When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 15

*Mike*
"Mike! What the hell are—" Upon seeing Mike sitting placidly on the couch, Tré shut his mouth in mid-sentence. After a brief pause, he resumed more calmly. "—you doing my good friend?"

Feeling spiteful, Mike lifted his shot glass so Tré could see it. "Doing shooters with Trista," he whispered. "You might want to leave for a while." Roguishly, Mike winked at the drummer.

Tré seemed to miss the obvious hints. "Shooters? I gotta be in on this. Where is she?"

"In the bathroom. Actually, we're kinda done the shooters part of it."

"Yer not done 'til you can't stand up," Tré declared in the accent that he had begun sporadically using since they crossed into Texas. "So, crack that there bottle fer me an' let's git to it."

"Get off the bus, dude." Mike hissed.

"Oh, no I ain't."

"Do I gotta spell it out for you? Tré, I'm tryin' to get some action. Please, fuck off."

"Oooooh," Tré said slowly. "I get it. Well, uh, I guess, um—HOLY SHIT!" he roared.

In less than a second, Billie Joe had bolted onto the bus and stood behind Tré. The guitarist's grim expression faded to confusion as he noticed Mike doing nothing more sinister than relaxing on the couch.

If I didn't already know they were up to something, I'd know now.

"What?" Billie Joe asked Tré. "What's going on?"

"What do you think is going on?" Tré responded through the corner of his mouth.

"I told Tré that I had Trista in the bathroom, and that we were," Mike felt a bit of heat creeping into his cheeks, "going to be having hot, passionate, drunk, sex in a matter of minutes. That is, until he showed up."

"You can't be serious," Billie Joe said.

Mike barely stopped himself from laughing in their faces. He quirked an eyebrow and gave his friends a do-I-look-like-I'm-kidding-around? look. Shocked seconds stretched out while Billie Joe and Tré exchanged glances.

"Nah. I'm just fuckin' with yah." Mike cracked a grin. "Don't you think she would've come out by now? All the noise we've been making?"

"Maybe she's modest," Tré supplied.

"Maybe I'm just onto your little plan," Mike retorted.

He hid a smirk under the action of rubbing his chin. Both Billie Joe and Tré looked even more uneasy than before.

Billie Joe asked innocently, "What little plan?"

"The one to keep me from going after her. Guess what guys, I knew from the first day you planned it."

"But do you know why we'd do that?" Tré inquired.

"Because you're nice guys, who don't want to see me acting stupid. Gotta keep ol' Mike on the leash."

"Man, you're being a dick about this. There's a reason we all decided not to have much to do with the roadies. They got stuff to do, so do we. It doesn't work." Billie Joe explained.

"This from the guy that wound up marrying the original groupie." Mike retorted.

"Besides, have you seen her? I mean, she's gotta be way younger than you." Tré said.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Mike demanded with a touch of a snarl.

Billie Joe crossed his arms. "You guys are from different generations. D'you remember being in grade nine and all the seniors, you know, you just knew they were out of your league? You didn't know why, you just knew. This is like four times worse."

"Four times worse? We're adults, not teenagers looking for the next score." Mike faltered in his outburst for a heartbeat, and then rushed on. "I didn't ask you guys to go order me around and keep me out of trouble. I can deal with whatever comes around." Like a large feline, he narrowed his eyes and glared at his companions.

Once again, a strange look passed between Tré and Billie Joe. The guitarist uneasily shoved his hands into his pockets, leaving his thumbs dangling outside.

Mike worked his jaw and launched another attack. "And what's with the age thing? You," he gestured at Billie Joe, "an' me are the same age." Mike shifted his attention to Tré. "You're only a couple of months younger. Why does that make me old? So, once you hit thirty-two and you aren't married then you should just give up?

"I'm an old fart, who shouldn't even be thinking about shit. Why not take me out an' castrate me? Sorry if I haven't gotten so old that I'm not turned on anymore. Thirty-two dammit!" Angrily, he thumped his fist on his knee. "As soon as you start thinking you're old, you are old. If this is such a big fuckin' thing to you guys, you might as well stop with the touring." Mike held up his hand, fingers curled into grotesque claws. "You'll get arthritis. Put down the guitar and the sticks, and pick up your canes. If I'm too old to be fuckin' dating, then we're all too old to be doing any of this."

"Mike, c'mon," Tré pleaded. "That's not what we meant."

"And what the fuck did you mean?"

Billie Joe's face, which had grown steadily whiter as Mike's tirade progressed, twisted into a snarl. "Quit being an asshole. This is the kind of shit that went on the last time we toured. Stop it. You're in a bitchy mood, and you're lookin' to pick a fight." He jerked a hand out of one of his pockets and stabbed a finger in the direction of the galley. "Go to bed. Stay away from the human race 'til you get over it. If you're gonna act like my kids, I'll treat you like 'em."

