Paint It Black

by Amy Lane

  “You guys—”

  And now Jefferson did look up. “You love him?”

  “Duh,” Stevie said, eyes still focused. “’Course he does. Question is, does he have the guts to write something happy!”

  “Look, guys, leave him alone,” Mackey cautioned. “He can write whatever song he wants.” Mackey leveled a gaze at him that brooked no argument. “But that doesn’t mean that happy should be off the table, you understand?”

  “We’re going on tour in September,” Blake said evenly. “He’s staying here. Plenty of time for him to figure things out then.”

  “What makes you think he’s not going to figure out he misses you and you’re the one thing he really needs?” Mackey tilted his head in speculation.

  “Because that would be a fuckin’ first,” Blake snapped. “Now let’s work on getting this next song laid down, and I can go write some goddamned happy.”

  THE TRACK went down smooth as silk. It tended to do that when Mackey worked the sound board, because like everything else having to do with music, Mackey had a natural touch. They broke for dinner—separate dinners this evening—and Blake went upstairs to where Cheever was painting.

  He was working on a landscape concept. Five different canvases, spanning California like it was one camera shot, looking westward. LA in the first canvas, panning to Monterey Bay, panning to the farmland of Bakersfield, panning to Sacramento, panning to Mount Lassen, which was only about eighty miles from Tyson itself. Yeah, the state wasn’t entirely shaped that way, but Blake admired the idea—California was a big state, with definite landscape features, and a sort of unique demarcation along topographical lines.

  Cheever was deep in concentration, his eyebrows drawn as he danced from canvas to canvas and sketched in details of each landscape, including the bleed from the left edge of the canvas into the focus landscape, and from the focus to the right side, which hinted at the landscape to come.

  Apparently, this was supposed to be the assignment Cheever was working on when he’d produced those sickly landscapes of Tyson. Cheever wanted to go meet his teacher—the woman Blake had confronted when he’d been packing up Cheever’s stuff—and show her what he could do with a clear and happy heart.

  He’d already finished the “two sides of the same coin” pictures of Blake and the brothers, and those canvases were stacked up against the wall. More importantly, their digital downloads had already been sent to Heath, their producer, for approval. He was having a graphics department do some shuffling, but Trav said he’d loved everything, from the concept to the execution, and Cheever had made his first commission.

  He was just like Mackey—so talented, it practically glowed off his skin.

  Blake watched him for a moment, in his element, humming happily, and went to his desk by the fish tank.

  “Hi, guys,” he murmured. They seemed to be thriving. At least, the giant bottom feeder hadn’t died yet. He was still jumping out and surprising the other fish—that was good.

  Blake pulled out a pen and some paper, because the phone thing had been an anomaly, and set about to write Cheever—but happy.

  Spin me a world out of pencil lines

  A universe of paint

  A minute watching you at work

  Shows me what I ain’t.

  Keep dancing in that world

  I’ll imagine I’m there too

  And as long as we’re in fantasy land

  I’ll be dancing there with you

  Travel mountains to the valleys

  From the valleys to the sea

  Most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen

  Is how you look at me

  The mountains blaze like flame and fire

  The sky is cobalt blue

  That landscape isn’t mine to admire

  I’ve got eyes only for you.

  You’re the only world I’ll ever need.

  That’s why I’m looking at you.

  IT TOOK him an hour. Every note felt carved from obsidian. Every word felt dragged from the center of his heart. But it was a happy moment for Cheever and him, and maybe the boys would call it good.

  He took out his guitar and played the intro, making notes on the paper, then went back to instrumentation, keeping it as simple as possible so the boys could help embellish. He finished, starving and thirsty, and looked up to see Cheever had put some orange juice on his desk and the sun had about gone down outside.

  “Pretty,” Cheever said, rubbing his shoulders. “What was it?”

  “Love song,” Blake told him, leaning into his caress.

  “For me?”

  Blake laughed. “Don’t see anyone else here, do you?”

