daunting choice: give into defeat, or find a way to keep this sanctuary alive.
Enter The Three Musketeers - Warrick, Kanin and Ender, an enigmatic trio of hotness, who are both feared and respected by the locals. Together, the foster brothers operate beneath the city's surface, running an underground organization that steals from the rich to sustain the poor. Offering a glimmer of hope to people like me with nowhere else to turn to.
I’m Desperate and determined, so I turn to the Musketeers, seeking their help to save the shelter and the people I’ve grown to care for. But there's a catch, one that will test the boundaries of trust and desire. In exchange for their aid, the Musketeers demand my complete submission, plunging me into a world where loyalty, passion, and danger intertwine.
“Room Twenty-Two: The Three Musketeers” is a provocative tale of sacrifice, secrets, and the unexpected bonds that form when worlds collide. Will Ilaria's journey alongside the Musketeers lead to salvation or something even more profound? In the shadows of the city, where alliances are forged and hearts are laid bare, one thing becomes clear: the choices we make for love can change everything.
You’ve explored Club Sin: New York and Club Sin: Chicago, now visit Club Sin: New Orleans for two more play sessions.
Fantasies are meant to come true and the men of Club Sin: New Orleans will see to your every kinky desire. This November is the second play session of the year with ten of your favorite steamy romance authors. We’ll take you inside Club Sin: New Orleans, a forbidden place where you’ll find love and pleasure with multiple hot men in these Reverse Harem novellas. Can you handle the heat?
Ten rooms, ten fantasies…Which door will you step through?
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Alana Winters
PROLOGUE
WARRICK
“Here gator, gator, gator, gator!” Barry’s thick Cajun accent pierces the tranquil morning air. His frame, clad in a faded red and blue flannel coat over a white tee and distressed jeans, seems almost skeletal. His sun-bleached hair and whiskers stand out against his weathered, leather-bound skin.
It’s a crisp November morning, and the break of day unveils its gentle light across the serene lake. The brisk wind whispers through the air, causing mesmerizing ripples on the water’s surface. The hum of the boat’s motor provides a strangely soothing soundtrack. With practiced ease, we glide over the dark waters of the marsh, the boat dancing in a mesmerizing rhythm along the twists and turns. Barry takes a left turn into a waterway veiled in gray Spanish moss and shadowed by barren trees reflected in the black water. As our speed picks up, so does the chill in the air.
“It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here!” Kanin zips up his wool jacket, exclaiming in response to the biting air.
“I just larve playing with all-e-gat-ers,” Barry drawls, his eyes scanning the banks for potential playmates. He dismisses a passing gator with a shake of his head. “Dat one ain’t big enough to play with yet,” he grumbles to Ducky, the sole member of Barry’s crew I can tolerate.
Ducky, perpetually animated when it comes to alligators, chimes in. “It’s cool, man! Aigh, look at that one right dare.”
I’ve amassed more alligator knowledge than I ever wished for, thanks to Ducky’s relentless enthusiasm. His lifelong fascination with these creatures makes him a walking encyclopedia. According to him, surviving here necessitates knowing all about these reptiles. And then there’s his theory—gators are spiritually aligned, deriving their friendliness and docility from their Indian origins. In contrast, he contends that Caiman-crocs are mean as hell.
“Ducky, seriously, can we talk about anything other than gators?” I jest, nudging him lightly.
He shoots me a playful grin, undeterred. “Nah, man! Gators are where it’s at. They’re like the guardians of these marshes.”
Barry chuckles, the sound carrying a hint of fondness. “Aigh, listen to this, lad. Swears by the gators like they’re his own kin. Ain’t that right, Duck?”
Ducky’s eyes gleam with unwavering passion. “I’m tellin’ ya, there’s more to these critters than meets the eye. Gators are like the silent watchers in this place.”
As Barry steers the boat onward, the conversation fades into the background, replaced by the whispers of the marsh and the gentle lapping of water against the hull. Yet, Ducky’s reverence for the gators lingers, weaving an unseen connection between us and this enigmatic world, promising hidden depths waiting to be discovered.
“Have they attacked anyone around here?” Kanin’s voice breaks the eerie calm of the marsh. Despite being a year younger than me, his physique could rival that of a seasoned athlete. The power in his frame is undeniable, as if he’s oblivious to the raw strength he possesses. He could effortlessly overpower Barry, yet his gentle nature isn’t capable of it. If I had his brawn, I would have left here the first day.
“Some years… as many as eight go missing. Mostly little kids,” Barry responds, his tone somber, tinged with the weight of grim history.
