Paint It Black

by Amy Lane

  “Holy God.” Blake completely forgot about his mother, screaming obscenities outside the clear glass of the coffeehouse as Crane hauled her to the corner, probably to deliver her to a police officer when one arrived.

  The point was, he forgot about her.

  Because Cheever stood there on the stage, having come up from the other side, near the coffee bar.

  And Jesus, he looked good—auburn bangs curling right above his eyebrows, little sideburns crisp under his ears. He was wearing low-waist jeans and a tight white T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, which was a little cold for Portland, but Blake got the point immediately.

  “That little shit,” Kell said happily, coming back to the table. “I didn’t know about the tattoo.”

  The Outbreak Monkey tattoo was in the same place as Blake’s, on the bicep. And it was the exact same monkey. Cheever Sanders, the man who’d tied Blake’s insides into a heart-shaped knot since May, was sitting on a stool in a coffee shop, wearing the band tattoo, and playing the guitar his brother had bought him for his birthday. Yes, Blake remembered.

  And he was playing with the strings and looking at the audience from under those bangs, pleased and flirty and just so goddamned pretty Blake could cry.

  “So hey. Y’all probably saw my brothers and my boyfriend there.”

  More applause—but uncertain. Oh Jesus. Blake knew the tentative breaths of a group of people waiting to see if he would suck in a paper bag or not. Cheever was so vulnerable up there, so open, but by God, he was owning the fucking stage, wasn’t he?

  “Yeah. You all know they’re good, but how’s their little brother?” The audience laughed, and Cheever fingered a moderately difficult riff. “Well, I been practicing.” More laughter, but Blake’s stomach was still clenched.

  He’d been where Cheever was. Blake’s stomach, chest, asshole wouldn’t stop clenching until this was over.

  “I came up to Portland ’cause my boyfriend—Blake Manning? You guys know him?” Some appreciative hooting. “Yeah. He’s having a shitty moment. Those happen. The kind that make you doubt yourself. But he’s, like, the best person ever, so I think maybe he’ll learn to have a little faith, you think?”

  Affirmative noises then, and Blake saw a dozen phones out, getting ready to make this viral.

  “Anyway, it was just really important that I come out here for him, you know? So he’s never afraid I’ll leave him alone in an empty room.”

  And with that, he launched into the song, the song he wasn’t even supposed to know about, singing it with such soulfulness, such pain, Blake wasn’t sure his heart would ever start beating again. He made a sound—a whimper?—and Heather turned to him with a tissue, as Cheever Sanders unmade Blake Manning and then rebuilt him with just one goddamned song.

  Then he did “Cement Ragdoll.”

  Then he did “Painted Love”—Blake’s love song for him, for sweet God’s sake.

  And then… oh Jesus. He finished up with the love song to Kell. And Blake heard it, saw the way Cheever looked him in the eye and owned him during that song.

  It wasn’t Kell’s song anymore. It wasn’t Cheever’s. It was hope. That song was the hope song between the two of them that Blake would always deserve love.

  By the time Cheever was done with that song, he had the audience in the palm of his hand—and the audience had grown.

  Oh shit. Blake recognized a lot of those people, and Trav’s hand on his shoulder confirmed it. “Goddammit. We were supposed to go across the street after this.”

  Cheever stood and smiled, gesturing to Outbreak Monkey with a nod. “Okay, all, that’s about it. Come see my brothers and my boyfriend play tonight. I’ll be in the wings.”

  “You’ll be on the stage, you lazy asshole,” Mackey called. “’Bout time you earned your keep!”

  Cheever’s smile went ear to ear, and the applause erupted thunderously.

  So did the questions—and the lights from the phones.

  “Cheever, did your brothers know you were coming out?”

  “Cheever, how long have you and Blake Manning been seeing each other?”

  “We noticed the tattoo, Cheever. Are you really going to be part of the band?”

  Cheever paused in the act of exiting the stage. “I’ve always been part of the band—I just never took my place. But I’m taking it now. Trav, you want to handle the rest of it?”