  “Very funny. Just… you know. It sounded happy.”

  “I am happy,” Blake said, his voice throbbing with hope. Cheever leaned over and kissed the crown of his head.

  “I’m happy too.”

  Blake stood up and kissed him, leaving the rest of the song for tomorrow.

  They were happy for now. The guys were right. The end would come soon enough—Cheever hadn’t left yet. He needed to enjoy what he had.

  MACKEY LISTENED to it thoughtfully, nodding. “Good,” he said. “Good. Guys?”

  “It’s not permanent,” Stevie said.

  “Blake’s still got one foot out the door,” Jefferson said.

  “Give it time.” Kell smiled encouragingly. “I was pretty sure Briony was mistaking me for someone else until I knocked her up. Turned out, she really did love me.”

  “So that’s the album?” Blake asked, not even daring to hope.

  “Nope.” Mackey pulled a rolled-up notebook out of his pocket, the cheap kind with the spiral wire that he got for twenty-five cents in the back-to-school sales. It’s all he’d ever written on, even though they were a pain in the ass for a lefty like Mackey. “Trav, can you bring me my guitar?” He was leaning against a stool, and with a little difficulty, he hopped up on top of it.

  “Here,” he said, handing Blake the notebook. “Fix it, fuck it—whatever. But you need to hear it, whether or not you put it on.”

  The intro was a slow one, a couple of notes, a couple of chords, a build. So strong, so hooky, it gave Blake goose bumps.

  Then Mackey sang.

  You spent a year in my shadow

  Then stayed

  You deserved sunshine

  You seemed to like my shade.

  You won’t take a thing from me

  Brother, I give you my all

  Don’t be afraid

  To turn your face to the sun

  We’re here to catch you

  Turn your face to the sun

  We grew up in hardpan

  The lot of us thrived

  There’s more to living

  Than just being alive

  It’s your time of softness

  Flowers so sweet

  You’re still tough enough

  For the fall

  We’re here to catch you

  Turn your face to the sun

  Blossom, thistles, and all.

  The guitar trailed off, and Mackey glared defiantly at Blake.

  And Blake gaped back.

  “Dammit, Mackey,” Kell muttered. “It’s ten o’clock in the goddamned morning and you’re gonna fuckin’ make me cry.”

  Mackey rolled his eyes. “If that’s your excuse for blowing up the bathroom, go ahead. We won’t stop you. Blake? What you think?”

  “You gotta sing it,” Blake said, voice thick. “I’ll do backup.”

  “Did you miss the goddamned—”

  “No, man. I got the point.” He stomped hard on his voice to keep it from cracking. “What is it about the last fucking months? It’s like being back in rehab. Just every fucking thing dancing on my balls.” He dragged his hand through his hair and tugged. “You’re saying you love me. Like a brother. Saying you want me happy. Every goddamned thing I ever wanted to hear, you just fuckin’ said.” He swallowed. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”


  Kell blocked him. “Naw, man. Don’t go to the bathroom. Stay here and ride it out.”

  Kell’s bear hug grounded him, but then everyone else joined in—Mackey, Trav, Jefferson, and Stevie. Blake didn’t have anywhere to go.

  He had no choice, none at all, but to cry in their arms and know they’d be there when he needed them.

  God, he was going to need them.

  When the tears were over, he took a deep breath and wiped his entire face on the inside of his shirt. “Mackey, you’re playing it, right?”

  “We can do it together. Bruce and Stevie been doing it for years.”

  Blake grinned. “D’yall hear that? I’m Miami fucking Steve Van Zandt.”

  One of the biggest compliments in music. One of the best moments of his life.

  BUT SAYING goodbye to Cheever in mid-September was one of the worst.

  Cheever had been back to school for three weeks by then, and while Blake had expected it to take him away, mostly it was just one day a week he went somewhere else and came back with school stories to tell.