Sending me to bed? What is this? Too old to get a girl, but young enough to be sent to bed? I don't fucking think so.

"Uh," Tré spoke up. "In my house, we usually find out why the kid's grumpy and then send them to bed." Both Billie Joe and Tré riveted their attention upon the bassist.

"Well?" Billie Joe demanded.

"Dude, what's the point? You're just gonna bitch at me anyways."

Tré plopped down on the couch and threw an arm around Mike's shoulders. Billie Joe perched on the couch's arm.

"Ah, don't be such a grouch." Annoyingly, Tré pinched Mike's cheek. "You got a friggin' cactus shoved up yer butt or what?" he drawled.

"Fuck off," Mike growled as he swatted the drummer.

"It's about a girl, isn't it?" Billie Joe said.

"Yes it is, yes it is, yes, it, is." Tré bounced up and down on the couch.

"Fine. Yeah it is. I was coming back from takin' a leak and I saw her in the hall. We talked and it didn't take long for me to figure out she was on acid. I figured she'd get fired. She was on a bad trip, real bad. I chased her around for a bit—"

There's some things, like the bathroom, that they don't need to know about.

"—and got a hold on her. She kept telling me—when she was making sense—that she'd never taken anything. Which was a lie, since she was shaking like nuts, babbling, and telling me she was seeing weird shit. I kept askin' her what she'd taken. She told me the only thing was a cup of coffee."

Billie Joe's eyes narrowed. "So? She could be lying so she doesn't get fired."

"Yeah, but part of what sends you off on a bad one is whether or not you're in the right mood." Tré debated. "If she didn't know what was going on, or what to expect, seems like that's a recipe for disaster."

"She didn't get her own coffee. That Nick kid did it. Know him?"

At this little bit of information, Billie Joe and Tré raised their eyebrows in surprise.

"I dumped her off with Keely and went hunting. I tore a strip off Nick and he tore a strip off of me. He said he didn't do it. Everything else says he did."

"So you got in a little bitching with Nick." Billie Joe confirmed.

"Yeah."

"And I betcha he called you old," Tré teased.

Mike remained in the silence of insulted dignity as his friends chuckled.

"Maybe you're getting old." Billie Joe mused. "Lettin' a—what would you call it?"

"Young whippersnapper," Tré twanged.

"—a young whippersnapper beat you around like that."

"I don't think Nick likes you." Tré chimed.

"My heart is broken. Aahahaahaa." Mike sobbed into Billie Joe's side.

"There, there." Tré soothingly patted the bassist's back. "You're fine. You've got bigger and better things to do."

Mike sat up abruptly. "That reminds me. I got an idea for a thing we can do to Knight. Like what she did to you today, but better and wetter."

"Yeah? What?" Tré inquired.

"Next time we stop at a gas station, we're gonna do a little shopping. And that," Mike gestured to the blender on the counter, "is gonna get a workout. But first, we gotta take a rip around town here. I don't think the gas station's going to have everything. I've got a master plan." Mike let out a deep, chest-rumbling, nefarious chuckle. "Muhaaahaahaaha!"

"Okay," Billie Joe shifted so he was more comfortable, "so what is this master plan?"

"We go out and buy the most disgusting-smelling shit we can find. Sardines, sauerkraut, a little whiskey, cabbage, garlic—you get the idea. Then, we stick in all in that blender, liquefy those sons of bitches and make ourselves some wonderfully smelling shakes. I think we have to make... " Mike trailed off to think, "I don't know, six an' a half or seven gallons of it."

"Seven gallons!" Tré squawked. "Christ! We're not trying to drown her! That's a lot of fish. God, whose bus are we doing this on? Gonna stink like a bitch."

"If we wanna move fast, get some quick retaliation, then we should probably mix it up on both buses."

Billie Joe said nothing; his expression was unreadable. Tré, on the other hand, looked caught between ecstatic glee and nausea.

"So we dump it on her in buckets?" Billie Joe asked gingerly.

Mike grinned. "No this is the good part. We don't want any of this on us, so when we get to a gas station—or if we find a couple when we go shopping—we buy some of those huge fuckin' water guns. The ones that are two and a half feet long with the giant backpacks. We'll fill those up with our cocktails."

"And blast her!" Tré chuckled evilly. "This is gonna be good. But, she still did a whole bunch on me. We need more."

