Paint It Black

by Amy Lane

  “You keep trying to tell me you did all sorts of bad things,” Cheever said, although his mind couldn’t focus on what those were right now. “But you’ve never been anything but nice to me.”

  Blake’s mouth twisted. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said frankly. “How’s this? You know that shitty hotel room you were in?”

  Cheever nodded, not picturing it, just knowing it had existed.

  “I’ve been in that room a couple of times—not that exact one, but one just like it. There’s a million hotel rooms just like it. I’ve been in that room doing lines, selling my ass for food, for coke, for a place to sleep. I’ve been hiding in a corner, ignoring the shit going on so I can catch a nap, and I’ve been on the bed, hoping it would be all over soon so I could take my cash or my snort and go. I’ve been the party and I’ve been the party favor, and….” He closed his eyes. “It doesn’t go away, being in a room like that. The things you do there. The things that’re done to you. It doesn’t ever go away.”

  Something about the sedative let the tears come easy, and Cheever let them.

  “How do you live with that?” he asked. In his head, he was picturing a boy’s dorm—plain white walls, his favorite band posters the only decoration, and a quilt his mom had paid one of their old neighbors to make him so he’d have something special, living away from home. His guitar had been in the corner, in case his brothers ever asked him to play, and a rag rug had lain at the foot of the bed, because his mother had time now and could make things.

  Aubrey Cooper, his stink, his breath, the smell of his feet in sweaty socks, was behind him, and his body was inside Cheever’s, and it didn’t hurt because Cheever had prepped, and it even felt a little good, because it was moving, moving, moving. But Cheever didn’t want it, didn’t want him, and in his head, he had a picture of a pretty young boy like an angel, exploding into a monster that was all cock, impaling Cheever’s body like a fish on a fork.

  “Being in that room?” Blake asked, his voice a lifeline out of that picture, and Cheever followed it to the door of his mind, clutching the frame with brittle white fingers.

  “Yeah.”

  “You walk out,” Blake said, his voice breaking a little. “You put one foot in front of the other and you just keep walking out.”

  “I can’t,” Cheever wept, feeling the strain in his arms as the Aubrey-monster threatened to pull him back inside. He couldn’t even see what was outside of the room, but he heard Blake’s voice there, so it had to be better than what was inside.

  “Yes, you can, Cheever.” Blake’s voice sounded thick. “I know you can, kid. It’s hard, but I wasn’t ever loved like you were. You can come out of there because you know you were loved.”

  Oh God. The Aubrey-monster behind him didn’t love him—but outside that room…. If he could just get outside that room, his mother was there. And his brothers. And he knew they loved him. He knew it. He might not have felt it in his heart for a long time, but he knew it in his head.

  The monster roared and plunged back inside his body again, trying to claim him for that eternity in hell.

  “No! God, please, no!” he cried, screaming in this bed, in this pretty room, like he’d never screamed as a kid. “Please stop. Please. I don’t want to do this anymore. Please.”

  “Cheever! Cheever, come back here, boy! Come back!”

  Blake’s hand, squeezing his own to the point of pain, jerked his eyes open, and Blake stared at him as they locked hands. Blake gasped, white-faced, red-eyed, his free hand shaking as he scrubbed it over his mouth.

  “Where were you?” That voice—warm and kind—sounded broken and scared, and Cheever was sorry, so sorry he’d hurt Blake, scared him.

  But he’d seen the monster now, felt its breath on his neck, and he realized it had been there his whole adult life, and he’d been pretending it didn’t exist.

  Cheever was never sure how he had the courage to say it. “In the dorm, at my old prep school….”

  In his mind, he took one step—just one—past the threshold, into the turbulent void beyond.

  As Tears Go By

  CHEEVER LOOKED… lost.

  Terribly, terribly lost, and Blake felt exactly the same way.

  “What happened there?” Blake asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer. His prep school.

  Blake had expected Cheever to have been in a gas station, or in LA or at home alone or in a locker room when whatever had caused this had happened—anywhere but in his dorm room in a school where he was supposed to be safe.