  He was… fine. Happy, apparently. Facing school with aplomb. He talked about his professor—Professor Tierce—and how she seemed to like his work now, how she seemed so much more human.

  It was so normal, like any couple with a future. Like any two people facing challenges and talking about them over dinner alone, or with family. Blake had always wondered about that—the day-to-day living with another human being in his life. Briony and Kell, Trav and Mackey, Shelia and the twins, they had made it look so effortless. “Hey, this is another person in our group, and we will talk and laugh and fight and watch TV and argue over where to go on a Saturday night! It’s fine!” But Blake had never been able to make that work. Mostly because he’d never had the courage to try.

  With Cheever, in his bed, in his house, in his life, it worked.

  So preparing to pack up and leave on tour was a different sort of pain, one he didn’t have a handle on yet.

  “I’m moving back to the big house because why?” Cheever whined for the umpteenth time. His brothers whined too, because it meant they were moving his bed from the guest room back to the room Blake had made for him in the big house. But Cheever was not seeing the point.

  “Because you won’t be alone at night,” Blake said. Then, nervously, he said, “But you’ll still feed my fish, right?”

  Cheever bit his lip and turned to cup his cheek. “’Course, baby. But it would be easier if I just stayed here, in our room.”

  Our room. He’d hung that picture, the one of kids on the beach, at the foot of the bed. He’d promised to put the California landscapes up there after his professor evaluated them. He’d even picked out an area rug for under the bed and had started researching pets.

  Cheever was making this part of the big house their home over the studio, and Blake couldn’t bear to think of what it would be like when he was gone.

  “I don’t want you alone at night,” Blake said, then grimaced as he realized how that sounded. “I mean, you know, I would rather you be alone at night.”

  Cheever rolled his eyes as though nobody had ever heard of a cheating rock star. “Yeah, sort of my sentiments exactly. I’ll call you at night, okay?”

  Blake smiled a little. “Yeah. That’d be good. I’d like that.”

  But Cheever’s sigh told Blake he wasn’t fooled in the least. “You’re expecting to never hear from me again.”

  “No!”

  But Cheever waved him away. “No, no, I get it. It’s bullshit, but that’s something you’ll have to see for yourself. Sure, I’ll move across the street so you don’t have to imagine me having sex with someone else in our bed.”

  Blake recoiled. “That’s not what—”

  “Or so you don’t have to imagine me slitting my wrists.” Cheever’s words were blunt, but his tone was tender. “So you don’t have to imagine the worst. I get it. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.” He cupped Blake’s cheeks and kissed him. “I said I love you. I meant it. Now go help my brothers before they lose their shit. I’m going to start rounding up clothes.”

  “That’s gonna be rough.”

  Cheever kept his clothes all over—on the floor and the bed and the dresser and the windowsill and the towel racks and the rod that held up the shower curtain.

  Oh yeah, he had a chest of drawers too!

  “I know, right? I’ll use your suitcases to haul them and then help you pack.”

  And just like that, his worries were dismissed, and the day was just another one in the life of a rock star.

  Blake wasn’t sure if he was reassured or panicked, but he didn’t have time to do anything about either choice, so he just kept on moving. Right up until the morning the car came to take them to the airport.

  The guys were all out on the lawn, waiting with their travel bags since their equipment had been hauled up north three days before. Their goodbyes were apparently done—except for Mackey’s, of course, and Kell and the twins looked sad but resigned. It occurred to Blake that this was the first time they hadn’t been able to bring their significant others, and his heart hurt for them.

  Cheever followed Blake out of the house, because he was going to help wrangle the kids to school before he left for his own class, and because he just didn’t want Blake to be alone.

  The car pulled up just as they got there and Blake turned to him with a smile pasted on for good measure, but Cheever touched his lips and shook his head.

  Abruptly Blake was back to the night before, when Cheever had taken charge. They seemed to switch fairly regularly now—depended on mood—but Cheever had topping from the bottom down to an art form.

