Free Beneath the Stain - Part 5 by Amy Lane Page B

wasn’t going anywhere. Mackey could breathe in that rhythm, and he could sleep.
    They were still in their underwear the next morning, stumbling around the kitchen making coffee and oatmeal, when the door burst open and Mackey’s family rushed in, his mom in the front and his little brother bringing up the reluctant rear.
    In the midst of exclamations and hugs and Mackey’s complete bewilderment, he caught Trav’s eyes.
    Rhythm, music, and home. He wasn’t in the perfect place yet, but he had the things in his heart to make it that way. Mackey could keep breathing. It was going to be okay.

Going to California
     
     
    L ATER , AFTER the band had left for the tour and survived, Trav would be more than grateful for Mackey’s family on Christmas morning. Of course at that particular moment, he was a little disappointed. He’d thought he’d have Mackey to himself for a couple of stress-free weeks. That desire fizzled and died after one look at Mackey’s face. The stunned knowledge that his family hadn’t left him, they were right there , and that this new life he and Trav were forging wasn’t ephemeral, practically lit him up inside. Trav and Mackey were real and their house would be full of people without the ever-present strain of poverty and barely hidden taint of despair.
    The two weeks weren’t perfect. Mackey’s little brother was a complete punk-ass dick, for one. He said “fag” four times in the first five minutes after walking into their kitchen. Trav, after one look at Heather Sanders’s miserable, helpless frustration, took the little asshole by the collar, threw him outside, and slammed the door behind him. He was standing in their driveway in his boxers, but he didn’t give a shit.
    “Cheever, how old are you?”
    “Thirteen, fagg—”
    Trav grabbed him by the throat, which might have worried him if it had been Mackey, but it wasn’t, so his control was perfectly, icily in place. “I am thirty-five. I defended my country, put myself through college, and built a career in a land of sharks. What you say about me does not mean a spot of seagull shit, do you understand me?”
    Cheever nodded, his brown eyes huge in his pale, freckled face. He had a reddish mane of curly hair that tumbled over his vulpine features, and he probably got a lot of attention at school as a good-looking kid.
    Trav had known him for a nanosecond and wished his mother had put him up for adoption.
    “But when you use that word around your brother, when you talk to the press, when you throw that small-town bullshit around like you own being a bigoted asshole, you remember something for me, will you?”
    Again, that terrified nod.
    “Your other brothers? They just drove all night to be with Mackey because he means something to them. His talent and drive got the record contract and bought your nice pretty house and your school fees and the car you think you’re going to get and those kick-ass shoes on your feet. And he didn’t have any of that shit growing up, so it doesn’t mean anything to him. But you’re enough of a squirrel shit that it means something to you , and I love your brother. You piss me off too much, and I’ll make sure that money he’s just forking over to you and your mom doesn’t find its way into your pockets ever. Do you hear me?”
    Cheever squeaked—and now he looked like he wanted to cry. Great. Trav had bullied a middle school student. He was so proud he could puke.
    “You keep that ugly word and your ugly bullshit to yourself, little man. If I hear you using it around your brother, I’m going to ship you home via Greyhound bus, and that is the truth.”
    He removed his hand from Cheever’s neck and glared until Cheever looked away. “Are we clear, Cheever Sanders?”
    “Yessir,” Cheever mumbled.
    It didn’t feel like enough. The thought of Mackey, ragged from drugs and grief, killing himself to support his family, rose like bile in Trav’s throat. “Did Mackey ever do anything for