When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 25

*Mike*

Mike closed his eyes and laid his head back against the headrest of his van seat. The furrows smoothed out of his brow as the strong scent of coffee wafted up from the cup in his hands. His eyes cracked open a slit when the van took a corner. He could not bring himself to open his eyes fully. The seat and warm cup were too comfortable.

"Man, you look like shit. I mean, you look like somebody just dragged you out of bed," Tré chirped.

Never afraid to say the wrong thing, that's Tré for you, Mike thought wryly.

"That's 'cause I just did," Billie Joe growled. "Now shut up and let me get a few more seconds, okay?"

Unperturbed by Billie Joe's sharp retort, Tré transferred his attention elsewhere. "Hey, Mike, you gonna drink that coffee? Or you just gonna let it get cold?"

"I'll drink it when I want to," Mike mumbled sleepily.

"You know, you're like asleep so your reflexes suck. What happens if your coffee spills?"

A grin pulled at the corner of Mike's mouth. "I guess I'll sing up an octave tonight. Dude, shut up now. I want to sleep."

Tré huffed out a loud sigh. "What did you guys do last night? You're really bitchy this morning."

Under his lowered lids, Mike rolled his eyes. Never afraid to leave some things alone either.

"Tré, would you just shut the hell up?" Billie Joe growled. "We're trying to sleep."

Mike snorted and rotated his cup of coffee in his hand. "Trying and failing," he mumbled between sips.

"Well, what good are five minutes?" Tré persisted. "It's not like you're gonna get any sleep."

"There's no chance of that with you around, now is there?" Billie Joe snapped.

"If you just told me," Tré stated exasperatedly, "then you could go back to napping."

Front the front seat Doug commented, "Tré, leave them alone."

Mike opened his eyes just in time to see a mulish expression flicker across Tré's face. Stubbornly the drummer set his jaw askew. His whole body seemed to issue a challenge.

"Hey Doug."

"What?" the manager replied easily.

"Doug," Tré repeated sweetly.

"What?"

"Oh Dougie-boy."

"What, Tré?"

Tré barked, "Doug!"

"What?" Doug hissed back.

"D-oug," Tré broke the name into two singsong syllables. Doug refused to reply. Mike grinned evilly as Tré continued to sing the manager's name. After a long, deliberate, pause, Tré said, "Doug?"

"Yes Tré?" Doug's voice squeezed through his tightly clenched teeth. "What would you like?"

"Oh nothing." Tré's voice drifted from airy to scornful, "I thought I'd let you know that you're," Tré paused for a heartbeat with his mouth open. After selecting a more polite word than the ones Mike expected, he continued, "not our babysitter. You know man, we can handle ourselves. Without you."

Doug's insulted pride and indignant anger instantly chilled the air near the front seats. Mike raised his eyebrows and waited for the rejoinder. Doug took a mighty chomp on his gum, but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

Smirking arrogantly, Tré leaned back in his seat. "So, anyone want to tell me what went down? Mike?" With a kingly lift of his hand and a cocked eyebrow, he looked over at the bassist.

Mike put his head back against the headrest and stared up at the ceiling. "Well, we actually were in bed early. You know, 'cause of the photo shoot. So, I'm sleeping away, and something smacks the bus to like, you know, actually make it rock. There was a bunch of shouting. Doug went up to the front to see what was going on. Some roadies were in a fight or something. They were throwing each other against the bus—Doug turned on all the lights in the damn bus went he went to see what was going on—so, they fucked off. That's the story I got this morning.

"The lights woke me right up. I couldn't really get back to sleep after that. I kept thinkin' I heard someone walking around the bus or coming into it. I was just waitin' for the fighting to start all over again. I thought there'd be no point to going back to sleep too quick."

Surprise lightened Tré voice. "That woke you up too?" he asked Billie Joe.

"I was in the same bus," Billie Joe grumped, turning his back to his band mates.

"Yeah, but since when does a little bit of light wake you up?" Tré pressured.

"Since it does, okay?" Billie Joe snapped.

Tré rolled his eyes and Mike gave him a sympathetic look. Billie Joe was a notorious sourpuss on the best mornings; this morning in particular was one of his not-so-good mornings.

"That's why you shouldn't bother sleeping 'till all the action's over. Like four at the earliest," Tré advised.

"You went to bed at four, the night before a shoot?" Doug said incredulously.

"Listen, you sent them to bed early. Who's the guy who's looking the most awake? Billie will put on enough eyeliner to cover the shadows under his eyes. Good grief child," he shot at Billie Joe, "do you put enough of that on? If it doesn't fix the problem, we'll just pass it off as the badass look," Tré replied easily.

"And what about Mike?" Doug asked.

"It's about time he started acting like a man and put on the makeup." Tré snickered. "They got photo people to fix the stuff, though I don't know if they can fix his ugly problem."

"Hey!" Mike cried indignantly. He let out a fake whimper. "You hurt my feelings. Now I'm ugly on the inside and the outside. Nobody will ever love me."