“It’s da evil crocs ya gotta watch fa. Dey’ rip in ta ya and neva let go,” Ducky interjects, steering the boat down a narrow passage flanked by cypress trees, where a mesmerizing parade of pink birds with spoonbills dances through the water.
Navigating these winding corridors can easily disorient you. We rely on the duckweed-covered surface as our breadcrumb trail to find our way back. In bayou country, alligators hold immense value.
We zigzag through the waterways, passing lumbering alligators crossing a wooden boardwalk made of twisting live oaks. Snowy white egrets take flight from a cypress tree, their wings casting reflections in the water. Barry’s eyes widen at the sight of three sizable gators, each at least six feet long. Without hesitation, he plunges into the water, swimming toward them. With precise aim, he draws his pistol, the shots ringing out one by one, hitting each gator squarely between the eyes. Lifeless bodies are hauled onto the boat, effortlessly handled by Barry as if they were mere toys, tossed towards us like he’s playing fetch with a dog. My mouth gapes, glued to the boat’s floor until he clambers back onboard, unharmed.
“After we choot ‘em we…” Ducky begins, but suddenly, one of the gators thrashes its tail, somehow surviving the fatal shot. It lunges towards the boat in a desperate frenzy, nearly knocking me overboard.
In an instant, Ducky draws his gun and fires another shot into the creature’s skull. With caution, he approaches, ensuring its demise before hoisting it onto the dock. It all unfolds in a blur, my fear driving an adrenaline surge that leaves me reeling until the creature’s last breath echoes out in a haunting growl.
We edge the boat alongside the muddy bank, securing it to the dock with ropes. Together, we haul the gators off the boat, tossing their weighty carcasses into the bed of the truck like sacks of potatoes. Once all are loaded, we cover the corpses with a sheet of ice, a measure to preserve their freshness and hides.
After we’re done, Ducky goes to fetch the new kid to come fishing with us. It’s sure going a lot better than it did when they took me out for the first time. We use small grass shrimp as bait, which Ducky finds easily right here in the water. I can’t seem to ever find them.
Elijah seems to be right in his element here. Where I suspect something awful happened to him. He seems to only know how to communicate through mumbles, sound effects and gestures. I don’t believe he can even write and his instincts seem prone to violence.
“Got one! I got a big one! Get the net!” Kanin yells out as Ducky helps him get the fish off the hook.
The Asian carp flops out of his hand and whips its tail against Barry’s cheek before jumping back into the murky waters. I feel an odd sense of jealousy at the fish out of water getting to go back home.
The fish aren’t biting anymore so we head back to the small, dilapidated cabin, which is raised three feet in the air and rests comfortably by the bayou. The wood is deteriorating from water and termite damage and the floors are covered up in cheap tile. Mosquitoes quilt the air outside. As we head back, I look into the pail to see everything we’ve caught today.
“The catfish looks dead,” I state as I inspect its lifeless corpse floating to the top.
Ducky whistles sharply. “Yeah, he sure is. Gone to catfish heaven now,” Ducky says.
“Don’ lie to da boy. It’s gunna in our bellies for supper tonight,” Barry exclaims in a boisterous laugh.
”What’d you catch today?” his wife, Lou Ann asks. The water is muddy and looks inhospitable for any living thing. Let alone anything that can actually be edible.
“Every ting,” he tells her. “Got some crappies, bass, stripers…a few flatheads.”
“And?” She questions expectantly.
“And a right fat catfish for ya ta fry up fa suppa,” he adds with a whistled chuckle.
After we drop off the catch to his wife, it’s time to show the new guy the poorly hidden side business that brings in the majority of their income. It doesn’t take much to see that they’re profiting from more than animals hides around here. If the shed in the back filled with rows and rows of jars doesn’t give it away then the wild combination of scents around here will. Depending on how the wind blows and the sunshines you’ll get hints of anywhere from vomit, acetone, sulfur, vinegar, rotten eggs to vegetable decay. They’re thriving off moonshining. It takes real sick fucks to adopt children for free labor.
“We’re the biggest moonshiners round da Mississippi,” Barry proudly boasts.
“These marshes make the perfect cover for gliding their supply through the river,” Ducky adds.
“Round’ here it’s a lifestyle. A point of pride. It’s our heritage built out of rebellion. I’m gonna to show you how to make our secret recipe using their personal distilling techniques,” Barry tells Elijah like he’s doing him a favor.
