Good Behavior: Chapter 1

The sun’s just coming up over the Central Texas Hill Country, and it’s going to be another glorious blue-sky day. I check the rearview mirror as I hit my blinker and catch the teardrop tattoo just under my left eye. Days like these remind me of how far I’ve come and how lucky I am to have a good job with good people.

Turning into Wild Heart Ranch, I pull up in front of the bunkhouse to pick up my buddy, Ant. Everyone here is already up and moving about, so I hit the horn twice. When the front door opens several minutes later, I hang my head out the window, ready to chirp at him to hurry his sleepy ass up.

Huh. That’s not Ant.

It’s Dr. Barlowe, my prison therapist.

I served only one year of a two-year prison sentence, and he’s responsible for my early release.

I imagine his velvet baritone in my ear, and my heart starts pumping a fucking cumbia on speed. I yank my head back into the truck, knocking it against the window frame, hoping the early-morning shadows hide me from his view.

His eyes, however, don’t miss a single detail. Some things never change, I suppose. He shoves his hands in his pockets and approaches my window.

“Ignacio.”

He’s the only person who’s ever called me by my given name. Even my mother calls me Nacho.

“Dr. Barlowe,” I respond automatically.

I curse at how quickly this…dynamic…slips into place between us. In my head, he’s Bram and I’m Nacho, but the sound of my given name on his lips feels like I’ve broken sobriety. I’m high on the rumbling, perfect sound on his tongue, and I can’t help but call him what I always have.

Mostly I’m just hoping I don’t sound like a breathless teenager. That’s probably a lost cause because, even this early, Bram is clean-shaven and perfectly coiffed. He’s wearing pressed slacks with a starched button-down that strains across his brawny muscles. Even his sleeves are precisely rolled, revealing cabled forearms covered in gorgeous tattoos.

It’s so unfair—he looks as if someone went and mixed the DNA of Clark Kent and David Beckham in a lab, then added a sprinkle of genius Dom on top for extra spice. I thought I’d cornered the market on stylish and inked, but he’s got me by a cool mile.

Also, I’m pretty sure that’s Tom Ford cologne on freshly washed skin wafting into the cab of my work truck.

“You hit your head,” he says, reaching through the window.

He carefully rakes his blunt fingers through my hair, and his touch sends electricity cascading down my neck and out through my fingertips. Wincing, I grab his wrist when he passes over the spot where my skull made contact with the window frame.

“I’m fine, Dr. Barlowe. I promise.”

His eyes fall to my hand on his wrist, and I let go as he pulls away, crossing his arms.

The sun clears the horizon, highlighting the strength in his tattooed arms. I run a quick hand through my hair to ensure I’m somewhat presentable.

His eyes track my inked fingers, and a heated silence passes between us.

“Is something wrong with Ant?” I ask, needing to say something to break the spell.

He blinks, distracted. “Uh…he’ll be fine, but he got some news that upset him, and he’s going to need a minute to put himself back together. I decided it’s best if I come out and let you know what’s going on.”

“Oh.” I’m a little thrown, so I go for humor. “Don’t be coy, Dr. Barlowe. Tell me.”

His eyes flick to my lips as he rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, it’s not bad news. It’s just—Charlie and Justin went to Vegas this weekend and got married. Ant just found out, and he’s kinda upset.”

?

“

where they went?”

Shit. Now upset. Justin and I co-manage his brother’s fencing business, but we’ve become close over the last year, and I thought we were something like best friends.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Erik flew them out on his friend’s plane.”

I check my phone, just in case I missed a message, but…no. Ouch. Still, Bram is standing right there, so I neutralize my expression.

“I don’t suppose anyone’s all that surprised. They’ve been kinda gross with all that swooning over each other.”

“Don’t be so judgmental, Ignacio. I seem to recall your love of regency romances,” Bram responds dryly. “And don’t think I didn’t notice all those poetry books in your checkout record.”

I wrinkle my nose, not wanting to admit how that poetry infiltrated my brain in a way that changed me. My words up to that point had always been harsh, a way to hide who I was, but the poems knew my truth. So does Bram, it seems.

“I was limited by the prison library, and you know it. And don’t worry about Ant—I’ve got him covered. I’ll buy him a coffee on the way to our first project and get him to talk about it. That’ll put him in a better mood.”

“That’s kind of you.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, he steps back from the window. “It is very satisfying to see you doing so well, Ignacio. Make sure to stay hydrated today.”

Recognizing the command, I inhale sharply. My eyes fall to his belt, and I can almost feel it across my thighs, binding me to the chair.

“Yes, Dr. Barlowe.”

With an efficient nod, he turns back to the house, his perfect ass flexing as he climbs the steps.

I grab the top of my steering wheel and collapse forward, a familiar swelling against my zipper. Fuck.

A few minutes later, Ant comes jogging down the steps, carrying his lunch pail, but his eyes and nose are red and his mouth is tilted downward.

Climbing into the cab, he puts on his seat belt and slumps back, crossing his arms over his chest.

He’s worked up a good scowl, and I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a rant in three, two, one…

“You know, they act like I’m their little brother and then completely ignore my existence when they do the most important thing in their lives. I mean…seriously. Who goes to Vegas to get married, anyway?”

Before I can list the number of his favorite celebrities who’ve done that exact thing, he continues, “And if you’re getting married in Vegas, can’t you at least, I dunno…reach out? Tell people?

they didn’t even tell me. Erik did.”

“I’m in the same boat, dude. I didn’t know until Bram came out here,” I say, tensing my jaw.

“They could’ve at least given us a heads-up,” Ant grouses. “I thought when you called somebody family, that kind of thing was assumed. Guess I was wrong.”

“Have they told anyone else?”

“

Erik says they’re gonna announce it at that Sunday dinner thing everyone is invited to, and I’m not.”

Oh, I feel that.

I mean…I get it. Sunday dinner is a Goodnight family tradition, and I’m not part of that family.

it’s also kind of a queer family tradition, and I won’t lie, I always feel a little left out when Justin comes in on Monday mornings with some funny Anders story. I mean, who doesn’t want to join in on a pop-up pool party?

“I hear you, man. But this is a good thing, right?” I ask, trying to be the mature one.

“Of it’s a good thing. But I’d rather they didn’t call me family if they’re gonna leave me out like spare parts.”

, .

.

“Tell you what, I’ll buy you a coffee, and we’ll try to get this day started on the right foot.”

Ant shifts his jaw, pouting. “Can I get an extra shot and whipped cream with mine?”

“Friend-o, you can get whatever drink you want. Hell, I’ll even spring for a chocolate croissant.”

He lets a small smile creep onto his lips. “Okay. That’ll make it better.”

We fall into a companionable silence, letting the Texas roads take us toward the side of town where our customer lives. My mind drifts back to Dr. Abraham Barlowe and the dank therapy room where he and I first met.

crack I believe in you