Page 52 of Beneath the Stain

“Shut up,” Trav said gruffly. “Eat your fucking donut and thank God the justice system runs on wheels greased with money. Mackey, I’ve seen these trials, you understand? I’ve seen women up on the stand facing down their whole fucking platoon—and neither of the lawyers are on their side. The whole world wants them to think the worst of themselves, and by the end of the trial? They do. If you were in prime fighting shape? I’d say go for it. If you’d already come out to the press, were clean and sober? Yeah. You cry rape and get this guy hanged for a scumbag. But right now they’re going to try the victim, and Mackey, I know you’re innocent, but—”

“You what?” Mackey said, staring at him.

“I know you’re innocent. Heath knows you’re innocent. We know you were on the wagon and trying but—”

“You know? You believe me? You….” Mackey floundered. His mouth opened and closed for a minute, and then he pulled a piece of his apple fritter off and ate it. “Fucking imagine that. Yeah, fine. Pep talk over. Bored now. Go put on your suit, Mr. Ford—you gotta look all shiny and shit.”

Trav stared at him. “You’re giving me orders?”

“Well, you’ve got barf on your shoes. I didn’t want to say anything, but you might want to wash that off.”

Trav fought the temptation to smack him. “Yeah, McKay, I’ll do that.”

“Yeah, Travis, you just fucking go ahead.” Mackey looked at him sideways and stuck his tongue out to lick some sugar glaze from the corner of his lips. He was being a shit on purpose, Trav knew that, but that tongue—that was innocent provocation right there. Trav was too strung out to be provoked.

“Back in a minute,” he muttered, and Heath followed him out.

“He doing okay?” Heath asked, darting a worried gaze into the hospital room. Mackey crammed the last of the fritter down his gullet and followed it up with a little carton of milk he must have kept from breakfast.

“Mackey?” Trav asked sourly. “Someone could nuke SoCal and Mackey would come back, glowing with radiation, with super spider powers, and get on the stage and sing.”

Heath laughed and shook his head. “Those kids are tough,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “Man, they grew up in a two-bedroom apartment, can you believe that bullshit?”

Trav grimaced. “It makes more and more sense to me every time I talk to him. So I get to go sign and this guy goes away. That fast?”

Heath shrugged. “Mackey’s going to rehab after this?”

“Says so. Why?”

Heath had a wide, almost florid face. In another ten years he was going tolooklike the fat-cat record producer—all he’d need was a trophy wife and a three-olive martini. The almost paternal concern might have seemed smarmy and self-serving, except Trav had known Heath for a while, and he was anything but. He’d once carried a kid across twenty miles of desert, on his back, to get him to medical care, while wounded. Trav had carried the kid’s wounded sister, who had been tinier but had taken a shine to Trav. They’d spent the entire forced march singing rock and roll, telling the kids about the video games the soldiers would let them play when they got to the hospital. Heath, with his family connections, had come through with a couple for the kids to keep.

That was Heath. He liked having money—liked spending it—and didn’t understand people who might not have had it growing up. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to share.

“Because I saw the tape,” Heath said gently. “He was on the verge of a five-star freak-out, and then he spotted you and calmed down a little. And then Charleston Klum gave him a beer, and everyone watched him take that beer and give thanks to a merciful god. If that kid doesn’t go through a program, he’s going to go home in a box.”

Augh! “I knew that,” Trav muttered. He’d known that. He’dknownthat.

“Well, yeah. But now you can fix it.”

“You’re giving me too much credit,” Trav muttered. “Stay with him until I get back.”

And then he went to change.

Going Back to Rehab

TWODAYSafter Trav went in to sign paperwork, the limo came to take Mackey from the hospital to rehab. Trav sat with him, like he’d sat with him through most of the time in the hospital, and Mackey was a little disgusted. It wasn’t like he was going to take off, was it?

Okay, well, yeah, he’d thought about it, but seriously—in the hospital, they were giving him pain meds. Why would he leave that?

But sure enough, the pain meds were a thing of the past by the time he got gingerly into the limo (and onto the waiting donut pillow Trav had set down for him) and discovered he wasn’t the only one going to rehab.

“What in the fuck ishedoing here?” Mackey snarled. Blake flipped him off from the other end of the car. His suitcases were next to him, along with Mackey’s, and suddenly Mackey laughed. “Heh, heh—did your last blow, huh, Blake?”

“I don’t even want to fucking talk about it. Do you know I’ve got asobrietyclause in my contract?”

Mackey blinked and stared at Trav, who was waiting for him to get in.

“I don’t got one of those,” he said, sliding next to him. My, that man looked mighty fine in his suit. Of course, Mackey was starting to think Trav looked mighty fine in anything. He’d looked mighty fine in khakis and a polo shirt the last time Mackey had seen him, and that was usually the least attractive getup in the history of anybody, as far as Mackey was concerned. Mackey moved restively, grateful for the stupid donut pillow, and sighed inwardly. The last thing Trav needed was a fuckup like Mackey hanging on his pockets.