When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 28

*Tré*

"I had a thought," Tré commented as they strolled over the stage.

"You? Alert the media!" Mike joked, his voice ringing up to the lighting trusses over his head.

"What if stuff could talk? You know, like they say walls have ears."

Mike raised one eyebrow and continued to meander alongside Tré. "Yeah, so?"

"Wouldn't that be weird?" Tré wheedled.

"Do you just mean like walls and doors or do you mean clothes and radios too?" Mike said.

"All of it," Tré confirmed.

"Well, that'd be a little fucked. C'mon, would you want your drums screaming at you every time you smacked them?" Mike asked.

"No, but wouldn't it be cool if like your table went 'Hey, your dog just had his ass up here, don't put that burger down.'?"

"What's the difference? I put my burger on the table without it talking to me. I just don't know that the dog has had its ass up there. I haven't bit the dust yet from ass germs. It can't be that helpful," Mike said implacably.

"You're killing all the fun out of this," complained Tré. "Go take a smoke or a bong hit if you're going to be so bitchy."

"Okay. I do not think I'd want my whole fuckin' house talking to me. It'd tell me a whole bunch of shit I don't need to know."

"So, what if stuff had eyes, and no mouths?" Tré widened his eyes crazily and cocked his head to one side. "Where, would the eyes be on a Coke bottle?"

"I wonder what a drummer without a mouth would look like," Mike asked himself loftily.

"If they gave bassists brains," Tré pondered with equal haughtiness, "where would they put them? Now, seriously, Coke bottle and eyes. Where are you gonna put them on the Coke bottle?"

"On the sides," Mike retorted, dragging his knuckles along the cinder blocks of the hall leading from the wing of the stage.

"Yeah, but when you pick it up, then it can't see. Maybe they're on the bottom?"

Warming to the topic, Mike replied, "Nah. Then it can't see if you put it down. And you can't put it on the lid, 'cause you take that off."

"Maybe it would be on the sides, but higher up?" Tré mused, hoping Mike would continue to play along.

"I guess so," Mike replied languidly.

"What about tables—no, what about toilets?"

"What sick bastard would put eyes on a toilet?" Mike demanded as they wandered in a loop. This lap, they approached the stage from the back rather than the wings.

"I don't know, but that's not the question." Tré shifted into haughty judge mode. "We're here to decide where the eyes should be."

"Well, I guess if I was going—" Mike stopped short.

Tré, already steps ahead before he noticed that Mike was no longer at his side, turned to see the bassist become exceedingly pale.

"You okay?" Tré asked.

"Um," Mike swallowed hard, "kinda stage fright."

Tré frowned in confusion. "You don't look good."

Mike closed his eyes and dragged his hand down his face. His shoulders jerked forward suddenly. Tré stepped back in anticipation of projectile vomit. Mike's jaw clenched so that Tré could see the muscles bulge under his skin. A panicked expression swept over Mike's face, and he tore off at a jog.

Screwing up his face in pity and disgust, Tré allowed the bassist to go for the bathroom alone. The drummer cringed and hoped that Mike made it in time.

"Billie."

Tré frowned and narrowed his eyes, peering at the forest of crates before him. The voice was soft, more like a moan than a word. Nevertheless, Tré managed to understand it. His stomach clenched uneasily. If he took a few more steps, would he want to see the cause of the moan?

Curiosity tugged at Tré. It was enough to sway his indecision. He owed it to Billie and Billie's family to find out what would make a woman moan his name. Senses fully alert, Tré crept forward.

His ears waited to hear deep breaths and the whisper of clothing. His eyes settled on a dark mass, trembling beside the guitar racks. Even before he could make sense of what he saw, his brain screamed that maybe he had just missed it. Maybe the one had heard his friends coming and ran, leaving his lover behind.

A longer glance told Tré that he had not come upon the aftermath of a tryst. A black bandana, as identifying as hair color on another person, immediately revealed the person's identity.

No way in hell would Billie be fucking Knight. No fucking way.

Despite his first inclination to figure out the reason for the trembling, Tré drew up short. What if this was part of a prank?

Tré dubiously eyed Knight's shuddering form. No one could shake for that long without real pain.

