When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 19

*Tré*

"Okay, I need to talk to you," Tré stuck his hands in his pockets and shifted nervously.

Keely raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips almost to the point of a pout. Simultaneously, a tiny smile curved onto her face. Her eyes dropped back to her sound board. She adjusted a few sliders and then hit a button. The lights on the panel went dark. Keely pulled her headphones off so they sat on her shoulders before replying to Tré.

"Oh really? Why don't you go sit somewhere comfortable, I'll sit on your lap and we'll chat about whatever pops up?"

Tré chuckled appreciatively. "That's the first time I've heard a girl use that one." He crossed his arms. "How about this one? I think I better sit down, because I'm falling in love with you."

"Ah, that's cheesy," Keely laughed. "Sweet, but cheesy." She ducked her head slightly, and Tré could see she was swallowing back more laughter. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

Tré was so busy staring at her that he had to shake his head to clear his mind. "Uh what? Oh, you want to know—oh yeah. I need you to help me, you know, talk to the techs. We're all going to move our stuff, and it's going to go missing," he winked, "if you know what I mean. We want Knight to go looking for it."

"You want me to turn against Knight?" Keely asked slowly.

"No," Tré corrected. "I want you to turn the backline against their Chief. Is that not alright with you?"

Keely's cheery expression faded greatly. "I don't know. I don't know if I can do that to her. You guys have no idea what she's been through. I mean, with Trista and all that, that's just the tip of the, uh, proverbial iceberg."

"She won't know you did it. And it was her idea to start all of this, she knows what she's getting into," Tré cajoled.

Well, she might not. If she's not Wren. But she is, I know it.

Keely sighed and crossed her arms. "I'll cut you a deal. If I run into any of the guys, I'll tell them. I won't go looking for them. Hey, d'you know Mike's got no tech?"

"No tech?" Tré repeated in confusion. "Where'd Felix go?"

"His wife had their kid. He left at our last stop," Keely said.

"And there's no replacement?" Tré asked.

"I haven't seen anyone new. We've got a whole day, so I'm not too worried." Keely shrugged.

"Talk about keepin' us in the dark," Tré muttered.

"No, technically, I shouldn't know either. You know what happens when you get a hundred people that all live together." Keely grinned. "Gossip. How the hell do you think we keep the tires on your bus inflated? All the hot air from the windbags."

"Really?" Tré retorted. "I thought Doug alone could do that."

Keely laughed. "Ah, play nice, drummer boy."

"I don't like to play nice. Nice guys finish last." He smiled wryly. "Uh, so, could you point in the direction of the pyro guy? Shit, what's his name? Flamey? Charcoal? Ash?"

"Smokes," Keely supplied.

"Smokes! Yeah, that's it." Tré nodded to himself. "Okay, so show me to him."

Keely eyed Tré uneasily, and worked her jaw. She stared out towards the stage ahead. "The last time I saw Smokes, he was doing some wiring with the riggers."

Oh, I get it. She's not going to help me find him either. Tré was tempted to semi-playfully harass Keely for her lack of cooperation. Geeze, they're just all in this together.

"How's your head?" Keely asked cautiously, looking back to him.

"My head?" Tré frowned. "Why?"

Keely smiled and gently tapped him on the temple. "I think that answers that question. Remember? You ran slap-bang into a wall. Then, I guess there was that fall when you came from heaven." Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"I only came down so I could catch you when you arrived," Tré replied sweetly. "Oh, that wall thing. That, was completely intentional. Completely," Tré assured her.

"Nothing like a little male bravado," Keely replied. "Aw well, it's so much better when you come to us for a kiss to make things better."

A wild impulse seized Tré. Without even thinking, he stepped up to Keely and pecked her on the cheek. Keely chuckled, a soft sound that reminded Tré of the last echoes of a ride cymbal.

"I'll take that one, just in case," he said quietly.

Keely said nothing, and put her headphones back over her ears. Tré walked away and forced himself not to look back until he was on the stage. When he did, Keely was staring right at him. They both immediately looked away once they met eyes. Tré smiled to himself as his cheeks heated, and continued on his search for Smokes.


*Knight*

Consciousness came back much more slowly than it had left. At first, it was only faint senses; the feel of her gloves on her hands, the muted sound of feet leaving the truck, the feeling that it was indeed daylight outside. Eventually, Knight gathered enough strength to open her eyes and sit up.

Blood rushed into her head, sending a bright flash of light across her eyes. Fear shattered into her chest, sending of shards of panic into her throat. Knight fought back her instinctive terror as her vision cleared instantly.

