William couldn't count the number of times when training a cadre of recruits that some monster-sized kid marched into camp thinking his muscles made him Private Badass. Large recruits usually had brains like eggs. Crack them once, and the gooey bits came oozing out.
On the opposite end, he'd seen plenty of out-of-shape guys cringe and shuffle into a deck of boys, fear in their eyes at the crew of screaming instructors constantly in their face. The quiet types? They lived in their heads. Their bodies might not be the machines that Momma Military wanted them to be, but they tended to be hardier. Perfect bodies meant bupkis. The only muscle that mattered regarding strength was the mind.
William's training proved that over eighty percent of success was dependent on that grey matter between the ears.
A strong mind compartmentalized. If a man sliced his priorities into boxes and stayed in those boundaries, then he could focus on getting things done. Focus was the ability to shove the shit he didn't want or couldn't deal with into a separate box.
That's how William handled inconvenient feelings. It was how he accepted unchangeable facts. When all else failed, he pulled out a box full of nothing and moved in.
Sunday morning, he put on nice clothes, drove to his parents', and sat like a good little addict. At least, until Cameron came in with a clique of post-divorced friends he'd accumulated over the past six months. To avoid unnecessary drama William escaped to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves and helping on dish duty. It was dual-purpose camouflage. It kept his mother off his back, and gave him some good points with Gretchen.
Gretchen Dewitt was a calming woman. He had aunts and uncles, but none of his blood relatives had ever been as involved in his life as her. While he scrubbed plates and pans, she moved behind him, short and concise orders flowing out of her like a general.
The only acceptable response was a chorus of "Yes, chef." It was like "Yes, sir," but more subdued.
Two hours later and William said his goodbyes, heading home. He should have been pleased; it was a successful brunch by his standards. Minimal contact. Minimal drama. Minimal stress. Yet, driving home, he stared at the passing billboards and didn't feel triumphant. He was cut adrift, floating back to his own life, untethered from his upbringing. How was it possible to be around so many people and yet attached to none of them? How did Ma stand it? She slipped in and out of her friendship circles like a butterfly sipping from the nectar of their different flowers. It was so easy for her.
Had it ever been easy for him? He didn't speak to any of the people he'd known before joining the military. High school, the "best" time of his life, and he'd done what was asked. He'd been involved in the in-crowd. The yearbook had him in twenty or thirty different group photos, and one of his mother's mantles displayed his hundreds of pictures. But none of it stuck. No one from that time was real or present anymore.
He decided thinking about it was useless and returned to the nothing box. A void. A zone of silence. When he got home, he stayed in that box. It was a safe place for his mind to live, where he could do things like organize spreadsheets of crop output, finish up emails to his different retailers, and plot out seed orders for next season. But there was one exception to this mental discipline.
Shane Daniels.
The fucker had the bizarre and frustrating ability to slide out of his assigned box of 'Don't Go There', take an imaginary seat next to him, and watch from the side, as though he could see right through William's emptiness.
Or, he'd thought days later, watching Shane push a wheelbarrow of feed across the path between barns, you're imagining it because you're lonely and horny.
Things continued to stay platonic and professional, which, after a shot or two at the end of the day, left him greedy for more.
He was sure they'd had a moment. A moment that William had let slip past.
Sometimes, he felt those phantom fingers on his arm. When he was about to drift off to sleep; when his mind was weakest and wanted to think maybe it was more than one-sided, this attraction. He cured those errant hopes by recalling the panic on Shane's face when he'd realized how intimate they'd been. Punishing himself, he replayed the way his eyes widened and limbs scrambled, inches from touching a lit coal.
Do you want to ruin a good thing, Bauer?
No. No he didn't. It had been less than a month after their violent clash. If something was forming, it was delicate and too easily crushed by impatience.
Despite his devotion to the nothing box, Shane continued to impress him. Things William wanted done, Shane did without being asked. Times he needed a tool—before words for the request had formed—Shane silently handed it over, as if reading his mind. William caught himself excited for a glimpse of him walking onto the property in the morning. He treasured the hours they silently toiled together, William driving, while Shane tossed up the harvested and bundled crops into the truck bed. And the best part of the day remained those couple of drinks they shared on his porch, words skirting anything important.
The outside world didn't seem to realize they were creating agricultural harmony over here.
Wednesday morning while checking the hops crop, William stepped between the vines, and instead of walking through mud of properly irrigated soil, dust clouded around his boots.
The. Fuck.
He knelt down, and when his fingers brushed the ground, they touched bone-dry pipes. Frustration boiled through him. The little iridium spigots had cost him an arm and a leg, yet here he was, kneeling in dust. How dare they malfunction. He looked at the huge field and pulled his handkerchief out to mop his neck. Time to go to the barns, get his tools…and hunt a farmhand.
Shane hadn't had a chance to start on the coops yet, and he was winding the last of the auto-milker tubes when William stomped into the barn.
"C'mere. Need some help."
Shane hung the tubes and walked over. "What's up?"
"Fucking goddamned motherfucking sprinklers," William groused, turning towards the hops fields.
As they got closer, the breakdown was more widespread. Not a single crop in the entire section had been watered. They paused at one of the big valves and William turned it, rewarded with a big fat dose of nothing.
