Good Behavior: An MM Forbidden Romance (Wild Heart Ranch Book 2)
Good Behavior: Epilogue

“What’s she doing here?” Ant asks, glaring at the photographer for the local free paper.

Glaring is something he’s been doing a lot lately. Not to mention staying out late and coming in early the morning after. After what, I don’t want to know. Still, he’s just started talking to me again after finding out that Erik has a roster of fuck buddies and that I used to be on it, so I go easy on him.

“Ant, the Community Cleanup is a big deal.”

“It’s the same thing as the Christmas Cleanup, only hotter,” he grumps. “The high is ninety-seven degrees today.”

“I know.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. He’s been testing my patience lately, which Hedy says is to be expected. “We’re doing a good thing. You know that, right?”

“But does there need to be a goddamn social media post or whatever every time somebody picks up a shovel to help someone else out?”

“Fair point. But this isn’t going up on her Instagram.”

Ant nails me with a look.

“Fine. It’s not just going up on her Instagram. It’s going in the paper. It’s going on their website. It’s a way to show the people in our community how they can help. It’s about generating publicity for something that isn’t a mass shooting or a roadside bomb. Forgive us for trying to be a little bit positive out here.”

“I know, I know,” Ant grumps, tying up an overfull trash bag like it insulted him.

He tosses it into the back of the truck, on top of the growing pile of trash bags of junk we’ve taken out of Mr. Sinclair’s house. He was practically a shut-in for a very long time. Bram suspects undiagnosed depression and has gotten him to agree to come by the therapy center.

Today’s actually pretty fucking monumental because it’s the first time he’s let anyone in his house since his wife died. I turn to tell Ant this very thing, but he’s yawning and rubbing the side of his head.

“Maybe you would be in a better mood if you’d gotten more than three hours of sleep last night. Seriously—where did you go?”

Wow. I am bad about letting things go.

“You don’t need to know anything about that,” he says, sending me a leer. “And I’m fine now. Just a little tired.”

I take a deep breath. “Fine. Please just…be careful.”

“Yes, Dad.”

He rolls his eyes but rests his head against my shoulder, and I’m so relieved by the show of affection that I leave the subject. For now.

I follow him back into the house, and we spend the rest of the morning sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming. Ant finds a couple of spots in Mr. Sinclair’s fence that could use a little help, so we grab our tools and fix that as well.

When we break for lunch, he and I get into the truck, and I make the mistake of asking him how therapy is going.

“It’s exactly as awful as I said it would be.”

“I’m sorry, Ant. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously when you said this would be hard.”

Peeling back the top part of the foil wrapped around his burrito, Ant shakes his head, biting the inside of his lip. That’s his tell that he’s going to start talking, so I stay quiet and let him work through his thoughts as he takes his first few bites.

Like Bram, he often begins like we’re already in the middle of a conversation.

“Hedy says I’m going through the defiant stage I never had a chance to experience when I was a teenager. She calls it delayed adolescence. Though…I’m pretty sure that’s just another way for someone to say I’m too childlike or…whatever.”

He peels away another bit of foil, focusing on the food while avoiding my eyes. There’s defeat in his rounded posture, another tell that he’s been confronting heavy issues. Soon enough, he’ll be back to himself, only put together a little stronger, another layer reclaimed.

But damn, it’s one hell of a recovery cycle. Even as he gets better, I feel bad for having pushed so hard.

“Anyway,” he continues. “Hedy knows what I get up to. She and I have discussed how to make that as safe as possible. I know what it looks like, but I am being safe. Text check-ins, condoms, nerds over dude-bros.”

“You text her when you’re hooking up?”

He shrugs, then looks over as if he’s worried about my opinion. “Is that weird?”

“You text your therapist when you’re going to hook up with someone? Yeah, that’s weird.”

He looks out the window right as Bram and Erik approach, and a grin threatens the corner of his mouth. He turns back to me, nailing me with an arched eyebrow.

“You were saying? I’m not the only one with weird shit going on with my therapist.”

“Jackass,” I say, laughing as I pull a bit of wilted lettuce from my burrito and toss it at him.

He tosses it back at me. “Whatever. You love me.”

I go serious for a moment so he can see I mean it. “Yeah, Ant. I do. I’m glad you’re being safe. Even if it is a little weird.”

“What’s weird?” Bram asks, getting in behind me while Erik gets in behind Ant.

