When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 22

*Tré*

Knight stared at Billie Joe and Tré with the same expression as that of an animal with its paw stuck in a trap. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but they never trickled down her cheek. Overcome with shock, Tré could only stare back. A horrible aching thickness formed in the back of his throat.

I never got to apologize.

Tré's mouth moved dumbly as he tried to speak. Instead of words, weak puffs of air slipped past his lips. He tried to swallow but his sore throat made it impossible.

"What happened?" Billie Joe asked carefully, as if he fought to stop himself from shattering.

Knight lifted her head slightly in a movement meant to keep tears from escaping. Her bandana creased around her nose as she sucked in a breath. "She left England and went to see Mike," Her tone held as much emotion as a rock. "On her last day over here, her car was hit by a semi runnin' a red light. She went into a coma, came out, but the doctors put her under again because she came out too early—whatever that's supposed to mean. I guess she was in too much pain."

"Eventually the docs figured that she wasn't gonna get better and they let her wake up. For a bit after that—like a day—she'd be conscious. But you could tell she wasn't really there. And then she'd pass out, and then she'd wake up for a bit. She did manage to talk to us one-on-one. The doctors came back after, put her under—out of mercy, so they said, "Knight's lip curled in disgust."—and then she died."

Knight wrapped her arms around herself. It was the most fragile movement Tré had seen her make since they met.

"Happy now?" she asked bitterly.

Tré finally found his voice. "It wasn't quick?"

The corners of Knight's eyes creased as she smiled harshly. "No, it wasn't. It was slow, painful, terrifying."

Tré's guts twisted as his mind presented him with gruesome hospital scenes. "Was she alone?" he asked.

Knight ignored him and directed her reply to Billie Joe. "No, she had her parents." The last word was tinged with poisonous sweetness.

Confused, Tré looked over at Billie Joe. The guitarist wore an expression of alarm mixed with pity.

"And her ex-husband, who wasn't much more than a boyfriend at the time. And, I was there, when I could be."

Tré's mind reeled about blindly. What's up with the parents? What's so bad? Ex-husband? She got married?

"What about—"

The beeping of Knight's pager interrupted Tré's question. Knight dug the item out of her pocket and glanced at it.

Coldly, she informed them, "I have to go," She started to walk off, but stopped herself. "And Billie, remember your promise."

With that, she slipped past Billie Joe and down the hall.

"Promise? What promise?" Tré demanded.

Billie Joe ignored him. The guitarist stared at the bathroom door, brows creased.

"Billie, what promise?" Tré repeated impatiently.

"That one I made to Wren when she was leaving," Billie Joe replied absently. He glanced over at Tré. "She's lying."

"Lying?" Tré asked incredulously. "Did you see her? She almost cried. That couldn't have been a lie she was telling."

"She's a good actor," Billie Joe said dismissively. "But her story doesn't make sense. If Wren had come visit him, Mike would've told us. And, he wouldn't be so worked up now."

Tré frowned as he tried to pick out other faults in Knight's story. 'And her ex-husband, who wasn't much more than a boyfriend at the time.' A smirk of triumph lifted Tré's lips.

"You can't have an ex-husband if you bit the dust when he was only a boyfriend," he stated. "So, what's the truth?"

"I don't think any of it is was. She just got twisted up in her lies and got lost."

"Knight is Wren," Tré declared.

"Why would she lie to us though?" Billie Joe muttered despondently.

Tré leaned against the wall. "Maybe she didn't. Maybe she told the truth and smudged it. She knows a lot, so she changed parts to make us feel like shit," Tré leaned forward to have a clear look at his friend. "C'mon, it's a little too perfect. Fatally wounded after finally coming back? Boyfriend and family—hey, what was with that dig about her parents?"

"Wren didn't get along with her parents," Billie Joe said shortly. "Period."

"Yeah, so see what I mean?" Tré continued. "It looks like the absolute worst happened to her."

"I thought you figured she was telling the truth 'cause she lied," Billie Joe pointed out.

"That's what I'm getting to. So maybe," Tré suddenly lost his voice for a moment. He paused, cleared his throat and continued on as if nothing had happened. "Maybe she did die in the accident. Just not here or under those circumstances. So, she can have the last name as Wren, 'cause she is."

"They could be cousins or something," Billie Joe said.

"It kinda sounds like you want her dead," Tré accused.

"I don't want anyone to die. But I don't want to get my hopes up, and life would be a helluva lot easier if she was!" Billie Joe snapped. "That came out wrong," he amended contritely.

"I know it did." Tré sighed. "I don't want her dead either. But it would be better if none of this had come up."

"Well, it has," Billie Joe retorted. "And we're in deep shit."

Tré smacked his fist against the painted cinderblock wall. "What do we tell Mike? If she's lying about Wren, she probably lied about Trista too—not that she said anything about her anyways."

"Yeah," Billie Joe's voice trailed off. "We need to come up with something."

"Like go get Trista?" Tré suggested.

Billie Joe shook his head, black hair slipping into his eyes. "No, I mean think up something to tell him."

