Good Behavior: Chapter 11

Trip from Rebel Sky requested an ornamental fence around their pool area since their youngest is a little too curious about the water. I feel like being snarky and pointing out that there should’ve always been a fence there, but…whatever.

Ant and I get the job done pretty quickly and are about to head out for the day when Desi and Sam come up to the truck on Ant’s side.

I roll down his window and send them a wave, joking, “Well, lookee here. Two of my favorite queers.”

Desi blows me a kiss and Sam pretends to toss his hair over his shoulder, netting a laugh from me, but not Ant. Desi and Sam exchange grimaces, then Sam climbs up on the footboard, sticking his head in the window.

“Hey, Ant. Hey, Nacho.”

Ant’s muttered, “Hey,” is a little on the salty side, confirming his opinion of them.

Sam, however, is undaunted.

“It’s come to our attention that we somehow missed the boat on inviting y’all to our Sunday dinners. We feel awful about that. I promise it was an oversight. Me and Trip have been busy with the kids and the business… It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to make excuses. We just want to let you know we’re genuinely sorry, and if you two and the therapy brothers would start coming—as soon as this Sunday if you can—it would mean the world to us.”

Ant scratches his nose, but the anger from a few seconds ago is completely gone. With the way he’s back to fidgeting with the button lock on his door, I suspect he’s trying not to cry. I know I am, so I answer for both of us.

“Well, shit. That’s so sweet of you, Sam. We’d love to go. Right, Ant?”

He nods and sends Desi and Sam a trembly but genuine smile.

Sam shakes his head. “Dammit. Open this goddamn door, Ant. Let me give you a hug.”

Ant freezes, and Sam quickly adds, “If that’s okay with you.”

Ant takes a deep breath, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. Sam opens the door, holding out his hand, which Ant grabs and uses to get out of the truck. I hop out and cross around the front to hug Desi while Sam puts his arms around Ant and doesn’t let go. He says something low in Ant’s ear, and the tears Ant’s been trying to hold back find their way down his cheeks.

Sam pulls back from the hug. “You and me? We’ve been through too much of the same shit to not be there for each other. I swear, Ant, it was just life stuff. I never ever meant to exclude you.”

Gesturing at me with a twinkle in his eye, Sam continues, “To be fair, I excluding Nacho, but that’s only because he’s a degenerate ex-con with a facial tattoo.”

The four of us laugh, all of us teary-eyed and a little lighter for having this interaction. Desi comes in for a hug with Ant, and I give Sam a hug.

“You’re a good man, Sam Goodnight,” I whisper. “I think he needed that more than he realized. Me too.”

We exchange another round of hugs, and I fire off a text to Levy and Bram, telling them about Sam’s invite.

Oy, Monday morning has come too quickly. As I make my giant travel mug of coffee for the day, I chuckle, remembering Bram’s insistence that I get enough water.

My need for caffeine is his fault, anyway. We’d gone to Rebel Sky for Sunday dinner, and Bram had insisted on picking me up while Ant and Levy went with Charlie and Justin. The ride hadn’t taken long, but he’d called me Ignacio with that glint in his eyes as his hands kept finding excuses to touch me—correcting my posture, complimenting the buttons on my vest, removing a piece of lint from my jeans, high up on my inner thigh.

Before I could process any of that, Trip had greeted us at the door with the biggest hug and a heartfelt apology for excluding us. The meal had been Desi’s apparently famous enchiladas, which were fantastic.

By the end of the evening, I was wearing a pair of borrowed swim trunks and was judging the massive cannon ball contest between Ant and Anders—who, by the way, is as crazy as everyone says. We’d scored them on a scale of one through five based on the artistry and size of the splash. They’d been neck and neck until Anders lost his shorts and was immediately crowned the winner.

Bram had driven me home while fussing with my waterlogged hair and complimenting my ability to charm everyone I meet. Just as he’d pulled up to my trailer, he swiped his thumb over my bottom lip, claiming I had a smidge of whipped cream on the delicate skin.

Never mind that my dessert had been in the to-go box Desi gave me, still untouched.

“You were such a good boy tonight,” he’d purred, his thumb still playing with my lip before drawing away and breaking eye contact to look out the windshield. “Sleep well, Ignacio.”

