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

Fuck. Levy stepped in front of that bullet for me. He said it was just a graze, but I should have known better. I race to the house, Nacho, Hopper, and Charlie hot on my heels. We pass Anders and Erik, who now seems to be arguing with Ant.

Not wanting any part of that, I bang through the front door, panicking when I don’t see Levy right away. He’s not in the dining room-slash-office or the kitchen. Charlie calmly points me over to the living room. Pivoting, I enter the dimly lit space to find Levy on the floor, set up against the couch, holding his side.

My hands start to shake, and the smell of disinfectant fills my nose. The beep of my heart monitor. The foggy realization that Levy and I are all alone in this world.

“It’s not that bad, promise,” he says, his voice weak.

Ignoring him, I pull away his hand. It’s a narrow gash but bloody as hell. Turning gray, Levy looks off to the side, pressing his mouth against his shoulder.

Anders saunters in and kneels next to me, examining the cut. Whistling through his teeth, he observes, “There’s a thin line between a bullet graze and gut shot, and your brother’s just on the right side of things. I’ve definitely seen worse.”

Anders turns to Charlie. “Have we done a full blood panel on the therapy brothers?”

Charlie shakes his head.

Anders scowls, unhappy with this information. Up-nodding me, he asks, “You have cancer in your family history?”

I answer, not sure what the hell is going on. “Grandfather on Mom’s side died of pancreatic cancer. Mom had breast cancer but survived.”

“Is she still alive? Was there a reoccurrence of her cancer?”

I shake my head. “She died two years into remission.”

“Cause of death?”

I look at my brother on the floor, helpless.

“Car accident.”

He scowls. “Shit, that’s right. Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way. Charlie, I need a needle and thread. Since the house is so close, see if we can get someone to bring my bag.”

“Need me to go?” Hopper offers, one of the dogs sitting peacefully at his feet.

Anders shakes his head. “Someone from there will bring it over right away.”

Charlie sends him a small salute and grabs his phone, walking into the other room.

I turn to Anders, confused and a little fucking agitated. “Why would anybody bring you a needle and thread?”

“I’m a surgeon,” he says, pulling a silver case from his pocket.

I snort, waiting for a punchline that doesn’t come.

“Bullshit.”

Charlie dips his head back into the room, the phone to his ear. “He’s not lying. I’ve seen his work. Which is good because we need to try to avoid hospitals. We show up with a guy with a bullet wound, and it’ll cause some serious issues.”

Anders shrugs. “Eh. I have privileges in Fredericksburg, and we could have our folks work their magic, make the record disappear. But I’m telling you, this is not that bad.”

Turning back to the guy I just saw kill a whole bunch of people, I ask what I think is a pretty obvious question.

“How are you a surgeon? Where are you a surgeon?”

Anders shakes his head, laughing. “I could tell you, but then I’d hafta kill you.”

Hopper snorts, and I purse my lips, willing myself not to punch either of them in the mouth.

Nacho touches my arm. “Hey, Bram. It’s gonna be okay. He had to give Ant stitches when he ripped his thumb open on a nail. He’s good.”

I pull away from his touch, shaking my head. “Yeah, no. He’s not touching my brother.”

Nacho puts up his hands and steps back.

Anders’ jaw drops, completely offended.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know you.”

Meanwhile, Charlie walks in. “Bag’s on its way.”

“Outstanding.”

“Hey, Bram…” Levy says, his voice thin.

“Yeah, buddy?” I ask, hovering over him.

He looks down at himself and dry heaves. “I don’t feel so—”

Levy’s chin hits his chest, and he begins to drift forward. Hopper and I catch him, and my hands shake as we lean him against the sofa. Anders pushes us out of the way, pressing his fingers against Levy’s neck.

“He’s got a good pulse. Can somebody get me more light?”

Nacho pulls out his phone and turns on the light, focusing it on the wound. Fuck. It looks like my brother’s been split in two.

Talking over my shoulder, I say, “Charlie, I’m sorry, man. We need to take him to a hospital.”

Anders shakes his head. “Nah. I got him, I promise. They got a big table somewhere?”

“There’s a table in the breakfast nook,” Charlie volunteers.

“Works for me.”

Nacho, still giving me a wide berth, follows Charlie into the kitchen, where they each grab an edge of the table.

