Chapter 4
DINGLY HEATH
Taylor
Taylor felt that getting out of bed was very much like resurrecting the dead, and he groaned like a deflating corpse when his alarm went off the next morning. Then the second. Then the third, because there were three fucking alarms blaring at him from different points in his room.
If sonic torture was a thing, his room was Guantanamo Bay, and his inner wolf growled as it tried to pull him back into sleep.
“Fuck me,” he moaned, throat like gravel as he rubbed his face across the pillow.
First, he smacked the bedside table, almost smashing the phone from the force.
Nothing happened. Squinting through the thin strip of light that came in from the gap in his curtains, he stared at the phone and realised there was an orange Post-it note stuck to the screen.
It read ‘DO NOT SNOOZE’ in Johnny’s painfully neat handwriting.
Scoffing, Taylor scrubbed a hand over his face and ripped it off, silencing the phone.
Next, he slid out of bed with all the grace of a fat slug trying to cross a dusty road.
It involved a good amount of flopping and some awkward rolling until he found the ancient grey Alexa under his wardrobe.
There was another orange sticker that said ‘I MEAN IT TAY, DO NOT FUCKING SNOOZE!’
Finally, he rolled across the floor with the elegance of a ninety-year-old commando and found Johnny’s old MP3 player under his overflowing wash-basket.
This one didn’t have a Post-it-note, but it did have a PIN lock which meant he couldn’t turn it off without getting into the fucking thing.
Slumping into the pile of dirty washing, he tried Johnny’s birthday, 7th December, then his own, 12th April, then Gabriella’s, Clem’s and Marty’s. It finally opened on Maman’s birthday.
“Prick,” he sighed, resting the MP3 player on his chest and staring up at the ceiling.
He’d never seen the ceiling from this angle, and as he studied it he could have sworn Pitbull’s image was cast into the shitty plaster art. “Morning, Mr Worldwide,” he sighed.
Rolling again, he smacked his knee on the leg of his rickety desk before finally dragging himself into a sitting position.
His bedroom was a fucking mess, and although it was the bigger of the two, clutter had invaded every square inch of space.
Except the desk, where tiny Lord of the Rings characters were all lined up along the green craft mat, with even tinier pots of paint and fine-line brushes.
Taylor had never played any kind of tabletop games, he just liked how the brush felt between his fingers. Plus, back in the day, that blond haired elf with the bow had been one of the hottest omegas in existence and Taylor would hear no different.
Letting out a weary sigh, he raised his arms, the muscles in his shoulders popping and aching from months of not being exercised properly.
Where Johnny was built like an infuriatingly handsome and well-muscled gazelle, Taylor was most definitely an ox, and his weight training had been sorely lacking in recent months.
Once his ears had stopped ringing, he padded out of the room and grabbed a towel from the airing cupboard. He’d forgotten to use softener last time he did the laundry, so they were like sheets of sandpaper.
Across the landing, Johnny’s door was open, but when Taylor stuck his head in he found there was no one there. It probably meant he’d gone for an early morning run with Blake again.
Weirdos.
Both of them actually seemed to like running, and that thought alone made Taylor shudder.
The water was lukewarm by the time he finished washing and strangling his morning wood, but Taylor struggled to find even an ounce of guilt after Johnny’s music-induced torture.
After sloping back to his room, he pulled on a pair of lime green boxers, odd socks and a fresh pair of combat trousers.
Opening his wardrobe, he groaned when he realised there were no clean tactical shirts.
“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his feet all the way back to Johnny’s room.
He took a spare one from his wardrobe and pulled it over his head. It was too tight across the shoulders, and clung to his back as if it was sprayed on, but the arms were so long they grazed his fingertips, making him look like a 2000s emo kid.
Sniffing, he stood in Johnny’s room. Unlike the disorganised bedlam of his own bedroom, Johnny’s was neat and tidy, with his bed tucked in with military precision, the curtains immaculately folded behind the hooks, and he even had a reed diffuser on his bookshelf.
A fucking reed diffuser. The guy was a sixty-year-old woman in disguise for sure.
A wooden cross dangled from a piece of cord next to his door, and Taylor gave it a little tap to make it swing. “Morning, big man,” he said, stopping it with a finger and stroking tiny Jesus’ face.
