Beneath the Stain - Part 7 (11 page)

“Yeah,” Stevie said, angry. “I sort of thought so. So those of you judging us, you go ahead and judge yourselves, okay? I got no more apologies to make to you people, and neither do my brothers. Blake, you got anything to say?”

Blake glared out at the little group of people and grinned at the few news cameras that had been sent to cover a quiet funeral attended by a rock band.

“Yeah, all. Whoever fucks with my brothers ain’t worthy. Grant Adams was my brother too. We’re going to let you to your little funeral, the one with the preacher and the service and the empty casket and all, but we’ve got to catch a flight to Sausalito in an hour so we can go have a day at the pier. You ready, Mackey?”

Mackey grinned at them and screamed out, “
But Baby
—”

“
Baby—
”

“
Remember—
”

“
Remember—
”

“
It’s my life, and I’ll do what I want—
”

He and Kell strummed furiously, making up in fierceness what they didn’t have in electronic sound mixing, and the band, including Trav and Cheever, including the girls—hell, including Walter and Debra, who were taking them to the airport as soon as this was over—all screamed out the chorus.

When they were done, when the last chord echoed through the shocked assembly, Mackey’s mom was there with the baby, who squealed and clapped, ready to be delivered to her mama.

Trav grabbed the urn, Mackey and Kell grabbed their guitars, and the whole lot of them strode across the cemetery, got into the cars, and drove away. They would drop Heather and Cheever off back at the house and continue on to the airport, but Trav knew he wasn’t the only one to feel that surge, that pressure, that fearful desire to get the holy hell out of this town.

They really didn’t have anything else to say at that point anyway. There was only freedom to be had.

M
ACKEY
AND
Grant had gotten to San Francisco only a handful of times in their five years together, and they only had one picture to show for it. It had come in the manila envelope, faded and dusty, one of those computer printer deals that wasn’t going to last much longer, even if they kept it framed.

This time round, Mackey made sure everyone charged their camera phones. When they got back to LA, he’d make a big collage on the computer, have it developed on photo paper, and have it framed. Trav would commend him for spending his money on something cool, and Mackey would blow him off, but the whole family wanted that picture in the front room.

They were all happy.

They all wore matching tourist sweatshirts
and
bottoms, because their stuff was packed before they got on the plane, and they didn’t want to run around the bay in their somber suits and dresses. Mackey left his suit in a pile in a public restroom. He hoped a very small homeless man found it and enjoyed. The sweats looked almost like a uniform, and they’d joked about that a lot—how they should have Outbreak Monkey gear made and wear it in public. Trav had sent the idea to Heath, and Heath had eaten it up with a fork. Mackey said that making money off the idea sort of took the fun out of it, but Trav just laughed. Apparently that made him feel like he was doing his job.

There was a picture of Shelia and Briony coming out of the puppet store with giant, fluffy puppets while the guys all looked on in horror. Briony’s was a big fluffy llama, and Mackey found himself oddly drawn to it. He liked touching it, and they kept it in the living room so it could be groped and fondled during television time.

Trav took a picture of Stevie and Jefferson racing each other down the Embarcadero, dodging pedestrians and vaulting over a badly parked motorcycle, their faces so fierce and so free Mackey’s chest hurt for the closure they’d found years ago. He finally knew how they felt.

Mackey took a picture of Blake playing a street performer’s guitar, looking like he knew the venue well. Blake’s eyes were closed, and his thin face looked full and angelic. He made the street performer a lot of money in ten minutes, but the best part was when Mackey showed him the picture and said, “Look at you. You love it. That’s the only reason you should do it.”

Blake’s smile hadn’t been captured on film, but Mackey would remember it forever.

They had
all
taken a picture of Kell and Briony standing side by side at the end of the pier, heads close together like they were telling secrets. And they all noticed that when Briony didn’t have Mackey by the hand, dragging him from place to place to show him something, she and Kell were walking quietly, holding hands in a whole other way.

And Trav took the picture of Mackey singing “River Shadows” when they were on the prow of the ferry, with what looked like nothing but clear sky and bright bay behind him.

