“You didn’t have to do that,” Johnny whispered, watching as Taylor helped Papa pack up the bar.
“Yes, I did,” she said quietly, switching form English to rapid-fire French. “Because it breaks my heart every time you see someone turn his head.”
Johnny frowned and sucked his teeth. “He can go out with whoever he wants, Maman. It’s no one’s business but his.”
“And what about you, baby? How will you feel if he comes home tomorrow smelling of someone else?”
“How I always do. I live with it, and I get on with it.”
Maman gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him down to meet her gaze. “For how long? I know how you look at him. Weallknow, except Papa. Me, Chichi, even the girls are starting to notice. It’s confusing for them because Taylor is their brother too.”
Johnny ran a hand down his face. “Please, Maman. Not now.”
“Not now. Then when, John-Paul? When your heart’s conflicted the?—”
“The Devil hits his second stride. Yes, Maman, I know.”
Maman shook her head and sighed. “You’re a good boy, John-Paul. Do you really think Taylor’s going to thank you for torturing yourself like this?”
Johnny flicked his eyes to Taylor, watching as he and Papa juggled sugar cubes. “He’s my best friend. Myonlyfriend. How do I just tell him I’ve been in—” He clamped his mouth shut.
Because how could he tell his best friend that sometimes, maybe, he thought about him in the shower? Or that his very first rut had been brought on by the sight of Taylor’s sweaty chest in a skintight T-shirt? Or that his scent was fucking perfect. Or that every time Taylor fucked someone else it chipped away at his heart just a tiny bit more?
He’d tried ignoring it—for all the good that did. When he was younger he’d tried speaking more softly, or moving more gracefully like an omega would, because if the good old English classics (andGrease) had taught him anything, it was that you stand a better chance of bagging the man you love if you hammer yourself into a more desirable shape.
Horse shit, because Taylor had just looked at him like he was crazy.
Johnny had tried fucking other people—even alphas. Especially alphas. He’d left his shirt open more than once so Taylor could see the love bites across his chest and collarbones. He’d look at them intently, seeming to study them before looking back up at Johnny and giving him a slap on the back and a thumbs up.
Johnny knew how Taylor looked first thing in the morning, the way his orange hair stuck up on the left side and his eyes were puffy with sleep. He knew how he sounded when he laughed—a dirty, full-belly sound that seemed to shake the entire house. He knew how he smelled after a rut, and how his skin felt when his wolf receded. So was Johnny really being so selfish in wanting to know how he tasted, too?
One night he’d even asked God to deliver him from temptation, but then he saw Taylor naked the next morning and realised that forbidden fruit made the. Best. Fucking. Jam.
Alphas mated with other alphas, sure they did, ever since mating restrictions had been lifted in the early nineteen hundreds. But not them. Not Taylor, who had practically been his fucking brother for well over a decade and only liked omegas.
“John-Paul,” Maman whispered, squeezing his wrist. “Baby, you’re growling.”
Johnny coughed, making both of them jump. “Sorry,” he whispered, pulling Maman into his arms. “Can we just drop it, Maman?”
She sighed and rubbed her face over his chest. She smelled like spices and was so wonderfully warm. “Yes.”
A shriek cut through the quiet. “Mama!” Marty cried, running towards them and hiding behind Johnny’s legs. “Mama, it’s William’s dad! He’s outside!”
Johnny’s head snapped up, eyes darting towards the two arched windows that faced the high street. There was a loud thud, followed by the smashing of glass, and suddenly Taylor smacked a cocktail shaker onto the bar and was barrelling towards the door. Ushering Marty into Maman’s arms, Johnny bolted after him.
They were out on the street, light spilling onto the pavement from all the other bars and restaurants. The street lamps caught Taylor’s hair, and the green glass of a beer bottle crunched under his shoes. His fists balled at his sides as he started after the man swaggering down the street. Johnny grabbed the collar of Taylor’s shirt, yanking him back.
“Don’t,” he growled, trying to pull him away, but Aden Manders was already turning to face them.
“Stay the fuck away from my son!” he called, planting his feet and flipping them the middle finger. He wore a filthy, hole-filled T-shirt and brown labourer’s trousers, even though Johnny knew he’d barely worked a day in the last five years.
Manders gave them a self-satisfied smirk as he reached down and picked up a bottle of vodka from next to a public bin. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth with his palm and belched. “Ya fuckin’ nonce.”
Taylor lurched forwards, but Johnny kept hold of his shirt.
“Let me go,” Taylor snarled, trying to shake Johnny off.
“Cool it, Scrappy-Doo. Don’t you think this is what he wants?”
