The clink of glasses in his mother's sunroom rang through his ears like tinnitus. The wicker furniture squeaked when he shifted. William always worried that he'd wind up on the floor in a pile of white-painted splinters.
Jane Whatsherface perched on the opposite chair, her blonde hair an artful tangle of curls, her dress a fashionable cut in pastel yellow. William had retreated to the enclosed porch to avoid the crowds. Only once he'd sat down, who should swan in but the very people he'd been trying to politely ditch.
"You know, I also got the house on the coast," Cam—the object of his objections—said, swirling a mimosa between long brown fingers. "I think I'm going to sell it."
William knew that was a lie. When they'd been planning their doomed wedding, Cam had plastered brochures of sunny beaches and surf over every surface of their apartment; never mind the fact that constant wet skin and sand triggered William's PTS like smashing a button.
"Oh," simpered Jane, "it would be so much work to maintain. I don't blame you."
William glanced at his watch. Two hours had passed and he was ready to clock out of his weekly check-in.
"Though," Cam said, as if he'd just thought of it. "Will, do you want to come tour it with me before I put it on the market? Angie says that you finally hired someone. They could watch the farm for a weekend."
William drank down the rest of the champagne-spiked OJ to hide his glare.
The Bowery isn't a fucking dog. I can't leave a bowl of kibble next to a water dish.
"Don't know much about houses," he said, rolling the flute between his callused fingers. He'd kill for some damn whiskey-laced coffee to cut the sweetness of the drink.
Cam sighed, as if cut to the quick. Jane leaned over and squeezed his arm.
"Well, Cam, congratulations on the divorce. We're all so happy to see you get what you deserve."
William watched the exchange, noting how Cam held his flinch back at the unexpected touch. Gloria, Cam's mother, used to do that: squeeze his arm while digging her nails through the sleeve. Cam hated to be touched anywhere that wasn't his shoulders or back. But did he pull away? No. Because they might know he wasn't Ma's perfect little Prince Charming. Instead, he gave a smile and kissed cheeks, playing nice before waving her off. She tipsily made her way back to the crowd.
"That girl is going to break something," Cam said.
William put the glass on the end table and caught Cam giving him one of his patented 'Well hello handsome' looks.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked.
"You best be careful yo mama don't hear you talking like that."
"She won't unless your narc-ass tells her," William said. "I mean it Baker. What the hell is up with you?"
"I don't know why you're being crude." Cam sniffed, that polite affection on his voice again.
"We've barely seen each other outside of these godforsaken tea parties, and now you want to go away for a weekend? The rebound that bad?"
Cam coughed at William's words. "I am not rebounding," he snapped.
"You're a fucking basketball," William said, pushing to his feet. "I mean. I get it. I'm fucking hot shit." This earned a glare, which was better than fucking bedroom eyes. "Baker, maybe go reach for balls that are actually interested in you playing with them."
"I swear to God, if I hadn't seen your baby pictures, I'd think you were found in a dumpster with a sign that said 'free baby'."
William flipped him off and took his stupid tiny dishes to the kitchen. Cam followed, skirting past tables full of well-dressed women, men in suits, and children in their Sunday best, dashing towards the back yard to play ring toss.
"Where are you going, anyway?" Cam asked.
"Home," William said.
"Why are you wearing a bandage over your eye? And you're moving like you have rubber bands on your back. What are you doing to yourself?"
"Working."
"Working doesn't translate to hurting."
"Butt out, Baker."
"Will, honey, I'm trying—"
William slapped his hand back when it reached for the bandage over his eye. "Hey," he said, glaring. "I mean it. Ain't happening. Whatever this" —he gestured between them— "is? It's on your side. So handle your shit."
Gretchen tutted from the stove.
"Tell William he's being a stubborn ass, Gretch!" Cam cried.
"Leave me out of that mess," Gretchen warned, tossing some popovers out of their tins and into a basket. "It's bad enough that you're learning habits from Angie. I'm not getting between whatever lover's quarrel—"
"Not lovers," William snarled.
"—the two of you are involved in this time."
They all stopped talking when the kitchen door swung open again. It was Ma. She was on a mission, carrying a small tray of dirty flatware, eyes scanning the room. "Gretchen, are we out of—"
She paused, frowning at William and Cam.
"I've got Josh running a fresh pastry basket," Gretchen said, handing a basket of popovers, danishes and croissants over the counter.
"Right," Ma said, still distracted. "Will, you're leaving already?"
"It's almost one. I need to go home and do evening milking."
She sighed, as if this was the worst news she'd heard all day. "Well, I've got to keep the mayor distracted. His daughter got a tattoo and he's having a meltdown."
"You'd have some experience dealing with that," William said, pulling his jacket on, tattooed knuckles popping out of the end.
