Good Behavior: An MM Forbidden Romance (Wild Heart Ranch Book 2)
Good Behavior: Chapter 4

I thank the translator and disconnect the Zoom call. My therapy sessions are usually with locals, but this was with Biyu, one of the trafficking victims we’re housing until we can replace a way home for her.

We’re sitting in my office in the Equine Therapy and Rescue center, a beautiful barn built by the surrounding community. Levy also has a small office, but most of his work is in the cathedral-like indoor riding area surrounded by stables.

I’ve decorated my office with soothing prints and bright greenery, but my favorite feature is the window looking out on Levy’s equine therapy space. It has blinds that I allow patients to control, but they almost always leave it open enough to see the horses.

It’s all meant to lend a sense of peace, but I’m not sure how well that’s working today. I have a small couch on the wall opposite the window, paired with two comfortable chairs around a pretty rug. It works for a variety of comfortable seating options. Because I’m screen sharing to the flat-screen above the couch, we’re using the chairs, a setup I’m starting to call trauma theater.

I’m told Biyu is fifteen years old, but she’s not even five feet tall and severely underweight. The translator I used today is trained in translating trauma, and I used every last bit of her skills.

Smokey, the cat, has taken a liking to Biyu, and on days like this, she curls up at Biyu’s feet, a silent show of support. Today I learned Biyu was taken from her mountain village in China and somehow ended up in Dallas. Ours is one of the worst states for human trafficking, and today was particularly hard.

I’m usually able to separate myself from the issues, but something about her reminds me of the first time I met Ant. I don’t know all the details, and I’m committed to letting him come to me in his own time, but I’d bet my paycheck he and Biyu have a lot in common.

I pull up the translation app on my phone and speak into it, letting it talk for me.

“You did very well today. That must have been hard. You are brave.”

Smokey jumps into her lap, and she pets her while avoiding my eyes.

“Xiè xiè,” she says, which means thank you. The app translates that and her question. “Am I really going to see my family again?”

“We are trying very hard to arrange that.”

She looks up, her eyes meeting mine with a terrified sort of hope. She wants to believe me, but I doubt, given everything that’s happened to her, that trust comes easily.

She looks about as drained as I feel, so we leave my office and step up to the low fence that surrounds the riding area. Levy is leading one of the horses—Apple Jack, I think—in a circle, something he does when he knows I’ve got a particularly tough session.

Smokey climbs over the fence, then does her little circle eights around Levy’s and the horse’s feet before walking back toward us. You never can tell what a cat is thinking, but Levy follows her. Biyu’s eyes widen as Levy approaches with the tall, gentle horse.

“Would you like to pet him?” Levy asks into his translator app.

It takes a few tries to make himself understood with the infernal technology and some creative miming, but when she nods and timidly steps a little closer, we know she understands.

I have my doubts as her delicate fingers stroke up and down his nose, but Apple Jack stands absolutely still. Surprising Levy and me, she opens the gate, stepping off the walkway into the therapy space.

Running her hand down Apple Jack’s neck, she steps closer. I silently check in with Levy, and he nods. This is a good thing.

As her hand smooths up and down the horse’s velvety hide, a few tears fall and hit the soft dirt. Stilling her hands, she leans into him, pressing her face against his neck while Smokey sits at her feet. After a few seconds, her shoulders rise and fall, and her faint cries echo lightly through the space.

Levy and I share a brief, unspoken moment, both of us wiping tears. This is why we do what we do.

Then, as quickly as it started, her cries settle, and she steps away from Apple Jack with a quick pat and a respectful bow. Taking a moment to wipe her eyes, she sends Smokey a wave and then gives me a small nod.

We take the pathway back to the bunkhouse, the crushed granite crunching softly beneath our feet as we walk in companionable silence. I accompany her down the hallway to the room she shares with Katrina, a young woman who came to us a couple of weeks ago.

The translator helped Biyu tell us that she would rather bunk with someone else, and we got lucky with Katrina. She’s a good egg, funny and sweet, and when Biyu sees her again, she grabs her arm as if she’ll never let her go.

Katrina and I share a glance. Helping Biyu also helps Katrina, and I’m glad to see it. I cross the house back to my room and crawl into bed, allowing myself ten minutes to deflate while staring at the ceiling.

Levy: I need to hit something.

I’d forgotten that Levy also had a heavy session today. He’s helping a local woman leave her husband, and the police have been involved multiple times.

Bram: I’ll be right over.

I change into my workout gear and head back to the therapy barn. I meet with Levy in the back, where we have mats laid out. Wordlessly, we step onto the mats, bow to each other, and begin trading self-defense moves.

