When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 11

*Billie Joe*
"Tré, man, you must've taken a club to the head. There's no way. The odds are impossible. You don't get to pick what tour you're a roadie for. The tour picks you."

"I don't give a fuck about the odds, it's her! She's been with us since the start of this, July. All through Japan, L.A., Utah, last night too."

"You don't have any proof."

"She switches between an English and an American accent. It's flawless. No imposter could do that. Wren went to England with her parents. She would've picked up an accent."

Disbelief and hope twisted in Billie Joe's chest. "So? Wren wasn't the first American-to-English immigrant. It could still be coincidence," he persisted stubbornly.

I'm not going to get excited over nothing. I'm not going to.

"For fuck's sake! I saw her. Without the whole face gear. It could be her. We've all gotten a little older, but" Tré's face paled with revelation. "We gotta tell Mike!" He started to head out into the living room of the bus.

"No we don't!" Billie Joe leapt up and seized Tré by the arm. "Tré," he pleaded, "We can't do that to him. Not until we're sure."

"I'm so fuckin' sure! I gotta do this, make everything alright." Tré stiffened as soon as the words left his mouth. He stammered, "Uh, you know, cheer up Mike again. Bring back the dork we all know and love."

Billie Joe was not quite sure, but he thought that Tré was acting a little out of character. He's just wound up. That's gotta be it. I'd be going nuts if I was him and I'd just figured this out.

Instead of questioning the drummer, Billie Joe was distracted as Tré struggled in objection. Roughly, Billie Joe tightened his grip on the drummer and gave him a hard shake. "Listen," he hissed, "If it anyone wants a chance to fix things, it's me. I never told him 'til it was too late."

"It just fits, the whole war, the way she looked—I swear that it was her eyes, I saw them without the contacts, you saw her without them too—the accent." Once again, a sudden change overcame the drummer and he froze.

Billie Joe narrowed his green eyes. "Hey, you havin' a seizure or what? Tré, talk to me." He snapped his fingers in front of Tré's staring blue eyes. "Speak up. Gone catatonic?"

After a violent head shake, Tré blinked and his eyes shifted to Billie Joe once more. He spoke no word, but opened and then closed his mouth silently. Taking this as a sign that Tré was willing to listen, Billie Joe released his grip.

"Okay, I'll admit I saw her without the yellow eyes, but I didn't notice anything right away. C'mon, if anyone would've known, it would've been Mike. He was right there."

The two roadies walked past Mike and Billie Joe. The younger one seemed caught between anger and despair. The older one wore black bandanas to cover her face, but they could not hide the hunted look in her hazel eyes.

Billie Joe noted all the details of the roadies for as long as the space of an eye blink would allow. Then, he shifted his attention to deciding just what Tré had done to insult them. Mike stood at his side, and waited for an answer

"I don't remember Mike doing anything weird." Billie murmured.

"What about when they left? Remember? Think!"

Biting his lip, Billie forced his mind to regurgitate the memory. Little details, ones he had ignored or failed to register, illuminated themselves with perfect clarity.

Mike stared for just a second too long at the retreating backs of the women. The bassist's nostrils gave the tiniest of flares, as if scenting prey. Mike's level blue eyes narrowed fractionally, brows furrowing ever so slightly, and a faint glimmer of puzzlement flickered over his face.

Billie Joe could glean no more from the retrospection. After the roadies left, all he had was Tré creating an elaborate explanation and Mike wearing his typically bemused expression. If there were any other subtle clues, Billie Joe could not recall them. The encounter had been a simple recording of his memory. Upon this closer, more detailed, examination of the memory, Billie Joe found it increasingly difficult to prevent his hopes from rising. Mike, on a deeper level, might have recognized Wren under her disguise.

Billie Joe ran through the memory again, combing it for problems. One appeared immediately. Mike had looked like he was not staring at Knight, but at the other roadie.

What did he say? It was something that said he was interested. He could've been checking out the other one. Still, Billie Joe was willing to believe that some base animal nature had allowed Mike to recognize Wren.

"Okay, you know what? Maybe it is her. But we gotta be sure without actually freaking her out." Billie Joe said slowly. Despite all his thinking, no more than a dozen seconds had passed.

Tré grinned slowly. "Oh, I can be sure. She's got her kid with her. Trista. That other girl from the bathroom, that's her. Knight—or Wren—is crazy protective over her."

