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The corner of the last page had a photo of Shane pasted right there.
It was one of those borderline shots he'd taken early on to pull in fans—underwear deliberately tugged way too low, showing off that tempting V-line and sharp hip bones, pure sex-bait.
Now it was in Ian's magazine. Except Shane's head had been ripped clean off, leaving just the seductive torso.
Shane stared at it and the whole room spun.
He felt like the entire universe was fucking with him. Why was every single person in this family stabbing him in the back in their own special way?
He'd already thought Lip and Fiona's bullshit had worn him out. Now Ian had one-upped them with a single headless thirst-trap.
The magazine suddenly felt radioactive in his hands. He was so fucking tired.
He'd actually believed Ian was the reliable one. He took that back immediately. No way in hell was he turning his back on Ian again.
"Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! This shit actually happens?" Shane's eyes went wide as he looked at Lip.
Lip just shrugged, grinning like Christmas had come early now that Shane's usual ice-cool mask had finally cracked. "Looks like our family isn't just diverse anymore. We've got internal worship too. Congrats, big-shot Shane. You're officially Ian's bed-bottom muse. Headless edition."
"Fuck!"
Shane cursed under his breath. The magazine felt hotter than fresh dumplings straight from the steamer.
His wrist jerked on instinct. The whole filthy thing flew in a perfect arc straight at Lip's face.
Smack.
It hit dead center. The open page—big, shiny, naked muscular ass—slapped right over Lip's face.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
Lip flailed, swatting the "heavy ordnance" off his face and spitting like he'd just tasted something dead. The magazine had a weird smell.
"You motherfucker—"
Lip snatched the magazine off the floor and hurled it back at Shane with everything he had.
Shane just tilted his head. The magazine sailed past his ear, slammed into the wall, and dropped to the floor in a sad little heap.
Lip started forward, ready to grab it and shove it in Shane's face again. Shane reached out, planted one hand on Lip's chest, and held him there like he was nothing.
"Okay, okay, stop. Stop."
"Shit! Now you wanna call timeout?"
Lip's face was beet-red, still trying to push forward.
"You slap a gay dude's bare ass on my face and then tell me to stop?"
"Alright, alright. Quit acting like a horny bull."
Shane watched Lip's flushed face and sighed.
"You know you're not stronger than me. And right now we need to fix this shit, not throw porn at each other."
Lip strained for another second, realized he wasn't moving Shane an inch, and finally stopped. He glared hard.
"Fine. You win, muscle-boy. Hope your asshole stays tight."
Shane held the stare until he was sure Lip wasn't about to explode, then let go.
Lip straightened his collar. His eyes looked complicated.
He pointed at the magazine on the floor. "So what the fuck are you gonna do? March up to Ian and ask if he wants to rail you?"
Shane walked over, carefully pinched the edge with two fingernails like it might bite, and picked it up. He snapped the cover shut.
"What am I gonna do? Nothing."
Lip frowned. He hated the ostrich approach.
Shane met his eyes, voice steady. "We're gonna pretend none of this happened. That magazine doesn't exist. I never saw it. You were never face-planted by an ass."
"So we just play dumb?" Lip asked.
"This isn't playing dumb. It's protecting him."
Shane exhaled and started explaining, because Lip might be a genius but he was still kinda old-school about some things.
"Some people are just born this way, Lip. Same as your big brain—you can't change it. Frank was born a piece of shit. Ian was born liking guys. That's the Gallagher gene lottery."
He slid the magazine back into Lip's laptop bag while he talked.
"Ian's still young. His hormones are louder than the rats in Chicago sewers. He's probably confused as hell himself. If we blow this up right now, all we do is make him miserable and give the whole neighborhood something to laugh about. What's the point? You want him walking into school and getting called 'faggot Gallagher' every day?"
Lip actually listened. Brows tight, jaw working. He got it logically, but emotionally this was his little brother. It was a lot to swallow.
After a long minute he blew out a breath and ran a hand through his curls. "Alright. Alright. You're right. If this shit gets out to the wrong South Side assholes they'll come knocking. I won't say a word. Long as he doesn't get any bright ideas about me, we're good."
He paused, voice awkward. "Still feels… weird as fuck, though."
"Cool. Shut up about it. Anyone brings it up again sleeps in the yard."
Lip: "The hell do you take me for? You think I got a big mouth?"
"That's because you got educated by an ass…"
Shane clapped him on the shoulder.
Lip grabbed his laptop bag and headed for the door.
Just as he pulled it open, he stopped, reached back in, yanked the magazine out, spun around and fired it like a missile.
"Catch!"
Shane had been waiting for exactly that. He snatched a pillow off the bed and blocked it.
Smack. The magazine bounced off the pillow and hit the floor again.
"Childish, little Lip. You can't beat me."
Shane raised one eyebrow and wiggled his index finger at him.
Lip flipped him off, stuffed the magazine back in the bag, and walked out muttering, "One faggot, one control freak. Whole family's full of freaks."
Dinner was the usual Gallagher circus.
Carl stood while eating because his ass still hurt, trying to shoot peas out of his nostrils. Debbie screamed beside him, guarding her plate. Fiona yelled from the kitchen to knock it off. Liam smeared mashed potatoes all over his face in the high chair.
Shane was sawing through an overcooked chicken breast when Ian leaned over and handed him a thick notebook.
"This is for you, Shane."
"Huh? What's this?" Shane's whole body went stiff as he took it.
"You said you wanted to sell household stuff and told me to keep an eye out for what moves fast."
Ian spread butter on a slice of bread while he talked.
"I spent the whole day hitting the three big stores in the South Side and a couple little grocery spots. Wrote everything down."
He tapped the notebook.
"Which shelves empty out quickest, which stuff just sits there collecting dust. Big packs of cheap toilet paper and two-dollar bleach fly off the shelves. Scented candles? Nobody touches 'em. Check it out."
Shane opened it. Pages and pages of neat, detailed notes. A few even had little shelf sketches and price comparisons, all organized.
Not just names and prices—short comments too.
"Plastic bowls $3.99, restocks fast, women and old folks grab 'em the most." "Kids' superhero T-shirts $5.99, sizes missing but they sell quick—"
Shane felt something warm in his chest… and something deeply weird.
Ian had done the work. Attitude was perfect.
But after what he'd just seen in the basement… looking at his brother being this thoughtful and sweet right now made Shane's face impossible to keep normal.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught Lip at the far end of the table.
Lip had clearly put two and two together. He was choking on macaroni, face turning purple from holding in laughter, and shot Shane a "told you so" look.
This should've been a nice "brothers united" moment. Instead the air felt thick and awkward as hell.
"Cough—cough."
Shane pretended he'd swallowed wrong.
"Okay. Thanks, Ian. This is a ton of work. Seriously. Super helpful."
He closed the notebook. "When the store opens I'll pay you Chicago's top hourly rate."
Ian smiled, pleased. "Glad it helps. I had the day off anyway."
He didn't mention how many miles he'd walked or how long he'd stood staring at shelves.
Watching that pure, shy smile, Shane was screaming inside:
"Shit! Mickey Milkovich, where the fuck are you?! Hurry up and come claim your future husband!
Get this goddamn plot moving already—I can't hold this shit together much longer!"