"Indeed." One brow poised, she leaned forward to kiss him goodbye. Just when he thought he was going to get free, she said, "Before you go son, nip upstairs and let Cam take a look at that eye. It's hideous."
William's temples pulsed. "Ma, I—"
"William," she said, her voice leaving no room to argue. "I ask for very little. My friend Cameron is a nurse practitioner and very experienced with treating macho, bullheaded, military showboats. Let him at least make sure the skin on your face won't rot off and you can go home and play with your cows. Hmm?"
William closed his eyes, grunted, and turned on his heel to stalk upstairs.
The hallways were dead silent compared to the hustle and bustle of the downstairs. He went into a massive, expensively decorated bathroom, bigger than his guest room.
"Sit," Cam ordered, pointing to a padded chair that matched the rest of the ostentatious decor. He took off his blazer and began to roll up his sleeves.
"Don't be thinking," William said, plopping down, "that we're playing doctor."
"Would you stop whining, you enormous child?" Cam ran hot water and pulled out the first aid kit, going through it with a critical eye. "Now. What happened to your face?"
"Angels came from heaven and beat me with the sexy stick," William deadpanned.
Cam rolled his eyes.
"The longer you stall, the longer this takes." He found a pair of exam gloves and pulled them on. "Now, I would not object to that, so if you want to continue spending quality time together—"
"I got hit by a rogue lugnut from my water pump," William growled, irritated all over again that Cam had just made sarcasm outlawed.
Cam pulled the bandage off the eye, squinting.
"Who sutured this?" he asked, tilting William's head. His hands were gentle, wrapped in smooth latex. Not a thing like the rough, work-hewn ones he'd been fantasizing about.
"Me," William said.
Cam glared down at him. "This is your eye, Bauer. One wants to keep needles away from it."
"Seemed like a pretty small cut."
"I didn't teach you to suture so you would stitch your face. It was for emergencies!"
"Well, it was pretty emergent not to bleed all over myself."
Cam groaned and went back to the kit, breaking out supplies and slamming them down. He turned back with an alcohol-soaked swab. "At least tell me you injected something to numb it."
"Whiskey is God's natural numbing cream."
Cam scowled, cleaning around the sutures. "You know you shouldn't be drinking."
"Oh god," William said. "Don't you fucking start."
"You've been off the heroin for over four years but we still can't get you off the booze."
"The heroin," he snapped, "was a fucking problem. Alcohol isn't."
Cam smeared anti-bacterial cream into the cut. "You're an idiot, because you really believe that."
"I do not have that problem."
"You stopped going to meetings, and you refuse to get help."
"I got help," William said as Cam pulled off his gloves. "Works five days a week, and talks a whole lot less than you."
"Not farm help, you dickhead. I mean help for your Post-Traumatic Stress. When did you last go to your doctor and get scans on your surgical sites?"
William stood and snatched a band-aid from the box, pressing it against the cut. "Are we done here?"
Cam huffed. "Someone has to worry about you, William Bauer."
"I've got a mother," William said, turning towards the door. "Don't need another."
Cam stalked him down the stairs, through the kitchen and to the garage. "William." He reached out, grabbing his forearm. "Wait."
He froze at the tug on his jacket.
"What?" he asked, not bothering to turn around.
"I mean it. I'm worried about you."
William rolled his eyes and pulled his arm back, starting toward his truck, parked farther down the street. Cam doggedly followed, long legs keeping up with William's brisk pace.
"I'm fine."
"You're all alone out there. Isolated. That's not good for you."
"Farms are peaceful, Baker. Fresh air and all that good healthy shit."
"You aren't a very good hermit, Bauer," Cam retorted. "Angie said you were beat to hell three weeks ago. Said you looked like a reject from an action movie. Now you're showing up with a bloody eye—"
"Accidents happen," William protested.
"I'm trying to make sure that you're okay!"
William turned and threw his hands up. "And I said that I'm fine!"
Exasperated, Cam fisted his hands on his hips. "Will, you—"
William cut him off by pulling out his keys and hitting the fob. Down the street, his truck beeped, the lights flashing like a signal for safety. "Look," he said, "you have been having a hard time. The ink is drying on your papers. It's real now. I get that you're a bit freaked."
"Me?" Cam said, caught off balance.
William glared, spearing him in place with his eyes. "Yes. You. Stop trying to distract yourself by mollycoddling me. I'm fine, and going to be fine."
Cam sighed and crossed his arms, but instead of getting angry and defensive like the old days, he sunk in on himself. William clenched his jaw as they walked toward the truck again.
They arrived, and as he grabbed the handle, in a vulnerable voice, Cam asked, "Do you ever think about us? The way it used to be? When we were good?"
Not when I can fucking help it.
"Cam," he said, rubbing his forehead. "Don't do this."
"I mean it, Will. Things are different than they used to be."
