Free Beneath the Stain - Part 1 by Amy Lane

the faggot.”
    “Shut up,” Grant said, his voice thick. “I’m the guy who wants you.”
    Mackey took a deep breath, and then another, and shoved the words back down in his throat. “Can you say it to me?” he begged.
    “Gay,” Grant said, so quiet Mackey almost missed it. “I’m gay. And I want you.”
    Okay, then. Grant, Kell’s friend, who was so handsome and so mature and so self-possessed—if he said it, it must not be that bad.
    “’Kay,” Mackey said, like they’d decided something important.
    They drove quietly for the next hour until finally the music penetrated the thick blanket of silence and Mackey started to sing along with “Stairway to Heaven.” Grant sang counterpoint.
    That was the magic line, right there. The music happened, and that conversation got to disappear. They were young and getting the hell out of their hometown, if only for a day—there wasn’t anything wrong with that, was there?
    They stopped for lunch in Vacaville at the BJ’s by the outlet stores, and Grant paid for their burgers, which were so big they crated up half of Mackey’s for later.
    As they got back on the freeway, Mackey looked over his shoulders at all of the name-brand stores.
    “What’re you looking at?” Grant asked, his voice relaxed and warm. It was like that moment when he was scared of falling, scared like a little kid, hadn’t happened.
    “I just… you know. That outfit you picked for me to perform in.”
    “Getting threadbare?” Grant asked, and Mackey grunted.
    “I have to wash it every time we perform,” he said frankly. “God, I sweat like a guilty man up there.”
    Grant hmmed. “I’ve got money saved,” he said quietly. “Can I buy you another outfit? For stage?”
    Mackey sighed. “I… I mean, I’ve got some money. I could buy it.” But they both knew the money the boys made went mostly to food and groceries and regular clothes and shoes. New clothes from Walmart and not used ones from Goodwill were a luxury to the Sanders boys.
    “Let me,” Grant said. “I don’t have any promises for you, Mackey. Can I just… do something for you?”
    Mackey laughed, low and dirty. “I thought that was the plan,” he said, and Grant laughed too. But for a moment, Mackey had this fantasy, a stupid one, of the two of them walking into a store and not worrying about money, and shopping for clothes to wear out on a good night, like prom.
    Grant had good taste and Mackey had a tiny body, and it would be fun to buy Grant something butch and leather and badass and slick, to go with his chest and his height. They could dress to match and laugh at that shit and dress totally opposite and see how they looked together and….
    Mackey shook his head. Like all the Sanders boys, he was practical to the bone. Clothes were for wearing. If they needed something good to perform in, that was fine, but otherwise? No. Not for Mackey James Sanders.
    He swallowed hard, already playing with words like suit and slick and badass and hick , his brain trotting in a rhythm of swagger and strut. Well, why not ? the practical side of him asked, even as the other half of his brain was engaged with the song. ZZ Top did it and no one accused them of being fags.
    By the time Grant pulled up to his uncle’s house, Mackey had opened the ever-present notebook and written the song down, notating it with chords and basic rhythms and everything. (One of the best things he’d gotten from working at the music store was his own book on music notation. He’d known how to read it, basically, but learning the complicated stuff—time, sixteenth notes, drum rhythms—that made telling the band what to do so much easier.)
    When he met Grant’s aunt and uncle—two nice people who seemed straight out of the television with their almost coordinating slacks sets, blond-streaked hair, and long-faced features—he was able to get his head in the people space and shake hands and smile and talk and not be freakish and distracted. When