You can't help her. She's the enemy, he argued to himself.

Tré bridled warily as Knight went limp, rolling to her side. Keeping a cautious eye upon her, Tré snuck over to one of the black trunks stamped with his name. He flipped up the lid, used one hand to keep the lid from closing on his head, and rummaged. With his spare hand, he dug amongst the spare skins and stands until he found his box of sticks. He pulled out one, shut the lid, and edged back to Knight. Using the butt end of the stick, he apprehensively prodded her shoulder.

Her eyelids fluttered; Tré jumped back. Knight made no further movements, so Tré again crept closer. This time he spoke with his prodding.

"Hey." Poke, poke. "Hey." Poke.

Knight's arm slashed upwards, but she missed Tré's stick by a massive distance. She groaned and muttered something that sounded a great deal like a curse. Tré knew that his lack of height and lack of skill had equated to many defeats in adolescent scuffles. A few wizening years had taught him to select his battles carefully.

Theoretically, he should be able to take Knight on one of her good days. Half-dazed, with slow reflexes, the woman before him was no match for Tré. He did not believe his factual assessment for a heartbeat. This was Knight, and Tré's gut twisted at the thought of provoking what had to be a violent temper.

Out of pure reckless inquisitiveness, he prodded her again. This time, Knight caught the drumstick. With her eyes barely open, and the tremors returning to shake her body, she weakly attempted to wrest the stick from Tré. A half-hearted tug on his part resulted in his sole possession of the stick.

Knight drew herself up to rest on hands and knees.

"I don't suppose," her body gave a violent seize, "you got any painkillers on you?" She gulped air in shallow breaths.

Tré's mind presented him with a mixture of motives. If Knight was faking, it was in Tré's best interests to deny her request, and therefore foil any plan. If she was not, then he had her at his mercy.

"I might," he crossed his arms, "but what'll you give me? Tylenol don't grow on trees."

"I'm sure that you...of all people...could afford to give...up one tablet."

Is she in pain, or is she just trying to stick me in a trap? Come on, would she ever beg? She can't be hurting that bad.

"What are you gonna do if I don't?" he challenged.

Knight tried to laugh, but only succeeded in blowing out a few breathier puffs of air. "Well, what... do you think?" Her arms began to tremor a moment before she dropped back onto her side.

"You never answered my first question," Tré persisted. "What are you gonna do for me?" As he waited for a response, he began to doubt his judgment on Knight's pain.

"What...do you want? I'm...not going to...make...an offer. You tell me." Knight's chest rose and fell swiftly.

"I want you to tell me your life story. Lie right down, and spill it all."

A triumphant gleam warmed Knight's yellow eyes. Tré's skin crawled as Knight's eyes changed again and stared at him like those of a dead thing. A second later, they cleared.

Her voice was strained. "Little late for that."

Her eyes clamped shut. Her body continued to twinge. Tré waited uneasily until the shakes passed. Knight remained silent.

"Sure. Fainting. That's an original idea!" He scowled. "You know, I'm onto—"

"What happened?"

Tré scuttled away from knight at the sound of Trista's voice. "I just found her like this," he said quickly.

Trista's eyes were puffy and weariness deepened her concerned frown. "How long ago?" Trista knelt and tried to get Knight to sit upright.

"I don't know, couple minutes. She was like," he held out his hand, making it tremble violently, "shaking...do you want some help?"

"Yeah. That'd be good." Together, they lifted Knight to her feet. Tré noticed Knight's weight shifted from him to Trista, apparently of its own accord. If the crew chief was awake, her face did not show it. Tré ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he surveyed Knight's still face.

"So," he said breezily, "seen much of Mike lately?"

A massive blush tainted Trista's cheeks. "Uh no. Just in passing really."

"That's kinda screwy." Tré remarked simply. "I figured he'd be all over you."

"Oh," Trista said softly.

Knight's arm around Tré's shoulder suddenly grew quite heavy. Trista led the way, taking what seemed to Tré the longest route back to the trucks. As they went down another hall, Tré continued to test his theory.

"Did you know that she," he tipped his head in Knight's direction, "went parental on Mike's ass? Told him to fuck right off."

No response, spoken or otherwise came from Knight.