William stared up at the blue sky and let out a breath, eyes tracking one of the fluffy white clouds that crossed his view. The clouds were sharper somehow, easier to see. The air wasn't so stuffed with shitty memories and guilt.
"Yeah, they're different," he agreed, "because I don't love you anymore."
He opened the door and started the truck, then drove away and didn't look back.
Monday went like Thursday and Friday. That is to say, nothing fucking happened.
Instead, they worked. Talking? Who needed to talk when he could nod, grunt, or point for something?
The afternoon was filled with harvesting blueberries until the tractor broke. When William needed to buy a part to fix the combine, Shane stayed and prepped the repair, cleaning off the smashed fruits that had gunked up the gears, saving at least an hour of labor.
Later, while drinking after work, William wanted to say thank you, but sensed Shane would take it wrong.
Tuesday and Wednesday were the same. Small emergencies cropped up, and before William could do more than heave out a frustrated curse, Shane was there, a silent and willing hand who followed instructions the first time. Leak in the water tanks? Shane remembered where he'd seen William's patch kit. Bovine abscess? Shane held the cow in that strange and calm state he lulled them into, while William completed the cleanest and quickest wound drain of his entire agricultural career. Clog in the drain? Shane went in with the waders and snaked out the clog while William held back the rest of the sewage.
He didn't bitch about the nasty work. Didn't grouse about all of the legitimate messiness. Just accepted his whiskey with a nod, and sipped in the twilight silence that settled on the summer evening.
Thursday afternoon, nothing went wrong. It was a long and repetitive day of back and forth effort. They pulled in bushels and bushels of purple fruit, and ran them through the processing bins to puree into jams. It was sticky, hot work, yet when Shane was walking across the farm after, leaving William alone on the porch, he wanted to turn back time for those hours of synchronized solidarity.
You don't make a very good hermit, Bauer.
Tell him something he didn't know.
Friday morning, William decided that if he was going to ruin whatever was between them by pushing for more, he'd better do it with a weekend to recover.
Because, he thought, as they rinsed out milking hoses, it was stupid not to try.
He considered how to broach it all day. When they were bottling milk. When they were loading up the deliveries for Saturday. When they were eating lunch. How he could just say, "Hey, wanna try to be more than friends and see how it goes?"
Only if he wanted to scare Shane into rabbiting.
As the sun passed its peak, an idea struck him. He waited until they'd culled the oldest berry bushes, plants too old to have another good harvest. After unloading the final set of branches into the compost heap, he pulled off his gloves and groaned.
"Fuck this day," he announced, tossing them in the nearby toolbox. "I'm calling it, Daniels."
The field was a graveyard of stubs, all cut down for the oncoming fall. William felt beat to fuck. He'd been distracted by his plan all afternoon.
"Want me to keep going?" Shane asked. "Don't mind."
There he went being all fucking perfect again, William thought with disgust. The boss wanted to take a break? Sure thing. Let me just keep going, because it's what needs to be done.
He squinted out, searching for a reason to talk Shane out of this reasonable and hardworking statement.
"If you want to, I guess. We got done fast though. Last year I was at this till almost 9:00 pm." He rubbed his back. "Sorry, that's all I've got today. I'm going to the spa. You're welcome to join, but if I don't soak this back of mine I'mma wake up tomorrow as a pretzel."
Shane paused, not yet taking off his gloves. "Spa actually helps?"
It helped so much he should be doing it two or three times a week.
"Yeah. Heat and all that. I've been too bushed. Shouldn't have put it off this long." He rubbed his back, and felt Shane watching him. He might've thought he was subtle, but William saw the low-key nervousness as he jerked his gaze down.
"I, uh. Never really finished up in the coop yesterday," Shane muttered. "I mean, I did but—I could've done better. I should go do that."
Cocking his head, William stared. "You chickenshit, Daniels? Still afraid I'm going to eat you?"
"Need to do what you're paying me for."
William rolled his eyes. "You always scour those pens like they're a hotel. Saw them this morning. I could eat dinner off those floors." He started toward the house, knowing with an arrogance backed by long experience that his body was a striking sight from behind. "Lie to yourself, sweetheart. Don't lie to me."
Shane didn't respond, nor did he follow, but William didn't care. His plan was already set in motion.
He went inside, changed, and focused on packing up a duffle bag with extra clothes. Shane might try to pretend they were just dudes being dudes, but it had been a week and he hadn't returned any of the clothes he'd borrowed after the pump fiasco. They'd affected him. William had seen him pulling on that shirt like it was going to strangle him.
He loaded the duffle with another pair of drawstring pants and worn tractor supply t-shirt like he was loading ammo into a canon.
Even if he backs out later, that'll give him something to think about.
Extra towels, a pair of flip flops, and a fresh bottle of whiskey completed his preparations.
It took ten minutes to hunt Shane down. True to his word, he was kneeling in front of an already-clean feed trough, scrubbing away as if determined to put a hole through the shining perch. William's eyes roamed around the pen, noting swept floors and fresh hay for the second time that day.
