Paint It Black

by Amy Lane

  Aubrey could barely straighten up, and he cast Cheever a furtive, chickenshit look under his lowered brows.

  “I didn’t know,” he protested. “I thought he wanted it—”

  Heather slapped him, hard. “Fuck off.”

  Aubrey yelped, and she stalked to the car. “Get in the car, dickheads. I’m driving because I fucking want to. Trav, see that Cheever calms Blake down. Mackey, you’re in pain, you still get the front. Everybody else, remember how to act civilized. Goddammit, I need to get the fuck out of this town.”

  “I’M SORRY,” Blake said into the dead silence of the car as it whizzed down I-5.

  “It’s okay,” Cheever said automatically, looking at him with worried eyes. Blake sat, head leaning against the window, staring off into the flat topography.

  “No, it’s not.” Blake thudded his head against the glass lightly. “I could have hurt everybody—Cheever, you were handling it. I… I just….” He let out a frustrated breath, and while they weren’t touching, Cheever could still feel the fine trembling that didn’t seem to have left him since they’d been outside the minimart.

  “It’s hard,” Trav said, his voice tired. “You think there’s people out there I haven’t wanted to kill?”

  Blake let out a humorless laugh. “We had to sit on you, that one time,” he said.

  “Yeah, you did,” Trav said, and Cheever remembered that night, while they’d been visiting Grant before he died. He never knew what Stevie’s father had done—but whatever it was, Kell, Blake, and Mackey had needed to tackle Trav before Trav killed him. Not even Cheever doubted the outcome if they’d failed. He also remembered how Stevie and Jefferson had just disappeared, because Stevie’s father wasn’t their bogeyman anymore—and now he understood. Aubrey wasn’t his bogeyman anymore, but that didn’t mean Blake didn’t want him dead.

  Here, in the present, Trav let out a breath. “But I should know better now. I should have kept a tighter hold on you, Blake.”

  Blake grunted. “Wasn’t your fault I’m a fucking moron.”

  “Hey.” Cheever bumped him gently. “You were trying to protect me. It’s okay.”

  But Blake just shook his head. “I wasn’t there the right way. You didn’t need that. I needed to be… different. I’m sorry.”

  “No.” A sense of dislocation hit him, as though he was looking at one thing when something else was going on. Like those paintings he’d done of Tyson, the ones in which only Blake saw the despair. There was something here Blake and Cheever were seeing differently. “You were—”

  “Making it about me. It’s about you. And you had it handled.” Blake closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you. You were great.”

  Cheever reached for his hand tentatively, remembering the way Blake had flinched before. He didn’t now, even when Cheever felt the split skin of his knuckles, which must have hurt like a motherfucker.

  “Trav,” Cheever said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Do we have a first aid kit? He’s bleeding.”

  “I’m fine.” Blake tried to reclaim his hand.

  “Shut up,” Cheever said thickly. “Just… just don’t talk to me if you’re not going to let me fix the damage.”

  Blake didn’t say anything else, but he let Cheever hold his hand. Trav produced a first aid kit like magic, out of his ass because he really was that guy, and Cheever pulled out some antiseptic wipes and started to doctor the splits. Blake barely twitched as Cheever worked, and Cheever wondered about how often Blake was used to nobody taking care of him at all.

  Except Cheever’s family, standing between him and jail time, shouting at him that prison was unacceptable.

  That was love, right there, and Cheever was mad at himself all over again for not trusting them.

  Trav pulled him out of his own spiral of self-hatred by calling his name.

  “What?” he said, smoothing the back of Blake’s now-bandaged hand with his thumb.

  “I never asked if you wanted me to press charges.”

  Cheever snorted. “Yeah, no.” Blake’s hand tensed in his. “Could we even make them stick? We were both minors. It’s been eight years. No. I….” And this baffled him. “He didn’t even know what he’d done.”

  “I’ll bet he’ll be wondering tonight when he looks at his face,” Kell said with some satisfaction. “Jesus, Blake, your technique ain’t gotten any worse since you and Trav beat the shit out of each other outside of Albuquerque.”

