Chapter 1: The Ultimatum
The porch groaned beneath Wayne’s weight as he stepped forward, blocking the doorway. The late summer air clung thick to his skin, damp and restless. He crossed his arms, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his flannel. The flickering porch light cut harsh lines across his face—deep-set eyes, a jaw that looked like it had been carved from stone, and a beard that hadn’t seen a trim in months.
Junior stood on the bottom step, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his sneakers scuffed from months of city walking. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was ready to swing or bolt. Didn’t matter which. Wayne had seen both before.
"You got something to say, boy?" Wayne’s voice was gravel in a tin can—low, rough, and final.
Junior didn’t flinch. "Yeah. I’m not staying here to be your damn farmhand."
A beat of silence. The cicadas screamed in the fields. Wayne exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was counting down in his head.
"Then you can pack your shit and go live with your thieving mama," he said, jerking a thumb toward the dirt road. "Or you can stay here and start earning your keep—*my* way."
The words hung between them, sharp as a blade. Wayne didn’t move, didn’t blink. He didn’t have to. This wasn’t a negotiation.
Junior’s nostrils flared. "You think I’m scared of you?"
Wayne smirked. "Should be."
The screen door creaked as Wayne’s wife, Diane, leaned against the frame, her arms folded. She didn’t say anything—just watched, her face unreadable. The smell of fried chicken and biscuits drifted out behind her, warm and greasy.
Junior’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Wayne. "You don’t own me."
Wayne took a step down, closing the gap. The wood groaned again. "This is my land. My roof. My rules. You want to eat? You work. You want to sleep inside? You work. You want to breathe my air?" He leaned in, close enough for Junior to smell the bourbon and sweat. "*You work.*"
For a second, Junior looked like he might swing. His fists balled, his shoulders tense. Wayne almost hoped he would. Nothing settled a disagreement faster than a busted lip.
But then the kid deflated, just a little, his shoulders dropping. "Fine," he muttered.
Wayne stepped back, satisfied. "Good. Tomorrow, five a.m. You’re mending fences."
Junior’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t argue. He shoved past Wayne, shoulder-checking him on the way inside. Wayne let him. He’d get his sooner or later.
Diane sighed, rubbing her temple. "You ever think maybe you’re too hard on him?"
Wayne spat over the railing, watching the tobacco stain the dirt. "Life’s hard. He’ll learn."
The screen door slapped shut behind her.
Alone now, Wayne lit a cigarette and stared at the horizon where the sun had drowned in purple. The fields stretched out, endless and dark. His land. His legacy.
Junior would bend. Or he’d break.
Either way, Wayne wouldn’t lose sleep over it.
Either way, Wayne wouldn’t lose sleep over it.
*Lie.*
He ground his cigarette into the porch railing, watching the embers die. The truth was, he *did* lose sleep—just not over the kid’s attitude. No, it was that *ass.* That tight, round, perfect thing swinging in those damn jeans like it had its own gravitational pull. Better than his mama’s, and that was saying something.
Wayne shifted, adjusting himself with a rough sigh. He was bi—hadn’t hidden it from Marlene, not that she cared as long as he didn’t embarrass her in front of the church ladies—but this? This was new.
Junior was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. Like one of those TV pretty boys on some high school drama, all smooth skin and soft lips, like he didn’t even sweat. Even now, years later, the kid still looked like he hadn’t touched a razor in his life. Just soft.
He remembered the day in court like it was yesterday. Junior, eighteen and furious, fighting the name change like it was a death sentence. *"I'm not a damn Junior!"* he'd snapped, eyes blazing. The judge, an old bastard who’d known Wayne since high school, had just smirked and said, *"Boy, you’re lucky to get a daddy like Wayne Miller. Shut up before I hold you in contempt."*
But Junior hadn’t shut up. He'd kept pushing, kept whining—*"It's a boy's name, I'm not little, I'm a man!"*—until Wayne had had enough. He'd yanked him right over his knee in front of the whole damn courtroom, brought his hand down hard on that perfect ass, and Junior had howled like a pup caught in a trap.
*"Now, Junior,"* the judge had drawled, *"Daddy showed you what happens when you disobey. So you better get with the program."*
The memory curled hot in Wayne’s gut. He took a slow breath, tipping his head back against the porch beam. The kid had fought him every step of the way since—sullen glares, muttered curses, that goddamn *attitude.* But he’d bent. Eventually.
The screen door creaked again.
"You coming in?" Marlene asked, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes flicked to the bulge in his jeans, then back to his face. She didn’t say a word.
"Yeah," Wayne grunted. He pushed off the railing, brushing past her without another look.
Inside, the TV blared some reality show, the volume too loud like always. Junior was already on the couch, sprawled out like he owned the place, one arm flung over his eyes. His T-shirt had ridden up, just a sliver of smooth stomach showing.
Wayne swallowed hard.
*Damn it.*
He turned sharply, heading for the fridge instead. Grabbed a beer, twisted the cap off with a hiss.
Tomorrow. Fences. Hard work. Maybe that’d take the edge off.
Or maybe, he thought, watching Junior’s chest rise and fall in the flickering blue light, it’d just make things worse.