Page 146 of Beneath the Stain
“Jesus,” Trav muttered, not wanting to answer that, not wanting tothinkabout that kind of pressure on the boys he’d come to really care for in the past year, “how long does it take for bail money and a lawyer to get here? I called Heath’s assistant four hours ago!”
“Sorry,” said an awfully familiar voice echoing down the corridor from the small office in front of the police station. “Ireallywanted to see this.”
“Heath?” Trav all but whined. “Tell me you didn’t!”
“Charter a plane to fly to a piss hole to bail out my dearest friend from jail after a bar fight? Why would I do that? Wait….”
Heath Fowler was wearing expensive jeans and a striped Eddie Bauer polo shirt in bright turquoise. He had a windbreaker on, because it was fall and a little bit chilly, and he fished his phone out of the pocket of his windbreaker and held it up.
“Everyone smile for the camera!” Heath said brightly, and six extended middle fingers shot up (well, Stevie’s was part of the three-finger splint). Five of their owners didn’t even bother to sit up and open their eyes.
Heath cackled and Trav closed his eyes against the flash.
“You’re a fucking sadist and I hate you,” Trav said with feeling.
“Are you kidding? This is a fucking Kodak moment!” Heath crowed, bouncing up and down on his two-hundred-dollar kicks. He fiddled with his phone for a minute. “Hel-lo, Twitter!” He looked up to Trav’s horrified expression. “Man, I could not get a straight answer from asoulas to what started that riot, by the way—and until I do, I’m telling you, I’m not paying any damages! What the hell happened?”
“You want to know what happened?” Kell said, jerking up to sit so quick that Trav felt Mackey startle. “What happened was my little brother played two love songs, and the first one was all good because that one was all about keeping shit a secret, and the second one—that one was all about fixing what’s broken, andthatone pissed them off.”
Trav was aware that both heandMackey were staring at Kell openmouthed.
Mackey recovered first. “That’s real smart, Kell,” he said with admiration. “You’re dead on!”
Kell blushed. “I been reading your poetry books on Kindle,” he said, nudging Blake so he’d sit up. “Man, it’s worth skipping all your damned porn, you know that?”
“Well,” Heath said, that edge of heartily enjoying himself not dulled in the least, “it’s good to know you boys found something to do with your travel time.” He fiddled with his phone again. “Outbreak Monkey jailed for playing love songs.Awesome!” He looked up. “And since it’s not our fault these assholes don’t know how to respond to a love song, I’mnotpaying damages.” Heath pitched his voice for the guard on the other side. “But Ididpost bail, so let these guys out!”
The guard glared at Heath—he probably hadn’t seen anything so city in his life, not in Tyson/Hepzibah.
“You sure—?” he started, but Heath waved a goldenrod form in front of him.
“I’ve got their release papers right here for you. They made bail. My lawyer will show up in court in”—Heath looked at the papers, squinting—“a month. You guys aren’t going to be here for another month, are you? I mean, Trav didn’t tell me what the family emergency was, but surely it’s not going to last a month, right?”
Suddenly the air of levity that the little prison cell had managed crashed hard at their feet. Trav remembered Grant’s swollen fingers, his wasted face, the way he was almost too weak to walk.
“No,” Trav said, aware he was confirming the boys’ deepest fears. “It’s probably only going to be a couple of weeks or so.”
No one said Heath was stupid. He waited until the guard slid the door open and the boys trooped out, Mackey and Trav last, before asking softly, “Who’s sick?”
Mackey looked at them, eyes wide and betrayed, and Trav had to say it anyway. “Their first guitarist. He’s got about three weeks, outside. Probably closer to two. We may fly home after that and then come back for the funeral, depending on when.”
Mackey made a sound between a whimper and a grunt, and Trav, taking advantage of their last year together, reached out and grabbed his hand. He half expected Mackey to turn away, but he didn’t. He came back to stand next to Trav instead.
Trav squeezed his hand and followed the guard outside to the waiting cars, the boys shivering, shirtless, in the predawn chill.
Trav’s extra stuff was in the town car, he realized. Walter was driving the town car, and Debra was driving the SUV.
The town car could go straight to a hotel.
Trav could go straight to a hotel, shower, sleep alone, and not have Mackey’s worry, his torn emotions, his perpetual fighting spirit, gnawing at Trav’s skin. Just for a night. A week. A month.
A night. Trav could take a breather. Talk to Heath. Not have to deal with the boys from Tyson and their terrible baggage.
“Heath,” Trav said, letting go of Mackey’s hand, “here. I’ve got a change of clothes. I’ll come to the hotel. I can talk to you there, okay? The guys are about done in.”
“Trav?” Mackey said, his voice wobbling, and Trav turned to him, tried not to see the betrayal in his eyes.
“A night, Mackey,” Trav said, and to his horror, his voice broke. “A night. Man, give me a night to put this shit together in my head.”