Shane eyed it with him. "Giving you shit, huh?"
William nodded. "I think there is a plug in the line. Either that, or the pump's gone bad. Again."
He hoped it was just a plug. That would be a hell of a lot cheaper to fix, but there was only one way to find out. He pointed at one side of the field. "The line starts there, and ends" —he pointed towards the pump next to the porch— "there. You take that row, and I'll take the other. We'll meet at the source. Holler if you see a break or leak."
Shane nodded, heading east.
It was over a half hour of hunting holes in the line before William got to the pump. Metal rattled angrily on the corner of its valve.
That was not good.
He knelt down and checked the meter. It read as 'No Pressure.' Yet when he touched the side, it was icy cold and sweating. Then why wasn't it…
Before he could complete the thought, the piece he'd been touching jumped. The little gear shot out like it was a bullet. William ducked but fire cut across his eyebrow, a burst of sparks snapping through his face in a lightning bolt of pain.
"SON OF A BITCH!" he swore, cupping his eye, blood pouring through the wound. There was another squeak and the top bolt of the pump shot water up and over him like a fountain. Seconds later, boots stomped behind him.
"Holy shit," Shane breathed, concern and horror in his voice.
As if he had summoned the water demons from hell, something else in the pump snapped, and the fountain burst higher, the gushing water making it hard to hear. Hot blood poured down William's face, undeterred by the pressure he'd put on the wound.
"THE FUCK YOU DO?" Shane shouted.
Excellent fucking question.
"I barely touched it!" William called over the loud stream. "Grab the wrench and let's see if we can't get the waterline shut down."
Shane snagged the correct tool without direction, staring at William as he handed it over. "Your face!"
Yup, his face. William pulled off his shirt and pressed it against the cut, yet it just bled faster, his vision a blur of pain and pink wash.
"I'll live," he said grimly, looking down at the brittle, piece-of-shit pump. He'd inherited the finicky thing from Pops. It looked as though some of the older parts had finally given up the ghost. He moved his makeshift bandage from his face. He wasn't going to be able to see with the wet cloth over his eyes, and he'd need the leverage on the wrench. He took the tool from Shane and wrapped the bloody and damp shirt around the edge of the handle. With a grunt, he stepped into the rush of water. The wrench needed to clamp onto what was left of the screw, yet as soon as he put it into place and tried to push, it slipped.
"Goddamn it," he growled.
Shane knocked him out of the way, grabbing the shirt, and took a more secure hold on the wrench. With both of them fighting the water, they were able to place it over the valve. Shane held it firm and William tried to shove it forward, but even though his legs were braced, he couldn't get the lever to move more than a few inches. His back burned and he gasped, getting a mouthful of bloody water. He turned his head and spit. The waterfall over them was wearing on his nerves but he ignored it, mind on the task.
"Stand here," he barked, pointing. He wasn't able to be the main force, not with his back and the mud. It was too much.
Shane moved, obedient. He took position at the front and William grabbed onto the wrench behind him.
The pressure was painful, the tool slick. William grit his teeth, flexing against Shane as they wrestled with the valve. The water was so loud, he had to shout in Shane's ear to be heard.
"On the count of three!"
Shane shivered from the icy water. He nodded, his jaw tightening.
"One, two"—together they rocked—"three!"
Slowly, screaming, and creaking in protest, the valve started to close, the waterfall growing more sedate. Instead of a pounding torrent, it was a softer sheet.
"Again!" William ordered.
This time he didn't count, and they were able to get a few more inches.
He was still bleeding. His back pulsed in time to the cut over his eye. Under their feet the ground had turned to mud, making their leverage precarious. The water eased enough that he could be heard.
"Almost," he said. Then, unable to help his pleasure in the unintended closeness, he teased, "You got one more in you, Daniels?"
"Fuck off," said Shane. But there was no anger in the words, and he tensed, ready for another round.
"Good man," William grunted.
Once more, on instinct, they moved together, finally shutting the sonofabitch off.
William sagged against the body in front of him, panting, triumphant despite the aches and discomfort. He'd never have been able to do this alone.
He realized his arms were still wrapped around Shane's. Their bodies were glued, wet and hot against one another. Afraid he'd crossed a line, William slowly drew back. His hands ran over Shane's shoulders, the feel of that steady muscle flashing his fantasy from a few weeks ago through his mind, and reluctantly he let go.
Shane stood like a statue, panting. After several deep breaths, he brought his hands to his head, rubbing them through his dark hair. William watched, entranced, as water streamed off their ends, down his neck. He couldn't stop staring, and slowly Shane turned his head.
It was like plugging into an electrical socket.
His heart began to pound.
He'd felt it too.
William knew he looked a mess. His left eye was closed, blood mingling with the water that dripped from his hair. But he felt Shane taking him in, seeing him in this moment, as if he'd never seen him before.
He wanted to close the distance. Wanted to taste Shane's mouth. To touch him again, his arousal giving a preview of how it would feel to press against that muscular body; how it would feel to pin him against the wall and stain him with bruises and bites. To relieve this pressure that boiled under the surface of his skin.
Then Shane's gaze left his face and flickered over his shoulder, locking on something behind him.
William turned, trying to see through the half-blindness. Coming down the field in the distance were two figures, one short and one tall.
