Beneath the Stain - Part 7 by Amy Lane Page A

again after he does that, so it’s a big deal—but Grant doesn’t want that here. He wants that on the ferry, and I’m sort of looking forward to that. What he wants here is an old Eric Burdon song that I think every garage band in the history of ever has played. Which is awesome. I wish Grant had played this when we were in high school. This would have been a very different thing.”
    “And by the way,” Stevie said, taking his part. That small, subversive smile that he got when he was about to do something evil had crept up. “I know a lot of you are out there judging us, judging this dog and pony show, judging how pissed off we sound and how we’re saving the sweetness for ourselves and not sharing. You all ask yourself this. Can I get a show of hands for how many people knew my father was a douche bag who liked to watch little boys undress and touch their asses and beat off while they watched?”
    Trav opened his eyes really wide and looked out at the crowd in disbelief. This had not been in rehearsal.
    To his horror, about half the crowd looked shocked. And the other half looked uncomfortable and guilty. Fucking Jesus, was he ready to get out of this town.
    “Yeah,” Stevie said, angry. “I sort of thought so. So those of you judging us, you go ahead and judge yourselves, okay? I got no more apologies to make to you people, and neither do my brothers. Blake, you got anything to say?”
    Blake glared out at the little group of people and grinned at the few news cameras that had been sent to cover a quiet funeral attended by a rock band.
    “Yeah, all. Whoever fucks with my brothers ain’t worthy. Grant Adams was my brother too. We’re going to let you to your little funeral, the one with the preacher and the service and the empty casket and all, but we’ve got to catch a flight to Sausalito in an hour so we can go have a day at the pier. You ready, Mackey?”
    Mackey grinned at them and screamed out, “ But Baby —”
    “ Baby— ”
    “ Remember— ”
    “ Remember— ”
    “ It’s my life, and I’ll do what I want— ”
    He and Kell strummed furiously, making up in fierceness what they didn’t have in electronic sound mixing, and the band, including Trav and Cheever, including the girls—hell, including Walter and Debra, who were taking them to the airport as soon as this was over—all screamed out the chorus.
    When they were done, when the last chord echoed through the shocked assembly, Mackey’s mom was there with the baby, who squealed and clapped, ready to be delivered to her mama.
    Trav grabbed the urn, Mackey and Kell grabbed their guitars, and the whole lot of them strode across the cemetery, got into the cars, and drove away. They would drop Heather and Cheever off back at the house and continue on to the airport, but Trav knew he wasn’t the only one to feel that surge, that pressure, that fearful desire to get the holy hell out of this town.
    They really didn’t have anything else to say at that point anyway. There was only freedom to be had.

Gives You Hell
     
     
    M ACKEY AND Grant had gotten to San Francisco only a handful of times in their five years together, and they only had one picture to show for it. It had come in the manila envelope, faded and dusty, one of those computer printer deals that wasn’t going to last much longer, even if they kept it framed.
    This time round, Mackey made sure everyone charged their camera phones. When they got back to LA, he’d make a big collage on the computer, have it developed on photo paper, and have it framed. Trav would commend him for spending his money on something cool, and Mackey would blow him off, but the whole family wanted that picture in the front room.
    They were all happy.
    They all wore matching tourist sweatshirts and bottoms, because their stuff was packed before they got on the plane, and they didn’t want to run around the bay in their somber suits and dresses. Mackey left his suit in a pile in a public restroom. He