Page 23 of Beneath the Stain

Mackey felt it: hot come, jerking into his body, slick and invasive. That thought sent him smashing into orgasm, screaming into Grant’s mouth until his throat was raw.

They calmed down. Grant got up, leaving Mackey cold and sprawled on the bed with his legs spread, but when Grant came back, he had a warm washcloth that he used to clean Mackey up with, and then himself. He got back into bed and touched Mackey’s chest, kissed his shoulder, until Mackey turned toward him and started kissing back.

“You okay?” Grant asked, his voice shaky.

“Yeah.”

“Areweokay?”

“Yeah.” They had to be, right? If they weren’t okay, then what? No more moments? No more of Grant’s touches? No more of them together?

Unbearable.

“We’re great,” Mackey said, and he made himself believe it. Self-delusion is easy at fifteen.

It would be easy at sixteen and seventeen and eighteen and nineteen too.

But Mackey wasn’t thinking about nineteen that night. All he let himself think about was Grant’s body, and pleasing it. By the time they left the hotel room late the next morning, he and Grant had done everything they could think of. He’d held Grant’s thighs up and done filthy, obscene things with his tongue—and loved them. Loved the taste of Grant’s sweat and come and the feel of his skin. Loved the sounds he brought about, loved every act they performed.

He tried to top and was not wonderful at it. He was so greedy, so trembly, Grant had needed to take over, to direct him, to take his own pleasure from Mackey when Mackey couldn’t give him what he needed.

Afterward, though, he let Mackey clean him up, wash them both, and they curled up naked under the covers. Grant turned off the light and they were alone in the dark of the hotel room, counting each other’s breaths in the sudden silence.

“I wish this was us all the time,” Mackey confessed, knowing it was stupid. Even if he was a girl, girls didn’t get married at fifteen.

“Me too,” Grant whispered back. “We’ll just have to… have to take what we can, right? Be ready, all the time, to do this.”

Mackey closed his eyes and breathed their sex and their body heat inside. “This is what they mean,” he realized. “When they say stolen kisses.”

They fell asleep in the middle of a stolen kiss.

THEYWOKEup late, with barely enough time to shower before they had to be on the road. Grant drove as fast as he could without attracting attention so he could make up time, and they ate breakfast and lunch practically on the run.

They talked during the trip home like they hadn’t stolen that night together, like Mackey was Kell’s little brother and Grant was Kell’s best friend. But right before they hit their county, Grant pulled into a rest stop, saying he had to take a leak, and Mackey followed him, thinking he’d do the same.

Nobody was there, but Grant pulled him into a stall anyway, talking softly after the door closed. “I meant what we did last night,” he said, looking into Mackey’s eyes. “However this ends, whatever lies we have to tell, you just gotta know that, okay?”

“Okay,” Mackey said, helpless. “I know. I know.”

Grant kissed him hard and fast, and when Mackey would have gotten lost in it, Grant opened the door behind him and shoved him out.

Well, yeah.

Both of them really did have to take a leak, didn’t they?

And that was how they did it. For five years, that was how they did it. Grant slept with Samantha at the end of August. A week later he showed up at the school, snuck Mackey out, and took him in the backseat, parked behind a tree by the river. Mackey went back to school reeking of come and hardly able to walk, and nobody said a damned thing.

Grant bought a van for the band’s equipment, what Jeff called a serial-killer van, with no windows. Stevie hired Tony to stencil the band’s logo on the side, and it looked really official, but the best part? Grant kept a stack of blankets in the back, thick ones meant to cushion the equipment so it didn’t get damaged when they drove around to gigs. Mackey didn’t drive, and Kell owned the other car, so it just made sense for Mackey and Grant to take the van when they went out of town. “Help move shit” became a euphemism for Mackey getting laid. The van ran like a dream, but Grant told everyone it overheated if it went too fast. Mackey got more action in the back of that van than porn stars got on set. And Mackey was greedier for it too. They had no time for shyness, for courting. The minute they had time to themselves, they were slutty, rapacious cocksucking fuckers, and both of them got pro quality at the two-minute blowjob.

It wouldn’t occur to Mackey until later that speed was not necessarily what you wanted from a lover. It didn’t even rank in the top three.

Outbreak Monkey continued to grow. Grant used his dad’s business contacts and they played three or four places regularly, earning a steady enough paycheck for Mackey to not have to work anywhere else but the music store. Kell and Jeff moved into the apartment next to their mother’s with Stevie, but Mackey could make up the difference for their mom, so it was okay that they moved out. (Mackey didn’t want to tell anyone, but he liked the bunk bed anyway. If he wasn’t going to sleep with Grant, the little cove kept him safe.)

Mackey made it through high school in a wobbly sort of way. His math and science scores were mostly luck, but his English and history grades were outstanding. As one teacher said, anything he could make into a song had his complete attention. For the most part, Mackey used the popularity the band gave him to stay above it all. The band played school functions and rich kids’ birthdays, and the kids who wanted to hang all over him helped with the equipment.

Tony was one of those.

He wasn’t annoying, though—was just, like he’d told Mackey before, entranced by the music. He never tried anything, didn’t even flirt, and Mackey treated him like a friend. It was good to have friends. He played in the band with his brothers and his lover—talking to Tony about the Features or Cage the Elephant was like breathing sweet air.