When he turned back, Shane was wringing out his shirt, looking the way a man looked when he was about to face the firing squad.
William grabbed his shirt off the pump handle and with a sharp inhale, pulled the cold, clinging thing back on. He was trying to place the figures…just in time for Marnie to call, "YOO HOO!" in enthusiasm across the field.
Still wringing his shirt—more out of anxiousness than any assumption he'd get the sucker dry—Shane took rapid mental inventory.
He was soaked.
William was soaked. In a bloody damn t-shirt.
Soaked, bloody, and both of them were panting.
Marnie was getting closer, but what had she seen? Their bodies pressed together? Had she noticed the pump behind them? Or was it just her grown nephew and his hulking gay boss, soaked and panting and…
Oh god.
Shane ran his hands over his head, heart beating frantically.
The fucking image lingered like a hologram. Even with his gaze glued to Marnie and Jas walking up the slope of the field, all he could visualize was William's face. Wet blonde hair plastered to his forehead. That intense, steady stare, with one eye closed against the dripping blood, his other eye locked onto Shane.
He looked at the real, current William, but he was only stretching his lower back while watching the approaching figures.
God, he needed to stop fucking stretching. He needed a shirt that didn't show the outline of his tattoos through its wet fabric. He needed to rewind time, to get all this taken care of before Shane's family walked in on the scene.
"That Marnie?" said William, and Shane was shook to the realization that, much as he'd paused, the world around him had not.
He took a deep breath, wringing another section of his shirt. "Guess it's my turn," he muttered, glowering. "Fuck."
William exhaled. "Yup. Fuck."
Marnie and Jas were close now. Shane gave up on his shirt. It was pointless; the water ran off his body in rivulets, and he knew they both looked like they'd just taken a dip in the lake.
"Boys!"
"Hello, Miss Marnie," William called back, giving a wave.
Miss Marnie?
Shane sped several yards ahead of him, and once within earshot hissed, "What the hell are you doing?"
She rolled her eyes, the usual exasperated look when he swore in front of Jas.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked, and for the first time Shane noticed the picnic basket in her hands. "You haven't eaten lunch yet, right?"
Shane stared at her, then at Jas.
It was half-days at school for her this week due to parent-teacher conferences. He tried not to think about Marnie going to hers yesterday rather than him. In her small fist was a cluster of wildflowers, ones that grew along the dirt road between the ranch and farm. She took in his sopping appearance with a skeptical expression—one that asked if this was really his new job, since it seemed to include running through the sprinklers.
Behind him William called, "You can bring that food right on up to the porch!"
The fake cheerfulness cut through Shane's guilty thoughts, and for some reason made him want to choke his boss's wet neck.
"C'mon, Jas," said Marnie. "You haven't officially met Farmer William yet. Now you'll get to see who Uncle Shane works for."
William veered toward the house, and when Marnie and Jas followed Shane knew it was fruitless to stop this good-neighbor bomb from exploding. He sighed and sped forward again, falling into step with them. "Look," he said under his breath. "We had a problem with the water pump. Could you let us clean up before you come crashing—"
"Shane, I swear, you act like our stopping by is the worst thing that could've happened to your day."
Well, it fucking is.
When they got to the porch, Jas's attention shifted to William. She stared unabashedly as he kicked off his boots, and Shane couldn't blame her. The beard. The colorful tattoos. The enormous presence. He wasn't like anyone else in town, especially up close; like she was suddenly standing in the enclosure of an exotic bearded bird.
"Sorry, ma'am," William said, and if he noticed Jas's staring he didn't let on. "You caught us right in the middle of a small crisis. My sprinkler's pump went out and I was about to call a plumber. Come on in, make yourself at home." He nodded inside and glanced at Shane. "Daniels, I got some spare clothes if you want to dry off too."
"Oh!" said Marnie cheerfully, waving her hand. "Don't let me keep you from your call. We've got all the time in the world."
Of course they did.
Once inside, William went into his bedroom, leaving the door open a crack. Shane looked anxiously between Marnie, Jas, and that door. He was cold and uncomfortable, but couldn't decide what was worse: spending lunch in wet clothes, or waltzing into William's room as if he lived there.
"Shane, do you know where William keeps his glasses?" Marnie asked. "Jas picked some flowers on the way here."
Shane pulled out a tumbler from one of the cupboards. His face grew warm, realizing he knew such an intimate detail about William's kitchen.
"Just—gimme a sec," he blurted after setting it down.
He needed to get out of here.
Heart hammering, telling himself to calm the fuck down—it was just a stupid tumbler, and Marnie was not going to read into it—he pushed William's bedroom door open and stepped inside.
Another mistake. William stood in only his boxers, a pair of dry pants in his hands.
Shane had seen enough shirtless Williams in his time on the farm that it shouldn't be anything new. But it was different inside a small room, under artificial light. Different when it was also a pantless William, with the discovery of a tattoo on his calf, and just how damn fit the lower half of his body was.
Don't. Look.
But it was too late. Shane was already blushing when William turned his head. Casually, as if he weren't standing there almost naked, he nodded toward the neatly made bed. Folded on its end was a towel, a pair of sweats, and an old 'Farmer's Basket Fair' t-shirt.
