When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 14

Mike

"Here's what I'm thinking, something wet, something slimy, something flammable. Something that's going to be hard to clean up. Something along the lines of a little public display. Like what she did—" Tré paused and glared over his cymbals. "YOU!" he barked.

"What?" Knight, continuing on her stroll backstage, replied indifferently.

"I'm gonna watch you like a hawk! A hawk! Got it? All. The. Time. Baby." Violently, he jabbed a finger at his eyes, nearly poking them out, and then pointed them towards the roadie. "All the fucking time!" He continued to make the rabid gesture until she moved out of sight. "I'm watching you!" he screeched.

"Are we a little bit worked up there, Tré m'boy?" Mike teased in a countrified version of Knight's accent.

Tré clenched his jaw, closed his eyes and sucked in a slow breath. "There's something about her that just grates on my nerves."

"Couldn't be the fact that she's getting the better of you?" Billie Joe asked innocently.

Tré's eyes flew open, sparking angrily. "No!" He cleared his throat and repeated calmly, "No. I'm just—I wanna rock an' roll! Now. Come on! Let's do this." Gripping his sticks, he anxiously wobbled back and forth on his throne.

"Billie, Mike," Keely called. "Why don't you guys do your parts while Tiny gets Tré all spick an' span?"

About to return to his position, Mike caught a glance of Knight returning to the stage. In her hand, she held a rag. As Tiny helped Tré reset the cymbals, Knight cleaned off the hihat. She was so silent that she completed her job and left before Tré even realized she had arrived.

Mike let his fingers rampage over the neck of his bass, tearing out a medley of riffs. So, this is what happens when you prank the guy you're working for. You got to clean up your own mess. That means, all we have to do is trash our own stuff when we get up to something. Then, she's got to deal with it. For the remainder of sound check, Mike's mind slowly carved out the outlines of a master plan.

After his part in sound check was complete, he was still mulling over a scheme. Absently, he hung up his bass and sauntered back to the change room with Ronnie and the Jasons. Tré normally finished sound check at the same time as Mike, but the prank had made for a late start. Billie Joe remained on the stage with more guitars to adjust. They would most likely finish together.

It needs to be better.

Tré had a knack for putting a perfect finishing twist on any venture, turning it from average to explosive. With his ability to conceptualize, Billie Joe was a brilliant general. Mike's strength lay more in creating the groundwork. Regardless, Mike wanted to create a better prank, rather than just follow his traditional role.

We're like Scooby Doo. We always do the same things. 'Let's split up. Scooby and Shaggy go this way. Mike do this. Tré do that. Billie go there.'

At the dressing room, Mike did not follow the others inside. "Nature calls," he explained.

"Don't fall in," Jason White cautioned.

"I'll try not to."

Thoughtfully biting his lip, Mike continued down the hall and into the bathroom. Something slimy. Something that'll make her scream. She doesn't seem like the type to scream over worms or bugs. There has to be something that'll at least piss her off.

Bladder empty, Mike leaned over the sink and cranked the tap's handle. High pressured water shot out, rebounded off of the sink bowl, and splattered everywhere. Quickly, Mike turned the handle until the water was no more than a trickle. Despite being soaking wet, the bassist grinned as he finished washing his hands.

Nobody likes getting soaking wet. Pleased that he had come up with the last piece to his plan, Mike winked at his reflection. The idea was not just good; it was excellent. It was so good that he wondered if there was even any room for improvement by his friends. There's always ways to make it better. But, damn, this is great.

Mike whistled to himself as he left the bathroom and headed for the dressing room. He intended to wait and pitch his idea to everyone when Billie Joe and Tré returned from sound check.

Wonder what they'll come up with? This has got to be huge. Oh, wait. Everyone should give a little to the big prank, you know, one idea. Then, everybody makes up one little one and Tré executes 'em.

A grin lifted the corner of his mouth as he recognized a figure darting through the hall.

No Billie and no Tré. Ask and you shall receive.

"Hey!"

Like his call was a leash, Trista jerked to a halt. She took a half step back, wobbled, and steadied herself against the wall. Instead of standing upright, she clung to the wall and looked over her shoulder at him.

