Page 11 of Down in Flames

“You ever wanted to do something more?”

West’s laugh was bitter. He’d wanted to climb Everest when he was a kid, and after that, he’d dreamed of going to college. But that was before he’d realized some things were impossible for guys like him. Even if he’d had the money, the grades, or the guts—he didn’t have the heart.

But he couldn’t say any of that, so he asked, “What do you think I’m doing here?”

Michael went still. His eyes narrowed. “You aren’t honestly thinking of making this a career?” he asked. Actually, he didn’t ask at all. It was more an order than a question, and that rubbed West the wrong way.

“What if I am?” he asked, pointlessly, because of course he wasn’t looking for a career. He was almost thirty, for cripes sake. That wasn’t what this was about. It never had been.

“Jesus Christ, West! What's gotten into you?” Michael exploded from the chair, his expression contorting through a series of reactions West couldn’t pin down. He looked like he wanted to strangle him with the cord to his heating pad. Giving it some serious thought, in fact.

West picked nervously at the pilling bedspread, unable to look directly at him but helpless to resist tracking his progress as he paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged lion. There was no way West had caused such a violent reaction. Just…no way.

“Sewing my wild oats, I guess,” he said lamely.

Michael cursed, bracing himself against the window frame and hanging his head. “I don’t need this right now,” he said furiously. “I’ve barely got the roof finished on the main house, the grass seed isn’t re-planted yet, and I’ve had my hands full with Cal and Aiden.”

“What’s wrong with Cal and Aiden?” West asked, frowning. Of all the cowboys at the Triple M, they were the two who ran the hottest, but they’d always gotten along like brothers. Mouthy, sarcastic, pigheaded brothers.

“They’ve been gunning hard for Ronald Sutter ever since Eli couldn’t turn up any evidence against him. I had to keep Aiden from crawling all over him at The Hungry Pig a couple days ago. Now I’ve got to worry about you on top of everything else.”

West wouldn’t condemn anyone for going after the man who’d nearly burned Michael alive in his own home. Hell, he’d pay to be there to watch it. To do it himself. But Michael wouldn’t want to hear that, so he said, “I can take care of myself.”

Michael cracked out a hard laugh. His gaze flickered over West, head to toe, and his expression twisted like he didn't like what he saw. “You’re joking, right? Having you around is like being responsible for another kid, except Abby has more sense than you half the time.”

Well, look at that, West thought in surprise. He had a hard limit after all, and all it took to break was being emasculated by the man he’d admired almost his entire adult life. He shrugged off the heating pad and stood, heedless of the twinge in his bad shoulder. His hands shook as he scooped up his wallet and keys from the end table.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Michael barked, turning on him. “You can’t drive.”

Calmly, West adjusted his ballcap. “Go to hell, Michael,” he said softly.

He headed for the door, and he didn’t look back.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Your aim’s getting a little sloppy there, buddy,” the carnival barker warned as another of West’s ping-pong balls bounced off the rim of a goldfish bowl and landed in a pile of stuffed animals. “Might want to lay off the hard cider.”

West laughed and drained his plastic cup. “It’s the only good thing in my life right now, my guy.”

He wasn’t lying. It was good, produced by a local pub that had set up a food truck that was also hawking craft beer and giant turkey legs as big as West’s head. In retrospect, the turkey had been a mistake. It sat in his stomach like a rock, and the heavy scent of burnt caramel corn and rancid grease was making his stomach churn.

A look of sympathy crossed the barker’s leathery face, like he’d been there one too many times. Digging deep in the front pocket of his stained jeans, he produced a tattered business card and handed it to him. The ink was so faded that the name of a local AA chapter was barely legible.

“Changed my life,” the barker volunteered helpfully.

West considered explaining, but the man seemed so anxious to help that he felt like he’d be ruining the moment. In the end, he just thanked him and pocketed the card. Besides, the barker wasn’t wrong. West’s aim had gone from a bull’s eye every time to less than fifty-fifty, and his ass was going numb from how long he’d been sitting on this rickety metal stool.

Driving was out of the question, of course—but then, he’d never had any intention of driving off in a huff. That was the worst part of it. Even if he weren’t on painkillers, he wasn’t the kind of man who could just race off with his hair on fire out of spite. He’d always wished he was, but being careless wasn’t an option for a man who’d been taught since birth what a miracle it was that he was even alive—not outside the arena, anyway. Taking his own life in his hands was one thing; dying and leaving someone guilt-riddled on the back of a fiery exit was just selfish.

The carnival was within walking distance of the motel, and it wasn’t a bad place to kill a few hours people watching. He was a big kid at heart, and there was nothing he loved more than rides that felt as if they were seconds away from turning him into a stain on the pavement. But right now, his shoulder couldn’t handle anything more thrilling than the merry-go-round. So instead, he cranked back a couple ciders and parked himself at the games booth, winning prizes for kids who couldn’t manage on their own.

“Which one are you aiming for?” he asked, leaning toward a group of teenagers who were blowing through their combined tickets at an alarming rate. They took one look at his swollen nose and the bruises filling in beneath both eyes and shifted away from him, all except for one girl with bright pink hair.

“That one,” she said, pointing to a giant purple teddy bear hanging from a hook near the top of the booth.

West glanced at the barker, who discreetly pointed under his elbow toward the highest value bowl in the center of the display.

“Try it like this next time,” he suggested, leaning forward and flicking his wrist, putting a little spin on the ball. It landed with a plop in the bowl.

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