Shane licked his lips and woodenly walked over to pick up the stack. "Gonna, um. Gonna take these in the bathroom."
William shrugged, stepping into his pants. "Suit yourself."
Staring at the floor, Shane walked past him and ducked into the bathroom. Once inside he shut the door and twisted the lock, which clicked loudly. Loud enough to hear from the outside.
What the fuck. What do you think he's gonna do?
He peeled the wet shirt from his body and started to dry off. As he rubbed the towel down his face, across the stubble on his chin, the movement slowed, then stopped.
It was William's towel. Fluffy and freshly laundered, yes, but his towel all the same. Probably used to dry his body before. The fabric that was on Shane's face right now…
He shoved those thoughts aside, heart racing harder. He was not about to think these things. He was not about to feel these things. This was stupid, dangerous territory that he had zero permission to be in. And he'd been here before. He'd fucking lived here; a realm of touching, looking, and tiny intimate moments that meant fucking zilch, because he was nothing but a lovestruck idiot misreading all the neon signs.
It's a stupid fucking towel. What about hotels, dumbass? You gonna think about all the bodies you're bumping with if you use one of those? It's a stupid. Fucking. Towel.
He stepped into the sweats, closing his eyes as he tied the drawstring.
It wasn't just the towel. It was the clothes, that smelled like William. It was the tidy bathroom, inside an equally tidy bedroom, and the bed made with neat hospital corners, belonging to a man who made Shane's heart race in a way he thought it never would again.
When he finally emerged William was dressed, squinting in the mirror at the cut over his eyebrow. He touched the edge of the gaping wound and scowled, then picked up a tube of glue to gently squeeze over it.
"Hey," he said, glancing at Shane in the reflection, holding the two sides of the cut together. "There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom under the sink."
Shane stopped in his tracks. "Oh. Yeah. Er—one second."
He retrieved the kit, and William dug out a square bandage.
"Thanks. Don't want to scare that kid of yours more than I already have." Wincing, he pressed the adhesive down. "Fuck. I'mma have to stitch that shit tonight." He met Shane's eyes in the mirror. "Good job earlier, Daniels. I'd have been boned without you."
Shane looked away, uneasy.
"Was nothing," he said quietly. He crossed an arm over his chest to grip his shoulder, tugging it while glancing around the room. "Sorry about them, by the way. Didn't know they were coming..."
William chuckled and closed the first-aid kit, turning to clap Shane on the back. He gave a slight squeeze. "Same shit, different toilet, man. C'mon. Let's go face 'em and maybe get that pump fixed today, yeah?"
Marnie had all the food set out in the kitchen. Unlike Angie the previous week, his aunt had brought a cold spread: a half dozen types of crackers and cheese, freshly cut fruit, and potato, pasta, and egg salads. Jas's flowers were splayed in the tumbler of water at the center of the table.
William grinned at Marnie. "Well ma'am, aren't you the sweetest? This looks great." He pulled out a chair, winking at Jas. "And you too, little lady. Thank you both very much."
Shane clenched again at his sudden howdy-do tone.
"I hope we weren't a nuisance showing up like this," Marnie said. "But Shane was telling me all about your mother's lovely visit last week, and I figured it couldn't hurt to give you boys a little surprise as well."
Telling her all about it?
Shane narrowed his eyes. It'd kill her, wouldn't it? It'd kill her to, just once, interpret events as they'd actually happened. For instance, having been bullied into a corner at dinner about the going-ons of the farm, until he'd blurted about Angie's drop-in under sheer duress.
"Oh did he now?" said William, layering food onto his plate. "Well, it's mighty kind, Miss Marnie."
Jas sat quietly, once again staring at William. Her shyness hit Shane with a pang. It was a recessive trait, inherited from her mother. He knew it wouldn't be five minutes into lunch before the extroverted, opinionated little girl came out of the woodwork—the side from her dad.
Sure enough, she grew brave.
"You have a lot of tattoos," she said to William.
"Sure do, Missy," he said smoothly. "I like art so much I put it right on my skin." He turned to Marnie. "This egg salad yours? It's amazing."
Marnie beamed. "Eggs fresh this morning! And how are your chickens doing?"
William nodded toward Shane. "Now that I've got the bird whisperer? They've been great."
"Oh, isn't he so good with them? It's uncanny!"
Shane stared at his plate, poking a piece of fruit with his fork.
"Yep," William said. "Hellfire doesn't even bite me anymore."
Polite confusion crossed Marnie's face. "Hellfire?"
"It's what I call one of the mean chickens. Then there's Brimstone. Sulfur. Malice. I figure call a spade a spade."
"Ah," she said, chuckling. "We've got a few of those ourselves. But Shane's got them under his spell too."
Shane—about to bite into a carrot stick—snapped down extra hard.
"Bernard never bites Uncle Shane, but he bit me yesterday!" Jas chirped. "Wanna see?"
"Sure do," said William.
"Jas!" Marnie cried. "That's not appropriate."
"What?" William crunched into a cucumber slice. "Just a little scar sharing."
It was Jas's turn to beam, though hers was smug.
The smugness was familiar, and not just because it was another trait inherited from her dad. It was the same look she got when Marnie told her no, and she was able to retaliate with her trump card: but Uncle Shane said I could. And now…it was because of William.
