When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 4

*Trista*

That hypocritical bitch. Do as I say and not as I do?

Trista scowled more fiercely than before, swiping angrily at the hair hanging in her hazel eyes. The spite flowing through her veins added speed to her actions. With a click, she fastened the last carabiner onto a bar of lights. Much faster than any other rigger, she hauled on the rope. Swiftly, the lights ascended to their spot above the stage. Out on a catwalk, a roadie deftly caught the bar and set it down on the catwalk. Then, he moved on to the other side of the stage to catch another bar. The rope was tossed back down and Trista attached it to her belt.

Snarling to herself, she climbed hand-over-fist up her rope to the catwalk. The special rope mechanism attached to her belt would have required much less effort to lift herself up. Trista was simply annoyed enough that a little extra physical activity did not daunt her in the least. She welcomed the outlet for her frustration. Nimble as any cat, she swung over the railing and began securing the bar of lights to the ceiling's wires.

"Don't mess with the talent. Don't," her hissing voice raised an octave for emphasis before falling back to a growl, "mess with the talent. And what's she doing? Messing with the bloody talent!" The teen fell to muttering curses as she continued snapping on locks and tightening knobs.

Even after very little practice, her fingers were capable of working independent of her mind. Trista was able to watch the action below as she worked. The band was standing beside the broken truss. Fragmented glass glittered all over the floor beneath one portion of the truss. The other half had given way when the roadies had begun to lift it skywards. Spear-like, it had stabbed broken-end-first into one of the many equipment trunks. Like a shattered bone, it's other end jutted upward into the air. Trista hissed in sympathy as she recognized the decals marking the trunk as a container of instruments.

Tré's voice drifted up to her. "You gotta be fucking kidding!"

Billie Joe and Mike cautiously probed at the steel, tugging on it. Immediately, Tiny and Felix slipped in between the musicians and the box. The two roadies removed the truss with the crack of wood and the screech of steel. The trunk promptly cracked into two pieces and opened.

A weary silence filled the air as the musicians stared at the wreckage. Trista leaned over the railing for a better look. At least two basses had bit the dust. A guitar was bereft of its headstock. Ringing pathetically, a chunk of cymbal plunked to the floor.

Trista fixed her gaze upon the bassist. He shook his blond head in dismay. Unhappily, he propped his hands on his hips for a moment. He shook his head again before creeping forward to inspect the smashed basses.

Hell, why didn't I start out in the backline? Trista asked herself bitterly. A scowl, vanished by the appearance of the bassist, resumed its position on her face. Backline's not for rookies. Whatever. I could do what they're doing. Gaping like fish out of water.

"Well, there's no time to try and fix these before the show," Felix pronounced after he prodded the guitar.

A broad, sarcastic smile crossed Tré's face, "I know! Let's go shopping. Okay girlfriends?"

"How about we just send someone for them? You guys just stay here," Doug supplied.

"Forget it," Mike replied. "We're not some stuck-up pricks. If I'm playing on it, I'm going to pick it out."

"No, no, no," Billie Joe protested in an affected Shakespearean accent, "I would much rather sit on my silk couch, and be hand-fed peeled grapes."

Tré chuckled, "And I'll wear a toga with that flower crown and relax by the pool. Mike can be our concubine."

Leaving Doug standing, the band stalked away. Their derisive sniggers caused the tour manager's face to twist viciously. Malevolently, Trista bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile. Doug was a bastard, and he needed to be brought down a peg or two.

Idilly, she twirled a carabiner on her finger as she thought. Maybe I could come up and say 'Good job' to them. Maybe make a joke? Mike the concubine. That's bloody gorgeous. The clip went flying off her finger, spiraling out into space. Trista cringed and leaned back into the shadows of the catwalk as the carabiner clattered to the floor.

Like a predator scenting prey, Knight's head snapped up. Even from her great height, Trista could see Knight's bright yellow eyes narrow with dagger-sharp intensity. Trista schooled her face to insolent apathy and stared past the older woman. Regardless, Knight mouthed "Afterwards", pointed down at the floor, and jerked her thumb in the direction of the trucks. The message was quite unmistakeable. For a long moment, Knight maintained her powerful gaze before gliding over to speak quietly with Tiny. A bitter sneer curled Trista's lip. A lecture. All I have to do is drop one stupid clip and she's out to crucify me. Craptacular. Just smashing.

"In trouble again?"

Trista jumped as the deep voice sounded in her ear. Setting her jaw, she looked over and glared into a pair of sparkling brown eyes. "No. Don't you have somewhere to be?" she demanded shortly.

The young man smirked back at her. "I'm right where I need to be. Thought I'd check on you in case you blacked your other eye."

Trista rolled her eyes. "Bugger off or I'll black your eyes instead."

