Paint It Black

by Amy Lane

  He looked around wildly for the shorts he’d been wearing the night before and then gave it up, grabbing clean underwear from the drawer to pull over his sticky body and a pair of sleep pants from the drawer next to it.

  “Blake?” Cheever sounded remarkably calm.

  “Your brothers are here!” But they could both hear the clatter up the stairs that meant Kell and the boys didn’t mind any better than Mackey or Cheever.

  “I’m not jumping out the window, sweetheart,” Cheever said kindly. “We’re adults, and if they didn’t know this was coming—”

  The door swung open.

  “They weren’t paying attention,” he finished with a roll of his eyes. “Morning, Kell.”

  “You left Blake’s clothes all over the front room, little brother.”

  “Fish,” Blake mumbled. “I’m so sorry—I forgot to set my phone.”

  Kell held up Blake’s cargo shorts, which were emitting a very pleasant vibrating tone. “Not sure forgot is the right word.”

  “Sorry. Oh God. I’m sorry.” He looked over his shoulder at Cheever, who slid out of bed holding the sheet to his hips before the ringing of the phone pierced his skull worse than the light. “Augh! Make it stop!”

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” Kell squinted at him in concern and handed him his pants. Blake scrambled to make the noise stop and almost cried with relief when he hit the button.

  “Kell, could you give us a minute?”

  “Cheever, he looks awful. You didn’t make him drink last night, did you?”

  “No!” Blake snapped, then winced. God. Painkillers. Now.

  “No,” Cheever said softly, not defensive at all. “Kell, I wouldn’t do that.”

  Kell held his hand to Blake’s forehead and grimaced. “Cold. He’s dehydrated. Shit. This happens sometimes after concerts with him. He doesn’t drink enough water, does too much, and sleeps too little. It fucking levels him. Get him some water and some painkillers and don’t let him outside today—it’s going to be a scorcher.”

  Blake’s stomach turned, and he thought about how he hadn’t eaten the day before until dinner. Great.

  “Okay, Dad,” he said weakly. “Lemme shower first—”

  “Oh my God, please do,” Kell said, and he patted Blake’s cheek gently. “You ain’t smelled this bad since Houston.”

  Blake let out a strangled laugh. He and Kell, back in their cocaine days, had done a lot of fucking together in the same room. A couple of times, they’d even banged the same girls, and Houston—well, Houston had been the two of them and a king-sized bed and three women older than they were. They were too hung up to so much as look at each other naked, but when the girls had left, well, the two of them had needed a shower in the worst way.

  “My head hurts worse today,” he confessed weakly, and Kell winked.

  “That’s ’cause you’re not medicating it with Jack already. Go, be a grown-up and take care of yourself.” Then he looked up at Cheever. “You and me need to talk—”

  “Let me take care of Blake first,” Cheever said firmly.

  Kell shrugged. “You have until the twins get up here with the tank.” He held up a bag of bewildered fish, which he set inside the door. “We were gonna run the hose up the house through the window. No fuckin’ till we’re done.”

  Blake had turned toward the bathroom and was leaning on the wall to steady himself. “No fuckin’ till I can stand,” he corrected.

  “Fair enough.” Cheever followed him into the bathroom then and closed the door behind them.

  Blake was rooting through the cupboards and finding nothing. “Goddammit, I think the ibuprofen is downstairs.” He leaned his aching head against the mirror, not even wanting to see his own face after last night. Razor burn and love bites showed up on his skin in the worst ways. Behind him, he felt Cheever’s warmth, and he watched, almost detached, as Cheever reached around him to fill the cup on the counter with water that he held up for Blake to take.

  “Dehydration?” he asked, resting his chin on Blake’s shoulder.

  “Haven’t eaten much in the last few days,” Blake mumbled, taking a grateful sip. “Been fretting.”

  “About me?”

  Blake finished off the water and turned in his arms, meaning to reassure him, but finding Cheever pushing Blake’s head onto Cheever’s shoulder instead.

  It felt like he was supposed to be there.