She held out her injured pinky finger, and Shane tried to ignore the pit in his stomach.
William leaned forward to see the tiny cut. "I got myself a bobo this afternoon," he stage whispered, "but I can't show you 'cause I need to stitch it."
"Oh?" Marnie looked up. "Surely you'll go to Dr. Harvey for that?"
William shrugged. "Eh, just a little stitching. Ain't nothing I gotta worry that doc about."
"Have to be careful with cuts out here. Not the cleanest work, farming," said Marnie, with an unnecessary amount of mothering in her tone. "Infections are nasty business. I really wish you'd—"
She stopped herself, and Shane knew she'd realized they were discussing infections while eating. She smiled, embarrassed, and scooped more fruit onto her plate. "Pardon me."
"He can take care of himself, Marnie," Shane muttered, face hot.
"Yes, well, you boys always think that. Such stubbornness." She shook her head, as if they couldn't possibly know better. "I mean that in the kindest way of course," she added to William.
He coughed. "Well, appreciate the concern Miss Marnie. Shows what a sweetheart you are."
Shane tried not to choke on his potato salad. He knew that word out of William's mouth only meant one thing, and it sure as shit wasn't a compliment toward his aunt.
"How about you?" William continued, in a clear drive to change subjects. "How's the ranch doing?"
"She's doing," said Marnie, and Shane was grateful of her obliviousness for once. "Jas is old enough to learn the ropes now, and she's been a great helper. Haven't you Jas?"
Jas wrinkled her nose.
William nodded. "Looks like you come from a family of helpers. Daniels over here has been a lifesaver."
She turned to Shane. "Why does he call you Daniels?"
Shane froze, fork halfway to his mouth. A dart of irritation shot through him.
"Dunno, kid," he said. "But you can call him Bauer, if you want."
Jas looked like she didn't know if he was joking or not, and William laughed. "Well, I used to be in the army. You call your coworkers by their last names. First names are for friends. Good friends. Just a habit, I guess."
If the first one was a dart of irritation, this one was a damn arrow. Shane glared at his plate, shoving in a forkful of food.
You idiot. You've known all along he's not your fucking friend.
He chewed.
Should start calling him Bauer myself.
His fork stabbed another bite.
Wearing his fucking clothes right now too. His fucking CLOTHES. Asshole.
"The army?" Jas's voice perked up. "You had a gun?"
"Jas," Marnie chided again.
"It's okay. Yes, Missy, I had a gun." William leaned back, done with his meal. "You two like pie? My mother sent me home with some Sunday."
"We just so happen to love pie," Marnie said. "Isn't that right, Jas?"
"I've never seen a gun before," Jas said, still focused on the last topic. "Just in video games. But Uncle Shane has knives! He's teaching me tricks."
Marnie looked at William sharply. "Not," she said, as if he might object, "with real blades, mind you."
Shane rolled his eyes at the table.
Knife tricks. Shooter games. The occasional 'damn' or 'hell.' In swooped Marnie with her disapproval. He'd survived a lot fucking worse at Jas's age, and none of those things were scarring her, least of all the bladeless balisong.
"Well," said William, pulling down a pie tin, and cutting some pieces. "After a person gets done with service, they don't keep the gun anymore. But I think knives are real useful. Just gotta be careful with them."
"I agree," said Marnie. Clearly wanting a subject change, she added, "Seems you boys get along well out here! I'm so glad this situation has been working out."
William nodded, walking over with the pie. "Oh yeah. In fact, other than my pump shi—" he hesitated "—shutting down, it's been a good week."
"And what luck Shane started with you before that happened! Looked like a two man job, for sure." She grabbed Shane's shoulder, giving it an affectionate wiggle. "I'm just glad he's got a job out in the sunshine. He's always been so good on the ranch, and JojaMart was depressing as the hills."
"Marnie," he hissed, jerking out of her grip.
Please. Keep treating me like a four year old in front of my boss. Really. You have no idea how good this feels.
"What?" she said. "It's good, Shane. Looks like you've already got a friend out here too."
That word again. That fucking word again.
Dropping his head to his hands, he aggressively rubbed his temples. Warmth was rising, the burn of craving that whispered how much he needed a drink; how much easier it'd be to contain this bubbling anger if he had a few shots of liquor in him.
Marnie? She didn't fucking deserve his resentment. She put up with so much, and Shane knew any decent person would be grateful. They'd be thanking her ass every day.
And yet, here she was, doing a million small things that pushed every one of his buttons in sequence.
"He just as much a chatterbox with you?" he heard her ask William.
Shane looked up as William set down his fork, finished.
"Don't mind it. Sort of peaceful, actually." He pushed back his chair and stood. "Hope I won't come off as rude, Miss Marnie, but I need to try and call that plumber today if I have a prayer of getting water to my plants tonight."
"Oh, not at all!" Marnie smiled, placing her napkin down. "We'll be on our way, I know you boys have a lot of work to do. And you keep those leftovers."
"Mighty kind of you."
Shane stood with the rest of them, silent and tense. He ought to have felt relief at their departure, but his head had gone too dark. The coals within were hot, growing redder by the minute, and it was taking all his focus not to snap.
