4. Ain’t Got No

Chapter Four

AIN’T GOT NO

Clayton

S taring out the office window, I grit my teeth and start counting backward from ten.

I watch as Nash slowly backs the box truck up to the rear exit, the thing loudly beeping its warning that the cooler-equipped vehicle is inching closer to its destination.

Nine.

The snow is falling in buckets, big fat flakes pelting the black painted sides as it drops visibility to an all-time low.

Eight.

I don’t know why Nash is driving. He has shitty vision on a good day. Then you throw in his night blindness, and the blizzard that hasn’t let up since they got back from Point Pleasant. Bramley should be the one in that seat, Even if it is only to back the truck up to the building.

Seven.

Actually, I should be the one driving. Out of the three of us, I’m easily the best driver—I don’t have road rage the way they do—and I handle this type of weather better than even Bram, who’s lived here his entire life. Granted, I moved here from Alaska, so it is not an entirely fair comparison, but still. Whenever we had shit to do and bodies to dump, I was the one who drove us.

That was my job.

That, and reigning in The Butcher and his Bo whenever they started to get carried away.

My control is better, it always has been. I’m more grounded. No matter the ecstasy I felt or how euphoric the high, I could stop before we started making mistakes. I didn’t lose myself to the act, never had that bloodlust, or urges so strong I didn’t keep my head on straight.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it.

The thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the kill. I was doing this before I met the boys, all the way back to when I was little. A bonafide psychopath according to my pediatrician, and he was convinced I’d kill someone before I turned thirteen because I didn’t seem to have any empathy or morality.

He was right.

I was ten the first time I killed someone, but that doctor had the reasoning all wrong.

My moral compass might point in a strange direction with a crooked arrow, but I have one. I used it to gut my gym teacher after he tried to rape me, then strong arm me into keeping it a secret. He didn’t get what he wanted. I ran laps in the gymnasium while screaming my head off until the janitor came, then I told my parents, who told the cops, but they did nothing. Mom, Father, and Dad pulled me out of that school and made some sort of deal, so the reason why never got out, but the gym teacher was fired anyway.

He turned up dead, hanging upside down from the flagpole in front of that same school, his intestines hanging down in front of his face while he swung dickless in the breeze. They never did find who killed him. I don’t think they even tried. Especially when that same gym teacher’s missing dick was found in the exhaust pipe of the chief of police’s car. They got the message, my parents got enough cash to keep them comfortable into retirement, and I found out I was really good with a knife.

From there, things got tricky.

I found myself picturing the various ways I could kill the people I knew, methods and weapons because a regular part of the narratives in my head, and eventually I couldn’t keep my curiosity under wraps. When I started picking off drifters or loners within sixty miles of home, Mom knew what was going on, and she asked me to stop.

Which is where the other incorrect assumption my doc made came into play; I fucking love my mama and would do literally anything for her or my dads. Not only do I have empathy—all I needed to see were the tears in her eyes and my heart shattered—but I’m perfectly capable of feeling love, showing it to others, and building stable relationships from it.

I’m just picky.

That’s what it comes down to.

If you aren’t mine, I don’t want you, and there’s a pretty good chance I’m going to kill you.

And that was a huge part of why I had to leave Alaska. When you live in a small town, people notice when people disappear, and then they talk.

But I’ve never been out of control. Not once. Everything I’ve ever done has been planned down to the letter, and that’s probably the only psychopathic characteristic I have and will agree with.

Finding Obsidian Falls when I did, that was divine intervention or some shit, even more so when I met the boys and found out what Bramley liked to do in his spare time.

Other than Nash.

And for the last seventeen years, I’ve been the driver, I’ve been the one who makes sure we don’t make a mess we can’t clean up, and that was a job I really prided myself on.

Six.

My job before that stupid accident.

Five.

Looking down at my leg, I feel that same disbelief, the same anger, and helplessness I felt nine months ago when it happened. I stick my boot out, rolling it back and forth on the heel, staring at the steel toe so hard it’s like I’m trying to see through the layers of leather and insulation, but I don’t need to see through it to know what’s there.