“Excuse me, guys, what the fuck is going on?”

I feel like I’m going out of my mind as I watch them pull the table into the middle of the kitchen.

“You know what? Fuck this, I’m taking him myself,” I say, stomping back toward the living room.

“Bram?” Charlie’s voice is calm, but that makes it worse.

I round back on him. “What?”

“We’re taking care of Levy. He’ll be okay,” he says, his eyes sincere. “I promise.”

Anders comes in, carrying my brother like he’s nothing, and Hopper’s holding his silver case while the damn dog trails behind him. I curse under my breath.

“Give me those scissors,” he says as he carefully sets Levy down.

Nacho grabs the heavy shears from the knife block and puts them in his hand. Anders works quickly, zipping through the fabric, removing all of Levy’s clothes within seconds, revealing his extensive tattoo work. Anders holds out his hand, and Charlie passes a paper towel to him, which he uses to cover my brother’s personal business.

“Case?”

Hopper places it in his hand, and Anders flicks it open, revealing several syringes filled with colorful liquids.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Sedatives and heartstoppers, among other things,” he says, pulling out a syringe.

“How do you know that’s not the heartstopper?” I ask, unable to hide the edge of hysteria that’s crept into my voice. There are too many fucking people in this kitchen.

“They’re color-coded.”

I bring my hands to my head, then gesture to the gaping wound in Levy’s side. “That bullet practically split him in two. He’s bleeding out, and I’m supposed to…what? Trust you?”

Anders turns to me, his lips sucked in as though he’s trying to hold in a laugh, and it’s agitating my very soul.

“What about any of this is funny, motherfucker?”

He schools his face, trying to approximate…I dunno, professionalism?

“Bram, he’s fine. It’s a serious wound that needs to be addressed, but your brother isn’t unconscious from blood loss.”

I point to my pale, naked brother on the kitchen table as evidence of Anders’ complete break from reality.

“Seriously, are you a Fisher-Price doctor? Because you know that doesn’t count, right?”

Anders stops his prep work and turns to me as he knots his hair at the base of his neck.

I’m about to go in on Mr. Man Bun when he raises his brows at me. I stop in my tracks, caught in his crosshairs. I just saw him kill multiple men, sure, but he’s never leveled that look at me before.

I step back.

Shaking his head, Anders says, “His blood loss is minimal, I promise. Has your brother ever passed out from the sight of blood?”

“Like a paper cut? No.”

“Does he have any trauma around a large loss of blood? Say, maybe around the car accident that killed your mother and your father and gave you that scar?”

“Oh,” I say, stopped in my tracks. “Yes.”

“It’s called vasovagal syncope. Happens when something triggers a severe emotional response, and for some people, their trigger is blood,” he explains, his voice measured and absent any of the usual Anders charm.

“Oh,” I repeat dumbly.

“And you just killed two people, which is why your hands are shaking and you’re kind of being an asshole right now. Totally understandable, but not the time. I’m going to ask you to please shove that shit down and put a lock on it so I can take care of your brother. Sound good?”

Fuck, my hands really are shaking pretty badly.

Feeling like I’ve had the air punched out of me, I catch Nacho’s eye. He takes a breath, and I follow him. It doesn’t help.

Anders turns, then spins back around, holding up his finger. “Also? If he were split in two, you’d know because you’d be smelling his guts right now. You’d think someone who worked at a hospital would know that.”

Just as he turns around to focus on my brother, there’s a knock on the door. Charlie walks over and opens it, revealing a familiar face.

“Mama Bash?” I ask, so confused, as Hopper bounds past me to wrap her in a sweet hug.

Staring at Charlie, I gesture incredulously at the Mother of Serial Killers standing in the foyer with a black leather bag in her hands.

“It’s okay, Bram. Anja brought Anders his supplies.”

She points at my nearly naked brother. “I was told there was a medical emergency.”

Anders comes over and gives her a bloody half-hug, grabbing the bag from her. “Thanks, Mama.”

Just as the fight goes out of me, Ant bursts through the front door, yelling at Erik.

“Stop following me, you big oaf!” he yells, ineffectively shoving Erik away.

“You just killed a man, Ant. I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Erik responds, unmoved in more ways than one.