I start with a sneaky behind-the-knee kick, immediately taking him to the floor. Dancing back, I let him reset, and he comes after me with a hip jab and full-on body slam onto the mat.

“Fuck,” I breathe out. “Guess your day looked like mine.”

“Yep. You working with that other kid from the Dallas area?”

I nod, accepting his help up.

We nod, and I go in with a strike, which he blocks while I avoid a kick. We separate, bouncing on our feet, fists raised.

“I’d like just a few minutes alone in a room with my patient’s asshole husband,” Levy growls. “He walked in, saw she’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and threw it at her. Burned her face and neck. Mostly first-degree burns, but she was terrified.”

“Fuck. I didn’t realize they were still in the same house.”

“No, he had to move out. He broke the restraining order. Again.”

“Do we need to talk to Charlie about…?”

He’s already shaking his head. “No, he’s been put in jail, and the charges will probably stick this time. Patrick was furious,” he says, talking about our local sheriff.

Levy curses, knocking his temple with a wrapped hand. “Mom and Dad always taught us that violence is not the answer, but they didn’t know the questions we’d be asked.”

“Agreed. Hell, I’ll join you. I spent the better part of my afternoon waiting for my translator to tell me exactly how many ‘owners’ Biyu had in the six years since she was taken from her family.”

“Fuck these human traffickers,” Levy spits out.

“I know Charlie likes to leave them to the authorities, but I suspect he doesn’t hold back if confronted by one.”

“Exactly.” Levy shakes his head and goes in for a rabbit punch to the side that I can’t quite block. “I don’t think it happens often though. It sounds like they try to avoid direct confrontation. I’m curious. I sometimes wish…”

“What?”

“Nah, doesn’t make any sense.”

“Say it.”

Scrubbing the back of his head, he pauses, then barrels forward. “It’d be worse in so many ways, but I almost wish we could be there in the moment. My guy yesterday? He told me the four-hour drive from Dallas to Austin felt like a death march. He was surprised when he was fed and given a private room.”

I grunt in response. “Yeah, Charlie said the translator app went down. What good are we if we can’t talk to them? Hell, he couldn’t communicate with the kids, and they wouldn’t eat the ice cream he bought for them because that was how their captors drugged them.”

He cracks his neck. “Still. We could at least be there in a supportive capacity. Can’t be easy, managing dozens of traumatized people between the two of them. Just having the extra bodies would help. Or, hell, what if they’re needed in two places at once? I mean, it’s not like we can’t defend ourselves if things get a little hairy.”

I think he’s oversimplifying and, perhaps, gunning for an excuse to punch a human trafficker in the mouth, but I don’t hate the idea.

Bringing up my knee, I connect with Levy’s hip, causing him to spin to the side and back again.

“Look, they’re not going to agree to that without seeing what we’re capable of.”

He gets me with a few body blows, but I pull away before he can do too much damage. Breathing hard, he responds, “They’ve seen our self-defense classes. They’ve seen us spar. Surely they know we can handle ourselves.”

“I suspect handling oneself in a controlled environment and handling oneself in dangerous situations are two separate things.”

Levy stops and runs his knuckles over his chin. “What if we joined them on a search and rescue? Aren’t they saddling up to search for that girl who went missing over by Vidor?”

“They can’t saddle up,” I say, pushing his shoulder to get him back to sparring. “It’s all marshland. They’re bringing Moose to track with the other bloodhounds, but everything is on foot or by boat.”

“So they’ll need even more bodies to cover the area,” Levy says, going in for another leg sweep.

I trip but maintain my balance, gesturing for him to come at me. We go on like this for another twenty minutes, sparring and debating our involvement with their operation. By the end, we’re both dripping with sweat, and he’s convinced me to at least chat with Charlie when he gets back from his honeymoon.

“Hey, guys, come on in,” Charlie says, affable as always. He’s wearing his usual linen shirt, Wrangler blue jeans, and scuffed leather boots with leather bracelets and a long pendant.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” I say, offering him my hand. He shakes it and moves on to Levy, who pulls him in for a hug.

“Mazel tov.” Levy slaps his back, and Charlie grins at the aggressive affection.

“Thanks, you two. Means a lot. I…uh. My mom is pretty mad that we went off without telling her and Dad.”

Scratching my chin, I ask, “Have either of you talked to Ant or Nacho yet?”

He grimaces. “Not…yet.”

Levy laughs. “Good luck with that. You better hope they don’t join forces with your mom.”

He lets out a long breath. “Yeah…we may have fucked up with how we handled that.” Gesturing it aside, he turns back to us. “Looks like you’ve got something on your minds. What’s going on?”

