Page 7 of Down in Flames
West’s vision went red.
“Put me down!” he barked, catching Michael in the ribs with a furious elbow. That granted his wish right quick. Michael dropped him, and the impact felt like a grenade going off. He groaned and doubled over in agony.
Michael’s mouth twisted like he’d tasted something bitter, but he watched without comment as West scrabbled at the door handle. By the time his ass sank into the bucket seat, he was a shaking, soggy ball of noodly muscle.
He had a spare minute to collect himself as Michael cleaned up the bed and stowed his gear in the back seat, but he’d barely caught his breath before Michael climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door so hard the frame rattled.
“Buckle up,” Michael growled, flipping down the visor and snatching the spare key as it fell into his lap.
“This is stupid. I’m not a kid,” West muttered, but he felt like one as he fumbled to stretch his seatbelt over his bad shoulder without setting off the meat grinder in the joint.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Michael gunned the engine, jackhammering the Ford over a never-ending sea of potholes as it lurched onto the dirt road that took them down the mountain. “Shit, this road’s rough. Hang on,” he said, reaching one arm protectively across West’s chest.
West clenched his teeth and braced himself against the dash. “I didn’t ask you to be here.”
Michael’s laughter rattled him nearly as much as the potholes. “Kid, you practically sent me a written invitation. You’ve been living in my back pocket for years, and you figured I wouldn’t notice when you ghosted?”
“You were so busy rebuilding the Triple M. I didn’t want to get in the way.” It was a lie, but it sounded like something he’d do. Quiet, selfless West Owens. Permanent wallpaper. No one had ever looked too closely at his secrets because he didn’t seem like the type who would have any.
He’d grown up listening to Pastor Jackson’s blistering tirades about honesty and righteousness, the same as every other boy growing up in Sweetwater, but that particular lesson had never stuck. By the time he’d been healthy enough to start school—six open-heart surgeries late—lying had already become a way of life. I feel fine. I’m better now. And most importantly: my mom said it was okay. Lying was the only thing that had given him some semblance of normalcy as a child, and he was wickedly good at it because no one ever saw it coming. Until now.
The look Michael shot him was full of mockery, but he didn't bother arguing once he noticed the ashen hue of West's complexion.
“Here,” he said, lifting his hips and pulling his phone from the ass pocket of his jeans. He dropped it in West’s lap. “Check the map and tell me where I’m going.”
West didn’t bother. “Nearest hospital is Fairchild,” he said, “Twenty minutes, at least. Take Bruce Street once you get into town.”
Michael didn’t ask how he knew. Maybe he figured it was a rodeo thing; that all riders familiarized themselves with the nearest place to set their bones. But the truth was that West had been taught to memorize the nearest hospital ever since he was a kid, and it was a habit he couldn’t shake even if he wanted.
He’d been lucky enough to be born on the cutting edge of a technological revolution. A few years earlier, and he’d have died before reaching his first birthday. He’d had four surgeries before age three, and two more after that before doctors were able to divert enough blood through his malformed heart to keep it pumping for good. He was the first generation of HLHS babies to reach adulthood, charting unknown territory, and the only thing that helped his mother sleep at night was the knowledge that he was always firmly aware of his limitations. As if he could ever forget.
And here he was, all his weakness on display, in front of the man he wanted to impress more than anyone.
“What a goat fuck,” he mumbled, pressing his battered face against the chilly windowpane as farmland began to flash past.
The Ford’s headlights seemed like the only lights on earth, slicing through a dark ribbon of nearly abandoned highway. Only locals traveled these rural backroads, and none at this time of night. The sun had barely begun to rise, and the land was sunk in a thick, foggy gloom. Patchworks of green pasture were stitched up against dry brushland, whipping by at ghostly speed and dotted by lonely stands of cottonwood and black walnut. In daylight, the area was nearly as beautiful as Sweetwater, but it seemed lonely in the eerie blue shadows of predawn.
Despite the pain, he must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, they were rolling up on the brightly lit emergency department. After that, the morning devolved into a monotony of paperwork and stiff furniture. The creepy stench of plastic and industrial cleaner always spiked his anxiety, but he hated the way Michael seemed to go on alert once he noticed.
Right after the fire, West hadn't left Michael's side. He’d been like a rabid dog, guarding the hospital room against well-wishers and nosy neighbors while doctors pieced Michael's body back together with ointment and fiberglass. After a few days, he’d nearly been climbing the walls, and not because of the bad food and torturous furniture.
Back then, Michael had been too high on painkillers to notice his agitation. But he was noticing now. Big time. So, West booted him back to the waiting room. He had to pretend he didn’t see his wounded look as he left, but it was for the best.
Michael didn’t know a dang thing about his heart, and if West had his way, he never would. All he knew of West’s childhood was that he’d never had much of one. Even in a town as small and bored as Sweetwater, the locals had better things to gossip about. West doubted most of his childhood friends even understood the details. No one in his family had ever amounted to much, but they all knew how to keep their mouths shut. His oldest brother, Derek, had broken more than one nose when some kid had gotten mouthy about West's health, and eventually, people had lost interest.
Unfortunately, doctors asked too many questions.
“Any complications since the Fontan operation?” the doctor asked, ignoring his swollen shoulder and pressing a stethoscope to West’s chest.
“Nope,” West said tightly. He rolled his eyes up and stared at the ceiling over the man’s balding head, imagining himself anywhere else. A tropical beach. That would be nice. A cold drink in one hand and Michael’s hand in the other, while Abby built sandcastles beside a crystal clear ocean—
“Any A-fib?”
Just like that, the dream popped like a soap bubble.
West sighed. “Look, Dr. Stevenson, I respect your professional curiosity and all, but I’m here about my shoulder.”
The doctor straightened up, stethoscope dangling flaccidly down his stomach, looking for all the world like West had just canceled his birthday. In a stream of ear infections and viral illness, an HLHS survivor was like a bright, shiny new toy, and he’d just ripped it out of the man’s hands. But he wasn’t interested in being a science experiment.