Beneath the Stain - Part 2 Read Online Free PDF Page B

but not Mackey. Mackey wasn’t sure he knew what he wanted on his body for permanent yet. Nothing that was his. Nothing real. So maybe what tattoo needles would have felt like—myriad pinpricks on exposed skin—and his joints ached like he had a fever, and his chest hurt, and his head. A wave of black nausea washed over him, and he bent double.
    “Man, I’m gonna puke,” he muttered, and before the next wave swept him, a firm hand was supporting his back, lifting him so he could hang his head over the trash can.
    He finished, and the guy disappeared, leaving Mackey blessedly alone to die in peace. He was not pleased when the guy came back and wiped his face with a wet cloth and made him rinse out his mouth. He was even less pleased when strong arms—hella strong, like tree trunks—lifted him off the floor and laid him on the bed.
    “Let me back down!” he protested, feeling feeble. God, he could barely roll over. “Man, I hate this bed. Too big. Too fucking big. Don’t need a bed this big.”
    He wrestled with the comforter, which disappeared with a jerk only to float back down on top of his body. He clutched it to his shoulders again and huddled, freezing and sweating and wishing he could die.
    “One fucking pill,” he muttered. “All this asshole needs to do is give me one fucking pill. Goddammit, I need to fucking write.”
    He struggled to sit up. “Don’t you see that I need to fucking write? I need to write, motherfucker! We’re not gonna get the album done, and then there goes our contract, and I gotta have the music, man—what else’m I gonna fuckin’ do?”
    “Sh, sh sh….” A washcloth, warm and not freezing, wiped at his forehead. “Mackey, I swear, you haven’t lost your contract, okay? Could you just calm down so I can call the rehab clinic? They’ll send an ambulance, get you an IV—it’ll be fun.”
    “That there is a bald-faced lie,” Mackey said bitterly. “That don’t sound like fun. That sounds like a fucking hospital, but worse because there’s not any fucking Xanax!”
    The washcloth kept wiping. “Mackey, do you really want to need the Xanax this bad? Do you want to need anything this bad?”
    Mackey whimpered. “Music,” he muttered. “Music. It’s all I need.”
    “Good. I’ll bring your iPod, make them play it all you want.”
    Another wave of shudders wracked Mackey’s body, and he was too tired to fight. “God, who the fuck are you?”
    “I’m Trav Ford, your new manager.”
    And Mackey remembered Gerry, face blue, tongue distended, a puddle of vomit and pills next to his face. “Hell. Can I die this time?” he muttered. “I don’t want to see Gerry die again.”
    “Yeah, kid,” the guy—Trav—said, smoothing back his hair. “I mean, no. You can’t die. But we won’t make you see anyone else die, okay?”
    “’Kay,” Mackey muttered. “’Kay. Whatever. Just… God. Put me to sleep. Anything. But it hurts. It hurts and I need it.”
    “Yeah,” Trav said. “Music, Mackey. Remember that. Music.”
    A sudden shaft of humor penetrated Mackey’s misery. “She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie,” he sang.
    The only thing that got him through the next couple of hours was Trav’s voice, off-key and sardonic, singing the chorus.
     
     
    H E DIDN ’ T remember much about the hospital. Mostly it was like the hotel, but his iPod was on shuffle in the background and the people giving him the sponge baths were not half as memorable as Trav.
    He did a lot of sleeping—he remembered that. And when he woke up, clean and confused, a nice man in a very expensive sweater vest and tie was sitting next to his bed. He had neat gray hair and a goatee and a sort of patronizing smile.
    “How are we doing, Mr. Sanders?”
    “We feel like a weasel crapped in our mouth. Who are you?”
    The guy blinked. “Why a weasel?”
    “’Cause it sounds funny. It’s a funny animal. Nothing rhymes with weasel. Who the fuck are you?”
    The patronizing