Silently he gestures for the water bottle, and I hold it up. He mouths good boy at me in the mirror. Ant holds out his palm to me, then turns around to face Bram.

“Your boy doesn’t approve of my slutty ways. I was explaining to him that I’m a safe slut and reminding him I do know how to take care of myself.” Turning to me, he grins. “But I’ll text you too if that would make you feel better.”

“It would. Thank you.”

Erik snorts, and I swear I wanna bean his head. Ant, frustrated, his jaw bunched up tight, drops back into his seat with a huff. Thinking better of it, he gets back on his knees and turns around so he can look right at Erik.

“Did you ever go back over the video from that night?” he asks, not needing to clarify which night he’s talking about. “Did you ever see the guy I killed? I know I got a little stab-happy for your delicate sensitivities, but as you like to point out, he was twice my size, and I brought him down. I promise the DND nerd I’m meeting up with tonight has nothing on me.”

It’s Erik’s turn to look disgruntled. “What is it with these hookups? I’ve tried to convince Charlie you need a fucking curfew, and he won’t hear it. This is insanity.”

Ant slides a look my way, and…yeah, I know.

Thankfully, Bram takes over.

“Erik, he’s twenty years old. He’ll be twenty-one soon enough. He’s under the care of a highly qualified therapist, and he is in the middle of reintegrating into ‘normal’ life after living a nightmare for years. You and I don’t get to say how he does that. That is between him and his therapist.”

“I can worry about the little dude, can’t I?” Erik asks, disgruntled.

I go to say something, knowing Ant doesn’t like to be treated like a little dude, but Bram’s got it covered.

“The problem here is that you keep seeing him as he was the night you rescued him, and that’s not fair. He wasn’t even himself that night. He was an avatar for a young, underaged prostitute. So, as a mental health professional, I’m telling you that you need to respect the very brave, very headstrong man he is.”

Ant looks shocked by Bram’s words, but I’m not. I’ve been going to him more and more to make sure I’m doing and saying the right things with Ant. He’s the one who pointed out his recovery patterns.

“Thank you, Bram,” he says quietly.

“You’re welcome, Ant. But maybe have a little respect for the people who love you and worry about you, okay? Nobody’s trying to hold you back, at least not purposefully.”

Ant makes a disgruntled sound at the back of his throat and tosses his thumb back at Erik. “He is.”

“You’ve got me there, but we’re working on him too.”

Now it’s Erik’s turn to make a disgruntled sound. Bram and I exchange a quick smile in the rearview mirror. These guys.

Bram and I drop off Erik and Ant at the bunkhouse, then head next door. We discovered that one of the ways Charlie and Erik make money is that Wimberley takes over the holdings of whoever they take down. It’s a neat trick, and when they sell off those holdings, whoever was on that op gets a cut.

In this case, Charlie, Erik, and Anders refused their cuts, instead having Wimberley split the large property three ways between me, Bram, and Levy.

Bram and I got the front half with the trafficker’s house, and Levy got the back half with the wooded area and creek access. He’s staying in the bunkhouse for now, but we recently moved my Airstream onto his part of the property. As soon as he figures out the utilities, he’ll move in.

Sorting out the issues with the newly postpartum and pregnant survivors was difficult and emotional but ultimately very satisfying. All the babies were placed in the situation best for them, the person who carried them, and the potential adoptive couples, who were devastated to find out they’d been working with a surrogacy front and not a legitimate business.

We’ve since taken down the security fence and the insta-building, donating them to two local businesses.

“Home sweet home,” Bram says as I pull into the driveway.

He and I have spent the better part of the last two months renovating the house together before moving in last week. You learn a lot when you work on a big project with someone, and it turns out Bram has a bit of a competency kink. He fucked me against the reupholstered chair in my living room when he found out I’d done it myself, and since then, I’ve enjoyed showing off everything I learned in prison.

What can I say? He’s really good at showing appreciation for a job well done.

Now that the house is mostly done, we’ve started going to used furniture shops. We find a good piece with great bones, make it ours, then christen it however Dr. Barlowe sees fit.

Which reminds me…

“Oh, Dr. Barlowe. I forgot to tell you,” I say, getting down from the truck. “I finished that settee last night.”

“Did you now?” he asks, coming around the truck to put his hand on my waist. I automatically straighten my posture.