Instead of looking intimidated as Trista hoped, he looked intrigued. Severely, he pursed his lips. "Now, now. Be nice. When have I ever done you wrong?"

"Nick, shut up and go away. I'm not stupid. I know what goes on around here. In case you forgot, Knight told me all about you guys." Roughly, she pushed past him.

He got up and followed her. "And what did the Ice Queen tell you?"

"That the assholes will try to sleep with us 'cause we're 'accessible'. The bastards will try to make friends. And she's not the Ice Queen."

A mischievious smile played on Nick's lips. "Oh, she's onto me. Damn. I better just give up."

"Yeah, you should." With more force than necessary, she tightened a cable. "So, for the last time, you're not my type. You're no bad-ass, and you're not a jock. You're just an ass."

"And just who is your type? Guys way older than you who can," he paused, "hmm, play bass in a world famous band for example?"

A treacherous blush roared into Trista's cheeks. She hunched her shoulders and bent over a row of lights, hoping Nick could not see. "Go away. Now. If you're that bloody desperate, go find Keely. She'll do you a favor or two."

"Keely's a whore."

Trista looked over at Nick in disgust. "So? She's nice. It's not like she's trying to bang everything that walks by her whether they want to or not. She just likes...." Trista trailed off, at loss for a phrasing that would not be uncomfortable.

Nick leaned on the railing and looked out to the vacant theater. "One night stands," he finished. His eyes, partially hidden a few strands of patchily dyed hair, flicked surreptitiously in her direction. "I don't really go in for that."

"That's nice. I don't really care."

"You're just pissed 'cause you're going to get a strip torn off of you. Why do you let her do it? Tell her to fuck off. It always stops 'em dead in their tracks." Quietly, but not quietly enough for Trista to miss, he added under his breath, "Fucking parents."

"I can't. I'm not a selfish, childish--"

"You know you want to, you think it," he interrupted.

"--prick like you."

"Still, you're working this show. Ain't it in the spirit to tell somebody to fuck off?"

Trista put on a false expression of consideration. "You know what, you're right." She grinned inwardly as a look of pleased surpise crossed his face. "So, Nick, fuck off."

He rolled his eyes, "Sure. For now. You know where I'll be. And, you've got a helluva better chance with me than your pretty boy bass player."

"He's not a pretty boy. And he's not mine." Trista snapped after his retreating back.

His arrogant reply held a faint taint of scorn. "You wish he could be."

Trista sighed and finished securing the lighting truss, procrastinating as long as she could. Knight was never a complete ray of sunshine, and she was ten times worse when she became protective. The upcoming lecture would be Trista's third in two days. She was not looking forward to it. Though she would never admit it to Nick's face, she was already thinking a string of profanities. Wryly imagining his reaction if he found out, Trista climbed over the railing and descended to the stage. Only three hours remained until showtime.

*Knight*

The truss was a problem. If one snapped, the others could be prone to do so as well. One of the trucks had to have sprung a leak and dripped water on the steel. Rust had a notorious weakening effect, especially on the non-stadium stage equipment. As it was not intended for outdoor use, this particular kind of truss would be more susceptible to the elements.

Cautiously, watching Tiny out of the corner of her eye, she knelt amongst the glass and cocked her head sideways. The steel of the truss was sharp and shiny. Knight knew without touching it that the edges could easily slice through skin. Her eyes narrowed as she nudged the truss. Without a word, she swept over the other half and studied it's snapped end. Underneath the cloth covering her mouth, a grimly triumphant expression solidified her features. On both trusses, the steel's gleam was not confined only to the fractured planes. The gleam extended an inch or so from the cracks onto the unburnished and whole parts of the truss.

Warnings swirled ominously in her mind. A lost master tape. Lost? Or stolen? No, this is silly. It's nothing of the kind.

Knight threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching her too closely before peering intensely at the metal. No rust, not even the littlest hint, remained on the truss. Inspection of the other truss's snapped end resulted in the same conclusion. I'm might be a superstitious wench, but it's starting to look like we've got a bigger problem than just a broken hunk of metal and some smashed up instruments.

Just to be certain, Knight knelt and swiftly pulled off a glove. She ran her finger along the oddly lustrous steel. Her sense of touch, though dulled from calluses, confirmed her eyes' suspicions. Polishing chemicals could remove rust as easily as a rasp without creating additional damage. Any roadie could borrow and use a bottle of the chemical from Landon with little fuss. If someone had asked for a rasp to do the same job, the large, pink-hued man would have insisted the chemicals be used instead. Despite this, someone had rasped the truss down to the point where it had snapped in two under the stress of being raised into position.

Nobody's stupid enough to rasp a truss that thin just trying to take off some rust, Knight thought. And with the people around here, would anyone besides me be wary enough to inspect this and notice that it doesn't add up to a freak accident?