When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 17

*Nick*

Watching that bag of bones take a pass at Trista was enough to make Nick want to regurgitate the contents of his mainly empty stomach. Even though the bassist stood with his back to Nick, he knew that Mike was obviously trying to lay groundwork. He had his arms crossed and had tilted his head slightly off center. Nick was willing to bet all of his spare change that the expression on Mike's face was one that Trista would find endearing and handsome.

Nick's conscience did nothing to relieve his mental distress. Stalker. What, if you can't have her, then no one can? Back off, Nick. Quit tormenting yourself. Go do something. Quit watching!

Snarling silently, Nick picked up a paper and browsed its front page for the dozenth time.

I'm not stalking. It's not.

Oh really? What is it then? his conscience demanded.

I don't like seeing pricks take advantage of people. It twists them. Nick eyes ceased to focus on the paper as a short, poignant memory played in front of his vision. Twists them a lot.

Is this about her, or is it about you?

No! Nick rolled his eyes at the unbelieving silence from his conscience. Yeah, okay. So? But it's about her too. Want me to just let her get screwed up?

It's her life. Let her be. She's got to make her own mistakes. You're not her hero. She doesn't want you. She doesn't like you hating him.

Fine. I'll continue to hate him, but I just won't let her know.

Pleased with this plan—and refusing to acknowledge his conscience's silent scepticism—Nick folded up the paper and stuck it back in the rack. Thoughtfully, he eyed the shelf of cigarettes behind the cashier. Having his lung capacity violently reduced had frightened Nick into dropping his pack-every-two-days habit. After a set of harsh life changes, Nick smoked rarely. The smokes were looking quite attractive at the moment, something to ease his mind.

What are you thinking? His conscience—which was being a little mouthy today—bellowed. You're going to fuck up yourself over some girl? Really, it's more like you're going to do it 'cause of Mike liking a girl. Want to give him that power? You can't breathe and it'll be because you're too weak to deal with him and not have a smoke.

Feeling that he was losing on all fronts, Nick sighed and crossed his arms. Out of habit, he flicked a glance in Trista's direction. Nick jerked his gaze away as he saw Mike step closer to the girl.

I'm not going to kill him. I'm not, Nick told himself.

A suicidal personality quirk dragged his attention back to the pair. Nick relaxed slightly once he noticed Billie Joe had arrived and stood like he was bolted to Mike's side. The band members exchanged a few words and sauntered out of Nick's view. Nick involuntarily pressed himself closer to the newspapers as Trista headed his way.

A slight grin, wistful, lifted the one corner of her mouth. She was mid-step past Nick before she noticed he stood there. Not wanting to appear as if he was cowering, Nick went on the offensive.

"So?" he asked.

"What?" The grin grew, and Trista's cheeks colored slightly.

"Want to kick my ass yet?"

She cocked her head to one side and her eyes narrowed in a birdlike manner. "Depends on whether or not you did it."

Ignoring the barely disguised question, Nick gestured at her bottle of Coke. "Not into the hot drinks?" he retorted. "I thought all you Brits liked 'a nice spot o' tea'."

"No. You shouldn't assume things. I used to think most Americans were idiots. Turns out, they're not, but you more than make up for the lack." She smiled sweetly. "You and the papers. Can you even read?"

Nick chuckled, a purr that started in the back of his throat and rumbled into his mouth. "Yeah. I can't. So when I was mixing up your drink yesterday, I accidentally grabbed the jar labelled 'Acid'—all places have that nowadays because nobody takes normal cream and sugar anymore—and dumped it in your coffee. Damn those druggies, putting the acid shaker right beside the sugar one!"

Trista pushed past him and headed outside. Like a shadow, Nick followed behind. Trista took five steps down the sidewalk, towards the trucks, and whirled around.

"Did you or didn't you?"

"Well, I just told you," Nick replied.

Trista looked skyward and bit her lip exasperatedly. Nick knew that if he were a cat, his tail would be lashing back and forth with pleasure. She crossed her pale arms—pausing once to swipe the hair from her eyes. Raising an eyebrow, she fixed him with her best no-nonsense stare and waited.

"I'm not going to tell you whether or not I did it," Nick stated. "No matter what I say, you'll find a way to twist it to fit your truth. Besides, you're believing Mike's word over mine. I'd say that you think you know what happened."

"Is this what this is about? Yeah, I trust Mike's word. He's got evidence." She twitched her head to the side, flicking hair from her eyes. "You haven't even said anything."

"Let me put it straight for you." Nick shoved his hands into the pockets of his grungy jeans, hunching up his shoulders. "You want a way to ignore the truth that you suspect. Blaming it on me not telling you works. That's why you're harassing me, so your conscience thinks you're actually doing something to find the answer. Either truth, you're going to be bitchy. If I did do it, I'm evil and you're stupid for not catchin' on right away. If I didn't, you're stupid for thinking I did. Got it?"