"Bye, Uncle Shane!" Jas cried, her small arms catching him around the waist.
He hugged back, not really registering it, and through a filter of static watched as she walked out the door with his aunt.
When Marnie and Jas left, William expected Shane to be relieved.
If one were to express relief by stalking around and glaring at things, then sure, he was relieved as hell.
William started cleaning up, and Shane followed. He loudly stacked plates and balled up used napkins as though he could crush whatever was bothering him. When he threw them away, the trash bin rocked from the impact.
"Break my can and I break your head, Daniels," William warned.
"It's a fucking napkin."
William raised his eyebrow at the dark tone.
A second later Shane dumped leftover food scraps, once more with too much force. The plastic liner sank, tipping it again. If he kept that up the whole thing would fall over.
"What got your panties in a wad?" William asked, placing rolled cold cuts into a container.
"Maybe the fact that they're yours," Shane shot.
Well. If that didn't just get the heart racing.
"So you're thinking about my panties?" It was an in. "Must have made quite an impression."
Shane snorted. "Not as pretty a sight as you fucking think."
"Liar," William said. "My ass is fantastic."
He put the rest of the containers down and turned to face Shane. The stubborn, denying jerk was refusing to look back. Waiting him out was as effective as giving a brick wall the silent treatment. How could he be fine ignoring this growing…whatever it was between them?
William sure as fuck wasn't.
Now to just get the scared sonofabitch to admit it.
Shane flipped the faucet on to wet a dishcloth. The stream shot out, spraying both the counter and his shirt before he slammed it off. He strangled the excess water from the rag, swearing.
"All that grinding against the pump got you flustered, Sadsack?" William taunted, unable to help himself. "Don't worry. I won't tell."
Shane shoved past him and aggressively wiped down the counter, refusing to make eye contact. "Fuckin' seeing what you wanna see, man," he said in a tight voice.
William stalked closer. Too close, apparently; Shane flung down the rag and stormed onto the porch, pulling at his borrowed shirt as if it were made of itchy wool instead of soft cotton.
Frustration goaded William to follow, words he'd been holding back pouring out. "Oh, you tired of talking now?" he snapped. "Not surprising. All that repression has got to be exhausting."
Shane stopped in his tracks, his back going rigid.
They were getting close to violence, William realized. So close to another explosion between them. He focused on Shane's reaction, a sign that he was getting through—something other than the swing/miss of a connection. Yet, he'd made a promise not to let it go that far again. And Shane didn't want that either. Did he?
William watched him walk towards the steps. Just when it looked like he was going to leave peacefully, Shane's foot shot out, kicking the bucket of empty beer bottles with a bang that sent them rolling over the porch.
Rage flared in William's chest.
He wanted to kick something that bad? He'd give him something to fucking kick.
Two strides across the porch and he was down the steps, his arm thrown over Shane's shoulder in a surprise headlock. He hauled him back and Shane's feet shuffled, trying to keep his balance against the sudden attack. William pinned his arm, hauling up on the thumb. It kept him immobilized.
"Why the fuck do you think it's okay," William snarled in his ear, "to kick my shit?"
He let Shane hurt himself against the grip, knowing the minute that the fuckwad relaxed, the pain would ease.
Shane was stupid, so he struggled. "Fucking touch me again, I swear!"
William held the pin, keeping control on the hand until he shut up, focusing his mouth on breathing instead of making empty-ass threats. More flailing around. More pain. William's heart slammed. Shane thought this was touching?
Baby boy, you don't know fuckall about how I could really touch you.
The wrestling match was good, even if it wasn't what he craved. Not like at the pump when they'd moved in unison. Not like the other day when he'd stayed, despite William's unsolicited wrist grab. Not like the first day on the porch when he'd reached back, fingers on puckered flesh, eyes soft and shy.
Finally he broke. He hung against William's arm, limp and sweating.
William was shaken. Not just by how hard it was to let Shane go, but also by how much he enjoyed holding him still.
"We fucking good now?"
He'd intended the phrase to be a growl. Intimidating, to remind them both who was boss and that they better be good, damn it. Instead it came out soft. Not like talking to an angry bitch who'd crossed the line, but as reassurance that this wasn't a make-or-break moment.
Stiff as a pole, Shane rubbed his elbow down to his hand, glaring at the ground. "We're fine," he muttered. "I got work to do."
William stayed put as he headed toward the barn.
It's never enough.
He watched him go, feeling what was becoming a familiar swirl of frustration. This attraction? It wasn't okay. Shane was his subordinate. The power difference here was completely unequal, and only a douchebag looked at an employee like he was a potential lay.
Or more.
Despite knowing it wasn't right, Shane had inexplicably become more over the last couple of weeks. Not just a worker he paid, but someone who understood the way it felt to be alone and trapped in his own head. And today? The attraction was there. He knew it was.
We have got to resolve this somehow.
William considered following him. Laid out a pros and cons list about confronting it head on, and damn the consequences. They could talk about it, and maybe Shane would look him in the face and deny what William was projecting.
Then again, maybe he wouldn't.
He was just about to turn back to the house when dust kicked up down his drive. Squinting, he sank back on his heels.
The plumber was here.
He gave one more look toward the barns.