"No, can't be." Billie Joe shook his head. "She looks too old. It's been how long?"

"Well, that year was supposed to be our grad year. The kid would've been born sometime in the summer of ninety. So, two thousand and four minus nineteen ninety is..."

"Fourteen." Billie Joe completed the math. "There's no way that girl was fourteen. We're talking eighteen at the least, more likely twenty."

"How can you be so sure? You know how girls can do that, look way older. Remember those pro-ID posters you'd used to see with all those people, and it said something like 'Only one of these people is legally old enough to buy their own alcohol. Which one is it?'. She's probably dressed to look old enough to work our tour."

"I don't know. I don't think just anyone would be allowed to work this show without some kind of experience." Billie Joe sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. "I just don't wanna believe this until we rule out everything."

"Okay," Tré crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them, "so Knight—Wren—has all this experience. You don't get to be backline chief on your first tour. She's got Doug tip-toeing around her. That says serious power. If she can do that, why couldn't she pull enough strings to get her kid on the tour with her?"

"And why would she take the kid on tour?"

"She's probably a single mom. Needs the cash, and she can't leave the kid with her parents for some reason."

Billie Joe frowned to himself. She'd never leave her child with her parents. No way. Not after she left them to live with me. But, in the end, she left us for them. There's no pattern. Unless, the running is the pattern.

"Fuck. I don't know, Tré! I can't predict how she'd act, not since she just fucked off. There's no real way of telling with asking her right out. And I don't want to do that. If it is her, she's being quiet about being around, so if we call her on it, she might bolt. If it is Wren, she's not going to leave until we get some answers. I'm not gonna let her."

"We have to tell Mike. He's got a right to know. He was fuckin' hitting on the young one—Trista. That's sick. She could be his kid. That's like...." He curled a lip in disgust. "We gotta stop that. Now. We gotta keep Mike far away from her."

"No."

"No?" Tré squawked. "No! Oh fine, let's just let Mike go on and commit a little incest. What the hell? I know we gotta be sure, but we have to stop them."

"Nobody's going to do any kind of incest. We'll stop them."

"But you just said no." Tré growled.

"I said no to the part about keepin' them far apart." Billie Joe let his thoughts run off of his tongue. "If we do that, they'll get suspicious. Mike will, for sure. He'll get pissed off, 'cause he'll think we're trying to protect him from getting into a relationship when he's on the rebound. What we gotta do is let them go on like this. I know it's sick, but we won't let them out of our sight. We'll watch them, all the time."

"But we can't be standing over their shoulders," Tré pointed out. "It'll have to be subtle, sneaky without being obvious. We can let them be around, but not without us. Like chaperones."

"It'll be damn near impossible. We can't be around all the time. We need more people."

"Well, we got Jason, and Ronnie, and Freese."

"Yeah, but the problem is that we're all in the band. What happens if our techs call us away and leave Mike alone? C'mon, you know how easy it is to sneak a kiss when nobody's looking."

"Well, why don't we get the roadies in on this?"

"Only problem with that is, Knight leads the roadies. Trista is a roadie. It'll get back to her."

Tré grinned and winked. "I've got ten bucks says I can get you two roadie spies that won't spill a word. I've been chatting up this one chick, Keely. If it's what it takes, I'll use a little 'rock star influence' to get her to help. She should do it just for the hell of it though."

"Who's the other one?"

"I don't know his name. You've seen him. Black an' blue hair, a few tattoos on his arms, pierced ear, kinda looks like a dog that's been kicked a few times?"

An image of the young man immediately resolved itself in Billie Joe's mind. "Mmmm, 'kay. And why would he help you?"

"Me an' Mike busted him eavesdropping on Trista and Knight, uh, Wren. He's already doing it. You've seen her, she's vicious. I'd say he wasn't stalking Knight—are we calling her that or Wren?"

"Knight. So, if anyone overhears, we'll be okay."

"Okay. So, he wasn't stalking Knight, I think he's keeping an eye out Trista." Tré batted his eyelashes. "Ah, young love. So exploitable."

"You're going to blackmail him?" Billie Joe asked. From what he initially remembered, the roadie did not look like the type to take blackmail too well. "With what? If you threaten to tell Trista, he'll just go and tell her anyways—that's what I'd do. You know them rigging roadies, they've got balls."

"So? If he does that, then I've got him right where I want 'im."

Billie Joe shivered as the water continued to evaporate from his bare skin. "How? You'll have no edge."

