Paint It Black

by Amy Lane

  Cheever had cracked up. “Wow. I mean, I’d sort of thought that whole sibling-rivalry thing had gone away—”

  “That’s ’cause you always take off after the first two days. We’re behavin’ then.” Mackey snorted, and Cheever wondered if the twang was deeper in his voice because he was more passionate about everything.

  “I… uh….” Cheever sighed. “I should have stuck around. This sounds like high entertainment.”

  Mackey’s evil chuckle was all-forgiving. “Oh, you and me are gonna beat the crap out of the rest of them. And don’t never let Jefferson and Stevie be on a team together. It’s like the same fuckin’ person. It’s uncanny!”

  “Understood.” Cheever brought the remote controls over and let Mackey set up the game, explaining things like which characters there were and what strengths they had. His passion for the videogame was just as infectious as his passion for music, for his family, for anything else, and Cheever was a little overwhelmed. He’d spent his entire life trying to keep all his shit to himself—Mackey was the exact opposite.

  And Mackey expected Cheever to share back.

  “You just died, and you are too goddamned quiet. Can’t trust a man who don’t curse when they die onscreen. What’s wrong?”

  Cheever let out a little gasp. “I just… you know, didn’t want to be a whiny asshole.”

  Mackey scowled, although he kept his guy in the action. “Video games were made to be your whiny asshole outlet. Jesus, if you can’t whine about up and dying, how you gonna fuckin’ talk about real shit as a human being?”

  “I whined enough as a kid.” Embarrassment flushed Cheever’s whole body. Every time he’d ever complained—wanting something different for dinner, wanting dessert, wanting clothes someone else hadn’t worn—came back to haunt him.

  “You were a fuckin’ kid—no, no, no, you little motherfucker. Goddammit, Cheever, why’d you have to fuckin’ die. Shit.”

  “Sorry, Mackey,” Cheever said sheepishly.

  “Well, you damned well should be,” Mackey snapped. “That thing you fuckin’ did—scared the shit out of all of us. We don’t even know you, little brother. Don’t fuckin’ make us lose you.”

  “Not much to know,” Cheever said quietly. Mackey’s anger seemed to subside, thank God. “I was just a rich kid who couldn’t cut it in school—”

  “That’s fuckin’ bullshit, and we both know it.” Mackey tossed his remote control aside and fell back against the cushions of the orthopedic bed that took up much of the otherwise masculine room. “Cheever, you know we know. You told the boys all about it, and they came back and told me. And even if they hadn’t, Blake gave me the uncut version.”

  Cheever swallowed sickly, but Mackey barreled right ahead.

  “Did you think we wouldn’t get it? We all grew up in that town—we lost Grant to that town. You think we don’t know what it’s like to be powerless, with jackals trying to take us down like weak fuckin’ antelopes?”

  “Then why didn’t you take me with you?” Cheever yelled, surprised when it came ripping out of his throat.

  “’Cause for our first year, it was just as fuckin’ bad!” Mackey yelled back. “My God, do you think Blake and I woulda ended up in rehab if we’d had any power besides how high we could get? Blake became my fuckin’ dealer so he could have something, anything, he fuckin’ owned himself. That guy who did that to you—you may think he just lives in Tyson, but I’m telling you, Cheever, he’s fuckin’ everywhere. He’s got a dozen fuckin’ names. And if you don’t give it up to them, they take it, until you finally reach your limit and take ’em down by the throat. But you were our little brother; we thought you were somewhere safe.”

  “I wasn’t! I was that weak fuckin’ antelope without my goddamned herd, Mackey. I never knew how much you all protected me until you were gone!”

  “We’re sorry about that!” Mackey took a couple of choppy breaths and then a deeper one. “We’re so fuckin’ sorry. But we been tryin’ to be your herd for a couple of years now. We wanted you back so goddamned bad.”

  He’d planned Christmas vacations around Cheever—ones Cheever had never stayed to take.

  “I didn’t want you to have to do this,” Cheever said brokenly, feeling wrecked and purged and clean and hurt, all at the same time. “’Cause this fuckin’ sucks.”

