Beneath the Stain - Part 2 (7 page)

Gray hmmed and adjusted his keyboard. “They started out not bad. But Mackey kept expecting Blake to read his mind, and Blake? If the boys hadn’t taken a shine to him, studio musician was as high as he was going to get. I mean, the boys”—Gray gestured to take in the Sanders brothers, and Trav was starting to understand that Stevie counted as one of them—“they’ve been playing music since, hell. Mackey probably played it in his mom’s stomach. But Blake? He just wants to be a rock star. That’s all he’s got. Mackey isn’t patient with him.”

Trav watched Mackey rip Blake up again, and was a little saddened by the repressed hurt on Blake’s face. And the disappointment on Mackey’s. “Why do they keep him? I mean, you’d think Mackey would ask for another guitarist—”

“Kell likes him,” Gray said, like that was all there was to it.

“But Mackey—”

“Man, haven’t you been living with them? That’s not what families are like!”

Trav shook his head. He
really
needed to visit his parents for the holidays, because apparently he had missed something big. He wouldn’t have put up with Blake in the band or Mackey as a boss for all the love in the world.

By the time they were done rehearsing that day, they had the song in rough but usable shape. By the time they were ready to move into the house, they had almost the whole album outlined and were ready to cut the first track.

Of course, by then, Dr. Cambridge’s two-week prediction had just about run its course. It was a shame Trav forgot that, because he’d never forgive himself for what happened next.

O
H
G
OD
,
Mackey was so not ready for fan interaction.

He glared at Trav accusingly from across the crowded studio canteen, and Trav grimaced. Well, Trav hadn’t been ready for it either, apparently.  It certainly hadn’t been planned. One minute they were breaking up from a really good rehearsal and talking excitedly about moving into the house in North Hollywood. None of them had seen the house, but Trav assured them it would be better than a hotel room, so, well, excitement, right?

And apparently that was when Trav got the text.

Trav came into the studio hesitantly, wearing one of those frowns that said his plan—whatever it had been—was not going to be followed.

Trav got a lot of those looks. When they left the hotel late because Shelia forgot her feminine protection, when Mackey ended up in the cab with Stevie, Jefferson, and Shelia instead of the one with Blake, Kell, and Trav, when the guys decided to order pizza when Trav had reservations someplace that would make them eat salad—all of that shit made Trav’s eyes narrow in the corners and little divots appear in his forehead.

This time, the plan had been more than interrupted, it had been fucked to hell.

“Look, guys, word’s got out that you’re in town. It’s apparently a big furry deal, especially that you’re getting ready to record again, and the PR girl booked a little meet and greet without me. High-profile fans, some executives, that sort of thing—Mr. Fowler apologized for the inconvenience, but he’d like us to attend. They’ve got snacks and drinks in the canteen, some photographers. It shouldn’t go on for more’n two hours, but I assume you know the drill?”

Kell laughed. “Yeah, make nice and try not to get caught if you’re banging someone in the bathroom.”

There was general laughter, and Kell and Blake went in for the fist bump. Blake looked tired—Trav had been throwing away his stash too. Blake might not have been as strung out as Mackey had been, but it was getting harder and harder for him to buy. At the news of the meet and greet, though, he perked up. Of course he did, Mackey thought sourly. Someone was
always
there with some free blow.

Which Mackey really did not fucking want.

He’d heard Trav’s words about how detox was not rehab—and as much as he’d blown them off that night, they’d sort of whispered in his ear for the past week and a half. He didn’t ever want to go through detox again, which meant he didn’t ever want to take drugs again, and here they were, faced with two hundred people, and maybe a hundred of ’em would sell their grandmother to get Mackey fixed up.

And Mackey—who’d been happy rehearsing with his brothers for the past ten days, getting the next album set up, playing music, creating music,
being
music—suddenly wanted a Xanax so bad his hands shook. All those people and no dodging out of talking to them. God, at least when they’d done prom and dances back at home, he’d been able to hang with the guys and let them talk. It was like the older he got, the bigger the crowd got, the more exposed and alone he was. With that pretty little pill in the palm of his hand, he could deal. And now he couldn’t.

Suddenly that conversation in the dark of the hotel room made so much more sense.

Mackey wanted to find Trav, tell him how much sense it made, because he’d been a little hard on the guy for thinking he had all the fucking answers. But now Mackey was surrounded by teenaged girls—the daughters of someone big in the business and kids he’d actually met before—so he needed to be as personable as he could. In the back of his mind, he heard Gerry telling him that making nice was what let him make the music he wanted. Gerry had been good about breaking it down like that. “You do this, kid, and then you can do that.” Of course, some of that “doing” had been the pills, but they’d been Gerry’s problem too, so Mackey couldn’t hold that against him. He’d learned at his mother’s knee, whenever she’d had to go to work and leave them with Kell because a babysitter would have bankrupted her, that you did the best you could, and the mistakes you made were part of the best you could do.

“So, Mackey, you’re so skinny! How do you do it? I can’t lose weight to save my life!”

Mackey looked at the nineteen-year-old girl with bleached-blonde hair and a little minidress sheath that probably cost the rent for
both
the shitty apartments his family had lived in that last year.

It was a mindfuck. It wasn’t any easier to do now than it had been a year ago.

“It’s the drugs,” he said, smirking so it looked like a joke. “It’s like the song says—we all stay skinny ’cause we just don’t eat.”

The girl cracked up, her laugh brittle like ice, and he wondered how many times
she’d
been to rehab, because it sounded like she knew it wasn’t funny.

Her little sister sniffed. “Well, I like a man with some meat on his bones,” she said.

