Page 18 of Down in Flames

They hadn’t even scraped the surface of honest, West thought bitterly, and suddenly, an incredible weariness overtook him.

Michael’s rough palm cupped his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You’re the best friend I’ve got,” he said solemnly. “What was I supposed to do? Just let you go?”

Like it was as simple as that. But then again, maybe in his world it was that simple.

“You’ve lost your mind,” West muttered. “You don’t turn gay just to help out a friend.”

Michael’s lips twitched in sudden amusement. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“You’re straight.” He was starting to wonder if maybe he’d taken a knock to the head back in that arena. Everything since then felt like the kind of dream he’d only come up with if he had brain damage. He longed to lie down, and maybe—just maybe—he’d find the strength to get back up in a week or two.

“I didn’t exactly say that.” Michael slung his towel over one shoulder and snatched the key card from the table.

West pinched the bridge of his nose. “But—”

“Come on,” he said, pressing one gentle hand low on West's back and guiding him toward the gate. “We can talk about this later. You’re weaving on your feet, and I’m freezing my balls off out here.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

They didn’t talk about it later. West made sure of that by crashing as soon as he got back to the room. He’d been trying to keep himself busy with distractions for so long that he was running on fumes. Exhaustion didn't merely catch up to him; it snuck up behind him and locked him in a sleeper hold for twelve hours.

He woke with a headache and a mouth that tasted like the inside of an old shoe. Smacking his lips, he scanned the fuzzy room. The curtains had been drawn tight, but judging by the bright yellow sunlight leaking around the edges, it was mid-afternoon.

Potent silence buzzed in his ears. No hiss of the shower behind a closed door, no television hum, not even the inaudible live-wire awareness of another beating heart in the room. He was alone.

He rolled onto his good shoulder to bury his face in a pillow, but instead of cool fabric against his cheek, all he got was the slick crackle of notebook paper. Groaning, he scrubbed a hand over his sleep-numb face and held the note up to squint at the cramped penmanship.

Call me.

And then, in an underlined scrawl at the bottom of the page: I mean it.

His dry lips cracked into a helpless smile. God, he’d missed that man. Keeping away from him and his surrogate family out at the Triple M was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It had taken something out of him, like he’d jumped off a train before it reached the station and been left jogging beside it, hoping for a glimpse through the windows at the people he’d left behind. He’d never expected Michael to hop the tracks and come after him like a runaway engine, but maybe he should have.

At his very core, Michael was a leader, with one eye constantly on the well-being of the people around him. His own wants and needs were a distant consideration that seemed to barely cross his mind. In a twisted way, it made sense for him to try to make things right once he noticed how much West was suffering, even if it meant forcing himself into a situation that made him uncomfortable.

West’s body still felt like a giant bruise, and his mind was a riot of unanswered questions, but he fumbled for his cell phone, yanking it unceremoniously from the wall plug.

The little icon beside Michael’s name was a picture West had snapped years ago. In the photo, Michael was lifting Abby into the saddle of her first horse. Her gap-toothed grin was brighter than the sun, a little girl in pink boots who knew without a doubt that she was safe in the strong arms of her daddy. The picture had always struck a deep chord in West, and sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, he pulled it up just to stare at it.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Michael wasn’t going to be strolling through the door any second. He was gone. That kiss must have freaked him out. He’d probably only meant to be kind, or maybe to shock West into talking, but then West had gone and turned it into something more. It only made sense for him to put some distance between them before West got the wrong idea.

But even as he spun the story out inside his head, the memory of that last kiss wouldn’t leave him alone. It flickered beneath his surface thoughts, a potent mix of sense and memory so strong that he could almost feel the smooth glide of Michael’s lips.

He’d be the first to admit he was a novice when it came to kissing. Hookups had never held much appeal, but they were the only thing on the menu when a date meant driving two hours just to share a plate of cold chicken wings with a man who kept looking at his watch. Still, he had enough experience to instinctively understand one thing: that was the first time Michael had ever kissed a man.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Rubbing at the ache in his chest, he reluctantly pulled himself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom. A splash and swish later, and he felt even worse. Sticking his toothbrush in his mouth, he gripped the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror, wondering how a man like Michael could ever look at him and see someone worth kissing. Even when he didn’t look like someone had used his face as a pinata, he was scruffy and plain. His eyes were the color of creek silt, and he only kept his pencil-shaped body from being scrawny by constant physical labor. Not the kind of man who suddenly inspired burning passion.

On the other side of the room, his phone began to buzz and jitter across the table. He sprang on it, fumbling with clumsy fingers to punch the little green button. “‘Lo? Hello?”

Smooth was his middle name.

“I told you to call me.” Michael’s deep voice crackled through the speaker with a strange tinny quality. He’d already packed the miles between them.

“I just woke up.”

Michael grunted. “How are you feeling?”

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