Mackey had only one way to get out, and that was up, and Grant… well, Grant probably could have gotten out five years ago, but he’d stayed for Mackey.
And told his family he stayed for Sam.
Sam was talking marriage.
Mackey knew. The first time she’d brought it up, Grant had nailed Mackey in the back room of the music store as Mackey was closing down. It was risky—risky and unnecessary. They didn’t take those kinds of chances. But when they were done, Grant had collapsed against Mackey’s back, soundless tears soaking the long hair by Mackey’s ear, clenching Mackey to him like a child clutching a blanket.
He didn’t tell Mackey what it was about then. He helped him clean up and kissed him tenderly and then took him out for what looked like a perfectly platonic steak dinner at the local tavern. Two days later, Kell made an offhand remark as they were warming up in Stevie’s parents’ garage.
“Sam says she gave you an ultimatum, partner. What’s the scoop?”
Grant answered. “Yeah, she says next year at the latest, or she’s breaking up with me.”
Kell shrugged. “She’s a nice girl. You could do worse.”
Grant rolled his eyes—and then glanced at Mackey from under his brows. “No, I couldn’t,” he said darkly.
Mackey had to make the first fifteen minutes instrumental practice. His throat was too tight to sing.
But an agent? Mackey couldn’t think of the money or the places they’d go or even the chance to go to school and study literature or languages or even music history or theory, all of which he could read about forever.
But Mackey could think about a chance to get out of Tyson, California, and to take Grant with him. Nobody really knew what touring was like. They’d heard rumors, of course. Everyone heard the term “party like a rock star.” Maybe nobody would think anything of the two of them sleeping in the same hotel room, being together. Maybe they’d write it off like they did all those other guys doing drugs and wrecking hotel rooms. Maybe being a rock star meant you got a free pass, right? Nobody would give a shit what they thought Mackey and Grant were doing as long as the music was fucking awesome, right?
So Grant worked to get them gigs and to make sure they got paid, and Mackey worked for the vague hope that someday, somehow, he and Grant could be together, free and clear, and nobody would give a shit.
So an agent or a manager in the audience? Someone who could hook them up with a record contract and a tour? That was big fucking news.
Mackey needed Grant to smile about it, and Grant couldn’t meet his eyes.
So Mackey forgot about it. He got up on stage in his jeans and a button-up silk shirt. The shirt was made with cutaway shapes—stars, moons, lightning bolts—because Grant still bought his concert clothes. The other guys didn’t wear suits anymore, just jeans and T-shirts without holes. Stevie and Jefferson had taken to buying contrasting shirts, one in black and the other in white or one in red and the other in blue, both with the same logo. It was cool, because it was their thing, but it was also disturbing because, well, same brain.
Grant wore something designer and spiffy, Kell wore whatever was clean, and Mackey wore outrageous. It helped define them, and Mackey was prouder than ever that he led his brothers on the stage.
The set went well. Maybe it was the electricity from the crowd, or maybe it was that the guys all knew something was on the line, but Mackey could feel it. Every note was perfect, even the ones that came out as primal screams into the microphone, because some of Mackey’s songs weren’t gentle.
He closed his eyes and became the music, and between songs he flirted and fucked with the crowd. They played two sets, with a half-hour intermission between them. Wasn’t it funny how a half hour could change their lives?
Backstage was actually outside at this club, and the outside had a little walled patio with a bartender who served
And told his family he stayed for Sam.
Sam was talking marriage.
Mackey knew. The first time she’d brought it up, Grant had nailed Mackey in the back room of the music store as Mackey was closing down. It was risky—risky and unnecessary. They didn’t take those kinds of chances. But when they were done, Grant had collapsed against Mackey’s back, soundless tears soaking the long hair by Mackey’s ear, clenching Mackey to him like a child clutching a blanket.
He didn’t tell Mackey what it was about then. He helped him clean up and kissed him tenderly and then took him out for what looked like a perfectly platonic steak dinner at the local tavern. Two days later, Kell made an offhand remark as they were warming up in Stevie’s parents’ garage.
“Sam says she gave you an ultimatum, partner. What’s the scoop?”
Grant answered. “Yeah, she says next year at the latest, or she’s breaking up with me.”
Kell shrugged. “She’s a nice girl. You could do worse.”
Grant rolled his eyes—and then glanced at Mackey from under his brows. “No, I couldn’t,” he said darkly.
Mackey had to make the first fifteen minutes instrumental practice. His throat was too tight to sing.
But an agent? Mackey couldn’t think of the money or the places they’d go or even the chance to go to school and study literature or languages or even music history or theory, all of which he could read about forever.
But Mackey could think about a chance to get out of Tyson, California, and to take Grant with him. Nobody really knew what touring was like. They’d heard rumors, of course. Everyone heard the term “party like a rock star.” Maybe nobody would think anything of the two of them sleeping in the same hotel room, being together. Maybe they’d write it off like they did all those other guys doing drugs and wrecking hotel rooms. Maybe being a rock star meant you got a free pass, right? Nobody would give a shit what they thought Mackey and Grant were doing as long as the music was fucking awesome, right?
So Grant worked to get them gigs and to make sure they got paid, and Mackey worked for the vague hope that someday, somehow, he and Grant could be together, free and clear, and nobody would give a shit.
So an agent or a manager in the audience? Someone who could hook them up with a record contract and a tour? That was big fucking news.
Mackey needed Grant to smile about it, and Grant couldn’t meet his eyes.
So Mackey forgot about it. He got up on stage in his jeans and a button-up silk shirt. The shirt was made with cutaway shapes—stars, moons, lightning bolts—because Grant still bought his concert clothes. The other guys didn’t wear suits anymore, just jeans and T-shirts without holes. Stevie and Jefferson had taken to buying contrasting shirts, one in black and the other in white or one in red and the other in blue, both with the same logo. It was cool, because it was their thing, but it was also disturbing because, well, same brain.
Grant wore something designer and spiffy, Kell wore whatever was clean, and Mackey wore outrageous. It helped define them, and Mackey was prouder than ever that he led his brothers on the stage.
The set went well. Maybe it was the electricity from the crowd, or maybe it was that the guys all knew something was on the line, but Mackey could feel it. Every note was perfect, even the ones that came out as primal screams into the microphone, because some of Mackey’s songs weren’t gentle.
He closed his eyes and became the music, and between songs he flirted and fucked with the crowd. They played two sets, with a half-hour intermission between them. Wasn’t it funny how a half hour could change their lives?
Backstage was actually outside at this club, and the outside had a little walled patio with a bartender who served
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