When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 6

*Mike*

"That was fuckin' awesome. We did it! We pulled it off!" Billie grinned so hard, he looked like his face was in danger of cracking. Laughing, he hugged Adrienne closer.

"Yeeeah! Yeah! Fuckin' right." Tré launched himself at the couple for a brief, impromptu hug.

Mike grinned to himself, enjoying the moment. Nothing could dilute the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He threw a fist into the air and laughed. The two Jasons high-fived each other as everyone walked back to the common room.

"We are the champions," Billie roared out joyously.

"Drinks on me!" Ronnie chuckled as he picked up a bottle of brandy from the many beverages on a table. "What d'you guys want?"

"Cheech! Yeaaaah, Cheech baby." Tré slung an arm around Jason White. "How you doing tonight?"

"Pretty fine."

"Damn fine!" Tré corrected. "Right Mike?"

"Hell yeah." Mike responded as he swiped a glass and handed it Ronnie. "Just gimme a shot of whiskey."

Nearly as soon as the alcohol hit the bottom of glass, Mike was swigging it down. He coughed lightly and blinked rapidly as the whiskey roared its way down his throat. Before his throat could adjust to the whiskey's bite, Mike dumped the rest of the whiskey down his gullet. Swallowing hard, he wiped watering eyes and set the glass down on the table.

"And that's how you drink real booze," he declared.

Tré rolled his eyes as he plunked a straw into his Cheech. He daintily took a sip. "Really, Micheal," he stated in a faux-English accent, "you have no taste whatsoever. Shameful--Hey, Ronnie, can you tell the difference between a fake accent and a real one?"

"Depends on how good it is. Yours is pretty decent. We got all sorts of accents, so you'd have a time actually spotting an imposter. Most fakers do the blue blood accent, so I guess I could nail those ones. Why?"

"Ah, nothing, nothing." Tré shook his head and continued sipping his drink.

Mike waited until the chatter and excitement in the room was at full volume before sidling over to the drummer. "What's this about an accent?"

"Like I said, it's nothing. Seriously. Just something I was thinking about. Like, is there a point where you get so good at faking that you're actually the real thing?"

Mike laughed. "Story of our lives."

Tré took another sip of his drink, blue eyes darting around the room furiously. Cocking his head, and looking casual, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "There's something screwy about that Knight broad."

"God, you're starting to obsess over her. Some people are just weird. You should know that. What're you going to do about it? Or," Mike paused teasingly, "are you afraid of what she's gonna do to you after you trashed her bag?"

"Hey, it was both of us who did the trashing, but it's me who's gonna get into shit."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "So, you are scared, aren't you?"

"No. Never. I've got nothing to be afraid of."

"What's this got to do with accents?" Mike asked as he watched the two Jasons clink glasses together in salute.

"Okay, so when you guys came in, she was talking like Ronnie. But," Tré raised a finger from around his glass, "before that, she was talking just like you or me."

"That's... Weird," Mike responded slowly.

Tré nodded vigorously. "Fucked up. I want to know why. Which accent is her real one? Does she have one?"

"Tré," Mike said slowly.

"What?"

"Aren't you going just a little bit for the overkill here? She's just a roadie. Leave her alone. It doesn't matter."

Tré sighed and looked down at his half empty glass. Lazily, he sucked a bit more of his drink. When he looked up, there was a gleam in his eyes that Mike knew all too well.

"How about I distract Knight, and you can go after the other one?"

Ruefully, Mike smiled and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. The offer was viciously enticing and both of them knew it. I'm on the re-bound. I know it. I shouldn't make any sort of moves in that direction. Mike stared at his hands, feeling Tré's gaze upon him. I don't even have a crush on her. It's only lust, that's it. So? So what if it is? I'm a grown man. It's nothing to be ashamed of. But, would she be able to tell the difference? Maybe I don't want her to. Maybe I just want somebody to love me. There has to be someone. Why not her? Okay, I'll make a deal. If she likes me back, I'll go for it. If not, I'll just leave her alone.

"Now that you've decided--" Tré noisily sucked up the last of his drink.

"I never said nothing." Mike protested.

Tré's eyes sparkled as he polished off the alcohol. "Could read it in those sexy baby blues of yours. Let's go. Right now." Without waiting for the bassist's response, he set down his glass and started weaving his way through the celebrating group. Hurriedly, Mike placed his own glass beside Tré's and strode after his friend.

In the hall, Mike slung an arm over Tré's shoulders. "Are we actually doing this?"

"No, this is all some fantasy in your head. You'll wake up and realize that the entire time you've been sleepin' hunched over the wheel of your old truck." Tré dug an elbow into Mike's ribs. "Feel that?"