"Totally. I figured we could steal a page out of her book. We're going to rig up a room that only she'll go into. Or we'll force her in there, or something. Anyhow, I want to have something so that when the door shuts the whole room lights up. We could steal some of our stage lights—hey, that's how we could trick her into a room—and wire them up with a battery. You know, tape a wire across the top of the door, and just around the edge. Put another one on the frame comin' from the other way. When the door shuts, the wires touch, and the whole thing comes on."

"Lights? That doesn't sound too freaky." Tré frowned.

Yeah. You automatically assume that's all I can come up with.

"Well, they're bright, and some of them are strobes." Mike steepled his fingers and kept his eyes downcast. A grin was threatening to destroy his depressed display. "What if the confetti cannon goes off?"

Billie Joe let out a bark of a laugh. "That'll make her piss her pants!"

"And she'll go running out, and we hose her." Tré bobbed his head excitedly.

"Now here's the last part," Mike flashed a grin at his comrades.

"More?" Billie Joe tapped Mike's head and ruffled his bleached hair. "Looks like there's more brains under that skull than we thought."

"We take her clothes. All of them, so all she has left are the stinking ones she'll be wearing. I was thinking we could do the traditional hang her underwear from someplace so all could see."

Tré nodded again. "Yeah. I think I got a slight idea for that. Anything else?"

"Not from me. My only other plan, to make it bigger, was to pass the hat—as they say—to you and the other guys and get you to each make a littler prank. That way, you know, it'd turn it into the day from hell."

*Nick*
I didn't dose her. I would've remembered doing that. Unless, the spoon? Can it get on your fingers and stay there and then be put in someone's drink?

His fingers, long and unusually unsteady, continued to wrap more insulation around a frayed cord. It was the last that he had to do in order to catch up with his usual backlog. The onslaught of disaster from things not being completed had forced him to quit lounging around and continue working. He had dipped into a little acid at about four that morning, taking just enough to keep him awake. Even though Nick still felt a faint buzz from the drug, he craved a long nap.

That was more than thirteen hours ago. It shouldn't be on my fingers. With more speed than skill, he finished wrapping the cord. I gotta know how she's doing.

Dropping the cord, he strode from the crew truck into the arena. No one gave him a second glance as he searched the building for his occasional companion. Backstage, beside the instrument cases, Nick found Keely and Trista. The front of house engineer was casually adjusting dials on a sound board and keeping as just as indifferent hold on Trista's wrist.

The sight of the younger roadie, fidgeting and occasionally freezing in place, made Nick's guts twist. I didn't do this. I wouldn't do this on purpose. What kind of prick does he think I am? Nick slightly accelerated his stride so he could reach her faster.

At Keely's frosty glare, Nick felt a return sneer cross his face. With no word of acknowledgement, he knelt beside Trista.

"Hey you."

Her eyes flicked in his direction. "You're not dead either. Good."

"Tris, nobody's dead. Listen t'me. Most of what you're seeing or thinkin', it ain't real. It's just the drugs. Someone dosed you."

"Someone?" Keely snorted. "You mean you."

"Keely, d'you got evidence that says I did it?" Keely continued to glare. "No? Well shut the fuck up. Let her go. I'll take care of her."

Keely scowled but released Trista. Immediately, she half-crawled into Nick's lap. Bewildered, Nick shuffled back.

Trista laughed. "You are dead. Where's your boxes?" When he failed to answer, tears welled in her eyes. "I thought you wanted to be friends. So, now you're dead, and you're afraid of me. What for?"

"Nick." Startled, Nick flinched away from Trista and whipped around to face Knight. Cold, unnatural yellow eyes bored into his soul. Her gloves tightened as she flexed her fingers. "What's going on here?"

I didn't think she could look more freaky. But whoa. Those eyes.

Trista twisted away from Nick and looked up at Knight. "Hey. You're smoking. Smoking and misting. Cool." Cheerily, she grinned up at the crew chief.

Instead of demanding a response, Knight hurried over to Trista. "Bugger," Knight snarled. "What the hell did you do?" Despite her harsh tone, she gently smoothed the hair out of Trista's eyes. "Oh Tris. What now?"

"Someone put her on acid. Mike—like the bass player—found her and dropped her off," Keely stated.

Geeze. Could you make it more obvious that you think it's me? Why not just say it? Angrily, Nick waited for a blasting from Knight.

Still resting a hand on Trista, Knight adjusted her head bandana. "And public enemy number one is Nick here." Everyone refused to speak. "Cor," she muttered under her breath. A sigh fluttered her bandana. "I'm willing to bet he's been accused, made to feel like shit, and treated exactly how a criminal should be treated. So," she shifted her eyes to his direction, "I'm just gonna ask you once. Did you give Trista acid?"

