When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 21

*Mike*

"Get the clothes down," Knight snarled.

"Why?" Ronnie retorted impertinently.

"Bring them down," Knight reiterated.

"It's not our problem," Billie Joe shrugged.

"No? I think it might be." Knight's voice dripped poison. "You see, I can't sleep in my bed in these clothes."

"I guess it looks like you're not sleepin' in your bed." Tré snickered.

"Yeah, but you fellows have got extra beds," Knight continued.

"So?" Tré eyed her disdainfully. "You can't just sleep on our buses. Get your own."

"The other techs ride on your buses," Knight pointed out.

"Yeah, but you ain't no tech," Jason Freese protested.

Mike spoke at the same time. "Where's Felix?"

The corners of Knight's yellow eyes crinkled as she smiled. "And that's my next point. Mike, your bass was all ready to go today. Felix isn't here, and you haven't seen a new tech. Kevin and Woofer could've done it, but they're better at guitar than bass. Yet, I'm willing to bet your bass was better than what they could do with it. Now, who would be able to do that?"

Billie Joe swung his head back and forth in vehement denial. "No way. Forget it."

Tré's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "You're the new tech?" He smirked. "I'm almost not surprised."

"'Til I can find a permanent replacement," Knight replied.

"And when will that be?" Mike growled.

"Well, this smell's distracting me so badly that I don't think I can remember the phone number of our agency's American branch. And if I got cleaned up," Knight's eyes narrowed to dangerous yellow slits, "I'd still be worrying about my personal papers." The scantily-veiled demand was unmistakable.

"Forget it. I want a different tech," Mike stated flatly.

If I can pull the brat card, she'll have to sleep on her bunk, nowhere near mine.

"And do you think we can get one with the snap of my fingers?" Knight asked caustically. She crossed her arms. "Listen, I'd rather be on my own truck. Give me my clothes, and my papers, and I'll do everything I can to get you a new tech."

Tré mocked Knight by crossing his own arms with a girlish flare. "We'll give you the clothes, and you'll keep off our bus. The papers, they'll be our hostages until Mike gets a new tech."

"That's fine, but I need the papers to cross state lines. If I get stuck here, you won't have a crew chief and you won't have a bass tech either. Think you can work all your amps by yourself?" Knight challenged.

"Probably not, but at least he'll have a job," Billie Joe shot.

"And do you think ditchin' me will make things instantly easier? Doug'll probably have a harder time getting replacements than I will. It'll take time to find a tech, and one who can be a crew chief. Your show's gonna suffer for it. And," Knight raised a finger, "whoever's pager you stole to get me down that hall, do you think their part of the show is going to go well without communication between them and their roadies?" Knight spread her arms and started to walk backwards. "If I'm already fired, it's not my problem if this show falls apart. Your call." With that, she turned and walked off.

Mike coughed, trying to clear the lingering stench from his throat. He had not enjoyed making the concoction, and he slightly pitied Knight for her soaking.

"Now what?" Tré grumbled.

Jason threw a glance up at the clothes. "I guess we go get them down."

"Do you guys mind doing it?" Billie Joe queried. "I want to talk to Tré for a bit."

Mike toyed with the idea of sticking around until Billie Joe raised an eyebrow. Tré spun around and mimicked the guitarist.

"Can I help you?" Billie Joe asked tartly. Obviously, this was supposed to be a private conversation.

Rebuked, Mike ambled off to go get the clothes. Patiently, he waited at the foot of a ladder for his turn to ascend to the rigger's domain. He watched with slight envy as the riggers simply dropped off the catwalks and lowered themselves to the floor. A grin crossed Mike's face as he came up with a wild idea. Abandoning his post, Mike sauntered backstage.

All of the riggers could not be up at the same time. Mike hoped to find a rigging harness and get up to the catwalks in style. Blinking in the dimness, he looked around for a chance-mislaid harness. Instead, a clanking of harness alerted the bassist to the location of a rigger on the ground. Following his ears, he made his way through the shadowy backstage.

Once he was closer, Mike recognized the rigger by her streaked hair. "Hey," he called.

