Page 32 of Beneath the Stain
“Tomorrow morning,” Heath said, taking his hand. Square and firm and trustworthy—one of the reasons Trav had stayed friends with Heath through the military and beyond.
“Let them know I’m coming,” Trav warned.
Heath grimaced. “Frankly, I don’t think it’s gonna matter.”
THEWEIRDthing about the Burbank Hilton was while from the inside it looked over the entertainment industrial town of Burbank, from the freeway it looked sort of gracious in a tacky West Coast way.
The best part of the view from the fifteenth floor was the swimming pool almost directly below the window from the hallway.
Trav sighed and put his suitcase down next to the bed. The boys were in the suite across the hall—they did not yet know he was there. Thehotelknew, and had politely asked if he’d be able to pay for all of the damages incurred by the other members of his party.
He’d been politely surprised that the charges were under $5,000.00. The nest of stoners (as he’d been calling them in his head) had lived there for nearly a month, and apparently poor old Gerry had died there. Trav had actually seen worse.
Now he was standing at his window, looking at the swimming pool, wondering which would be worse: answering the text Terry had just sent him before he went in to face down the pack or saving it for the cherry on the shit sundae when he was done.
With a sigh, he figured he’d never been good at putting unpleasant things off. Rip-off-the-Band-Aid was his favorite school of thought. And of course as soon as he thought that, his phone buzzed again.
You don’t want the chess set?
Trav closed his eyes. They’d met playing chess. One of the clubs Trav used to belong to had held some sort of tournament, and he’d been between jobs. Terry had been fun to talk to, spontaneous where Trav was not, flirty and funny. A simple dating progression: dinner on the first date, movie on the second, the park on the third, bed on the fourth. Somewhere in there had been an exchange of medical information, a decision to use condoms, and then an informed decision to go without. Six months of that, and they moved in.
Terry had bought the set—something nice, with pretty blue and red stone pieces and a marble board—for the one-year anniversary of the day they met.
Which had been about three and a half years ago.
No thank you. You keep it.
God, that’s fucking cold.
Was there anything else you needed?
Yeah. I need to know if you ever loved me.
Trav closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the way they’d wake up slowly on Sundays, maybe make love, maybe not, then gravitate to the kitchen and bowls of plain old oatmeal from a packet in Trav’s blue stoneware bowls. They’d sit and play chess in their pajama bottoms, and Terry’s dark hair would fall in his eyes when he was thinking. Trav would push it back, and Terry would smile at him shyly, as though he was aware he lost time and place when he was concentrating.
Oh God.
Wow. It’s taking you a long time to answer.
Yes.He took a deep breath after he sent the text and then typed the next one quickly.Yes, I loved you. That’s why we need to do it this way. I can’t see you face-to-face while we do this.
He was breathing hard, and he forced himself to stop. Just stop. This was irrelevant.
Trav, I’m sorry.
Fuck you. Contact Heath if you have any questions.Terry knew Heath—they’d had him and whatever girlfriend over to dinner more than once.
Ruthlessly he turned off his phone, tucked his key in his pocket, and left the room.
HEKNOCKEDon the door and was not particularly surprised when a girl opened it. She wore cutoffs and a red-striped spaghetti-strap tank top, no bra, and her skin was the pale copper freckled variety of the true redhead. Her hair—thick and layered around her face—hadn’t been dyed or gelled or messed with, and she smiled winsomely with full lips.
“Hello,” she said softly. “You must be the new guy, right?”
“I’m Trav Ford, the new manager. Are the boys—”
“Jefferson?” the girl called behind her. “Stevie? Your new guy is here. The one to take over for Gerry.”
From behind the girl, he heard two male voices. “No, goddammit, Kell, don’t you go—”