Fiercely, she curled her gloved hands into her sheet. This was just one more challenge in an already difficult day. She had dealt with much worse; she could deal with this. Meticulously, Knight went over the things she had to do that day. All of them were easily completed. She had done them hundreds of times before.

Yeah, but not like this. Not like this. I don't want to do this. Knight bit her lip as she felt a tear burn at the corner of her eye. This is dumb. There's no point in crying over it. This isn't worth crying over!

As she had taught herself to do, Knight focused on her tears and her weakness for almost letting them fall. This is not worth crying over! You're being pathetic. Self-loathing sprang up and viciously trampled her oncoming despair. The misery retreated, leaving nothing but tepid anger.

Knight fed off of her bad temper, using it to get up and out of bed. Energy swamped limbs that had none. Using anger as a mental reserve was a trick Knight had learned long ago. Back then, Knight's problems had been a great deal less trivial than going to work.

At the reminder, Knight swung her legs over the bed and dropped off the bunk to the floor. The interior of the crew truck was deserted. No one saw as she swayed and gripped onto the post of the bunk below her own. Involuntarily, Knight's grip intensified beyond what she needed to stand up straight.

There laid the problem with running off of anger instead of her energy. Violence tainted every little movement. Knight felt like she was distantly connected to herself, controlling her body like she would control a toy by remote.

With a slow and deliberate tread, Knight walked off of the crew truck. Her scars were smarting, a consequence of passing out on her bad side. Every little twinge was another drop of energy added to her blood.

She was aware of everything going on, both herself and everyone around. Knowing that she was not needed right away by her crew, and also aware that she was not the best company at the present time, Knight went inside the arena. She kept her black gloves in her pockets at all times, even if it meant waiting for someone to come along and open the door.

Once inside the arena, Knight made her way to the roadies' common room. A table was set up, with a buffet-type lunch upon it. Knight waited in a corner until the roadies at the table moved on, and then she wandered over to it. As usual, she snagged just a little food, barely enough to cover the Styrofoam plate. Silently she sat down on a wooden folding chair.

Not really wanting to eat, but knowing she should, Knight dutifully ate her cheese chunks and fruit. She tried holding the plate in her hand, but set it on her knees as she discovered her hand would not stay steady.

The other roadies were wise to her ways; either that or they could sense she was not quite herself. The majority of them left the room to go eat somewhere else. Knight was able to eat in peace, until Trista arrived in the room. In truth, the peace continued when Trista entered, it was Nick who followed on her heels that upset the tranquility.

"Hey, who's gonna be Mike's new tech?" he asked Knight.

Knight ignored him, and popped a grapefruit slice under her bandana and into her mouth.

"Whatever," Nick snorted. "Hard of hearing?" he challenged.

Deliberately, Knight tossed her plate into the garbage can. She did not rise, nor even look in Nick's direction. She heard Trista give him a shove in the chest.

"Nick, shut your damn mouth, or I'll shut it for you," Trista growled.

"Why don't you try and make me?" Out of the corner of her eye, Knight saw Nick try to touch Trista's shoulder.

Before the young roadie's fingers had brushed the fabric of Trista's shirt, Knight had hold of Nick. Her gloved fingers of one hand curled around his throat, while her other hand twisted his wrist in a way that she knew would make his muscles scream. Nick clenched his jaws together and his Adam's apple shifted under Knight's fingers.

Silently, Knight bored her gaze into Nick's eyes. He did not struggle, but went instantly limp. A judging hush overcame the fairly empty room. Knight kept staring at him, struggling to keep her hold from increasing in strength.

"I've given you a chance, but nothing else. You're not a prick, so quit acting like one. This façade is not fooling anyone. Stop it." Her words were stony and clipped.

Nick began to squirm and spurt half-formed insults and profanities. Knight shook him like a dog worrying its prey. She saw his hand go for his pocket. In a heart beat, Knight changed her grip on Nick.

Her hand on his wrist slithered into her pocket and withdrew her butterfly knife. A twitch of the wrist, the blade unfolded from its sheath, and the sheath became the handle. No longer holding Nick's wrist, she now held his throat with her one hand and her own knife just above her fingers.

"I've got you," she stated.

She waited coldly for the press of his blade against her belly. Instead, she felt his shoulder muscles shift as he put his hand back down against his side. Fear, and instinctive rage, flickered in his brown eyes. He leaned his head back. Whether he was trying to avoid the knife or submissively giving her better access at his neck, Knight could not tell.

"You're stupid." Knight frowned, still expecting a quick stab from Nick. "You're one of mine. You know you don't assume anything."

"I've had enough of the lecture," Nick said shortly.

"Want to end it?" Knight was not referring to the lecture alone.

A bitter smile crossed Nick's face. "Where have you been all my life?"

