Paint It Black

by Amy Lane

  “He hasn’t—” Cheever was going to boil the goddamned swimming pool. “—complained,” he finished weakly.

  “Well, no. Blake wouldn’t. Because he’d do anything to make you happy.”

  “Well, dammit, Mackey, everything just got healed back there!”

  Mackey scowled back. “Still hurt?”

  “No.”

  “You all freaked out about doing it that way?”

  Cheever had to think about it. “I don’t really know?”

  “Look, I’m not saying the magic fuckin’ hoo-ha in the magic fuckin’ whatsis is gonna fuckin’ cure what ails you. And I damned sure ain’t gonna tell you to do something that hurts or makes you feel uncomfortable. What I’m saying is you gotta trust a guy with the things that might hurt you before he trusts you with the shit that’s been hurting him for fifteen goddamned years. And yeah, I’m sure he’s told you. But there’s telling someone like they practiced it in their head, like you learn to do in rehab, and there’s telling someone like you really lived it and it really happened to you. Which telling you done?”

  “The second kind,” Cheever said, remembering being handcuffed to his bed and the way Blake had crawled in and held him anyway, falling asleep because he’d been taking care of everybody’s business but his own.

  “Which telling he done?”

  Cheever sighed. “The kind like it happened to a stranger.”

  Mackey grunted and put his hands behind him, stretching out his chest. “Yeah. I know that kind. But you can bet your fuckin’ life that’s not what Trav heard when I was tryin’ to get clean. And Blake’s probably deliriously happy for you to take charge, by the way. You take charge, he doesn’t have to worry about fucking up, which I know for a fact is his biggest goddamned fear.”

  “Yeah,” Cheever said, so relieved to not be talking about sex with his brother that worrying about Blake was almost a blessing. “I’d agree with that.”

  “God, this conversation sucks. Any way you could have one of these with Marcia next time? I personally would raise her salary if I didn’t have to do this again.”

  Cheever had to laugh. “You don’t talk about sex with the guys?”

  Mackey actually dropped his stretch to stare at him. “Are you fuckin’ high? If you’re fuckin’ high, get out of the pool right now, because for all I know, you’ll pee in the pool and I’ll get a contact high and all this bullshit about taking the goddamned pain pill was a giant waste of time. No. No, I didn’t talk to our brothers about sex, because Kell told me to use a condom the first time he saw a hickey on my neck. I wasn’t gonna tell him his best friend put it there and we weren’t using condoms because that was our rule with each other. There you have it. The one bit of advice I ever got. It is the tip of the motherfucking iceberg is what it is, the absolute minimum you can know about sex in any given situation, from Kell. Me, I’m giving you gold. You had better be taking notes.”

  “Note-taking commencing!” Cheever said, a little panicked. He tapped his forehead with his finger. “All up here.”

  “You are fucking hysterical. Does that mean I’m gonna be your go-to guy for this shit from here on out? Because I need to read some fuckin’ psych manuals or shit if this is gonna be a thing. Fuckin’ Marcia—she better be teaching those kids super honors English and how to fly and shit because she is falling down on the job.”

  “Do you talk to Briony about sex?” Cheever asked in sheer self-defense.

  “Sometimes,” Mackey told him. “For example, we had a very useful discussion about cocoa butter a few years back that has eased both our minds considerably. But you wanna know what I talk to Briony about? I will tell you. If someone pisses me off, I tell Briony. And she pets me and says I’m pretty and everybody else is a fuckin’ moron. Does she mean that shit? Probably not. She’s probably thinking, ‘For fuck’s sake, Mackey Sanders, get over yourself.’ But she says that shit and that’s all I need. ’Cause if I told Trav that someone pisses me off, you know what would happen?”

  Cheever thought of Trav, trying to decide whether or not to pound Aubrey into the ground again. He’d been so collected. For him, it had been a conscious decision, made in the heat of battle without a flinch.

  “He’d kill him or fire him?” Cheever was only guessing about the firing.