Nobody took a picture of Mackey putting the tiniest bit of Grant’s ashes in a baggie, because when they got home they were going to Disneyland, and Mackey was going to bury a little bit of him in a planter at the Enchanted Kingdom, just so he’d be there for the guys.

Kell’s pic of the whole bunch of them asleep on the plane, Mackey drooling on Trav’s shoulder in the foreground, almost didn’t make it into the collage, but then Mackey decided Kell had it right. They weren’t always pretty and they weren’t always posed. This was them too.

The collage was Mackey’s Thanksgiving present to the whole family, since everyone else had helped plan the meal while Mackey was busy writing the new album. He took direction this time. Blake, Kell, the twins—everybody had a note or a verse they wanted to contribute, and he was pretty sure that when they went back to the studio in March, what would come out would be the best music he and his brothers had ever made.

But it was a long time until March. Before that was Christmas, and Mackey was going to meet Trav’s parents and his brother and his sister. Briony’s mother was going to fly down to LA, along with Heather and Cheever, so Mackey could meet her before he left. More importantly, Kell could meet her and the stumbling, shy progression of what looked to be the smartest thing Mackey’s brother ever did could get the parental seal of approval.

And Shelia could plan the special room they were building for Katy, because she was good at that, and she and the boys weren’t planning to have babies until after the next tour.

And Mackey and Trav could be…

Everything.

The morning after they returned from San Francisco, Mackey woke up slowly.

He was in bed. At home. Trav was lined up along his back, hard and warm, and Mackey stretched, pushing against that warmth, but not to break away. Just to touch it a little more firmly.

Trav.

Mackey turned lazily in Trav’s arms and licked at his neck. They’d showered before collapsing into bed the night before, so he was only a little salty. Mostly he tasted like soap and sleep.

“Mm….”

Trav didn’t wake up fast or even in a good mood, most times. That was okay. Mackey could deal with a growly man in the morning. Mackey kept licking, then suckled hard at Trav’s nipple.

Which abruptly became hard in his mouth.

Trav groaned and clutched Mackey’s head to his chest. “Augh—
Mackey
!”

Mackey reached between them and found Trav’s cock through his boxer briefs. Hard and long and thick—Trav had a memorable piece down there, and not just because it was attached to the love of Mackey’s life. Mackey slid his hand underneath the elastic and squeezed, stroking long and hard, rubbing his thumb in the thick liquid at the tip.

“You’d better be ready to pony up, McKay,” Trav groaned.

Mackey grinned at him, fuck-off-and-love-me, and kissed his way down.

Ah,
God
, Trav tasted good. Mackey wasn’t sure if he’d ever really appreciated giving blowjobs before Trav. With Grant it had always been so rough, in such a rush. With everyone else it had always been too fuzzy. With Trav, he took his time, licking the broad head, swallowing it down. The taste of Trav’s skin was sweet, and his precome was sweeter. Mackey shoved his head down farther, gagging, not caring, wanting Trav in his throat and his belly,
dying
to be filled.

Trav wiggled, fiddling with something on the end table, and Mackey’s hips were abruptly lifted, positioned, until Mackey straddled Trav’s head while Trav shucked Mackey’s briefs.

Trav’s mouth on his cock made him see stars. Just the hot and the wet and the edge of teeth, the sensual scrape, the little bit of roughness; Trav’s assertive, no-bullshit blowjob made Mackey move his head faster.

Then Trav penetrated Mackey’s asshole with a lube-slick thumb, and Mackey had to stop everything and groan. Trav’s cock slid out of his mouth, and he buried his head in Trav’s thigh and groaned.

“Oh my God!
Trav
!”

“Move, Mackey,” Trav grunted. “Face up, legs spread. Now.”

Mackey had never liked faceup before Trav. He hated that people saw him when he wasn’t singing, wasn’t screaming. Hated that he was bare and out of control. But Trav saw him like that anyway, so Mackey hauled at his thighs and waited, writhing, eyes closed, while Trav spread the lube and stretched him. The burn was delicious, and Mackey’s cock throbbed, waiting.

He wanted, wanted, his body aching with it.

Trav made him greedy, made him beg and steal. He’d stolen their first year together, but he figured that now, all his demons behind him, Trav was his rightfully. He’d paid by hard growing, and Trav belonged to him.

