Page 26 of Beneath the Stain

So an agent or a manager in the audience? Someone who could hook them up with a record contract and a tour? That was big fucking news.

Mackey needed Grant to smile about it, and Grant couldn’t meet his eyes.

So Mackey forgot about it. He got up on stage in his jeans and a button-up silk shirt. The shirt was made with cutaway shapes—stars, moons, lightning bolts—because Grant still bought his concert clothes. The other guys didn’t wear suits anymore, just jeans and T-shirts without holes. Stevie and Jefferson had taken to buying contrasting shirts, one in black and the other in white or one in red and the other in blue, both with the same logo. It was cool, because it was their thing, but it was also disturbing because, well, same brain.

Grant wore something designer and spiffy, Kell wore whatever was clean, and Mackey wore outrageous. It helped define them, and Mackey was prouder than ever that he led his brothers on the stage.

The set wentwell.Maybe it was the electricity from the crowd, or maybe it was that the guys all knew something was on the line, but Mackey could feel it. Every note was perfect, even the ones that came out as primal screams into the microphone, because some of Mackey’s songs weren’t gentle.

He closed his eyes and became the music, and between songs he flirted and fucked with the crowd. They played two sets, with a half-hour intermission between them. Wasn’t it funny how a half hour could change their lives?

Backstage was actuallyoutsideat this club, and the outside had a little walled patio with a bartender who served them drinks on the house, even though Mackey was still technically underage. Mackey didn’t drink until the set was over anyway—too much was riding on him not sounding like an asshole.

No one was allowed backstage between sets, so the guys got their comp drinks and kicked back in the barely faded August heat. Kell closed his eyes and honest to Godnapped, because old man Adams had run his ass off all week, making him work extra hours and shit. Jefferson was pretty close to the same state, because although Mackey had only seen him as a head by the office when he’d run by to pick the guys up, apparently old man Adams really was the asshole Grant had barely complained about during high school.

Mackey was bouncing on his toes, eyes closed, face toward the sky, running through the river song in his head, as well as “Scream” and their cover versions of “In One Ear” and “Stairway to Heaven,” because they liked to pay tribute to their roots.

The tap on his shoulder sent him corkscrewing into the stratosphere, arms flailing, legs kersplanging, and when he connected solidly with a warm body, his eyes shot open and he tripped over his own feet and fell on his ass.

The guy in the suit, rubbing his jaw, was considerably older than Mackey had been prepared for.

“I amsofucking sorry!” Oh God. Thishadto be the agent, and Mackey had just clocked him!

“No worries,” the guy said, rubbing the graying stubble on his once-square chin. “I get that a lot. I’m Gerald Padgett—uhm, is Grant Adams anywhere around? He was the one I made contact with?”

“Mr. Padgett!” Grant came from out of nowhere, helping Mackey up with one hand and shaking Mr. Padgett’s hand with the other. “Oh my God—Mackey didn’t mean it, sir. He just gets keyed up for a show, right?”

Gerald Padgett smiled wryly. “Yeah, well, I get that. I’m surprised you boys are doing another set, actually—that first one was a lulu!”

Mackey grinned, because he had no choice but to be Mackey. “Yeah, well, we performed a lulu so we could woo-woo, right?”

“Oh Jesus,” Kell groaned. “Mackey, do you have to?”

But Mr. Padgett just waved his hand. “No, no, that’s okay. It’s good to know you like to play a little. Because I’m here to make sure you boys get to play alot.”

Kell let out a little whoop, but suddenly Mackey found he had a business brain after all. “Yeah, you say that, but who else you done this for? We get people telling us we should be famous all the time, but all they got for us is a chance to play their cousin’s bar mitzvah.” Until that had happened four or five times, Grant had been the only one to know what a bar mitzvah evenwas.

Gerald Padgett grinned and reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a card from his old plaid suit. “That there is a very good question. You recognize that label, boys?”

“Tailpipe Productions,” Mackey breathed, looking at Grant excitedly.

“Who the hell is that?” Kell asked, glaring at Mr. Padgett fiercely. Apparently Mackey’s question had hit Kell sort of deep.

“That’s the company that produces Pineapple Express and Grendel,” Mackey said, his eyes wide. “Kell, this guy’s the real deal.”

Mr. Padgett smiled gently. “I am indeed. Now, I understand you boys are going to need a new lead guitar. We’ve got some guys ready to audition, but once you pick one, we can be in the studio next week—”

Mackey looked at Kell first and saw his nose wrinkle in confusion, and then he looked at Grant.

Who wasn’t meeting anybody’s eyes.

“No,” he whispered, at the same time Kell said, “No, goddammit! Grant, you pussy, you don’t need to get marriedthatbadly!”

Mackey just stared at him. Grant… well, those eyes Mackey had always loved, those pretty, golden hazel eyes were shiny, glittering, just like the songs. Suddenly Grant grabbed Mackey’s shirt collar and said, “Me and Mackey gotta talk.”

He dragged Mackey back into the club, into the tiny green room by the bathrooms, then threw the door shut behind him and locked it.

“Grant?” Mackey’s voice was so wobbly his knees were weak with it. “What—”