"You're just too damn ugly," Tré declared firmly.

"I love you Mike," Billie Joe muttered. "I'd love you a lot more if you'd shut up for a few seconds."

Smirking slyly, Tré leaned forward and slowly poked his finger into Billie Joe's upper arm. Billie Joe yelped and flinched away. Tré drew back, concern erasing his mischievous expression.

"What?" Tré said. "I barely even touched you. Wimping out or what?"

Rubbing his shoulder, Billie Joe shook his head. "Yeah. I slept on my arm and it's real sore. It's nothing."

"Are you able to play?" Doug interjected.

"It'll loosen up once I get strumming," Billie Joe said dismissively.

Mike frowned to himself. He picked a tiny chunk of paper out of the edge of his cup's brim. When we were nineteen, he didn't get stiff. Uneasy with the implication behind the thought, Mike took another sip of his coffee.

Billie Joe groaned and hunched over in his seat as far as he could. He burrowed his face into his hands and stared through his splayed fingers. A windy sigh deflated his frame several inches. When he sat upright, his spine crackled and his face twisted in disgust.

"Okay, I give up," he stated. Mike watched carefully as the guitarist tried to hide the grimace caused by moving his hand up to his face. "Did I shave this morning?" Billie Joe asked Mike.

"Yeah. You put your makeup on too. But, uh, it's a bit smudged." Mike rolled his lips over his teeth, pressing back a smile, as he eyed the dark streaks down Billie Joe's face.

Tré cackled scornfully. "It still looks like you tried to put on mommy's makeup. All you need is all the way around here," Tré illustrated by drawing a jagged circle that encompassed his lips with an inch to spare on all sides. "And, you know, a little blush to put some colour in your cheeks, and some eye shadow—honey, we need to try trim those eyebrows, it's like a jungle up there—and some mascara, to thicken up those lashes, and then you'd be gorgeous," Tré gushed.

Billie Joe pursed his lips, unimpressed. "Yeah. Real gorgeous."

"I'm just sayin' that sometimes, less is more," Tré's gaze flicked to Mike and settled there for a long moment.

What's that supposed to mean?

"Look at moi," Tré battled his lashes and made his lips protrude into a pout. "Just a little underneath the eyes."

"And who wore layers of pink shadow—up to his eyebrows—for a few days straight?" Mike challenged.

"They're tribal markings. War paint. I was in a highly volatile situation. I had to make sure that—Okay, I'm just shitting you. Sometimes, I like to dress like a slut. It makes me feel all whore-m and fuzzy inside."

"It picks you up on those days when you fell like you're flat out on your back," Mike quipped with a chuckle.

"Those days when the world sticks it to you up the ass. You gotta look the part," Tré agreed cheerfully over Mike's laughter.

"You're everybody's whore, aren't you Tré?" Billie Joe shot.

Tré flicked the edges of his coat so it sat pristinely around his body. "What can I say?" he put on his most self-satisfied half-grin, "I'm so damn beautiful. Everyone wants a piece of the Cool."

Mike's stomach gave a nauseating lurch. In an attempt to hide his sour expression, he hastily buried his face in his cup. Sweat damped his hands; he tried to tell himself that it was from the hot cup, even though the cup only sat in one of his hands.

"You've been around the groupies again," Billie Joe mumbled.

"Was not," Tré exclaimed in outrage. "I've always been onto them—"

Mike nearly choked on his coffee as a laugh erupted from his throat. "In more ways then one," he wheezed.

"—I may have had one or two indiscretions," Tré continued gracefully, "but I never married one!"

"Oh come on," Billie Joe protested. "Adie was never a groupie."

"Hmm." Tré widened his eyes and pressed a thoughtful finger to his chin. "A woman in the crowd, madly in love with the front man. What would you call that Mike?"

"I'd call that the first ten rows of people in the pit last—no two—nights ago," Mike replied.

"I just loooove how the world works!" Tré complained. "Three guys and who do the chicks go after? The married one!" He shook his head despairingly. "Women have got to be, like, the strangest things on the planet."

Mike stretched out in his seat. "It's the temptation factor. Don't they always say you always want you don't have?"

"Hell no. If I'm gonna get laid, I'm not gonna go to her and say 'Sorry baby, I'm gonna go put the moves on that hot chick over there, even though I don't have a shot.'" Tré shook his head his head in disbelief. "I just don't get it."

"So, you'd be okay with someone banging you if you were their second choice? You know, the best they could get?" Billie Joe asked. "What if she was thinking about someone else while you were doing her?"

"If I was doing her, she wouldn't be thinking about anyone else," Tré purred.

"Seriously," Billie Joe said.

"I don't know. Depends if it was a one night thing, or a thing thing." Tré twisted his face in confusion. "I guess I'd be turned off if she starts sayin' some guy's name. I mean, if she wants to do that, she can go get a little toy and scream all she wants."