  Blake let out a chuff of air. “Yeah, but I’ll never level anyone in one blow,” he said, and Cheever was willing to buy into it, just to get Blake to talk again.

  “One blow?” he asked.

  “Oh God.” Trav covered his eyes. “That little club that belonged to Heath’s friend. Jesus, that was… unusual.”

  “What was unusual,” Mackey said from the front seat, “was the size of this guy. He was six-foot-ten, maybe three-fifty, and it was all fuckin’ muscle. And he….” Mackey looked at his mother quickly.

  “He decided he wanted a piece of Mackey,” Kell said loudly. For Cheever’s ears only, he murmured, “Guy told Mackey he wanted to use his ass like a Fleshlight. Blake had to tell Mackey what one was, and the guy shoved Blake against the wall and told him he had a pretty mouth, he was gonna use that too.”

  Cheever’s mouth dropped open, and he saw the faint smile on Blake’s lips. “What happened?” he asked, enthralled.

  “Well, he was concentrating on me and Mackey, ’cause I guess he was hard up—”

  “Rock star fetish,” Mackey grunted. “Some guys like some grit with their dinner.”

  “Mackey!”

  “Oh Jesus!”

  “Mackey, for fuck’s sake!”

  “McKay James Sanders!”

  Only Blake refrained from chewing him out, but his smile was a little bigger now.

  “What did Trav do?” Cheever asked when the outrage had died down.

  “I took care of the situation,” Trav said, like that put an end to it.

  Kell guffawed. “He coldcocked the guy. Giant fuckin’ asshole was busy trying to grope Mackey and Blake, and Trav snuck up behind him with a—tell him, Trav?”

  “A fucking bongo drum,” Trav said in resignation. “It had a weighted bottom—the opening band had left it in the green room.”

  Cheever couldn’t help it. He chuckled. “You knocked him out?”

  “I stunned him,” Trav corrected.

  “Then Trav got him behind the knees with some ninja Army shit. And when he went down, Blake got him over the ear with a mic stand.”

  “The only other option was a guitar,” Blake said softly. “Went with the mic stand.”

  “I was so fuckin’ proud,” Mackey gloated from the front. “Man, that’s respecting the trade, right?”

  “Can’t fuck up a good guitar,” Blake agreed, so seriously Cheever had to check his face to see if he was kidding.

  Nope.

  Apparently, Blake’s indoctrination into Mackey’s little cult of rock ’n’ roll was 100 percent thorough. But that was the religion that had kept him from killing Aubrey Cooper today, and Cheever was going to be grateful.

  “Of course not.” Cheever brought his bandaged knuckles to his lips and kissed softly.

  “I’m sorry,” Blake whispered again.

  “I’m okay.” Cheever hoped it was the right thing to say, but Blake sighed and pulled his hand back into his lap.

  “I’m glad,” he said, his voice remote, and Cheever sighed and packed up the first aid kit to give back to Trav.

  “Give him space,” Trav advised. “It… it’s hard. Being that guy.”

  Cheever grimaced. Except Blake wasn’t just that guy. Blake was the victim, and nobody put him back together. He was trying to be the hero, and the duct tape didn’t always hold.

  The image of Blake trying to put himself back together with no help was so striking, Cheever had to close his eyes to see it.

  The picture of a broken guitar player on the sidewa
lk gutted him, and every brush stroke, every line was etched so deeply in his head, he knew he could paint it tomorrow, in a week, in a month.

  The words came with it, which only surprised him a little.

  He pulled out his phone and started to text, wishing it was a tablet, wishing he had a pencil, but relying on words because that was all he had.

  There you were in broken pieces

  No one saved the day

  You grabbed the duct tape and salvation

  And fixed your problems anyway

  You left fragments of your heart though

  On the cracked pavement beneath

  Not enough for you to bleed out

  You’re just unsteady on the beat

  I’ll hold you while you bleed on me

  And I’ll soothe away your pain

  I’ll use silk instead of duct tape

  Which is serviceable and plain

  I’ll stop up all your leaky parts

  I’ll seal up all your cracks

  But whether you’re fixed or broke

  I need you to come back

  Just promise me no matter what

  You’ll still be coming back

  I’ll put together all your pieces

  If only you come back.

