Taylor laughed, a deeply wild sound that made Johnny’s chest ache.
“Nah. I was going for the Viking warrior look. Add a few plaits and beads,bam. They’ll be calling me Ragnar the Red in no time.”
Johnny put his hands on his hips, giving Taylor a sceptical look. “Withthosebald patches? You look like you’ve got fleas, dude. And haven’t you ever heard of beard oil?”
Taylor scoffed, kicking dust up at their feet. “Listen, we can’t all have facial hair thicker than carpet. Jesus, if you ever stopped shaving we’d be calling you black Santa.”
Johnny cocked an eyebrow. “Fat and old? I’m actually offended.”
Taylor grinned and kicked Johnny’s shin. “Yeah? Fight me, then, big boy.”
A low sound rumbled in Johnny’s chest as he tipped his chin and looked at Taylor through his eyelashes. “You wanna go? ’Cause I’ll go.”
Taylor’s lips peeled back, his crooked fangs flashing as he made a grab for Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny threw back an arm, catching Taylor off balance and in one fluid movement had him in a headlock.
Taylor wriggled. “Nice try,” he said, knuckling Johnny in the ribs. “Not gonna fall for that twice in one day.”
Johnny doubled over, but before he could recover Taylor swept his legs and sent him crashing to the ground. Then they were scrapping on the path, a tangle of limbs and hands. Johnny drove his knuckle into the pressure point above Taylor’s collar bone, and Taylor stabbed two fingers into Johnny’s groin.
“You dirty fucker,” Johnny said, laughing as he twisted Taylor onto his back and sat on his legs.
“Not as dirty as you, bastard. Who the fuck goes for pressure points?”
They twisted some more, Taylor thrusting his hips up and wrapping his legs around Johnny’s waist to drive the heels of his combat boots into the small of his back. Then hesqueezed.
Johnny heaved out a laugh. “Alright thunder thighs. If you wanted to get under me so badly you only had to ask.”
Taylor gave a dirty laugh and clamped his legs so hard that Johnny woulddefinitelyhave bruises on his hips in the morning. “You wish,princess,”he hissed, looping an arm around Johnny’s neck and dragging his ear down to his mouth. Taylor smelled of sweat, and grass, and pigs andhome.His voice was low as he ground his heels into the backs of Johnny’s knees. “Is that a Glock against my thigh or are you just happy to see me?”
There was a tut, followed by a slipper hurtling past their heads. “Will you two come in and clean up?”
Their heads snapped up, because there, rolling pin in hand, was Johnny’s mum. The early evening sun caught her dark skin, her long, braided hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore an apron with ruffled tartan edges, the front of it stained through years of use. Her light brown eyes looked simultaneously amused and exasperated, which was an expression she saved solely for her kids.
Johnny gave a sheepish grin, shoving Taylor’s arm out of the way. “Bonjour, Mama. Ça va?”
Maman didn’t look impressed, and instead of answering she swung the rolling pin into her other hand.
It was enough to have them jumping to their feet, brushing themselves off and scuttling inside like crabs at the seaside. Everyone in the family knew not to test her patience when she was in chef mode, because when that apron was on even Gordon Ramsey would fucking cower.
Taylor slapped Johnny’s arse as they tripped over the threshold, both stopping on the mat to take off their boots. Within the thick stone walls of the ex-farmhouse was chaos incarnate. Clementine was trying (and failing) to tune an electric guitar, the massive amp in the corner of the living room making the most awful whining noise.
Gabriella sat in the centre of a ring of sketch pads, swivelling round on her bum as though trying to decide which to draw in first, whilst Marty attempted to catch Booty the cat, the tabby’s usually slender tail puffed up like a toilet brush.
In amongst it all was Papa in his bright orange dashiki, somehow managing to read the paper on the massive corner sofa despite the noise. It was a miracle, no, atalent, honed by nearly thirty years of parenthood.
Chaos. Beautiful fucking chaos that gave Johnny a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest.
And palpitations.
Fuck,sometimes he missed having a busy house. He and Taylor had moved out when they turned nineteen, partially because of UK pack restrictions, but mostly because with Clementine almost toddling and Gabriella on the way the house just felt too small for them all. Even with Johnny and Taylor sharing the loft conversion it was bursting at the seams.
“Boys! You’re back early,” Papa said, eyeing them from over the top of his paper.
Boys. It was always boys, or lads.Always together. Like there was never one without the other, which Johnny supposed was true. He and Tay had barely been apart since they’d met in school. Not since Johnny had noticed the bruises on Taylor’s arms, or the black eyes, or the broken fang.
Come for a sleepover! It’ll be fun!
Why?