  Last night, he’d only had to stare at Blake with eyes that glowed with intent, and Blake had done what he needed. Blake’s lips ached, his asshole ached, his cock ached, all with Cheever’s determined and skillful use.

  There was no corner of Blake’s body—or his soul—left untouched by Cheever Sanders the night before, and there was no lying to him now.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said soberly.

  “I’ll miss you too.” Cheever didn’t blink, didn’t smile. This was deadly serious to him. “If I don’t call, you need to. There is nothing more important that I could be doing than answering your call.”

  Blake grimaced. “Fair enough,” he said. And then—because Trav had asked him the day before and he’d forgotten—he remembered to say, “Hey, you guys might get some press calls. The girls do sometimes. Talk to Trav first and make them make an appointment. Don’t let them catch you flat-footed, okay?” Blake looked around their gated community. “This place is pretty safe. Guards don’t let anyone through. But at school and stuff, you might be fair game.” He shuddered, remembering all that Trav had protected him from, that might come back to haunt him. His mother had been suspiciously quiet for a couple of years. That alone sent shivers down his spine. “If anyone asks you something that’s right out, hang up and call Trav.”

  Cheever nodded. “What if they ask me if I’m dating Blake Manning from Outbreak Monkey? What do you want me to say?”

  Well, shit. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  Cheever arched an eyebrow. “Good. I’ll tell them we’re living together, and we’re looking to get married in the next year.”

  Blake’s mouth fell open, and Cheever kissed him, hard, all tongue, dominating. He pulled away, and Blake tried to put his brains back between his ears and think adult things.

  “We can pick out rings when you get back,” Cheever said, only slightly breathless. “So that’s your answer too.”

  Blake closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Cheever’s. “Baby boy, if you are here when I get back, that will be as happy as I ever expected to be. All the rest is icing.”

  “That’s me,” Cheever told him. “Icing.”

  In the background, Blake heard the guys loading into the car, and he sighed. “I’ll text you when we get in,” he said, and Cheever kissed his cheek. Then
he turned and got in the car.

  The car pulled away, and Blake leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, blowing out a slow breath.

  “That was depressing,” he muttered.

  “Amen” came the rousing chorus.

  “The kids love school,” Kell said glumly.

  “Go fuckin’ figure,” Stevie said, his voice sour.

  Blake knew—Cheever had told him the same thing, and so had the kids. The days of touring as a family were over.

  “Two years,” Trav said into the silence, and Blake opened his eyes so he could join everyone in staring at him.

  “Trav?” Mackey asked, voice uncertain.

  “I talked to Heath. He wants one album from Outbreak Monkey, then he suggested that Mackey work as a producer for at least three projects, one of them a solo from Blake. We’ll use the same jokers in the background.” Stevie and Jefferson bumped fists, and Kell pumped his arm. “And then we give a tour every two years instead of every year. So we get to be home, get to raise kids. That way, if the kids are game to travel again, we can pack up a tutor and a nanny and go. If they’re not, it’s two months out, one month home, and two months out. Only big stadiums. Briony will have the option of training a journeyman to take over for her permanently.”

  Trav took a deep breath, as if he’d been planning that speech for a long time. “You guys good with that?”

  “Mackey?” Kell said.

  “Yeah?”

  “If you hadn’t married this man, I might have.”

  Mackey laughed a little. “Well, thank God I did, because that woulda caused all kinds of havoc. You guys okay with that? ’Cause I had no idea, but I’m so fucking relieved, I could almost cry.”

  “God yeah!”

  “Shelia’ll be thrilled.”

  “Seriously, Briony’ll be pissed, but she might only have to miss one or two tours before she’s back at the board.”

  Blake smiled quietly, happy that his brothers were happy but not feeling entitled to the same sort of excitement.

  “What’d’you think, Blake?” Mackey asked suddenly.

  Blake shrugged. “I think… I think as long as I’m with you all, it’ll be okay.”