Page 136 of Beneath the Stain

“I didn’t finish. I just want to say that I don’t want you hurt. Shit’s gonna happen, and you’re going to get hurt, but I never meant to do it.” Again, that big sigh. “I don’t know if that’s worth anything, but it’s all I got.”

Trav dropped a kiss in his knotted, water-ratted hair. “Intentions should count,” he said after a minute. Mackey’s hair smelled animal and real, and he wished for a moment that they were alone. But they’d get lots of time to be alone and not a whole lot of time to be the lot of them, the band, where anyone else could understand. “I promise to try to remember that.”

“We got weak sauce for promises,” Mackey muttered in disgust, and it was Trav’s turn to sigh. Somewhere in the hotel, someone was having one hell of a bachelor/fishing party, and Trav could only hope they woke up feeling like dogs shit in their mouths. God, they were making a vicious racket—it echoed in the brightness beyond the tattered blackout curtains. Trav was one version of “Freebird” away from going outside and kicking righteous fucking ass.

“Then maybe we should be making different promises,” Trav said after a moment.

“You write the music, I’ll do the lyrics,” Mackey mumbled. Then, slightly more awake: “If one of those bozos wakes up dead tomorrow, will we be asked to testify, or can we still get the hell out of Dodge?”

Trav grunted. “I am a better manager than that. If one of those bozos wakes up dead, we were never here.”

Mackey laughed softly. “You were a scary motherfucker in the Army, weren’t you?”

Trav closed his eyes, remembered sweat, grit, terrified men, and that certain amount of fear and loathing that prisoners emanated when they were around an apex predator. “Nothing but the scariest motherfucker for you, Mackey. Swear.”

“Good,” Mackey said seriously. When Trav opened his eyes, he saw Mackey regarding him soberly. “’Cause the whole fucking world knows I’m dating my manager, and all of Tyson is going to be running around trying to prove they’re bigger and scarier than you so they can feel good about themselves for not being gay.”

“Charming,” Trav grunted. “Can’t wait.”

“And Briony and Shelia shouldn’t go anywhere alone either—”

“Briony isn’t going anywhere,” Briony mumbled. “Briony is sick, and the two assholes talking next to her are driving her to homicide.”

Mackey rolled in Trav’s arms and felt her forehead. “Aw, man—Trav, she’s burning up—”

“I can take a cold tab,” Briony grunted. “Just shut up, for sweet fuck’s sake.”

Mackey sighed and Trav nuzzled his neck. And put buying cold and flu medication on his mental list of things to do in six hours, when the whole puppy-pile mess of them got up, finished the tour, and went to meet their past.

My Hometown (Bowling for Soup version)

THEYLEFTLA like Trav promised, hardly two hours after they took their final bow on the tour. By the time the little plane Trav had chartered touched down on the tiny landing strip outside of Hepzibah, Briony had a fever of 103 and a graveyard cough.

Mackey’s first priority once they landed was getting her to the hospital so she could get some antibiotics and fluids.

Trav rode with them and sent Debra in the other rental he’d had waiting to take the others to Mackey’s mother’s house, which, she assured them, could hold the whole lot of them, Briony as well.

Apparently they’d wrought better than they knew when they’d bought that house.

Mackey’s first glimpse of it was dozing in Trav’s arms, Briony curled against him as much as a girl who was over five eight could curl. Her fever was down, she’d had fluids for six hours, and now she was just exhausted.

She also wanted her mother, but she’d tried to hide that fact from Mackey and Trav. But the fifth time she checked her phone to get a random text from her mom, like she got most days, Mackey and Trav met eyes and Trav started texting Briony’s mom too. He wasn’t sure he could get the woman up there, but he could certainly try.

But in the meantime, Mackey’s first glance at his mother’s home was through bleary eyes, and it looked, well, a lot like the big houses in LA. Two stories, with wings on either side, it was white stucco, which would hopefully keep the inside cooler during the area’s broiling summers. Mackey remembered something about passive solar, and he figured that was why there were no windows on one side of the house.

“Who lives in this neighborhood?” Mackey asked fuzzily.

Trav recited, as though from memory, “Two wealthy retired starlets, two Olympic skiers who skate down the hill trails as practice, a guy who made his fortune selling used cars and then retired here, and the mother of a rock band whose boys take care of her. You want any more details?”

“Yeah,” Mackey muttered. “Whose SUV is that in the driveway?” He knew his mother had a little Kia Sportage and figured that was in the garage. The Navigator Trav had rented was sitting outside, so Mackey knew Debra had gotten everyone home the night before. The slightly battered midsized SUV looked a lot like….

Mackey closed his eyes and opened them again.

“That’s Grant,” he said, his whole face going cold from the shock. “That’s his car.”

But the guy in the driver’s seat, leaning back and closing his eyes like he was in pain, didn’t look at all like Grant Adams.

“His timing isawesome,” Trav said with a sort of wonder. “Oh my God, I can finally see you two as a couple!”