  He finished the lyric and looked at Blake, wondering if he’d want to see it. To his surprise, Blake was looking back at him, his eyes wide and shadowed.

  “Texting?” he asked curiously.

  “Writing,” Cheever said with pride. For the barest moment, he contemplated holding the phone to his chest, but then he remembered what he’d just written, about putting Blake together. The only thing that would do that was trust.

  He went back and titled it “Cement Ragdoll” and showed Blake his phone, biting his lip.

  Blake’s breaths got shakier and shakier, and Cheever grimaced as he used the back of his bandaged hand to wipe off his cheeks.

  “Okay?” Cheever asked, because who didn’t worry when they gave someone something close to their heart.

  Blake nodded and sobbed again.

  “Aw, man.” Cheever reached out and pulled at his shoulder. “Baby, c’mere.”

  Blake fought it—oh God, he fought it. Even at the end, every sob ripping through his body was ragged and unwelcome. But Cheever held him through them all, until he rested, limp and spent, in his arms.

  THEY HAD arranged to stay in a hotel outside of Redding, two to a room. Cheever and Blake had a king-sized bed, which made Cheever sort of proud, but Blake was silent as he brought in his duffel bag and dropped it on the luggage rack.

  He started rooting through the bag immediately, coming up with his running shoes and clothes Cheever had thought were pure wishful thinking. But Blake changed swiftly, not talking, not even making eye contact.

  He didn’t break the silence until he put his hand on the doorknob, nylon hat in place over his forehead, running jersey swinging around his hips. “I’ll be back,” he said shortly.

  “Blake, it’s 105 outside!” Because this area hadn’t gotten any less like the cauldron of hell in the summer over the last eight years.

  “I gotta—”

  “Water!” Cheever said desperately.

  “Cheever, if I don’t get out of this hotel in five minutes, I’m gonna be snorting drain cleaner and hoping it’s coke,” Blake said brutally. “Now I’ll be back, I promise—just let me go now.”

  And he was gone.

  Kell was next door, and Trav was across the hall, and Cheever pounded on Kell’s door because it was closer.

  To his surprise Kell popped out fully dressed in his running gear, and Trav emerged in his kit too, with a net bag of water bottles.

  “He left already,” Cheever said, near tears.

  “Well, yeah,” Kell said, starting his sturdy jog down toward the elevators. “’Cause he’s smart.”

  They both disappeared around the corner, and Cheever sagged against his own door. He looked numbly into his hand and saw he had the key and wondered how in the hell that had happened. It was the only thing to go right since they’d left Tyson.

  Mackey came limping out of his and Trav’s bedroom as he stared, and Cheever caught a pair of board shorts in the face before he could even ask where his brother was going.

  “Change,” Mackey grunted, and Cheever saw he had his own pair on with a T-shirt over it. “I figured you wouldn’t know the drill. Meet you at the pool.”

  Cheever had no choice, apparently. He changed and left again, meeting his mother on the way to the elevators. He blinked, because she’d done her makeup and fluffed out her hair.

  “Mom?”

  “Going to the bar,” she said with a watery smile. “Trav won’t drink ’cause of Mackey, Kell won’t drink ’cause of Blake, and the twins just don’t drink on general principle. It’s tradition. Guys work out, girls go to the bar. It’s been a long day, sweetheart—we all need our drugs.”

  The door opened, and his mother went toward the hotel bar and Cheever followed the signs to the pool, bemused.

  Yeah, sure he was worried. But his poem had been pretty on point, actually. The band had their ways of putting themselves back together again. It was Cheever’s job to let them do it without getting upset.

  The pool was warm and overchlorinated, but it was water. Mackey was in up to his chest doing strength exercises, and Cheever started doing laps in the lane next to him. The physical activity was soothing, he realized. The day had been nonstop traveling and drama, and his own tension drained out of him steadily until he was pleasantly tired.