  “You feel wonderful,” he said wistfully.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Cheever said, touching his face with rough fingers. “I wouldn’t trade last night for… for all the talent or money or lovers in the world, okay? I don’t want to trade you in for a newer model. Why would I do that? You’re everything I need.”

  “Old,” Blake grunted. “Used. Second best.”

  Maybe if his head hadn’t been pounding, his nerves so raw, his body so needy after the night before, he wouldn’t have said the words.

  Something hot plopped on his bare shoulder. And again. He looked up and saw slow hot tears coursing down Cheever’s face.

  “Baby—”

  Cheever shook his head. “Don’t call me baby—not after saying something like that. Don’t open your mouth,” he said gruffly. “You’ll just say more bad shit about yourself. And none of it’s true. Now get in the shower. I’ll be back with some painkillers and more water.”

  He didn’t move, though. Just squeezed Blake hard, those scalding tears not stopping.

  “Cheever—”

  “You’re smart,” Cheever said. “Kind. My first choice. Repeat that to yourself.” He pulled away then and used the sheet barely hanging around his waist to wipe his face. “I’m gonna go change our sheets.”

  He was out the door, and Blake was standing under the pounding showerhead before he realized that Cheever had said “our” sheets, not “your” sheets.

  And he smiled.

  Jumpin’ Jack Flash

  “OH, JESUS,” Stevie complained, steadying himself after Cheever’s accidental bump. “Trav, could you make him stop that? Good fucking God, it’s like having Mackey here, but Mackey’s usually planning a record when he runs!”

  “Sorry, Stevie,” Cheever apologized and concentrated fiercely on the sidewalk. The family lived in a very wealthy gated community with its own security. He’d been told that at the beginning, they’d gone running off the property on occasion, but the bigger the band got, the less attractive that idea had been. Now they stuck to one of the many wandering paths that looped around the ginormous lots for the mansions in the settlement.

  Very chichi—but also very convenient.

  Unless Cheever was bouncing off people like a pinball.

  “Cheever, drop back here and run with me!” Marcia complained from the end of the little group. “I’m dying!”

  Cheever did what she asked, settling into the back of the pack, and tried not to be bitter. He’d been a little bit excited when Kell asked him to come running with them.

  By the time Blake had gotten out of the shower, Cheever had changed the sheets and the guys had started to install the fish tank on a shelf obviously designed for it. They’d settled Blake down with a big glass of orange juice and a bottle of water, then went to work like pros. Stevie, Jefferson, and Kell finished the job, and by the time they’d put the chemicals in the tank and checked it for the right saline levels and shit, Blake was curled up in a little ball, sleeping. Then, and only then, did Cheever have a chance for his post-sex shower.

  He’d finished just in time for Jefferson to throw his bag of running gear in his face and tell him to suit up.

  He’d been so pleased.

  They wanted him with them, even though Blake was out of commission.

  And there he was, all that expensive running gear on, his phone tucked into a sleeve on his arm, a special little hat keeping his fair skin from burning, shoes that practically cushioned his feet in angel’s jizz, only apparently, he’d forgotten one lousy fucking thing.

  He couldn’t ru
n.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Kell told him as he dropped back. “Mackey does the same fuckin’ thing. Practice going in a straight line. Even Mackey can manage it sometimes.”

  And with that, Kell passed him completely, and Cheever fell into a semicomfortable rhythm next to Marcia. He sighted a spot on the sidewalk about six feet in front of him, a foot from the edge of the lawn, and told himself he was running right down that line.

  Hopefully it would work.

  “So,” Marcia asked quietly as he found his rhythm, “how’d it go?”

  “The date?”

  “Yeah, the date! You were so excited! How’d it go?”

  Cheever had to smile. “So good it didn’t end until this morning,” he said smugly, and Marcia giggled a little.

  “So Briony said Blake is sick?” Briony had come by in running shorts and a tank top, muttering about getting her run in later after she made sure Blake was okay. She’d left Marcia, because apparently Shelia was with the kids, and she’d been a little irritated because she missed running.