"Get over it, Saint," Knight hissed mockingly. "There's bigger problems out here than yours." She shoved him away by the throat.

Nick stumbled back, shoving his knife back into his pocket. His spiteful glower dissolved as he looked over Knight's shoulder. Even though Knight knew instinctively why he now looked like a shamed puppy, she turned to see for herself.

Trista was staring at both Nick and Knight with an expression close to pure horror. Her mouth hung open; her eyes stared. She leaned back as if she wanted to run but her feet were glued to the ground. All of Knight's cold rage evaporated.

"Tris, I'm sorry, I didn't even think," she began miserably.

"No you didn't," Trista's voice cracked. She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, they were bright with tears. "Nobody ever stops to think. And then I have to deal with it, again."

Head down, she brushed past Knight. Nick tried to step in front of Trista, but she dodged around him. He made no further move as she hurried out the door.

"Trista," Knight called weakly.

Bloody. Fuckin'. Hell.

For a moment, Knight considered yielding to the temptation to lambaste Nick for his stupidity. After looking at him for a moment, she decided against a scolding. He looked as miserable as she felt.

This is just turning into a bang-up day, isn't it? Knight thought sourly as she gazed out the empty door.

*Billie Joe*

Sneaking around was not as easy as it looked. It was, in fact, damn hard. Billie Joe had been staring at the crew trucks, from his spot at the tour bus's table, for over half an hour. He had no idea whether or not Knight was in the truck or in the arena. Things would have been easier if he had had a chance to see her come off or go on the truck.

"How much longer are you going to wait?" Mike asked wearily.

Billie Joe, nerves already tight, suppressed a jolt of fright at Mike's abrupt speech. He did not dare to take his eyes from the trucks, so he reserved the glare he had for Mike and scowled out the window.

"Until I'm ready. I don't need to go running—man, you need to go change your clothes."

After their mixing up of the disgusting cocktails, the stench had hung in the air. Two cans of aerosol air freshener later, the smell had finally disappeared. Even above all thick flowery scent clogging the bus, the smell coming off of Mike was horrendous.

"I heard the water run. Didn't you take a shower?" Billie Joe asked.

"Yeah."

"Did you actually clean off?" Billie demanded as he fought back a gag reflex.

"Yes, mother," Mike droned.

Billie Joe's nose was telling him a much different story. Quickly, he glanced over at Mike. The bassist's bleached hair was sopping wet, and plastered to his head. His face looked freshly scrubbed, and there was no stubble on his face.

Billie Joe swallowed another gag as he realized what the exact source of the smell. Lest his stomach make a hasty exit via his mouth, Billie Joe resumed looking out the window.

"You didn't change your clothes," he stated weakly. "Why didn't you change your clothes?" The question came out more like a moan. "I changed my clothes."

"When you changed I thought you were just being you. And they didn't stink when I put them on," Mike said thoughtfully.

"They do. Yeah, they do," Billie Joe replied quickly. "Mike, you've got fuckin' durian on your shirt."

"Where?" Mike asked, his voice rising in panic.

"Right on your collar." Billie Joe covered his nose. "Fuck, that stuff could knock out a herd of skunks—that's some nasty shit. Go change."

"You just gonna keep sitting here?"

"Yeah, unless you don't leave. Then, I'm probably going to pass out," Billie Joe said, turning in his seat so he could watch both the window and Mike.

"Why don't we just go in there right now? I'll help you look." Mike offered.

"I don't even know what I'm lookin' for," Billie Joe grumbled. "Stupid idea."
"It's not stupid. It's just got problems. Like you." Mike lifted a hand to punch Billie Joe.

"Touch me when you're in those clothes and I'll stuff what's left of that fuckin' durian up your ass," the guitarist shot playfully. "Better yet, I'll stuff it down your throat."

"Vicious or what?" Mike teased as he dropped his hand back to his side. "Like I said, you got a good idea. Taking the clothes and making her stay in the nasty ones is a good idea."

"And how do I know which set?" Billie Joe asked. "All the roadies have the black outfits. I've never seen her in anything but her uniform."

"So? Dig through the bags for ID. Passport, driver's license. She's gotta have at least one of those."

Passport. ID. It'll have her name on it. If Mike gets to it first, we're gonna have a problem.

"Yeah, but she might be in there." Billie Joe hunted for any excuse to keep Mike from getting into the search. "Why don't you go change, then go looking for her?"

Billie Joe resumed looking fully out the window. It gave him an excuse to not look Mike in the eye. By some quirk of nature, Mike could always tell when someone was lying to him or trying to deceive him. Getting Mike away from the trucks was not really a deception, but Billie Joe wanted to risk nothing.

