Filling Her Steins: MFMMMMM Oktoberfest Reverse Harem Menage

by Farrah Paige

  “You’re crossing the line, Li,” said Logan, mildly threatening. “Don’t talk ill about our sister.”

  “See that? Now that’s what I call an Irish lad sticking up for his Irish family,” I pointed out. “All I’m saying is why doesn’t she do that for us? So we’ve fallen on hard times. So we’ve had a run of bad luck. Wouldn’t we bail her out if she was in trouble?”

  “We didn’t bail her out,” recalled Aiden. “And as I recall, you were prepared to let the bar go into foreclosure.”

  “Only because we had to save the tattoo shop,” I insisted.

  “Which we didn’t even save,” added Rogan.

  “You’re all going around and around with me,” I said frustrated. “My point is, she is kin and––”

  “We get your point, Liam,” said Aiden. “But it’s not happening. She’s not giving us the money, so I don’t see how complaining about it is going to help.”

  “Well, we have to get on the same page and come up with a plan,” I pointed out. “At least can we acknowledge that our sister has refused us and thrown us to the wolves without so much as a goodbye and good luck?”

  “No,” said Aiden. “Because she didn’t do that or say that.”

  “I meant metaphorically speaking!” I snapped. “God, you’re so dense, Aiden. This is about bigger issues than money!”

  “Such as?” asked Aiden.

  “Art! Life! Art, which is life to me,” I insisted. “Without my art, I might as well just kill myself. Which, ironically, would probably make my art worth more money.”

  “That’s one way to get the money for our bar tab,” muttered Aiden.

  Before I could respond, my phone rang. It was Dag. I knew he would come through with something.

  “Fellas, it’s Dag!” I said cheerfully. “He’ll come up with a plan.”

  “Oh, good,” said Aiden sarcastically. “The guy that bankrupted us has another plan. Can’t wait to hear it. Maybe he has an extra tattoo shop that’ll end up getting liquidated this time when the startup doesn’t work.”

  “Now you’re just being negative,” I insisted.

  “Liam,” said Dag. “We are at the Hoffbrau Bar and have opened a tab. Get over here for some free drinks. I have an exciting new opportunity for all of us that I think you will be very interested in.”

  “Sure, my friend. We’ll see you in a tic,” I said cheerfully, hanging up.

  “C’mon, we have to get the Hoffbrau. Dag has something for us,” I insisted, turning a corner and walking toward it.

  The brothers stopped at the corner. I took a few steps back.

  “Come on, what are you doing?” I said. “It’s just a few blocks this way.”

  “Why are we going to talk to Dag?” said Aiden. “We seriously have to get our shit together, not start another scheme.”

  “I guess we can go hear him out,” said Rogan. “No harm in that.”

  “Yeah, come on, Aiden,” encouraged Logan. “Maybe he has some good news for us.”

  “Good news? Are you kidding?” scoffed Aiden.

  “He opened a new bar tab there,” I enticed. “Free drinks.”

  “Opening a bar tab is not free,” Aiden pointed out.

  “It is if it isn’t your tab,” I noted. “Come on. We’ll save money. We can eat dinner and get drunk on Dag’s dime.”

  Aiden sighed and then reluctantly started to walk my way.

  “All right. He owes us that much,” he sighed. “At least we can get part of our money back. But I don’t care what he says, we’re not going in on another scheme with that dude.”

  “Fine, fine,” I dismissed. “Be cool, McCool, it’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 3

  Logan

  I called us an Uber and we headed over to the Hoffbrau. My brothers just didn’t know how to roll with the punches. Not like me, I was confident this was just a minor setback.

  Liam did have a point: Fi was in a polyamorous marriage to four billionaires. I mean, they probably could take like 200K out of their wallets like it was nothing. It’s not like we were pissing away millions.

  But I could also see Aiden’s point. If we didn’t stand up on our own two feet, she wouldn’t respect us. No one would. We’d be begging her forever for money. And, if I’m being totally honest, Liam was not good with it. What artist is, right?