  Trav grimaced, and Blake could tell this wasn’t planned. Trav looked over at Callum, the coffeehouse owner, who grimaced back good-naturedly, shrugged, and gestured Trav to the stage.

  Heather Sanders was right on his heels.

  “What’s your mother doing?” Blake asked.

  Kell shrugged. “Whatever it is, you’d damned well better appreciate it. I have to room with her for the next week, do you know that?”

  Blake glared at him sourly. “I’d say it serves you right. You fucking knew?”

  Kell’s chuckle was low and evil. “Well, not when I broke down the bathroom door.”

  “Fuckin’ hate you.”

  The pat on Blake’s shoulder was both condescending and patronizing. “Sure you do. Now stand up and tell Cheever we’re all impressed. You know how baby bands get when the big boys are watching.”

  There were neither words nor side eye enough to capture how much Blake wanted to rip the legs out from under Kellogg Sanders’s chair right then, so Blake took his advice instead.

  Oh God, he could smell the performance sweat from Cheever’s body as he drew near. Blake stumbled to a halt, overwhelmed for a moment, and Cheever closed the distance, spanning Blake’s waist under his leather coat possessively.

  “How’d I do?” he murmured.

  Blake couldn’t look at him, but he couldn’t hold back his proud smile either. “So damned good.”

  Cheever leaned in and cupped the back of his head. Blake couldn’t help it. He smelled so good, felt so good. He leaned forward and breathed in lightly, smelling the heat and the soap and the sweat in the hollow below Cheever’s ear.

  “Glad to see me?”

  It was hard to swallow. It was hard to breathe. “You got no idea,” Blake rasped. “God, Cheever, it’s like the world was spinning and you’re the only one who can make it stand still.”

  Cheever’s arms on his shoulders were everything. He gave a little moan and a shudder and melted into that embrace. If the world had ended right then, he would have been locked in Cheever’s hold, and happy.

  “Then let me,” Cheever whispered. “Let me be that guy. I won’t let you down, Blake. I promise.”

  Blake nodded, his face against Cheever’s throat. “You were amazing,” he said. “Best damned talent we ever scouted.”

  Cheever’s soft laugh filled him. “Think Mackey meant it? ’Bout me playing?”

  Blake’s eyes burned. “I think they’ve been waiting for you to join the band your whole life.”

  “Me too.”

  Blake really could have stayed there forever, but at that moment Trav—who had been talking quietly to the coffee shop owner and the bloggers—checked his phone first and then tapped on the microphone.

  “Okay. So the original plan was for this announcement to be done in that little park across from the coffeehouse. But as it turns out, the whole world showed up here for Cheever Sanders’s debut, which is nice and all, but we don’t want to put Callum Chutney out, so here’s the deal. Every damned one of you buys coffee. Callum’s got a few employees coming, and if I give this damned announcement and watch so much as one of you walk out when I’m done, I will never contact your news organization again. Are we clear?”

  There was a lot of nodding then, and a lot of gravitating to the coffee line. Trav grunted in satisfaction.

  “Good. Now Heather Sanders, the mother of… well, Outbreak Monkey, really, but four of the six guys who make it up now, would like to speak. I figure she’s earned it, and I’ll run cleanup, so save any questions for me.”

  “Six? Trav, does that mean Cheever’s
a member of the band now?” someone piped up.

  “Did you not just hear them? And he’s got a tattoo!” There was uneasy laughter, and anybody who didn’t know Travis Ford might assume he was kidding. Blake met Kell’s amused glance, because no, Trav did not play.

  “Anyway, first person who shows disrespect to Miss Heather will be looking for a new job tomorrow. I’m not kidding. I’m not exaggerating. And depending on how badly she’s disrespected, finding a new job might be something you will never achieve. Are we all clear?”

  More of those terrified nods. Wow. Trav was looking for blood tonight.

  “Okay now. Miss Heather? You ready?”

  “Thanks, Trav.” Cheever’s mom smiled prettily. “So, I’m the single mother of four grown boys,” she said into the microphone, nodding in surprise at the applause.

