Sure enough, Nick’s expression told him he’d heard the same thing. Damn, would they never recover that old, comfortable easiness that once came so naturally? “Thanks. I hope you know the reverse is true, too. Always has been.”

“I know you have my back.” Which wasn’t exactly the same thing as being able to count on someone, was it? When the shit was flying, sure. Shane had no doubt that Nick Rixey would have his six. But day to day, when the crisis was past, and it was just the regular slog of life, when they no longer had this catastrofuck of a situation to drown out the physical and mental pain this past year had inflicted? Yeah, he wasn’t so sure about that.

Time would tell, he supposed.

A weighty pause filled the space between them. Nick crossed his arms and dropped his gaze to the floor. “But . . . ?”

Shane shook his head. “I don’t need to say it, Nick. You know as well as I do what went down between us.”

Rixey gave a tight nod. “I do. Question is, you gonna let me build a bridge or not?”

If only it were that simple. Shane didn’t want to hold this grudge. Feeling hurt and betrayed took energy and headspace he didn’t have to spare. But some emotions couldn’t be willed away. No matter how hard you tried. He had a lifetime of experience to prove it.

“Come on,” Nick said, walking away.

“What?”

“Just come on.”

Sighing, Shane forced himself to move, no idea what Nick wanted and very little patience left to find out. Halfway across the room, he yawned so big his eyes watered, and his jaw cracked—

Something knocked him in the gut. “What the hell?” he said, his arms rising up to block the attack and finding . . . a pair of black boxing gloves resting in his grip. He glared at Nick. “Aw, hell no.” He tossed them to the floor, his patience just about worn clean through.

“Pick them up,” Nick said, tugging on a thick black glove.

“No.” Shane stepped toward the door.

Nick moved in front of him, blocking his way. “Pick. Them. Up.”

“I’m not fighting you.” Shane nailed the slightly taller man with a glare. Throwing fists wasn’t going to fix what was broken between them, and Shane wasn’t a vindictive asshole. At least, not usually.

Jabbing both gloved hands against Shane’s shoulders, Nick’s light green eyes narrowed. “Put the goddamn gloves on, McCallan.”

The shove made Shane’s GSW sting like a mofo and tripped a wire in his brain, unleashing all kinds of things he’d been trying to hold tight. Anger. Regret. Hurt. Guilt. He shoved right back. “Screw you, Rix.”

“That’s the spirit. Now do as you’re told and glove up.” He knocked his gloves together and arched a brow.

Do as I’m told? “Fuck that noise. We aren’t working for Uncle Sam. And you sure as hell aren’t my superior anymore. What’s your fucking problem, anyway?”

Pressing his lips together, Nick shook his head. “I’m not the one with the problem.”

Shane scoffed. “Oh? Is that right? Then why’d you shut me the hell out the past year?”

“And now we’re getting somewhere.” Nick walked past him, and Shane flinched back, his adrenal gland doing its job and flooding plenty of fight instinct through his body. He was wound as tight as barbed wire. Nick scooped the gloves from the ground, turned, and chucked them at him again. Hard.

This time, Shane caught them before they made impact.

“Look, I know a firearm is your first weapon of choice. But as I don’t need any more holes in my head, and I’d like to stay on this side of the great white beyond, you’re going to have to make do with the gloves. You need this, Shane. We need this. So could you just put the fucking gloves on already and stop being a pain in the ass?”

“Right. I’m the pain in the ass,” he muttered, his hands making quick work of lacing up without really telling them to do it. Nick was right, though. Shane did need this. For a whole lotta reasons. But the other man was a few rounds shy of a full clip if he thought throwing a coupla punches would clear the debris field between them.

The minute the second glove was secured, Nick was right in his face. “No holds barred.” He slammed his gloves on top of Shane’s, and Shane hammered right back.

And then it was on.

Shane threw the first punches, catching Nick in the jaw and the ribs, and blocked the uppercut aimed at his gut. Facing off again, Shane jabbed with his right, forcing Nick to cover himself in a way that exposed his left side—and the lingering injuries from his gunshot wounds that still gave him back problems. Shane jammed his knee into Nick’s side. The deep groan that erupted from his opponent’s throat tempted Shane’s guilt, but then he wasn’t the one who insisted on this, was he? And now that Nick had invited Shane’s lizard brain out to play, it liked their little game here too much to back down.

Nick recovered quickly and came at him with a back kick that had broken ribs written all over it. Shane managed to rear back at the last possible second, but the action threw him off-balance, allowing Nick to take his feet out from under him. Shane slammed to the ground, his breath whooshing out and pain radiating up and down his spine. But even before gravity had all its fun, Shane was forcing his ass to move. He rolled and sprang to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that threatened.

And it was a good goddamned thing he’d found his feet again.

Because Nick was now full-on pissed off. He came at Shane like a freight train, swinging, kneeing, kicking. Nick’s fury fueled his own, and Shane gave every bit as good as he got. Body impacts, grunts, and the scuffs of shoes on concrete echoed around the cavernous space. Man, but Shane was going to be feeling this little dance for days.

They circled, attacked, and retreated over and over, neither man holding the advantage for long. Nick clipped him in the mouth, and Shane felt the skin split and the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. So evenly matched, their fight turned into a war of attrition that threatened to go on and on. Exhaustion making his arms heavy and his responses slower, Shane used the memory of the train of unanswered calls and emails, each one leaving him feeling more alone and isolated, and found the will to keep going, keep fighting, keep exorcising the demons in his head that never let up for five fucking seconds.

