Beneath the Stain - Part 2 (6 page)

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 a
part
of 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’t
have
to 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 of
a 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 then
really
wanted 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 he
did
want 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. I
hate
that you even think you know as much as you do. I
hate
that you saw me naked and sweating and helpless. So you don’t make no fucking assumptions about what you
think
you 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 than
find
the 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 of
words
to 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.”

“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?”

“Because
I’m
gay, you obnoxious little turd,” Trav snapped. God. Look at what this kid made of him. He was a
professional
, 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’t
you
tell him to for
you
?” 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 my
sleep
.” Trav would go do it
right now
if 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.”

And
then
he 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?

M
ACKEY
HAD
enough songs that they could make some forays into the studio while they were waiting for the house. Trav knew recording would be interrupted—
knew
it 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 does
not
mean 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.”

“Kay, I want that whole thirty-second/sixteenth syncopation thing going. That bump-buuump, bump-buuump, like a heartbeat gone wrong. It’s gonna be hard—you and Stevie’ll have to read each other’s minds or you’ll speed us up off a motherfucking cliff, right? Stevie, heavy on the bass, heavy on the high snare—leave all that other shit out. You gotta be the cleanest one of us or the song’ll get fucking cluttered.”

Stevie nodded, and started, and the song was on.

Mackey picked up his own guitar and picked out the riff, then put it down and started them all over again while he conducted from the center.  After those first fifteen bars, he began to sing.

Needles rip my skin but I ain’t bleeding I just sinned

Now I’m paying for my roller coaster screaming can you hear?

My heart is playing pain as it thunders through my veins

Like a tattoo of my bane can you all hear me screaming

COCAINE!

Mackey gave the signal at that last word, and the band broke up into complete chaos—or that was what Trav thought at first. Then he realized each player was just going off of the riff Mackey had given them as he played and making up the bridge from the riff as they went along.

The players quit, and Mackey turned to each one and told them what to do and whose lead to follow and generally aligned them with military precision into which instrument should play what where. He was matter-of-fact with Kell, sweet to Jefferson and Stevie, and a fucking dick to Blake.

When he was done, he started them off from the beginning.

Trav turned to Grayson when they’d gotten to the end of the song, and shook his head. Gray echoed the gesture.

“I was here for the last album,” Gray said, scratching at the brown-and-gray stubble he let grow when he didn’t need to be seen. “Man, watching that kid turn those bozos into a band is one of the joys of my fucking existence.”

They weren’t really bozos, Trav thought, watching them. When they were all in the room, playing the song, they were a unit—every guy in that circle was as driven as Mackey, and they all had talent, either God-given or earned by sweat.

But Mackey was their key, their epicenter, their heartbeat. God, Trav thought, remembering that quiet nighttime conversation from three days earlier. When he was in the center of his band brothers, he was stronger than strong enough. No
wonder
he needed help when he was dealing with the everyday. Trav would find day-to-day a letdown too, if he had this much magic in his veins.

But Mackey wasn’t a saint—not even close. Trav watched them interact for a few more minutes.

“Is he always such an asshole to Blake?”