And You Can't Tell Anyone (Track Twelve: III) 2, chapter 36

Tré cursed himself for seven kinds of a coward as he snuck up the stairs and back into the pool house's dining room. It was difficult not to cringe as he took in Mirabelle lounging on the table. Tré gave thanks that at least she had changed out of her silken housecoat and into day clothing. Sullenly, he made his way over to the wicker couch and plopped himself down on the cushions. From the basement he could hear Mike hollering. It did nothing to allay his feelings of guilt.

Mirabelle strolled over and sat beside him. "Tré, what's the matter?"

He sighed and shook his head wearily in response.

Surprised, Tré watched as her hand edged slowly over his. Instead of giving into instinctive revulsion, he waited to see what would happen. Within his chest, he felt a slowly growing sensation of peace. Tré blinked slowly and looked at her.

Mirabelle sighed quietly. "I'm not stupid; I know you're just using me."

"No," Tré mumbled. "No, I'm not."

"Then maybe you should tell me what's wrong."

Tré winced as he heard Mike yell again. The drummer snarled to himself and threw up his hands. "You know what? Things are wrong. Everything is wrong! Do you have any idea what's going on right now? I can't STAND it! Every day, day in and day out, I watch him. I see him with her, and see the way he smiles. I...I...I want him to do that with me, and I know he won't. It's not fair, he's so close and I can't do anything about it. Now, it's all fucked up and I'm screwed. I should have never done this. You can't understand at all."

Angrily, he rose off the couch and paced about. He stopped when he felt her eyes upon him. "What?" he complained.

Mirabelle shook her head. "You think I don't understand?"

Tré crossed his arms, "This is different. You're just crazy-ass freaky."

Instead of looking hurt, as was his intent, the younger girl smiled. "I'm not the shit-head with my best pal chained up in the basement. Take a look in the mirror."

"So what? And what kind of girl are you if you know I'm using you?" Sassily, he stalked towards her. Tré felt torn in all sorts of directions. He was beyond angry, while completely despairing at the same time. He leaned over and stared her in the eyes. An unexplained smile lifted his lips as he tilted her chin with his stubby fingers. Like a prize poodle, she stared back at him arrogantly.

God, I think I've found someone as stupid as me.

*Mike*
Throat raw from yelling, Mike resumed scraping at his blindfold. He was going to get out of here right now. In a way, this was an excellent joke, but that did nothing to ease Mike's agitation. This was a little too close to crossing the fine line that Tré often skirted. Feeling like a dog with fleas, Mike dragged his face against the pole and felt the blindfold catch on something. Ever so carefully, he lowered his head, and the blindfold slid up onto his forehead.

Greedily, Mike looked around for some clue to escape. All he could see was that he was in something similar to a cellar. There were bare pipes and wooden studs sticking out of the walls. Obviously, this place was not meant to be comfortable. A single light hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly shadow on the damp room. Mike squinted as his eyes adjusted. There was a large fuse box bolted to the wall under the stairs. Otherwise, this basement was nothing but a spartanly-furnished cement hole in the ground.

After inspecting his location, Mike started to survey himself. He was indeed only in his boxers and tied to a steel support pole. Other than that, and a bit of a throbbing ache on his head, he was fine.

Why the hell would he take my clothes and then hide me? If I was going to take Tré's clothes, I'd leave him out somewhere public.

Further musings were cut off as the door above the stairs exploded open. Tré came hurtling down the stairs, nearly falling several times. His shirt was missing, and his pants were starting to fall down to his ankles. Mike recognized the cell phone in the drummer's hand as Billie Joe's.

Due to the gag, and a sore windpipe, Mike could only scowl.

Tré said spoke into the phone as he undid the gag, "Okay, I got him here."

Before Mike could get a chance to speak, Tré put the phone to his Mike's ear. With a confused glare at the drummer, Mike listened.

"Mike, that you?" Billie Joe's voice came out in a rush.

"Yeah. What?"

"I don't care where the hell you are, but you need to get your ass over to the airport."

Mike frowned in consternation. "What?"

"Mike, Wren's leaving. I don't know why. Whatever you did, you need to fix it so that she doesn't take it out on herself. She went to the airport and she asked me not to say until right now. If it helps you to find her, she's going on a flight to England with her parents."

"What?"

"Mike, get your fucking ass in gear and go get her back!"

The dead tone of the cell phone echoed in the bassist's ear. As realization struck, Mike tried to stand, and was jerked back against the post by his bonds.

"Tré," he growled, "Let me loose. Right now."

Obediently, Tré released Mike's ropes. Not even looking at the drummer, Mike raced up the stairs. He barely noticed Mirabelle sipping a cup of coffee at the table.

As he put a hand on the door, she curled her lip. "Nice boxers, boy."

Whirling around, Mike demanded, "Tré, I need clothes and I need the car. Now."

"I don't have them. I don't have anything else. There's no way you can fit into my clothes, even if you tried."

"Tré, cut the crap!" Mike snapped furiously, "I'm in a hurry. At least give me the God damn keys." He stood in between Mirabelle and Tré, blue eyes blazing furiously.

Keeping his eyes downcast, the drummer tossed the keys to Mike. He snatched the keys out of the air in a predatory strike.

Mirabelle cleared her throat. "If you want, there's some clothes in the bedroom."