A/N - Hey guys! Thank you so, so much for reading and sticking with us this far!

Just a quick note here, to remind everyone of the warning posted at the start of this story - namely, that it features a lot of unhealthy (and often unsafe) behavior. If we could add more tags to our summary, it would include things like "Consensual but not safe or sane" and "The authors do not condone the actions of the protagonists." So basically...enjoy our fictional boys and their toxicity, but please don't try this at home!

Thanks again for reading!

Shane's knees hurt on the fluffy blue bathmat. The cold ceramic of the toilet bowl chilled his cheeks. He hung his head over the water, watching the pathetic trail of saliva drip down, slow and swaying. It gathered in a little bubbly pool on the surface.

That was it.

His stomach still churned, but it was a fucking liar. He'd tried, unsuccessfully, to puke three times that morning. Nothing but dry heaves.

He always drank before bed. How the fuck else could he fall asleep? But last night he hadn't just gotten drunk. He'd purposely blacked out. With zero intention of heading to work the following morning, Shane had chugged whiskey until darkness took him on the stack of cushions in front of his TV. He'd woken to his alarm beeping like a phone call from hell, still in clothes from the previous day, the bottle on the floor at his side. Only after several minutes of disorientation did he remember it was Monday.

With a deep breath, he grabbed the sides of the toilet seat and pushed himself to standing. He turned on the shower and let the hot water run, building up steam on the mirror.

Steam.

Hot water.

Spa.

God, he couldn't go back to the farm.

Shane sank to sit cross-legged in the tub as the water beat down. The fog grew thicker. He stayed in the shower until his skin was raw and stinging; until he felt like he might pass out from the heat.

In his room, toweling off damp hair, he looked at his reflection. Sunken eyes stared back. It was time to get ready; to put on the farce of it being a normal fucking day. A dark red hoodie over his t-shirt. The pint of whiskey—refilled after taking several morning shots—slipped into the pocket of his jeans. His balisong, tucked into the opposite side.

He waited for Marnie's door to open across the hall. Once it did, she'd be stepping out in her bathrobe, hair frizzy and wild from sleep. She'd head to the bathroom to wash it, meaning Shane had approximately six or seven minutes to get out of the house without having to face her deathly ray of morning sunshine in the kitchen.

He hadn't eaten, but oh well.

Staying put until he heard that signal of safety, he weighed his options. The dock was no good. If for some godforsaken reason William called Marnie, she'd tell him that was Shane's favorite haunt. And town? Fuck town. Fuck dealing with anyone whose last memory of him was a gossipy "He got his ass kicked."

Except…there was Joja.

Maybe that hellhole had something of value to him now. Shane had passed it once since quitting to find the front door and windows boarded. But behind the building was a heavy metal door, locking up the empty warehouse and back halls. Might be accessible. He could find a place to sit. Drink in peace. Take a fucking nap until night fell, with no one able to find him.

After hearing Marnie's footsteps in the hall, he went to his closet and reached to the top shelf for the shoebox that held his knife collection. Amid the folded pocket and buck knives, the tactical blades, and the lonely pair of brass knuckles, he dug out a small set of lockpicks.

It's okay.

Steeling himself with the new plan, he walked through the kitchen.

It's okay.

He opened the front door and slipped outside, into that first soft stage of morning. Beautiful solitude, nothing in his sight except…

William?

Shane froze, the door clicking shut behind him—a caught animal under the sudden wash of light from the motion-activated sensor on the porch.

Not okay.

William's black truck was parked sideways, blocking the road Shane took to leave the ranch. The engine was off, the air deadly silent, and he stood leaning against the hood with his ankles crossed. One hand was wrapped around a thermos and he took a sip, staring directly at Shane.

Shane's heart hammered as he locked eyes with the man whose tongue had been in his mouth Friday night. For the fourth time since waking, he wanted to throw up.

In the pale dawn a bird warbled. William pushed off the truck.

Today he was in dark jeans and a denim jacket, his white undershirt a bright contrast to the tattoos creeping up his neck. He took Shane in, fingers adjusting their grip on the thermos.

"Had a feeling you were going to need some help getting to work today," he said, nodding at the vehicle. "C'mon."