Breathing through four and three, I gently pull my jeans up my leg, stopping just under my knee to expose most of my shin tube and socket. The dull gray looks odd sticking out the top of my boot but it’s something I’ve slowly gotten used to. Especially after I painted the glossy black that stretches between that and the external knee joint and cuff. The prosthetic didn’t feel like it was mine until I did that, and even though everyone kept telling me how it would be just like I’d always had it in no time, customizing it was the closest I got to that feeling.

Which is how I feel most of the time, and it’s why I haven’t let all of the anger and grief over losing part of my fucking limb consume me. I can still be the sunshine the two black clouds outside need because it could have been worse. I could have lost something irreplaceable, like my entire liver, or my cock. I could have lost one of them. So, there’s no reason for me to be angry all the time, and it’s ok for me to be angry some of the time. Because it still fucking sucks, and there are the days I look down and feel like this body isn’t mine anymore, and I can’t understand why this happened.

All the feelings are valid, I could go on a spree and feel like it was justified, but that’s not how things work. And I know for a fact it would make things hard for my boys and the rest of the people I consider family.

It was supposed to be easy.

It should have been easy.

Zeke found the crotchety fucker we’d been looking for, a fellow beta who’d worked for the Hardens since well before they had an official ranch, and someone the brothers thought was directly involved in what happened here in Obsidian Falls. He’d just retired and moved to Harpers Ferry with his partners, old as fuck and living guilt free since he didn’t seem to give a shit about using a pension built on the backs of dead omegas. We should have been in and out, a quickie that took up a few hours at most of a well-earned weekend away, but that’s not what happened at all.

Considering the age of our target, Titus didn’t even bother coming with us, the gigantic baby of the family just stared blankly at his older brothers for what felt like four hours then turned back to the book he was reading, and Zeke? For the first time since I’ve known him, he decided to sit this one out, too, because he thought four of us against a few geriatrics was going to be over too quickly to be any fun. So, he gave us the information we needed, and our cute little pack loaded the truck and made our way to Harpers Ferry for what I assumed would be a nice little vacation.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more wrong in my entire fucking life.

And it shouldn’t have gone down that way.

Nine months of recovery, doctor appointments, physical therapy, and two crab ass alphas keeping me under house arrest has been enough to have me questioning myself at times but I’m honestly just grateful things didn’t end up worse. My alphas? I don’t think they see things the same way.

I know they don’t.

When Bramley decided that I didn’t get to go hunting anymore, I was pissed. He’s usually the one who makes the decisions when it comes to that but never, in seventeen years, has he just shut shit down without a conversation. Never. And even though I was mad and ready to start a fight, I tried putting myself in his shoes.

Bram was scared.

It was the first time we had a hunt go south, the first time any of us got hurt in the process, and I know the idea of losing me or Nash and the feelings that come with that is a lot more than he can handle. Which is why he was a raging dickhead and told me the only time I would ever be leaving Obsidian Falls again was to visit my parents in Anchorage.

Bramley was scared, and he was dealing with it the only way he knew how.

It didn’t mean I had to like it, but I accepted it.

What really kept me from throwing a fit, though, was Nash.

For some reason that makes no sense to me, or anyone else for that matter, he blames himself for what happened to me.

It was a freak thing, a total accident, and Nash got shot in the arm right before it happened.

I don’t even think that Harden-loving senior citizen was to blame but Nash quietly disagrees, and I didn’t put up a fight because I didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. Plus, Bram grounded him, too, which makes me feel like shit since it means he can’t go hunting either.

And that comes full circle to my current predicament.

My alphas are walking around at maximum stress every day, a hair trigger away from exploding at the drop of a dime, and it all stems back to the one in a million incident that turned me into a transtibial amputee. It’s almost like that was the exact moment the two of them realized none of us are going to live forever, and they’re panicking or some shit.

Nash thinks Bramley is the only one ready to go off, but I can see it in him, too.

I was hopeful that the most recent hunt was going to be different, especially with its bigger trophies that had been sitting in our walk-in freezer far longer than usual, but the relief Bram experienced was only temporary, and it seems that heavy, dark tension that’s been eating away at them for the better part of a year is back in full force.

With a frown, I go back to creeping on my men, watching Nash back the truck up at a snail’s pace while Bram flails his arms and yells at him through the open window. The vehicle moans and screeches as it shifts gears, lurching forward before jerking back only to slide a few more inches in the snow and stop right in front of Bramley.

