Page 147 of Beneath the Stain
“But Trav—”
Trav shook his head. “I have spent ayearhating Grant Adams,” he confessed rawly. “Ayearthinking every bad thing that happened to you, to your brothers—that it was all his damned fault. And I can’t think that way anymore. Not and be there for you—for the guys. I can’t think that way, and I can’tstopmyself from thinking that way, and I have got to get my head square, or I am going to be no goddamned good to you, do you understand me?”
Oh Jesus. And every moment of hating Grant and loving Mackey and having what he’d thought twisted into what he knew now—all of it torsioning in his head, his chest, his gut. All of that hurt spilled out now. In front of the whole band, in front ofHeath, his oldest friend, in front of God, in the dimming sky of frosty stars, it was all there for the world to see, spilled on the ground.
Mackey scowled, that terrible defensive posture Trav remembered from their first few months—until the end of Christmas, actually—bowing his back and his shoulders, and suddenly he straightened.
“You do that,” he snarled. “You take a day to get your head straight, Travis. And then you be fucking ready, because I am hauling you back by your military haircut. Youpromisedme, and ain’tnobodypromised me before, and I’ll hold you to that shit if it kills me!”
Mackey stood on his toes and hauled Travis down, mauled him in a bruising, sweaty, painful kiss that left Travis partially erect and almost in tears.
“I’ll be back,” Trav promised against Mackey’s demanding mouth. “Just… just a night, Mackey. I’m begging you. A night to not have everything hurt.”
Mackey pulled back, dragging his lower lip between his teeth. He let it go and turned his head and spit.
“Everythingdoesfucking hurt,” Mackey said, eyes narrowed. “Italwaysfucking hurt until you came along. If you’re not at my mother’s house by checkout time, I will come and fucking get you.”
And he turned and stalked away to the SUV, his brothers in his wake.
Travis watched him go and ran shaking hands through his hair.
Heath let out a low whistle between his teeth. “Brother,” he said, looping an arm around Trav’s sweat-soaked shoulders, “I have brought my second-best scotch. You want some?”
Trav conveniently forgot about that moment of getting Kell drunk in Seattle. “I just spent nine months on the road with recovering addicts,” Trav said. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve earned yourself a drink.”
Heart of Glass
MACKEYWOKEup in a strange bed, in a strange house, and Trav was not there. He took a moment to assess that fact. For the past year, hotel room or Trav’s bedroom, Trav had been there. He’d done his best not to be gone for more than a couple of days at a time, and for those few trips, Mackey had slept in Briony’s room, on the floor, wedged between the bed and the wall, where he was most comfortable.
But he wasn’t there now, and his lip hurt and his eye ached, and he remembered this feeling, as well as the soreness in his shoulders and his ribs that came from one rip-roaring brawl.
And Trav was not there.
Mackey opened his eyes slowly, assimilated the pastel walls and hard, bright colors of the comforter on the bed, and closed his eyes again.
Trav hadn’t come with them.
In his head, he knew it was too much to ask. Trav needed time. Needed space. HadearnedMackey’s trust on the time and space issue, dammit!
But Mackey’s head had never been the loudest voice in the instrument of Mackey. And Mackey’s heart was butt-hurt.
Goddammit, why hadn’t Trav come home?
Because, moron. Who looks at their boyfriend and says, “Hey, let’s go watch the guy who broke me die. By the way, I may actually still love him, more like a brother, but I still love him, and you are now expected to love him too. Sorry about that. Just one more big fucking suitcase in the baggage I’ve been hauling around with me since the cradle. Hey, Trav, could you carry it for a minute? I gotta put on a performance here wherein I tell all the good ol’ boys in my hometown that they’re dumbasses and they suck. Oh, and while you’re carrying my baggage, uhm,duck!”
Okay. So, yeah.
Maybethatwas why Trav hadn’t come home.
Maybe he needed a drink—because hecoulddrink and not make it an addiction—and maybe he needed afriend, because God knew Mackey had grabbedhisfriend and given her a job and hauled her by the scruff of the neck through Europe, Tokyo, and most of the US of A.
So, yes. Trav got a day off.
But that didn’t mean Mackey didn’t spend a minute, maybe two, lying in bed and closing his eyes, smelling Trav’s pillow from two nights ago and wondering when the pain would well up like blood and he would reach for a bandage he could no longer use.
Right about the time he figured he should get up and call Trav and see what was up—instead of wallowing in what wasn’t—he heard a scream from the bathroom, and then a shout, and then all hell broke loose downstairs.