He grimaced at her. Sixteen, and she’d probably had as many men as he had. “Don’t you mean with a boner of meat?” Mackey cracked, and both girls giggled. He winked at them and took that as his exit line, looking for Trav again. Trav was talking to Heath, his drill sergeant’s face compressed into those lines that meant he was being earnest.

Which was always.

Mackey paused to watch him, liking the way his shoulders stayed square and he didn’t break eye contact. He had nice eyes—brown, with brown-red lashes, and Mackey had been surprised at the gentle, sneaking attraction that hit him at the oddest times these past weeks. There was something solid about Trav. Something
unyielding
. Even when he was making Mackey crazy with rules like “Everyone has to eat breakfast, dammit, even if it’s only a protein shake!” and “Yes, there’s a curfew until you prove to me you’re not fourteen, and
yes
, I can and will impose penalties because thank God it was in your contract!” He was watching out for them. What Gerry had done with rewards and cajoling and gentleness, Trav did with lines in the sand and an army to make sure they didn’t cross them. Gerry had been a nice guy, but Trav—Trav would fight them to make them take care of themselves. Mackey wasn’t so young he couldn’t appreciate the difference.

His musing on that tight military form was broken by an unfamiliar arm slinging around his shoulder and steering him to the corner of the room leading to the hallway.

“Mackey Sanders—it’s a wonder we’ve never met.”

Mackey turned to glare at the owner of that arm. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, not worrying too much about the niceties. Be nice to the girls, yeah, but boys were fair game. Especially guys who’d used the stubble setting on their razor that morning, wore super-expensive satin vests, and had irises dilated wide enough to fuck with an elephant’s penis.

“I’m a fan,” the guy said, and he whispered into Mackey’s ear. “I’m the fan who can hook you up,” and there was suggestion in the way he almost touched Mackey’s ear with his nose.

Mackey stepped away from him uncertainly, jostling someone behind him but unable to find his footing in the suddenly oppressive crowd. God. He needed to be high to get fucked by strangers. He wasn’t high, and he’d just finished being all super-fucking-righteous-bitches with Trav about not needing a fix.

“I gotta go talk to my manager,” he said, his hands clammy. Hell, this guy was gross—just, just
high
, and presumptuous, and slimy and
gross.
Mackey wasn’t going to take him up on the sex, and he’d
sworn
he wouldn’t take him up on the drugs, and he wasn’t so cynical that he wanted to break a vow that quickly.

“Oh come on, Mackey. The least you could do is have a drink with me!”

Oh God, a drink? Dimly he remembered asking if he could still drink alcohol, and hearing some sort of promise of a discussion about that as his rehab progressed. Fuck.

“No drinks tonight,” he said, then swallowed. His mouth was watering, slimy with wanting a shot of something to calm him down. Oh hell. He promised Trav. He’d
promised
Trav, and so far Trav hadn’t let them down, just like Gerry hadn’t let them down.

“How about a beer! Beers don’t count as drinks.” The guy smiled and turned around to a handy tray. Mackey looked around, spotting Trav in the crowd. To his relief, Trav was waving at him. Mackey waved back and nodded. Mackey was working his way over, and he gestured to himself and then to Trav to show it. Trav nodded, and something in Mackey relaxed. He could deal with this scumbag now.

“Yeah,” Mackey said, reaching out automatically. “Beer’s no big deal.” He’d been drinking beer backstage since he was fifteen. He took the beer, which had been opened long enough to be warm, and tried to fight his revulsion. Whoever this guy was, he’d been invited, and Trav was coming over. Mackey could be polite if Trav was coming over. “What’s your name, anyway?” He took a swallow of the beer and wrinkled his nose. Gross.

“Not gonna matter in a minute,” the guy purred, sliding an arm around Mackey’s waist.

Mackey took another healthy swallow, and just that suddenly, he was high.

But it was just a swallow. Swear, Trav. Just a drink of beer. Two. Wasn’t even a shot.

I shouldna had the beer. Sorry, Trav. Shouldna had the beer.

“No,” Mackey said, trying hard to keep his feet. His head swam, his vision was dark, and this asshole hadn’t brushed his teeth.

That was all Mackey remembered after that.

Bonus Scene

Eight years earlier, somewhere in the motherfucking desert.

T
RAVIS
F
ORD
and Heath Fowler ended up together a lot. Trav blamed
their last names—they came pretty close in the alphabet, so it only made sense they’d get assigned sentry duty or cleanup or whatever the hell else you got assigned when you were only a junior MP coming up.

In this case they’d been assigned to guard a prisoner during transport. And then the transport convoy had been waylaid by a mass of goats herded by two very confused-looking children.

And then the RPGs had been fired, and their Humvee flipped.

Trav and Heath managed to pull the prisoner out of the wreckage, but he’d taken a blow to the head. Or, well, most of his head had been blown. In fact, most of the convoy had been blown—and Trav and Heath were no exceptions. Trav lost most of the skin off his shoulder and left arm, and Heath (being Heath) had shrapnel in his flank and buttocks.

“Most of the convoy is dead and you got shot in the ass?” Trav hissed as they crouched behind the Humvee carcass, waiting for the next explosion. Heath lay on his right side while Trav examined the wound—it looked painful, and blood soaked the left half of Heath’s fatigues, but it also looked like Heath would live.

“I blame you. You’ve been wanting to check out my ass since we met.”

Trav grunted. Heath was the one person in the military who actually knew he was gay—and he didn’t usually let that slip out. Unless he was in a great deal of pain, apparently. But Trav could forgive him, because they were both high on adrenaline and trying hard not to freak the fuck out. Was
anybody
alive? How in the hell were they going to get back to camp?

“Yup. And now I’m incredibly disappointed. Next time you get wounded, have a better ass.”