  Mackey extended the arm with the cast on it and gave Cheever an imperious look. “I can’t get up and hug you, Cheever. You gotta fuckin’ meet me halfway.”

  Cheever laid his head on his brother’s chest and cried, his face mashed up against his brother’s ragged T-shirt, smelling, up close and personal, the same fabric softener their mom had used since they were kids. Animal herd. Goddammit. Why didn’t someone make him smell family sooner?

  “Wow.” Cheever took a ragged breath.

  “Wow what?”

  “I forgot how fuckin’ real you can be.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m in pain. Makes everything more real.” Mackey’s almost continuous restless stroking of Cheever’s hair stilled. “How real were the last eight years for you, Cheever?”

  “They weren’t,” Cheever said, not moving. This—without the static electricity of attraction he felt from Blake—was so comforting. “My heart was in a jar.”

  To anybody else but his family, that would have sounded insane.

  “What’s it like, out of the fuckin’ jar?”

  “Better than I expected. Turns out I got people here.”

  Mackey heaved a sigh. “I’m glad you think so, because we’re gonna stick sort of close. I mean, we gotta tour and shit, but I swear we might even steal you away for some of that. Ain’t no rule says you gotta be anywhere after you finish school. We’ll just drag you along with us.”

  Cheever let out a laugh. “As what? An entourage of one?”

  “Learn an instrument,” Mackey said bluntly. “I gave you a guitar when you were, what? Fourteen? Did you sell that?”

  “I taught myself to play,” he rasped, feeling absurdly proud. Mackey remembered. Cheever had looked up his guitar once, after he saw concert footage and realized Mackey’s was much like it. His brother had bought him a guitar that cost more than a car. It had given him a little hope then. Mackey had given him something he loved. Something that meant something to him.

  “You did?” Mackey’s voice cracked. “Really? Like… how much?”

  Cheever grunted. “I’m not Eddie Van Halen,” he said glumly. “Not Kell or Blake—”

  “Kell and Blake weren’t Kell and Blake to start with. I mean, Blake was probably better than Kell when we picked him up, but they’ve been practicin’ fierce since.”

  “Blake’s solo album’s really good.”

  “It is. I hope you told him that. He… I mean, it came out, and it did well, but it didn’t do Outbreak Monkey good. He got embarrassed, I think. That’s why I pushed him. Since I’m laid up, he should do another one. Just because we’re better all together, that doesn’t mean we can’t be stars alone, right?”

  Cheever sat up, squinting. “Is that what he’s doing today? I just knew he had a meeting with the guys.”

  “Yeah. Doing a concept pitch, I think. Like, he’s got all the songs, and he gives them to the guys and says, ‘Hey, what do you think?’ It’s how I ran shit, so I think that’s the reason he’s doin’ it. Why?”

  The hurt was irrational. “I just didn’t know, is all.”

  Mackey rolled his eyes and reached for Cheever’s hand. Wow. His brother really must have learned to communicate in the last few years. “Little brother, you had Blake to yourself for a whole month. What do you think?”

  “I think he’s wonderful.” Oh, it felt good to say, but it hurt too. What if Mackey said this was bad?

  “He had a long journey to get to wonderful,” Mackey told him. “Not an easy one. You ride that much rough road, you’re only going to see the bruises, not what they taught you. You understand?”

  Cheever sighed. “You’re telling me to be carefu
l with him.” He swallowed. “Like… like careful, careful.”

  Mackey turned his head and searched Cheever’s eyes. “That’s what I’m saying. He needs someone who can keep his heart safe. You said you just got yours out of a jar. How you gonna make that work?”

  Oh hell. “I… I’m going to not hurt myself, for one thing,” he said. “And that’s whether or not Blake and I work out.” He closed his eyes, for once facing failure like a man. “He needs to know my life doesn’t depend on the two of us getting together. I gotta make sure he knows that.”

  He could practically feel Mackey’s sigh of relief through his palms, where they still touched. “You do indeed,” Mackey said. “How you gonna do that?”

  “Well, isn’t that the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question?” Cheever snapped. Then he added, “Where do we get that expression, anyway?”

  “I got no idea. I got it from Mama, but it is a big deal. What you wanna do with yourself, now that you found out where your heart is?”