"Are you alright?"

A shaky grin worked its way onto her face. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the wall. "No. I can't—there's—it's... ."

Stepping closer, Mike saw the beads of sweat running down her sickly-pale face. She cringed as he approached, then she briefly pawed at the wall. "It's moving. See?"

"Trista, what's the matter?" Mike commanded. He recognized her behaviour, but he would not confront her about it unless he was absolutely certain.

She darted a glance his way, and cowered even more. "Your arm's bleeding. It smells like rot and—it's just bad. Go away. Please. Going too fast, there are streaks all over. I need to stop." Whimpering, she slunk down to the patterned floor. "Too fast! Everything's a blur." Trista glanced up at him; demons filled her hazel eyes. "Blue blood and a blue collar. That means you're dead. Only the dead don't go too fast, right? Right?"

Mike's mind raced. The blood she was seeing had to be his water tattoo. The blurring, the colour smells, the walls moving, were all things he had experienced on acid trips. The morbid perversion of her sight, and her terror, meant that she was caught in the iron jaws of a very bad trip.

Knowing that anything he did might be interpreted much differently, Mike knelt and cautiously grabbed Trista's shoulder. "Trista."

She bit back a scream and tried to scuttle away. "Don't touch me. I'm not dead. Gonna stay."

Okay, so she didn't scream. She stopped it. That's a little hope.

"Hey. You're not dead," he spoke softly. "C'mon. Listen to me. You got to pay attention. How many times have you done acid? How much did you take?"

Even in her haze, her face emptied with shock. "Acid? No. Never." Trista shook her head back and forth repeatedly. "Never, never, never, not at all."

"You're not lying?"

Trista laughed bitterly. "Lie? No. You're talking to me, just fine, saying it's okay. Dripping all over the place." She jerked her feet back so they were away from the blue tiles of the floor's pattern. "A flood. Look at it. A flood of puddles."

Perhaps he had to approach this from a different angle. "What did you eat last? Did you eat anything?"

"No. Nothing—" Her face took on an olive tinge and she bolted, knocking Mike off balance. After regaining equilibrium, the bassist shot to his feet and gave chase.

Trista was a great deal faster than he, despite her occasional collisions with the corridor's walls. Mike jerked to a halt as she bolted into the bathroom. Almost immediately, there was the sound of retching. Mike winced and tried to shut his ears.

What am I doing? This is stupid. I don't know her; she doesn't need my help. I don't need to be wasting my time. I should just go get one of the roadies. This is their problem.

"You okay?" he called quietly, not wanting to bring the other band members' attention to himself.

Trista made no response.

Don't do this Mike. Stay out of it. Mike berated himself as he walked into the bathroom. Why do I do stupid things like this?

Trista was leaning over the sink, clothes wet, face recently splashed with water, and staring wildly at her reflection. "I had some coffee. A little while ago. Maybe it's a long while for you."

"Where?"

She did not pull her gaze from the mirror. "By the bus, which is...our...gateway."

"Did you get your coffee, or who gave it to you?"

Without warning, she sprang at him and threw her arms around his neck. Mike's hands instinctively slid to her waist, keeping them decently apart. Her body trembled so hard that it felt like it was about to shatter under his hands.

"Don't move. You're the only thing that doesn't move." With a whimper that set his blood to coursing, she leaned against him. "I'm falling apart. It's like I'm dissolving and I can't stop it." Her hands slid to his shoulders, holding hard enough that her nails pricked his skin.

Fighting off great temptation, Mike moved his hands up to her shoulders and gently pressed Trista into stepping back. Ducking his head, he locked her sight with his own. "You're not going to dissolve. It's all in your head, all right? It's just the drug."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I didn't mean to piss you off. I'm not scared. I'll just go." Despite her words, she remained in his hold. "I'm dead. In so much shit. I'm gonna get fired. Nobody's home. They left me, like they do, but they're not home. I'm gonna go back and it'll be empty. Someone else'll be there." Trista's eyes became unfocused; she stared past Mike. "Boxes. It all comes down to boxes. I don't want the boxes." Reflexively, her hands clenched and unclenched on his shoulders.