Nick clenched his jaws until he heard his teeth creak. "No."

Guilty until innocent. Just fuckin' perfect. If I get fired, I'm gonna find that damn bass player and jam his fuckin' bass up his ass.

"Fine. Nick says he didn't. So, Nick. You're going to take Trista back to the crew truck. Sit her down. Keep her company. As long as she's feeling the acid, you're going to be with her." Knight cocked her head to one side. "You're looking a little useless, so, you get to be babysitter."

Keely made a little noise of protest, but shut her mouth as Knight looked at her. Sternly, she met Nick's eyes. Instead of mistrust or scorn, Nick was taken aback to read I'm giving you a chance. Don't screw this up in her expression.

Not wanting to give Knight time to have second thoughts, Nick gently helped Trista to her feet. He kept a calm face as she wrapped an arm around his waist for support. In quiet grudging thanks, he ducked his head in Knight's direction.

As they walked, Nick slipped into a pattern an old friend had once used upon him.

"What do you see?" he asked softly.

"Water. And it's sloshing around." Firmly, Trista dragged Nick away from the blue sections of the floor.

"What is it really?"

"I, I, I don't know. I'm sorry. I should've known. But you gotta stay away. I don't know if you'll get drowned. I don't know, I don't—"

"Tris. It's just the floor. The floor's blue. It's solid. The drugs are messing with you. Alright?"

They walked through the arena and outside towards the trucks. Trista immediately cringed against Nick. Steadily, he led her forward, into the crew truck. Nick barely noticed the knowing gazes of the other roadies. Cautiously, he sat her down upon her bunk. He stood in the aisle, trying to decide where to sit. In the end, Trista pointed to the far end of her bunk.

"Well, are you gonna sit or what? Sit down an' stay a while?" She cracked a lopsided grin.

"What do you see?"

"A bunch of grey mist and a snake. It's sliding off that bunk. Hangin' there."

"What is it really?"

Trista trembled and shook her head. "I don't want to do this Nick. Don't. Don't."

"It's the bunks. That snake is just a sleeve from a sweater. A lot of what you're seeing is just fake reality. The drugs are messing with you."

On and on they went, Nick repeating the same questions and Trista giving garbled answers. Minutes, and then hours slipped away. The sun went down. Music punctured the arena walls and wafted into the crew truck.

"What do you see?"

"Fireflies. And the sun. They're burning."

"What is it really?"

"Just the lights. I think."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's not real. It's all drugs."

More time slipped by. Nick fought to keep himself from nodding off. Trista shifted occasionally, but her movements were no longer those of a caged animal. The music ended, and the crowd roared one last time. The trucks groaned as the roadies loaded the equipment into them.

"I see a jet. And it's flickering and moving. Shooting. I think it's just a shadow from people outside. The drugs are makin' me think it's not."

Doors slammed and engines thrummed to life. People tromped into Nick and Trista's crew truck and crawled into bed. The lights were put out. Blankets hissed softly as they whisked over bodies. Beds creaked as roadies rolled over. A loud snore threatened to vibrate the bolts out of the truck's wall.

Nick jerked awake as he felt the truck begin to slow down. Blinking slowly, he looked down to see a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Trista was also under the blanket, dozing against his shoulder. As the truck made a turn, Nick instinctively reached out to stop her from tumbling face-first onto the floor. Trista caught herself without his help and looked around wildly.

"You alright?" Nick asked quietly so as to not wake any of the sleeping roadies.

"Not bad," Trista replied. Nick's chest swelled to near-bursting as he received an undersized, soft smile. "Thanks."

Gruffly, Nick cleared his throat and looked away. It took all of his self control to prevent himself from grinning like a lovesick moron. After nervously interlocking his fingers, he looked up to meet her weary hazel eyes.

"Ah, it's nothing. Don't worry about it," he replied brusquely.

Was that too cold? Rude?

Trista nodded slowly and eased out from under the blanket. Not wanting to push his luck, Nick did not protest when she slid to the far end of the bunk and leaned against its support post. Trista's shoulders sagged, and she let out a barely audible sigh. In turn, Nick planted his feet on the floor and cupped his face in his hands.

I am so tired, it should be illegal.

"Hey."

Instantly, Nick jerked his head up. "Yeah?"

Trista's face was so still Nick wondered if she was speaking in her sleep. "If you copped a feel, I'm gonna kick your ass."

Nick grinned. She's actually joking around.

Her eyes opened tiredly and slowly shifted his direction. A cold stare—identical to Knight's—sent his hopes to a violent, brutal death. "And if you you lied," Trista continued, "you can count this as the last time you'll be able to come within ten feet of me."