  He couldn’t just use the regular tattoo ink, he had to order some special imported shit that costs ten times more. It was from somewhere in South America and smelled like rotten fish. Granted, the ink was primo. I even had Liam do a design on my arm, but that doesn’t change the fact that it fucked the math on the tattoos.

  Tattoos are already kind of pricey and it wasn’t like we’d been open for long. Charging upwards of $4K for a tattoo was a bit insane. Not that some people didn’t jump at it for a while, but after the lawsuits, things really went downhill.

  But even the misspelled tats looked really sweet. There was no denying it. And it wasn’t like Liam couldn’t fix them sometimes. It was a painful and long process, however. You’d have to get part of the tat lasered off with several treatments. During that time, it looks like shit, even if you are only fixing part of it. Then you have to keep waiting for it to heal and then go back and get it redone. Who wants to do all that? I don’t blame these people for suing us.

  My back up plan was simple: I was going to be a male model.

  It was amazing that Rogan hadn’t been approached as I had. I had prodded him indirectly about it and he never had an agent approach him or a photographer give him his card. I had a stack about 100 thick back at my place. I was saving them.

  Maybe it was because I tended to work out more than my brother, but to be honest, he’s in pretty good shape too. Sure, I’m a little more cut, but it’s hard to tell when you’re walking around in clothes. I think what people see in me is the swagger.

  Don’t laugh. Swagger is important in male modeling. It makes you look cool and manly. If you don’t naturally have that confidence, you just blend into the background. Rogan could have that confidence, but his mind works a mile a minute. He’s constantly crunching numbers and whatnot, so he’s not as “present”, if you know what I mean.

  Me, on the other hand, I like to strut into a room. I let people know I’m there just by the way I carry myself. Swagger isn’t just confidence, it’s also a little bit of danger. People who meet my gaze don’t know if I’m going to ignore them, shake their hand or punch them. That’s swagger.

  Plus, I had been in my share of fights over the years. As they say, I try and keep it real. People think they can pick on us because we’re Irish? They can think again. People think they can pick on my brothers? Oh, they’d better damn well think again. And people that think they can pick on me?

  They’d better just start running.

  When I’m in a fight, I do not give a fuck. I’m going to win that shit even if I have to reach the point where I might die. That’s how I win fights. When you’re in the mix and people see that in your eyes, they back down. Or even better, they weaken and then I lay them out.

  I should probably think about training in the UFC or something, but quite frankly, fighting for money is not the same. If I don’t have a cause, I won’t have that same kind of fire. But it’s that little bit of danger that I think the male model agents look for. I think women look for it too. If there’s even a whiff of that danger, the panties drop right down. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m saying.

  We arrived at Hoffbrau. Leo and Dag were both German. I didn’t hold it against them. Liam weirdly did, despite the fact that him and Dag were pretty tight. I guess I should’ve been mad that they lost all our money. Plus, they were both kind of a drag when they were sober. But I couldn’t stay mad at those krauts when they got their drink on! Then they were crazy fun!

  If they had access to free booze––or in this case a bar tab which was “free” in the same sense that beer was free at my sister’s bar––then this promised to be a good time.
Rogan already looked a little bored.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  “I don’t like it when the family fights,” he said. “I feel like we’re losing Fi.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” I said. “Drink something! I gotta hit the can.”

  I walked deep into the back of this faux Oktoberfest place. It was part cool bar and part Eurotrash. That was typical of the kinds of places Dag and Leo targeted. They were constantly on the hustle and they used their Germans-stuck-in-America shtick to con even other Germans. Maybe especially other Germans. No doubt the bar owner felt a kinship toward the duo that would soon be returned with a massive, unpaid bar tab. They were assholes, but at least they were on-our-side assholes.

  After taking a quick piss and checking myself in the mirror, I was about to head back out when the guy next to me started looking at me. I was about to get annoyed, but then it happened again.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’m Kent Bowers. I’m a modeling agent. Do you do any work? As a model, I mean?”