"Oh really. I am not in the least bit surprised." To Tré's ears, Trista's accent highlighted the bitterness in her words. "I wouldn't say she went parental—did Mike tell you?—more like she was acting like a boss."

Tré pushed open a door, using his back to hold it as Trista and Knight came through it. "I heard about it. If Mike hadn't told me, somebody else would have. Take over a hundred people, tell them to live and work together twenty four seven, and you get this massive communication network."

"But... ." Trista trailed off, with a sigh. She glanced resentfully in Knight's direction.

"I'm not going to bite your head off if you talk to me," Tré said. "Here, I'll talk to you first. What was it you were about to say?"

"How can you really know anything? I mean, we don't—aren't supposed to—talk to you guys."

"Yeah, most of the roadies don't. But, I got my own little connections." Tré grinned at her.

Trista chuckled and shook her head. "And how can you do that—oh, d'you want to just speed up just a bit? That's the truck there—and not get caught?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out." Tré responded, stretching his stride to match Trista's speed.

"Obviously you would talk to Tiny," Trista thought aloud. "And maybe Woofer, and Kevin, but you'd never get—oh wait. Keely. Keely would know lots."

Now it was Trista's turn to smirk knowingly as Tré tired to hide an embarrassed grin.

"So," she teased, "just how far have you gone?"

With a wink, Tré replied, "A lot farther than you and Mike."

Trista threw her head back and laughed wryly. "I don't suppose you and your 'communication network' could arrange anything for me?"

"If you will it, your majesty, I will attempt to see it done," Tré proclaimed. "And if any stand in my way, off with their heads."

Trista's grin was forced, and her eyes were wide with unease. "Yeah. You're not serious are you?"

Suppressing merriment at her discomfort, Tré replied, "Yeah! No bullshit."

Trista's hold on Knight loosened sharply. Tré shifted to make sure Knight did not tumble onto the ramp of the truck.

"It's not like he'll bite" Tré continued innocently. "Not unless you ask him to. He's a bit weird that way. With all the girls I've seen him with, he's just big wuss."

With one exception. Tré kept that thought to himself, saving it for a time when he could be sure that Knight was awake.

Trista led the way to Knight's bunk. "You're joking," she reiterated.

Tré let out a bark of a laugh. "Wish I was. Man, tryin' to fuck him? 'How about now? Can I put this there? Can I do this?'" Tré shook his head as he waited for Trista change position in order to lower Knight to the bed.

"You'd be hearing, 'Yes, yes, yes,'" Tré threw his voice up to a shrill cry. "But it would be all because of his damn—what's the word for that?—hesitation. But maybe he's a real tiger," Tré rumbled, enjoying the deeper blush on Trista's cheeks, "rawr baby, you know what I mean?"

Trista nodded quickly, but kept her eyes on Knight. Tré helped the young woman ease Knight onto the bed.

"You, when you find out which it is, have to tell me. It's been so long since we did anything, I want to know if he changed his style."

Trista edged off the bunk and stood beside Tré. The drummer noticed she seemed extremely uncomfortable and rigid.

"I don't even want—well, I do want to know—but don't go there, please," she said nervously.

"It's not a huge secret. Anybody can tell you that there's two parts to a relationship, sex and everything else. If one sucks, the other had better be pretty damn fine, or the whole thing goes down. We've known each other since like high school. We spend more time together then we do with our family, so how the hell else are we supposed to stay together this long?"

Trista stared in shock at the drummer, but then burst into giggles.

"I'm not kidding around. I'm being fucking straight up serious. You ever seen Billie's love tackle? That's like, whoa man, get down or else get the fuck out of the way."

"You never give a straight answer, do you?" Trista said.

"One evening and enough booze, anything can happen," Tré replied, allowing the remark to refer to the activities of his band and to his way of speaking. "Hey, are you going to do anything? You know, for her?"

Trista sighed and gazed down at Knight. "No. There isn't much I can do. She doesn't like being coddled."

"Oh really?" Tré snorted.

"Even if I, for some reason," her eyes narrowed, "wanted to help her, there's nothing. No ice packs or those heat-able bean pillows. I can't do that. She wouldn't want anybody thinking that she was feeling poorly."

