Page 112 of Beneath the Stain
Mackey blinked and shrugged. “Yeah. Why not? I mean, you may be all ‘It’s no big deal’ and shit, but my people, until last year, we didn’t do planes. Still a big deal.”
Trav nodded, that tiny half smile still on his face, and then, in a way that was still wonderful, walked up behind Mackey and bent down to nuzzle his ear. “Will we get to have goodbye sex?” he asked softly.
Mackey giggled like a high school kid. “Can we have hello sex and howyadoin’ sex and all the sex in between?”
Trav’s low groan did things to him—sweet things in his stomach. They had made love three nights running, and Mackey’s body was starting to thrum, satiated, replete, like a fully powered amp. It was like his skin felt more during sex than it used to—and not just because of being off drugs. He tried to remember those moments with Grant, the two of them touching roughly, quickly, in secret and dark corners, and all he could remember was wanting more, trying to pull more from the air like a sponge pulling rain from overhanging clouds.
With Trav, he always had enough, even when he wanted more.
And now that that was going away, even for a week, Mackey was trying not to be needy, trying not to be greedy, but the truth?
The minute Trav got out of the car with his luggage, Mackey had felt it. A low-grade gnawing in the pit of his stomach, a restless flutter, a terrible need.
Trav had texted him as the car pulled back into the driveway, and Mackey stroked the face of the phone with his fingertip.
Boarding now. Text you when I get there. Scary word.
Scary word back.
And that was it. It was just Mackey knocking around the house like a rubber ball, trying not to think about the thing he used to do to pass the time.
So the first day, he went running by himself, and then came back and worked the bag downstairs. He sort of loved that—fighting without hurting anybody—but he had to be careful. No breaking his fingers or anything—had to keep in shape, right? They had a concert when Trav got back.
But that first day, he wore himself out before he rehearsed with the guys. It was pretty smart of Trav to get a house with studio space—that sure did make shit easier on them when they wanted to rehearse. They didn’t need to record there, and they didn’t set it up with tiles or acoustics or anything, but they had a place where Mackey could practice his showmanship, and they didn’t have to risk the paparazzi to get there. (Mackey wondered if maybe Trav could just pay those fuckers off. The ones who hung on doggedly after the whole “coming out” thing had faded seemed more in love with Mackey and the twins than anything else. Maybe some money and some willing head would just make them go the fuck away.)
But Mackey could, in good conscience, only do so much in the home studio. The guys wanted to go out and do shit—Christmas shopping, surfing, whatever—and Mackey couldn’t make them hang out with him and practice ad infinitum (or he could, but he was trying to recover from his workaholism as well), and he couldn’t hide from the outside world, paparazzi and all.
So on day two, after the still-functioning family run, he made some forays into malls, bought his mom some stuff for Christmas, and started buying for the other guys, but every trip to every store just built up that hunger. He didn’t understand shopping, didn’t understand prices, and was still so damned overwhelmed, sometimes, that they weren’t all wearing hand-me-downs and Walmart that buying high-end shit seemed like some sort of sacrilege.
By day three, he was climbing the fucking walls.
He tried to run, tried to practice, and was having serious thoughts about taking the car out and asking the driver to take him to a strip—anywhere he could find himself a score.
He had, in fact, put the guitar away and had stood up to grab the house phone to dojust thatwhen Trav texted.
How you doing?
Mackey closed his eyes. This was where he said he was fine, right? No big deal. Didn’t need Trav for recovery.
Jonesing.
He couldn’t believe he’d typed it.
Couldn’t believe it even more when the phone rang in his hands.
“Where are you?”
“At home. Don’t worry—no shit here.”
“Good. Did you try to get out?”
“Man, shopping makes me sick. I’m thinking I need to start heading up a charity or something—maybe get my degree. I’m losing my mind here without you.”
“Well, the degree sounds like a good idea. Maybe after the next tour. Or maybe computer classes. We’ll see. In the meantime, think about it, Mackey. What’s something you always wanted for yourself but you haven’t had time to do? You got time now—yourtime. What have you left out? Hang gliding? A boat trip? You just got to stay clean until we meet in Oakland, baby. That’s three days. What do you got?”
And Mackey had remembered wanting ink, and how the guys had gone and gotten some but he hadn’t thought of anything that he wanted to define him for permanent.
And then he realized whatdiddefine him, right here and now, and decided to go with that.