  Cheever shook his head and shrugged. “I can’t,” he said, shaking. “Not now. Not….” He clenched Blake’s hand so hard. “I don’t want you to see me like that,” he mewled, and Blake didn’t ask himself why it was so important that he not see Cheever like that—he didn’t care what he saw. What was Cheever seeing that made him shake so goddamned hard?

  “Do you think I want you to see me like that?” Blake asked instead, the shame of his time in that fucking hotel room—all those fucking hotel rooms—cutting so damned deep, he was surprised he didn’t have a strip of flesh carved out of his ribs. “I keep showing you so you know I’m not perfect. So you know you got nothing to be ashamed of. And even if you do, you’ll still be loved.”

  Cheever’s hand came up to Blake’s cheek, and Blake captured it there, closing his eyes and holding it.

  This isn’t how friends and little brothers act, dumbass. He’s trying to tell you something.

  So what if he is? You’re going to cut and run now, when it’s getting real? You fucking promised and you’re that guy now, since the band got together. You’re not the kid trapped in the shitty hotel room anymore, or Mackey’s dealer, desperate for attention. You’re the guy who keeps his promises and stays.

  “You tell me stuff like that and all I can think is, thank God you got out.”

  “Don’t you think we want you to get out, baby boy?”

  Oh, he needed the authority that “baby boy” gave him—needed the distance. The hand on Blake’s cheek wasn’t a child’s hand. It was long-fingered and callused and rough from working with art supplies and astringent cleaners. The nails were torn to the quick and the cuticles were bloody, but it was the hand of an adult, one with problems, sure, but not a kid’s.

  This kid is not thinking about sex—you know that more than anybody.

  “I took a step today,” Cheever said, sighing, his body relaxing, everywhere but that hand. “But I don’t know what’s beyond that room.”

  “You are,” Blake told him. “Whatever you want to be. A kind you. One who plays with his brothers and fights with them like an equal. A you that gets to know your nieces and nephews and stays for family gatherings. A you that can court a man, be gentle, kiss a man like an adult, maybe getting your heart broken, maybe finding true love. A you that can paint pictures, ugly pictures and beautiful pictures, and know that whatever you put on the canvas, it’s in your heart and it’s worth something.”

  Cheever made a whimper, not scared so much as needy.

  “You are what’s beyond that room, Cheever Sanders. You’ve got so much potential out here. You just got to keep taking the steps, you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Cheever whispered. “Yeah. I’ll take the steps. But you gotta keep holding my hand, okay, Blake? ’Cause right now, I’m lost without you.”

  “I’m here,” Blake promised. “I’m right here. I’ll pull you back every time.”

  Cheever nodded again, eyes closed, and those slow tears just kept creeping down his cheeks. Finally his hand went limp, and Blake lowered it to the bed, resting his head against the rail.

  God, if the kid was going to sleep through dinner, Blake could join him.

  Last time he’d been this exhausted, he’d been on the other side of the shrink’s chair, and he hadn’t ever wanted to go back.

  He was dozing lightly, his head still on the rail, when there was a gentle knock at the door. An orderly came in, bearing two trays of food, an
d Doc Cambridge was right behind him.

  Blake turned and shook his head, thinking he couldn’t eat. Since Cheever was asleep, there was no need for dinner tonight, right?

  “Set the trays down,” Cambridge insisted to the orderly. “Blake, see me outside, please?”

  Blake stumbled outside, surprised by how drained he was and how much he needed his own nap. “I’ll catch something on the way home,” he said, trying to apologize.

  “This has vegetables,” Cambridge said, the “dad” in his voice sort of comforting at the same time Blake thought he was being a dick. “How is he?”

  Blake’s throat seized up, and he passed his hand over his chest a few times. “Sore,” he managed to say.

  Cambridge nodded. “How are you?”

  Blake’s mouth pushed up in the corner, and he rubbed his chest again. “Sore,” he repeated softly.

  Cambridge’s mouth did the same thing. “I’m worried about his dependence on you,” he said bluntly.