"So that's why you took the long way out here," Tré said.

"Yeah," Trista replied shortly.

After a moment of silence, watching Knight, Tré came up with a cruel idea. He shoved his hands into his back pockets. Trista gave no sign of noticing. Her features had stilled until the rivalled Knight for immobility and severity.

"So," Tré asked conversationally, all the while watching Knight, "What do you know about a 'Wren'?" Knight's left ring finger gave the tiniest of twitches.

"Wren?" Trista glanced over in surprise. "She was one of my parents' friends. I never met her. She died. Why?"

"Billie and I think that the Wren Knight knows is one that we were friends with. She moved to England, and your accents are English."

Trista said emptily, "Oh. Well, I guess that's interesting," Her tone brightened. "Too bad I never met her. I would've had someone to introduce me to you guys."

"Well, you got to meet us anyways," Tré commented.

"Yeah, but it's not the same. This is work," Trista explained. "It's not like I could come with her and follow you guys around and you guys go to all the cool places that you liked to go to when you were my age. And then maybe, we could go to Mike's restaurant for tea, then to Adeline and get the tour, and then to the studio, and play around.

"Then, at the end of the day, we might even get to stay at one of you guy's houses—probably yours because you probably have more rooms. But if we did stay in a hotel, then we would go to your houses anyways to visit because that's what friends do."

Pausing to take a breath, Trista coloured sharply and ducked her head. Her hair swung over her face, hiding her embarrassment.

"You have had a lot of time to think about this," Tré said slowly.

What would she do if she found out she was Mike's kid?

"Yeah I am just going to put myself into the lives of three guys I just met, riding the coattails of a dead girl."

It was on the tip of Tré's tongue to promise such an excursion, but decided against it. As he had experienced with his own children, handing them a near-replacement seemed to increase their distress. No matter how much of a shine Tré had taken to her, Trista would think it was just a generous but insincere offer. They were not friends. Trista's fantasy balanced mainly on the interaction of old comrades whilst she watched unobtrusively.

"If it makes you feel any better," he said. "You're pretty much right on with the imagining."

Trista sighed. "Thanks. Actually, thanks for it all never would have made it back here alone. And, um, I don't know how to say this. Could you please not tell anyone about her collapsing? She probably won't be happy I got you to help."

No she won't. Since I got a little inside knowledge now.

"Does this happen often?" he asked.

Knight's fingers curled into a fist. This time Trista noticed the movement and frowned in consideration.

"No, not really. I think maybe the tour is increasing them, stress you know," she replied with most of her attention on Knight and less on her speech.

"Has she always had them?" Tré asked.

"Not since birth, I don't think. It's to do with head trauma or something, from the accident," Trista replied simply. "They said headaches were common side effects. It used to be once or twice a year, and spread far apart at that. I know she had at least one of these since we started. There's probably more that I don't know about." Her hazel eyes met Tré for a shy moment. "Thank you again."

"No problem." Tré winked at Trista and walked off the truck.

Trista did know how much she had helped Tré in turn. He would share what he knew with Billie Joe, and perhaps they would be able to come up with something to make Knight confess her identity.

*Knight*

Cool rage permeated every inch of her being. There was nothing more frustrating than this half-consciousness, able to think but unable to act.

Damn Tré and his snooping. The stupidity of Trista! How can anyone be so stupid?

More than once during that exchange, Knight had tried to fight back to consciousness. She had failed and Trista had chatted with Tré like a pair of old hens. Knight fully intended to have a chat of her own with Tré.

A new wave of anger sent Knight's thoughts scattering around in no comprehensible manner. She vaguely envisioned them as pearly flares against the blackness of her mind.

Yell at Tré. Not good. Pranks, revenge. Lesson learned. Difference. Me. You. Thief. Go to jail. Yell at Trista. Good—no, not good. Oh, the sorrowful one. Lesson. In time. Tré cowed. Submission.

Sliver lines shimmered and danced, criss-crossing back and forth. Off in one corner, the light curled into a ball and then sprang. The dazzling streak it created weakened Knight's hard-won grip on awareness. Spilling over her uncurling fingers, the silver drained away and left one last spark.

Lesson. Learned.