I’d taken the hint and exited the truck, but I’d barely gotten in the door before I had my cock out, making a break for my tiny bathroom. I’d only had to imagine kneeling at his feet before blowing my load into the sink thirty seconds later.

Even when I managed to sleep through the geriatric orgy playing out across the parking lot, I’d wake every few hours to tented sheets and my corrupted imagination. I’m chafed as fuck this morning, and yet…zero regrets.

I remember Ant telling me the therapy brothers are booked out weeks in advance but always make room for emergency clients. As I consider the benefits of a mental health crisis, I shove a piece of toast in my mouth and head for the door.

Whatever. I need to get this day going. With the inadequate toast hanging out of my mouth and the coffee clipped to my belt, I open the front door, stopping when something heavy tumbles down the light aluminum steps.

Carefully pushing the door open the rest of the way, I find a new pair of boots in my size at the bottom of the steps.

Laughing, I pick them up, noticing there’s a water bottle off to the side, and it’s the kind with notes every few ounces.

Drink this amount by NINE.

Drink this amount by NOON.

Drink this amount by THREE.

Complete the bottle by FIVE.

“Motherfucker,” I say, chuckling.

There’s a sticky note taped to the bottle.

I’m amused and pleased that he’s continuing our dynamic here on the outside, and I wonder if he waited till I went inside last night or if he brought them over this morning. I don’t know his intentions or if he even knows what he’s doing, but I like it. A little too much, probably.

I’d thrived under his careful attention while in jail. It had never come across as picky or judgmental, but rather a desire to make things right for me. More specifically, I think had wanted to be the one to make things right for me. And I don’t think he acts that way around anyone else.

At least, I hope he doesn’t.

I reverse into my pretty trailer, switch out my boots, and fill my new water bottle. Both are top quality, which he knows I appreciate. I don’t own a lot, but what I do own is as nice as I can afford or make for myself. He knew that the imperfect state of my boots, however functional, would bother me.

Not wanting to overthink it, I get into the company truck and make the short drive to Wild Heart. I normally hit the horn a couple of times to let Ant know I’m out here, but Bram is waiting for me. Seeing him makes my heart pound, but I can’t let it show.

Instead, I pull up beside him, my bad-boy smile in full effect. “You’re one bossy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Are you wearing your new boots?” he asks, ignoring my attitude as he cranes his neck to see for himself.

Gesturing for him to back up, I open the door and stick out my foot, wiggling it about. “They’re beautiful, and they fit perfectly. Thank you…Dr. Barlowe,” I say, unable to keep the desire from my voice.

Adjusting his collar, he gives me a short, sharp nod.

“And the water bottle?”

Biting back a laugh, I hold it up.

“Why is the water red?”

“It’s Kool-Aid,” I respond, holding back a chuckle. It’s sugar-free Kool-Aid, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Touching his fingers to his forehead, he shakes his head in that sexy, disapproving way.

“

Kool-Aid is appropriate for hydration. You need clean, filtered water to stay hydrated all day.”

“But I don’t like plain water, Dr. Barlowe.”

Tensing his jaw, he sticks out his hand. “Give it to me. I will refill it with water and something that Kool-Aid.”

I hold the bottle just out of reach, taking the time to peruse his body. He’s wearing pressed pants and a white button-down without a single wrinkle. Better, the sleeves are rolled neatly, putting his strong, tattooed arms on display. I wonder if he’s done that for me the way I did it for him last Friday.

Stepping in close—so fucking close—he squeezes between me and the steering wheel, stretching to take the bottle from my extended hand. Once he’s captured the bottle, he starts to pull away but stops for a second, our faces so close I can feel his hot breath on my lips.

Straightening, his eyes fall to my crotch for just a second before he walks off.

“Nice to see you again, Dr. Barlowe,” I call out, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.

Other than a slight shoulder roll, he doesn’t respond. A few minutes later, Ant comes out with the bottle in hand. Not going to lie—I’m a little disappointed.

He gets into the truck and puts my water bottle in the cupholder, explaining in Spanish, “Bram said to bring this out to you. He added some of the cut fruit from breakfast to it.”