Not giving Shane a chance to refuse, he got in.

Sweat pricked Shane's forehead.

William. His face. That beard. Those lips speaking words at him, when the last time they were together, they'd been connected to his. But Shane understood: today, running away was not an option.

Holding his stomach tight, he followed.

The cab of the truck was tidy and clean, reminding him of William's minimalist bedroom at the farm. It had a bench seat, the driver and passenger side divided by a center console. Several items were on top: a clipboard, an accordion folder stuffed with invoices, and a locked money box. There was also a second thermos of coffee in the cup holder, paper packets of cream and sugar tucked beside it.

Shane climbed in and stuffed his hands into his hoodie pocket. He stared at the floor mat as William exhaled.

"Alright, Daniels," he said, his voice a rasp across silk. "It seems to me that we've had a blurring of boundaries on my part."

Shane, already still as a statue, turned to marble.

Boundaries.

Cursed fucking word.

"This?" William said, drumming his fingers on the wheel. "This is about fixing that shit."

Shane could feel the blue gaze piercing him. The same gaze that only days ago he'd seen dead on, inches from his face. And now its owner was laying down boundaries; something put into place by people who thought they knew what was best for him. People who were probably right, given that every boundary Shane had ever crossed only brought disaster.

"Today there are rules," William continued. "I talk, you listen. And there is going to be a fucking quiz at the end, so you'd better pay attention. Nod for yes."

Still staring at the floor mat, Shane gave the most minuscule of nods. If he didn't open his mouth, maybe he wouldn't end up puking all over the glove box.

William grunted in approval.

"Put on your seatbelt," he said, starting the engine. "And that coffee? That's for you, if you want it."

Shane buckled, ignoring the drink.

They started down the dirt road that led east to town. William turned on the same classic rock station he always listened to while working. This time he didn't sing along, just drove them through the sleepy village and then pulled onto the empty highway.

Shane continued to stare at the floor, though keeping him in his peripheral vision. Composed as William looked on the surface, he was clearly tense too. Picking up and putting down his thermos. Grip tight on the steering wheel. Rubbing his neck several times. He glanced over at Shane, sighed, and looked back at the road.

"I don't like to pussyfoot around shit," he said at last. "Never been particularly good at that. So if I'm too fucking blunt, just wave or something." He glanced over again. "You listening?"

Shane placed an elbow on the window ledge, face in hand. Closing his eyes, he nodded against his palm.

A pause. "Have you been taking care of yourself this weekend?"

Shane didn't respond. Of course he hadn't been taking care of himself. When the fuck did he ever? Why would he start now, after making perhaps the second biggest mistake of his life? And why did all those big mistakes start with kissing other men?

Because when something good is in your life, you destroy it.

William grunted. "Hate to hear that. But it makes sense." He let the silence settle before adding, "Did you know? Before Friday. I know I've said some shit, but…did you know before Friday?"

Shane leaned forward, stretching his seatbelt. Elbows on his knees, he grabbed the back of his neck in both hands and tugged down.

William gave a cynical little laugh. "Well. That answers that. I was half afraid it was some fucked-up prank you were pulling on me."

Shane's fingers dug into his skin. He concentrated on that pressure, rather than the fact William was reading it all wrong.

Well, no. He was reading it right. Wasn't William's fault that Shane acted in denial. As if he hadn't spent the last decade playing a losing game of whackamole against these feelings, fooling everyone but his father and best friend.

And now, William.

"Fuck, Daniels. Just, fuck." He let out a breath. "Something you need to know. I didn't plan this. I know…I know you fucking owe me 'n shit. I know that. And I should've been better than what happened. Should've had better control over it. Shouldn't have, like, shoved you off the deep end of the fucking sexuality pool while you were drunk." His voice tensed. "But I'm also not sorry. Because that was the best fucking kiss I've had in years, and I refuse to apologize."

Shane said nothing. His mind was going a million miles a minute. William's words just now. That kiss, that stupid drunk kiss—but those boundaries—best kiss he'd had in years, but also—should've been better than what happened—

What the fuck did all this even mean?