Trista's mouth formed into a thin, disapproving line. Her throat convulsed as she swallowed.

Ha, nailed you there, didn't I? Nick thought gleefully.

"What's with the mind games?" she hissed.

"Oh, I get it." Nick smacked his forehead. "I'm smaaaaart now. Being cunning and keepin' quiet and making you all wonder. I'm hoping that you'll eventually think it over, and decide that I'm a good guy. I'm innocent without even lying to anyone."

"You have some serious issues." Trista pursed her lips and closed her eyes briefly. "Is this some sort of twisted pride? You're so insulted that you won't even lower yourself to protest your innocence?"

Nick tried not to show surprise at the accuracy of her questions. Damn that girly intuition shit. He had not even recognized his own motives until Trista dragged them into the light.

"I don't have any pride," he snapped. "What was left of it—" Immediately, Nick clamped his jaws shut on the rest of the sentence. He quickly started again, covering his hesitation. "It—" died the day I met you "—went out the window a long time ago."

"What, when you had your first dumpster pizza?" Trista smirked. "Nice bullshitting. 'Twon't work. Your 'dumpster pizza' is probably just the remains from some party you had one night."

Nick clenched his jaw as her retort plunged deep into his chest. Bleeding from the re-opened soul wound, he growled, "And that's exactly why I won't bother telling you anything. You wouldn't really understand. I'm just a roadie 'cause, I'm not smart enough." He spat the words out, hating the bitter taste they left in his mouth. "Or, not lucky enough t' have someone take me along to play with the rock stars."

Trista's face drained of all color. Her eyes, the only color in her skin, blazed with anger. She curled her fingers into fists, the tendons stood boldly underneath her dirt-and-grease-smudged skin.

"Shut up," her voice shook. "Just shut up. Don't you ever—"

Instead of pacifying her, Nick took the opportunity to ensure that he wounded her as much as she had damaged him. "Assume? Pot calling the kettle black."

"I'm not here for some rebel joyride," Trista snapped. "I'm not in it for the money. I'm here because I need to be. Maybe if I could trust you—"

"Trust?" Fighting with Trista almost felt good. He needed someone that he could bang heads with and not overpower too quickly. "What have I done that ever makes you think I'm not trustable?"

"You won't tell me the bloody truth," Trista pleaded.

"Should I have to?" Nick attempted to keep the anguish of old memories out of his voice. "What makes me less than him?"

*Knight*

Doug was waiting, like a pet dog, at the foot of one of the tour bus's steps. He leaned inside and said something. After a deep cough, the bus's engine rumbled into a full roar.

"Have you seen Felix?" Doug called over the noise.

"Yeah." Knight raised her voice as well. "He's calling a cab. His wife had their kid, a boy."

Doug's thick brown eyebrows came together ferociously. "He can't leave. No. Go get him and get him back on the trucks. He didn't give his two weeks, and we don't have a replacement."

"You knew he would have to leave on short notice when you hired him." Knight barely managed to keep a heated edge from her voice.

"So? Doctors know how to call due dates. He should've been able to give us the two weeks. He stays 'til we get a replacement." He made to head for the truck stop, but Knight stepped in his way. "Move," he grunted.

Knight ignored the command. "If he had a replacement, would he be able to go?"

"Yeah, but we'd need him—or her, I guess—here right now!" He threw a hand towards the bus door. "I need them on the bus so they can get used to Mike. If they don't click we're shit out of luck. There's no way." Doug twisted his watch back and forth on his thick wrist. He shook his head. "Why did I hire him? Just stupid. A stupid decision. I don't need to deal with this."

"I hired him too, knowing as Backline Chief that I would have to find a replacement. And I rarely make stupid decisions. Don't forget that."

There was something in Knight's voice that pulled Doug's attention from his self-abuse. "There's a first time for everything," he muttered to her.

"Felix is the best we have. I didn't want to hire him at first because of this. You overrode me. Remember what was your deciding factor?" Knight hated herself as soon as the words left her mouth, but she had no alternative.

Doug frowned, and then his expression smoothed. "Fine." He looked over at Knight, pleased with himself. "He can go. And you—" The semi-pleased expression disappeared in indecision. "Uh, I think, you better keep an eye on your roadies."

Knight turned around to see Nick and Trista, scant inches apart, glaring at each other. Nick took a step back, bridling in annoyance. He spoke vehemently, gesturing wildly with his hands. Though borderline rage hummed through his wiry frame, his voice was soft enough that Knight could not make out what he was saying.

After what must have been his trump card, he jammed his hands into his pockets. Trista shook her head and started to walk away. Nick lunged for and caught her arm. Immediately, Trista threw up her head and raised her free hand.