"But you'd rather get laid than not," Billie Joe pointed out.

"It's like this," Tré leaned forward in his seat. "There's two kinds of sex, a fuck and sleeping together. With a fuck, I just want to get laid with somebody, me an' h—her. Pretendin's what you do in your bunk at night. You don't need someone else."

Mike crinkled his nose in repulsion. "Ah, dude, I didn't need to know that."

"A fuck is for sex," Tré stated. "It's like scratchin' an itch. No mushy emotional stuff. Get it now? That's what groupies are good for."

"But they're in it for the emotion, aren't they?" Mike's mind involuntarily drifted to one woman in particular.

"Which is why I don't sleep with groupies," Tré finished complacently.

"I don't ever want to be a groupie," Mike said mournfully.

"D'you know how many bands probably eat groupies for breakfast? How many assholes there are that would completely take advantage of them? Rock an' roll supposed to be dangerous, but that's stupid. That's how you get crazy stalker people. Yeah, they deserve it, but... ." He trailed off and shook his head. "The farther you stay away from them, the happier everybody else is," Billie Joe stated heatedly.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "A little touchy or what?"

Billie Joe's face went utterly smooth. "No."

Why is he so twisted up? Was there something I never heard about? Mike slid his eyes over to Tré. The drummer parted his lips to ask, but Mike flicked his eyes towards Doug. This was personal, and not a word would they get if the manger was around. Tré shut his mouth and annoyance marred his face.

The rest of the ride to the studio remained silent. Upon arrival, like obedient children, the men filed out of the van to the parking lot. Doug, upon seeing Billie Joe's black expression, warned, "Try not to kill anybody 'til after the shoot, alright?"

Billie Joe nodded sedately. As soon as Doug turned his back the guitarist made violent choking motions, curling his claw-like fingers around empty air. Vicious hate flared a sickly green within his eyes. Tré smirked appreciatively and made a mock-snobbish face for good measure.

Knowing that Billie Joe was not too far from throwing a tantrum, Mike sought o divert the front man's attentions. "You called Adie lately?" he asked.

Billie Joe's hands dropped to his sides. "No. I'm gonna call her today, I think. Apparently Joey thinks he's going to be Evil Knievel—minus the engine. Last time we—did I tell you this already?" Mike shook his head. "Well, last time we talked she thought he was going to try jumping over Jacob. You know, have him lie down at the end of a ramp or something and shoot over top."

"Do you think he did it?" Tré asked.

"Adie'll either tell me she caught him trying to, or she caught him doing something just as stupid. Like riding the bike on the trampoline or playing chicken in the street." Billie Joe shook his head. "What a kid."

"Make sure that Frankito don't hear about it. Anything the big boys do, he can do too," Tré rolled his eyes in fatherly exasperation.

"Man, you're so lucky to have just a daughter," Billie Joe told Mike. "She doesn't get up to shit like that."

"No. Not that I know of," Mike said. "She's pretty shy."

"Aww, you know the boys always fall for the ones that play hard to get," Billie Joe teased.

"Did you either of you fall for the shy girl?" Tré asked honestly.

"You gotta admit there's something, attractive, about a girl who acts real shy," Billie Joe commented. Mike twisted up his face without realizing he was doing it. "The way she looks away, you know. Like she's thinking dirty—"

"Okay! Enough!" Mike barked.

Billie Joe chuckled evilly. "What's the matter?"

"Quit talking like that," Mike grumbled. "I don't want to know what's going through some little bastard's mind when he looks at my kid."

"Yeah, it's like getting into the mind of a pedophile or something," Tré griped.

Billie Joe's eyes twinkled. "Daddy's little girls or what?"

"You're a boy dad, it's different," Mike explained lamely.

"I think being a boy is what lets me be a dad and not a mom," Billie Joe shot back.

"You know what I mean," Mike said dryly. "You're a guy, so you know what's going through your kids' minds, to some extent. We're dads of girls. We know what's going through boys' minds, what they would think if they saw them. You just proved that!"

"So, what are you getting at?" Billie Joe asked.

"Quit trying to psych us out," Tré grumbled.

"I'd call it revenge for not letting me sleep. Besides, I don't think Ramona is little Miss Shy. Not with her bloodline." Billie Joe punched Tré in the shoulder playfully. "She'll be the one in the middle of the party—"

"Would you just shut up?" Tré snapped as they stepped into the photography studio.

"Make me."

"Groupie lover," Mike muttered in Billie Joe's direction.

"Speak for yourself," Tré, switching sides, quipped mercilessly.

A bolt of shame twisted in Mike's chest. He fought back the desire to turn around and walk right back out the door. The laugh that escaped his chest was brittle but not brittle enough that either of his friends gave any sign of noticing.

"We're all our own groupies." He pasted a venomous smile on his face and looked Tré straight in the eye. "Pot calling the kettle black—" Mike caught his breath in a perfectly calculated pause, "—groupie."