And god, he couldn't even open his mouth and tell William he was wrong, that he did know he was gay. That he just hated it. Wanted to wake up and not want anybody, because all the worst things in his life came down to the fact he wanted men, and it was a cursed fucking existence that ended in pain and dark closets and caskets…

He sat up. Leaning once more against the window, he silently begged the thoughts to stop, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Fuck!" he hissed, knocking his head against the glass.

William looked at him, then immediately swerved the truck off the deserted highway. He jerked it into park on the gravel side and unsnapped his seatbelt. Grabbing Shane by the neck of his shirt, he loomed over him, the sun starting to rise in a glowing halo behind his head.

"None. Of that. Bullshit." His voice was hard as steel, the shirt tightening around Shane's neck as he fisted it in his hand. "You will not slam that head of yours on fucking anything in front of me again, do you understand?"

The whole thing had taken Shane by such shock he felt helpless against the man in front of him, until finally—breath jagged through that restricted airway—he came to his senses. He yanked the hand off his collar and threw it at William, then flopped back in the seat, tugging the neck of his hoodie to get it to normal.

William let out a slow breath as he sank to the driver's side. He rolled his neck, clipped his seatbelt on, and waited for one lone vehicle to pass before pulling onto the road again.

"We'll get to the Kendrick general store in about ten more minutes," he said, voice soft. "Then swing back up and drop off on our way home. We've got eight deliveries to hit today."

He flipped the radio back on.

Shane turned to look out the window, leaning against the headrest now. Rural landscapes rolled by, first rays of sunlight illuminating the dewy fields of grass. He never looked at William, but between the scenery and music—and the calm after yet another burst of violence—some of the tightness in Shane's chest subsided.

They took an exit off the highway, leading into a quaint-looking downtown. Shops lined the street, boasting of antique furniture and eclectic art, and a few nicer houses had been renovated into luncheon hot spots. William pulled into a small parking lot at the rear of one of the restaurants.

"Get out and help me with these boxes," he said, grabbing the clipboard.

Shane closed his eyes. With a slow, deep breath, he pushed open the door.

The truck bed was stacked full of boxes, product he'd loaded up himself Friday morning, while blissfully unaware of the fact that he was going to be kidnapped to help deliver it. Unsure of which ones he was meant to grab, Shane waited while William made nice with the lady who came out—a bunch of polite 'yes ma'am's and 'sign here's.

"Red boxes, Daniels," he said, looking up as if reading Shane's mind. "Mrs. Kendricks will show you where."

Mrs. Kendricks was a tiny, cheerful bubble of a woman.

"Oh, William, you're a lifesaver! We were almost out of the pepper jelly. It's just so popular." She smiled at Shane, pointing toward a door. "Right in there, young man."

They dropped off the boxes. William smiled. Got paid. Waved good-bye.

Just like that, they were done.

Back in the truck William made a few notes on his clipboard, unsnapped a sheet, and slipped it into the folder.

"She's shorthanded," he said, putting the truck back in gear. "Her son just got married and he's living in Zuzu now. She's a sweet thing."

Shane almost asked why the fuck that mattered, but stopped himself at recalling William's earlier words. Something about paying attention. Something about a quiz.

They headed to the next delivery, once more silent but for the classic rock. Shane finally reached for his coffee. Ignoring the creamer and sugar, he unscrewed the lid and took a tentative sip to test the temperature. A little too hot. He sat back and stared out the window again, squinting against the bright sunrise.

The next stop was a farm stall set to receive a hundred bottles of William's home brew. The man running it was a chatty sort who roped William into a conversation about hops farming, and after helping with the boxes Shane went back to the truck.

William was still facing away. If Shane was fast…

Watching the back of his denim jacket like a hawk, Shane stood inside the open door of the vehicle and unscrewed the thermos. Balancing it between his hip and the seat, where it'd be hidden if William did turn around, he pulled out his pint.

He paused with fingers on the cap.

Was he a fucking idiot? Inside a closed vehicle? A smell as pungent as whiskey?

Sighing, he shoved it back in his pocket, and moments later buckled up with the thermos of un-doctored coffee in his lap.

The rest of the deliveries were just as simple. William kept his eyes on the road, only giving blips of information about the retailers between the silence. While they drove Shane stared out the window. When they stopped he stared at the pavement, waiting for instructions. As promised, he never had to speak.

