SWNOVELS 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.
He’s just Bram now.
I served only one year of a two-year prison sentence, and he’s responsible for my early release.
No, Ignacio. You were a good boy and earned that early release all on your own.
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.”
Wait…what?
“That’s where they went?”
Shit. Now I’m 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. This is why I don’t come here anymore.
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? And 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?”
“No. Erik says they’re gonna announce it at that Sunday dinner thing everyone else 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. But 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 course 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.”
Same, buddy. Hard same.
“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.
I’ve just been dragged from solitary confinement to this…I dunno. Interrogation room? It’s slightly nicer than I’m used to, but I’ve been handcuffed to a table. Meanwhile, my knee is killing me, and there’s still a gash in my side.
I’m here because I fought back against one of the Aryan assholes I avoid like the plague. He’d approached me in the yard, telling me what he’d like to do to my hole. I told him to get the fuck away from me, but I knew it was bad news and spent the rest of the day on edge.
Sure enough, he was waiting for me in my cell after dinner, leaving me to wonder which guard sold me out. This particular motherfucker’s upper arm is full of tally marks counting the number of men he’s punked—raped—in here. I doubt he’s any shade of gay and every shade of violent psychopath.
No fucking way was I going to let him punk me without a fight. He came at me fast, shoving a shiv into my side. Blocking out the pain, I brought him to his knees with a sucker punch, then brought my knee to his face, obliterating his nose.
Fucking lights out.
I grabbed the shiv, just in case, but tossed it when the guards came in. I kept my mouth shut and cooperated, letting them throw me into solitary without a peep.
So now I’m in whatever the fuck this room is, waiting to see which kind of fuckery they’ve got in store for me.
After several minutes, a clean-shaven white guy with brown hair, an Adonis jaw, and a killer body walks in. He’s classically fuckable, wearing khakis and a white button-down under a dark blazer stretched across impressive arms.
He walks past me, and damn, that ass. He’s got cake for days, and I bet it’s all muscle. That, plus his stiff demeanor, makes me want to pick around the perimeter, see if there’s an edge I can exploit, a desire I can get a fingernail under and unravel all his corporate composure.
Some stiff necks need you to fuck ’em to relieve the pressure, but not this dude. He’s in the room for thirty seconds, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that this guy irons his sheets and is absolutely a controlling beast in the bedroom.
He wouldn’t even have to get undressed. Just unzip and take me against this table, that wall, whatever. I bet his perfectly styled hair wouldn’t even move.
Silently, he sits across from me and places his clasped hands on the table. I slouch back, unbothered. I’m not sure what his deal is or why he isn’t saying anything, but the one thing I’ve learned in prisonlandia is that you don’t let the assholes with all the power know you’re uncomfortable.
Or that you’re hard as a fucking rock.
Letting my eyes wander down his body, I slowly lick my lips and send him a wink. His composure remains ice-cold.
Yeah, I would bottom so hard for this one.
Finally, with the smallest raise of his brow, he introduces himself. “Hello, Ignacio. My name is Dr. Barlowe.”
There are about fifteen ways to say my given name, but he’s managed to land on the version I use—Ig-nah-see-oh. I know for a fact, however, that there’s a note in my file instructing staff to call me Nacho.
Wondering what his play is, I lift my chin.
When he realizes that’s the entirety of my answer, he continues, “I’ve been asked to talk to you about the incident in your jail cell.”
“You mean when that Hitler motherfucker tried to punk me? Or when I was put in solitary with a stab wound and not even a fucking Band-Aid?”
His prominent Adam’s apple slowly rises and lowers. “I was not made aware of any injuries. I will have the doctor examine you after we’re finished here.”
“You’re a doctor. You’ve got strong-looking hands. Why don’t you examine me?”
“My doctorate is in psychology, with a focus on trauma.”
“So, no prostate exam then? Pity.”
His expression is a solid stone wall. Nothing’s getting through this one. Fuck, that’s sexy.
“I’m here because I was asked to inform you that Mr. Hightower died from his injuries.”
My throat constricts. Fuck. I want to vomit all over this table. But I can’t let this Frosty The Snowman motherfucker see any of that.
“That doesn’t make any sense. I broke his nose. You can’t die from a broken nose.”
“You can if your airway is compromised. He was deprived of oxygen until he could be transported to medical, which was delayed because several fights broke out after you were taken away. By the time they got him to medical, it was too late.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“So, what now? I’m here on a murder charge?”
Dr. Barlowe, or whatever, holds up his hands. “I don’t believe so. The state’s attorneys are involved, but my understanding is the video proves it was a premeditated attack and you acted in self-defense. It also showed that you took his weapon but released it when guards got there, which works in your favor.”
