Free Beneath the Stain - Part 1 by Amy Lane Page A

Grant’s uncle Davis asked them if they didn’t want to sleep on the couch and the floor, he even managed not to send Grant a panicked look, because after that bitter, painful conversation on the way down, the last thing he wanted was a reason to back out.
    “That’s nice of you, Uncle Davy,” Grant said politely, “but Mackey here has never been to the pier—I thought I’d take him and get some clam chowder and see some seals and stuff.”
    His aunt Ashleigh eyed Mackey’s faded cargo shorts and thin T-shirt with bare grace. “Are you sure the Embarcadero is your little friend’s scene?” she asked delicately. “It’s sort of a… a merchandise trap, you know?”
    Grant blinked at her. “It’s my treat,” he said evenly. “Mackey here writes all the songs for our band—this is my way of giving back.”
    Davis laughed, sort of over-hearty. “Yeah, your dad told me about your band. He says if those boys put half their energy into school as they put into the band, they could have all gone away to college!”
    Grant swallowed and pulled out a smile that had stiff plastic edges. “Well, I did put that much energy into school, and Dad still wanted me to stay home, so I get to play in the band whether he likes it or not,” he said, and Mackey wanted to grab his hand. Yeah. Money didn’t buy an education, and it didn’t buy easy.
    Davis held out both hands like an adult to a tantruming child. “Okay! Okay, don’t get testy, Grant. We’re just saying, you know—”
    “You’re saying you expect me to run back into the gutter where I came from,” Mackey said, but he batted his eyes at Davis and winked. “Don’t worry, Mr. Adams, this rat knows how to find the ship back home.”
    The condescending smiles fell from Davis and Ashleigh like flaking makeup.
    “We weren’t implying…,” Ashleigh said, her fair skin flushing as they stood out in the driveway in the eighty-degree day.
    Mackey lowered his chin and looked out at her from under his brows and bangs. “Of course you did, Mrs. Adams, but don’t worry. Grant doesn’t hang out with stupid people—he knows exactly what you were saying. Are you ready to go, Grant? IHOP was a long ways away.”
    Grant was glaring and smirking at him at the same time. Mackey got that a lot—and often from Grant—so he figured they were okay. “Yeah, Mackey. Uncle Davis, you got the keys?”
    “Grant,” Davis said, his eyes darting to Mackey, who was still giving him the faintly predatory, faintly flirtatious look that he usually reserved for the stage. “You don’t have to… you boys don’t have to—”
    “McKay is my best friend’s brother,” Grant said, and Mackey could hear a sort of hurt in his voice: these people had let him down. “He’s my friend. You couldn’t have been nice to him for a conversation in the driveway? I’ll take the keys now.”
    Davis handed them over with a miserable look. “We’ll look forward to seeing you around the holidays,” he said weakly, and Grant shrugged.
    “Yeah, why not.” Then they got into the old car—which was almost as nice as the new car, even if it was a really lame champagne Mercedes instead of a black Lexus—and drove away.
    They got back on El Camino Real, which, as far as Mackey could tell, connected the peninsula with San Francisco and hence to the rest of the world, before Grant spoke.
    “God, that was uncomfortable. I’m sorry my people are such freaks.”
    Mackey shrugged. “I’m sorry I’m an asshole,” he said, but he was chuckling as he said it, and Grant laughed.
    “You’re not sorry at all, you little shit!”
    Mackey leaned back in the luxurious seat. “Not even a little. Can we go see the ocean now?” He’d never been to the ocean. He lived up in the mountains, so he knew trees and snow and vast sweeps of sky, but he’d had glimpses of the bay as they’d hit Berkeley and then 101, and he liked it very much.
    “Yeah. You know, they have ferry rides. We’ve got a