"Damn. You work fast."
Shane glanced up, taking in his relaxed stance, changed clothes, and duffle bag. Grunting, he turned back to his work.
Shithead.
"C'mon, Daniels," William said, pulling out his secret weapon. He dangled the fifth of whiskey in front of Shane's face. "Make sure my broken ass doesn't trip and die on the way up, eh?"
The whiskey, William knew, was the deciding factor. It wasn't the liquor, but the symbol of 'work is over.' Ever since Shane had seen him go Dr. Hacksaw, they'd spent every afternoon with a few shots at the end of the day. William liked to think of it as their tradition. God knew he'd never had a steady drinking buddy before this.
Shane sighed, reluctantly pushing off his knee. He grabbed the whiskey as he stood. "Part of the job description now?"
"Farmhand, you have the unique and questionable pleasure of a flexible job description. One day you can write 'caretaker for crazy' on your resume. Now stop waffling and come on."
Without waiting for an answer he left the coop. When there were no footsteps behind him, he swiveled back around. Shane stood holding the bottle, frozen in place.
"What now?"
"Just…" Shane's face flushed as he rolled it in his hand, watching the golden liquid slosh. "I don't got clothes."
Where we're going, you ain't gonna need clothes.
William shook his duffle. "Lucky for you, I'm a planner. I got extra."
For a moment, Shane remained still. Then he sighed and tossed the bottle back. "Whatever. Make sure you don't die. Fine."
William caught it, slipping it into his bag.
"Good to have you on board, Daniels," he said, heading out the coop door. "Love that proactive spirit." He walked them toward the hill path behind his house that led to the village spa. "Such a can-do attitude."
"Knock it off or I bail."
William laughed. "Now if you do that, how are you supposed to win Employee of the Week?"
Shane shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground as they walked.
For a few minutes William let the silence settle; that comfortable silence that formed when they worked side by side. Yet, it was happening wasn't it? They were 'off the clock' despite William's jokes about this being in Shane's job description, and it was more intense than sharing a few shots at the end of the day on the porch. They'd be relaxing together...intimately.
He realized, with the interest of finding a new variation of a crop, that he was nervous.
Shane was nervous too, but unlike William, he hadn't had a society mother to train the tells out of him.
After a few more feet, he nudged Shane with his elbow, nodding up toward the trees. "Leaves change soon. Gonna be raking to do then."
Shane glanced up, shrugged, and looked back down at the dirt road passing under their feet. "Raking's not bad."
He swings and he misses.
William tried again. "New season of gridball too. Fall brings out the sports."
"Yep. 'Bout that time."
Sensing a window of an opening, William pressed. "Tunnelers ain't got a chance in hell to make more than like, three wins max this season."
Shane snorted. "You always spew horseshit, or just on Fridays?"
Paydirt.
"What, you think they've got potential? Nah, man. That coach couldn't make a decent lineup if you gave him a ruler."
"Oh come on," said Shane, rolling his eyes. "Peters and Wallinburg are starting kickers this season."
They bickered about gridball the entire way to the spa, Shane unable to let any of William's observations slide without some hard fact about why he was wrong. The walk passed quickly, Shane rolling through a diatribe about player abilities, a damn-near encyclopedic list of previous plays, stats, and strategy. He was a walking gridball genius.
"See," Shane said, when they reached the spa, "knew you were fucking mental weeks ago. But did I listen to myself? No, and now I'm working for a dumbass who thinks Carter is better off on the bleachers."
It was, William realized, the most he'd ever gotten out of Shane in the entire time they'd been working together. He rolled his eyes as he held open the door for him. "Man, but look at his numbers! He gives one flashy play—one—and the sportswriters think he's the next Green. He ain't. He's a one-trick pony, and lots of bookies are going to win some cash on losers betting their life savings on a wish and a dream."
They entered the changing room, where William dropped his bag on the bench and pulled out the extra set of clothes wrapped in a towel, tossing them to Shane.
Shane caught them. "Nothing wrong with a one-trick pony if that trick melts the other teams' face off."
William laughed, trying to imagine the kick in question expanding into a pulse-wave that blew flesh off a stadium of fans like wax melting from a candle. He shook his head, remembering the previous argument, waving a hand to emphasize his point.
"Now, if that dumbass would put Henson on the field instead of having him warm the bench like a fart machine—"
"Henson runs like he's got a flamingo up his ass."
William grinned. "I mean, maybe he takes it up the ass, but boy can still throw. Which I'll be damned if we ever see Carter throw in a straight line." He pulled his shirt off, folding it and tucking it in a locker, and reached for his belt buckle.
Shane froze.
William turned his back to remove the belt, making the movement casual. He stepped out of his shorts, revealing his swim trunks beneath, and observed Shane's stiffness in the side mirror that hung from the locker door.