  Cheever hauled in the biggest breath he could and tried to grok that statement again.

  Nope. Nothing. He couldn’t imagine being irritated because he missed running. He might have been thinking about his brothers as his herd, but this was one antelope who preferred yoga and the pool.

  “Yeah,” he said, doggedly keeping one foot in front of the other. “Dehydration. I guess he’s forgotten to eat the last few days.”

  “What’s that like?”

  Cheever’s stomach gurgled. “I got no idea.” Some of his bravado faded. “He woke up with a headache and….” And he’d cried. And called himself old and used and second best. “And he’s really afraid of being hurt.”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  Cheever looked up, saw his brothers and Trav but no Mackey and felt the absence. “How broken do you feel?” he asked, thinking about the way Blake had touched his scars and cried.

  “Mm… I feel stupid,” she said after a moment. “I… I think about heroin every day, and I get a low-grade craving. There were people in rehab who… who would break into an active sweat if you so much as—” She panted for a moment. “—said the word cocaine.” For a moment their footfalls sounded abnormally loud. “Short-term addiction. Overdose. I was stupid.”

  Cheever pondered for a moment.

  “Would you do it again?” he asked.

  “Not if I’m busy. Not if I feel needed. Not if I’m loved. You?”

  Blake’s lips on his wrist, the feel of his skin under Cheever’s palms, the way he’d turned his head so Cheever wouldn’t see the need on his face….

  “I’ve got way too much to live for,” Cheever breathed, and looking back at his herd, he felt that double. “But I can’t forget.” Was that Blake’s problem? He was afraid he’d forget, forget what drove him to excess, to drug use. Forget how far he could sink and go there again?

  No.

  Those things were etched into Blake’s consciousness.

  Blake was afraid of more basic things.

  Afraid his heart would be broken and he wouldn’t be able to deal.

  Kell never did have a chance to have that talk with him after the fish, but suddenly Cheever knew what he’d been going to say, and why it was necessary.

  “Me too,” Marcia panted. “Today, we’re taking the kids to the zoo. Want to come?”

  On one hand, yes. Cheever had enjoyed his night being Uncle Cheever, the artist—that sounded fantastic. On the other hand….

  “I’m on Mackey duty when the guys meet about the record again.”

  “I thought Blake was sick?”

  “I don’t think you could drag him away from this solo project with a backhoe and a semi,” Cheever muttered. It was true—Cheever had been leaving, bending to kiss Blake on the forehead as he slept, when he mumbled, “Set my phone for ten.”

  “Kell?” Cheever asked, and Kell’s mouth twisted.

  “We’ll check on him to make sure he’s okay. If he’s up to it, sure, we can talk some more.”

  Cheever was running back to Blake’s house to make sure he could go to work. No one ever talked about the work ethic of a rock star, but they should.

  “That’s cool,” Marcia said. “I mean, you know. More CD’s for us, right?”

  Cheever thought about it, about how he’d wanted his sketchbook or a notebook for poetry and some quiet that morning, because Blake, asleep, was one of the most vulnerable things he’d seen in his life. He thought about how the band couldn’t seem to go a minute without music or rhythm infusing their senses. Even now, Jefferson and Stevie were starting a chorus of Doo-Wah-Diddy to keep everybody on pace.

  “I think art is the family drug,” he said after a moment.

  “Better than heroin,” Marcia said, and then both of them took a deep breath and shouted, “Doo-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-doo!” for all they were worth.

  There was no more talking after that. They were lucky they didn’t pass out.

  CHEEVER FIGURED he and Blake were about the same size. Blake was a little taller, but he slouched, and he was longer in the waist than Cheever, so their jeans should be about the same length.

  He didn’t even go back to the main house for clothes, like Kell and the guys did.

  Instead, he finished his run and ran back to the studio house, relieved to find Blake still sleeping, an empty plate of what had possibly been freezer waffles and fruit on the nightstand.

  Go Briony.

