Page 6 of Down in Flames

The sleeping bag was bunched in West’s clenched fists, but he couldn’t seem to make himself relax. His teeth ached from grinding, and his entire face throbbed so badly it made his eyes water.

“Fine. Be a stubborn ass,” he muttered, sliding between the nylon layers of his sleeping bag. He crammed his duffle under his head as a pillow, cursing under his breath, but Michael didn’t even look up. He seemed to have already settled in for the night, as loose and relaxed as if he were napping in a hammock on his own back porch.

Still, Michael’s low voice drifted over to him just before he dropped into an unconscious slumber.

“Sweet dreams, kid.”

CHAPTER THREE

When he awoke in the middle of the night, it felt as if he’d dipped his face in a giant snow cone. His nose dripped and he’d never been so aware of the tips of his ears before. Somehow, the chill had reached all the way into the thick sleeping bag he clutched around his chin.

The night had settled into that peculiar silence that only happened in the mountains. Except for a few cowboys bedded down in their rigs, the arena was deserted. Even the faint twinkle of lights from the nearby town did little to cut through the tarry blackness. Up on that hilltop, he might as well be the only person in the world.

Except he remembered suddenly that he wasn’t alone. He cranked his head around to glance at the man sleeping beside him.

Michael had barely moved. He still leaned against the corner of the truck bed, hat turned down and chin on his chest, but he’d tucked his bare hands under his armpits for warmth.

He must be freezing, West thought, though it was impossible to tell. He looked dead to the world, and his skin was so tanned from outdoor work that West had always thought he must radiate his own warmth like a mini sun.

He’s a grown man, West told himself sternly. He can take care of himself.

But he didn’t; that was half the problem. He was always too busy looking after everyone around him. The boss, the father, the man the whole world counted on in a pinch. The friend who had barely begun picking up the pieces of his torched life and would still drop everything to track West across state lines because he was worried. Despite West treating him like a second thought the past few months—or maybe because of it.

With a groan, West pried himself into a shambles of a sitting position. It felt as if a two-ton gorilla had used him as a hacky sack. His body was one giant, throbbing bruise. Everything hurt, but his right shoulder was the worst. Pain spread through the joint with every breath, shooting directly into the base of his skull.

Holding his breath, he cautiously inched across the truck bed until he was lying snug against the outside of Michael’s leg. His numb fingers fumbled with the zipper until he could spread the bag out like a blanket that covered them both. Through it all, Michael didn’t even twitch, but as West lay his cheek tentatively on the pillow of Michael's denim-clad thigh, he thought he felt something feather gently through his hair.

Then he was out like a light.

The next time he woke, it was from a dead sleep. One minute, he was stacking zzz’s, and the next, he was being chewed up between the jaws of searing, unadulterated agony. It felt as if someone had jammed a red-hot poker through his shoulder socket. The pain was intense, radiating outward in concentric waves that began sharp and faded to a dull ache by the time they reached his elbows. He was moaning before he even opened his eyes.

His head was pillowed on something soft, and one rough hand brushed his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.

Michael's low voice barely pierced his fog of pain. "What hurts?"

“What doesn't?” West gasped, laughing breathlessly. It took tremendous effort to pry his eyes open and blink away the wetness that had gathered beneath his lashes without his permission.

Michael loomed above him, a shadowy figure so big he nearly blotted out the moon. The sky was still dusted with stars, but a thin white line had just begun to crack the edge of the horizon. Judging by the gloom, it wasn't much before dawn.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Michael announced.

“No!” That had him bolting up out of Michael’s lap, no matter how much a part of him wanted to stay there. It hurt like a sonofabitch, but he’d force himself to dance a two-step if that’s what it took to keep him out of a hospital. His breath hung in icy clouds between them as he ground out between clenched teeth, “It’s just my shoulder.”

“Can you feel your fingers?”

“Sure,” he lied.

“Prove it.”

Michael’s face was hard as stone. He waited silently, giving West all the time in the world to make a fool of himself staring down at his hand and trying to make his fingers twitch. He wasn’t certain if he’d truly lost motor function or if his subconscious was just pants-wetting terrified of the pain that he knew would result.

Grimly, Michael climbed down from the truck bed. Earlier that day, he probably would have hopped, but his own injuries still hadn’t fully healed, and the cold hadn’t done either of them any favors.

“Your leg—” West began anxiously, but Michael cut him off.

“My leg is fine. I’ve been out of the cast for weeks; not that you were around to notice. Now, I’m taking you to the hospital.” There was no room for argument in his tone this time.

The world slid sideways as he slung West over one shoulder like a feed sack and carried him to the passenger side of his own truck.

---