Beneath the Stain - Part 3 (6 page)

“Now see? Blake, c’mon. My turn.”

Blake did the same thing, with a lot of insulting looks backward and an apparent expectation of being dropped on his ass.

Mackey caught him—even though Blake was a lot taller and weighed a lot more—and then used his shoulder to help him stand up. “See? This ain’t no big thing.”

Blake was looking at him with a quivering lower lip, though, and eyes that watered. “Not big?” he echoed. “Not big? That’s fucking
huge
, Mackey! Oh my God, you couldn’t fucking tell me you trusted me someplace
not
in rehab?”

Mackey stared at him, one side of his mouth curled back. “How could you think I didn’t trust you, dumbass? You’re in the fucking band, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah, right. I’m in the band with the almighty fucking wonderful Mackey Sanders, wunderkind and fucking musical genius. We all know I’m barely a backup musician, Mackey.”

Mackey threw up his hands in disgust. “Oh, bullshit. You’re Kell’s fuckin’ bestie. You’re in the fucking band. You’re in the band, you’re a brother—just get over yourself and deal with it. If you want to quit, fine, but don’t blame me if you don’t like it here!”

“I’m a
brother
?” Blake asked, his voice dripping in sarcasm—and, if Mackey had to admit it, hurt. “I’m a
brother
? Since
when
have you made me feel like a brother? When have
you
welcomed me? Man, I did everything for you—I bought you coke—”

“You got me addicted to it!” Mackey snapped, not particularly mad. “I mean, yeah, I could have turned you down, but you’re all ‘I’ve got this great way to wake up!’ and I was just trying to get us off the fucking ground, you know that, right? I mean, you were fucking new, the rest of the guys were scared shitless—hell, we hadn’t even been on a plane before we came down to LA, and suddenly we were going to play in Europe? And you don’t even fuckin’ practice!”

“Why should we practice, Mackey? We’re on stage for two hours a night!”

“That’s different—dammit, Blake, you whine about not being good enough. Don’t you know what you have to do to be good enough? You have to
work
for that shit! You have to practice, and try and create. You think I just wake up and sprinkle some fucking cocaine like fairy dust and suddenly shit out songs? I’m up to fuckin’ three in the morning writing that shit, and I can’t get you to play it for me. I
know
you can. We get up on stage and you pick up every cue. But off stage, all you want to do is couch with Kell and do blow!”

Blake stopped, his mouth open. Mackey hmphed in disgust. He looked around and realized that Blake was not the only one looking at him. The whole
room
was looking at him.

Mackey bared his teeth at the world in general and glared at Doc Cambridge sourly. “So see,” he said, trying for dignity, “we trust each other.”

“On stage,” said the doc. “But that sounds like it’s a lot more of your day than his. Why is that?”

Mackey glared at him. “You don’t get it, do you? We bought our mom a
house.
Our little brother is in
private
school. Kell, Jefferson, Stevie, me? We had to work our way through high school, but we’re sending Cheever to some sort of art school. Mom’s got a car, and she’s got friends, and she don’t have to work unless she wants. But I’m not stupid, Dr. Cambridge. I read our contract. If we don’t put out something that sells, they
drop
us. No nice house, no fancy cars, no super-nice hotel stay in rehab. Yeah, I did all the fuckin’ drugs, and I’m not saying I didn’t. But I did the pills to calm me down and the coke to wake me up and the booze because it made that other shit work better. I don’t got no patience for a guy who doesn’t work to pull his own weight.”

Blake sniffled a little and ran a hand under his eyes. “Man, all I wanted to do was play the damned guitar.”

Mackey sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, you do a good job of it when you’re not stoned. And Kell seems to like you just fine. I’m not planning on firing you, coke or no coke, so maybe just fucking relax.”

“But why don’t
you
like me?” Blake asked, sounding pathetic. “I swear, I was so excited to work with you—man, I’d been playing your single for
months
, do you know that? I landed that audition and I was like, ‘No. Way. Outbreak Monkey wants
me
!’ And then I met you all, and Kell and Jeff and Stevie, they liked me fine, but you—the guy with all the ideas—you only talk to me when we’re recording, and I’m stuck not knowing what I done. Man, I bought you the drugs so you’d fucking
like
me, do you get that?”