"If he's got that much balls then he won't want some rock star coming onto his turf. He'll do whatever to keep his sweetheart out of the arms of anyone but himself."

"Okay. Sounds like a plan. Why don't you keep a watch on Wr—on Knight, 'cause that'll seem normal with your little battle going on. I'll hang around Trista."

"And how does that seem normal? You don't hang around the roadies." Tré frowned.

"So? I guess I'll start hanging around the roadies. Besides, the only one who'd really care is Knight and you'll have her busy. How about, you know, I'm working on our public relations? A nicer, friendlier, Green Day, with ten percent more kindness?"

Tré sighed and grimaced. "I guess it'll have to do."

"I can't think of anything better." Billie Joe replied as he wandered into the galley.

Tré followed the guitarist as he dug in his bag for clothes. "Man, I never would've believed this. She just up and leaves and now she's back. How many years?"

"Fourteen. Just about fifteen in a little while." Billie Joe said absently as he tugged on his shirt.

"Close enough. Fifteen years. Fuck," he breathed. Politely, Tré turned his back as Billie Joe started to pull on his pants. "Billie?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do think she's back? Why now?"

Billie Joe finished buttoning his pants and tried to formulate a reply. After a moment, he shrugged. "I don't know. Like I said, the tour picks you."

He wandered into the back of the bus, where the only non-bunk style of bed resided. In truth, it was not much more than a glorified circular pillow on a bed-frame. Out of fairness to each other, no one band member claimed the bed as their sole property. It was more of a spot for spontaneous naps. A door could also be shut between the back of the bus and the galley, creating a private bedroom. Unfortunately, sounds easily punctured the thin walls of the bus. This had lead to the self-imposed rule among the men that stated if one of them was going to be noisy in the back room, then he would do so when the bus was empty.

Tré leapt onto the bed and bounced thoughtfully. Hands jammed into his back pockets, Billie Joe gazed out the tinted window of the bus. He immediately recognized the dark form of Knight, out in the parking lot, talking to a burly pink-haired man.

*Knight*

"Where the hell were you? I called you and I paged you. You're lucky that this is a two-day stopover, or we'd be screwed!"

Landon frowned and rubbed his chin. "I couldn't. My batteries were dead." His eyes flicked off to the side, looking around Knight.

Liar.

"What do you mean you couldn't? There's truck-stops all over the interstates. They've got payphones."

Landon crossed his immensely brawny arms over his barrel chest and growled, "We got two flats. Two." He held up a pair of thick fingers.

"I can count, Landon," Wren retorted.

"As flats happen, it wasn't right beside a gas station."

From the way his eyes were darting around, Knight could tell that Landon was not telling the complete truth. I smell a rat. When I find out why he's lying, I'll.... I'll do something vicious.

"Why don't we check the headlights?" she offered.

Relief flickered across Landon's blunt features. "Yeah. Let's."

As soon as they were both bent over the lamp covers of the truck, out of sight of the few roadies in the lot, Knight made her attack. "Wanna tell me the truth about the cell phone batteries?"

His response was the exact opposite of what she expected. "They were gone." Landon stated. "Someone took 'em. Someone that's gotta be on this tour. Not some random Joe. And two tire blow outs, we should've been able to keep going. We got eighteen wheels. Thing is, the two that went, went on the same side, same axle." Landon pretended to check the tightness of the lamp cover's screws. "We just got new tires. They shouldn't crack. I looked at 'em after we lost them. They didn't just bust." His voice dropped even more. "Knight, I've been a driver for a while, I've been a security guard for way longer. I know what a blown tire looks like and what conditions'll make it blow. Somebody slashed those tires."

Images of the shorn truss wafted through Knight's mind. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It was done to look like a crack, but it was too deep, too straight. And both on the same axle? We could probably lose three tires and keep going as long as they're on different sides or the same side and different axles. That, stopped us as soon as the second tire went."

"So, no other trouble?"

"Nope. Just swerved a bit when we lost the tires, but nothing broken. No strange stuff. I don't know how I lost those batteries. I keep the damn thing on me pretty much the whole time."

Knight pursed her lips under her bandana. "This has got to come to a stop. Right now. Put a guard on the equipment trucks. Seems like whoever's doing this, is going after the equipment." She adjusted her head-bandana ever so slightly. "There's no need to get Doug all stirred up. We'll deal with it and that'll be that. Let everybody else know that we're onto someone. Don't be too bold about sayin' it's one of us. Let 'em think they've got the upper hand. Ask for volunteers. If it happens again, hopefully we can narrow it down to them. How about we half the guards with the local crew? There's no way some random local person'll be in on this show too. That way, we narrow the group down more."