Erik looks to Charlie, who holds up a hand, patiently shaking his head.

“He deserved to die! Did you see those women? These assholes were treating them like a puppy mill, Erik!” Ant shouts, getting wound up all over again.

“I know, buddy, that’s why we do what we do. But you can’t just come in and randomly kill someone. What if he’d been an ally?” Erik asks, grabbing his shoulder.

Ant yanks away from him. “It wasn’t random, and he wasn’t an ally! He had his gun to the back of your head! Should I have let him kill you?”

Erik’s eyes go wide. “He did?”

“Yes, you fucking nopal!” Ant yells, whacking Erik’s arm. Cursing, he pulls his hand back, wincing.

“Shit, are you okay? Also…did you just call me a cactus?”

Ant turns away from him. “No, idiot! I called you a nopal. A bigfoot!”

Hopper snorts, and I wonder if this isn’t some elaborate stress dream.

“Well, shit, buddy.” Erik looks to Charlie, who nods. Ant really did save his life. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Guys?” I finally say, finally snapping out of the drama-induced hypnosis. “My brother is on the table with a huge gash up his side and is about to get worked on by an insane person. Can you two take all your unresolved sexual tension and deal with it anywhere else?”

I may have yelled that last bit.

Erik looks confused, Ant looks hurt, and Anders may have had a point about my mental state.

God, I feel ill.

Charlie puts himself between us. “Erik—take Ant to the bathroom and get him cleaned up, then take the big truck back to the ranch and sit with him until I get there.”

Looking like a couple of chastised puppies, they head off to the bathroom, and I finally remember to check on my brother, who has regained consciousness.

Blinking against the overhead light, he asks, “Why is Bram yelling?”

Knowing I’m going to have to find a way to make it up to Ant, I try to calm my voice for my brother. “I’m okay, Lev. Shit just got intense.”

“Oh, okay. Why is Mama Bash here?”

“Hi, Levy,” she says softly. “I brought Anders his medical bag. He’s trying to keep you out of the hospital.”

“Oh, that’s good. Why am I only wearing a paper towel?”

“Sorry about that, dude,” Anders says. “The location of the wound makes it hard to stitch up with clothes on. Now, aside from being naked in front of a lot of people, where’s your pain level?”

He laughs, then winces. “Uh…it’s not too bad. I mean, it hurts, but I’m not dying. Except for this table. This shit’s fucking uncomfortable.”

I go to the living room and grab a throw pillow, then push past Anders to set the pillow under Levy’s head. He tries to reach out for me, but Anders grabs his arm.

“No moving, Levy-man. It’s not too deep a wound, but let’s not make it worse, okay?”

“Okay,” Levy says, slow-blinking. “Hey, where’d that kid go…?”

“He’s losing consciousness again,” I say, panic rising in my chest.

Anders holds up a syringe and points to Levy’s rising and falling chest. “He’s fine. I made extra sure he got the right meds.”

Nacho, who’s been quiet this whole time, heads toward the back of the house. “I’ll look for the kid.”

Hopper and his dog follow. “I’ll go with you.”

“Sweet,” Anders declares. “Bram, come over here and help me wash my hands.”

I watch Nacho walk off as I turn on the hot water and grab the dish soap. I snapped at him, and he was just trying to help. I’m gonna need to make that up to him. Fuck this night.

Quickly washing my hands first, I squirt a generous amount into Anders’ waiting palms. He proceeds to do a surgery-type scrub up to his elbows, then rinses his hands under the scalding water.

When he’s finished, he turns to me with kind eyes. For the record, that’s more disturbing than his murder face.

“Everything in that bag is vacuum sealed and labeled. Grab me one of the surgical towels. It’ll be blue.”

I do as asked, opening the plastic wrapping without touching the small flat towel.

“Nice technique,” he says, pinching the towel from its packaging.

“Please don’t compliment me. Just try not to kill my brother.”

“You got it.”

Once he’s dried his hands, I help him into gloves.

Ant and Erik appear, looking like they bathed with their clothes on. Nacho comes in from the back with the kid under his arm.

“Hopper’s outside playing with the dogs. I’m taking this little one to the maternity ward. Y’all need anything?” Nacho asks, avoiding my eyes.