Trista spun around, looking extremely guilty. When she recognized Mike, a nervous smile crept onto her lips.

Time to kill two birds with one stone.

"I think I owe you an apology," he stated.

Bewilderment flavored her voice. "You do?"

Mike adjusted his wristband. "Yeah. For the other day, when I was slightly inebriated."

"Oh, that. No harm done," Trista replied. "And I'm still really sorry about the acid and the uh... " her voice dropped, "the bathroom."

"You don't need to say that," Mike waved his hand dismissively. "You weren't exactly yourself." A frown settled on his face as he recalled the events of that day. "I see Nick's still kicking around."

"It couldn't be proved," Trista spoke with a strange note in her voice.

"Do you want him gone?" Mike asked causally.

All you have to do is say the word. It wouldn't be hard for me to have him fired.

"No," she said after a lengthy pause.

"Why?" Mike crossed his arms sternly. "If he's got some threat—"

"No, that's not it." Trista stared sideways for a moment. "He's not so bad. If he was, he wouldn't be here."

"Oh," Mike replied apathetically. So, something's happened and she's pretty much defending him. Not good, he thought. Completely disregarding his original reason for speaking to her, Mike asked bluntly, "Do you like him?"

Trista's brows furrowed. "I don't think that has anything to do with anything. And, if he was a complete bastard, I'd still kick him to the curb, regardless of any feelings."

"You do like him." Mike tease was less than playful.

"No, I don't," Trista snapped. "He's just somebody I hang out with when I don't have better company. I feel sorry for the poor bugger."

"Okay, I'll leave it at that," Mike compromised, "but, only if you listen to my next question." It was a precautionary statement, since Trista looked like she was about to storm off in a bad temper.

"Go for it," Trista's voice was soft and obedient. She was not angry enough to risk insulting her employer.

"Can I borrow your rigging gear for a minute?" Mike asked abruptly.

"Oh no. No way," Trista shook her head. "I'm in too much trouble as it is."

Mike took a step towards her. "What if I," he paused playfully, "hold you down and take it?"

Fire flared in Trista's eyes. "I'd like to see you try." A lop-sided grin took the edge off of her words.

Smirking, Mike took a step forward. Trista danced back, her harness jangling. Suddenly, Mike let his jaw drop and stared at a point just over Trista's left shoulder. He maintained the amazed look, trying to appear as if he was witness to something extraordinary. As soon as Trista looked behind herself, Mike pounced.

Not quite sure where the boundaries were, the bassist only lightly wrapped his arms around her. Trista let of a soft shriek that dissolved into a chuckle. Mike held her a bit tighter as he tried to undo the clasps of her harness. Trista's small hands curled around his fingers, bending them back.

Mike put his head next hers. "Let go or I'll bite," he mock-threatened.

Trista leaned her head back and her hazel eyes sparkled familiarly. Like he had touched fire, Mike jerked his head up. His hearted galloped crazily in his chest. Before he could make another move, Billie Joe's voice tore across the darkness.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Get the hell away from her!" Tré barked.

Mike stared in shock as his cronies took one of his arms each and dragged him back. Ronnie and the two Jasons shepherded Trista away to the stage. She was too surprised to even struggle.

Pale with rage, Tré demanded, "What the fuck was that?"

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Billie Joe growled. "This is like me trying to date Ramona!"

"Fuckin' sick," Tré interjected.

"Or, Tré hitting on Stella," Billie Joe continued angrily. "How d'you think Trista's dad would feel about his girl getting," Billie Joe spluttered for a word, "fuckin' molested by you!"

All of their words failed to penetrate the sudden clamor within Mike's thoughts. "I need to talk to her," Mike stated with quiet heat.

"No you don't. Forget it," Tré snapped.

Feeling a bit like a teenager again, Mike hissed, "Why can't I? You're obsessed with dating freak shows and sluts. And it's not anything to you, it's just seeing how far you can go."

"You shut up about Keely," Tré snarled back. "We're both old enough to know. Consenting adults. Trista, she isn't."

"Tré, you gotta let me talk to her," Mike stated firmly. The drummer scowled and refused to loosen his hold on Mike's arm. The bassist turned to Billie Joe. "Please, you gotta let me go talk to her," he pleaded.