  “Just until he’s stronger,” Blake reassured. “When he feels more able to talk, he won’t need me so much—”

  “I’m worried for you,” Cambridge reiterated, rolling his eyes. “You’re not Trav Ford, fifteen years older than Mackey, autocratic as hell. You may be a little older than this kid but… you had it a lot rougher, Blake.”

  Blake grimaced, thinking about what it must have been like to have been taken in the safety of your own room, when you’d been protected all your life. “Ten years,” he said, ignoring the way Cambridge snorted. “And everyone’s damage hurts,” he said, trying to keep his dignity.

  “Yeah. But you don’t deserve to be this kid’s human teddy bear because you were nearby when he had the worst moment of his life—”

  “I wanted to be there,” Blake interjected, his voice hardening. “I’ve known this kid a while, Doc. He’s part of Kell and Mackey’s family. I used to think he was a stuck-up little shit—but I still had hope, you know? And even if I didn’t, he was still part of their family.”

  “Did you two have a rapport?” Cambridge asked. “Before this?”

  Blake remembered that long-ago afternoon, after Mackey had lost his shit, with all the brothers dog piling him on the floor because Trav hadn’t been there.

  He thought about Cheever, looking young and defensive, and the way he’d talked about not sharing his hell with the rest of the world.

  “We had a moment,” he said. “When he was in middle school. Back when we went to visit Grant Adams before he died. Cheever was being an out and out little asshole, and he and Mackey got into it, and… well, it peeled the scab off a lot of Mackey’s old business. And when it was over, Cheever was open. Vulnerable. And I sat down to talk to him, because… he sort of tugged at my heart, right? But he closed down like a fuckin’ steel trap, and… I mean, me and the guys were wrecked. We’d gotten off a tour to go say goodbye to their friend, and the night before, we’d gotten bailed out of jail for a bar fight, and…. I keep thinking of the things I could have said then. What I could have done. To let this kid trust me more. But… I thought there’d be more chances, you know? I mean, he was just a kid. But he shut down after that. No more chances with any of the family. It was like he didn’t even want us to try.”

  Cambridge frowned and searched Blake’s face for a moment. “He’s not a kid anymore.”

  Blake thought of that kiss, the way the kid lit up when he’d brought those battered knuckles to his lips.

  “I… I guess not.”

  “He might develop feelings for you.”

  Blake waved his hand. “For a battered old coke whore? Once he gets his shit together, he’ll have better people to love, Doc. Don’t worry. You should have seen his school—Trav says he was getting straight A’s. Think of all those kids there to choose from. He’ll forget about me when this is over, don’t worry.”

  Cambridge had closed his eyes and was pushing really hard at that point between the bridge of his nose and his eyebrows with one finger. “I could retire,” he said, as though to himself. “That would be good. I could retire, and the wife and I could move to a desert island, and—”

  “Doc?”

  “You’re a good person, Blake Manning. Don’t underestimate how attractive a good person who genuinely cares for you can be.”

  “If he gets a little crush, I’ll be gentle,” Blake said, although his heart died some at the thought of someone else taking his place by Cheever’s bedside.

  “And if he crushes your heart, I’ll be here,” Cambridge said with a sigh. “Go eat, Blake. Stay in the room until Marcia gets there—”

  “Can’t I just sleep there again tonight? Like I’ve done before?” Marcia had awakened with a little whimper the night before, and Blake had told her to hush, she was okay. She’d gone back to sleep, hugging one of the stupid stuffed animals Blake had brought her, and he thought that maybe she needed someone to protect her as she slept, just like Cheever.

  Cambridge started rubbing the back of his own neck. “Sure. Because I have no idea why I even try.”

  “Because you’re the best!” Blake said in surprise. “You saved my life! You saved Mackey’s. We’re not stupid, Doc. We listen to everything you say.”

  “You do,” Cambridge said, nodding grimly. “I’m just not sure you hear it the way I mean it.”

  “But if the way we hear it unfucks our lives, that’s still a good thing, right?”

  Cambridge’s stare was… unnerving.

