Beneath the Stain - Part 5 (5 page)

“Free!” chanted the band.

“Legal!”

“Legal!”

“And you can’t say no! No! No! No! Don’t take away our….”

“
Masturbation
!”

The crowd practically rioted as the crackle of the opening chords clanged across the stage.

Trav had possibly never been so turned-on in his whole life. His sweet little fantasy of rimming Mackey as he opened himself up willingly was replaced by a harder, dirtier fantasy of Mackey with a dildo and a fist, fucking himself until he screamed.

He was in the back, screaming along with the crowd as the band spanked that monkey and made it their fucking own. Even Debra banged her head through the end of the lyrics, and the song only got hotter after that.

Toward the end of the song, when the band was riffing, Mackey did something truly terrifying—something Trav knew he did but hadn’t really counted on seeing in person.

Carefully, using the hands from the crowd, he stepped across the walkway from the stage to the rail holding the crowd back. He held his hand out for his mic and a pretty red-haired girl handed it to him right on cue. Over the sound of his band jamming, he said, “Are you ready? Are you ready? Did I stroke you enough? Are you ready to
stroke me back
!”

The crowd roared, and Mackey spread his arms and flew.

They caught him, hundreds of hands raised to pass him forward and backward as he screamed the refrain, trusting that they wouldn’t let him down. As the song wound down, he gestured back to the rail and was standing again in time for the final chorus, and Trav remembered to breathe. Mackey was covered in sweat, his makeup was running down his face, and he grinned at them, demonic as a rabid child, and they screamed in bloodlust back.

And then they launched into the next song, and he did it again.

By the time they hit “The I’m Sorry Song,” which had sort of a poppy, hooky edge that closed down the set nicely, Mackey and the band were sopping, the equipment was starting to short out, and the crowd was exhausted. Trav didn’t even have to look at the lineup to know that the next three bands had been outclassed and outplayed by a group of guys with shitty amps, a crumbling sound board, and a light board that had died in the middle of the set in a shower of sparks.

And a microphone stand that gave up the ghost about the same time, pissing Mackey off so much that he grinned at the crowd and kicked it off the stage, just like a misbehaving cat.

Trav couldn’t even blame him. And the crowd?

Apparently ate that shit up with a spoon.

The final chord sizzled through the air, and the crowd screamed raw freedom until the sound was palpable, inescapable, a real live entity like a tentacle monster, wrapping around every body in the place.

The band ran off the stage in a spatter of sweat and cheering from the band and tech crew ready to take their place, and Trav closed his eyes, letting some of the tension that had ridden him for the past two hours wash out.

“Are you sleeping?” Mackey called, and Trav opened his eyes, shook his head, and grinned.

“Recovering,” he said, and Mackey started trotting across the backstage bay. Trav got himself ready, because Mackey wasn’t going to stop, any fool could see it. It was Trav’s job to catch him—always had been.

“Recovering?” Mackey bitched, launching himself in the air and landing in Trav’s arms, wrapping his legs around his hips.

“Oolf!” But he really didn’t weigh anything, and Trav closed his eyes and convulsed his arms around the solidness he did feel.

“Recovering?” Mackey nagged. “You ain’t even begun….”

Trav took his mouth this time, tasting salt and lactic acid, but Trav didn’t care. Dirty, sweaty, salty, Mackey James Sanders, and Trav couldn’t taste him enough. The equipment and the roadies and the band and even the screaming of the crowd all disappeared, lost in the clash of teeth and tongue, the bitterness of Mackey’s running makeup, the hot, moist feel of Mackey body under Trav’s palms.

Mackey groaned in his arms and pressed forward, as erect and probably as hard and aching as Trav was, and Trav had the presence of mind to pull back. They were
not
having sex here in the loading bay of the Coliseum—

“Greenroom,” Mackey moaned into Trav’s mouth. He shoved Trav’s chest and hopped down, then grabbed Trav’s hand and hauled him past the band who were busy clapping each other on the back, past the other bands getting high in the waiting area, through a maze of hallways, and to the dressing rooms behind the stage. Without pausing, he spotted the room he needed, dragged Trav in, and shut and locked the door.

The face he turned to Trav was grim and triumphant, and Trav didn’t have a chance to do anything but stare at him, stunned, as Mackey closed in, reached up, and pulled Trav down for another kiss.