  “Or kill him with fire,” Mackey agreed. “So I whine to Briony, she tells me I’m pretty, and whatever pissed me off is not nearly so fucking dire. And I know for a fact I am a giant diva pain in the ass, but I try not to take that shit out on anybody else in my life because I did that to Blake and I’m gonna be apologizing for it for a long time. So me and Briony go on and slaughter each other in video games, and it’s all good. And Trav already knows I’m pissed off, but if he doesn’t have to fucking fix it, nobody dies or loses their job. And I haven’t hurt anyone but the little assholes in the video game, and those assholes deserve it for not reading my mind.”

  It was a good system. “I….” Cheever swallowed. “I guess I haven’t… you know. Talked to anybody in so long. Blake was the first person I felt like… like he wouldn’t hate me. Wouldn’t judge.” God. Wasn’t that pathetic. But then Mackey surprised him yet again, like Mackey had been surprising the world for probably his entire life.

  “Yeah. Well, so was Trav. But you start with that one. And he’s your rock. And you get your rock, and you can go swimming with other people to see if they’re just as sturdy. Not everybody is. And some people you tell different things. But that’s the thing with damage. Other people broke you. You’re afraid. And nobody’s gonna take all your weight, all the time. So you try to find the people you can count on, and know if they let you down, it’s not always their fault. The whole world is like a bone with micro fractures. Be as careful as you can, and forgive yourself if you hit that bone just right. And then help that person stand up as best you can afterward. It’s not a perfect system, Cheever. We are human fucking beings. We’re gonna screw up. But we can’t walk in the world without each other, and that’s the goddamned truth.”

  Cheever’s throat burned. “You know, if we weren’t in the pool, I’d want to hug it out or something—”

  “I am in massive amounts of pain. Touch me and die.” He let out a long breath. “But yeah. Good talk, little brother. Go bottom like a champ. I’m gonna hope Trav’s back so I can take my pain pill.”

  “You’re not going to take it without him?” Cheever asked, heading for the pool steps.

  “That’s the deal we made. I’d take them if he’d give them to me. ’Cause I’m in pain and I’m frustrated and I’m not ready to trust myself just yet.”

  “You trust me?” Cheever was so proud he could offer.

  Mackey followed him, walking slowly, dragging his feet—particularly the swimming cast—probably because his back hurt too much to lift them. “Sure,” he said, his voice clogged. “That’s real kind.”

  They made it up to the room, and Cheever helped Mackey into the shower, pulling his pain meds from Trav’s shaving kit and setting them up on the bed stand next to a granola bar he found in one of the gas station bags.

  He helped Mackey get dressed when the shower was done, his heart wrenching a little at the fine trembling in Mackey’s limbs that came from going through a long day when your body was not 100 percent.

  “Gah!” Mackey said as Cheever settled him under the blankets and against the pillows in his pajamas. “This sucks. I thought ‘Hey, I’ll be sitting most of the day. How bad can it be?’”

  “Real fucking bad,” Cheever said softly, offering him water. Mackey washed down the pill and started to munch doggedly on the granola bar.

  “Yeah. That’s about it. Hey, fetch my phone from the bathroom, would you? I didn’t check to see if Trav called after the pool.”

  Cheever had checked his phone and hadn’t seen anything. The sun had gone down as they’d gone inside the hotel, and the temperature had dropped to about ninety. Cheever wondered if they were trying to run all the way to the goddamne
d airport.

  “Oh, hey!” Mackey let out a little smile as he scanned his phone. “They went for food. Trav says they’re all bringing back takeout—Chinese, I guess. Says they went ahead and ordered for us. They’ll be back in about half an hour.”

  Cheever closed his eyes in relief. “Oh good. I should shower—”

  “Don’t forget to moisturize.” Mackey grimaced. “My skin’s already dried out. Fuckin’ hotel pools. Every fuckin’ time.”

  Cheever brought him some body butter from his shaving kit and made sure he had the phone charger and enough water.

  “Cheever?” Mackey said as he was leaving.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re growing up real good. Blake would be the first guy to tell you not to take his bullshit as your failing. And you know, if anything I say sounds like crap, blow me off.” He tilted his head back against the pillows, obviously completely exhausted.