Just like that we are all making moonshine together as we realize how short the road to criminality can be. They are making a killing, turning a profit quicker than any brewery or distillery could hope for. Making well over five-thousand dollars a week and not a cent of it is going to the government. It was fast to make since it didn’t need to be aged for years like legal spirits.
“They ain’t gonna tell me what I can do with the fruits of my labor,” he snaps out showcasing the dangerously high ethanol content and its direct correlation with a lack of intelligence.
We sit down for dinner at the old wooden table with an alligator skull donning a pair of sunglasses in the center.
Lou Ann puts a slice of the dark meat on my plate, and then gives Barry a spry look that I obviously wasn’t meant to see. “I’m okay with eating alligator,” I say as I size up the mystery meat. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll eat it,” I tell them thinking it will end their cruel joke.
And then I eat it, and Barry says, “Dat’s water rat. Never had nutria. We eat it round here all da time, baw. So, eat up!”
As I look at my foster parents I can’t help but shake my head as I try to figure out how the hell I got here. When I find my Uncle Navi he will suffer ten fold for his betrayal. I will find out why he turned his back on me. On our family.
My parents were shot on their wedding anniversary when they were out celebrating. My mother, Raquel died instantly while my father, Bruce hung on in a coma for two years. He was an Entertainment Lawyer that fell in love with an ethics Professor.
My Uncle Navito is a cop and we still couldn’t get a straight answer about what happened whenever we speak to detectives. Just the same useless information redacted over and over again while my dad remained in intensive care on life support.
The bullet went through his right kidney, right lung and through his liver. A Police officer immediately provided life-saving measures until rescue personnel arrived. The medical evidence shows that the bullet’s exit wound went through his chest.
There is so much that doesn’t add up. “What you are telling me doesn’t make sense–make it make sense to me!” I screamed my frustration out at my Uncle. Who I resent since he got to be at his side in the ICU for the last moments of his life.
Only to die in a hospital bed by his brother who skipped town as soon as the ink dried on the life insurance check. He vanished without a trace leaving me behind with his girlfriend, Vicky who turned me into the state. Into the system. Into the bayou.
With the Spear’s where it doesn’t get more backwoods than here. It’s a civilization filled with redneck versions of Steve Irwin hopped up on moonshine. They enthusiastically swim through these waters, tackling alligators in their own nests with a carelessness that is absolutely mental. The three of us are sharing a very cramped room where we go to sleep on frameless mattresses that are stained and rusted. I’ve gotta figure out a way to get us the hell out of here.
CHAPTER ONE
ILARIA
My bestie strolls in my room to take me to work. Keyana Landry is gorgeous from the inside out. Her prominent cheekbones pop from her oval face. Today she’s rocking a Bridgette Bardot-inspired voluminous updo with curling side bangs sweeping. Her perfectly precise brows and wispy curled lashes pop from the white liner in her waterline. As her voluptuous raspberry glossy lips, rosy cheeks and pale purple eyeshadow highlight her beauty.
We grew up next to each other and always had each other’s backs. When KeKe’’s dad died and her mom remarried our bond became even stronger.
We were convinced that one of us was going to hate or fall deeply in love with her older stepbrother. Voshon wasn’t anything like we expected. He’s so goofy, it’s impossible to not love him. Soon the three of us were inseparable until Voshon met a cute Pediatrician named Ian Reynolds.
We have a codependent relationship. She’s the only person I can truly count on. She’s loyal and knows all of my secrets. I slip into some cozy PJs and get into bed and Keke gets in with me. I couldn’t love her more. It’s incredible, I’ve witnessed her grow from a sweet, shy girl into a powerful woman.
“Uh, what are you doing?”
“Human touch and cuddling positions provide physical contact as well as boosting oxytocin,” she explains nonchalantly. “It will make you feel better.”
“I'm fine- Oh, whatever.”
She is going to school to become a psychiatrist and that is sometimes a blessing and a curse. “Guh, stop using your shrink powers on me.”
As I walk into work, I notice that the geometric shapes trimming the white walls are beginning to fade away. The Salvation House could really use some tender love and care. I huff out my frustration wishing there was something I could do about it. This is a place to come to when you’ve hit your proverbial bottom. A safety net when suffering a crisis. The starting point to getting back up and ultimately finding a permanent home. And all I want to do is make it as welcoming as possible and be able to provide the services that are truly needed to get back on your feet.
The eerie silence inside is unnerving and when I see the expression on my bosses face it only heightens. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask Fran curiously.
“I’ve got some bad news,” she announces in a distressed tone.
“What’s going on?” My friend and co-author Wren asks.
“I’m going to have to shut down the shelter next week,” she informs us hesitantly.
