Page 37 of Beneath the Stain
He could still hear Mackey croaking out “Cocaine,” making fun of himself while he felt like death. He still remembered Mackey’s scrawny body in the shower, the annoyed way he’d batted at Trav’s hands, and the totally helpless way he’d snuggled into Trav’s arms when Trav had wrapped him in a towel.
As Trav sat at the desk and wrote in one of the few unused spiral notebooks Mackey had stacked in the room, he tried really hard not to let himself wonder how long Mackey could have kept going like that, from gig to gig and fix to fix, before he just stopped.
Years, he thought with a surprised snort. Kid was fucking tough.
The phone at his ear clicked, pulling Trav out of his weird obsession with the lead singer of what was now, admittedly,hisband.
“Yeah, Daphne? Yeah. Trav—I’m with Tailpipe again. What do you got for me in a modest mansion?”
Daphne purred happily and started listing various properties up along the canyon, and Trav mulled on the length of the drive to the recording studio in Burbank and rethought that.
“Maybe not,” he muttered. “Okay, maybe North Hollywood—it needs to be closer?”
Daphne always sounded like she was in high school, but she must have been in her thirties at the very least. “Oh, absolutely, Trav. We’ve got some nice houses in North Hollywood. Like twenty minutes from downtown Burbank—or, you know, before six in the morning and after eight, because otherwise….”
Yeah, in LA, there was only one way to finish that sentence. “Traffic,” Trav muttered. “Okay. Let’s go with one of those. Which one can I have in a week?” he said. In a month, when Mackey was out, they could have it all set up, and he could pin up some posters or buy his own goddamned duvet or something. “Yeah, two weeks at the mo—” He broke off when he heard a disturbance in the front room. “Daphne, you have my info—Heath Fowler is taking the expenses for at least the first six months—but I’ve got to bail.”
He hung up without even a good-bye and strode into the living room.
And almost plowed over Mackey Sanders.
“Oh my God you’re short,” he said reflexively. “And what in the hell are you doing here?”
Mackey had seemed small before when he’d been jonesing and sick, but now that he was walking on his own power, clean, with his hair pulled back in a ponytail out of luminous, overlarge gray eyes, he wasstillonly five foot six.
“Looking for my spot,” he muttered. “I’m fucking tired. Man, they tell you that you have to recover, but you just don’t buy it, you know?Ididn’t buy it.Ithought it was a crock of shit, but no. I’m fucking wiped out. I need to fucking sleep. Where’s my spot?”
His voice was singsong and sarcastic, and for a moment, all Trav could do was stare at him. “Are youhigh?” he asked in outrage.
Mackey shot him a look of pure disgust out from under sandy-blond eyebrows. “After the last four days, are youshittingme? I don’t ever wanna be fucking high again. FuckingJesus, do you know what that detoxing thing is like?” He looked at his brothers and bandmates and Shelia (an odd, indefinable quantity Trav was not ready to discuss). “It’shorrible.Jefferson, you and Stevie, don’t never start doing the pills, guys, ’cause I know you don’t touch them, but they’reseriouslybad for you.” He nodded gravely. “Blake, man, give up the fuckin’ blow.” He yawned then and turned around to Trav. “Now where’s my spot? I need to sleep.”
Trav had to remember to close his mouth. “Mackey, I thought you’d be in rehab for a while. I sort of took over your room.”
Mackey shrugged. “I just need to sleep next to the bed,” he said through another yawn. “I’ll be out of your way.” And with that he brushed past Trav into the room, the little knapsack of goods Trav had packed for him hanging on his back like a high school student’s.
Trav watched the door swing shut and tried to remember how his life had gotten completely out of hand.
“He’s not staying,” he said to the mildly surprised band.
Kell snorted. “That’s what you think,” he muttered and then turned back to his own room. He had a girl in there, but Kell and Blake didn’t really talk about their girls. Living with the band was like living in a frat house, except with maid service. And except for the fact that Shelia stayed with Stevie and Jefferson, in their room. Hell, she had her own dresser.
Blake snickered. “Was he fucking serious about the blow? Jesus, what a fuckin’ moron.” And with that he turned to the kitchen, probably to make himself a drink so he could couch. They had an Xbox and a Wii, and Blake was reigning champion.
He was going to get fat, Trav thought meanly, watching as Jefferson, Stevie, and Shelia made plans for Shelia to take them shopping.
God, that was almost normal. Trav sighed and reached into his pocket. “Here,” he said, pulling out his corporate card. “Get some shit for Mackey—shit that fits. Go to the kids’ department if you have to, but try to make himnotlook twelve years old, okay?” He paused. “Anddon’tget any more of those damned crackers!” Every time somebody went out—Kell, Blake, Jefferson/Stevie/Shelia—they came back with a giant box of those Chicken in a Biskit crackers. It was like this weird obsession—they had six boxes of them, and as of yet, nobody had openedoneof them.
Shelia smiled sunnily. “Yeah, sure.” She took the card and handed it to Stevie, who seemed to handle day-to-day matters for the three of them. “Here, hon. You sign for stuff. Me and Jeff’ll pick it out.”
Stevie smiled at her, his average brown eyes lighting up. He kissed her forehead tenderly. “You guys are real good at that,” he said sweetly, and together, the three of them trooped out, like magical elves or fairies or wizards or something.
Trav sighed. Mackey, he thought, almost with relief. He needed to talk to Mackey.
MACKEYWASasleep. Mackey was asleep for the next two days.
True to his word, he’d walked into the bedroom, found a space between the wall and the bed, taken off his pants, and curled up with the comforter. Trav had ordered another comforter from housekeeping and slept in the bed. Mackey barely breathed hard, much less snored—he hadn’t been kidding about it being like no one being there.
Trav did his work around that huddled, sleeping form in the corner—and his first order of business was to talk to the guy Mackey wassupposedto be “touring” rehab with.
