needed to be high to get fucked by strangers. He wasn’t high, and he’d just finished being all super-fucking-righteous-bitches with Trav about not needing a fix.
“I gotta go talk to my manager,” he said, his hands clammy. Hell, this guy was gross—just, just high , and presumptuous, and slimy and gross. Mackey wasn’t going to take him up on the sex, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t take him up on the drugs, and he wasn’t so cynical that he wanted to break a vow that quickly.
“Oh come on, Mackey. The least you could do is have a drink with me!”
Oh God, a drink? Dimly he remembered asking if he could still drink alcohol, and hearing some sort of promise of a discussion about that as his rehab progressed. Fuck.
“No drinks tonight,” he said, then swallowed. His mouth was watering, slimy with wanting a shot of something to calm him down. Oh hell. He promised Trav. He’d promised Trav, and so far Trav hadn’t let them down, just like Gerry hadn’t let them down.
“How about a beer! Beers don’t count as drinks.” The guy smiled and turned around to a handy tray. Mackey looked around, spotting Trav in the crowd. To his relief, Trav was waving at him. Mackey waved back and nodded. Mackey was working his way over, and he gestured to himself and then to Trav to show it. Trav nodded, and something in Mackey relaxed. He could deal with this scumbag now.
“Yeah,” Mackey said, reaching out automatically. “Beer’s no big deal.” He’d been drinking beer backstage since he was fifteen. He took the beer, which had been opened long enough to be warm, and tried to fight his revulsion. Whoever this guy was, he’d been invited, and Trav was coming over. Mackey could be polite if Trav was coming over. “What’s your name, anyway?” He took a swallow of the beer and wrinkled his nose. Gross.
“Not gonna matter in a minute,” the guy purred, sliding an arm around Mackey’s waist.
Mackey took another healthy swallow, and just that suddenly, he was high.
But it was just a swallow. Swear, Trav. Just a drink of beer. Two. Wasn’t even a shot.
I shouldna had the beer. Sorry, Trav. Shouldna had the beer.
“No,” Mackey said, trying hard to keep his feet. His head swam, his vision was dark, and this asshole hadn’t brushed his teeth.
That was all Mackey remembered after that.
Beneath the Stain Bonus Scene
Bonus Scene
Eight years earlier, somewhere in the motherfucking desert.
T RAVIS F ORD and Heath Fowler ended up together a lot. Trav blamed their last names—they came pretty close in the alphabet, so it only made sense they’d get assigned sentry duty or cleanup or whatever the hell else you got assigned when you were only a junior MP coming up.
In this case they’d been assigned to guard a prisoner during transport. And then the transport convoy had been waylaid by a mass of goats herded by two very confused-looking children.
And then the RPGs had been fired, and their Humvee flipped.
Trav and Heath managed to pull the prisoner out of the wreckage, but he’d taken a blow to the head. Or, well, most of his head had been blown. In fact, most of the convoy had been blown—and Trav and Heath were no exceptions. Trav lost most of the skin off his shoulder and left arm, and Heath (being Heath) had shrapnel in his flank and buttocks.
“Most of the convoy is dead and you got shot in the ass?” Trav hissed as they crouched behind the Humvee carcass, waiting for the next explosion. Heath lay on his right side while Trav examined the wound—it looked painful, and blood soaked the left half of Heath’s fatigues, but it also looked like Heath would live.
“I blame you. You’ve been wanting to check out my ass since we met.”
Trav grunted. Heath was the one person in the military who actually knew he was gay—and he didn’t usually let that slip out. Unless he was in a great deal of pain, apparently. But Trav could forgive him, because they were both high on adrenaline and
“I gotta go talk to my manager,” he said, his hands clammy. Hell, this guy was gross—just, just high , and presumptuous, and slimy and gross. Mackey wasn’t going to take him up on the sex, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t take him up on the drugs, and he wasn’t so cynical that he wanted to break a vow that quickly.
“Oh come on, Mackey. The least you could do is have a drink with me!”
Oh God, a drink? Dimly he remembered asking if he could still drink alcohol, and hearing some sort of promise of a discussion about that as his rehab progressed. Fuck.
“No drinks tonight,” he said, then swallowed. His mouth was watering, slimy with wanting a shot of something to calm him down. Oh hell. He promised Trav. He’d promised Trav, and so far Trav hadn’t let them down, just like Gerry hadn’t let them down.
“How about a beer! Beers don’t count as drinks.” The guy smiled and turned around to a handy tray. Mackey looked around, spotting Trav in the crowd. To his relief, Trav was waving at him. Mackey waved back and nodded. Mackey was working his way over, and he gestured to himself and then to Trav to show it. Trav nodded, and something in Mackey relaxed. He could deal with this scumbag now.
“Yeah,” Mackey said, reaching out automatically. “Beer’s no big deal.” He’d been drinking beer backstage since he was fifteen. He took the beer, which had been opened long enough to be warm, and tried to fight his revulsion. Whoever this guy was, he’d been invited, and Trav was coming over. Mackey could be polite if Trav was coming over. “What’s your name, anyway?” He took a swallow of the beer and wrinkled his nose. Gross.
“Not gonna matter in a minute,” the guy purred, sliding an arm around Mackey’s waist.
Mackey took another healthy swallow, and just that suddenly, he was high.
But it was just a swallow. Swear, Trav. Just a drink of beer. Two. Wasn’t even a shot.
I shouldna had the beer. Sorry, Trav. Shouldna had the beer.
“No,” Mackey said, trying hard to keep his feet. His head swam, his vision was dark, and this asshole hadn’t brushed his teeth.
That was all Mackey remembered after that.
Beneath the Stain Bonus Scene
Bonus Scene
Eight years earlier, somewhere in the motherfucking desert.
T RAVIS F ORD and Heath Fowler ended up together a lot. Trav blamed their last names—they came pretty close in the alphabet, so it only made sense they’d get assigned sentry duty or cleanup or whatever the hell else you got assigned when you were only a junior MP coming up.
In this case they’d been assigned to guard a prisoner during transport. And then the transport convoy had been waylaid by a mass of goats herded by two very confused-looking children.
And then the RPGs had been fired, and their Humvee flipped.
Trav and Heath managed to pull the prisoner out of the wreckage, but he’d taken a blow to the head. Or, well, most of his head had been blown. In fact, most of the convoy had been blown—and Trav and Heath were no exceptions. Trav lost most of the skin off his shoulder and left arm, and Heath (being Heath) had shrapnel in his flank and buttocks.
“Most of the convoy is dead and you got shot in the ass?” Trav hissed as they crouched behind the Humvee carcass, waiting for the next explosion. Heath lay on his right side while Trav examined the wound—it looked painful, and blood soaked the left half of Heath’s fatigues, but it also looked like Heath would live.
“I blame you. You’ve been wanting to check out my ass since we met.”
Trav grunted. Heath was the one person in the military who actually knew he was gay—and he didn’t usually let that slip out. Unless he was in a great deal of pain, apparently. But Trav could forgive him, because they were both high on adrenaline and
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