Page 39 of Beneath the Stain
“Why?” Mackey asked, pulling his mouth up. “I don’t want the shit anymore. My body don’t need it. I just need some sleep and I’ll be—”
“Addicted,” Trav said flatly. He’d seen guys get addicted in the Army. The boredom, the stress—it’d do it to you every time. Tracking those guys down had sucked. They’d been absolutely sure that if they explained why theyneededthe drugs, all would be forgiven. “Just because your body doesn’t need it doesn’t mean there’s not stuff in yourmindthat needs it, Mackey. You were open to it. It’s not like you took one pill and got hooked. Not even one hit of coke. It’s that it happened again and again.”
Mackey shrugged and thought about it. “But I know how it happened,” he said, absolutely sure. “It happened ’cause I was stressing ’cause of the business. I’m not stressing anymore. I know how it works. Know what I’m s’posed to do. I’ll be fine.” He grinned. “I mean, once I get on stage, it’ll be great, you know? Once we start recording, it’ll be all sunshine and fucking roses. I don’t need no drugs when we’re making music. It’s better than Disneyland.”
“Yeah.” Trav foundered. “But Mackey, music can’t be all you are!”
And for the first time, he saw a crack in that “fuck you, I’m fine” thing Mackey had going. “Of course it can,” Mackey said, thrusting his lower lip out. “It’s who I am!”
Trav frowned. “No—it’s apartof who you are, but I’m pretty sure you’re more than the music.”
Mackey shook his head, serious as a fifth grader swearing a blood oath. “No, I’m not,” he said. Irrelevantly, Trav noticed that his eyelashes were blond with dark roots, like a baby’s. “Just ask my brothers. It’s all I’ve ever been.”
“Well, it doesn’thaveto be!” Trav laughed, trying to make the moment lighter. “Mackey, don’t you want… I don’t know. A house, a family, a cat? Don’t you want to take trips that have nothing to do with work or learn another language or get a degree in something?”
But it was no use. Mackey’s face had shut down at the mention ofa house, a family, a cat.“Man, lookit me. I’m not cut out for a house or a family—”
“Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you can’t have those things!” Trav burst out, and thenreallywanted to kick himself.
Mackey didn’t even get angry—that would have been better. At least it would have been honest.
Instead he just grinned and winked, and Trav could see him making that expression on stage as part of his act. “I’m not gay, brother,” he said, pulling his squirrel cheek back and making his dimple pop. “I’m only bi when I’m high!”
Trav’s jaw dropped. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Heath had taught him that blasphemy. His parents would be appalled, but Trav had learned to love it.
Mackey laughed for real and played idly with the strings on the guitar. “You know, my first song was a church song that I twisted for purposes that were definitely not on Our Lord’s agenda,” Mackey said wickedly. Then he launched into a very charming version of “Simple Gifts” that, it was true, had probably never been sung in a church.
Trav laughed bitterly when the song was done. “Was that you?” he asked. “Were you fighting all the time?”
“Of course it was.” Mackey smirked. “You’ve known me for three days and you probably wanna smack me. Imagine living in the same fucking town!”
“It’s not funny,” Trav rasped—partly because hedidwant to smack Mackey and partly because that would be a hell of a thing to grow up with. “‘Only bi when you’re high’ is a perfectly good reason to get high, isn’t it? How’re you going to have a relationship when you’re not jacked on pills, Mackey?”
Mackey grunted and shifted his gaze left and right quickly, like he was searching for an answer. “Maybe I’m just not a one-woman man,” he said with a tight swallow. He played with the strings some more and sighed. He’d obviously lost his momentum, but Trav couldn’t make himself feel bad. The room was silent, and Trav stared blindly out the window, seeing Mackey’s reflection against the darkness. His head drooped against his chest, and he rubbed the back of his neck restlessly with long, obviously roughened fingers. His hair fell out of his ponytail, straight and halfway down his cheekbones, but he didn’t brush it out of his eyes. If he wasn’t a junkie, Trav would have recommended an ibuprofen or something, but he was, and Trav wouldn’t bring it up if Mackey didn’t.
“How long can you tell yourself that?” Trav asked into the heavy quiet. “I mean, if it’s just your ignorant brother—”
Mackey snapped his head up. “You don’t say shit against my brother,” he snarled. “You don’t know fuckin’ nothing, Mr. Ford. Ihatethat you even think you know as much as you do. Ihatethat you saw me naked and sweating and helpless. So you don’t make no fucking assumptions about what youthinkyou know about me and mine, you hear?”
Trav gasped, shocked by his fury and a little hurt.
For a moment there’d been an intimacy between them. For a moment they’d almost been friends.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “My bad. I’ll just keep that bus to rehab all warmed up for you, okay, Mackey? That’ll be my job. I’ll get paid a fucking fortune to carry you down to the fucking ambulance because you can’t tell the fucking truth, even to yourself.”
“You do that,” Mackey muttered. “Man, I’d rather be the body thanfindthe body, so that’s just fine with me.” He clicked the light off savagely and set the guitar down in the corner, then stalked to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Trav lay back down and pummeled his pillows under his head. Mackey returned to the bedroom and threw himself in the tiny space between the bed and the wall, wrapped up so tight Trav wasn’t sure he could breathe.
The only sound in the darkened hotel room was their harsh breathing, and then Trav remembered something he should ask.
“Mackey, when we move into the house, what kind of bed do you want? I mean, you can’t sleep on the floor in your own home, even if you only stay there between tours.”
“I don’t know, man—get me a fucking coffin. That way you’ll be all ready for it when I finally OD.”
Trav buried his face in his pillows and growled. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, because it really was an all-purpose blasphemy, especially with Mackey. “You’re right, you know that? You’re so goddamned lucky you never got beaten to death I can’t even think ofwordsto tell you how lucky you are. How in the hell did you live to adulthood?”
“Kell,” Mackey said succinctly. “Him and Grant kept us alive in that shitty fucking town. Don’t say nothin’ mean about either of ’em.”