They dropped off a dozen crates of cheese at an industrial farm, William informing him the place was constantly short of pickers. There was a local supermarket, a bit bigger than Pierre's, that was opening a new location and replacing its produce manager. Closer to the valley was a restaurant needing a new bar back, and then a ranch like Marnie's where William talked to a man about renting a bull to impregnate his cows.

Their last stop was Pierre's. It wasn't until they'd unloaded the final packages and were almost back at the farm before William spoke again.

"Alright, Daniels. We just saw about, eh, six to eight greener, straighter pastures for your potential employment. Any interest?"

This broke Shane's private vow of silence. "What?"

William frowned. "You deserve to work for someone who doesn't make you want to bash your head into a wall, Shane," he said, staring straight at the road.

So that's what this was about.

Fuck, was he stupid. All those fucking deliveries. All those comments about the places being shorthanded or hiring…totally over Shane's head. He'd missed the half dozen signs as large as billboards telling him to find employment elsewhere, because William was apparently blaming himself rather than Shane's demented circus of a brain.

Shane looked down, playing with the clasp on the thermos lid. "C'mon man," he said quietly. "It's not fucking like that."

William grunted. "Don't like seeing you too scared to come to work. That shit doesn't feel good." His grip on the wheel tightened. "My fault."

Shane snapped the clasp shut extra hard. "Yeah. How about shut the fuck up."

His words rang over the soft radio.

"Shut the fuck up, eh?" They pulled into the farm. Once the truck was in park William leaned back, looking at Shane cautiously. "You could change your mind."

"Not your fucking fault," Shane insisted, voice quiet.

William grabbed the accordion folder and pull out a handful of sheets.

"You don't have to excuse it, Daniels. I'm your boss. Bosses shouldn't take advantage of their employees. And like…I can't help how I feel. So here." He handed Shane the applications, paperclipped together. "If you want to go, knowing what you know, I won't stop you."

William's back was rigid, the muscles in his neck tense. The truck went silent, the stack hovering in the air between them until Shane took it. He stared at a spot on the top page without reading the words. After what felt like an eternity, he unceremoniously rolled them up and shoved them in his hoodie pocket.

He shook his head.

William gave a deeper grunt. "Well," he said, opening the truck door, "if you're here today, we might as well finish up. Made some fence posts over the weekend, so we'll go down and fix the east side."

He got out of the vehicle, slammed the door harder than usual, and started toward the shop.

Shane remained seated.

William didn't want him to stay after all. They'd just fucked up their whole work dynamic, and this was for both of their stupid sakes.

He looked out the window, watching him walk across the property, the words from their drive echoing in his head. About did Shane know. Was he aware how much he liked dudes? About the kiss. About William liking the kiss.

Shane shifted in his seat, feeling the stiff tube of applications in his pocket. And it was that—the stupid hard roll of paper against his stomach—that made him grab his whiskey again. He waited until William had disappeared into the shop to take several long swallows.

He'd follow him in a moment. Once he'd burned away the morning.

As William stalked away, he knew he was being irrational.

He'd handed Shane the exit key but now his stomach was in knots while the asshole side-eyed the lock.

Once in the barn, he went to the back, deep into a storage closet, shutting the door. Only in the safety of that close space did he let the mask drop.

All weekend he'd punished himself, avoiding the storm of guilt, worry, and anguish with good old-fashioned manual labor. Five hundred fence posts later and it still wasn't enough. Thirty hours of meticulous sanding battled the spiral of thoughts on Friday night and all of Saturday. The work had been repetitive and mindless, letting him drown out the panic on Shane's face when he'd run from him.

So nice for your attempt at intimacy to be met with screaming panic. Worked wonders on the ego.

It wasn't until his shower that night that he'd come to the conclusion he had to fix this.

Sunday morning, in no mood to be around people, he'd ditched Ma. Instead, he made calls to his various contacts in the agriculture community, collecting job openings. Each affirmation of an employment opportunity had been an exercise of self-flagellation, reminders of places where Shane could get his work done without some shithead objectifying him in the process.

He'd gone to bed with a clear plan in mind. All he had to do was ambush Shane and make it better.