This is one of the most frustrating things I have ever witnessed, and it’s all going down because those two are stubborn assholes who can’t swallow their fear long enough to trust that I know where my limits are.

It’s my goddamn left leg, for fuck’s sake.

I can’t handle it anymore.

This shit ends tonight.

I’ve been an exceptionally good beta, a fabulous partner who has humored the men I love long enough, and that’s exactly what I’ll remind them of when they blow up at me for what I’m about to do.

With a grin, I bend down and roll the cuffs of my jeans, tucking them tightly into the tops of my boots before I limp my way to the wall where my parka is hanging. I pull my beanie on then flip up my hood, zip my coat all the way to my chin, and shove my hands inside my gloves in case I have to toss someone into a fucking snowbank to cool the hell down because it’s about to get heated.

But I want my boys back.

Sure, Bramley and Nash are dickheads by nature, both of them crabby overall and quick to pick a fight, but I like that about them. They’re so different from me. I don’t think either of them have ever had a sunshiny bone in their body, never really donned a positive outlook on anything except getting laid or hunting, and while I’ve never thought twice about murdering someone I don’t particularly care for, I am the polar opposite. I will gut a fucker with a big old smile on my face, whistle a tune while I cut them up, and I’ll giggle while I load them into the bed of my truck. Psychopaths aren’t that cheery. And I know they like that about me, but they need it in other settings. That balance, the light I bring to their dark, it’s why we work so well together and I’m tired of watching Bram walk around so angry all the time, tired of the way Nash worries himself sick over us. Things are getting worse, we’re all tense as fuck because of it, and I think I can put somewhat of a band aid on this bullet hole for a little while until whatever is going to happen, happens.

Bram doesn’t like leaving us, we don’t like him hunting alone—Zeke and Tus don’t count, they each have their talents, but they’re brothers so shit gets messy—and doing things as a team always worked better. Efficient, effective, fucking impressive if I do say so myself. The three of us truly are partners in every way we can be and knowing deep down that there’s more out there for us, that this shift we feel isn’t going to just blow over—whether it’s a good, bad, or indifferent thing has yet to be seen—it’s enough for me to put my prosthetic foot right up their asses in order to get ready for whatever is coming.

It’s my turn to be the big bossy asshole for a change.

I grin as I throw open the door, marching the best I can toward the back of the truck while my uneven gate fights through the two feet of shit on the ground. The brake lights glow brightly as I disappear out of the mirror’s view, a red hue painting my parka while tires spin, sending slushy snow spraying all over my jeans.

Almost didn’t see me, did you, Nashy?

I turn the corner in time to see Bram punch the side of the truck, yelling at Nash before he takes a few steps back and tries guiding him again but as soon as he sees me, he abandons his mission.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

I lift my hand and cover his masked mouth as I pass him, shoving him backward by his face as I continue toward my destination.

“I asked you a fucking question, Clayton,” Bram growls from behind me. “And if you ever do that?—”

“Out.” I stop next to the driver’s side window and grab the door handle. “Get out.”

Nash turns slowly, his glasses instantly fogging up as he faces me. “What did you just say?”

“I told you to get out of the truck.”

“The fuck you did.”

I roll my eyes and yank open the door. “You can’t see one goddamn thing you’re doing and he,”—I point to Bramley as he lumbers toward us— “isn’t helping you one fucking bit.”

“Clayton,” he barks from my right. “You better answer my fucking question or else we’re going to have one hell of a problem on our hands.”

Fighting the urge to snap back and tell him to prove it, to detail exactly what he’ll do if I keep defying him, I stare at Nash as he takes his glasses off and narrows his eyes. If I let my inner brat out, I’ll end up spit roasted in the cooler after the truck crashes into the back of the butcher shop. Neither of them will take me seriously if I just drop my pants and bend over, and I won’t get to make my point if I have a mouthful of alpha cock. Now is not the time, and this is not the place.

Holding my head high and jutting my chin out in defiance, I ignore Bram and make my demand again. “Get out of the truck, Nash.”

“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just say that.” He grabs the steering wheel in one hand and grips the back of his seat with the other as he turns his body toward me. “Because I swear it sounds like you’re telling me what to do right now.”

Jesus Christ.

