Beneath the Stain - Part 5 Read Online Free PDF Page A

day.
    I asked you one goddamned thing. I asked you if we could bring the band to Oakland and do a simple light show. You said yeah, no problem. Crew was in place from last year.
    It was. Even in the text, Trav could hear the abject apology. I just didn’t know how bad it had gotten. I’m sorry, Trav. I take the hit for this one. You’ve done wonders, and I dropped the ball.
    Trav stopped right there in the middle of the airport and counted to ten. Then he closed his eyes and pictured Mackey, in those rare moments when he let his guard down, playing the guitar softly in the middle of the night, the lamplight passing through his blond eyelashes, illuminating his gray eyes. He counted to ten again and resumed walking.
    Do you know how hard he’s worked? he asked, because someone had to.
    I know.
    Really? How hard THEY ALL worked? They kicked that CD out for you in record time.
    They did.
    He wrote songs in rehab, dumped half the first album and revamped the whole thing. He did it because he promised us—you, me, the fans. And we drop him in Oakland without a tech crew?
    Man, Trav — I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to tell you. I fucking dropped the ball.
    Trav was going to do it. He was going to twist the knife in, pull it out, add some salt, and twist it again, but Mackey’s text got in first.
    Don’t sweat it, Superman. Deb says you’re having kittens. We don’t need any fucking kittens—I can barely keep the plant alive.
    Trav took a breath and then another. Heath’s ready to blow us both in total apology. You sure you don’t want to milk that?
    Straight guys give shitty head. Get your ass to the Coliseum—we’re on early.
    EARLY?
    My idea, hotshot. Now put the phone down and get your ass to the driver. Deb says she sent a guy to get your luggage and cab it back. She also says to stop yelling at her. You asshole. You made the poor woman cry.
    Trav grabbed his laptop and carry-on tighter and trotted down the stairs. Sure enough, the driver was waiting by the doorway, and Trav walked straight past baggage claim, hoping the suits in his garment bag would find their way home.
    He slid his ass into the town car and nodded urgently to the driver, then went back to his text. Tell her that if you and the guys make it through this, I’ll send her flowers and brush her cat.
    I’m not telling her jack. Get your ass over here and stop being a prick. At least when I rip people up, I back it up by firing their asses. Jesus, fucking amateur.
    Trav laughed—he couldn’t help it. Shut up and warm up. Aren’t you in the waiting room?
    No. I’m in the dressing room, hiding from the massive fucking clouds of pot smoke. The whole band is with me. Sobriety sucks fucking ass in the social department, you know that?
    I’ll totally rim you as a reward , Trav texted, remembering that sweet, dirty fantasy he’d been having.
    DID I MENTION I’M IN THE GREENROOM WITH THE GUYS? Jesus—Kell read that over my shoulder. He’s gagging in the bathroom. Way to kill the mood, Trav.
    Trav stared at the text in absolute horror.
    I’ll see you when I get there , he texted lamely, then groaned and threw his head back against the seat.
    “Everything all right, Mr. Ford?”
    Trav looked at Walter, the driver, and grimaced. Walter was a white man in middle age, nondescript, very discreet, and as reliable a person as he’d ever met.
    “Dating a rock star has its drawbacks,” he said after a minute. This guy had taken them to their first date, after all.
    “Yeah, but I understand they fuck like gods,” Walter said pragmatically, and Trav stared at him, wondering when his own teeny brain was going to explode.
     
     
    W ALTER TOOK him to the VIP entrance and handed him his pass, which was great, because it meant he could charge through the myriad tunnels and back ways until he got up to the stage entrance. His guys were there, standing back to let the other band come through the loading bay, with lots of high-fives and “Great