Tré blinked hard to clear his vision and shook his head to make sure nothing was plugging his ears. "What?" he asked carefully.

"You heard me," Billie Joe replied seriously.

"Why?" Tré hissed.

"Why don't we just bring this to an end? We can't have Mike workin' himself up all the time. What if he crashes?" Billie Joe sighed and crammed his hands into his pockets.

Tré rolled his blue eyes. "This ain't about Mike."

"Yeah, it is. What else could it be about, huh?" Billie Joe retorted acidly.

"Like fuck it is." Tré snarled sceptically. "You're afraid we're gonna have to cancel shows."

"Don't start that bullshit," Billie Joe looked away in contempt.

"Greedy bastard," Tré muttered just loud enough for the guitarist to hear.

"Shut up," Billie Joe ordered calmly. "Money has nothing to do with it. Do you want to be the one who lets Mike over the edge? He's just like us, a ticking bomb just waiting for an excuse to blow. Things aren't exactly easy here, like you said."

"If you want to tell, go ahead. I want to know which story you'll pick. The one about the girl he hoped was alive died going to see him or maybe the one about the girl being alive and he's hitting on his own kid?"

"You said that Trista's last name wasn't Wren's—or Knight's. She not any relation." Tré felt as if he grasped at straws.

"What about the ex-husband?" Billie Joe argued. "He could've adopted her."

"The ex-husband didn't come 'til after the accident, and Trista was born before we had Nimrod, otherwise she's the most mature four or five-year-old I've ever met." This idea seemed bulletproof.

"You said that Knight changed things. Maybe the ex-boyfriend was there," Billie Joe's green eyes opened wide. "That fits!"

Tré scowled and crossed his arms. "You lost me."

"Wren went to see Mike—"

"Which she didn't," Tré objected.

"Work with me here," Billie Joe complained. "—and after, she got in the accident. Her ex-boyfriend was there at the hospital."

"You're telling me that Mike disappeared to England and didn't tell us," Tré's lack of faith in the theory coloured his voice.

"No. She would've been in the States in the hospital. He could've gone to see her and we wouldn't have noticed," Billie Joe explained.

"No way." Tré spread his arms. "Mike thinks Wren's still alive. I don't think he'd be thinking that way if he'd been at the hospital."

"But what if her parents took her home before..." Billie Joe let the silence say what he would not. "I mean, he never knew. That'd explain why he wants 'closure'."

"I'll give you credit for imagination," Tré conceded. "But I still don't get what you're gonna do."

"I'll keep it close to the truth. I gotta—we gotta—" Billie Joe corrected, "Find a way to keep him away from Trista though."

"Oh, and that worked great the first time," Tré retorted sarcastically. "Why don't we go talk to Trista?"

"I don't think she's just going to tell us her life story. You know," he commented, "I don't think she likes me. I don't know what it is, but I can just tell."

Tré dragged Billie Joe back on topic. "I'll talk to her if she won't talk to you."

"No, we're not going to do any other talking 'til I get the truth out of Knight," Billie Joe argued.

"Fine, let's go get her."

"No."

Tré bit back a scream of frustration. "What now? Fuck, Billie is that all you can do? Shoot shit down? How are we supposed to do anything when you're just being a buzz kill?"

"I'll talk to her alone." Billie Joe glanced at his bare wrist. "What time is it?"

"Somewhere between twenty and fifteen after five."

"You know," Billie Joe said condescendingly, "digital watches tell the exact minute."

"Yeah, but digitals got those fuckin' alarms. I go to set the clock and wind up with the damn beeper going off when I'm trying to sleep. Besides nobody ever needs to know the exact minute time, 'cept for when it's on the fives, like fifteen, ten, thirty."

Tré showed Billie Joe the watch, with its black face, white numbers, and blood red hands. Billie Joe had seen the watch several times since Tré decided to have it made to match the album, but Tré figured the guitarist's mind needed to be refreshed. Billie Joe did not look at the watch nearly long enough to appreciate its beauty.

After the insufficient, in Tré's opinion, glance Billie Joe said, "That interview won't be until after six. I'd say six-thirty, seven at the earliest. That's how long we have before we gotta be back with Mike. I'll go talk to Knight. If she is Wren, then, you know, we go way back."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

Billie Joe's face grew harsh and set. "You're not going to lie to him, are you?"

"No. Nothing we could say that's like, not going to make things worse when the truth comes out," Tré spoke firmly.

"We could just say that Trista is Mike's kid, that she never knew Wren, like she died in labour or something. And she doesn't want to talk to him at all," Billie Joe wheedled.

"And what if we found out that Trista's not his?" Tré argued. "We'd be putting him through a bunch of mental hell for nothing."

"Who says we'd tell him any different?"

"You mean lie to him twice," Tré shook his head. "You're fucking whacked. No way. I'm not doing that."

"He's gonna wonder what took so long. What are you gonna say?" Billie Joe prodded. "Without lying?"

"I'll keep him busy," Tré affirmed.

