Page 40 of Beneath the Stain
“Well, if he doesn’t stop using the word ‘faggot,’ I’m going to have to hit him myself,” Trav groused.
“Why?” Mackey muttered. “Why you got such a vested interest in Kell not being mean to faggots?”
“BecauseI’mgay, you obnoxious little turd,” Trav snapped. God. Look at what this kid made of him. He was aprofessional, for sweet heaven’s sake!
“Oh,” Mackey said, taking the wind out of Trav’s sails.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll make him behave. He’ll back off if I tell him to.”
“Then why don’tyoutell him to foryou?” Trav asked, out of patience.
Mackey took a breath, and then another. In the darkness, they rattled against the wads of comforter wrapped around him. “See, he don’t like people weaker’n him,” Mackey said at last. “I just don’t want him to decide I’m one of those.”
“I could take your brother out in mysleep.” Trav would go do itright nowif it would make Mackey see sense.
“Yeah, he probably knows that.” There was a beat of silence, then another, and then Mackey spoke again. “I couldn’t,” he said at last, apologetically. “I’m scrawny. All I got is my mouth. It won’t be enough if Kell don’t love me enough.”
Oh. “Oh.” Trav wasn’t even sure he said the word, but it seemed to echo between the two of them. Trav’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he rolled to his side, trying to make Mackey out in his little roll next to the bed. “You’re stronger than you think,” Trav said, because that was what people said when they were trying to give pep talks.
“Don’t bullshit me, babysitter,” Mackey said dismissively. “If the only thing you’re good at is truth, then that’s all you should do.”
Trav felt a burst of shame. Mackey was right—the truth really was his only strength.
“Okay, fine,” Trav muttered. “I have no idea how strong you are. But you don’t either. Maybe have a little hope for yourself, you think?”
Mackey laughed, low and sleepy. “Ten million people bought my record last year,” he said, his voice full of pride. “Ten million people singing my songs, screaming them out loud with me. You think that don’t give me hope? It’s the only hope I ever had.”
Mackey’s breaths grew deeper and more even, and Trav figured he’d gone to sleep.
Which sucked, because Trav was left with those words rattling around in his head.
Hope for more, he thought, the words so insistent he had to say them out loud, even though it was four in the morning and Mackey was already asleep.
“Hope for more.”
“I’d need to see a picture,” Mackey mumbled. “I don’t even know what that looks like.”
Andthenhe fell asleep, leaving Trav staring into the darkness until the gray horizon made the windows glow. Trav got up and shut the blackout curtains so he could go back to sleep, but the whole time he was wondering, what would he put in Mackey’s picture? What would attract Mackey Sanders enough to make him want to stay?
MACKEYHADenough songs that they could make some forays into the studio while they were waiting for the house. Trav knew recording would be interrupted—knewit wouldn’t be complete—but he couldn’t justify just sitting on his ass while he took a gamble that Mackey was going to disintegrate like a dandelion. Figuring they could at least get their rehearsal time in, Trav booked a room in the recording studio and stood on the other side of the glass to see what they did.
Watching Mackey work turned out to be a revelation.
They walked into the studio to find their equipment all set up and in tune, but that wasn’t enough for Mackey. Trav sat behind the glass with Grayson Holloway, their producer for this particular work, and watched Mackey pull out his spiral notebooks and set them on the music stand. Then he started talking to the band as he walked around and played a few chords on everybody’s instrument, tightening a string here, playing with the keyboard there, making sure the drum kit was exactly to Stevie’s spec. Mackey put his hands on everything—he didn’t let one bit of the band’s equipment go without his own personal sound check.
For a moment Trav expected the band to object—it was their shit he was groping. But they stood there and listened to Mackey’s instructions. When he was done, he sat on the little stool they’d placed for him and picked up his guitar.
“Okay,” he said, “so here’s how this first song goes. It’s called ‘Tattoo,’ and it’s about detox, so it’s gonna be pissed off. Kell, gimme some pissed-off minor chords in a standard progression, canya? Quick-like—2/4 time.”
Kell picked up his guitar, without the amp, and started softly playing what Mackey asked for. Mackey nodded. “’Kay, Blake, same thing, but half an octave higher. Same progression, at least for the hook. We’re gonna do about fifteen bars of hook before lyrics, so you guys get that squared away.” Mackey listened for a second. “Blake, half an octave higher doesnotmean in a different fuckin’ key. Man, get it straight.”
“You didn’t tell me the key, dammit!”
“Well, learn to fuckin’ hear. Minor chords—at least go F# and take a fuckin’ guess.” He listened for a second and grunted. “Clean up the progression and it might not suck. Jeff?”
“Yeah, Mackey.”
