When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 5

Trè

"What do you mean there's nothing rotten in Denmark? I am the lord of all. What I say goes. So," Trè gave a girlish wiggle of his hips, "you can all kiss my rosy red ass!"

Jason White smirked and shook his head. "Dude, you do a better imitation of Doug than he does."

"Fucking prick," Mike muttered from his spot on the couch. He did not look up from the new bass balanced on his knee.

Billie ceased buzzing his lips to chide the bassist. "Take it easy. He might be listening. You know, got the walls wired up or something."

Trè bolted over to the mirror and flitted in front of it like an angry mosquito. "Hey bitch! Wanna go? Huh? Huh? I. Am onto. You!" He bared his teeth and growled at his reflection. Turning back to the band, he pasted a sweet smile on his face. "There we go. I think they got the message to," he whipped around and roared at the mirror, "Fuck off!" Immediately, a grin sprang back onto his face. "All better."

While everyone chuckled, Trè took the opportunity to sneak away from the common room. The show started soon, already he could hear the distant murmur of the filling audience, but he was sure he had enough time to find Keely. Even if she was busy, there had to be someone who was simply moping around. Tre's experience was that as soon as the doors opened, the roadies' down time began. Not that roadies actually had down time, since there were always cords to be patched and adjustments to be made, but at this was one of the least busiest points in their schedule.

Trying to look inconspicuous, Trè sauntered down the hallway, towards the stage. A grin hovered on his face, as he passed by the bathroom, a unisex bathroom no less. Unisex bathrooms. I must say they do have their perks, Trè reflected. But when you got some action going on in a men's only room, that's like ten times more interesting.

On a whim, he slipped into the bathroom. It was no different than the hundreds he had visited before. A set of stalls lined one wall, and a long counter lined the opposite wall. The one across from the door held a coin-fed washing machine and dryer. In the far corner, at the end of the toilet stalls, someone was using the shower stall. Black clothes, the roadie uniform, were piled messily on a chair beside the stall. A battered duffle bag rested under the chair.

All thoughts of Keely fluttered out of Tre's mind. Here was someone who was guaranteed to be not too busy to chat. Not wanting to seem like a stalker, Trè busied himself by inspecting his reflection and otherwise trying to look like he was not just hanging around to talk to someone.

The shower shut off with a creak. Trè listened as the person dressed. While he waited, he continued in his creative stalling by trying to get as much soap out of the dispenser as he could before lathering up his hands. God, I should just go. This is taking forever. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the shower's occupant stepped into the bathroom.

Using the reflection in the mirror, Trè flicked his eyes over the person. He tensed involuntarily as he recognized her. Even without the bandanas and contacts, Knight's stiff demeanor was impossible to mistake. Her mouth opened in a slight O of surprise before her expression rapidly iced over. A long scar sliced down the side of her face, halting at the corner of her eye. Coupled with a sarcastic sneer beneath her slightly crooked nose, she looked like she was about one wrong move on Tre's part from sinking her fangs into the drummer's neck and tearing out his throat.

All this he registered in with a fractionally minute part of his mind. The majority of Tre's thought process was stuck on what the hell? What did I do? . Like a shadow, she scooped up her clothes and stuffed them into the bag. A few seconds of probing resulted in her pulling out a pair of bandanas. Trè immediately moved over to the paper dispenser as she took her place in front of a sink.

"What'd you get on your hands?"

Trè frowned and looked over at her. He laughed uneasily. "Well," his mind fumbled for a quip and failed, "a little--"

"You didn't use the can. No flush. No door latching." She wrapped the bandana around her poorly dyed black locks.

Trè bit the inside of his bottom lip. this broad's just insane. Stalker creepy like. "Uh. Nothing. I'm a clean freak."

She fixated him with her frozen stare. "Really."

Feeling bold, Trè stared back. He was getting the distinct impression that this woman was toying with him, like a cat and a mouse. Trè could not stand being manipulated; it had a tendency to fray his temper. A strange expression flickered in her eyes. Before Trè could pinpoint it, their staring contest ended with the arrival of the young roadie whom he had noticed during the introductions. Immediately, Knight looked back at her reflection and swiftly secured the second bandana around the lower part of her face.