I roll my eyes, the vein in my temple pounding.
Breathe, pendejo. Focus.
“Let me guess,” I say, sounding cocky as fuck. “It also showed me getting stabbed and receiving no medical attention, so they want this to go away.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve been asked to provide support because your attacker died.”
“Not because I was attacked, but because the attacker died. Got it.”
“Violence has escalated in the two days since his death. Given the volatile nature of the situation, the warden has chosen to keep you in solitary for the rest of your sentence.”
I lean forward, a little dizzy.
Fuck, I really might throw up.
“So because I didn’t let him punk me, I get to be jumped, stabbed, and kept in the hole for a year? What the fuck?” I ask, yanking on my handcuffs, the sound loud against the metal table.
“Ignacio, I’m going to have to ask you to calm yourself. While our conversation is not recorded, this room is under surveillance, and guards will not hesitate to intervene if you are seen acting aggressively.”
“You have no idea how fucking aggressive I can get.”
“Your record indicates you’re a model prisoner with no marks on your record. I would hate for that to change.”
Fuck this guy and his resting bastard face. I fucking killed somebody, and I can’t fucking breathe right. Rising, I kick away the chair, satisfied by the deafening clang of metal on concrete. I yank ineffectively at the bolted-down table, ratcheting up the noise in the small room.
A guard pokes his head in, and Dr. Barlowe stills him with a single gesture.
“This is a therapy session, and Ignacio is allowed to express his feelings. He’s upset but unable to harm himself or me. I will call if I need your assistance.”
Disgruntled, the guard retreats.
“That’s right, bitch. Listen to your Daddy,” I shout after him. The guard slams the door, the metallic snap of the lock ringing in my ears.
Unruffled in the extreme, Dr. Barlowe’s voice is calm. And firm as steel.
“Sit. Down.”
“Fuck you, you Dom-looking motherfucker.”
“Ignacio.”
The deep, cold way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. I like it.
“It’s adorable you think you can tell me any-fucking-thing.”
“Check your attitude, Ignacio. Now.”
“Say please, Daddy.”
His eyes somehow grow colder, and I wonder if maybe I finally went too far. Tilting his head to the side, Dr. Barlowe reaches for his belt.
Oh shit.
“The fuck are you doing?”
By way of answering me, he removes it swiftly, creating a powerful crack that echoes through the room. I take an uneven breath, ignoring the precum sliding down my hard cock.
Silently he picks up the metal chair and sets it behind me. I turn to mouth off some more, but he leans close, his lips nearly brushing my earlobe.
“Sit. Down.”
He pairs this with a press of his thumb right behind my knee, causing my leg to buckle. My ass lands in the perfectly placed chair, and before I can mount a defense, he’s lashed his belt over my thighs, strapping me to the seat. His eyes pause on the tent in my prison-issue jumpsuit, but he stands without comment.
“You can’t do this.”
He smooths down his shirt and adjusts his jacket, rounding the table to sit across from me once more.
“You can’t do this,” I repeat helplessly as my cock throbs.
“Mr. Rivera, I believe in you. We can utilize the rest of your sentence to prepare you for the outside world. My instruction is purely for your betterment. Surely, compliance is not that heavy a burden.”
I snap my mouth shut, unsure how to process the leather across my thighs and the words: I believe in you.
“Mm. Better,” he says, examining me. His brow wrinkles as he leans over the table and taps under my chin. “Sit up. Straighten your shoulders.”
I comply without a thought, then curse. He raises a brow, and I suck in my lips. While my chest rises and falls rapidly with my efforts, he sits across from me, breathing easy. The only evidence of a struggle is the single bead of sweat tracking down his temple.
My cock brushes against the table apron, sending a shiver across my hips. Holding his eyes, I carefully shift my hips, letting my cockhead drag back and forth across the narrow bit of underhang.
Tapping his lips, he rises like some sort of mythical creature, sending adrenaline racing through my veins. Circling behind me again, he grips the chair on either side of my hips, pulling me back just far enough that I can no longer rub off against the table. This puts a slight stretch on my cuffed arms, and he corrects my posture by placing his hand at the very top of my chest, almost at the base of my throat.
“Mm. Perfect,” he says in his rumbling, commanding voice.
I inhale sharply and focus on the warm leather across my thighs as he retakes his seat.
“Eyes up.”
Mine snap to his and, unless I’m mistaken, there’s a pleased twinkle in his eyes. Motherfucker is enjoying this.
God help me, so am I.
“Now, talk to me about what you want to do when you get out and what plans you have to accomplish those goals.”
Unable to stop myself, I tell him everything.