"Tell me what you want to know," Billie Joe conceded sternly, "and I'll go ask."

Mike hung his head in defeat. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew that Billie Joe would not improve his offer. The thought sent an odd thrust of pain into his chest.

"Find out her last name. See who's her mother, her cousin, her aunt, whatever." The bassist forced out the words.

Mike could not breathe; his throat was closing. The world was falling apart, crumbling until it only consisted of Mike, Billie Joe, and Tré. Everything else became a rushing grey void. Mike tightened his hands into fists, willing himself to not succumb to his rising terror.

"Are you alright?" Tré's voice lost its harshness.

Mike forced himself to draw in a breath. "I think, Trista's somehow connected to Wren," he closed his eyes as the world narrowed in another surge. "I have to figure out what happened to her." The pain was worse, flaring every time his heart beat.

"Okay, we'll do that, but we're going to get you somewhere to sit." Billie Joe's voice was firm and strong. "You're having an attack. Just chill. Think about—Tré do you wanna go an'—" a set of fingers lifted off of Mike's arm, "—yeah. Think about Brittney, she loves you."

No she doesn't, she just wants my money.

"And Stella, she's probably thinking about you right now," Billie Joe added.

Yeah, I'm a rotten dad 'cause I'm never around.

Mike stared ahead blindly into his grey vision as Billie Joe led him forward. "Billie, you gotta go talk to her."

"Not 'til we get you sitting down," Billie Joe replied placidly.

Another set of footsteps approached. Mike, out of habit, swung his sightless eyes towards the approaching person. He had no idea if the person was real, or a figment of his mind.

"Holy Christ," Doug said with a groan. "What set him off?"

A new set of fingers wrapped around Mike's previously free arm. Out of habit, Mike flinched away, banging heads with Billie Joe.

After a muttered curse, Billie Joe lied, "I don't know. We just found him startin' to break down."

Watery relief rushed through Mike. At least he would not need to worry about talking to Doug about breaking rules.

"Okay, take it easy. Just sit," Billie Joe commanded.

Mike sat in a controlled fall rather than a conscious movement. The big, luxurious leather chair caught him gently. He closed his eyes and massaged his throat with clammy fingers. Before Mike realized his actions had changed, Billie Joe's rough fingers pulled Mike's spasmodically clenching digits off of his throat.

"Hey, you need to sing with that throat," Billie Joe admonished gently.

Mike tried to swallow, and gagged at the painful lump in his windpipe. Trying not to whimper, Mike curled into onto tight ball. The pressure in his chest eased enough to be bearable. Someone, most likely Billie Joe, gripped Mike's shoulder reassuringly. Mike spastically clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to force feeling into his numb fingers.

Someone tapped his other shoulder. "Ease up man. Here." Tré pressed the neck of a bass into Mike's hand.

Obediently, Mike shifted and blindly lifted the bass into his lap. Very deliberately, he ran his finger down the fingerboard, counting the frets. He came up with twenty, just as he expected. Over and over he counted the frets, assuring himself that he still had control over one part of the world.

Eventually, his eyes opened and he could focus on the fingerboard. Heat started to ease back into his fingers. On a whim, his left fingers darted over the strings and his right fingers plucked out notes. Over the sounds, he vaguely heard his friends and Doug talking, and later, the sound of receding footsteps.

The longer he played the more of the room he could see. By the time he could see the plain white wall on the far side of the empty room, he was playing old reliable bass lines; lines he had written. Finishing one last riff, he muted the strings and looked upward.

Tré loomed overhead, concern stiffening his features. "You gotta let this go," the drummer said softly. "It's been years."

Billie Joe's hand tightened on Mike's shoulder and passed the bassist a bottle of water. "She promised me she'd call me. Something went wrong."

Mike's stomach dropped ten feet as he accepted the bottle. "What? How?" He twisted around to look at Billie Joe.

"I don't know for sure. I just think that she would've kept her promise." Billie Joe's hand lifted to the point of a feather touch. "Me an' her were too close for her to leave completely."

Mike's lips twisted into a bitter snarl. "You were close?"