  “Art?” Cheever had brought his sketchbook, because he always brought his sketchbook. But instead of sketching his brother, he’d ended up talking to him instead.

  “You love that?”

  Cheever thought about it, maybe for the first time since he was twelve. “Yeah.” He thought about Blake’s fingers on his guitar strings, the lonely hours Cheever had spent in his room practicing, where there were no brothers to judge. “But it’s not everything I love.”

  “Good.” Mackey took a deep breath. “Cheever, nothing you got going on now is set in stone. And that’s a good thing. You want to do art? You do art. You want to be our entourage? That’s a go. We’d love to have you. Hell, Briony can teach you stagecraft, because a competent road crew—one that don’t let you fall off a fuckin’ speaker—would be a godsend, if you feel me.”

  Oh yeah. Cheever nodded vigorously, because seeing Mackey here, in pain, trying to help sort Cheever’s life, was a serious lesson in how grown-ups handled the shit that fell out.

  “You want to fall in love?” Mackey’s voice lowered, and his no-bullshit expression softened. “I’m not gonna stop you. But I am gonna ask you, very nicely, that you not hurt a guy that your brothers love as if he was one of us. A guy who’s been broken a lot. I know he’s older—I married a guy fifteen years older’n me, so I’m not even gonna try to give you shit. But I am gonna tell you that this guy ain’t Trav. It’s in Trav’s blood to try to fix things, to take care of things. He runs this family like a tight ship, and yeah, that includes the school the kids are going to.

  “Blake is learning, but he ain’t there yet. And he needs someone who’ll take care of him. This album—I think it’ll do great. But the market’s a scary place. What if it tanks? Me and the guys’ll be there to pick up the pieces. You gonna be there too?”

  “Yes,” Cheever whispered, before he even knew he’d say anything. “I… I mean, I know it’s not that easy. And I know what you’re asking. A month ago, I was a fuckup doing blow in a hotel room—”

  “That wasn’t your usual, Cheever. A month ago, you had a meltdown. Call it what it was, but don’t paint it blacker. Go on.”

  “I want to take care of him,” Cheever said, being as precise as he could be. “I’ll figure it out. Art, music, being part of the family. But you’re right. I may have needed Blake when I was at my lowest, but Mackey, he needs me. He needs someone to tell him he’s good inside, someone he will believe.”

  Mackey nodded, a quiet smile on his face. “Okay, then. Good. We might all survive this.” He tilted his head back and blew out a breath. “Look. One more thing. Don’t keep this a secret from Kell. I’m pretty sure the twins know. The women definitely know. Blake told Trav all about it. That means Kell’s the only one, and Blake’s his best friend. If we do this to him one more time, it’ll kill him.”

  Cheever thought about that. “How bad was it when he found out about Grant?”

  Mackey grunted. “Well, since he didn’t know until Trav and I had a knock-down-drag-out fight about going to see Grant before he died, I’d say it about ripped open his chest. Kell don’t deserve that again. Don’t treat it like a big deal. Just… you know. He’s not a sitcom character. He’s your brother.”

  The phone buzzed next to Mackey’s bed, which saved Cheever from a reply. Mackey picked it up and hit speaker, then set it down again.

  “Yeah, Trav. I’m here. You guys got a plan and shit? Do I get to play too?”

  “Yeah, Mackey. You should be up and around by the time these guys have the songs worked up. We figure two weeks to start recording? That way, we can do a couple of tracks live when we finish up the tour.”

  Mackey smiled a little. “Blake, you lazy asshole, you know this means you gotta do solo work in front of a crowd, right?”

  “Yeah, Mackey. You know this means you gotta do backup vocals behind me.”

  Mackey grinned. “We could hire someone—”

  “You,” Blake said gruffly. “I can’t do this shit again without my guys.”

  “It’ll do great,” Mackey soothed. He closed his eyes, and his face tightened, as though he’d been fighting pain this whole time and it was finally catching up to him.

  “How’s he looking, Cheever?” Trav asked, and Cheever regarded his brother grimly.

  “He’s hurting, Trav. Is he ready for another painkiller?”