I snort. “He made fun of me for bringing Kool-Aid.”

Rolling his eyes, Ant nods along. “He is forever wrinkling his nose at my food choices.”

Something like jealousy fires in my belly. “Oh, does he make you eat healthy?”

Ant raises his brow. “

me? I don’t think anyone could me do anything. Not anymore.”

People might assume as an ex-convict, I’m the tougher one, but more and more, I’m finding that Ant is built differently. Still, Justin pointed out that Ant only ever uses Spanish with me. At first, I thought he didn’t know how many people in our circle speak the language at least a little, but Justin said it’s because he trusts me. Which—just a guess—means he was punished for speaking Spanish at some point.

I’d just assumed and started speaking Spanish with him because I thought it’d be more comfortable for him. Now I do it on purpose so he can take back his language.

“True, I can’t picture someone making you do anything, even if Bram is a massive hard-ass.”

Ant uncrosses his arms and turns to me, wrinkling his nose. “Hard-ass?”

“Yeah. Like, even at dinner last week, he was still all stern and judgmental.”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Please, that’s just the outside. He doesn’t like people to know it, but he’s a real kitty-cat.”

“Seriously? Did you just call Dr.—

a kitty-cat?”

“Don’t get me wrong. He’s a very appropriate sort of guy.”

“Appropriate,” I repeat dumbly.

“Yeah. I can pick up on a predator pretty quickly, and there’s nothing predatory about him. He goes out of his way to…I dunno. Show me he’s never going to come on to me?”

Knowing what I do about Ant’s history, I’m grateful he’s comfortable around Bram.

“So, he’s, what? Standoffish?”

Ant shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain. He’s thoughtful, I will never have to worry about him trying to take advantage of me.”

“So…are there people who set off your alarm bells?”

He wrinkles his nose. “I ran into Jason and Justin’s father the other day, and he’s not a good person. I wouldn’t want to be in a room alone with him.”

Interesting.

“Agreed. I guess I was asking if there was anyone in our group who set off alarm bells. Like, I know Anders can be inappropriate sometimes—”

He holds up his hand. “Anders is inappropriate in a way that everyone sorta agrees with, and he would never harm me.” He stops and thinks as the road rolls by in the gray morning light. “I mean, I know my opinion doesn’t mean anything, but nobody associated with the Jennings brothers, the ranches, or the vineyard makes me nervous. I’m not always totally comfortable as the outsider, but I’m not picking up anything bad from them.”

I draw my chin back as I turn onto the highway leading into town. “Outsider? Whatever. Every single one of those people would protect you with their lives.”

Ant’s eyes fall to his lap, and he fidgets with his fingers.

Anxious to change the subject, I continue, “Anyway, let’s look at the schedule and see what we’ve got planned for the day.”

“Sounds good,” he says. Ant holds up his fist, and I bump it.

Apparently, chafed is now more or less a permanent condition of my cock. For the last month, every Friday dinner has been followed by Saturday ointment.

walks me out to my truck after dinner, inquiring about my job, verifying that I’ve started taking the supplements he recommended, adjusting my posture. Always ending the night by telling me I’ve been a good boy.

He wants more. I know he does. I also know why he hesitates. It’s more than just the laws. It’s important to be able to think of himself as a force for good in the world. Pursuing whatever this is contradicts that carefully crafted self-image.

And God, do I want to make him contradict himself, to be so fucking hot for us that he breaks all his own rules. I’ve jacked off dozens of times to every possible scenario, each time imagining his rare, pleased smile. God, I am so fucked in the head.

He’s also texting me to demand updates, which is inexplicably hotter. There’s, of course, malicious compliance, but I prefer what I’m calling . And oh, do I make him pay.

I answer with a shirtless selfie of me chugging an enormous glass of water, a fair amount of it dripping down my chest.

A few days later:

I send him a ten-minute video of me applying it while wearing only a pair of shorts with a four-inch inseam.

I do as he asks, then send him a voice memo of the doctor asking me to turn and cough. I make sure to capture the cough.

I don’t respond to that one because it makes me feel a little too warm and fuzzy, and I’m afraid I might say something too sincere. I’m pretty sure sincerity would be about as welcome as admitting we have a dynamic to begin with.