  “When Kell, my oldest”—and the asshole waved, smiling smugly—“was a kid, he tried to run away to his best friend’s house. I drove my car and found him and made sure his best friend could get to our place anytime he needed to. When Jefferson, next in line, did the same thing, I pretty much grabbed his friend by the ear and dragged him to my place because we didn’t want Stevie where he was at.” Her face grew pinched then, and the air in the room grew sober.

  “When Blake Manning ran away at sixteen, nobody went looking for him. Nobody found him. He left his mother’s car at a bus station and told her where it was, then disappeared, and she thought that was fine. Today, she wants Blake to give her money, and if he doesn’t, she’s going to show us all pictures of what he did to survive, when he was sixteen and alone. Now before any of you start asking exactly what that was, let me ask you something—is there anybody here who wants to watch an underage boy have sex for money? Because if that floats your boat, get the hell out of my sight. Blake won’t deny it happened. He’s been straight with me and my boys. I’m asking you, does anybody here need the pictures as proof? Is that something you need to see?”

  The coffeehouse was absolutely silent, and Heather nodded decisively.

  “I didn’t think so. So that woman is outside, ready to sell her pictures to the highest bidder. We’re not stopping her. Blake’s got better things to do than let her poison his life right now. He’s got a solo album coming out and a wedding to plan—and that woman’s got no place in any of it. So, if we see those pictures show up on your blogs, we’ll know you paid for them, and we’ll know what kind of publication you work for. If you want to print the truth, you go ahead. But you remember—that boy was on his own at sixteen, trying to survive. And no one was coming after him to make sure he was okay.

  “I’m coming after him today, because he’s mine now, and I need to make sure he’s okay. He and my boys did more than survive together. They thrived. If anyone here wants to paint him as a bad person because he lived through the bad to get to the good, that’s on you. That’s not on him, that’s not on my boys, that’s not on me. He’s our family, and that’s all I wanted to say.”

  The coffee shop owner raised a tentative hand into the electric silence. “Ms. Sanders?”

  “Mr. Chutney?”

  “You still single?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Thank God. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  Heather’s cheeks—pale with rage—washed a delicate pink. “That’s kind,” she said graciously. “Anyone else?”

  Another hand went up. “You said he’s planning a wedding, Ms. Sanders. To whom?”

  “My youngest boy—you just saw him onstage. Who’d you think he was going to marry after a performance like that? That was history, young woman, there’s no denying it.”

  “No, ma’am. Will Blake be answering questions himself?”

  “No!” Cheever said at the same time Blake said, “Depends on the question.” He stepped reluctantly out of Cheever’s embrace.

  “Is it true you told your bandmates about your past, sir? Because that’s quite an admission.”

  Blake looked at the guys, who looked steadily back. Heartened, Blake turned to the reporter. “Yes, ma’am. I told Mackey when we were in rehab—if you all remember, that was about nine years ago. The first time my mother tried to blackmail us, which was right about then, I told Kell and the twins and Trav, in case she didn’t keep it to herself.”

  “What made her go away then?” someone else asked.

  “Money,” Blake said bluntly. “I was a mess—hell, we all were back then. There was lots of shit we couldn’t have dealt with back then that we’d knock out of the park now. She came round this time, and we decided we weren’t going to let her have that power over us anymore. I mean, it’s gonna be a sucktastic news cycle, I won’t lie. But she don’t got anything they don’t know.”

  “But what about your fans?”

  “The fans who knew I been to rehab? The fans who were there when I came out as bi? Fans who still know every word to my little solo album, ’cause something in me meant something to them? I ain’t worried. People who respect art know that a lotta times, it comes from pain. Hopefully they’ll be glad I survived. Not everybody does. Lots of kids just disappear into that life, and I wasn’t one of ’em. Maybe someone living that now will hear this, hear one of my songs, and think, ‘Hey, I can get clear.’ It’s why we make music and paint pictures. So humans know we’re not alone.”

  “But Mr. Sanders—”

  “I think that’s a place to stop,” Trav said. “In fact, I hope you all got that on film, because that there is a helluva quote. Nicely done, Blake.”

  “Kell was talking about Shakespeare,” Blake said. “Like, if he can paraphrase Shakespeare to calm me the fuck down, I figured I could maybe talk pretty for a press conference, right?”