The other roadie halted in mid-step. Trè continued drying his hands, keeping an eye on her. The best way to make acquaintances among roadies was to simply act like a human being.

"Oh, uh, hi." She swallowed so hard; Trè could see the muscles move in her throat. "You're--"

"Trista."

The deep cold in Knight's voice resulted in an instant change in the younger woman's demeanor. The hopeful and delighted expression on her face evaporated. With her head hung a great deal lower, Trista slunk towards the stall. As she put a hand on the door, she snuck one more glance at the drummer. Sympathetically, Trè grinned at her. He received a fleeting look of surprise before she slipped into the stall.

Out of spite, he glanced back at the older roadie. "They say we're not supposed to talk. Sacred code or something. That's bullshit. I don't think anyone's gonna die if I talk to you guys. So, since you seem to be the queen around here, I'm letting you know. Don't get on her case. Don't get on anyone's case."

Knight's voice took on a faint English accent. "I hate to break it to you, Mr. Cool," her mouth twisted mockingly as she addressed him formally, "but there's reasons for these rules. They get broken, and we'll be out of a job. Maybe some of us would be able to stay on. Others," she flicked her eyes in the direction of Trista's stall, "would be out on their asses before you could say 'Bob's your uncle'. I bitch at everyone, and everything runs smoothly. If you want your show to go on, you do your job, and keep your nose the hell out of mine. Make sure to tell your friends, 'cause I only need to do one warning."

"Or else what?" Trè challenged. "Going to fire me?"

Her accent persisted. "Keep away from us. Please." She pulled a contact lens case out of her pocket. Not looking at him, she said simply, "I've learned how to make lives living hells. I can make any little prank you could come up with look like a toddler's work. And, if you bitch to Doug, he's just going to tell you that you shouldn't talk to us." She cocked her head to the side, listening to something that Trè could not hear. "You better get scooting off, Drummer Boy. It's probably time for you."

Trè raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? You think you can outthink me? No. Aren't gonna happen. You're on. Let's go. Bring it. Right now."

"You want to fist fight?" Knight's hand slid back down to her pocket. "I'll fight."

Trista came rushing out her stall and rooted herself between the combatants. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed at Knight.

"I'm--" Knight stopped speaking and what was visible of her face grew stony.

Trè threw a glance over his shoulder. Mike lounged in the doorway, a curious look on his features. Billie Joe, with arms crossed, stood at his side.

"Something the matter here?" the guitarist queried.

Knight shook her head. "No. We were just on our way. C'mon." Tugging Trista along, who looked caught between delight and irritation, Knight slipped past the two band mates and out the door.

Mike half-turned to watch them go, and Billie Joe asked playfully, "What were you doing? Harassing the roadies?"

"More like the other way around," Trè muttered.

For a long moment, Mike frowned to himself before turning back to Trè. "You had to have been bugging them. And why would you try to--no, never mind. I know the answer."

A smile teased on Billie's lips. "I'm willing to bet that you're still gonna try pestering them."

"The one, Trista? That her name? She seemed okay. Kind of cute." Mike mused.

Billie Joe shoved Mike, "Horny bastard. You'd never think that if you weren't on the rebound."

Seeing the hurt flash in Mike's eyes, Trè shifted the topic onto another track. "Nah, you're not too far gone. Otherwise you'd be hitting on the other one." He shuddered dramatically.

"Is she really that bad? Like a female Doug? Or just plain evil?" Billie Joe asked.

"Smarter than Doug. More like..." Trè paused to think over the encounter. "Hyper-protective," he pronounced finally, "with a bit of bad-ass bitch mixed in." Tre's theatrically nefarious snigger echoed off of the walls of the bathroom as his gaze on settled Knight's forgotten bag. "Oh, by the time I'm finished with her, she'll know the meaning of bad. And we're going to start right now."