Shane opened the nearest locker and set his stack of things inside. He unfolded the towel, taking the clothes out one by one. Restacked them. Refolded the sleeve of the t-shirt that popped out. Fidgeted with the bottom of the shirt he wore, fingers curling around the hem before releasing it.
"So like, in your dream lineup, which you live in, which is more important? Strong kickers or strong runners?" William asked, seeking to break the tension that had arisen in the silence.
Shane reached for his watch instead of the clothes. "Kickers," he said, fiddling with the clasp.
William sighed theatrically. "Now I know why this friendship is doomed." He closed the locker door and wrapped his towel around his shoulders, heading toward the exit. "To be continued in the pool."
He stepped out of the room and paused, staring into the empty walkway that separated it from the heated spring in the spa. If he did this, he was going to change it all. It wasn't too late to turn back and claim he'd forgotten something at the house.
But no.
Even if this turned out for the worst, with Shane quitting after realizing how William felt, he had to do this.
Head on.
Life was too damn short to be afraid of being hurt.
The water in the spa was almost too hot to bear. William sank in slowly, feeling like a crawfish slipping into a boiling pot. The heat ran through his chilled bare feet, up his legs, and ballooned his swim trunks. His back—straining from the repetitive bend and rise of tending blueberry bushes—started to unknot, and he took his first deep breath of the day.
This might not be terrible. Maybe…maybe it would go better than expected.
He moved to the end of the pool and leaned against warm tile. It wasn't sunset yet. The glass roof of the spa revealed fluffy white clouds that lazed across blue sky. The heat sank into his thighs, hips, and lower back, and the clock in the corner of the room clicked through the seconds.
Three minutes since he'd entered the water.
Today was a risk, asking to be off the clock together. William thought back to the full week of 'hi, how are ya/fine, you?'s that he'd been choking on. Nothing was going to develop past workplace comfort if he didn't make an effort to reach again, but was it worth it? Stretching out an olive branch beyond Shane's paychecks had the potential to blow up in his face.
He was hyperaware of the locker room door.
What was taking him so long?
Four minutes.
Did he have second thoughts? Had he decided to leave? Did he sense that William had meant this beyond a 'hey, come hang out'?
Five minutes.
Yeah. He's gonna ditch you.
At six minutes, William was relieved to hear footsteps. He sank down, letting the heat boil out his tension. It was just Shane, who'd seen him daily for weeks. Who laughed at his stupid cow insults when dodging tails. Same, solid, steady fucker who'd leaned into him as they'd stopped his rogue pump. William closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, and listened to the slap-pat of bare feet on wet tile.
Silence.
He opened his eyes again. Shane was standing over the water, the towel around him like a blanket. He wore blue boxers instead of swim trunks, loose around his thighs, with a band that rested on soft hips. William could barely discern the real shape of his body between the towel and the steam of the pool.
He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else.
Stay cool. You relax and he'll relax.
"Thought you fell in the toilet," William said, keeping his eyes down. He floated in the heat, trying, as if through mental willpower alone, to radiate a sense of comfort. It was Shane's choice. Was he in? Or was he out?
More still silence, the only sound the tick of the clock. Then a shift of fabric rustled against the towel. The hot water swelled around him when Shane entered the pool.
"Just slow" he said, tone as soft as Ingrid's fur.
"Slow is better than never," William replied.
On the way up the mountain, they'd been chatting about gridball, arguing scores and stats. Shane had a retort for any argument William made about a team's potential. Yet now, in the soft spell of the water, he'd lost the confidence, as though they were strangers.
Ease him back into the familiar.
"You bring that whiskey?"
"Yeah." Body stiff, Shane reached behind him, pulling the bottle from his towel. He offered it silently.
"Thanks," William said, crossing over, and uncapped it to take a long drink.
It was important to get Shane back to that comfortable zone. Step one down that road was giving him some personal space. William leaned against the wall, keeping a safe ten inches between them, and passed the whiskey again. Shane accepted, closing his eyes and draining two shots.
William dipped lower into the water, half his beard submerged. "How long you been drinking to swallow so smooth, Daniels?"
The bottle slowed as Shane lowered it . "Longer than I should've," he finally said. "Fourteen, fifteen."
Who hadn't been sneaking shots and drinks that early?
William remembered when he was twelve, one of his friends spending the night had dared him to get his dad's scotch out of his office. They'd both been disgusted by the taste, and it was only through sheer luck that they hadn't been caught and punished. He wondered if that had been the case for Shane too.
"Used to drink at parties n' shit," William said, reaching for the bottle, letting their fingers cross as he did. "You can imagine how Ma reacted."
"She's a force," Shane agreed, though his shoulders tightened at the touch. He paused. "I never went to parties."
For a moment, William wondered if Shane realized that their lips had touched the same glass surface. That in a way, it was an indirect kiss.