"No. Can't do that," Landon replied. "That'll show we don't completely trust our own crew. We need whoever it is to stay confident. Pride goes before a fall."

Knight nodded, deferring to Landon's greater experience with such matters. "Okay. That means we're gonna need to put more of the locals on our jobs. It's gonna be hell for a while. There's a reason locals aren't roadies."

"Just let it get tough for a few days. Once people start complaining, then we'll bring in the locals to half the guard duty. We get better security, and our shows go back to being better run. And nobody will know what's really going on."

Casually, Knight turned and leaned on the front of the truck. "Why don't you write up a list of people you think we can put on shifts together? Make sure you put some lighters with your dogs. I want people with good night vision to back up your muscle. I'll check out the list, see if it's all shipshape as they say, and then start setting out the shifts."

Landon also straightened up and leaned on the truck. "Never had this sort of shit happen before. If Doug finds out, he'd freak and fire us all," he commented.

"Well, that is his job. Protecting the talent. If they're in danger, then he's gotta get them out."

Landon cocked his head sideways. "I don't think it's dangerous. I think it's just a little vandalism. Just some asshole. It was probably just a one time thing."

"Yeah, it might be. But we have to watch out just in case. We have a show to run. That's our job and we can't let it fall apart. What would've happened if the tires had gone at the exact same time? Hmm? And whoever did it has a bloody big knife to be cuttin' through tires." She narrowed her eyes maliciously as Mike appeared from in between the buses, walked in front of one, and then disappeared behind its rear. "All our crew people are my people. I'm responsible. And I'm not going to let anyone damage them."

"So," Landon asked cautiously, "d'you want me to put Trista on the guard list?"

Knight continued to glare at the bus. "Yeah. Do it. Just make sure she shares a shift with Nick. They'll keep each other on their toes."

A grin edged its way onto Landon's face. "You're evil, you know that? Trista'll kill you if she finds out."

Knight replied saucily, "I guess she better not."

*Mike*

A short snooze, a couple painkillers, and several bottles of water had done wonders. At the moment, he felt nearly human. Sunlight no longer made his eyeballs feel like they were being squeezed out of his head by a clawed fist. His head no longer pounded along with his pulse. Best of all, he could walk around without feeling like his legs were about to buckle.

Gingerly, he edged around the back of the bus. He knew that Tré and Billie Joe were inside, simply because they were nowhere else. Leaning on the bus's back bumper, Mike paused to rest. His strength was back, but not completely. Breathing patiently, he looked up at the window overhead. From experience, he knew no one on the inside of the bus could see him. A plan crept into his mind. Spider-like, he plastered himself to the wall and put one foot on the bumper. As he pressed his face to the bus, he could clearly make out a conversation.

"—anything like that," Tré was saying. "But we just got to keep 'em a bit separated."

"I see where you're comin' from." A pause. "Okay, so why don't you go keep him busy with a golf story?" Billie Joe suggested. "Or planning your next attack, or something. I'll start with Trista later on. We can take turns diverting each one. You know, keep one busy, then the other. Not at the same time, so maybe they won't figure it out too quick."

"Don't you think he'll figure us out anyway? C'mon, he's one of us. You know you'd figure it out. I know I'd figure it out. Hands down, Mike'll be onto us."

"We gotta try. We just got to keep this up long enough. By the time we get back home, let's call that our deadline for all this. Then he—and her—can do whatever's appropriate with what we know."

Mike backed off of the bus and shook his head in disbelief. Me? Me and her? Trista? They're trying to stop me. How old am I? I don't need babysitters, especially since I didn't ask for any. Damn right I'd have them figured out! Since when did they care about broken hearts and shit like that? Yeah, so I make a point of not getting involved with roadies or people I work with. Well, why can't I change? Maybe I'm on the rebound, but I know how to control myself. Why the hell would they do this in secret? Fine. Secrets. I know their little secret, and my secret is that I know theirs. That's it. This is on. There's no way they're gonna stop me from doing whatever the fuck I please.

Stealthily, he slunk away from the bus, and headed back to his own. He needed a little quiet in order to plan just how he was going to outsmart his two pals.