Mackey made a puppy-dog sound and then sat down on the floor next to the coffee table and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Well, sorry,” he said frankly. “But you were Kell’s. Kell fuckin’ loved you, and there you go.”

Blake sank shakily into the chair behind him. “But why couldn’t
you
love me, Mackey? Man, what was so wrong with me that I had to be the brother you liked least?”

God, Mackey’s ass hurt like this. His ass hurt and his heart hurt, and he’d been a dick to this guy for a year, and it turned out he just wanted to be friends. Mackey sighed and stood up.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said, not wanting to tell Blake why he’d never be good enough to play second lead guitarist. “You just took over for the wrong guy. Can I go now?”

Doc Cambridge looked at his watch in surprise. “Yes, yes, of course. You all have an hour before dinner!”

Mackey bit his lip and walked away. He walked straight to his room, packed his suitcases, and then walked straight outside, calling for a cab while he went. He remembered to use his own card this time so he didn’t charge the record company for fare. This so obviously wasn’t their fault.

“T
RAV
?” K
ELL
knocked on the door to his room/office. “There’s somebody here to see you.”

Trav looked up and smiled. In the four days since they’d moved, everyone else in the little band seemed to have settled down and actually appreciated the change. Stevie, Jefferson, and Shelia spent their time decorating and ordering new furniture not just for their room—the room with the really big bed, which confirmed every suspicion Trav ever had. For some reason that calmed him down about the three of them. Just
knowing
they were in a threesome (Trav assumed Shelia was the middle of the cookie sandwich, given how Kell felt about “fags” and “weakness” and how much Stevie and Jefferson seemed unaffected by all of that) and were totally low-key about it made it easier to manage. So far the press hadn’t asked, which meant whatever magic Jefferson and Stevie had that made people not notice them, it was powerful hoodoo. Trav was starting to be a believer.

Kell, on the other hand, had been… different.

Without Blake to impress or Mackey to be at odds with, Kell had turned into—well, the perfect son was the only way Trav could describe it.

He asked if people needed help, he did the dishes, he didn’t even
ask
about getting high, and Trav hadn’t seen a girl in his bedroom in a week. If Trav had been in an uncharitable frame of mind, he would have said Kell just didn’t know how to get from downtown to his own house, but he knew that wasn’t true because he’d been out with the others and had come back just fine.

The well-dressed, cleaned-up young man currently playing Trav’s butler was a far cry from the disgruntled stoner Trav had met nearly a month ago.

Trav squinted at him now, wondering at the change. “Did he give a name?” Trav asked, heading for the door. His own bedroom/office had a bed and a computer table. Shelia had picked out the bedding—something in green, which surprised him, but it wasn’t bad. Between that and a
really
nice area rug in green and brown, Trav sort of liked the place—especially after Shelia had the wall without the window painted green too. In fact, he wanted to see what she did with Mackey’s room. The other boys had been so excited about their own rooms and decorating and painting that he sort of liked the idea of making that kid a home.

“Terry,” Kell said promptly. He bit his lip. “He seems sort of like a… uhm, I mean, gay.”

Trav grimaced. Well, it was an improvement, right? Of course, Trav had heard the row Kell had had with Mackey when they thought Trav was in the shower.
Trav
wouldn’t have wanted to be on the side of Mackey’s vicious tongue, but then, he wouldn’t have wanted to be Mackey when his brother was using “fag” like the new black, either. Either way, between that fight and Mackey being in the hospital—and probably Blake going to rehab—Kell seemed to be trying to clean up his act.

Well, Trav approved.

“He is gay,” Trav said now. “In fact, he’s my ex.”

Kell wrinkled his nose and then the lightbulb went on. “Oh fuck,” he muttered. “Goddammit, Mackey. He coulda fuckin’ told me. Just suddenly he’s the voice of God, and ‘you can’t fucking say this word, Kell,’ but no why I can’t say the word or I might piss off the new manager if I say the word, just you can’t say the fuckin’ word!”

Trav stood up reluctantly. “Maybe he thought that not being an asshole was reason enough,” he said dryly.

Kell shook his head. “I don’t try to
be
an asshole,” he muttered. “I’m supposed to keep ’em safe, right? You can’t do that if people think you’re weak, right? I mean Anus Cheever wasn’t going to back down if I was weaker’n him, right?”