I start us off. “We think we could be valuable to you on the ground in these ops where you encounter highly traumatized people. Both Levy and I have had to navigate and de-escalate dangerous situations with our clients, and we’re capable with self-defense. At a minimum, we’d be an extra set of hands. And with the help of the translation app, we could provide some support when needed.”

“You two want to go with me and Erik to these warehouses? Do you even know what you’re asking?”

“Not entirely. But you and Erik are mostly doing this all on your own, and you don’t have to.”

“This is not an area where I’m willing to do a lot of experimentation, guys. I hope you understand. I’m sure your experiences in prison and in the hospital system are invaluable, Bram, but I can’t afford to bring you in on a mission only to discover that you freak out when shit goes wrong.”

“We assumed you would feel this way,” Levy says, running his hand over his beard the way he does to calm his nerves. “Totally reasonable since there are ways in which we are untested. Sparring in a self-defense class doesn’t always translate to a calm head in a crisis situation. We’d, of course, pursue any training you feel would give us an advantage. But there’s another obvious solution.”

“And that is?”

“You’re gearing up for that East Texas rescue. That’s not a dangerous situation. We could go with you.”

Charlie drums his fingers on his desk. “We could use some additional bodies on the search. Frankly, I suspect the mother and father are so distraught that they may impede the search unwittingly.”

“We’d be happy to run interference with the family and whatever else you need,” I offer.

More tapping. “Okay, fine. Erik and I could definitely use your help on this. That doesn’t mean we’ll be magically convinced you’re ready. These trafficking ops are mostly rescue missions, but there are days when they feel like combat missions.”

“Did you have combat experience prior to this?” Levy asks.

“Technically, no. Erik and I almost got ourselves killed in our first unofficial rescue, but it was a risk we were willing to take for ourselves. Neither of us is willing to take that risk with another human life.”

“Would it make a difference to know that we just really, really want to have a chance to punch a bad guy in the face?” Levy asks.

Charlie chuckles, fiddling with his leather wristbands. “It shouldn’t, but it kind of does.” He pauses, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. “Real talk? There are times when, logistically, we could use more hands. Whenever we do a mass rescue and reunification, we rent out a hotel and use the conference rooms to coordinate services.

“We try to work with local doctors and mental health professionals, people who can continue to help them after we’ve left. Still, emergency trauma intervention wouldn’t go awry in many of the cases we’re seeing. I don’t have any objections to bringing you in after the fact when it makes sense to do so.”

“That sounds good too,” Levy says. “But genuinely, consider us. We’re not trying to be part of that takedown crew you’ve talked about. But we don’t mind a little danger if we can help people.”

“What’s your motivation here? What’s prompting this conversation?”

I speak up, “We’ve always tried to help disadvantaged populations. Always. It’s something our parents taught us.”

My parents did okay with their little convenience store in a rough neighborhood, and they were always there for neighbors who needed it and always included us when it was time to help.

“You want to honor their memories,” Charlie guesses.

“Yes. But we also want to be worth something.”

“An admirable sentiment, for sure, and I think your parents would be proud of what y’all are doing now. My main hesitation is that people who want to do good go rushing in, thinking they’ve got all the solutions. But really, they lack a complete understanding of the situation.”

I nod, remembering how simplistic my ideas had once been regarding the issues my own patients face.

Charlie continues, “Erik and I learned the hard way to go in with questions, not solutions. The exact moment we think we’ve got the situation understood is usually the exact moment where we are the most wrong. And most in danger. Your savior complex has no place in an operation like this.”

Levy’s jaw ticks. “Right. Like you two don’t have savior complexes.”

The savior complex line hits home because our mother used to tease him with that phrase whenever he brought home a stray cat or got in trouble for standing up for the smaller kids on the playground.

Despite knowing how awful humanity can be, I sleep well at night, knowing I’m part of the solution. Levy can’t not think about the suffering people experience. His clinical training helps him to focus on what he can do, and that, paired with his deep empathy, makes him an amazing therapist. But it comes at a cost.

He works with the horses because they help him stay grounded and prevent him from spinning off into despair about the human condition. I’m one of the few who knows he needs the horses as much as his patients do.

“Oh, for sure. That’s at least how we started. But when you’re put in your place by the people who’ve actually lived the experience? Well, that’s a lesson you don’t forget.”

It’s a good point he’s making, and one that new therapists sometimes struggle with—letting the patient come to you with the solution and empowering them to follow through.

“See how we work on this search and rescue in East Texas. I think that’ll give you the information you need.”

More drumming on the desk. “Okay. I’ll talk to Erik, but let’s do it.”