"I need a reason," Mike mused. "Otherwise, she'll get suspicious."

"I don't know," Billie Joe breathed shallowly, trying to not take in too much durian stench. "She's Felix's boss. Go with that."

"You're cranky today. I guess I'm privileged that you let me keep my head," Mike said carefully.

"I just got up," Billie Joe muttered.

"How many hours ago was that?" Mike prodded.

"Fine. I didn't want to do this to you, but you've pushed me too far." Billie Joe sighed. "I didn't want to be the one, but Mike, you fuckin' stink."

"Somehow, I'm not offended," Mike replied cheerily.

"That's nice." Billie Joe replied sarcastically.

He went to the back of the bus. Billie Joe listened as Mike rummaged around and dressed. Out in the parking lot, one of the massive trucks backed up to the loading dock. The door dropped down, and roadies flooded into the back. Within moments, the roadies started moving the equipment into the building.

Mike returned from the galley wearing a completely different outfit. No stench lingered after him as he headed for the door.

"Where's the shirt?" Billie Joe demanded suspiciously.

"It's tied up in a bag from that hula store." Mike grinned. "It's contained."

"Uh, maybe you should take some backup," Billie Joe added nervously. It'd be my luck that he wound up running into Trista, he thought worriedly. "She might go savage on you. Bring one of the guys."

"Yeah," Mike replied in a tone that indicated he had no intention of following Billie Joe's advice.

The bassist departed the bus, leaving Billie Joe alone on his stakeout. The guitarist drummed his finger on the tabletop. He considered following Mike just to make sure that he kept out of trouble. Mike was an adult though; he should be fine without Billie Joe acting like a mother hen.

As soon as Billie Joe thought enough time had passed for Mike to reach the arena, Billie Joe wandered to other side of the bus. Furtively, he peeked under the blinds. Mike was nowhere to be seen.

Billie Joe headed down the stairs of the bus, to the door, but stopped midway. Retracing his steps, he snagged his sunglasses off of the table. Putting them on, he left the bus. Ever so casually, he strolled past the crew trucks. Keeping his face forward, Billie Joe eyed the dark interior of the wide-open trucks. The bunks were empty.

Still pretending to ignore the trucks, Billie Joe made his way over to a flower garden. He walked around them, acting if they were his intended destination. After a few minutes of staring at the wilting plants, Billie Joe disappeared from the casual observer's view by standing behind a statue.

Once he was convinced no one was watching him, Billie Joe lazily wandered right into the largest of the crew trucks. In theory, it was more spacious and therefore perfect for someone with more superiority—like Knight.

Without the lights glowing on the walls, the truck was incredibly dark. His vision was almost completely black. Billie Joe smirked at his own stupidity and took off his sunglasses. He could see a bit better, but it was dark compared to his tour bus. Knowing that time was not on his side, he started digging in the duffle bags at the end of the bunks.

The first few were definitely belonging to men, due to the interesting items inside. Billie Joe quickly zipped the bags back up and moved onto the next. He tried to be speedy, and keep the bags looking untouched. Unfortunately, these two objectives were directly opposite each other.

Billie Joe forced himself to limit his search to digging to find the gender of the bag's owner, then moving on. That way, he only disturbed the top layer of clothing. He finished the lower rows of bunks and moved to the tops. While working on one bag, a flutter of black caught his eye. A black bandana hung over the post of the bunk across from the one he was investigating.

Discarding the bag he was rooting through, Billie Joe immediately went to the bag that sat on bandana's bunk. Just like the majority of the ones he had rummaged through previously, this bag was filled with black clothes bearing his album's logo on the breast.

Once he hit something too fine to be a shirt or pants, Billie Joe's hopes rose. He pulled out a bandana, completely black. This one, he noted, also bore the white hand and grenade.

Continuing to dig, Billie Joe found a fancy-looking red shirt. As a guy, he approved of this type of lady's partying shirt. It was not sleazy, but it was not for nuns either. As he dropped the shirt onto the bed, a bit of wire dropped out of it.

Despite the need for urgency, Billie Joe tugged on the wire. It slid out of the folds of the shirt, revealing itself as a twisted-wire necklace with a blue plectrum for a pendant. Touching the wire, Billie Joe realized that it was actually made out of the strings of a bass.

Well, that's interesting.

Setting the necklace back under the shirt, Billie Joe stuck his hand down into the bottom of the bag. His fingers felt nothing but the nylon of the bag. Momentary panic surged in his chest.

It has to be here!

Desperately, Billie Joe shoved his hand around the bottom of the bag. Leather met his fingers and he quickly pulled the item into view. The British emblem of with its lion and unicorn glinted gold above the label: PASSPORT.