Mackey moved to his jaw, bit hard, pulled on his earlobe, and Trav tried hard to be in control of the situation.

“I’m not—” Oh God, Mackey just shoved his hand down the front of Trav’s slacks and grabbed and squeezed. “I won’t—” Mackey used his other hand to lift Trav’s T-shirt up under his jacket, clamped his mouth over Trav’s nipple, and pulled, biting delicately as he did it.

Trav whimpered.

“I won’t fuck you here,” he growled.

Mackey pulled up from his nipple and grinned. “But I’ll blow you, and that’s all I want.”

There was a pillow on one of the folding chairs by the makeup counter, and Mackey reached for it and threw it on the ground. He shoved Trav’s pants down, underwear too, and took little bites of skin and suckles of Trav’s sweat as he sank to his knees at Trav’s feet.

Trav heard some rustling and looked down to see that Mackey had shoved his own skintight, cock-cinching jeans down and he was mostly naked himself as he looked at Trav’s cock, bobbing at a ninety-degree angle and slapping him lightly on the face.

Mackey grinned, all evil, taking it in his hand and slapping his cheeks and his chin a little harder. “You beat off this week?” he asked.

Trav whimpered. “In the dark,” he admitted hoarsely. “When we texted.”

Mackey smiled, pure, sweet gratitude, then opened his mouth and took Trav deep into his mouth.

Trav’s cock swelled, aching, and Trav flailed, looking for something, anything to hold on to. He managed to find purchase on the counter to his left, and he let his hand take his weight while Mackey was trying to suck his balls through his cock like golf balls through a straw.

He was rough, his hand hard, his mouth tight and brutal, and every so often Trav felt the dangerous brush of teeth, but that just made it better. Trav’s whole body crackled, zinged, swelled with need. He stood, chilled and hungry, in the center of the brightly lit greenroom, and caught the image of all the mirrors, every one showing Mackey sucking Trav off with a fierceness Trav hadn’t known existed.

He had to close his eyes or he’d fall to his knees and break his promise, spread Mackey’s thighs and take his ass right there, lube or no lube, fucking him rudely on the greenroom floor.

As it was, closing his eyes just made him aware of Mackey’s sweaty palm cupping his balls, his rough fingers sliding back and groping at Trav’s pucker. Oh… oh God… so quick the surge of come in his balls hurt, his taint and ass ached, and Trav wanted more, more, even when his vision washed black and a scream of sudden orgasm ripped at his throat.

“Ah….
God, Mackey
!” Trav knotted his fingers in Mackey’s sweaty hair, dragging Mackey closer until he gagged, some of Trav’s come spilling from his lips and trickling down Trav’s thighs. Trav eased his grip on Mackey’s head and concentrated on his ragged breathing. He gasped slightly when Mackey licked the crease of his thigh and over his balls, cleaning him up, and then even more when Mackey started tonguing his shin, and his calf, and the inside of his knee.

“Mackey!” Trav half laughed, half groaned. His cock was getting hard again, and he was afraid that if he backed up, he’d trip over his own pants.

“Cleaning you up,” Mackey replied smartly, that evil grin growing lazy and dirty with repletion. “You think you’re the only one who came? I just sang an entire
song
about fapping—you think I’m not gonna take advantage?”

Trav tried not to giggle and offered Mackey a hand. “Get up here,” he ordered. “My pants’ll hide it, and I need to kiss you.”

“Mm….” Mackey got lightly to his feet and kissed Trav eagerly, but not desperately. Trav tasted his own come and his balls tingled all over again. With a sigh, Trav pushed him back and bent down to get his pants.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he said, pulling his pants up and tucking his T-shirt in. “I didn’t even do this shit in high school.”

Mackey rolled his eyes. “Man, until last week, I thought this was the only kind of sex there was.” He started worming into his own jeans, which looked a hell of a lot harder; they were a hell of a lot tighter, and all sweaty to boot. Trav backed up and let him struggle, because the alternative was taking Mackey out to greet the band completely naked, and it was going to be hard enough just knowing that the whole world would guess what they’d been doing.

“Why’d we just do that?” Trav asked when it looked like Mackey might be victorious over public nudity.

