Page 9 of Down in Flames

“I said what I said,” West muttered into his cell phone.

He was lying flat on his back on one of the motel's double beds, staring at a faded water spot on the popcorn ceiling. It looked like an inkblot made from spilled tea, and as he tilted his head, it morphed into the shape of a polar bear devouring a kitten. He wondered what that said about his psyche.

The Shasta Heights Motor Lodge wasn’t the only place in town, but it was the only one that didn't look as if its most loyal residents were the bed bugs. A fresh coat of paint and some Windex did wonders for attracting out-of-towners. There had only been a single vacancy left; a suite with garish teal walls, gold duvets, and flamingo pink upholstery. But it had two double beds and a kitchenette, so it would get them through the night.

West was determined that one night was all they would need.

“What exactly is wrong with the truck?” Derek asked. West could practically hear the way his eyes narrowed in suspicion, even through the phone. He didn’t take it personally. His brother was untrusting by nature.

“I already told you. The fuel pump crapped out on me. The garage needs to order the part from Redding, but it’ll be here in a day or two. Max.”

“Which garage?”

Now that he thought about it, mechanical troubles might not have been a safe excuse with a man who’d been working on engines since he could crawl. His brother had been fixing up cars for spare cash since he was a teenager, and these days he had a constantly rotating supply of scrap parts coming through his salvage yard.

“It doesn’t matter which garage,” West said, exasperated. “I just need you to check on Mom and Dad while I’m out of town.”

“I would’ve done that anyway.”

That was true. Derek visited like clockwork, keeping tabs on his parents and each of his four siblings, even though he seemed to loathe every second of it.

West set him off worse than most, but it wasn’t always that way. Back when West was a little kid, they got along great. His oldest brother had been mythic to his childish eyes: huge and cranky, with a nose that had been broken too many times to count. His rough features were permanently marred by a small, painful-looking knot on the bridge of his nose. But what he didn’t claim in looks, Derek made up for with one huge brain. Not that he’d ever gotten a chance to do much with it.

West was only a toddler when Derek dropped out his freshman year and joined their father in the workforce. But even that hadn’t been enough once West’s medical bills began piling up. Their father had been forced to head to the west Texas oil fields to make ends meet, while Derek took on the role of de facto provider at home. He’d done it, and he’d done it well, but he’d become nothing but a roiling mass of abused muscle and seething frustration in the process.

Sometimes West thought his brother hated him, and most of the time, he didn’t blame him.

“Dad has been skipping his pain meds again,” West hurried to say, anxious to end the call before the shower turned off in the adjoining bathroom. He’d always done his best to keep his family separate from the rest of his life, and he doubted that Michael had ever done much more than pass an Owens sibling in the grocery store.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of them. Far from it. More that they made him ashamed of himself.

“Why aren’t you making sure he takes them?” Derek growled.

“You know how stubborn he is.”

“He’s an old man. Sack up and make him listen to you.”

“When has that ever worked?” he asked, rolling his eyes so hard he felt the strain somewhere in the back of his skull.

“Yeah. Forgot who I was talking to.” Derek’s tone was dismissive. “I’ll take care of it. You just get your ass back here as soon as the pump comes in. Mom will lose her shit if you’re out of touch for more than a couple days, and I don’t have time to pick up your slack.”

The line went dead without a goodbye.

“Love you too, bro,” West announced to the empty room. He flopped his arm out and set the phone on the end table, too sore and weary to move, at least until the bathroom door opened.

Michael stepped out in a cloud of steam, barefoot and dressed in the same jeans he’d worn the day before. He’d shucked his flannel button-down and wore only a white T-shirt that looked so crisp and soft that West just knew it would still smell like fabric softener if he pressed his nose to it.

“That water pressure is intense. Nearly shot me through the opposite wall,” he said, running a towel through his dark hair. It was ruffled and wild looking, perfect for grabbing, and West hated himself for noticing.

Take it away. Anything. I’ll do anything. Just please take it away.

The litany had been running through his head for months, ever since he’d realized how far gone he was, but if God answered prayers, he sure as hell did it in his own time.

“This place isn’t so bad,” Michael was saying, oblivious to the agony of lust he’d inspired just by being wet-haired and barefoot. He yanked open the ancient floral curtains, sending spirals of dust through shafts of sunlight.

“Tell that to the broken spring playing slap and tickle with my ass,” West groaned, shifting the ice pack he’d had wrapped around his shoulder for the past ten minutes.

He'd relented on some pain medication, partly because he wasn’t going anywhere, and partly because he thought it might make the coming argument more bearable. But all it did was dump a bunch of cotton balls in his head, and they’d been tumbling around ever since, making everything feel fuzzy and unimportant.

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