And Trav could take him any time he wanted.

That big blunt head stretched at Mackey’s entrance, slow and tender, and Mackey opened his eyes and grunted with impatience.

“Hard, fast, and now!” he snapped, but a slow, sweet smile played at Trav’s mouth.

“Slow,” he breathed, sliding in one burn at a time. “Slow. Easy. Now.”

Trav’s sepia eyes were intent on Mackey’s face, and Mackey—Mackey was losing his mind, writhing under Trav’s achingly slow possession.

“You… are… killing… me!” Mackey grabbed his cock only to have Trav knock his hand away.

“Deal, Mackey. You can take it.”

Mackey’s head fell back, and his whole body shook. Agony—urgency—took over his body, and he needed…. God, he’d thought he’d craved Grant, thought he’d craved drugs, thought he’d craved cocks. What he’d really craved was this. Being possessed, being thoroughly taken over, being owned, body and soul, by someone you owned right back.

He craved Trav.

And Trav was holding out on him.

“Please,” Mackey whispered, and Trav fell forward on his elbows, held Mackey’s face, kissed him hard. The kiss felt brutal in the margins. Trav nibbled on his chin, down his throat, and Mackey thought he’d die.

“Mackey?”

“God!”

“I really want you!”

“Thank you, Jesus!”

“No, Mackey. Thank you, Trav.”

“
Please, Trav, would you fuck me
?”

Mackey tried humping from the bottom, and Trav laughed evilly, thrusting hard and shutting him up.

“You can hang on to your cock now,” he rumbled.

Mackey grabbed it quickly, impatient. Greedy.

Trav pushed back up, and Mackey rolled his hips, because,
God
. Let’s get this fuck on the road!

Thrust after thrust, Trav pounded away inside him, and Mackey jerked roughly on his own cock. In the end, Mackey was wholly selfish, invested completely in the ache in his ass, in the sparking behind his eyes when Trav hit his gland, in his beating, squeezing self-assault on his own dick.

He was breathless, panting, groaning,
begging
when the moment came. He clenched, convulsed, released, the fireworks behind his eyes all tinged sepia, like Trav’s eyes.

Trav let out a grunt above him that probably ripped from his taint to his sternum, and started to pump inside of Mackey like a fire hose.

Ah, yes! Something else Mackey treasured—the slippery feeling of Trav’s come inside, sliding out, binding them in a way. Wasn’t neat, wasn’t clean, it was sloppy and real, and Mackey craved it like he craved Trav’s sweat and his touch and the hotness of his mouth.

The kiss at the end went on forever, sweet, infinite, and then Trav collapsed on top of Mackey, resting his head on Mackey’s chest, trusting Mackey could hold his weight.

They were breathing too hard to tell if anyone else in the house was up, and for a moment, it was just the two of them. Their room. Their house. Their world.

“Trav?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Does this mean we made it? It’s all good after this?”

Trav pushed up so he could look Mackey in the eyes.

“There
is
no finish line,” he said seriously. “This means we made it over some big stuff. Means the other stuff might not seem so big. But you’ve seen guys, pros, trip up in concert over a single song they’ve done a zillion times—”

“Like when Bruce forgot the lyrics to ‘Born to Run,’” Mackey said gravely, because it was legend.

“Yeah. My mom told me the trick to staying in love was falling in love every day. Like you do with music. You listen for good music every day.”

Mackey smiled a little, ran his fingers through that military hair, grazed those lean lips, swollen from sucking Mackey’s cock, touched that hard, square jaw.

“So I have to listen for you every day?” he said, delighted—even more so when he saw what he thought of as Trav’s sex flush wash over Trav’s cheekbones again.

“You’ve got to find something in me to love every day,” Trav said, embarrassed.

“Yeah, well, you’ve got the harder job,” Mackey said seriously. “I’m a pain in the ass.”

Trav laughed softly and ground his softening cock inside Mackey one last time. “I beg to differ,” he murmured.

Mackey laughed, because, well, dick joke, and because morning sex, and because their own room and their own home and Disneyland tomorrow and sleeping in, and because….

“Trav?”

“Yeah?”

“Not every day is going to be this good.”

Trav kissed his chest. “No,” he said softly.