Trav swallowed. “Who in the fuck is Anus Cheever?” It
had
to be Enos, right?

“Cheever’s dad. For a bit we thought he might stick around, but man, he
hated
Mackey. Couldn’t let him beat on my little brother, right?”

Math, Trav thought miserably. He needed to do math. “How old was Mackey?”

“Well, ten, eleven—the guy left when Cheever still looked like a boiled potato, so not that old. And tiny. Man, he looked like about six. But that mouth….” Kell shook his head. “Mackey can get under your skin in under a minute, and he didn’t give that guy a rest. But still—you don’t go beating on my brother.”

“Of course not,” Trav said numbly. Little pieces of Mackey were fitting together in his head. He heard a noise from out in the living room/dining area and grimaced.

Well, hell. He might as well deal with Terry now, right?

And then it occurred to him that Kell was still looking at him mutely, begging for some sort of absolution. Trav suddenly needed some Tylenol and a comfort movie.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling like an asshole. “When Mackey went missing—I was really hard on you.”

“I let him down,” Kell said back, looking away. “Not just that day. This whole last year.”

Trav sighed. “Well, it’s not like you ever had a childhood anyway,” he muttered. God. Fucking Sanders kids, Stevie included. This fucking band. He looked back at Kell and made sure the young man made eye contact. “Kell, we can talk about this later, but for now? Just… you’re going to have to make peace with yourself. I’m sure Mackey has some regrets too.”

Kell shrugged and looked away, and Trav wasn’t sure which option sounded more uncomfortable: finishing the conversation with Kell or finishing the relationship with Terry.

Trav excused himself and found Terry in the open kitchen, sitting on a stool in front of the counter while Shelia made him a smoothie.

“And I’m putting protein powder in it,” she said soberly. “Now Stevie says it tastes like Play-Doh, but Jefferson says it actually adds some sweetness without sugar. Did you want orange juice or milk as a base?”

“Orange juice,” Trav said dryly. “He’s lactose intolerant. And put lots of fruit in there, Shelia.” He shook his head and patted his stomach. “The protein powder makes the damned shakes binding if you don’t have enough fruit.”

Terry nodded and smiled, and they shared a moment of benevolent amusement for the girl in the bright yellow tank top and short-shorts who had greeted a perfect stranger with a smoothie.

“Hi, Trav!” Shelia said with a smile. “Would you like a mango/pineapple with juice?”

“Sure,” Trav said, more to be companionable than anything else. “Thank you, Shelia—you know I didn’t buy that thing so you could wait on us.”

Shelia grinned. “Yeah, I know. But I never had a chance to entertain before. I’m like lady of the manor here—besides being the only girl!” Her smile was all sunshine.

Terry turned bemused eyes to Trav. “She’s adorable—did she come with the new digs?”

Trav shook his head. “She came with the new band. She’s, uhm, Jefferson and Stevie’s… uhm… they’re together.”

He’d tried to speak below the wheeerrrm of the blender, but she cast one of those brilliant grins over her shoulder and Trav knew that she had not only heard but she had no problem with it. He still didn’t know how to explain it to his parents.

Terry raised his eyebrows and quirked up a corner of his ripe mouth. “That’s funny. I’ve never met a real ménage before.”

“Well, check it off the bucket list.”

Shelia came forward with two smoothies in the little cups with the tops, moving around the island and kissing Trav on the cheek. “You two have a little talk,” she said sweetly. “I’m going to go help Jefferson put up posters. He’s like a little kid, you know?”

She disappeared and Trav watched her go, hoping the twins (as he’d started to think of them) appreciated the hell out of her. He knew
he
was starting to, and he’d never seen himself living with a girl.

Terry took a sip. “That’s not bad,” he said. Then Shelia rounded the corner of the kitchen and disappeared. Both of them dropped their public faces and looked at each other soberly.

“I brought your stuff,” Terry said. “There’s a couple of boxes that I set outside in front of the garage. I know you said you’d come by and get it, but I wanted to see the new digs. Nice.” He looked around, indicating the multilevel house. The kitchen and living area had a wraparound window that looked onto the acre’s worth of front yard. Apparently Daphne at the real estate office had some
very
nice connections, and Heath meant what he said about making sure the boys were treated right.