Page 58 of Down in Flames

There was a pause, and then Michael asked, “Are you taking your new meds?”

West swallowed around the lump in his throat, and said, “Like clockwork. But they don’t fix a broken heart.”

“Christ, West.” Michael sounded like he was in pain. A long, ragged sigh dragged over the line, heavy enough to crush him. West knew exactly what expression he’d be wearing, the way the creases at his eyes would deepen and his jaw would tense. He imagined him sitting out on the front porch in the dark, barefoot and fresh from a shower.

Abruptly, he asked, “What are you doing?”

“I was checking on the horses. But somehow, I ended up in the barn, and I just…I needed to check on you.”

“I’m not your responsibility, you know.”

“Tell that to my heart,” Michael said roughly.

West didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t reply. He just lay there, listening to him breathe. Everything Michael did was magic, and even that simple sound was a huge turn-on. If he closed his eyes, maybe he could squeeze himself through the phone and ride those breaths back to the source, invade his lungs, and bury himself in Michael’s body forever.

“What are you doing?” Michael asked, turning his question back on him.

“I was thinking about what it must feel like inside you,” he admitted, pressing down on his thickening cock with the heel of one hand. Even now, he could get hard in seconds if Michael’s voice was in his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will it away, but all he could think of was the memory of Michael’s sweat-slicked chest. The taste of salt on his skin. The flex of his abs as he moved. How would he survive never touching him again?

“West…” Michael sounded like he was in pain. “Don’t do that to us. It’s not going to fix anything.”

“Can’t hurt more than it already does.” West knew he was playing dirty, but he was too buzzed to care. Now that he had him on the line, he was desperate to keep him there. Even if it meant rolling over and baring his throat to someone already showing their teeth. “I’ve always wondered if you could take my cock. I got off to it so many times, it’s like I already know how you’ll feel. Did you ever think about it?”

“You know I did.”

“We could still try. It wouldn’t have to mean anything, and I’d make it so good for you...” He bit his lip, but there was a tremor in his voice he couldn’t control. “You’d never think about leaving me again.”

“Stop. I mean it.” It was like a shout down the line, so rough and angry that West barely understood the words.

He obeyed instantly, as the last shred of hope inside him sputtered and killed his flagging erection.

“Who am I kidding?” West laughed, choking on humiliation. It burned like bile in his throat. “It’s a nice fantasy, but you’d never have let it happen. You’ve got to be in control no matter what.”

“That’s not true.” Michael’s tone was condescendingly patient, and it enraged him.

“Isn’t it?” he shot back. “You’re so used to being the boss that you don’t even remember what it’s like to give someone else a voice.”

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“It’s your way or the highway.”

“You’re way out of line, We—”

“Good! I’ve spent my whole goddamn life staying inside the lines someone else drew for me!” He bolted upright in bed, sheets pooled at his waist, fingers clenching on the phone so hard he thought it might shatter.

He’d never shouted at Michael before. They’d never argued at all, not about anything more important than the best way to tie a lure. The silence on the other end of the line was ice cold.

Michael’s breath was fast and ragged, but he managed to ground out a polite, “Get some rest.”

The line went dead before West could reply. He stared down at his phone incredulously.

Then he smashed it against the wall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The same song had been cycling on the old-fashioned jukebox for nearly an hour, and it was drilling into West’s whiskey-soaked brain like a rusty nail. Something about old trucks and barefoot country roads. Romantic trash from Nashville execs with soft hands and boots that had never seen dirt. But the drunken crowd at The Trophy Club ate it up with a spoon, belting out the chorus in off-key whoops.

The noise was almost enough to drown out the punishing voice in his own head.