"Trista! Nick! Stop it!" Knight barked. "You get your bloody asses back on the truck—" she slashed her arm towards the trucks, "—or I'm gonna tie you to the back and let you drag all the way to Duluth!"

Both roadies' heads swivelled towards Knight, then back towards each other. Nick seized Trista's raised hand and brought it down to her side. Coldly, she jerked her hands away and leaned in towards him. Nick refused to move.

Fearing that Nick would soon have his nose bitten off, Knight shook her head. "Nick, Tris, you're both on guard duty, two t' four!"

At this latest threat, Nick and Trista sprang apart.

"Are you sure that they can work together?" Doug asked.

Knight scowled to herself. "They're going to have to learn. Get it out of their system."

"Fine," Doug growled. "But if the scrappin' interferes with show, I'll fire both their asses, no ifs ands or buts."

*Billie Joe*

"We have got to figure this out, quick," Billie Joe sighed and shifted in his booth seat.

Tré, sprawled on the couch, craned his neck around so he could look at Billie Joe from an upside down view. "I've had enough of this creepin' around. Why not just tell him?"

"Because. It doesn't seem like a good idea," Billie Joe replied lamely.

He clucked to himself and looked out the window of the bus. The road's dashed yellow center line flashed by and blurred into one unbroken segment. Cars flicked by, nothing more than a brief streak of color.

Tré rolled his eyes. "If we just keep pissin' around, we're never going to find anything out." He adjusted his position. "I'm thinkin' we should talk t' her. She won't leave, not without the kid. And she won't leave without a hissy fit."

"No." Billie Joe leaned his head against the seat. "We can't risk her leaving period."

Tré sighed, rolled off the black cloth couch, and came to sit across from Billie Joe. The drummer leaned on the table, curling his strong fingers into a fist.

"We have to do something," Tré reiterated. "We gotta. Time's gonna run out on us. You said we'd have her figured by the time we got back to Cali."

"If you're gonna get your panties in a knot—"

"Thong, not panties," Tré corrected with a cheeky grin.

"—then think up your own idea."

"I did already, you shot it down," Tré pointed out.

"Ah, fuck you," Billie Joe sighed, stretching out his arms.

"No, fuck you," Tré grumbled.

"Fuck yourself," Billie Joe shot.

Tré paused, staring down at his fingers as they walked along the table's pattern. "We could ask Doug about her."

"No, we can't. That's bringing in another person," Billie Joe frowned bitterly.

Rock an' a hard place.

"Fuck it man," Tré lifted his fingers so his palms were facing upwards in question, "we have to do something."

Billie Joe dropped his head into his hands. "I know, I know, I know. I. Know," he mumbled. After a short pause, he sighed and lifted his head. "I don't know, I don't have any ideas. We can't ask anyone for information."

"Trista?" Tré suggested.

"No. Knight'll be watchin' her," Billie Joe groaned. "She'll get suspicious."

"Well, Christ, Billie! How the fuck are we supposed to do anything?" Tré snarled. "How long before Mike does something... ." Tré shook his head; a small shudder ran through him.

Billie Joe slapped his hand down on the desk, making Tré jump. "We're fucked. I don't know we can do this. Mike's onto us, and he's pissed. We can't even tell him why. It's pissing him off since he thinks we're just fucking around."

Tré tapped his fingers on the table. "I can stop him. I can distract him, maybe."

Billie Joe's guts twisted until he was glad he had not had a chance to eat breakfast. "No. You're not doing that. No way."

Tré's turquoise eyes, normally bright and dancing, were unusually level. "Do you see anything else we can do?"

"Don't. It's stupid," Billie Joe protested weakly.

"I'm not smart," Tré offered up a smile that made Billie Joe's stomach churn. "I'll be fine."

*Knight*

Damn it. Why didn't I pick up some aspirin? Hair dye, but not aspirin. What the hell was I thinking?

Lying on her back on her bunk, Knight stifled a moan and threw her arm over her eyes. Agony pulsed along the side of her face, and then stabbed deep into her temple. The rattling of the truck coaxed the discomfort into burrowing down to the roots of Knight's teeth.

Even with her eyes closed, Knight sensed her vision as it began to narrow. It was a similar effect to rising up too quickly after lying down. Desperately, Knight opened her eyes and lifted her arm. Blackness tinted the edge of her vision; it crept and grew towards the center of her sight.

Bugger. Not now. Not at all would be good.

As her view of the truck's roof grew dimmer, silvery grey tendrils swirled and darted in amongst the black. They moved so quickly that Knight had the feeling she was watching some sort of odd television static.

Gradually, the pain magnified until it forced Knight to shut and cover her eyes again. The static raced over the inside of her eyelids, flaring with each increasingly severe throb of pain. A familiar sensation of dizziness preceded Knight's vision turning to complete darkness, with only the faintest sparks of silver.

