Page 104 of Beneath the Stain

“Was?”

“He was our roadie—only out kid at our high school.” Mackey laughed without humor. “Kell tried to be horrible to him, but me and Grant—”

“Wouldn’t let him.”

“Yeah—and then he started helping with our roadie shit, and Kell backed off. Just liked the music,” Mackey murmured. “Our first fan. Heard me practice, guessed about me and Grant. I guess he had a crush on me, but I was straight with him. Told him the truth, let him tag along when we did out of town gigs.”

“Why didn’t he come with you?” Because obviously he hadn’t. The kids had apparently stepped out of their own lives with only the shitty hand-me-down clothes on their backs.

“I asked,” Mackey said, sounding wounded. “I asked. But his mom was sick and his sister was away at school. And we left, and I… dropped out of my head and dropped out of life, and he was all alone.”

“What happened?” But by now Trav sort of knew.

“I wanted to talk to him,” Mackey said plaintively. “I was… I was happy. I’d had adate, and you know? Neither of us had one of those. I thought I’d call, share. Tell him to get the fuck out of Tyson so he could have one too.”

“What—”

“He hung himself,” Mackey said abruptly. “Listening to my fucking CD. Fucking Jesus.”

Their sweat had cooled by now, but they were both sticky, smelly, and sore. Trav moved to the side a little and grabbed Mackey’s hand anyway. Mackey squeezed, and Trav nuzzled his temple.

“That’s horrible, McKay. I’m sorry you lost your friend. But it’s not your fault.”

Mackey grunted and leaned into him. “Why’s shit gotta be so awful, Trav?”

It was a child’s question, one that adults could never answer.

“So we know the good stuff when we see it.”

Mackey nodded, and they stayed there, just stayed there and breathed, until the car drove up the hill.

MACKEYDIDN’Tsay much on the way back—just sat and gazed out the window—but Trav didn’t blame him. Probably arranging stuff in his own head. They got back and showered—thank God—and Trav got out and dressed in sweats and a soft T-shirt. His running clothes had chafed the holy fuck out of his thighs and nipples, and he figured Mackey’s had probably done the same.

That was when he remembered the cuts on Mackey’s hand.

The minute he heard the shower turn off in Mackey’s bathroom, he was there at the doorway with the first-aid kit in his hand and a no-nonsense knock.

“Trav?” Mackey opened the door with a towel wrapped around his waist and dripping hair. “I thought no—”

“No sex,” Travis sighed, almost flattered that that was the first place Mackey’s mind went. “I get it—”

“Not that I don’twantsex,” Mackey hastened to add. “I mean, like—dayum—but you said. It’s like rules. No sex until… I don’t know.” His shoulders slumped in sudden exhaustion. “Sometime,” he finished disconsolately.

Trav wanted to appreciate his trim little body—the muscles popping out along his abdomen and arms, the pebbled pink nipples against his tanned skin—but his nipples were, in fact, red, and he had marks on his neck where his collar had rubbed too. The slices on his hand—between his thumb and forefinger on both hands and across the palm of his right—were the most troubling, though.

“Sometime,” Trav promised, swallowing. “But let me doctor your boo-boos first. Let’s stop everything from hurting, okay?”

“Sometimes it feels good when it hurts,” Mackey said. He tried to make a joke of it, but his eyes were bright and shiny and his face was a peaked little triangle against the blue of the towels.

“Sit down on the bed,” Trav ordered. Mackey did, without any fight at all. Well, it had been a long run. Trav pulled the numbing antibiotic out, and the big bandages first. “The hand,” he instructed. Mackey’s meekness when he held it out almost frightened him. “I know sometimes it feels good when it hurts,” Trav said, his voice pitching gently. Mackey looked so defeated—this was not the good kind of hurt. “But I think you’ve been hurt enough.” Trav applied the ointment on the cut on his palm, and then the big Band-Aid.

“I ain’t a nice person,” Mackey said. He used “ain’t” primarily when his self-hatred was the harshest.

Trav smoothed the Band-Aid with careful fingers. “Not always,” he admitted, working on the cut between his thumb and forefinger. He was going to use gauze and tape on this one—it would need to bend. “What did you do now?”

“I….” Mackey sighed. “I just got so mad. Nobody told me. Kid hung himself listening to my CD, you think someone would have called and told me. I mean, I was a fucking mess, but… God. He was a friend. And his sister was yelling at me about how it was all my fault and….”

Trav finished doctoring the right hand, held it up to his lips, and kissed the knuckles. “All better,” he said softly. “What’d you say to her?”