  “Blow you off?” Cheever said, just to make him smile. “I finally figured out what good brothers are after the last eight years. This shit’s gold.” He made sure he had Mackey’s eyes on him before he tapped his temple with his forefinger. “It’s all up here.”

  Mackey smiled slightly and closed his eyes again. Cheever left.

  HE HEADED directly for the shower, because damn, chlorine, and replayed the conversation under the spray.

  Mackey was right, well, on a lot of fronts, but about trusting Blake as much as he expected Blake to trust him. He’d been hell-bent on seducing Blake at first, making it so good for him that he didn’t even think about leaving. And Blake had just been so willing. So needy. It had been easy to take him over, to give him everything he seemed to want.

  But he’d also seemed to want to pleasure Cheever, and Cheever hadn’t let him. Cheever took a handful of conditioner and smoothed his hand down over his backside. Too scary, right? Not even physically scary, but emotionally scary. Letting someone into your body—some people would just do that, and it was no big deal.

  Blake had confessed to rock star days when he slept with anything that moved.

  But obviously, it was a big deal for Cheever. He hadn’t been physical with anybody—voluntarily—until Blake.

  Cheever needed to not just trust Blake because Blake let Cheever get his way.

  Cheever needed to trust Blake because if Blake was in charge, he knew Blake would do it right.

  Using the conditioner, Cheever fingered his backside, checking for soreness, checking for any residual swelling.

  Nope.

  Everything an asshole should be.

  Tentatively, using the conditioner as lube—poor man’s lube, but it helped—he tapped his fingertip in.

  Odd. Very strange. Tingly. Even under the water, Cheever felt sweat wash his chest and his nipples and the back of his neck. Curious, he thrust his finger in a little deeper.

  Mm. Okay. That wasn’t… oh, hey, a little stretching….

  Cheever leaned his forehead against the shower wall, spread his stance, and got serious. Damn. Oh… a little twinge there…. He closed his eyes and deliberately relaxed, pushing out against the intrusion instead of tightening in.

  His finger wasn’t wide enough.

  Two was good. Two was perfect. Three was…. He shuddered and moved his hand to the shower wall, and then washed off all parts involved before shutting off the water.

  Okay. Okay, then. Cheever’s body was shaking with need, and his brain was in fuzzy-happy la-la land for the mental gymnastics that came with accommodating that need.

  But one thing was pounding through him besides want.

  The absolute certainty that this was something he wanted to share with Blake.

  Yeah, sure, some people could share their bodies and not their hearts. But Cheever wasn’t one of them—and Cheever had the feeling that Blake never should have tried to be. If someone couldn’t see what a treasure Blake Manning’s heart was, they didn’t deserve to touch him.

  He was still drying off, that thought branded in his brain like words of fire, when he heard Blake’s tentative tap at the door.

  Love, It’s a Bitch

  TRAV HAD forced a quart of Gatorade down his throat when they were done with the run, and then gave him enough Chinese food for six people to take back to the hotel room.

  “Trav, I’m fine—”

  Trav had simply fixed him with that no-bullshit glare that had pulled the entire band out of their own ass almost a decade before.

  “I swear,” Blake said weakly. “I ran it all out of my system, right?”

  Well, they were all sopping wet with sweat. Usually Trav was the one who set the pace, but Blake was always at his fastest when he was running from his demons. Kell had been the one to beg for mercy, and that had been the only reason Blake had slowed down.

  “You say that, but you never do. You just internalize it.” Trav’s glower always made him feel small. “You had reason to be upset, Blake. It’s okay to admit that.”

  “Somebody hurt him,” Blake said simply, and he didn’t seem to be able to get over that.

  “Somebody hurt every one of you guys,” Trav returned. “Yes, Kell, even you, although not in the same way. You think I don’t want to go back and beat the shit out of Grant Adams’s dad? Because I know he was your boss, and we all know you would have driven your car off a bridge if you had to work for him for one more minute. Not one of you got out of your shitty childhoods without some holy-fucking-wow scars, and I hate the assholes who inflicted every one of them. So I get it.”