Just as she was about consider the fact that she was about to become blind, a searing bolt of pain raced down Knight's face. Mercilessly, it plunged into her brain. Knight bit her lip and rolled into the fetal position. Another attack of pain forced out a whimper from her tightly pressed lips. Tears leaked down her face, dampening her bandana. Darkness—or was it light?—exploded over Knight's vision, obliterating her senses.

*Mike*

The bus rolled. He was thrown off of his bunk and hit the floor. The world shifted, and he was back in a car. It jerked sideways with enough force to slam his head into the window. Even as his eyes instinctively closed for impact, Mike could see the way the glass splintered in a spider web formation.

The car slid along, screeching and screaming. Someone else—the driver—was in the car with him. They were flung across the seat, colliding into Mike. Some force, huge and malignant, was pushing the car forward, trying to increase the damage. The force was not satisfied with death; it wanted suffering. Wild rage surged in Mike's chest.

It's not fair! NO!

Everything jerked to a halt. The car remained upright. The force hissed out a breath, and remained nearby. Mike writhed against his seat belt. Tré slumped over the steering wheel. Without a shadow of a doubt, Mike knew the drummer had died upon impact.

Stifling a sob, Mike turned to look in the backseat. Billie Joe, with a shard of glass in his chest, was dying slowly. Tears ran down his face, streaking his eyeliner. His green eyes were open wide with fear.

Mike twisted out of his belt—the crash had severed it—and reached back to help Billie Joe. Instead of pulling out the shard, Mike accidentally shoved it deeper. Billie Joe let out a heart stopping cry of pure pain and shoved Mike away.

Mike retreated to his seat. Only then was he aware of the blood in his mouth. It was salty, metallic, and bitter. It ran down the corner of his mouth. Mike tried to swipe it away, but his arm would not move. Again, Mike tried to force his left hand to rise to his mouth. It would not move. His fingering hand would not move.

Panic set in; cold fear numbed his guts. Closing his eyes, Mike used his good hand and ran it down his arm. Shoulder to elbow, he could feel his fingers. From elbow to wrist, there was only tingling sensation. Wrist to fingertips—nothing.

I'm paralyzed, Mike thought with rising hysteria. I can't play anymore!

He looked around the car. The windows were full of a grey mist. He could not see out. Mouth dry, Mike's gaze darted between the bodies of his two band mates. Dread settled on his shoulders with the weight of a stone gargoyle.

I did this.

The scene shifted. Mike was lying down, somewhere confined. He looked upwards but there was nothing but a foggy whiteness. He sensed grief, but it was not exclusive to him. Unlike the malicious force, this had the feeling of many. There were people, somewhere that he could not see, in mourning.

Mike had the sensation of being lowered. A lid came from nowhere and shut out his light. He was in a coffin. The presences were burying him. They were burying him and he was still alive. Amongst the grief and his own horror, the force returned, ghosting over his body. Even though it was invisible, Mike knew that it smiled.

It smiled as it whispered along his legs, on the outside, tracing over until it just barely touched his inner thigh. It smiled as it continued upwards, dragging soft tendrils, like fingers, over his waist and up to his chest. It smiled as it felt his heart thundering under his breastbone. It smiled as it gently traced the bones of his cheeks. It smiled as it pressed its lips to his and promised Mike a swift, merciful death.

"NO!" Mike yelled.

He thrust his fist upward, determined to break the lid and escape the creature. His fist connected with real wood, and real pain lanced through his knuckles. His eyes snapped open, seeing wood overhead. A fist-shaped area of splinters and cracks marred the roof of his bunk. Throwing his head to the side, Mike let out a breath as he recognized the hall of the galley.

"God," he muttered.

Looking down, he noticed his left arm was trapped in a tangle of his sheets. The knuckles were raw and bloody. Nervously, Mike licked his lips, tasting the blood. He must have gnawed his knuckles before he trapped himself in the sheets.

No more mid-morning naps.

Letting out another grateful sigh, Mike dropped his head back down to the pillow. A shudder ran though him as he recalled bits and fragments of the horrific dream. Trying to soothe himself, he ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

How long's it been? he asked himself. Mike sighed as he tried to remember the last time he experienced a variation of this typical nightmare. It was about Warning, wasn't it? That's a while. You're due for one. Now it's over. It was just a quirk, nothing else.

Alternately rubbing his bruised knuckles, Mike stared up at the impressive damage in the bunk's roof. A slight grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he pondered just how hard he could hit if he had been fully awake.

Not bad at all.

He started to chuckle softly to himself, but his knuckles—adrenaline did not last long—began to smart painfully. Damn these tiny bunks. They are like fucking coffins. He glared at the roof as he resumed massaging knuckles.