It was just . . . all . . . too . . . goddamned . . . much. Wham. His fist connected with Nick’s cheekbone like a sledgehammer. Nick’s head whipped to the side, and his whole body spun as if in slow motion.

Nick caught himself just before he face-planted, though he stumbled until he crashed into the bench press.

For a long moment, Nick braced his gloves against the leather-covered bench and seemed to gather himself. He rose and faced Shane, and it was clear from the stiffness and slowness of his movement that he was hurting.

Shane didn’t take a lick of pleasure from that fact.

Just the opposite.

The sight of his best friend bloodied and injured at his own hands drained the fight from him. Becca was going to have both their asses in a sling when she saw that the nearly healed cut on Nick’s cheekbone was open again. The initial wound wasn’t Shane’s doing—that had been between Nick and Beckett.

“Goddamnit,” Shane rasped, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his forearm. His mouth took over where his fists left off. “I needed you, Nick. I fucking needed you, and you weren’t there.”

Nick’s head dropped heavily on his shoulders. For a long moment, labored breaths aside, he was still. Then his gaze cut up, and Nick nodded. “I know. I . . . know.”

Shane waited, expecting more. Expecting . . . something. Anything. That Nick had needed him, too. That Nick was sorry. That he understood just how deep his silence had cut. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there to say?” Nick pulled off his gloves.

And there it was. Same story, different day. Guy still didn’t get it, did he? Shane tugged off his gloves, returned them to a shelf against the wall, and shook his head. “Not a damn thing, I guess.”

Shane reached for the door handle.

“Jesus. What do you want me to say?” The agonized whisper had Shane turning back to his friend. “Do you want me to say I was so fucked in the head I became depressed? Do you want me to say I should’ve figured out what Merritt was doing? Because I know that shit is true. And that, since I didn’t see the forest for the trees, I was so guilt-ridden I couldn’t face you guys? That I thought you’d all blame me for ruining your lives and killing our friends?” Nick’s eyes were bleak with anguish.

Shane’s gut went tight as a hollowness settled into his chest. “Nick—”

“Or maybe you want me to say it was easier to ignore you than face the possibility that I’d lost you, too? Because you had to hate me as much as I hated myself, right? Or, how ’bout that the pain of the surgeries and the PT was so intense I got hooked on painkillers for about three months until Jeremy realized what’d happened, flushed them down the toilet, and called my doctor behind my back?” Nick scrubbed his hands over his face, smearing the blood on his cheek, and clawed his fingers through his dark, sweaty hair.

Christ. How the hell had the guy carried all this around for the past year without caving under the weight of it? Just went to show that you never really knew the size of the load another person carried. Except—Shane should’ve known. He was supposed to be Nick’s best friend in the world. His brother.

Damnit. Shane should’ve forced the question.

As Nick stood there pouring his soul in a bloody mess onto the floor between them, it occurred to Shane for maybe the first time ever that he’d failed Nick as much as he’d always thought Nick failed him. If he’d only pushed through his own hurt and anger, maybe he would’ve realized that under normal circumstances, the Nick Rixey he knew would never shut him out. But things hadn’t been normal, had they? Not by a long shot.

Sonofabitch.

Shane released a long breath, then crossed the space that separated them and lowered himself heavily onto the bench. “Sitcha ass down before you fall down.”

Nick sat and dropped his gloves.

Bracing his elbows on his knees, Shane watched a bead of sweat drop to the concrete. “I wish I’d known.” From his peripheral vision, he saw Nick nod.

“I know. I wish I’d been strong enough to tell you.”

Shane’s thoughts were in a whirl. Which made sense since the earth was shifting a bit underneath his feet, at least where his beliefs about Nick were concerned.

Knock, knock, sounded against the door that led to the hall. A moment later, it eased open, and Becca stuck her head through the breach. Did she hear . . .

Yup.

Her expression was a study in worry and concern. How much she’d overheard, he didn’t know. But it was something, for sure.

“Um. Everything okay?” she asked, clearly knowing the answer to the question. She stepped the rest of the way in and let the door fall closed behind her.

Nick’s glance slid from her to Shane. The man’s eyes repeated the question. Are we okay?

Shane didn’t want an audience to say the things he needed to say, and the words weren’t there just yet anyway. So he said, simply, “Yeah, man. We are.” It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.

Nick rose. Shane wondered if Becca would catch that he’d braced himself on the weight bar to make it to his feet. Her expression darkened the closer Nick got. So, yeah, she’d noticed.

“Sorry, Becca,” Shane said, rising to his feet. “Won’t happen again.”

Nick shook his head and caught her hands in his. “Be mad at me, not him. I started it. A guy thing.”

She rolled her eyes but cupped his face in her hand as she looked him over. “Well, let’s be done with the guy things, okay? We have enough enemies out there without fighting each other.”

“Roger that,” Shane said, regret making him weary.

“Okay, sunshine,” Nick said, his voice sounding as exhausted as Shane felt. Nick followed her out the door but threw a look over his shoulder before he stepped into the hall. “You coming?”

“Uh.” Shane tugged his fingers through his hair. “In a few. I think I’ll just”—he shrugged—“listen in on the feeds from Crystal’s and Confessions for a little while. Or something.”

Nick gave a tight nod, and the door closed behind them, leaving Shane alone in the cavernous quiet of the unfinished warehouse. He licked at the crust of blood on his lip as aches screamed from every joint in his body.