  Blake’s knuckles stung, and his calves were cramping, and he was starting to hate his own smell. “You don’t beat everybody up all the time,” he muttered.

  “Well, I had practice not doing that in the Army,” Trav said with dignity. “Look, Blake, I’m sure he’s worried about you. Just go back, take a shower, for God’s sake, eat something, and talk to him. He loves you—anybody can see it.”

  Blake’s brain shorted out.

  Oh God. Cheever loved him? Cheever loved him?

  But you love him back, moron.

  After giving himself a few minutes for that bombshell to settle, Trav pulled into the hotel parking lot and was about to kill the engine, effectively rendering the rental into an Easy-Bake oven, even after dark.

  “Blake, you back in your head?” Kell was asking worriedly. “Where the hell did you go?”

  Blake sort of squinted at him. “I’m in love with your little brother.”

  Kell let out a strangled laugh. “Yeah, Blake. Color me shocked. Stunned. Jesus, go upstairs and eat, and drink the rest of that Gatorade, okay?”

  Blake nodded, and Trav finally killed the engine. Blake hauled his share of the takeout and the bag of Gatorade to his room, and embarrassingly enough, had to knock because he couldn’t access the wallet in the little pouch on the side of his running shorts.

  Cheever opened the door, fresh from the shower, smelling so good, his hair slicked back from his face and his curls clustering below his ears.

  Blake could have just stared at him stupidly for a good ten minutes, because he looked so damned good.

  Cheever grinned at him, cheeks flushed, eyes dilated a little, like they did with sex, and Blake had a flash of desire so strong, he almost dropped the takeout and sank to his knees in the carpet. God, the boy was wearing little more than a towel. All Blake had to do was lower his head and he could claim Cheever’s nipple, and tease and tease—

  “Go shower,” Cheever ordered huskily, taking the bags out of his hand. “Make it quick.”

  Blake nodded, all of that stupid heartache forgotten as he fought with the urge to run his lips over Cheever’s bare skin.

  He made the shower cold, the better to lower his core temperature and keep him from overheating, and he rinsed every crease and crevice extremely well. That image, Cheever’s pale chest, his towel, the little cinnamon nipples pebbling, was coursing through Blake’s body.

  He hadn’t been sure he could stand as he’d knocked on the door, but
now he wasn’t sure his erection would ever go down.

  Still, he emerged from the shower, a clean towel around his hips, fully expecting to see Cheever in his pajamas, digging into dinner.

  What he found instead was Cheever, buck naked on his back, a towel under his bottom, knees spread. He was plucking at those nipples with his fingertips, and his backside, between the spread knees, was slick and dripping with lubricant. The bottle was up on the bed stand, and Blake groaned a little when he saw it was opened.

  Cheever’s cock lay against his thigh, swollen and dripping and lewd.

  Blake’s erection tented the towel around his waist, and he groaned, loud and aroused, as he drank in Cheever’s wanton offering before him.

  Cheever opened his eyes at the sound and gave Blake a look so sultry, so filled with heat, that Blake actually dropped his towel.

  “Do you want me?” Cheever asked.

  “Oh God, yes.”

  “Come take me, then. I am dying for you, you know that, right?”

  Blake crawled up between his legs, thinking about taking his cock, wanting to devour it whole. But Cheever tugged at his hair, letting out a little whimper.

  “A kiss first,” he begged. “I want everything, but first I want—”

  Blake lunged up his body and claimed his mouth.

  Sweetness. Oh damn. What had Blake Manning done in his life to deserve such sweetness? He couldn’t rationalize it, not now. Couldn’t explain it. Cheever’s mouth under his was perfect, feeding into his need, satisfying his hunger for warmth, for kindness, for heat and edge, all in the same taste. Cheever wrapped his legs around Blake’s thighs. The effect of their bare bodies sliding silkenly together electrified him. More kissing, more give-and-take of tongue and pleasure, and then Blake set about to eat him alive.

  Hot kisses down his neck, nips, nibbles, sucks. He took the dreamed-about nipple in his mouth and pulled hard, glorying in Cheever’s cry, in the way his legs tightened around Blake’s hips, the way they ground against each other, dripping and hard.