Page 35 of Beneath the Stain

“Writing songs,” Jefferson said, surprised, like Trav should know this. “He was up until four in the morning doing that.” He glanced at the bed and shrugged. “Whatever he did with that other guy, that only lasted ’til ten. Mackey’s got an album to put out, and our mom’s got a house we bought on credit. You don’t think he’d forget that, do you?”

Trav looked at his watch, feeling old. It was ten o’clock in the morning. No wonder the kid had asked for coke to wake up. “He’s got two hours,” he said, trying to sound like a hard-ass.

“Yeah, okay,” Jefferson said, but he was still looking around the sterile hotel space. It wasn’t a bad hotel room, but in the end, that was all it was. “Mackey used to have rock posters all around his room, do you know that? There were three of us in there, and he had all these free posters he got from the music store, and every one of them had someone great. Michael Hutchence, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison. I sorta miss those posters. Stevie says when we get a real home, we can put up framed pictures. I’m looking forward to doing that.”

Jeff’s lips quirked up at a sudden cacophony of voices in the front room, and Trav realized he was going to have to change his tack.

He’d take care of the rest of the band first andthendeal with Mackey. Heath had been right—whatever obscure warning he’d been trying to give Trav, he was right.

The Sanders boys weren’t kids, but they were special. He was going to have to pull out his dusty people skills before he got military precision out ofthisbunch.

Not an Addict

SOMEONEYANKEDthe comforter off of him, and he wasfucking freezing.

“Give it back,” he mumbled. “Kell, gimme the blanket back, I’m fucking cold.”

“You’re in withdrawal,” came a flat voice, and Mackey groaned.

“Fucking shakes, man. I didn’t even need the coke, but where’d you put the fucking Xanax? I need that shit.” Mackey dimly remembered waking up to pee and coming back to the freshly made bed, only to see his stash had been leveled. He’d gone back to sleep—God, it had been so long since he’d been able to sleep—but then he’d been yanked rudely awake, and the pills were still gone.

Thattime, the fucker who’d taken his drugs had dragged him into the bathroom and shoved him under the fucking shower.

That was confusing. Someone hadbathedhim, rubbing his hair roughly with shampoo and scrubbing at his back and between his legs with a washcloth. It had been awful and invasive, but at the same time sort of comforting. When was the last time someone had taken care of him?

But that didn’t mean he wanted douchemonkeys washing him without his permission again.

Mackey sat up in his little corner, clutching the suddenly clean comforter to his naked chest. “I’m fucking sick,” he snapped. “Can’t I just get one lousy fucking pill?”

“No, but youcanget one lousy fucking trip to rehab,” snapped the douchemonkey who’d forced him into the shower.

“I don’t need rehab!” Mackey shouted, standing up in his space, the holy country of Mackey. “Just give me the fucking drugs!”

The guy was sitting by the side of the bed, one hand on the concierge phone. For the first time, Mackey got a good look at him.

He wasn’t bad, really. Short brown hair, maybe a little red in it. Brown eyes. One of those long faces with a long jaw, and a strong nose—not a pretty face, but a hard-ass face. You’d follow that lantern-jawed bastard into hell.

Apparently Mackey was doing just that.

“Don’t worry, Mackey,” the guy said in an absurdly gentle voice. “They’ll help you clean out in rehab. Sedate you until this shit’s out of your system.”

Mackey laughed a little, even though his skin felt like it was being pierced with a thousand tattoo needles. God, all the other guys had gotten inked, but not Mackey. Mackey wasn’t sure he knew what he wanted on his body for permanent yet. Nothing that was his. Nothing real. So maybe what tattoo needleswouldhave felt like—myriad pinpricks on exposed skin—and his joints ached like he had a fever, and his chest hurt, and his head. A wave of black nausea washed over him, and he bent double.

“Man, I’m gonna puke,” he muttered, and before the next wave swept him, a firm hand was supporting his back, lifting him so he could hang his head over the trash can.

He finished, and the guy disappeared, leaving Mackey blessedly alone to die in peace. He wasnotpleased when the guy came back and wiped his face with a wet cloth and made him rinse out his mouth. He was evenlesspleased when strong arms—hella strong, like tree trunks—lifted him off the floor and laid him on the bed.

“Let me back down!” he protested, feeling feeble. God, he could barely roll over. “Man, I hate this bed. Too big. Too fucking big. Don’t need a bed this big.”

He wrestled with the comforter, which disappeared with a jerk only to float back down on top of his body. He clutched it to his shoulders again and huddled, freezing and sweating and wishing he could die.

“One fucking pill,” he muttered. “All this asshole needs to do is give me one fucking pill. Goddammit, I need to fucking write.”

He struggled to sit up. “Don’t you see that I need to fucking write? I need to write, motherfucker! We’re not gonna get the album done, and then there goes our contract, and I gotta have the music, man—what else’m I gonna fuckin’ do?”

“Sh, sh sh….” A washcloth, warm and not freezing, wiped at his forehead. “Mackey, I swear, you haven’t lost your contract, okay? Could you just calm down so I can call the rehab clinic? They’ll send an ambulance, get you an IV—it’ll be fun.”

“That there is a bald-faced lie,” Mackey said bitterly. “That don’t sound like fun. That sounds like a fucking hospital, but worse because there’s not any fucking Xanax!”