Ambush.

Crossed boundaries.

Ruin.

Those were the things he was good at. He excelled at building a beautiful house of blocks, and with one careless gesture, knocking them to the ground.

He let out a breath, refocused on the closet, and dug out two pairs of work gloves before stepping back into the barn.

They were decent jobs. One or two of them could pay more than he'd make staying here. The retail gig? As good as Shane worked, William knew the owner would promote his quiet farmhand in a matter of months. That would mean benefits for Jas, something William had barely been able to provide as a lone farmer.

It wasn't like Shane wanted to quit yet, right? He'd said to shut up about it. He hadn't told him that it was over. He hadn't started filling out applications. And it didn't mean anything for him to stare at the pages, reading them. What had he expected? Shane to crumple them up, throw them down, and declare that no, he didn't want any other stupid job, and yeah, no worries Will, he was fine right where he was?

But. He hadn't expected him to roll them neatly and put them in his pocket.

Safe keeping.

For when he left.

William's hands clenched around the gloves. He had to get it together, before Shane saw him pacing like a caged bull over stupid shit that had nothing to do with mending the fence. He tucked down his thoughts and when Shane finally walked in, threw a pair of gloves at him a touch harder than necessary. He shed his denim jacket, fixing a clean mask of 'Don't Give A Damn' over the swirl of fuckshit in his head.

Even if behind the mask he was hyper-aware of every damn breath, move, and micro-expression.

While they loaded wooden posts he waited for words, which was stupid because all Shane did was move like a silent worker drone. No reaction to William's sharp movements. Not a raised brow or side-eye when he dropped the fence posts too hard on the trailer. He followed William's lead perfectly. Just like all of last week. William figured it was only to remind him how much it was going to suck when he left.

Why didn't he fucking say something?

Maybe he's not even thinking about it. Maybe you're the only one thinking about it. Maybe you need to get it together, Bauer.

They filled the trailer with posts. Once it was packed tighter than the silence between them, they rode the ATV to the broken property line. It was 1 pm and there was a ton of fence to do. This was the longest stretch left, and it was going to take at least a couple of weeks. When they parked Shane still didn't speak; he just pulled his gloves on and began to unload as William walked toward the line of ruined wood.

After pulling the first broken post, rusted nails poking out of the jagged wood, he glanced at Shane. Unlike William, he seemed fucking chill as a damn ice cube. William scowled and dropped the rotten piece of wood onto their haul-away pile. He was about to ask for its replacement when there it was, waiting in Shane's hand. An unspoken understanding.

Grunting, he took it with a nod, and Shane was already pulling up the next rotten one as he pushed it into place.

It was frustratingly easy.

Even though William thought about broaching the subject forty different times, he couldn't bring himself to break the peace once they fell into a rhythm; an ease and comfort that was at total odds with the stress of his weekend.

Enjoy it while it lasts. Because it's only a matter of time before he leaves.

He might not leave, William thought back to that cynical side. He might like it here.

Or he might be waiting for you to flip the script again, and run screaming sexual harassment all the way up to the next available job.

The shadows on the fence posts stretched as time passed, and it was silent save for the thump-pop of knocking wood into place.

William turned to point at a tool he needed, and his eyes froze on the bulge in Shane's hoodie. The white tube of applications peeked out the corner of his pocket, a flag of surrender. Bile surged and he swallowed it down. He accepted the hammer from Shane and locked his eyes on the twisted nail that needed removing.

Hours later he glimpsed his watch and leaned back, counting what was left of the job. They'd barely made a dint. And fuck if it hadn't been easy between them, despite how unsettled he felt about the entire mess.

"Damn the rain this spring," he muttered as he stretched. Behind them, old and gnarled posts were piled on the cart, a tribute to their progress. Louder he said, "Getting close to quitting time."

Shane only nodded, silent as the damn grave. It fit the mute routine he'd performed all afternoon. He gathered the last of the rotten pieces, the posts stacked precariously in his arms, and just as William opened his mouth to warn him, he lost his grip. They scattered.

"Dammit," he muttered, bending over to pick them up.

William crossed over to help. As he neared, a pint of whiskey slipped from Shane's jean pocket. It landed next to him, unnoticed as he restacked the wood.