Mackey ignored their cooling sweat and threw himself into Trav’s arms. “You came,” he said happily. “I mean, you came just now, but first you got here. You promised and you did—”

“Mackey, I totally fucked up. I left the equipment and shit up to Heath, and I know he’s my boss, but it was a mistake, and—”

“Shut up,” Mackey murmured without heat. “You’re here. You got no idea, but that counts. You’re here.”

He turned his shining face to Trav then, and Trav pushed his hair back from his sweaty, makeup-smeared cheeks. Underneath all that, he could see Mackey, the real Mackey, with the luminous gray eyes and the freckles across his nose, and that surprising sweetness when it looked like he and the world might not be at odds after all.

God, Mackey Sanders was blindingly, terrifyingly, scorchingly beautiful, and Trav couldn’t believe that even for this moment, Mackey was all his.

T
HEY
HAD
to move, and the next hour as they took care of their gear and grabbed cars for the hotel was an agony of embarrassment for Trav. He felt like he had “I just got a closet blow job” painted over his face in come, and he wanted to shower, preferably with Mackey either in the shower with him or waiting, clean and happy, for when he got out.

He had things to do first. He had to oversee the worst of the equipment (which he ordered donated to the local YMCA) and the official firing of the two guys Mackey wouldn’t let touch the shitty equipment. He also, apparently, had to adopt a techie Mackey had fallen platonically in love with. Mackey spent the entire trip back in the car talking about Briony this and Briony that, and how they had to get her to LA and let her stay in the guest room and set her up as a journeyman so she could be their tech master before they left for Europe.

Trav simply nodded, texting Heath and Debra as Mackey spoke, making sure they got it done, but after they got to the hotel and Mackey stumped off, an irritated tornado, he turned to the band.

“What in the holy blue fuck?” he asked, completely bemused.

Kell shrugged. “I don’t know. It was like… like she stood up, told him the truth, and he said, ‘You! You are the one! Come here and work with me!’ Fuckin’ weird.”

Shelia blew out a breath. “You guys are stupid,” she pronounced. “I’m going to go take a shower, and you all try and figure out what kindergarten meant to you.”

Trav watched her go, feeling thick. “I’m an idiot,” he muttered.

Jefferson and Stevie low-fived. “Mackey made a friend,” Jefferson said with satisfaction, and they followed Shelia with a solid dependability Trav admired. It occurred to him that with the exception of the fact that there were two guys and one girl in that relationship, it was the quietest, most solid dynamic he’d ever encountered. They were practically boring.

Kell and Blake nodded, and Blake looked sincerely happy. “Yeah,” Blake said seriously. “It’s like, all that shit he has to explain to us, she got right away.” He looked embarrassed. “I mean, we all know he’s really smart, and we’re….”

“Not,” Kell said grimly. “We’re not. It’s why he just gets in the middle and leads us. The only one who could ever match him was Grant.” Something melancholy crossed Kell’s stolid workingman’s face. “I think Mackey might have missed Grant as much as I did for that.”

Trav swallowed, and Blake looked away. “Grant was pretty smart?” he asked wistfully.

Kell sighed. “Yeah. Left me behind most of the time. I can’t believe he’s not climbing the walls in Tyson.” He grinned then, tiredly, because the adrenaline of the concert was probably wearing off, and since the two of them weren’t going to party or find girls, they were probably looking at a quiet night with the television and some video games to come down. Kell shrugged. “Well, I guess it’s his fault he’s not out here in the world, yanno?” His smile at Blake, the friend he’d been shoring up since rehab, whom he’d given up his own partying for in order to provide moral support, was blinding. “I mean, me and Blake do okay, right?”

Blake’s smile was shy, like a schoolboy’s when asked to play with the cool kids. “Yeah. And we’re gonna do better than okay when I’m grinding you into the ground in
Titanfall
, right?”

“You wish.” Kell nodded at Trav then, and the two of them wandered away, leaving Trav to follow a few paces behind.

They didn’t get a suite this go round—it was only one night in Oakland before they took an early flight back to the house, so everybody doubled up except Debra, who, Trav assumed, was still explaining to this Briony girl how she’d become Mackey’s pet techie, probably for life.

Trav was too tired to care at this point. When he let himself into the hotel room, Mackey was wrapped in a robe, towel-drying his hair and talking on the phone to the front desk. Trav’s stomach growled and he caught Mackey’s eye and held up two fingers. “Double,” he mouthed, and Mackey winked and nodded.