  There was general laughter, and then one impertinent soul called out, “So, Cheever, when’s the wedding!”

  “We’ll tell you a month after the honeymoon!” Cheever called back, and then he grabbed Blake’s hand and tugged. The guys stood up to block for them, and Cheever pulled him past the door.

  “Where we going?” Blake asked softly.

  “Elevators back by the bathrooms. This place is under a hotel, did you know that?”

  Blake tried to think about what the building looked like and couldn’t. “No, sir—shit.”

  His mother was standing inside the door, glaring at him.

  “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” she snarled, trying to break out of Crane’s grip. “Letting me in, just to watch you shit on my chances for cash!”

  Crane grunted. “We just wanted you to see how much the guys don’t care,” he said. “Now come on. I see a cop car outside with your name on it.”

  Blake opened his mouth to struggle for words, but Kell got there first. “Lady,” he said quietly, “he has nothing to say to you. Now go outside and let the nice officer arrest you.”

  “Blake!” Virginia Manning tried to get his attention, her beat-down eyes trying hard to make contact. “Son, I’m your mother. You gonna throw me in jail?”

  “Better jail than to the wolves, Mama,” Blake said. His chest ached. “Did you hear what Mrs. Sanders said? She chased her boys down and made them happy. She came all the way up here to defend me. Jesus, Ginny, you couldn’t even fuckin’ leave me alone.”

  She gaped, and Cheever pulled. “He’s getting glassy-eyed,” he murmured to Kell. “Let’s get him out of here.”

  And Blake found himself hustled to a small bank of elevators back behind the bathrooms. “Go figure,” he said, looking around at the familiar layout. “This really is a hotel.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll bring your clothes to the concert. Green room at six,” Kell said bluntly.

  “Cheever, don’t break him,” Mackey insisted. “And don’t break you. From now on, you’re the only one singing that god-awful ‘Empty Room’ song. Great song, Blake. Pretty much wrecked us all. Well done. Anyway, you get two solos and a backup, middle of the set, to calm everyone down before we go kicking ass again. You good with that?”

&n
bsp; Cheever grinned. “I’m in the fuckin’ band.”

  “Monkey Shines, my ass,” Mackey said sourly. “Nice fuckin’ tat.”

  That grin didn’t get any smaller. “Thanks. I can stay in the secret clubhouse now? Do I need a password?”

  “Cheever fuckin’ Sanders,” Stevie and Jefferson said together, going in for hugs.

  “Justin,” Blake mumbled as the elevator opened. “Cheever Justin Sanders.”

  “Yeah.” Cheever hustled him in. “That there is my cue.”

  Once they were in the elevator, Cheever folded Blake into his arms like origami, so perfect Blake couldn’t figure out how to unfold. His brain had blanked—everything, plans, responses to the last hour, even joy over seeing Cheever again—was just one big static charge between his ears.

  “Almost there,” Cheever murmured, waiting for the elevator to ding. There weren’t that many tall buildings in Portland—this one went to the eighth floor, but Cheever had apparently checked into a suite. Blake had a moment to notice the clothes—mostly tank tops and slacks—strewn around the couch and closet as they entered, and it would hit him, later, that Cheever had thought hard about those new jeans and that ripped white T-shirt.

  He’d wanted to fit in with the band.

  But now Cheever’s words were shaping his reality.

  “Undress,” Cheever growled. “Get on the bed.”

  Oh God. Something concrete to do. Blake pulled down the covers and dropped his clothes in a puddle on the floor, even his boots, which he kicked off after undoing the laces.

  Naked, he crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees, needing something, anything, to ground him, to keep him from losing all coherence and becoming a sobbing wreck in the bathtub, forgetting how far he’d come.

  Cheever’s rough hands at his hips maneuvered him, turned him around on his back, and Cheever draped his naked body over Blake’s, warm and electric. Blake clung to him, lifting his head so they could kiss, Cheever’s mouth tender on his, grounding.

  “I need you to see me,” Cheever murmured, sliding their bodies together. He smiled slightly. “It wasn’t easy, what I just did.”