Whiskey. On the job.

He narrowed his eyes and swooped forward, snagging it out of the grass. "What the fuck. You drunk?"

Shane flipped around, the words strong enough to destroy his statue-impression. He saw the half-empty bottle in William's hand and dropped the wood, making a swipe for it.

William stepped back in a blaze of righteous anger. He held the bottle over Shane's head.

"You got this pretty close in your pocket," he said, "and it's half gone."

"Didn't expect to be here today, if you catch my drift. Fucking relax." Refusing to jump for it, Shane turned back to picking up the wood.

Relax. Right. After being a ball of iron tension since Friday night. Relax, when he'd been torturing himself all fucking Saturday over ruining things. Relax, something that was so fucking easy when Shane just admitted that this morning he'd had no intention of addressing this. Might as well give him a goddamned massage if he wanted relaxation. What had he been thinking to come in drinking today?

The fuck if William was going to wait around for answers. At the rate they were going, waiting on Shane to open his pigheaded mouth would leave him old and grey. He shoved the bottle into his back pocket and stalked behind him, waiting until Shane had dumped the wood before clamping both hands on his shoulders.

Leaning into his ear he purred, "You know sweetheart, it occurs to me that you didn't deny drinking on my dime."

He held him tight. Fuckhead couldn't just ignore it.

"Not drunk," Shane spat, and rolled his shoulders to push William off. When that didn't work he ducked down out of the hold, storming away to pick up the last post. "And the fuck was this about not taking advantage?" He chucked the board into the cart, then turned his head and hocked a spitwad at the ground.

William's insides coiled.

Take advantage? More like shake the stupid out of him. Looked like it was time to throw down a jackhammer's worth of rattling.

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to stay today," he snapped, stalking after Shane as he went for the tools. "You want me to relax? I thought I made it damn clear how I like to relax, Shane."

Shane's voice speared through him like an arrow.

"Didn't burn those papers yet."

William's vision blurred, outrage from all his weekend stress boiling over.

So. Shane was going to leave.

He remembered his relief when he'd been willing to get in the truck with him that morning. Yet it didn't mean shit, did it? All this calm work was just for his last day. William couldn't gauge where one emotion started and another ended. They were a swirl of sick, bright, caustic colors in his mind, racing through him until he just wanted to lash out and hurt Shane back.

"Fuck you!" he shouted, and threw him to the ground before he could think.

Shane laid against one elbow where he fell, panting hard to suck in air.

"The FUCK?" he shouted, his voice a wheeze. After a moment to catch his breath, he pushed to his feet.

Challenge in his every line and move, William braced for that tackle, just like their first fight. But Shane kept his distance. He paced like a predator, slow and glaring, leaving an amount of space between them, and William realized he was waiting for him to do more.

His heart raced, pulse beating in his ears.

"There ain't no goddamned HR here, Daniels," he growled, stalking closer. He shot a glance at Shane's pockets and then at his ruddy face. "You've got your tickets to something better. You want to go? Go." He shoved him again on the last word, Shane stumbling.

A rational part of William knew he needed to back off, to not escalate this more than he had. His shirt was sweaty and clung to him, adding to the agitation, and he opened and closed his fists, trembling from holding back.

Shane raised his chin, that shadowed jaw jutting to the side. He gave a half nod.

"How bout my fucking whiskey back?" The words were tight, each syllable strained.

"You want it?" William asked, his voice hard. "It's in my back pocket, closet bitch. Reach for that ass yourself."

A dark cloud crossed Shane's face, the anger changing. Before it'd been growing, tempered behind those strained words like a cocked arrow. At William's insult it was released. Shane rushed forward—so fast William didn't have time to brace—and grabbed him by the shoulders, throwing him to the ground. Pain bloomed, and William gave an outraged roar.

Shane spit again, the lob of saliva hitting him full in the chest.

"Oh that's fucking it," William snarled, rolling and tackling him by the legs, and driving a blow into his stomach. "YOU WANT TO PISS ME OFF? CONGRATULATIONS YOU ASSHOLE, I'M FUCKING ANGRY!"

