Page 94 of Beneath the Stain

Trav grunted. “There hasn’t even been a kiss. He could have written it to a guy he saw on television for all we know.”

But that grizzled, unwavering stare didn’t quit. “Areyouin love withhim?”

Trav rubbed at his eyes. “This band is making me crazy,” he said, each word distinct.

Gray let out a chuckle and turned back to see how the band was getting on, then refocused on Trav. “That’s a yes,” he said softly. “You guys done anything about it yet?”

Trav sighed. He and Terry—they’d met, courted, made love and moved in together, and split up, and pretty much the only people who’d known or cared had been the people they were having dinner with. If Mackey’s song went big, Trav and Mackey’s little flirtation/fixation would be part of music history forever.

“No,” Trav said and went back to watching Mackey grab each of his band members by the heartstring he’d wrapped firmly around his fist. “Not. Yet.”

RECORDINGWENTwell. Trav had never seen guys pick up songs, rehearse them, and lay down the tracks so fast. He started to realize that even high, Mackey’s work ethic had kept his band on its toes, and sober? They were not backing down.

As October wound down to November, Trav wasstunnedto see that they would actually have their CD out on time.

“Holy crap!” Heath snorted inelegantly over the phone. “I am not paying you enough!”

“I didn’t do much,” Trav said, meaning it. “Once you get those kids some structure, they can take care of themselves.”

And structure they had. Wake up, go running, go to the studio, come home, plan dinner, and, oddly enough, watch television as a family.

That last one sort of blew Trav’s mind. None of the kids—not Blake, not Stevie, not any of the Sanders kids—had known family gathering time. What started out as Jefferson and Stevie leaning against each other on the couch watchingThe Voicewhile Shelia went to town in the kitchen had become a strategic planning of DVR capacity and when the gang would watch what where. Together.Thatblew Trav’s mind. They had personal appearances, dates at dance clubs, trips to the beach—but getting home in time for television had become a priority. Trav had actually heard Blake—Blake—tell a girl that he had to get home early from the club or he’d miss out onThe Bachelor, and he and Kell had been taking bets on which girl would get the rose.

Mackey was the sci-fi/fantasy king, and he’d pickArroworTeen Wolfover any of the reality shows any day.

And he made sure Trav watched with him. In fact, infuriatingly, he made sure they were sitting next to each other when they watched. Trav had gotten used to scheduling two hours a night with his back shoved against the corner of the couch and Mackey leaning against his chest, under his arms.

Simple human contact. No sex. No kisses. JustMackeylying against him. Smoothing his hand unconsciously on Trav’s stomach. Tapping out absent rhythms on the top of Trav’s thigh. Making little noises when interesting things happened in the story.Smellinglike high-end patchouli and like musk and likeMackey.

Trav found that more and more, he had to go down to the gym and pound on the punching bag after television time. The good news was he hadn’t lost any of his fighting trim since moving in with the Sanders boys.

The bad news was that he went to bed every night thinking about Mackey curled up in a little ball in the corner of that brand-new bunk bed, and missed the days when he slept on Trav’s floor.

Except Trav didn’t want him sleeping on the floor anymore.

One night as the album wound to a close, Trav trotted up the stairs after a hard workout. They’d been watchingHawaii 5-0, which Trav thought was about the world’s dumbest show, but the interaction between the two leads was a hard smack in the face, because it wasjustlike him and Mackey.

And Mackey hadn’t sat still the entire time. He’d squirmed and wiggled and grunted until Trav had smacked him playfully on the top of the head. “Mackey, you are driving me batshit. Sit still or go to bed.”

“Like a little kid?” Mackey asked, but he didn’t sound particularly wounded.

“Exactly like a little kid! What is this, kindergarten? Jesus, Mackey, wrap your arms around your knees and keep yourself from vibrating like a wind-up toy, could you please?”

Mackey grunted, but he held still, and they finished the program in peace. When it was over, Trav excused himself to go work out. When he came back up, Mackey was nowhere to be seen and everyone else was watchingDracula.

Trav walked past Mackey’s room, feeling sort of bad about keeping family time short. He was going to stop and tap on the door when he heard a… noise.

A grunt. A breathy moan.

Oh hell, face it, the unmistakable sound of a hand beating flesh as quick as humanly possible.

Trav’s knees went a little weak, and he leaned against the entryway with a thump. In the bedroom he heard a muffled groan—climax, orgasm, come.

Trav’s cock lit up like a solar flare. His entire groin—his thighs, his asshole, his taint, his stomach—throbbed harshly with the ache of arousal.

He was leaning, head against the wall, shuddering, too undone even to move, when the door flew open.

Mackey stood there wearing plain gray sweats and a white T-shirt, faded thin and hanging to his thighs. Both of them were stained around his crotch, and he held a white towel in one hand.