  “It’s so funny, I was just thinking about that,” I said. “I’ve been approached a bunch of times.”

  “Let me give you my card, you can check out the website. I’m totally legit, this isn’t some kind of weird come-on,” he assured. “Seriously, man. You have a good look and it’s the kind of thing you can make a lot of money at while you’re young. Even if you just do stuff on the side. I don’t know what you do for a living right now.”

  “Not much,” I laughed. “I might be looking for work.”

  “I got a couple of shoots I could use you for,” he said. “Think about it and if you’re interested, give me a call this week.”

  “Thanks, Kent.”

  I shook his hand. He nodded and left. I looked at myself in the mirror. Did I really want to do this? Hang my bulge out in a pair of underwear, while girls gape at me on bus ads and billboards? Has to be easy work, right? I mean, how hard is it to put on some clothes and pose for a couple of pictures?

  Fuck it. Why not? No doubt whatever bullshit Dag and Leo were up to wouldn’t make us diddly in the long run. We’ll drink tonight, recover tomorrow and then the next day I’m going to give this guy a call. Maybe I could get something going before I get too far behind on my bills. Sure as shit beats working at Wal Mart or Amazon.

  These thoughts give me a little lift and I find myself ready to party. Life’s been too easy since Fi got rich. My brothers may want to act like tonight is a wake, but for me, it’s a celebration.

  Chapter 4

  Rogan

  “Hello, Rogan! My dear Irish-American compadre!” laughed Leo, already drunk. “Where is your brothers?”

  “A couple of ’em headed for the restroom,” I said. “I don’t know about Logan.”

  “What are you drinking, my friend?”

  “Man, Leo, I’m thinking I shouldn’t drink tonight.”

  “Vas ist das? Are you crazy? Oktoberfest has just begun. We have an open tab, boyo!” he laughed.

  Leo leaned in closer, continuing. “You might as well,” he whispered. “Because after tonight, I seriously doubt they will want to see any of us ever again.”

  It was true. Leo and Dag had conned their way across Manhattan. It was amazing they weren’t in jail. No doubt they’d end up in some hotel tonight. Leo would tell people he was a talent scout for Hotel Impossible on the Travel Channel. He’d talk himself right into luxury accommodations. Once, the general manager even arranged free meals and a couple of hookers. These guys should be Irish, they’re so lucky.

  “Look-look!” laughed Leo. “Here is peach schnapps! I know you like that!”

  Dammit, I really did love peach schnapps. Oh, well, what’s one more night of drinking at this point? At least I could forget about my sister, my idiot brothers and my money troubles for a few hours. That was the thing about being a numbers guy: by my calculations, getting drunk was the only way I could avoid the inevitable conclusion that we were going broke.

  So I got drunk. I don’t know what these guys told the bartender, but the guy served us like we were celebrities. I watched him ignore other people just to give us extra napkins. It was insane.

  At one point, Dag tried to do this trick with flaming shots and set half the counter top on fire. He took several steps away and for a second, I thought he was going to bolt out of the place. But the bartender, a veteran to this sort of thing, put the fire out quickly. He crept back, happy it was just considered a mild mistake.

  We started a darts game. Bad idea. There was a display on a mantle nearby. Logan put a dart square into one of the vases, breaking it. There was uproarious laughter from everyone but the bartender. Leo told him to put it on their tab, but I could tell that the barkeeper was reaching his limit. He was beginning to see this for what it was. Fortunately, he wasn’t the owner and it wasn’t his call to stop us, so the drinks kept coming.

  Aiden did this thing where he juggled shots and drank them at the same time. Normally, it’s pretty amazing. But when you’ve had a bunch of shots, it just means you’re going to drop a lot of shot glasses and waste a ton of booze. This also really didn’t sit well with the bartender, who had to send a barback not once, not twice, not three times, but four times to clean up broken glass.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him make a call on his cellphone. He was looking at us and talking. He looked a little annoyed. I tried to warn Leo, but he just laughed and told me not to worry about it. If this guy called the cops, I was wondering what my options would be. I decided the best course of action was to stay at the end of the activity and slip out the fire exit the moment I saw a uniform. I kept an eye on the door.