  “What?”

  “I need to go reread about half of my graduate-level texts. And take a Motrin and some antacid for dinner.”

  Blake knew he was being kind of funny but wasn’t sure how. “Make sure you have some dinner with that,” he said, his mouth twisting. “You’re gonna need some vegetables.”

  Cambridge laughed, but he still looked sad. “Blake, if you need to talk to me about anything, please do. Make an appointment if you can, but if you need to, I’ll talk to you in my car getting takeout. In a thousand years, I could not have asked for boys who tried harder than you and Mackey. I see a lot of people working so hard not to fix themselves. I’d really like to keep the people trying in a good place.”

  Blake nodded. “Yessir. Will do. So, uh, that’s a go on the sleeping here tonight?”

  “As long as Ms. Lin is fine with it, so am I.” He sighed and turned away, walking slower than Blake remembered.

  Well, hurt people were hard on everybody.

  Blake went back into the room and looked unhappily at the dinner trays. Well, shit. Might as well set a good example, right?

  AN HOUR later, Cheever was still napping, and Blake was bored. His phone was charging, and he didn’t feel like turning on the TV in the quiet—but Cheever’s guitar? That beckoned to him.

  He picked it up and started to play absently, going to that perennial favorite, “Stairway to Heaven” first, then shifting to “Ruby Tuesday,” and then, on a whim, to “Wild Horses.” He went randomly to a Gordon Lightfoot tune, singing gently about reading a lover’s mind when a relationship was over, and then going back to “Heaven,” because he hated to leave that one unfinished.

  “Play your stuff,” Cheever said quietly from his corner.

  Blake looked up and smiled slightly. “Eat your dinner.”

  Cheever grunted. “Deal. But I draw the line at vegetables.”

  “Do that and you’ll get Taylor Swift and like it.”

  Cheever’s chuckle made him feel better, and he pulled the tray over to his bed. “How do you know I don’t like Taylor Swift?”

  Blake kept playing, but thought about it. “The music books in your room, I guess. Same shit me and the boys play. Was sort of… nice.”

  Cheever took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “The music was always around me,” he said, like he was thinking. “Even after my brothers left, it was like… at least I had their music.”

  “Mm.” Blake tuned a recalcitrant string—the guitar was a good one, and nicely broken in. “You should tell the
m that. I think… you know. They’re a little hurt.”

  “Yeah. They tried, you know? After Grant died. After we moved to LA, I was just not listening.”

  Blake smiled at him. “Listening’s a good thing.”

  And then he launched into the only song on his solo album that had gotten any airtime.

  “I heard the door close behind you

  I heard the end of the dream

  I heard you laughing with your lover

  And you never heard me scream

  Was never gonna be your lover

  Never gonna be your guy

  You never needed my hand in yours

  Not your job to help me fly

  I get to see you happy now

  That’s a promise I did keep

  You get to think I’m happy now

  And you’ll never hear me weep

  Such a smalltime hopeless crush on you

  Not a lover, just a friend

  You never knew I cried for you

  And I never lost my friend.”

  THERE WAS a quiet riff at the end, something Mackey had helped him with, truth be known, because Mackey had helped engineer and record the album and hired the backup musicians so they could give new guys a boost. He played it, delicate, lilting, and let the final chord sound, and was surprised when Marcia started clapping from her side of the bedroom.

  “You liked that?” he asked. He’d never even heard her come in.

  “It was gorgeous,” she said, at the same time Cheever said, “It hurts more now.”

  Blake stared at him, suddenly uncomfortable. What had he told the boy in the last two days that would make that song different?

  “Why?” Marcia asked, and Cheever locked eyes with Blake.

  “Because I know who it was for.”

  Oh. Blake had told him that, hadn’t he?

  “Wasn’t for anyone,” he lied. “It’s just a song. You’re not always the singer, you know. Sometimes it’s a persona.”

  Cheever rolled his eyes much like Doc Cambridge had, and suddenly Blake felt naked. “And I painted those pictures of my hometown because I loved it.”