Later, he decided, stepping up the porch. For now, they both had work to do.
Shane hated the way, ever since meeting William, that he lost control.
He was used to freaking out alone, tucked behind closed doors and darkness before giving way to his deepest frustrations. Screaming into a pillow. Smashing a hand into the side of his head. Balling knees to his chest, and using them to hide the tears. That shit? He kept it far the fuck away from other people.
Until now. Throwing beer bottles and kicking buckets, right out in the open at his fucking job.
Not that it'd always been at his job with William. There was that whole nice-to-meet-you with their fists off the clock. But they'd both been drunk then, looking for an outlet for their own twisted moods. It'd been so uncharacteristic for Shane, who usually spent his time at the bar trying to blend in with the worn stool, the only exchange of the night being, "Can I get you a refill?" and a nod.
He threw bag after bag of feed onto the shelf in William's storage barn, grunting, and on the fourth one a tear ripped through the plastic mesh. Seed sprinkled out in a fine waterfall to the ground.
Shane groaned.
He dug through a couple of wooden crates until finding a bag that would fit the torn one, slipping it over top and muttering in frustration as more seed poured at his feet.
How many boxes had he blown out in the back storage of JojaMart from slamming them too hard? When he was agitated and alone, it was always like this. Throw things harder. Move shit with more force. Smash spoiled potatoes against the far wall of the garbage chute, pitching them like baseballs that had personally done him wrong.
William…he just…he fucking knew how to press every damn lever.
Shane wished he could be wearing his own goddamn clothes. Not these slightly baggy sweats, or this shirt that smelled of musk and citrus, and some other warm scent he was trying—without success—to ignore. He'd never worn a scent. It was obnoxious, getting whiffs every time he bent over. Didn't he get enough of William throughout the day? As if he needed those tattooed knuckles knocking on his mental door when he was just trying to finish his damn job.
He slammed his shovel on a hook. It rattled the whole rack of tools, and William's dark warning flashed through his head, the one about not breaking his shit.
Fuck you, dude.
Shane gave the rack another shove as he walked away, rusty metal clanging behind him like a crude wind chime.
Fucking Marnie too. Popping in by surprise, a week after William's own mother had just done the same. Like a more cracked, colorful, clueless version of Angie, with her "Yoo hoos!" and cheese spreads, talking about Shane's work on the farm as if it were a meeting of the boy scouts and not his motherfucking job.
What had William said once? Something about straight women being the bane of his existence? Fuck, if that wasn't the stupid truth.
Not like the asshole had to be his friend to make a decent point.
By quitting time he was sweaty and dog-tired, having exerted twice the usual energy on his chores. He felt a bit better, too exhausted to hold onto the bad feelings so tight.
Wiping his forehead with his arm, he squinted out the open door at the low-hanging suppertime sun. It scorched the fields in blinding gold, and beat down on Shane's shoulders as he left the barn and slowly walked back to the farmhouse.
He didn't know what to expect. Not that he planned on staying for the usual happy hour, given their fight, but he'd never gone home without some kind of goodbye. If not beer, what was the fucking protocol for a clock-out on this job?
Nearing the house, he slowed.
Classic rock drifted from a radio, soft music enveloping the porch. On the railing was a fifth of whiskey and two rock glasses, sunlight shimmering on their rims.
Apparently the protocol was liquor.
William, once again shirtless, sat in the corner with a long mirror propped in front of him. Tools were laid out on a cloth, and he wore a pair of clean latex gloves, examining his cut in the reflection. The first-aid kit was open beside his boots. Only now did Shane realize how fucking massive it was. He'd been too distracted in the bedroom to notice. William was either preparing for an apocalypse, or really just hurt himself that often.
He selected a cotton swab, and glanced up when Shane stopped at the steps.
Their eyes met.
One look into that gentle blue, and the tension in Shane's chest gave way. It wasn't just release. It rolled down his body like water, cool and cleansing, and left him with the same feeling as the morning after their last fight, when William had tossed him the gloves.
Forgiven.
Much as he had the ability to make Shane more angry, frustrated, and uncomfortable than anyone else in the world…when the moment was done, it was done.
William returned to his reflection, dabbing his cut with the swab. "Pour me one too, eh?"
The bottom step creaked under Shane's boot. He walked to the railing and uncapped the whiskey. Still cautious, keeping an eye on William, he poured them each a shot. Liquid trickled into glass, loud in the sleepy afternoon air.
William turned back to the tools. He picked up a curved needle, threaded with black sutures, and clamped a pair of tweezers around it. "You ever gotten stitches before?"
Shane recapped the whiskey.
"No," he said, pulse quickening as he walked the shot over. He placed it on the chair arm, and stepped back against the house, watching through the mirror.
William let out a breath and shoved the clamped needle through the bottom of the gash. It pierced the top side, and with a grunt of pain he pulled the thread through his skin. Though puckering open on the sides, it sealed flush under the stitch when he twirled the tweezers. After three more knots he cut the thread, then grabbed the whiskey and downed it.
"Again, please," he rasped, tapping the edge of his glass.
Shane retrieved the bottle and poured him a second, more generous serving.