"And that's so much better than making him think he's a pervert?" Billie Joe argued.

"You won't let anyone do anything unless it's with your plans," Tré flared. "This still keeps Mike in the dark. The result's the same, just my way's a bit more humane."

"Humane?" Billie Joe asked with a snort. "Yeah, he was in great condition the last time you pulled this. 'Member the week long drinkin' fest?"

Good thing he only knows about that time. But if he did know, maybe he wouldn't be so against it. Eergh. I can't say nothing without talking to Mike first.

"You were okay with it before." Tré shrugged with fake casualness. "Nothing might happen."

"Like hell it won't."

"It's not like I'm gonna ass-rape him or something," Tré flashed a cheeky grin. "Unless he asks for it."

"You know, you're an adult, and I can't be responsible for what you do. Whatever comes," Billie Joe grimaced at the unintended pun, "It's not going to be my fault."

"Would you care if we wound up making you do the interview alone?" Tré asked gingerly.

Billie Joe looked nauseated. "You'll take that long?"

"No," Tré did not know whether to be pleased or insulted by Billie Joe's overestimation. "I'll probably need to get some liquor in him. He probably won't be making much sense when I'm finished with him."

Like he had just taken a bitter drink, Billie Joe's swallowed with a grimace. "I don't see how that's better. Isn't this kind of a set up too?"

"No. He'll get it. It's kinda the opposite," Tré confessed.

"Fine," Billie Joe bit his lip before continuing. "Do that. But no talking. And make sure nobody finds out about that other shit. I'll talk to you as soon as I can."

Nodding, Tré headed off to the room where he had left Mike. Curses flowed out of Tré's mouth upon his discovery of the empty room. Worried, he stormed out of the room and down the hall. The first person he met happened to be Doug.

"Have you seen Mike?" Tré growled.

"Yeah. He just went back to his bus. Said he wanted somewhere to lie down. He needs rest," Doug commented.

Tré grunted in response and went around Doug, completely disregarding the hint. Single-mindedly, he strode out to Mike's bus. At the door, Tré halted to check his appearance in the reflection of the glass. With a suddenly sweaty hand, he opened the door. As he climbed the stairs to the main area of the bus, Tré immediately spotted his friend's sock feet.

The feet were attached to denim-clad legs, which in turn did their part to contribute to the bassist's sprawl over the couch. Mike lifted a tattooed arm away from his eyes.

"Tell me," His tightly clenched fist betrayed his apathetic demeanour.

Tré refused to respond. Instead, he went to the kitchen, dug out two normal-sized glasses and filled them with straight rum. Wordlessly, he pressed the drink into Mike's hand. The bassist, with the skill of long practice, barely lifted his head to take a long sip.

"It's that bad," Mike's husky voice did not ask for an answer.

"It's pretty bad," Tré felt obligated to speak as he slouched on the arm of the couch, near Mike's feet.

Mike took another swallow, making his glass half-empty. Nine times out of ten, Tré could easily drink Mike under the table. The tenth time usually only occurred when Mike was under stress. When the world grew unkind, Mike often abused his hidden ability to drink hard. Tré had seen him drink past the point where other men would be unconscious from alcohol poisoning. Mildly, the drummer took a small mouthful of the fiery liquid.

"Changed my mind. Don't say nothing 'til I'm drunk," Mike mumbled.

The clumsiness in his words caught Tré's attention. "Have you been drinking already?"

"Four shooters," Mike responded before he set the glass to his lips again.

I guess my life's gonna be a bit easier.

Feeling like a predator setting up an ambush, Tré slid off the couch and sauntered to the back bedroom.

He rested his arm on the wall as he peered out the tinted window and sipped his rum. Out in the main part of the bus, he heard liquid splattering into the bottom of a glass. Mike's behaviour verged on alcoholic; it worried Tré. Shaking his head, Tré set his glass—still fairly full—down on a nightstand.

Mike arrived soon after. Tré looked over his shoulder in time to see the bassist down the last of his second glass and set the empty vessel on the floor. Gracelessly, Mike plunked down on the bed.

"Alright, give it to me straight."

Tré's stomach gave an unhappy twinge. Ignoring the feeling of wrongness, Tré cautiously sat down beside his friend. Mike cast Tré a bleary, alcohol-dulled gaze. The look told Tré that Mike thought emotions not worth feeling had to die, or fade beneath other more intense sensations.

Too much rum blurred the lines between reality and Tré's memory. Was he here or somewhere else entirely? Staring muzzily at Mike's splayed hand, Tré had a sudden vision. Mike's arm was a road, and his hand was a fork with trails spreading out from each of the bassist's fingers. Each lead to a different, but previously experienced outcome.

Tré reached out and traced a particular path down the bassist's bare arm to his hand. The bassist shuddered and bared his throat in submission, accepting what was to be. Needing no further permission, Tré began to swiftly crush out feelings of worry and self-contempt. When the time came, both of their hot alcohol-soaked breaths willingly panted out the words to history's old refrain.