Page 63 of Down in Flames

West shivered, touching the swollen bridge of his nose self-consciously, and said, "Don't matter. Not like this nose was winning any prizes.”

“He could have killed you.”

The barely leashed rage in Michael’s voice shook him, and he realized that he was still barely hanging onto his fragile control. Whatever he said now, he had to choose his words with care.

“He might have tried,” West acknowledged, wrapping his arms around his bare torso. He felt like a plucked turkey, standing there without his shirt on, all pale and goose pimply. “But I don’t think he could have taken me in a fair fight.”

“You think a man like Ronald Sutter would keep it fair?” A pulse was beating wildly beneath Michael’s jaw, and his fingers bit deep into West’s shoulders.

“No. But Derek fights dirty as hell, and he taught me how to defend myself back when I was nothing but a toothpick. I know I don’t look like much, Michael. But even I can handle a boozed-up oaf.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Michael rasped. His expression was twisted like he was reliving some horror that only he could see. “Do you know what it did to me to watch that? To just stand there and let him hurt you?”

He’d begun to tremble again; West could feel it where he gripped his shoulders. Fine tremors ran between them wherever they touched. West had never seen him so undone. Slowly, as if he were approaching a lost calf, West rested one hand flat on his chest. His heart was thundering beneath his palm.

“It’s freezing, and I’m hurting so bad even my toenails feel bruised,” West said, as calmly as he could manage. He tipped his head toward the frothing water and asked, “Will you get in with me?”

Michael didn’t refuse, but he didn’t make a move toward the water either. He just looked at West, struck silent, with an expression so full of pain that West could hardly bear it. His hands shook as they grabbed the hem of Michael’s shirt and lifted it, and that seemed to pull Michael from his waking nightmare. He looked at West—really looked at him—with those intense, burning eyes of his.

Bending his head, he peeled off his own shirt in one fluid motion, and then he fisted a hand in West’s waistband and hauled him close. He popped the button on his jeans one-handed, stripping them both so efficiently that West thought their clothes might have just fallen off.

“Alley-oop,” he said, lifting West over the lip of the tub. The water was so hot it stung his chilled flesh, and he hissed.

Michael stepped into the tub behind him and settled on a corner bench. West hesitated, considering the open seats. He desperately wanted to sit beside him, but he wasn't sure what was happening and didn’t want to misread the situation. He’d already embarrassed himself in front of this man in every conceivable way.

Michael solved his dilemma by wrapping one arm around his waist and easing him down into the V of his legs. West closed his eyes and settled back against his rock-hard chest with a sigh.

It was easier to talk now that they weren’t facing each other, and after soaking in the silence for a few minutes, West said, “You weren’t letting him hurt me, you know that, right?”

“Sure looked like it from where I was standing,” Michael said roughly.

“You trusted me to take care of myself. You’ll never know what that meant to me,” West said, reaching up and clasping the hand resting on his chest.

Michael laced their fingers together and squeezed hard. “I do trust you. But I need to take care of you, too. That’s what you do for someone you love—you protect them.”

“Even when they don’t need it?” West asked.

“Even then,” Michael said. “It wasn’t your fight. Sutter’s problem was with me. He should have come after me directly.”

“Naw.” West felt like he was trying to smile, but his mouth didn’t want to move properly. “It works both ways. I wasn't going to let him anywhere near you. Besides, he's a coward. He only went after me because he thought I was an easy target.”

“You’re not.”

“No,” West agreed, almost apologetically, “I’m really not.”

“That’s what he said,” Michael said, clearing his throat. “Your dad, I mean. When you were in the hospital. I don’t know what I was looking to hear. Maybe something that would help me understand everything you’ve been through. But maybe what I was really hoping for was justification for wanting you to quit the rodeos."

West hesitated, then craned his head around to look up at him and asked, “Did you get it?”

“Not really. He told me how hard they’d worked to keep you safe your whole life, and how all it did was make you and everyone around you miserable. I was so angry with you for keeping such an important thing from me. I didn’t want to see your point of view.” Steam was gleaming on Michael’s unshaven jaw, flashing in the moonlight when he swallowed. He looked out toward the black stamp of mountains in the distance.

“Michael…I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I hated keeping it from you. I was just so afraid of what it would do to us. And…and I was right. Wasn’t I? You couldn't handle it."

Michael sighed and tipped his head back to look up at the stars. “Your dad said something else that day, and it stuck with me. He asked if it was going to hurt any less if I broke it off. For a while, I thought it would. I thought I was preserving what’s left of my heart. But if you got hurt someday and I wasn’t there for you…it would gut me. I don’t think there’d be anything left of me after that. I’d spend the rest of my life thinking just one thing. What if I could have had one more day with you? One hour? I’d fit a lifetime in those minutes if I had the chance.”