Page 44 of Down in Flames

"Don't I know it," West said, rubbing at his nose self-consciously.

Fury Road had left the arena, and the next rider was already queuing up in his chute. West began to hobble toward the open gate, pulling himself along the fence with his good arm. Everything hurt.

Hank gave a soft cluck of his tongue, turning his gelding to keep pace.

"Jasper was a good man," he said conversationally. "Everything he ever did, he did it for his family. Riding was the only thing that was his alone. Damn near killed him to give it up, but he says it was worth it."

"You still keep in touch?" West asked through clenched teeth. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and each step felt like it was taking him apart at the joints.

"Hadn't talked in years 'til his boy started kicking up hornets’ nests all over the state. Shocked the shit out of him, let me tell you."

"Hell," West grunted, sagging against the gate as it clanged shut behind him. Time stopped. Or maybe it hadn't stopped, maybe it had been bombed out by the ugly fear surging in his veins.

"Aw, kid. Don't look like that. He's real proud of you."

"Yeah?" West asked dryly. "He tell you that?"

"Well...that's not his way."

West's chuckle wasn’t much more than a dry rasp. His knees gave out, but he had just enough pride left to catch himself on the top rung of the gate. Slowly, he lowered himself down until he'd planted his ass in the dirt. He crooked his legs up and rested there with his head hanging between his knees, breathing deeply.

Far above him, he heard the old cowboy say, "He's fine. Just give him a minute."

But West wasn't sure he'd ever be fine again.

His secret was out. It was only a matter of time before the others found out, and it would destroy whatever was left of his family. His mother would never forgive his father for not shutting him down. His siblings would be furious, and Derek...he would be deadly. But that wasn't the worst of it. His father didn't know he'd been purposely throwing his matches, and he'd never believe it even if West had the guts to confess. He thought this was the best his youngest son could do. That must be why he'd chosen to remain silent. He knew West couldn't hack it and wasn't willing to rub dirt in the wound, not when anyone with West's low scores would have already quit by now.

He must be so ashamed.

West had wanted to prove to himself that he could eat pain, bite by bite, just like the rest of his family, but all he'd done was make it clear to the man he admired more than anything that he'd always be the runt of the litter.

He was a small-town nobody, and he always would be.

If Michael had any sense, he’d be running for his life.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was nearly midnight by the time West's pickup crawled into his parking spot at the Cedar Street Apartments. He’d grabbed a bite to eat, swallowed some ibuprofen, and warmed up in a campground shower before hopping behind the wheel, but it made no difference to his aching muscles.

Normally, he rode a thrill after every ride, no matter how much pain he was in. But not tonight. He just felt cold and stiff and hollow.

There was a man waiting on his front stoop when he pulled up. His hat brim was tugged low, shading his eyes from the glare of the headlights, and his long legs were crossed at the ankles. His posture was casual as he whittled at a block of wood with his pocket knife.

West couldn't see his face, but it wasn't necessary. He'd recognize Michael in the pitch dark. The air around him felt different. Stronger. Calmer. All West needed to do was breathe deep, and the ache in his chest finally eased for the first time since he'd been chucked into the post.

"Hey," he greeted, marveling at the pleasure and relief in his own voice. He hobbled up the steps, wishing he could bend down and kiss him, but something made him hesitate. "Told you I'd be working late tonight."

Michael didn't answer right away. He turned his whittling block this way and that, rubbed his thumb over a rough edge, and flicked the blade shut. Judging by the heavy breath that lifted his chest, he seemed to be thinking very deeply about something. Slowly, he raised his head. His face was tight, his jaw and cheekbones cut by deep shadows. His eyes flickered over West's face and then down his body, as if he could see beneath his dusty flannel to the wreck beneath. He didn't move, and he didn't speak, and something about his predatory stillness set the hair on the back of West's neck on end.

Neither of them were fools. They both knew where West had been and what he'd been doing. It had been a coin toss from the start whether Michael would call him on it. Or maybe Gus had just ratted on him again.

West broke eye contact first by fiddling with his keys.

"Where's Abby?" he asked, voice cracking with false cheer.

"At a slumber party for the Murphy girl."

"I told her this was the year she'd start making friends," West said, fumbling blindly for the lock. "Want to come in? I'm wiped out, but you're always welcome. The place is still a shithole. You remember..."

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