“Good boy,” he whispers, nuzzling into my neck.

“Yes,” I choke out as he pulls me into the house. “I used that green velvet upholstery fabric we picked out.”

He takes me by the hand, leading me to the piece in question. Palming his growing cock, he lets out an uneven breath.

“This is exquisite, Ignacio.”

“Thank you, Dr. Barlowe.”

Thumbing his belt open, he orders, “Kneel in front of it, please.”

“Yes, Dr. Barlowe.”

Bram

One of the first things we updated in this house was the bathroom. We ripped out the nasty tub-shower combo and installed a spa shower. Anders mentioned that a couple of his friends use a fancy set of showerheads, but we kept it simple with a large, powerful rainfall showerhead installed in the ceiling and a handheld sprayer on the wall.

It comes in handy because cleaning up Nacho after defiling him on the beautiful pieces of furniture he upgrades is one of my favorite things. Watching the water trail down his wet, tattooed skin is a religious experience, and I worship frequently.

Right now, he’s leaning on his forearms against the wall, patiently letting me wash his body.

One of my favorite small upgrades is a push-button shower dispenser for shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Only…we’ve switched out the conditioner for shower-safe lube. It was one of Nacho’s better ideas.

Now that he’s completely clean, I pull aside one of his ass cheeks, admiring the puffy ring of abused flesh, still a little stretched from my appreciation. I can’t help my cock’s reaction to such a pretty sight, and I press the button on the lube dispenser. He moans when I slip inside him again, rolling his hips, squeezing me tight.

The more we explore BDSM, the more we understand that most of it isn’t for us. There are a few things that intrigue us, and now that we know how to approach new kinks, we’ve been exploring them.

One thing we learned is that Nacho doesn’t go into subspace, but he enjoys reconnecting in a non-play interaction, and I find it helps to ground both of us.

“God, I love you,” I say, gently stroking into him.

“Love you too, Bram,” he says sleepily, shifting his hips from side to side.

Even though we don’t come, we stay in this position for as long as my cock is able, then clean up again and head toward the bedroom, where an enormous king-size bed waits for us.

We meet in the middle, facing each other, our noses touching, satisfied, sleepy grins on our faces.

As we slide and fit our limbs together for a night of snuggling, I ask the question I’ve had ever since I saw him talking to Ant.

“Do you think Ant is going to be okay?”

Running inked fingers through my chest hair, he nods. “I have faith in him.”

“Good. Me too.”

Tracing the beautifully tattooed rose on his neck, I leave my concerns for Ant for another day.

“Ignacio?”

“Yes, Dr. Barlowe?” Nacho asks, adding a bit of defiance back into his tone.

“How attached are you to your last name?”

His eyes meet mine, riveted.

“Dr. Barlowe, you do know it’s inappropriate to request major life changes while in a power exchange, right?”

“Yes, I do. But I also know you like it when I’m inappropriate, Ignacio. Now, answer the question.”

“Well, I’m pretty attached to Rivera when my only other option is Nacho Barlowe,” he says, laughing and shuddering at the thought.

“So Barlowe is your only other option then?” I ask, my heart pumping hard at how his eyes sparkle with mischief and affection.

He bites his lower lip, tightening his leg around mine, smelling like soap and sex.

“It’s the only one I’d ever consider.”

“Ignacio Barlowe has a nice ring to it, though, don’t you think?” I ask, making what I believe is a very good point.

“Ignacio Barlowe,” he repeats, tapping his inked fingers on his plush lips. “Sounds awfully…possessive.”

“It is,” I growl, thumbing his bare hip as he takes his sweet time.

“I don’t have a middle name, so I suppose we can move Rivera to the middle and put Barlowe at the end. That wouldn’t be too bad.” He bites his lower lip, thinking. “I would have to see the ring though. Just to be sure it’s worth it.”

Stifling my grin, I reach beneath his pillow and pull out the elegant platinum ring I found last week. I wasn’t looking for it, but I saw it in the window and just…knew. He plucks the ring from my hand and examines it, trying to act cool. The way his chest is rapidly rising and falling gives him away, and I know he’s as affected as I am.

After a few seconds, his eyes flick to mine, shiny with joy.

“Bram,” he says, emotion coloring my name so beautifully I can’t stop the hitch in my chest.

“Nacho?” I ask, needing to hear him say it.

“Yes. Forever and always, yes.”

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