Page 127 of Beneath the Stain
He conceded one and three, but he was pretty sure two was off the table.
What he felt for Trav was so much… bigger. More important.Sanerthan what he’d felt for Grant. Trav didn’t want a quick fuck in a greenroom. Trav wanted alongfuck in the hotel room and the cuddle after in the plane, and a nice night watching television and waking up next to Mackey and kissing him on the cheek before breakfast.
For Trav, these sort of seemed to be standard things for two men who loved… liked… lived with each other.
For Mackey, those things held magic, each and every day.
Mackey wouldn’t go back to being Grant’s backdoor man for all the music in the world. Just the thought of it made his hands shake and made him remember the taste of vodka.
But the thought of seeing him and dealing with all of that—the letting go, the saying good-bye, the end of Grant in his heart as something big—that hurt. That made his hands shake too.
No, Mackey was ready to move on with Trav, and in a year or so, he might be ready to deal with Grant the way Trav had dealt with his ex—coldly and cleanly and with the clinical precision of the doctor who’d removed Trav’s splint the week after Mackey got home from rehab—but not now.
And the thing was, going with Kell and the guys, there was no way they wouldn’t see Grant. Kell had been talking the past couple of weeks about getting everyone back together and Grant meeting Blake, and maybe they could all jam together, and….
The thought of playing with Grant onstage again made Mackey feel like throwing up. He wasjustgetting used to the idea that wouldn’t ever happen again. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it and he didn’t want to.
But he’d told Trav he wouldn’t go back east either.
So he pondered.
He pondered when he was shopping, with or without his brothers. He pondered when he was on conference calls with Artie B., the master technician Heath had hired personally to help them get their light show together, and Briony, who was dry and sarcastic even when she was a little overwhelmed.
He pondered it late at night as Trav lay at his back, broad shoulders reassuring and protective.
He’d told Trav he would get there eventually. He’dpromisedTrav that he’d be whole and well and able to give all of himself to the two of them, and Trav had taken him on faith.
He didn’t want to let Trav down.
But he wasn’t ready to see Grant either.
So he did what he’d done on the road the last year: He allowed inertia to take over, made the plans, packed the bags, sent the gifts. He allowed inertia to close his eyes the night before they were supposed to leave and to make him touch Trav in the dark with shaking hands, torn between wanting to unburden his heart and begging Trav to stay and being the grown-up and going back to Tyson and facing all that Grant bullshit without him.
He allowed inertia to silence him in the end, to accept Trav’s good-bye kiss at the airport as they split for their different gates. He allowed it to turn his eyes away, to gather in himself, a child in the shadowed closeness of the corner of the bunk bed, torn between wishing he could disappear and screaming so the world could see him.
But as he and his brothers were standing in line for the plane, he had his first panic attack since Gerry had first given him Xanax. His stomach clenched, his hands shook, and he could barely breathe.
Oh God.
Therewasno Xanax. Therewasno vodka.These things no longer existed in his world.
He closed his eyes. Thought:I’m gonna throw up.Opened his eyes and turned to Jefferson, who was looking at him with concern.
“I’ll be back in time to board,” he murmured, then picked up his guitar and his carry-on and ran for the bathroom.
Whenthatwas over with, he walked out of the bathroom, looked to the right, where his brothers were getting their tickets scanned, and then took an abrupt left.
Just like that, the shaking eased up and his vision stopped dancing. That persistent trickle of sweat that had started down his asscrack pretty much from the time Trav had kissed his forehead and wished him safe travels suddenly dried up, and he trotted back through the airport to the exit, where he walked out to ground transport and flagged a cab.
It wasn’t until he was safely in the back of the cab, heading for home, that he dared to text,Don’t worry about me, Jeffie—I just couldn’t do it this time. Call me when you land—no chemicals in sight, I swear.
He finished the text and leaned against the window, breathing free air for what felt like the first time since they’d left the hotel in Oakland. His phone started to blow up almost immediately after that, and the first name he saw on the top was Trav.
Well, tough. Trav should be in the air in a few, and he didn’t have to worry about Mackey for the next two weeks. Mackey would be just fine.
ANHOURlater, in the shower, he had to concede that no, he wouldn’t be just fine. The minute his foot had fallen in the empty house, he found himself wondering if Kell had something stashed in his bedroom that he wouldn’t use in front of Mackey and Blake. Probably not, because the only reason Kell used in the first place was to impress Blake, which was why sending Blake to rehab had worked so outstandingly well.
But Mackey leaned his head against the shower wall and rinsed off the stink of fear sweat, and tried to visualize himself turning on his phone and dialing Dr. Cambridge’s office. Spending Christmas in rehab as an outpatient wasn’t ideal, but it was better than the alternative.