Taylor was not religious in any way shape or form, but he could appreciate a man who got nailed for six hours straight and still came back for more.
Johnny’s windowsill was full of family photos and mementos the kids had made.
There was a photo of Taylor front and centre, which would have been sweet were it not for the fact that he had been absolutely slaughtered during their first holiday to Magaluf.
He was sprawled across a pink flamingo in the middle of a public fountain, passed out, with vomit that was not his across his chest and a party hat that made him look like a really shit unicorn.
He didn’t even remember most of that holiday, or getting an elephant tattoo on his arse cheek, or how Johnny had sustained a broken wrist. But what he did remember was the raging case of crabs they’d both contracted after a threesome with an omega on the beach, and not the crustacean variety.
Rolling up his sleeves, he made his way downstairs.
It was only 6:30 am, but morning light was already pouring in through the windows and bouncing off the high-end aluminium microwave like it was the second coming of Christ. Maman had donated it to them when the restaurant was re-fitted, along with the fancy toaster, air fryer and coffee machine (even though neither of them drank coffee, but it looked good on the counter).
Glancing towards the door he saw that Johnny’s trainers were gone, as was the CamelBak that usually hung from the coat rack.
In the space where his running shoes had been was a stained rag and an unfamiliar tin of boot polish.
Taylor frowned, because neither of them had bulled their boots in ages, but as his eyes followed the skirting board, there they were.
Two sets of black combat boots all shiny and clean on a sheet of newspaper.
Two sets.
Taylor’s chest gave a sharp little tug, the sensation flitting down into his belly and settling like a lead ball. Johnny wanted to make a good impression. Wanted them to both make a good impression. Usually he didn’t give two shits about Taylor’s scruffiness, but that morning…
Christ, guilt felt unpleasant.
Sighing, Taylor wrenched open the fridge, pulled out a can of Coke and headed to the back door.
He stepped out onto the patio, running the pad of his thumb around the lip of the can.
The massive field at the back of the house was full of sheep, like fluffy clouds under the morning sun.
The woods beyond were dark as usual, and Taylor was definitely taking his wolf out for a run later.
Was he seriously not going to get to clean his gun today? No click of the trigger, no slide release, no pop of the recoil spring or smelling the gun oil as he ran it through the barrel.
Shit, his hands were already itching for something to touch, and a soft clearing of the throat made his head jerk round.
“You… okay there, Tay?”
Taylor jumped. “Fuckin’ hell,” he said, eyeing Pember, their dark-haired omega neighbour from over the fence. He was holding a coffee cup and had two dogs lying at his feet; a Labrador and a corgi. Taylor took a long drink to cover how flustered that’d made him. “You’re as quiet as a mouse.”
Pember’s mouth twitched into a small smile, and he pulled an oversized dressing gown around his shoulders. He hopped up onto a plant pot so they could see one another better. “Or maybe you’re just noisy,” he said, grinning as he took a slurp of coffee.
Fuck he was cute. Like, really really cute. All dark hair and big green eyes. Blake had played a blinder bagging himself such a fine—
“You okay?” Pember repeated, resting his mug on the fence post. “We heard what happened… with the transfer.”
Taylor groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Is everyone talking about it?”
Not that he really cared, he just didn’t want it to get back to Johnny’s Aunt Chichi, a pathologist for Major Crime. Because if Chichi knew the reason for their departure, then Maman soon would, and Taylor could not bear the thought of meeting her disappointed expression again.
Pember shrugged, giving him a sympathetic look. “I mean… kind of. There was cake after you left… Probably just the boss trying to cheer everyone up. And balloons, and—”
“There was a party?” Taylor huffed. “Pem, was there a fucking party? Is that where you and Blake were last night?”
A blush crept up Pember’s neck as he waved the comment away.
“N-no, not a party. Just a gathering in one of the briefing rooms. The boss announced it and then the cake came out. Honestly, Blake and I didn’t really know what it was about.
There was actually a stabbing, and Wallace needed another pair of hands, so… ”
Taylor crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And I bet Wallace had some cake too.”
Pember flushed even redder, making the tips of his ears light up.
“Anyway,” he said breathily, “Falkington. That’s exciting, lots of good people in Falkington.
You remember the guys we worked with on the…
” The words trailed off as he glanced down.
“Sorry. I keep forgetting you were friends with Sam.”