“A stiff drink,” I mutter before realizing who I’m talking to. “Uh…sorry, Ignacio.”

His eyes finally make their way to mine. I mouth I’m so sorry at him, and his warm chuckle is the small bit of magic I need in that moment.

“Don’t worry about it…Dr. Barlowe.”

I breathe a little easier.

Ant looks between the two of us, rolling his eyes. “Those are your sex names for each other. That’s gross.”

I raise my brow at him, and he mirrors the gesture.

Erik places his hand on Ant’s shoulder. “Hey, why don’t we get out of here and leave them to it?”

Ant looks at Erik’s hand and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Oh—okay.”

I flick a look over to Charlie, and he’s shaking his head. This whole night has been a fucking disaster from top to bottom.

Anders, ignoring everyone, begins to examine the wound, which…okay, actually isn’t all that bad.

“Hm. He got lucky with this tiny bit of extra padding. It prevented the bullet from getting too far into the muscle. I’d’ve been dead on the spot.” He laughs, twisting his hips to show off his trim waist.

Pushing my tongue against my bottom lip, I shoot him a look that melts the smile right off his face.

“Damn. Tough room.” Moving on, he points to the bag with his elbow. “I need the curved sixteen-millimeter needle, and there are two types of thread. I’ll need both of them.”

“You thinking two layers, dissolving and non?” I ask, having spent a fair amount of time around an ER.

I’m briefly reminded of all the times I was called to help with a hysterical family member and wonder if Anders has any Valium in that bag of his. I probably could’ve used some a few minutes ago.

“Yeah. It’s deep in a couple of spots, but not too bad.”

“But he’s going to be okay?”

“Absolutely.”

You know what? I believe him this time.

“Don’t fuck up his tattoo,” I say, unable to leave well enough alone.

Anders’ jaw tightens.

“Sorry,” I mumble, then step back.

Anders goes to work on my brother, cleaning the wound before going in with the needle and thread. I watch, fascinated by his layers of quick, precise stitches. He’s finished in no time, and the complex geometric patterns that converge on Levy’s torso are perfectly aligned. I mumble another quick apology.

“No worries, man. If you think you’re bad when your brother gets hurt, you’ve got nothing on me. I’ve been known to go ham on people who’ve hurt Odd, and if I didn’t know how to fix him myself, I’d be an absolute nightmare for medical personnel.”

“Thanks, Anders. Even if you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

He chuckles and pats my shoulder. “We’re good, dude.”

We let Levy rest on the table while Charlie calls in arrangements for the women in the warehouse. It all feels very Margaret Atwood.

While we had originally planned to bring whoever we found to the convent with the other people who were caught up in this ring, the pregnancies change everything.

Three are days away from giving birth, and one lady gave birth mid-transport to this location. The last thing we want is a repeat of that, or to chance getting busted and having them put in some holding facility, removed from their babies.

The insta-building, however unwelcoming, has the best setup until we figure out how to take care of them.

Knowing the environment is critical for the health of the mothers and the babies, I go with Nacho to talk to the mothers to find out what they need. We’ll order better beds and softer bedding, along with tables and chairs and comfortable couches for a common area. I might also toss some flowering plants into the order to give the place a more welcome feel.

I return to the house where Anders and Hopper are shooting the shit while Levy is still sedated and only wearing a paper towel. After Anders assures me Levy’s resting comfortably and should rouse soon, I head into the dark living room and drop onto the old, musty couch. Charlie sits down next to me, equally exhausted.

“The Wimberley crew will take care of the bodies and work with Hop to take care of the dogs. Erik says Ant passed out as soon as they got to the bunkhouse, so now he’s stuck with Ant sleeping on his lap.”

I chuckle. “What are the odds Ant’s actually awake and just taking advantage of the opportunity to lie on Erik’s lap?”

“Gotta be at least fifty-fifty,” Charlie jokes back, then goes serious. “Shit. What the hell are we going to do with him? The way he kept going after that guy…”

“Normally, I would want to have him admitted for evaluation and perhaps a stay at a trusted facility. However, given what he knows and what he’s been through, a standard mental healthcare facility probably isn’t the right choice.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“That said, even with the ethical complications of our living arrangement, Levy and I are probably the best qualified to work with him.”