"She didn't leave to get away from me," Billie Joe stated coldly, but with pity in his green eyes.

At this verbal blow, Mike winced and briefly shut his eyes. "You don't really know that," he said lamely.

Tré sighed. "He was there. He'd know. Mike, man, we've gone over this a hundred million times. Just let it die."

"So, if Frankie or Ramona just disappeared, would you want me saying 'Just let it die'?" Mike challenged.

"You don't know if anything happened with that. It could've been a false. She's gone," Tré said unhappily.

Mike defiantly narrowed his eyes. Like you'd actually just be sitting here. You'd be out there already.

Billie Joe patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "We'll go talk to Trista, alright? We'll bring back the answers. If they're negative, you gotta let things just be."

"And if there's a connection?" Mike demanded. The plastic bottle let out a crunch as Mike involuntarily clenched his fingers.

"What makes you think there is one?" Tré responded carefully.

It was a difficult question. Mike smiled bitterly at the memories flickering through his mind. "Her eyes are the same." Seeing Billie Joe about to discard this theory, Mike added, "When she laughs. Nobody else's eyes did that. They're the right colour too."

"Dude, have you ever thought about why?" Tré pressed. He bit his lip disapprovingly as Mike shuddered.

God. That's why they were talking about me and Ramona and Stella and someone. No, no, she's too old. She can't be.

"If there's a link," Billie Joe added, "It's not going to be good either way. You might find out Wren's dead. You know what they say, ignorance is bliss."

Mike pressed his fingers down on his bass's thick strings until his pads hurt. He had trouble forcing his mind to draw any conclusions besides the fact that Wren might be alive.

"No, it's not," he stated deliberately. "I need to know. I need some sort of, you know, closure."

*Tré*

Tré walked side by side with Billie Joe. Neither spoke until they were well away from the room.

"We need to get a hold of Knight," Billie Joe muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"So now we talk to her?" Tré taunted.

"Situation's changed," Billie Joe retorted.

Tré frowned. "What about Mike? Do you think he's got that part of it figured out?"

"I doubt it. He's just blown away by thinking he might be able to find her. Damn it, he hadn't said anything about her for years. And just when I thought all this shit was over, look what happens," Billie Joe griped to himself.

After peering around, the two came to the conclusion that Knight was not in the vicinity of the stage area.

"She's probably taking a shower," Tré commented.

"So? We'll go talk to her." Undaunted, Billie Joe made his way to the bathroom.

Unlike other arenas, this building had gender-separate bathrooms. Tré leaned against the door of the women's bathroom. After a short moment of listening, he pulled the door open slightly. He tilted his head and listened intently.

"There's water running," he stated. "Do you wanna go in?"

Billie Joe crinkled his nose in distaste. "Nah. We can wait 'til she's clean."

Like bouncers, they took up posts on either side of the doorway. Tré kept silent and mulled over his thoughts. Billie Joe had said that the passport basically implied Knight was Wren. He had also mentioned that the passport also did not make sense. Tré wanted to see the passport so he could find out what Billie Joe had meant by that comment.

The bathroom door swung open, nearly slapping Tré in the face. Agitated, he stormed around it and confronted Knight. Billie Joe already stood directly in her path.

"Who are you?" Tré asked bluntly.

Knight rolled her yellow eyes. "You've been in my papers."

She dropped her accent again. What's up with that?

"Yeah, and we know you're a Calderwood." Billie Joe cut right to the matter at hand. "A W Calderwood, and you're Trista's guardian. So, who are you exactly?"

Knight's bandana fluttered as she let out a resigned sigh. "So, this is about Wren," she said heavily, not meeting the men's eyes.

"Yeah, it is. So, fess up," Tré prodded. "How's Trista connected to Wren?"

Hate burned beneath a gleam of tears over Knight's eyes "Trista might've been her daughter."

What? She's not Wren? And what's she got to bawl about?

"Might have been?" Billie Joe asked in confusion.

Knight's reply was swift. "Yeah, might've been," anguish threatened to break her voice, "if Wren hadn't died in a car accident about the same time you assholes put out Nimrod."