They struggled, wrestling on the ground, panting and grunting in shared fury. It didn't take William long to gain the upper hand, straddling him. An iron grip on each wrist, he spat back in Shane's face as he writhed to escape. Red and white hot energy coursed through William and he could almost see himself, furious and aggressive, leering over Shane like a villain.

"Ready to quit now?" he roared. "Ready to run from the psychopath?"

Shane struggled, but bad back or not, William was stronger. He let Shane pant and twist; let him exhaust himself as he tried to buck William off, hips shifting and pushing.

Pushing hard enough that William could feel his growing erection.

Just like last time.

He had a choice. He could point out the proof of their chemistry. Make the argument that this between them wasn't some fluke he'd made up in his head. But then probably, he realized, Shane knew that—and kept running from it anyway.

That shit was over. Because this wasn't going anywhere, and he had to pay attention. William was going to make him pay attention.

Shane squirmed again, kicking his feet, trying to get purchase under the pin, unwittingly grinding his erection into William's thigh. William released one of his arms so that he could pop his fist into Shane's jaw. It was a glancing blow, and one that opened him up to retaliation. Not missing a beat, Shane used his newly freed hand to punch right back. That shit fucking hurt, yet he knew Shane could hit him harder. It wasn't his dominant hand and on the ground he couldn't get the momentum for the force he'd used the first time.

That time outside the bar.

William's next blow was harder. Hard enough, he imagined, for Shane to have stars bloom.

Maybe bright enough to illuminate what he'd told him in the spa.

That they both liked this.

That they were both craving this release.

That no matter Shane had run from him, they were careening back into one another so hard the earth shook.

"You like this shit, Daniels?" William panted, sweat dripping down his face. "You like when I remind you that you're nothing but a empty bag of horseshit?"

Shane's face was red from exertion. He didn't answer; just more frustration, more silences. All he'd given William today had been silences. Silences in the truck. Silences after the ride. Silences while working.

Just admit what we both know!

But Shane only stared, thoughts locked behind his eyes. William snagged him by his collar and slammed him so hard on the ground that his thick head bounced.

There was stillness, and Shane went slack.

Slowly, he brought one hand in a fist to his own face. The motion was measured, like he was telling William something. He extended his index finger. Pointing it straight at his eye, he lifted that side of his head, offering it up.

Hit. Me.

The moment was sharp. Like the eye of a hurricane, calm and clear, with storm clouds on either side. William locked in on that request, on that harsh, silent plea.

Did Shane need that?

Fine. Special delivery.

He rose up on his knees. Before giving Shane what he wanted, he met his eyes. "You fucking broke my heart when you ran from me, asshole."

With the focus of pulling out a splinter, William socked him right where he pointed.

Shane accepted the blow with a gasp, not trying to block or defend. William stared down, waiting to see if it had been enough. For a moment he didn't move, soaking in the reverberations of the punch, his eye squinted shut and leaking tears. After three of them trailed down his cheek, he shifted his jaw and winced.

"Guy bumps his head on a window," he said, as if each syllable caused pain, "he can't be trusted. Asks you to jack him in the eye...and it's okay."

William's pulse started to slow. Underneath him, Shane went quiet, panting, eyes closed as if uttering those words had taken everything out of him.

What the fuck did you just do, Bauer?

In an instant William shifted, using the strength he'd held Shane down with to haul him into a sitting position.

You gave him a concussion, asshole.

"Hey," William snapped, one arm around his shoulder for support. "You with me, Shane?"

Shane leaned on him, head sagging. He tried to get to his feet, clumsy, and William kept him steady.

You hit him too hard. You fucking moron. You want a guy to stay, so why don't you just beat the shit out of him? It's a foolproof plan, Bauer. You absolute shitstain.

"If you can hear me, nod. If nodding hurts, say, yes or no."

An infinitesimal nod, Shane's head dipping into, Yes, I'm with you.

William experimentally loosened his hold, but Shane stumbled.

"Yep. You're a tough fucker alright," he said, grasping firmly again. He walked Shane to the four-wheeler. Getting in behind him, he adjusted the handles and started back to the house.

It was a short trip down the dirt path from the fence to his porch. He wasn't sure what he was going to say once they got there, but now that the beatings were done, it was time to talk.