Page 31 of Beneath the Stain

Terry started screaming at him, his voice half-hysterical, his words—well, it was probably best Trav just forget what he was trying to say.

It wouldn’t change anything, would it?

“Trav? Trav, are you paying attention?”

Heath Fowler was one of Trav’s oldest friends. They’d survived boot camp together, and MP school two years later, and six years in the MPs together in the Middle East. Heath had opted out of the military first, because he had a friend in the music industry and he wanted to take advantage of that, but the minute Trav had cleared college, Heath had offered him a job.

Trav had taken it, actually—his first two years out of business school, he’d managed Pineapple Express and had loved it.

“I’m always paying attention,” he said, and he meant it. “Poor Gerry Padgett dropped dead while Outbreak Monkey was getting ready to record their new album, and nowyouneed a Management Monkey, and hello, you know I’m between gigs!”

Heath shook his head and scowled, and Trav sat up a little straighter. “Be nice,” he snapped. “Gerry was a friend—”

“Gerry was a pill-popping disaster—”

“Yeah, but he was a nice guy. I sent him to Outbreak Monkey on purpose, do you get that? Man, one look at those kids on stage—three of them are brothers, right? No dad—not even the same sperm donor, and they’ve got the ripped jeans and the hungry eyes and the fucking attitude, and I’m thinking, ‘Heath, if these guys make it, this business is going to ruin their lives.’ So I send them Gerry, thinking that he’s going to be good ol’ Uncle Gerry, and he’ll sort of take care of them, right?”

“Wait—you say kids. How old are they?”

Heath grimaced. “Let’s see—I’ve had them for fourteen months, and Mackey—that’s the youngest—he turned nineteen just before he signed, so, he’s twenty, Jefferson and Stevie are twenty-one, and Blake and Kell are twenty-three.”

Trav rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly children in a salt mine,” he muttered.

Heath scowled again. “You liking the corporate apartment, Trav? The one I gave you with an hour’s notice because Terry fucking left you like he should have done years ago? So you’re an adult—you’re thirty-fucking-five years old, and you need a hand up. These guys are kids, and they’ve never had money in their lives, and now they’ve got it and they don’t know what to do with it. I mean, some of it they’re shoving up their noses, but most of it just sort of sits there. Gerry had to make them buy clothes, and he kept them on tour, so I don’t even think they’ve got a place to fucking sleep that’s not a hotel room. They’re here in LA for the next three months with one goal—”

“Put out the fucking album. I’m not stupid.”

Heath grunted. “Not businesswise, no. But sometimes I think the reason you became an MP was because you knew people would hate you anyway, and that way you had a patch on your arm that gave you permission to be an asshole.”

Trav must have made a sound then, some sort of pain grunt, because Heath sighed and looked him in the eyes.

“Trav, I’m sorry. Man, I don’t want to beyourasshole. But these kids need more than a manager, okay? I thought Gerry could do it, but he was in a lot of pain himself, and I didn’t see it. He died—I had to get the kids to the funeral, do you know that? They had no idea what to even wear. I mean, Gerry didn’t have a family—there I was, two days before the graveside, and I’m taking five stoned kids to buy black suits because the only thing they had close was from their first gig as high school students and none of that shit fit.” Heath looked away. “And Mackey’s shit was too goddamned big because I think he’s been living off of Jack and Coke for the last year.” Heath shuddered and looked at Trav with naked pleading in his eyes.

“We sign them up and then work their asses off to make money for us, Trav. This industry—man, it chews the kids up and spits them out, and we both know it. And these kids… I mean, Mackey’s got more talent than any kid I’ve ever dealt with. You know how Bruce and Bono and Madonna are like,oldnow, but they keep making damned good music?”

Trav nodded. “Wrecking Ball” had been playing in his temporary apartment since he’d walked away from Terry. God save Bruce Springsteen.

“Well, this kid could be that guy. He’s got so much inside him. But it’s not going to happen unless someone gets him to rehab and makes his life regular and shows him how to fucking survive, you hear me?”

Trav sighed. “Babysitting?”

Heath glared at him. “You remember Private Banneker?”

Oh God. Trav swallowed against a sudden dry mouth and the memory of eyes popping out of a swollen face and the haunting swing of feet four feet above the ground. He’d checked. Goddammit, he’dcheckedto make sure Banneker was clear, didn’t have any goddamned thing to harm himself with inside his cell.

Fucking kid had ripped his fatigues on a rough spot under the bunk and found a way to hang himself.

“Horrible fucking memory,” Trav breathed, trying to clear that image from behind his eyes. Stupid kid. It was a three-month offense, max. Three months and a demotion. He couldn’t live through three months and a demotion? Trav had learned after that. Learned to talk the prisoners down as he locked them up. Learned to make it practical, a thing they could handle instead of the end of their lives.

“Yeah?” Heath asked, rubbing his face restlessly, his own voice shaking. “Wasn’t great for me either.” Heath had been the one to find Banneker. They’d bunked together then, and Trav had been the one to help him through the nightmares.

“You’re saying this kid’s gonna—” Trav couldn’t even make himself say it.

“I’m saying someone needs to hold this kid’s hand for a while.”

Heath looked Trav square in the eyes, and for once, he wasn’t wearing the contact lenses he called his Hollywood Blues. Trav found the honesty in his plain, average brownish eyes refreshing.

“Babysitting,” Trav said, but he winked as he said it and stuck out his hand to shake on the bargain. “When do I start?”