Chapter 2 #3
Then, at the end of the line were Johnny and Taylor.
In comparison to the rest of them they were massive.
Like two giants barely able to fit on the remaining wall space.
Johnny, with his black curls shaved short at the sides, and Taylor with a bright splash of flame-red hair.
Gabriella had given them huge muscles, like beach balls attached to their arms, which Johnny appreciated.
The kids were—rightly or wrongly—British through and through, and when Maman had sworn she was never going back to Cameroon she had meant it.
Johnny was the only one out of all his siblings who had ever known Yaoundé, with its insanely good street food—the suya and puff-puff especially—the packed sports bars, hiking up Mont Fébé to watch the sunrise and playing golf on the way back down.
He sighed at the memory of it, how life had been so easy back then. But back then there was no Taylor, so he could never be too mad about leaving.
Chickens pecked the dusty ground in the flower-beds as his eyes trailed up his dad’s sunflowers.
They were reaching record-breaking heights again, with their huge emerald leaves pushing out everything else that tried to sprout.
Johnny would never admit it, but Taylor reminded him of a sunflower—big and bright, chasing the sun but with this dark centre that seemed to suck in the light some days.
They carried on along the path, the breeze rattling the French-style shutters that adorned every window.
They were Maman’s idea, something they’d installed when they moved to High Enfield, when Johnny and Taylor were almost men and the three younger pups weren’t born yet.
They were alternating bright red, yellow and green of the Cameroonian flag—an homage to their Camfranglais roots—much to the disdain of their very British, very conservative neighbours across the field.
The kids at college had called it ‘The Rainbow House,’ which Johnny had been fucking mortified by at the time, but he kind of liked it now. Plus, the smell of peeling paint in the summer was nostalgic as hell.
“Off you go, pig,” Taylor said, slipping Frank’s bridle off and ushering him towards the sties at the top of the field.
Ham and Chop nudged Johnny’s legs, their snouts invading his pockets again. Man, they stank, but Johnny still scratched their floppy ears before finally letting them go.
“You good?” Johnny said, looking at Taylor as they stood shoulder to shoulder. They were practically the same height despite Johnny’s hair giving him half an inch, and they had similar builds, although Taylor had bulk where Johnny had longer limbs.
Taylor let out a breath, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I think you’re right about getting a haircut. It’s time to shake off this fucking fog.”
Johnny’s mouth tipped into a relieved smile as he reached up to tickle Taylor’s beard. “Play your cards right and Papa might give you a cutthroat shave, too.”
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. “With those bald 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 he squeezed.
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 would definitely have 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 and home.
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. ?a 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, a talent, 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?
Please. Please just come home with me.
“Staying for dinner?” Papa said, his knitted cap disappearing behind the newspaper again.
“You bet,” Taylor said, kicking off his boots and padding towards him. His mismatched socks left clammy footprints across the stone tiles, and when he reached the sofa he and Papa did some overly complicated handshake.
Johnny stood on the mat, listening as they exchanged words before Taylor straightened and headed through the wide archway into the kitchen.
“What is that on Tay’s face?” Maman said, appearing at Johnny’s elbow. “Is it meant to be a beard? Because it looks more like a goat hide.”
Her slippers slapped against the bottom of her feet as she guided Johnny inside by his forearm. For such a small woman she had the grip of a boa constrictor, and Johnny swallowed as he bent to kiss her forehead.
“Hello to you too, Maman.”
Maman’s expression softened as her eyes trailed up and down his face. “You look the same as ever. But why haven’t you been answering my texts?”
Johnny rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. We’ve… had a lot on recently. Work has been hectic.”
That was a lie, because Major Crime had barely given them any work recently.
“And you are still mourning your friend.”
Johnny sighed. “Yes, and Tay is… Tay hasn’t been too good lately.”
Her mouth tipped down at the edges, a look of understanding crossing her delicate features. “I thought so.”
“Can you help him? Cut his hair and get Dad to give him a shave? I don’t think he’ll do it himself.”
Maman sucked her lip. “I will. But will you stay for a few days? The girls would love—”
Johnny shook his head. “Can’t. We’re starting in Falkington tomorrow. New team, new station.”
“Why? I thought you loved working in West Newton. You got that job on the murder squad and—”
Johnny let out an awkward laugh and ran his hand through his hair. “Y-yeah, well, it’s always good to try something new, no?”
Maman’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at Taylor through the archway, then back to Johnny. “You got sacked, didn’t you?”
“Ah—no, no. More like repurposed.”
“Did they take your firearms licence off you?”
“Well, you see, it was…”
Maman crossed her arms and gave him a look that said ‘You gonna try and lie to me, boy?’
Johnny dropped his head. “Yes. Yeah. But I mean… best not to carry guns in Dingly Heath. Probably send the old fossils to an early grave.”
Maman frowned. “Your Aunt Chichi lives near Dingly Heath.”
“I know, but… please don’t tell her. Or Dad. Or Tata. Actually, please don’t mention it to anyone in the family. You know what they’re like.”
Fucking nosy was what they were. They’d once dedicated an entire group chat to discussing his and Taylor’s relationship.
Making polls and taking bets on how long it would be before they entered into some kind of throuple.
Well, the joke was on them because Taylor’s interests lay firmly in omegas and only in omegas.
Maman waved the comment away and began moving towards the kitchen. “Oh please, your dad’s so laid-back he’s horizontal,” she said, poking Papa’s shoulder with the rolling pin. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Oui, oui, ma chérie,” he replied without looking up from his paper.
“Will you do something for me?” she called over her shoulder. “Can you take the pups out? I’ve got a table of thirty coming for brunch tomorrow and I’m falling behind with the small plates.”
Johnny grinned, pressing the tip of his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “You could just say the kids are driving you mad.”
Maman let out an exasperated laugh. “They are driving me absolutely bananas.”