Kiss.
God, in this steamy room, William wanted to kiss him.
Instead, he raised his eyes to the glass tiled roof. "No? I guess I'm not surprised. Bet you didn't like being around the other stupid kids." He tried to imagine Shane going to those parties. Standing by a keg stand, screaming 'chug'. Dancing around in a group. Leering at William with scorn the next day at school, because of something stupid he'd done the night before. He couldn't picture it. It didn't fit Shane at all. "Bet you were the quiet type too, huh? The one who thinks before he speaks up."
As if proving the point, Shane thought. He picked his words out of the metaphorical coin box and laid each one down. "Probably not as much as I should."
It was a code, William decided. There was a pattern to unlock more words. High School sucked for everyone, so he swapped back to a safer topic.
"Why kickers over runners?"
Shane went predictably silent again, closing that first box of words to go find another. William took another swig off the whiskey while he waited, offering it when done.
"Wanna start off strong," Shane said, accepting. "Weak kicks throw everyone off." He took a deep drink. When he surfaced, he stared at the bottle for several seconds. "I was a kicker."
"Shit, really?" William's image of high school Shane shifted with the new information. "You played?"
Shane's thumbs slid along the cap. "Just high school."
"Better than me," William said. "I was marked as 'does not get along well with others.'"
"Thought they only marked that shit for kids."
"Coach didn't like me." William let his eyes drift half-closed. Yeah. Coach hadn't liked him, because when he was nine years old, he'd gifted the guy's sadistic nephew with a concussion and broken nose, courtesy of his batter's helmet. "Guess he knew what I was."
A psychopath.
"What you were?" Shane repeated.
Something abnormal.
He remembered the loathing that had rolled off the coach. Remembered how he'd muttered that he was a little fag. William could understand disliking a kid for being a shit. He'd been no angel. But the look the coach had given him had nothing to do with fear. It was disgust, as if William had been some sort of abomination.
"No one," he said heavily, "wants a gay guy on their high school team, Shane. Guess they think this shit is contagious or something."
High school had been such a cesspool of that bullshit. Back when he was a terrible judge of people. Back when he was moving from day to day in a haze of adolescent angst. Back when he had no friends he could count on.
Now?
William looked at Shane, who was staring at the water. He did have a friend now, didn't he? Did it count as true friendship if you also wanted more?
"People suck," Shane whispered.
William let his shoulders soften and stretched, resting his wrists on his knees. The blue sky was darkening, now streaked with red and purples. "True," he agreed. "Not everyone is like that though."
More silence. Drink. Cap. Pass.
Your back feeling any better?" Shane asked quietly, after they'd each had another shot.
"Some. How 'bout you? Gotta be sore from all that work I'm driving you through." William paused. "You like it better than Joja?"
Do you like me better than Joja?
Shane hadn't met his direct gaze since entering the pool. He stared at the water in front of his chest, one hand absently drawing a circle in its surface. His eyes followed the ripples. "I like it a lot better."
Turning to face him, William set the whiskey on the ledge and nestled his head in the crook of his elbow. "I like it better too."
"Days aren't as long."
"Nope," William agreed. "Time flies when you're having fun."
For a moment—just a moment—Shane looked at him. Then his hands flew out of the water, scrubbing his face with clean fingers as if just waking up.
It was fascinating. He'd never seen Shane wake up, and wondered how he slept. If he lost that constantly tense body language when resting, or if he was the type to curl into a ball and grind his teeth in dreamt anxiety. A trail dripped off the ends of his wet bangs, and he rubbed his eyes, stealing another look at William before turning back to the water.
"Yeah. I guess so."
William closed another inch. "It's good at the farm, yeah?"
There was a beat where it seemed like Shane wasn't going to answer. Then his lip twitched; a ghost of a smile. "It's not too bad."
The micro-expression was fleeting, but William pressed his advantage. "I like that you don't mind hanging out after work," he said. "Closest thing I've had to a friend in..."
The closest he'd had to a friend since Maxwell, who'd died in the trenches of Gotoro.
For the first time since arriving, Shane relaxed. He sank into the water, pulling William to the present. Leaning his neck on the ledge of the pool, he lifted his eyes to the glass roof and darkening sky. "Me too," he said softly. "Beats the saloon. Gets fucking boring at the saloon."
"No shit." William rubbed his head, willing all uninvited thoughts of Max back into the dark hole they sprang from. He focused on Shane's words, using them as an anchor. The saloon, where they'd had a fight and made drunken fools of themselves a month ago.
"Listen. The way we..." William coughed. "That night. Where we...where I...when we had that..." The whiskey was making his tongue clumsy. He tried again. "That fight. This is going to sound fucking weird but, that was one of the best fights I've ever had."
Shane shrugged. "Best one I ever had," he said. "Which probably sounds weirder, since I was the one eating dirt."