  Cheever took his time for the second shower of the day, checking for love bites, marks, any sign that he’d spent a glorious night inside and next to Blake Manning.

  Besides a faint hickey on his neck—and stomach muscles that felt like he’d been doing crunches—all of the change appeared to come from inside, and he was vaguely disappointed.

  He wanted the world to know he and Blake had made love. But at the same time, the things that had gone on in their bed had been unbearably private.

  He remembered back when he was a kid, when he’d talked to that blogger about his brother’s sexuality, and his face burned in mortification.

  Now—now—he understood how someone would want those things about themselves to be secret. Not because they were embarrassed or ashamed or anything else, but because these wounds and vows and fears were personal.

  It was the same reason Cheever wouldn’t tell anybody about Blake seeing the scar on his wrist and weeping—that moment was theirs.

  He came out dressed in the towel and sat down next to Blake on the bed, stroking his bicep as it bulged from his T-shirt, because on any other morning, he’d be still working out.

  Blake’s right bicep was decorated with a tattoo—Cheever had been so jealous of them, way back when. Mackey had one on his stomach, Jefferson and Stevie had one on opposite shoulders, and Kell had his on his chest. Cheever would place money that Trav had one, but it was somewhere hidden by clothes, and he was pretty sure he’d seen one on the small of Shelia’s back. Briony probably had one too.

  It was Outbreak Monkey’s first album cover—a screaming monkey, shattered glass and all—and Cheever wondered, what? Did they all just decide to go out and mark themselves? “Hey, we’re a secret little club and we’re gonna show everybody how much we belong!”

  “Run over?” Blake mumbled. “Time to get up?”

  Cheever stopped tracing the tattoo and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Not yet. They were going to meet back at eleven. You still have an hour to sleep if you need it.”

  “I may,” Blake said with dignity. He rolled over on his back and rubbed his arm, like it itched or tickled. “Whatcha looking at?”

  “Everybody got one,” Cheever said, not even thinking about saying, “Nothing” and sulking. “What made you all decide to get the same tattoo?”

  Blake held his hand in front of his mouth as he yawned. “Mm. Mackey and me been outta rehab ’bout a month.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I have got to remember my fuckin’ grammar.
Anyway. We were out of rehab for about a month, and Trav went on a surprise business trip right before we gave this big benefit. And we were both… both so thrown. We used to do drugs just to cope with situations like that, you know? So Mackey looked up a decent tattoo place—because Kell had some ungodly shit put on his body, and I had a few that I have since removed. Anyway, we took him there, because we were all looking out for each other, and he got the tat, and we liked it…. We just… liked it. I was hurting too, so I got one, and then Kell got one, and Stevie and Jefferson got one, and then Shelia followed.”

  “Trav and Briony?” Well, he had been curious.

  “Yeah. Trav’s is on his hip. Briony’s is where Shelia’s is—the small of her back. She just doesn’t wear shit that shows it unless she’s at the pool. But it was just the band at first. We… we’d been through so much by then. It was like… you know, a promise we’d stick with it.”

  Cheever thought about their little running cult, and how they even ran in sync. “That’s good,” he said, prying away the jealousy, the possession, and flushing it down the crapper along with the part of him that thought going out in a big room full of blow was somehow a great idea. His brothers, his lover—this band was all of them. It was the families growing up close to each other. It was the running cult, and his friend, getting a chance to hang out with a noisy happy family for once.

  “It’s probably codependent and weird,” Blake muttered. “But I’m not letting go.”

  Cheever laughed. “Scoot over,” he ordered softly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I just want to hold you while you sleep.”

  “Now that’s weird. Can’t we have sex?”

  “No!” Cheever let his towel fall and slid in naked, not embarrassed in the least. “You are under strict instructions to nap until your thing, then spend your day hydrating. I pretty much sexed you out anyway, old man.”

  Blake snorted and rolled so they were facing each other. His eyes were at half-mast, and Cheever knew if he was any sort of decent boyfriend at all, he’d let his lover sleep.