Charlie chews on a thumbnail, considering. “There is a criminal psychologist who works with Anders who might also be a good fit.”

“Why doesn’t it shock me that Anders sees a criminal psychologist?”

“Because who else would have me?” he says, walking into the living room.

I groan in response, even though I appreciate him more than I did before.

He sends me finger guns. “Hedy will love working with Ant.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Pretty sure she got her doctorate from Stanford in criminal psychology. She’s legit—a criminal profiler by trade, but she wears multiple hats in our organization. She profiles our new agents and counsels anyone who needs it.”

“You need a criminal profiler to identify good candidates for your organization?”

Anders chuckles. “You know she’s the one who profiled you and Levy before Charlie let you join in on these missions, right?”

I look over at Charlie, who confirms it with a grimace.

Ah, hell.

“I think, as you have discovered for yourself, that in order for anything good to get done, you gotta be willing to get dirty.” Anders says this with a shrug, then explains, “Hedy does a great job of identifying people willing to break the law but not actual criminals, and she’s a damn fine therapist. Also, she gives great head.”

Aaaand now he’s laughing at his own joke. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You slept with your therapist?” I ask, sounding supremely judgmental as Nacho walks into the living room.

Anders snorts into his fist, looking pointedly between the two of us. “That happened before she was my therapist, and…you were saying?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, pulling Nacho onto my lap.

Nacho puts his hand on my throat and nips at my ear as if knowing exactly what I need to ground myself and maybe stop taking myself so seriously.

Anders disappears to check on Levy again as Justin walks in the door. Justin, who is a bit tall and gangly, focuses his luminous, worried eyes on his husband.

“You ready to go?” he asks, helping Charlie stand from the lumpy couch.

He nods slowly. “Yeah, you got the blowup mattress?”

He holds up the bag.

“You two okay to sleep with the moms?” I ask. “Should more of us stay here?”

“We’re good,” Charlie assures me, sounding exhausted.

“You know Levy and I are here to help where we can.”

“Tell you what, we’ll give him a few days to recover first.”

I snort, grateful that I can. “Good call.”

Nacho and I wave as Charlie and Justin head out the door.

“Tonight sucked,” Nacho says, touching his forehead to mine, his weight on my lap a comfort.

“Yes, it did.”

“You killed two people. Are you okay?”

“Nope, though I kinda regret losing my cool more than killing them. Does that make me a bad person?”

Nacho laughs and adjusts on top of me.

“Dr. Barlowe, you’re fucking a former patient. If anything, that’s what makes you a bad person. Killing a pregnancy trafficker…I think you’re in the clear.”

“It’s a little thing I like to call balance,” I say, my attempt at humor falling flat.

Nacho trails his fingertips over my worried brows. “You got a halfway decent shower back at the bunkhouse?”

“Big enough for both of us,” I answer, running my fingers through his hair.

“Just make sure not to fuck too loudly because that will put me in therapy for the rest of my life,” Levy cracks, gingerly making his way into the living room, flanked by Hopper and Anders.

“Should you be up and walking?” I ask, checking with Anders.

Levy nods. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just wanna go home, crawl into my bed with one of the painkillers Anders tucked into my pocket, and sleep until the day after tomorrow.”

“Truth,” Anders says, carefully low-fiving my brother.

“By the way, Levy?” Nacho says with an evil gleam in his eye. “I couldn’t possibly think about sex tonight. I don’t know about your brother, but what I really need right now is a good cuddle.”

“Yes, Ignacio,” I say, kissing his nose, ignoring Levy’s pained groan. “I would love a cuddle.”

“Ugh, do you see this, Hop? People in love are so disgusting.”

Hop shakes his head, laughing. “Then call me disgusting because I love my husband like crazy.”

“Like crazy sounds about right,” Nacho cracks, ignoring the weight of Levy’s words.

Levy’s right, of course. I’ve absolutely fallen in love with Nacho and am a fucking helpless case at this point.

Nacho and I disentangle ourselves, getting up from the couch.

“Shit, we don’t have a ride,” Levy says, his voice heavy with painkillers.

“That’s okay,” I respond, looking outside. “We’ll take one of the trafficker’s trucks.”

“Murder, breaking and entering, and theft? Our parents would be so proud.”

I have to laugh along with him. “You know what? I think they would be.”