William's breath caught, but Shane seemed oblivious to the attention.
That first punch, knocking color into his night. The tree where they'd frozen together. The end, when Shane had surrendered.
He licked his lips, slipping one more inch closer.
Don't fuck this up, Bauer.
"I felt fucking...like I had all this shit inside me. Angry shit. Poisonous. Just choking me." He let out a breath, trying to banish the memories before whispering, "That punch? Like you'd opened a fucking steam valve."
He braced for the side-eyed look.
Shane bit his bottom lip, as if trying to determine how to best explain that normal people didn't think this way. That it wasn't healthy. That William should talk about his damn feelings, as if it were possible for them to budge and come out through something as insufficient as words.
He made William wait, apparently counting exact change for this transaction.
"It's gotta go somewhere," he said at last. "It's just...gotta go somewhere."
It was like pulling a weight off William's shoulders. There was no judgment in the words; it was more than he had expected.
Shane understood.
His expression of amazement must have made Shane nervous, because he immediately rubbed his hands over his face again. "I'm not saying that right," he muttered. "Just…made me feel better too, I guess."
"It's gotta get out," William repeated, slipping closer. The words felt like a line in some guru's manifesto to living your best life. In a low voice, reverent, he added, "I couldn't chew out of one side of my face. My ribs hurt for two days. Sore as fuck after that." He propped his cheek up, eyes locked on Shane. "Felt fucking amazing."
Folding one arm beneath the back of his head, Shane stared at the ceiling. "My shoulder was fucked all week. Didn't really mind."
The sane part of William pointed out how twisted it was to be turned on by someone taking pain. It was fucked to appreciate the bruises that had stained Shane's skin.
"I'm glad you could take it," he said, voice gruff.
"Keeps you in your body, feeling like that," Shane whispered. "Otherwise you go in your head and disappear."
The words resonated.
"You ever disappear, Shane?" William asked.
Shane's head was tilted to the sky, eyes distant. "Can't disappear if no one sees you in the first place."
There was a misconception, William thought, by some men. They were always looking for the brightest star in the constellation, or tightest body in the club. The men around him sought youth and vigor, searching for a status symbol for their beds. Or money. Or validation.
William didn't care about any of that.
"I see you," he said, quiet sincerity in his voice.
Shane slowly turned his head. He met William's gaze and blinked, his face languid.
William wanted to memorize the way he looked. Wanted to carve the memory into his flesh; burn it into his mind so that he could never forget it.
"Hey, Shane? Do you trust me?"
The clock ticked behind them, checking off seconds. Shane's chest grew still. "I think so," he whispered.
Moving with deliberate care, William's free hand cupped the back of his head. "Then...I've been wanting to do this since that first night," he said, locking their gaze. His thumb rubbed a circle in Shane's hair, mingling the scent of sweat and musk with the steam. He swam in green eyes.
There was no fear. No trepidation.
Only trust.
William pressed his lips against Shane's, kissing him with the same softness that he cradled his head. He let it linger a moment, then gave him an inch, prepared for either consent or denial.
Shane's eyes were closed, his mouth parted. Waiting.
Sliding both hands up, William cradled him closer. Threading fingers through his hair, he nipped his bottom lip, and rubbed the tip of their noses together, before slanting his mouth across the open invitation.
He tasted like whiskey, smoky and rich. At first he remained still, just letting it happen while William absorbed each soft sound, each touch. But the longer they made out the more comfortable he became, and when William slipped his tongue inside, it was like unlocking a door. Shane's hand reached up. Holding the back of William's neck, his body gave way, tucking into the kiss.
William groaned in encouragement.
"Good," he murmured, heart drumming.
Hemming him in, he chased the tongue, and his fingers dug into Shane's shoulders. Shane craned up to meet William's mouth, his body slinking lower in the water. They tasted and explored, William using his height to keep control of their shared heat and breath, of what would make them feel good. His cock twitched, aching to grind into Shane's hips.
Finally, needing to slow down before he pushed too far, he broke the kiss. He pulled away and looked down at his breathless partner.
"God," he whispered, stroking a finger along that five o'clock shadow. "Shane…"
Shane's eyes opened.
He blinked as if in a daze. Then his face went pale. "William?"
The whisper was edged with panic. His gaze darted over William's face, as if he didn't know where he was, or what he was doing. Alarmed, William pulled back.
Had he misread it?
No, he'd been so sure…
"Hey," he said, voice cautious. "Shhh. Hey, Shane, it's okay." He hadn't let him go yet, and tried to squeeze his shoulders in reassurance.
But it was too late. He'd shattered it.
Shane jerked from William's grip as though he'd been burned. He stumbled sideways, the water splashing as he put distance between them.
"Oh god," he groaned, hands rubbing over his face. "Oh god, oh god..."