Why did I have to fall in love with two of the most bullheaded alphas to ever walk the planet? Couldn’t I have at least gotten with an Ambrose who doesn’t act like king of the shitheads? Sure, Zeke drives me crazy, but he can be sweet, and Titus doesn’t talk at all so at least he wouldn’t boss me around.

I shake my head and sigh.

Nope, I couldn’t fall for someone like that. I care about both but there isn’t any way I could be with anyone but Bramley and Nash. Had to have a little insta-love with The Butcher and his Bo, and now they’ve ruined me. I am destined to live out my days with these two, a fate I gladly embrace regardless of how difficult they’ll make everything from time to time.

Again, I’m not really complaining. I love who they are, and I wouldn’t change one thing about either of them, but still. Their personalities are definitely not for the weak, though, and I’ve had enough of the bullshit.

I don’t really have any patience left for the caveman crap right now.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say as I stiffen my spine and narrow my eyes right back at Nash. “You’re going to get out of this vehicle and go stand over there while I back it up to the shop. Then, you and Bramley are going to go inside and grab the load, put it in the cooler, and the three of us are going to pile in the truck. I will be driving us to the dump site, and we will get rid of those body parts together, like a goddamn family.” I take a deep breath and turn my scowl on Bram. “After that, we’re coming home to go over tomorrow’s orders, and this weekend’s hunt because Nash and I will be going with you, you will not argue because you love me, and because I am so sick and tired of waiting for the two of you to explode at any second, it’s actually making me cranky. I don’t like it. Then, you two are going to fuck the attitude out of me, order me Chinese food, and you both will sit in our goddamn bed and watch the Lethal Weapon marathon with me until I fall asleep sandwiched between you the way God intended!”

For a few seconds, it is completely silent, save for my heavy breathing and the sound of branches creaking and bowing under the weight of the snow sitting on them.

I’m feeling the slight sting of regret creeping in now.

Slowly but surely, that itch is growing.

I have never talked to either of them like that.

Do we argue? Get mad at each other? Do I cop an attitude from time to time, or push their buttons for the hell of it? Yes, to all of that and more but I don’t think I’ve ever tried to straighten their wagons before and now that I’ve done it, I have no idea what’s going to happen next.

The longer we sit here without saying anything, the more I feel like I just fucked everything up.

Are they making me feel that way? No, they wouldn’t even if they believed I did fuck things up. This is just another one of those things that proves I’m not what most people think I am, and those pesky little feelings and morals affect me just like everyone else.

I don’t like questioning myself, though, so someone better do something before I hit that weird level of regret that makes people run away and hide.

I can’t move very fast and even if I could, I know these two would catch me before I cleared the shop.

Nash slowly gets out of the truck, his eyes completely fixed on my face as he closes the gap between us. He stops directly in front of me, tilts his head a little then grabs the front of my parka so tight he twists the collar.

“You win, honey.” He dips his chin and kisses me softly, his lips soft but so cold. “We won’t fight you on this shit anymore.”

I smile and search his eyes, the emerald green almost glowing from under his still furrowed brow. “Your face says otherwise.”

Nash shrugs a shoulder and let’s go of me, shaking his head as he starts trying to clean his glasses, and I’m quickly spun around to face the bigger pain in the ass out of the two.

“I don’t fucking like this, Clay.”

“I know.”

“I can’t promise I won’t give you shit over it.” Bram levels me with those dark eyes while little puffs of his breath appear in front of the jaw of the skull in a steady rhythm. “And I’ll send your ass home on a fucking plane if I have to the first time, I think hunting is too much for you.”

I roll my eyes and smirk. “I know that, too.”

Bramley grabs the sides of my neck, roughly pulling me toward him, his cool fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of my neck. He presses his forehead to mine with a sigh, keeping us close like that for a few seconds, his eyes sliding closed as I lean into his touch.

Big babies, the both of them.

“Let’s go get rid of a body.”

I chuckle as Bram straightens up, kissing my forehead with his masked mouth, before letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Are you really going to drive?”

“Yes,” I say as I turn and hurry toward the open door before either of them changes their minds. “Now go get those hands and feet. I want to feed the bears fast so you can feed me before the Chinese place closes.”

And as I hoist myself up into the driver’s seat and begin checking mirrors, I can’t help but smile as I hear my alphas laugh a little, and together, for the first time in ages.

Maybe whatever is coming won’t be such a bad thing after all.