  Next up, Dag bought a round of drinks for a group of a girls in a bachelorette party. Thing was, he was really into the bride. At first the girls really liked the free drinks, but Dag quickly got out of hand. He was so drunk, I think he forgot that the girls were part of a bachelorette party. One of the more top-heavy girls fed us shots out of her cleavage for a while, but when Dag whispered something in the bride’s ear and got slapped––that was all over. They left.

  I have to hand it to the bartender, he still kept pouring. I don’t know what kind of poor instructions he got from his boss, but I guess he must’ve had faith that Dag and Leo were eventually going to pay their bill. The only thing worse than the cops coming would be a couple of heavy-set Italian gentlemen.

  Once, in Little Italy, they had pulled a similar stunt. We were in an Italian restaurant and bar getting hammered. We had also had some amazing food. The owner tolerated us for a while, but when Leo threw up on the bar top, he had had it. He demanded payment and several of the aforementioned Italian gents showed up. As luck would have it, we actually had enough cash to cover it. We did not, however, have enough cash to leave much of a tip. This earned us a one-way ticket into a side alley. We didn’t get beat up, but we were roughly told to leave and never come back.

  That was the thing about pushing your luck, you couldn’t tell where to stop until you had gone too far. As long as you’re getting away with stuff, you think everything’s fine. It’s that last step over the line that gets you. Then you look back and say, “Oh yeah. Back there. That’s where I should have stopped.” There’s no way to see that line until you’re sitting in a cell or having an angry Italian gent threaten to break your knee caps.

  There was, of course, no talk about the money. Dag and Leo would get elusive anyway, so what was the point? We all knew the investment was going nowhere. Doing a financial autopsy seemed like it would bring down the whole room. Fi was right. Their schemes always sounded great in the beginning, but always burned us in the end.

  I would say they were scamming us, but they lost money too. The duo were usually more broke than any of us. When you lived in New York scamming yourself a room or an apartment each week, you tended to lose shit. Dag and Leo had abandoned countless toiletries and wardrobes all over Manhattan. There was no going back to get them, unless you wanted to pay
a bill. And even if anyone had been willing to mail them their belongings, they didn’t have a regular mail address to send them to.

  How did these guys live back in Germany? Were Germans this gullible? I guess it was their “exotic” accents in the Big Apple that carried them through part of their schemes. I figured they didn’t elect to leave Germany, they probably fled it. They probably had countless unpaid bar tabs and hotel bills there too.

  Things went blurry for a moment. I got that tunnel vision that I only get when I’m black-out drunk. I must’ve staggered around because I found myself looking up at a couple who was sitting at a table some distance away from the bar.

  “Do you mind?!” snapped the man.

  The words weren’t registering. I was trying to figure out what he wanted from me and where I was. Fortunately, Logan picked me up and dragged me away.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Logan. “The next round’s on us. You okay brother?”

  “Don’t fight him, Logan,” I said, quite drunk. “He was nice to me and didn’t hit me. Don’t fight him, okay?”

  “I won’t,” he said. “How about some ice water for you?”

  “Can there be Schnapp’s in it?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  Logan gestured to the bartender and he brought me a cool glass of ice water. It wasn’t filtered, but I didn’t care. I was too thirsty to taste the weird taste of New York water. It wasn’t bad from the tap actually, unless you had been drinking filtered water and then immediately drank from the tap. Then you sometimes got that metallic taste.

  I found myself at the edge of the bar and at the edge of the chaos. I was trying to look toward the front door casually to see if the cops were coming, but I nearly fell off my seat. Someone pushed me back up and then I decided, if the cops came, I would just put my head down on the bar and hoped they didn’t see me.