  He pulled his heart rate up for a good ten laps and then cooled down, floating to a halt near Mackey without conscious thought.

  “Feel better?” Mackey asked, doing what looked like yoga under the water.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Got about two more reps. How was Blake when they left?”

  Cheever let out a dispirited breath. “Two heartbeats away from using. Three from running off a cliff.”

  “That’s why it’s better to go in a group,” Mackey said seriously, and Cheever gave a bark of laughter.

  “What?”

  Just… just….

  “There is so fucking much I don’t know.” Cheever swirled his hand in the strong-smelling water. “I guess Mom goes out and gets girl-drink drunk once a year. Who knew?”

  Mackey chuckled. “Well, she’s always been fond of Briony.” He deepened his stretch. “Me too. She’s the sister I was never smart enough to want.”

  Cheever grunted. Truth was, he’d been stocking Blake’s refrigerator and leaving the note for the housekeeper because he was well and truly afraid of so much as asking for a soda in the big house.

  Mackey chuckled harder. “Last ass-beatin’ she gave you still stinging, right?”

  “She’s terrifying,” Cheever said flatly.

  “Yeah, well, whole reason we got tight was she wouldn’t take my crap. Stands to figure she won’t take yours either. But you brought one of those with you—the sister who just sort of fits into the family. She doing okay?”

  Cheever thought of Marcia, who had always been so intense, so stressed, so determined to get her degree and do her parents proud. She’d helped Katy pack her stuffed animals that morning, and she’d made a little pile of them that Katy wanted to leave in Marcia’s room so they wouldn’t be lonely. Marcia had taken each one into her room and put it on her bed, reciting the name so she wouldn’t forget. Yeah, she’d been sad because Katy was going, but she’d been so in her element, talking to that little kid.

  “She’s doing good,” he said, smiling slightly. “I guess being surrounded by kids and cranky rock stars is actually her thing.”

  Mackey changed his stretch, dropping his shoulders, keeping his face barely out of water. “Yeah—Shelia and Briony’s too. Who knew. You talk to her about Blake?”

  Cheever stood straight and let the warm wind sweep over him. Redding didn’t cool down in July. “Am I supposed to? She was like the rest of you a
ll. I was like, ‘Yay! Great guy! Seems to like me!’ And you all were like, ‘Don’t break Blake!’” He felt the same helpless frustration building up behind his eyes. “And apparently I broke him. Because….” He felt Blake’s sobs—not helpless, but not welcome either. There was no cleansing cry for Blake Manning, just this terrible certainty that he’d failed by crying at all. “Because that in the car… it was painful.”

  Mackey snorted, his breath blowing a little bit of water back. “You gonna let a little bit of pain stop you? ’Cause if that’s the case, I’ll be the first to tell you that starting the relationship was a bad idea. It’s like the first time you have butt-sex, really. Going forward will hurt, but it will eventually feel good. Just stopping will feel better in your ass, but it’s gonna fuckin’ destroy your heart.”

  Cheever stared at him. “Oh dear God.”

  Mackey stood carefully and extended his arms over his head. “What?”

  “That was the most awful analogy in… I mean, you make your living writing songs, for sweet Christ’s sake!”

  Mackey swooped his arms down his sides. “Does it work? Is it true?”

  Cheever shifted uncomfortably. “I… well, you know. Ain’t really done that, voluntarily.” Ain’t. Fucking aces.

  Mackey dropped his arms and turned to stare at Cheever deliberately. “You….” He crossed his eyes. “Dear God. You have actually made me uncomfortable talking about sex. First time in your entire life, I wish Mom had gotten a cat instead. You and Blake been doin’ the dirty, right?”

  “Yes.” Cheever swallowed. “I’m very comfortable topping, thank you.”

  “But you don’t trust him to even see if the other way is a thing you’d want?” Mackey asked. “’Cause I gotta tell you, Blake’s pretty fucking good at leading and planning and taking care of people and shit. I think he might not suck at it.”