Page 15 of Down in Flames

He bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood. It took more willpower than he thought he had to look away, focusing intensely on the frothing water instead of the miles of wet muscle gliding within arm’s reach. He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath, but it leaked out of him in a long hiss as he stepped down into the tub.

The contrast between the chill night air and the bubbling water was enough to sting, but the spreading warmth in his sore legs had him wishing he could plunge headfirst to dunk the rest of his aching body. Blissful heat surrounded him, cradling his sore neck and shoulders, and he closed his eyes in sweet relief.

"Christ, this feels good," he groaned.

Michael rumbled a noise that might have been an agreement.

They relaxed together, the only sound between them the gentle patter of raindrops on the water and the ghostly sounds of the carnival in the distance. One by one, the tortured muscles of West’s back loosened, and he took what felt like his first deep breath all day, letting it out on a quiet moan of pleasure.

He wasn’t sure how long they drowsed in the warmth, but it was long enough for him to eventually pick up on the strange, tense quality of Michael’s complete silence.

Reluctantly, he cracked one eyelid.

Michael sat against the opposite side of the tub with his arms propped over the rim, watching him with a strange intensity that made West’s stomach flip. His damp skin gleamed in the reflected lights. Dark, springy hair curled over his chest, tapering down the packed ridges of muscle on his naked belly. His body was incredible. Technically old enough to be West’s father if he got an early start, and yet Michael could still run circles around him. The creases at the corners of his eyes and the hint of silver at his temples were deeply sexy and only added to the overall aura of power and confidence.

He sucked the breath from West’s lungs every time their eyes met. But if he looked into those blue eyes long enough, he couldn’t even feel himself suffocating.

“You okay?” West asked cautiously, gauging Michael’s troubled expression.

They’d never been more at odds than they were right now, and he hated not knowing what to expect. But he only had himself to blame. In a panicked effort to save their friendship, he’d distanced himself when Michael was at his most vulnerable. In the end, he was the one who’d done the damage. Their easy camaraderie had been lost, replaced with secrets and suspicion.

Judging by the speculative side-eye Michael had been throwing his way whenever West couldn't hide fast enough, he knew something was wrong. Usually, all West needed was to turn on his slow, good ol’ boy smile, and attention drifted away from him like dandelion clocks on the wind. But that had never worked on Michael, and lately, he’d been turning that knowing look on him more and more often. Like he could peel back all his layers and read the truth on the faulty heart beneath. But that was impossible. He couldn't suspect the truth, or he never would have followed him here.

“Michael?” he prompted breathlessly.

Michael frowned, as if trying to solve a perplexing question. “Hm?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He paused, a deep midnight gleam in his eyes, and added, “You’re the only one who calls me Michael. Did you know that?”

“Does it bother you?” Heat crawled up West’s chest and face, but it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

He gave it some consideration before slowly shaking his head. “No. I like it. No one else ever called me that besides Mary.”

“What about your grandfather?” West asked.

Michael didn’t talk about his childhood much. He’d lost his parents at a young age and been raised on his grandfather’s struggling farm, but it didn’t sound too bad. He’d had plenty of cousins for company, and that was where he’d met the girl next door who would one day become his wife.

“He mostly just called me kid,” Michael said with enough irony in his voice that West knew he realized how obnoxious it was.

His smile was reflexive. “I’m not anywhere close to a kid, you know.”

“Not on paper,” Michael grunted in agreement, settling his head against the lip of the tub and gazing up at the sky. “You’re like reverse dog years.”

“I’m what?” West asked.

“One year for you is like five years for the rest of us.”

West’s lips twitched. “So, I’m almost six?”

“Something like that.” Lazily, he lifted one dripping arm and reached out, brushing away a raindrop that was rolling down West’s cheek. His touch was so light, instantly covered by a playful tap, but it made West’s stomach twist. “By the time I hit thirty, I must have lived three lifetimes compared to you. I guess that’s why I shouldn’t have been so surprised when Gus told me you were riding broncs. God knows, you’re past due to pull some crazy, fool-headed stunt. I know your folks were awfully strict on you growing up. Hell, they’ve still got you out there working the farm on your days off, and try as I might, I can’t think of a single reason why you’ve stuck around.”

“I owe them a lot,” West said, shifting uncomfortably to angle one of the jets against a knot between his shoulder blades. He wasn’t happy with the turn in conversation. Nothing good ever came of too much attention, even—especially—from the man he wanted to notice him the most.

“No more than any other child owes their parents,” Michael said. Wrongly, but he couldn’t know that, now could he? “If Abby’s still hanging around looking after me when she’s your age, I’ll know I failed her in some way. Didn’t you ever want to get out of Sweetwater for good?”

“Naw.” The lie came dripping off his tongue like honey, but he’d repeated it so many times it might as well be the truth. “Where would I go? No money, no education—”

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