He stepped back to watch as another stitch was punctured into place, and his gaze slid from the surgery to the artwork on William's back. He'd seen the tattoos many times over the last few weeks. Never this close, though, nor with this leisure. At first it was just admiring the detail and shading, but then Shane noticed the unevenness of the skin beneath them. Little bumps and rivets. Mesmerized, he followed them down the spine. Just like the barbed wire camouflaging his track marks—more scars hidden by ink.
His line of sight broke when William leaned closer to the mirror.
"I hate doctors," he muttered, tilting his head and examining the newest stitch.
A surge of appreciation rushed through Shane. He hated doctors, too. Hospitals. Clinics. ERs. They all took his head to a bad place. Marnie had tried so hard to get him to see Doctor Harvey after their fight, but Shane had flat-out refused.
Fuck doctors.
William threw back the second shot, and Shane looked down, realizing his drink was still untouched. An inch of warm amber liquid rested in the bottom. He tilted it, watching the surface slip gently from side to side.
"Probably wish you had something stronger, huh?" he said.
"Nope," said William, grim. "I don't do stronger."
Shane's face grew hot.
He'd only meant something stronger to drink. Absinthe, Everclear, anything beyond the 40 proof whiskey in their glasses. But of course. To William, that meant heroin.
Stupid, insensitive asshole.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"It's nothing, Daniels." William lined up the needle against his wound. "No harm, no foul."
Committing once again, he shoved it through his skin.
Shane watched the process all over again. Stitching, twirling, knotting. He wondered how many times William had done it before. Surely in the army they had nurses to take care of things like this, but the movements were so practiced and focused that it couldn't be his first time.
William snipped the final thread and sagged.
"Jesusfuck, you must think I'm a crazy motherfucker," he said, dropping his tools and rubbing the non-stitched side of his head. "Sane people go to a doctor for this shit."
Shane shrugged. "I dunno," he said softly. "If you can do it yourself…" He handed over the bottle of whiskey. "But yeah, you're a crazy motherfucker."
William twisted off the cap, barking a laugh. "That's more like it."
He poured two shots in his rock glass. This time when he threw them back, Shane joined him, the booze a snappy burst down his throat. He closed his eyes, and remembered being in the bathroom earlier that day—the DANGER signs that had flashed through his head like a storm warning.
William slammed his empty glass on the arm of the chair. He groaned, then with a soft laugh peeled off the surgical gloves and dropped them aside.
Shane's heart raced.
You've only known each other a few weeks. This is bullshit. Just because he's the first person to give you attention in years…
It meant nothing.
If he let it mean something, he deserved whatever crash came his way.
The radio switched songs. William began to close up shop, just as a cloud shifted over the sun and dropped them into shade.
Lost in thought, Shane stared into the bottom of his empty glass, until the sound of chair legs scraping against wood caught his attention. William had dragged the chair back to its usual spot against the house. His mess was cleaned up, the first-aid kit sealed off to the side, and he sank down just as the clouds parted to reveal sunlight once more. He poured another shot, then wordlessly held out the bottle.
Shane took it.
"Fucking today," he muttered, pouring one for himself.
William nodded. "Fucking today."
They threw the whiskey back in unison.
William stared out at the fields, which were finally getting a good watering. He rested his head in his hand and blew out a breath.
"You ever just feel…" he started softly. "Just…fucking alone, Daniels?"
Shane stilled.
Of course he felt alone. Who the fuck didn't? But, right now, it was the last thing he'd expected to hear. He tucked the bottle of whiskey into his elbow, then grabbed his chair from the side of the porch and dragged it next to William's.
"Doesn't fucking everyone?" he said, quietly pouring them each another shot.
"Maybe." William accepted his. "But with so many people on this dirtball, you'd think it wouldn't be so hard to just…not be alone."
They drank.
This was dangerous, Shane knew. They hadn't drank this much together since his first day on the job. An open bottle between them, no less—something almost impossible for him to resist. But dangerous or not, William's words struck deep.
"I dunno." Shane swirled a lone drop of whiskey left in his glass. "Always seemed pretty hard to me."
William watched him, cheek resting in his palm. "Me too," he said, closing his eyes. "Fucking sucks."
Shane bit his lip.
He wanted to capture this image. Not because William was handsome. Not because he was shirtless, or had a freshly stitched wound that drew Shane's gaze like a magnet. But because in the last few weeks, he'd never seen him look so damn human.
Almost, almost, touchable.
"Yeah," Shane said, staring at him. "It does."
William rubbed his eyes, as if they were bothering him.
"I'm fucked. You might as well head home." He pushed out of his chair, unsteady. "You got a nice family and shit, Daniels. Glad I got to hang out with 'em." He headed into the house, pausing in the doorframe. In a gruff voice—one stripped of its usual certainty—he said, "See you tomorrow?"
Shane twisted the cap on the whiskey.
"Yeah," he said quietly, walking close enough to return the bottle. "For sure."
William's fingers brushed his as he took it. Shoving the whiskey in his back pocket, he nodded at Shane, eyes red.
Then he turned inside and closed the door.
Shane curled his hand in a loose fist, rubbing the fingers slowly with his thumb. The ones William had just brushed against with the lightest of touch.
He shook his head.
Snap. The fuck. Out of it.
Shoving both hands in his pockets, he headed home.