"Fuck." Mike used his free hand to massage his side. "Yeah."

"Well, what about this?"

Mike's arm was suddenly bending behind his back with agonizing force. Still holding Mike in the resist position, Tré roughly shoved Mike into the stone wall of the corridor. Screwing up his face in an effort not to yelp, Mike tried to dance out of Tré's iron-strong grip.

"Hmm?" Tré demanded. He gave Mike's arm another painful shove. "C'mon. Say it."

Mike tried to buy time to escape. "Say what? Nnngh!" A grunt slipped past his lips as Tré pressed the bassist's face into the wall. "Fine! Fine!"

"Fine what?" Tré demanded.

"Uncle. Okay? Uncle." Mike shuddered reflexively as his cheek received a wet slurp from Tré. "Fuck. You're just sick." He offered a smirk to show he was not completely offended as they continued on their way down the hall.

"So, whaddya want to do later?" Tré asked, looking around at the bustling pack of roadies who were disassembling the stage.

Lazily, Mike crossed his arms. "Ah, I don't know. The usual? Hit some bars?"

Tré weaved from side to side, his blue eyes darting all over the place as he replied distractedly, "I guess so—hey." He immediately began striding forward. Like lost kite, Mike trailed after his pal.

Tré made a beeline for a short, curvaceous woman who was coiling up a length of cord. What the hell is he doing now? Mike wondered. A second later, he answered his own question. He's going after this one. And I told him not to. Then again, I ain't much better, am I?

With a slight swagger, Tré sauntered up to the woman. "Hey."

She swiped her forearm across her reddened eyes, looked up, smiled, and looked away again. "Uh, hi gorgeous." Her voice was rusted and creaky.

Mike hid a grin under his hand as Tré asked, "Are you okay? Anything I can do for you?"

The woman laughed and continued wrapping cords. She shook her head and muttered, "You better get going. I'm not supposed to be chattin' with you. But, I bet you already know, I'm Keely."

"Okay, Keely, if Doug gets his panties in a twist, I'll talk him around. Now, c'mon, what's the matter?"

Mike struggled to look suitably sympathetic. Tré on the prowl, being charming and seductive, was a hilarious contrast to his usual blunt and cheeky self. Knowing he was losing the battle for solemnity, Mike turned his back to Keely and studied the stage. He kept listening to the conversation while casually keeping an eye out for Trista and Knight.

"It's nothin'. I'm just a bit of a suck for... " she started to speak and then cleared her throat, "that last song—God, it's bothering me just saying the damn title. You know how there's veterans from wars and they flip out when they hear thunder 'cause it reminds 'em of bombs? That's kinda my problem. Bad memories."

"Oh. Well, I guess you picked the wrong job if you want to avoid that."

"Tell me about it. I guess, I'll get over it. Touring, it's a cure for what ails you, right?"

Tré sighed, "For the average drummer, yeah."

"The average—Shit. You better get going." Mike frowned to himself. He was facing in the same direction as Keely, and he could see no sign of Doug. Only roadies, no one with authority, scurried over the stage in their matching black outfits. Curious, he turned to face Keely just as she began coiling another wire. "Just go, I'll chat you up later, maybe?"

"Sure."

Mike could not stop himself from winking at Tré as they began sauntering back to the stage. "Nice job man. Smooth."

"Thanks. Just my natural charisma." Tré slightly paused before asking, "You think I was hitting on her?"

"Well, that's kinda what it looked like."

Tré laughed and shook his head. "I wasn't. Just being friendly, that's all."

"Oh come on," Mike rolled his eyes, "you were too."

"No, I wasn't, I was just being friendly," Tré repeated as they strolled around the back of the stage.

Mike chuckled, "Just layin' the groundwork, you mean."

"I was doing nothing like that!" Tré protested with a grin on his face. "Nothing at all! Geeze, there is such things as plutonic, opposite-sex relationships."

"And when have you ever had one of those that actually stayed that way?" Mike demanded playfully.

"I've had a few!"

"Name one," Mike challenged. Tré bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling. A long minute passed, and Mike prodded his friend in the shoulder. "I'm waiting."

"Wren." The curt word flicked out of Tré's mouth before he clamped his jaws shut again.

Of course. Nice move Mike. Walked into right that one, didn'tcha? Mike adjusted his wristband as he tried to think of a response for his friend. I should be over this by now. It was a hundred years ago.

Finally, he raised his head. Ignoring Tré's look of apology, the bassist began ambling towards the stage—and the roadies. "C'mon. Let's do what we're out here for."