Page 36 of Beneath the Stain
The washcloth kept wiping. “Mackey, do you really want to need the Xanax this bad? Do you want to needanythingthis bad?”
Mackey whimpered. “Music,” he muttered. “Music. It’s all I need.”
“Good. I’ll bring your iPod, make them play it all you want.”
Another wave of shudders wracked Mackey’s body, and he was too tired to fight. “God, who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Trav Ford, your new manager.”
And Mackey remembered Gerry, face blue, tongue distended, a puddle of vomit and pills next to his face. “Hell. CanIdie this time?” he muttered. “I don’t want to see Gerry die again.”
“Yeah, kid,” the guy—Trav—said, smoothing back his hair. “I mean, no. You can’t die. But we won’t make you see anyone else die, okay?”
“’Kay,” Mackey muttered. “’Kay. Whatever. Just… God. Put me to sleep. Anything. But it hurts. It hurts and I need it.”
“Yeah,” Trav said. “Music, Mackey. Remember that. Music.”
A sudden shaft of humor penetrated Mackey’s misery. “She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie,” he sang.
The only thing that got him through the next couple of hours was Trav’s voice, off-key and sardonic, singing the chorus.
HEDIDN’Tremember much about the hospital. Mostly it was like the hotel, but his iPod was on shuffle in the background and the people giving him the sponge baths were not half as memorable as Trav.
He did a lot of sleeping—he remembered that. And when he woke up, clean and confused, a nice man in a very expensive sweater vest and tie was sitting next to his bed. He had neat gray hair and a goatee and a sort of patronizing smile.
“How are we doing, Mr. Sanders?”
“We feel like a weasel crapped in our mouth. Who are you?”
The guy blinked. “Why a weasel?”
“’Cause it sounds funny. It’s a funny animal. Nothing rhymes with weasel. Who the fuck are you?”
The patronizing part left and only the smile remained. “I’m Dr. Cambridge. You’re in a rather exclusive rehab facility in Beverly Hills, Mr. Sanders. I’m going to be your tour guide on the way to recovery.”
Mackey narrowed his eyes. “How long is this tour supposed to last?” he asked suspiciously. “And what stops is it supposed to take?”
Dr. Cambridge smiled, oh so gently. Mackey was reminded of all the times he’d gotten kicked out of school for fighting. Not all of the kids he’d beaten up had been mean. Some of them had been missionaries or counselor’s kids or kids trying to start a club. All of them had smiledexactlylike that.
I Should Have Known
TRAV’SFIRSTorder of business after getting Mackey to rehab was getting the guys out of the fucking hotel room. No, they couldn’t record without Mackey—and Kell and Blake complained bitterly about the decision to send Mackey away for that very reason. They shut up, though, when Trav emerged from the bedroom, Mackey in his arms, so Trav could take him downstairs to the waiting ambulance.
Trav didn’t want to think about how thin Mackey was, his emaciated ankle and absurdly large-boned foot sticking out of the covers. Trav had carried children who weighed more out of war zones.
He didn’t want to think about a lot of things relating to Mackey, actually. He didn’t want to think about his pathetic insistence that he had to work, and he didn’t want to think about the way he’d sung, everything from Eric Clapton to Foo Fighters, as withdrawal cramps racked his body.
He didn’t want to think about the surprising, darkly funny bursts of irony from a guy he’d had to throw in the shower because he couldn’t stand the smell anymore.
Or the fact that Mackey James Sanders, who had a multimillion-dollar recording contract and six Les Paul guitars, had three personal items in his room besides his laptop. He had his iPod, his beaten-up Walmart brand kid-size guitar, and his notebooks.
That was all.
God. Trav had actually bought him underwear so he’d be able to send some clean clothes to the rehab center.
He took some deep breaths and shored himself up. He’d co-opted Mackey’s room in the suite and given up his own room. He hadn’t even unpacked. As soon as he’d walked into Mackey’s room later that first afternoon and heard him moaning while stinking in sweat, he’d realized that this was not a hands-off operation. God, he’d never seen anyone look that bad and live.
He shuddered.
