Page 113 of Beneath the Stain
“I got an idea, Trav. Thanks.”
“Are you going to clue me in?”
Mackey closed his eyes and thought of Trav seeing the tat for the first time, touching it gently with his big, surprisingly smooth hands.
“No,” he said with an evil sprinkling of laughter. “Gonna let you see for yourself.”
And then he called his driver, ’cause those guys knew everything, and asked him for some recs.
The whole band wanted to go—everyone except Shelia, who stayed by the pool with a book and the sunshine, even in December.
Mackey brought their first CD, cover art and all, and the idea that the guys were going to follow him into this like they’d followed him into the band? After the whole rehab thing and the gay thing?
That made him really fucking proud.
And Blake’s reminder?
Even better. “Yeah,” he said, looking at Blake as the needle continued to ravage his skin. “Forty-five days sober. We’ll have to think of somethingrealgood for a year, right?”
Suddenly Blake’s chin started to quiver. “You think we’ll make it a year?” he asked.
Mackey let go of the rail over his head to grab Blake’s hand. “Man, I made it through today. I made it through today. I told someone I was hurting and I’m here doing this instead of out scoring a buy. I can make it through today, we can make it through a year.”
Blake grabbed his hand tighter, and Mackey caught his breath as the needle hit another hot spot.
“Thanks, Mackey,” Blake said quietly. “I’m gonna go talk to the next artist.”
Mackey squeezed his hand hard and then let him go, losing himself in the Zen of pain control once more.
Okay. Today was a tattoo. Tomorrow he and Blake would start looking at online classes.
The next day they’d pack their gear and their clothes.
The day after, they’d leave for Oakland and check out the venue. And then, finally, Mackey would be performing in front of a real audience again.
Today was a tattoo. The thought got him through.
Trav texted him that night, as he was lying in front of the television with the others, sort of limp and sweated out from the pain.
You made it through, right?
Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you.
Thank you for worrying me. I mean that. Asking for help is good, McKay.
Shut up.
Truth.
I hate asking for help.
My folks texted. Reminded me that I bought tickets months ago to go back east for Christmas. You told your mom you were going to Tyson. No Christmas together.
Mackey grunted. In a roundabout way he’d known this, but looking at it now, while his skin still ached from the tattoo and he remembered how close he’d been to running out of the house to score, it seemed like a bad fucking idea.
Fucking epic, he texted back.
You could come with me?