"I'll walk you back to whoever." Mike was surprised at the stiffness in his voice. "You shouldn't be tripping by yourself."

"Nick," she mumbled.

"What?"

"You sound like Nick. Bloody mother hen. Makin' sure I eat and all that."

An image of the mysterious young man, eavesdropping behind the curtains, flashed into Mike's mind. "Did he give you something to eat today? Or drink?"

"Whoa. It's all going...whoa." Trista clenched her jaw and closed her eyes. "Too much colour, I'm gonna puke."

"No, you're not. Answer me."

"Yeah. Just some coffee." Trista's shakes stopped, and she jerked her hands away from him. "We shouldn't be here. I'll get fired. It's wrong." She eyed him in a sidelong manner. "Or is it?"

Not liking where this was going, Mike changed his hold from her shoulders to one hand loosely gripping her wrist. "No. It's wrong. You were right the first time. So follow me."

She's a fuckin' train wreck.

He had no desire to quibble with Billie or Tré, and odds were that they would soon be coming through the concert area door. Consequently, Mike stealthily led Trista down the hall and through the secondary backstage door. As they walked behind a tall curtain, Mike felt displeasure begin writhing in his chest. None of the roadies dared make a comment upon seeing his stern expression. By the time he found Keely, he was struggling to remain on the civilized side of intense anger.

"What do you know anything about acid trips?" he demanded.

Keely shook her head as she slowly turned knobs on an effects board. "Not really. Nothin' more than bare bones. Never been on one." Her tone, unlike her demeanour, quickly revealed her curiosity.

Mike released his hold on Trista's wrist. Shortly, he commanded, "She's on a bad acid trip. Keep an eye on her, don't let her do anything stupid. Talk to her. She's scared. If she trusts you, she'll listen. If she won't, find someone to that she will listen to. I don't know what you guys have for a schedule, but she might be like this for another eleven hours or something. She shouldn't be left alone."

Keely nodded solemnly and put a restraining hand on Trista's shoulder. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"Where would I find Nick?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to find him." Mike's irritated expression required no further words.

Keely's sunny features grew severe. "He should be around the crew trucks." She threw a glance around the backstage area. "Don't think he's around here. Want him t' know you're looking for him?"

"No. I'll find him." Striding in a predatory manner, Mike headed for the trucks.

Once outside, he positioned himself in an inconspicuous corner. Arms crossed, he watched malignantly as the roadies wove through and around the trucks. With great effort he managed to stop himself from screaming at those who gave him inquiring looks.

A roadie, about Mike's height, but several years younger, stepped out of the shadows of one truck's interior. Head down, he strode towards the door of the arena. Like a striking snake, Mike intercepted him.

"What the fuck did you put in Trista's coffee?"

Nick's eyebrows lifted fractionally, and then his dark brown eyes narrowed. "A spoon," he retorted.

"Don't fuck around here. Someone dosed her with acid. I'm kinda thinkin' that someone was you."

"Why don't you just fuck off, rock star?" Nick curled his lip. "Quit trying to be the hero and the detective. I didn't stick nothing in her drink. That kind of shit lands you in the slammer. But you'd know all about that, right?"

"Listen to me, you little bastard, she went on a bad acid trip. Do you even know what happens? That kind of stuff can come back to bite you. We're talking a one-way ticket to the mental." Mike curled his fists to stop himself from smashing Nick's thin-bladed nose. "You don't fuck around with someone else. I couldn't really give two fucks if you screw yourself up, don't take her along with you."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Are you deaf from all those amplifiers? I didn't do it," he said in disgust. "I know what acid does to people who aren't expecting it."

"Then who did?" Mike demanded.

Nick ignored him. "So, how long was it before she came running to you?" he sneered. "Did you take advantage of her not being herself? C'mon old man, half the show knows you wanna take her out back."

"Only someone with major problems would go after someone on acid. A creep would dose her and then expect to score. Maybe half the show knows 'bout me, but all of the show knows about you stalking her. You're the kind of freak they shut up and don't let out near children."