  “When was his last one?”

  Cheever looked at the clock. “I’ve been here about two hours and—”

  “And that’s an hour and a half over when he should have had it. Mackey, Cheever’s getting you medication, you stubborn asshole. Take it.”

  “Sure, Trav,” Mackey murmured, and Cheever’s heart ached. That wasn’t the voice he’d been using with Cheever or Blake. That was the voice of someone who was letting someone else care for him.

  Cheever realized he hadn’t heard Blake’s “I’ll let you care for me” voice yet.

  He needed to. He wouldn’t know they were for real until he did.

  AN HOUR later, after Mackey was medicated and napping, Cheever went downstairs and told Briony he was going across the street. He figured the meeting in the studio should be winding down, and he had something he needed to do.

  Briony nodded, and then chimed in with “Have fun on your date. Blake’s looking forward to it.”

  Sure he was. “Blake’s been looking forward to dodging it,” Cheever told her. “But that’s okay. He just needs to trust me a little.”

  Briony gave a noncommittal grunt. “Just remember, y’all gotta earn that shit.”

  Cheever was still pondering that on his way out the door.

  Per Mackey’s instructions, he didn’t knock, but just opened the door and walked inside. Once past the kitchen and the stairs, the whole thing had been converted into a studio, complete with a recording room and a sound booth. But they’d left the front room as a lounge. Couches and lots of instrument and music stands as well as a couple of tablets littered the area.

  When Cheever opened the door, he saw that Blake had his acoustic guitar out and was playing a rough riff, singing lowly. He finished up and set the instrument aside and looked at Kell.

  “I was thinking that, with a soft percussion, cymbal swishing, and a counter-melody—something real delicate. Think you can do that?”

  Kell gnawed his lip. “You may want to ask Mackey to do the counter-melody. You know he’s got a softer touch.”

  Blake grimaced. “Yeah, maybe we should save that one—”

  “We could put that one on the next Outbreak Monkey album,” Stevie said, his enthusiasm breaking up the painful realization that Mackey probably wouldn’t be able to hold a guitar for another month.

  “I like that,” Trav said decisively. “Put at least one of Blake’s songs on the main album. It’ll give this one some press, make Blake a bigger attraction for the band. You guys got any objection?” Trav’s eyebrows went up. “Or, you know, any of your own songs to add?”

  Stevie shook his head, but Jef
ferson looked down at his feet, and Kell sort of shrugged.

  Cheever let out a snort, because, oh my God, apparently he wasn’t the only one who had trouble growing up. Everybody turned their head at the sound.

  “Cheever?” Trav was obviously surprised.

  “Mackey fell asleep—I told Briony,” he reported, and then, on impulse, he moved to stand next to Blake. “It’s getting late, you know. I was hoping Blake and I could go on our date.”

  Jefferson, Stevie, and Trav all widened their eyes in surprise.

  Blake blushed and studied his ankle boots.

  Kell squinted at them.

  “Date? I thought you two were going to buy shoes?”

  Cheever gave Blake a droll look and gently grabbed his hand. “That was part of it,” he said. Blake looked at him in resignation as Cheever pulled Blake’s battered knuckles to his lips and kissed them softly.

  The resignation disappeared, replaced by such terrible need.

  Cheever leaned sideways over him and took his mouth in a brief kiss. “We’ll have to see where the rest of it leads,” he said, watching as Blake closed his eyes, as if he was savoring the moment.

  “Well, peachy,” Kell snapped. “Dammit, why didn’t anybody—”

  “I just did,” Cheever said. “It was… was my job to tell you. Because Blake’s been super responsible and super ‘We shouldn’t do this because blah blah blah age and blah blah blah Kell and blah blah blah recovery.’ And I’ve been the one who pushed. So I had to be the one to tell you.”

  “Blah blah blah?” Blake asked, amusement twisting his lean mouth, and Cheever rubbed a thumb over his lower lip.

  “How’m I gonna take care of you when you keep going on about why this is a bad idea?”

  “I thought that was my job?” he asked.

  Maybe a month ago, Cheever wouldn’t have seen the darkness in his eyes for what it was.

  But now he saw hurt and knew he was right.