"Shane, hey." William reached again. "Dude, it's okay. Shane, look at me. Look at me."
Shane slapped his hand off and pushed further down the wall.
"No," he said, "it's not. It's not."
Stunned, William watched as he reached frantically behind him for the towel, hands fluttering over the tile until he made contact. "I'm not—" He struggled to open it, backing away. "I'm not—I'm not like this, okay, I'm not like you…"
William turned and hauled himself up on the ledge, ignoring the scream of pain from his back. It was faster to walk next to the pool than fight the water.
"Shane, stop! Let's talk."
Shane ignored him, doggedly stumbling up the steps .
"Look, I get it," William said, almost beside him. "You didn't know before. That's okay. I know you're scared, but look, you don't need to be."
"There's nothing to get!" Shane snapped, still struggling with the damp towel. He threw it down in anger on the tile and scrubbed his hands through his hair, storming for the exit.
"Daniels!" William called. "Jesusfuck, dude, breathe for a minute. It's OKAY."
Shane just let the locker room door slam behind him.
William groaned in frustration. He'd known better. He'd fucking known better.
He scooped up the whiskey and both towels before stalking after him. The movement drove home how very drunk he was. If he was this messed up…
He pushed through the door. Shane was at the locker he'd stored his things in. He jerked it open, the metal rattling as it bounced against the other doors.
William hesitated, trying to figure out what to say.
Sorry I kissed you?
Sorry you didn't acknowledge you might be gay until this moment?
Sorry I'd do it all over again?
There was no coordination to Shane's movements. Panting like he'd gone three rounds with a prize fighter, he tried to tug on his pants, but he hadn't bothered to dry off and the fabric stuck to his wet skin. When he finally yanked them all the way up, he leaned against the lockers with one hand.
With no warning—in a flurry of frustration—he struck his open palm against the metal, leaving it ringing.
William realized too late what was coming next.
The hand turned, and Shane drove the heel of it into the side of his head.
Dropping the towels and whiskey at the first impact, William crossed over as Shane pounded his skull a second time. On the third, he snagged him by the wrist, pinning his arm back.
"Will you knock that shit off?" he growled, shoving him against the locker. "Swear to fuck, Shane, if anyone is going to kick the queer out of your ass, it's going to be me."
He shook at the readiness that Shane had turned on himself, heart slamming when the man in his arms went slack.
Don't make it worse.
"I'm going to let you go," William said carefully. "You're going to put your clothes on, and we're going to fucking talk about this."
Shane dropped his forehead to the locker, rocking against it as if the act of being still was beyond him.
"Yeah?" William hissed, needing that verbal acknowledgment—knowing if he didn't get that understanding, he might have to wrestle him all over again. He waited for a moment. Then two. Right when he thought it would stretch into three, the rocking stopped.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard. "Yeah."
Slowly, William let him go.
Though Shane didn't move, his limbs still trembled. Remembering the disaster movie of him trying to put on his damn pants, William grabbed his shirt. "Raise your arms, dipshit."
"I can do it," Shane muttered, snatching it back.
"Uh huh. Proved that real fucking good." William crossed his arms to hide that they were shaking too.
Shane messily shrugged into the shirt, getting caught several times, like he had with the pants. When he finally got it on—slightly crooked in the chest—he grabbed his watch from the bottom of the locker, and with drunken hands tried to hook it on.
William's jaw hurt from how tight he clenched his teeth. He dug his fingernails into his elbows, watching, but after the first fumble couldn't hold himself back. He slapped Shane's hand and took the watch, buckling it on. "There is nothing wrong with you," he said, turning the face to the inside of Shane's wrist, the way he always wore it. "Because if there is something wrong with you, then there is something wrong with me."
Shane jerked back his hand. He shook his head over and over, refusing to look up, just jumbling his clothes into a wad.
You can't help him if he wants to get away from you.
William hated this. This was all his fault. Every single bit of it.
"Fine," he snarled. "Go. Fucking run. But you can't hide from me, Shane Daniels. So when you get yourself figured out, you're going to fucking talk to me." He sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees. Pulling on his hair, he glared up. "Because," he threatened, trying to infuse how fucking serious he was into the words, "you do not want me to be the one that has to find you."
It was like trying to threaten a wall. Shane was already headed toward the exit, looking down, still shaking his head.
"Just leave me alone," he mumbled. "Please, just leave me alone…"
He left without looking back.
William waited until the door to the spa closed. He surged up and slammed his fist into the locker. Pain shot through his knuckles, leaving a dent in the metal door.
"FUUUUCK!" he screamed into the empty room.
The shout echoed, the only answer a soft drip from the shower. He stomped over to where the towel broke the fall of the whiskey and scooped it up. Glaring at the amber liquid, he uncapped it and took a long swig. It burned sliding down his throat, and he let out a slow breath.
At least the whiskey couldn't run from him.