"I'm trying to protect her!" Nick snapped.

Mike felt a sarcastic smile lift his features. "Some job you're doing."

"Okay asshole," Nick crossed his arms, "do you want a fight? You're shitting on me for keepin' an eye out for her, but you're pissed 'cause I'm not good enough." He stepped towards the bassist in a controlled lunge. "Newsflash. I don't do anything for anyone. I work for myself first. So, if you've got a problem with what Trista gets up to, hire a damn security guard. I'm sure she'll thank you for it."

"This isn't about just Trista. What's to stop you from dosing everyone else?"

"And who said that I did it? Why would I do it in the first place? And if I did, why do you automatically assume that I did it to hurt her?"

"Hmm, let's see." Mike tapped his forehead forcefully. "Because no dumb shit in their right mind would try to make friends by sending them on an unwanted acid trip!"

"Fine!" Nick spread his arms defensively. "Whatever."

He dropped his tattooed limbs to his sides and looked away in resignation. Before Mike could speak, Nick abruptly returned his gaze to the bassist. Defiance and rage seethed in the roadie's eyes.

"You've gotta be one of the biggest fuckin' hypocrites I've ever met. What made you decide that it was me, hunh? Is it because I look like a druggie? C'mon. Look at you. Don't tell me that you've never had someone point the finger at you for something you didn't do, just 'cause you look the part.

"Yeah, sometimes it's cool, you know, going into a shop and having the people watch you t' make sure you don't steal anything. They can tell you don't play nice. The rest of the time, it's a pain in the fucking ass. You remember. But that doesn't matter," his voice sharpened to a bitter edge, "because I'm asshole, and I deserve it. I'm used it to it. Go on being a little martyr for all your little fans. Believe what you fucking want about me. I don't give a shit." He threw up his hands in disgust, making sure that one particular finger was prominent, before storming off.

Caught in a hideously bad mood, Mike stalked over to the tour bus and climbed inside. He realized slamming the door seemed infantile, and caught it before it smashed into its frame. Snagging a whiskey bottle from the kitchen table, he poured himself a shot. Downing it, he plunked down on the comfortable couch.

I should've stayed out of this. I don't even know her. Why? Why am I being so stupid? He rotated the glass with his fingers. It's 'cause Tré and Billie want to stop me. I'm just out to prove they can't. I mean, it wasn't like I'd actually sleep with her, but they went insanely protective. And now, he paused his thought and stared at the empty glass. Yeah. I wanna do it now. But, she probably trusts me. I don't want to give Nick another reason for being defensive. Why couldn't I have met Trista on the street or a bar or something?

Mike briefly contemplated taking another drink, but decided against it. Instead, he went back to his bunk and rummaged in his clothing. After a few minutes, and a few muttered curses, he found his cell phone.

Not bothering to check the time difference—if there even was one—Mike punched in his girlfriend's phone number. The phone rang, and rang, and rang, but no one answered.

She's got call display. If she's home, she ain't picking up, Mike thought sourly. C'mon Britt, pick up. Ple—

"Hey, this is Brittney, I'm not around so, leave a message after the beep."

Mike let out a soft sigh as the message sounded. To leave a message, or not to leave a message? That is the question.

"Brittney, it's me. Mike. I was calling to talk to you, but since you're not at home, or not answering this is pointless. So, uh, call me whenever. Bye."

Where are we now? Finished? Separated? Mike scowled and shut off the phone. I'm part of this too. I should get to decide some things. He plunked himself back down on the well-stuffed couch. Thoughtfully, he picked up the shot glass. Maybe I should have another one.

A loud thump sounded outside the bus, causing Mike to flinch with temporary fright. The thump came again, this time followed immediately by the hiss and crack of the door opening. From where Mike sat, the back of the table's booth seat limited his view to the top eighth of the door. He was not able to see anyone that entered, despite a little neck craning, until they were actually inside the bus.

With a thud, the door collided with the outside of the bus. Sunlight spilled up the stairs. Rebounding, the door swung forward and clunked shut. A moan of protest issued from the door as someone immediately wrenched it open again. Feet clomped hurriedly up the steps.