Page 153 of Beneath the Stain

“Wearebrothers,” he said in wonder. “We are. You didn’t need to give me a job, Heath. You know that, right? I would have stood with you anyway.”

Heath cackled. “I gave you a job because you’regood,” he said seriously. “Man, I inherited Gerry—Icovetedyou. When I found out you were sleeping with Mackey Sanders, I about creamed my shorts. If you guys could make that last… man, I could have founded a musiclegacy. Wouldn’t that be awesome?” Heath made a happy sound and closed his eyes. “Remember all those young men, those fucked-up young men we had in jail? The Army doesn’t always make a man out of you, Trav. Sometimes it just teaches you how to hide the scared kid with more violence.”

Trav shuddered, assailed by the same memories. “Amen.”

“I love music. I fucking love it. If I could have a place where we foster music, let it grow… man, I wouldloveto be that record company, you know? You and Mackey—you could be my cornerstone.” Heath shook himself. “Not that I want all my managers sleeping with their lead singers—that’s sort of an anomaly. But you know what I mean.”

Trav smiled. God, for all his progression into the land of the heavy-jowled fat cat, Heath had such a pure heart in him. Trav never should have left Tailpipe for consulting work. How could he not want to work with Heath Fowler?

“Yeah, I know.”

“But I don’t want you to stay with him or him with you just because it would makemylife better. How do you need him to need you?”

“He wrote ‘Fixing’ for me, did you know that?”

Heath rolled his eyes. “I sort of figured.”

“Every time he sings it, he looks at me like he can’t sing another note if I’m not in the audience, waiting for it to come out.That’show I want him to need me.”

Heath rumbled in his throat. He was good with the rumble—it was damned near intimidating. “Just that song or the entire album?” he asked, like it was a serious question.

Itwasa serious question. “Just that song… well, a couple of them. But not all of them.”

A radiant smile bloomed on Heath’s broad face. “Then it’s going to be okay. You can’t be the whole album, Trav. You just can’t. But you can be the best songs.”

Heath left not long after, and Trav caught a few hours of sleep. He awoke suddenly, feeling grody and lost and needing Mackey more than he needed the ibuprofen Heath had left next to the bed with a bottle of water and a protein bar. He lay there for a few minutes, collecting himself, letting the ibuprofen kick in, and trying to remember how he ever got to sleep or woke up without Mackey.

Could he do it again?

What would it take for him not to want to wake up with Mackey next to him? For a moment a bleak film, a step-by-step instruction book of how to live without Mackey Sanders, looped in his head, and he saw every moment of leaving in intimate detail.

He gasped and shook his head. Whatever would cause him to leave Mackey hadn’t happened yet. Odds were good it wouldneverhappen, and Trav had to believe in that. It was what got him out of bed and made him determined to get his shit together and get back to where he belonged.

He was about ready to step into the shower when Mackey practically beat his door down. Trav threw open the door to Mackey’s furious face and a feeling that he’d missed quite a lot.

“You aren’t out yet?” Mackey stalked in, his hair a tangle around his shoulders, his eyes shadowed and furious. He had a black eye, a split lip, and a bruise on his jaw that he’d probably forgotten about, and he was wearing his oldest T-shirt, one of the ones that had come from the Walmart down the street.

Trav almost fell on his knees right there just to have him, pissed and ranting, charge through his door.

“One night, Trav. You said one night. A chance to breathe. That’s great. You’ve had your stupid night. Now get in the shower and we can go back to my mom’s house. I’ll even let you beat up my little brother for free.”

Trav glowered. “And I was just thinking that you’d gotten so mature,” he snapped, because, well, he had. He’djust, as he’d woken up with shards of glass exploding through his brain, come to the conclusion that Mackey and the band had probably grown up 100 percent in the past year. In fact, even if he and Mackey weren’t lovers, they’d be just fine. His breath hitched and his chest ached and his eyes burned at the thought. God,thatwas what was sticking in his craw, wasn’t it? Mackey would be just fine, and Trav would be like Mackey had been, a wreck, a disaster, unable to tie his own shoes.

“Yeah, you fucking wish.” Mackey plowed through the open door and drove Trav backward, kicking the door shut as he went. “I’m a fucking grown-up—I could be President of Grown-ups of America—but you would still need to be at my side.”

Mackey had a beach bag in his hands, which he dropped on the floor without even looking at it.

“Mackey,” Trav said, taking a deep breath. “You and I—I mean, you’re here, and Grant’s here, and—”

Mackey shoved him in the chesthard, hard enough to send Trav onto the bed, where he sat down in surprise.

“You need to fucking listen,” Mackey said, squatting down in front of him like he would talk to a child. “Do we have our listening ears on, Travis Ford? Really? Because I’m pretty sureyouleft them somewhere else when we got off the plane.”

Trav glared. “Mackey, I have got a hangover and my mouth tastes like dog shit. Maybe you could let me take a shower and—”

“And what? Get drunk again tonight because you decided I don’t need you anymore?”

Trav flinched back, stung. “That isnotwhat happened last night—”