When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 7

*Mike*

"Well, there's others too," Tré mused. "Like Adie, and Anastasia," he winced. "Maybe I should shut up now...um, there's that cashier at the gas station on sixth, and that one bartender over in London too."

"Point taken."

Both silent, the two men wandered under the shadows of the large curtains. Snatches of conversations drifted towards them.

"--over here under the box."

"How was I supposed--"

"--said to him, 'you better just--"

"--brought you into this world, and I can take you out," Recognizing the voice, Mike drew Tré to a halt by putting a restraining hand on the drummer's chest. "This is your first warning. You should feel lucky it's me and not Doug. He'll bloody well crucify you." The words were coming from the other side of the curtain.

This sounds interesting.

"Not much more than you do. What happened to you anyway? We leave home and you're a totally different person."

"Tris, I have to be like this. Your dad would kill me if he knew you were here, and that's not the least of our problems. We make one screw-up and we get fired, or someone gets hurt. Leave the band alone. You know that. Don't try talking to them. I know they seem nice, but they're dangerous. If you want male companionship, hang around with Nick. Or Tiny. Or Felix."

"Dangerous? And Nick isn't? He's a sodding prick. And why should I not talk to them? You do. You just saw Keely do it. Just because I don't have experience doesn't--"

"I'm not out to get you. If you get fired, I can't go home with you. I need the cash. Where will you go? What why you decided to come in the first place? Or was that just a cover-up?"

"All I'm asking is that you treat me like everyone else."

"I do. I don't let Nick get away with anything, and I don't let you get away with anything."

A muffled snarl cut through the black cloth. "Fine. Whatever." A pause. "What if they talk to me first?"

"They won't. And if they do, tell them you're busy. Trista, they're grown men. Watch out for them."

"'And go off and play with Nick.' Right? How's a young buck like him any safer?"

"He's safer because he's young and.... If you don't know, I'll let you figure it out." There was a shuffle of feet, and the conversation did not resume.

Mike looked over at Tré and said, "Wanna bet who that was?"

"Crazy." Tré rolled his eyes. "I told you she's way-out-there crazy. All the more fun. A wack job for backline chief."

A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision caused Mike respond distractedly as he looked for the source. "Yeah."

At the far corner of the backstage area, in the shadows, stood a young man. Challenge and defiance wafted off of the younger man like an actual scent as his harsh brown eyes stared at Mike. Faintly, Mike recognized the man from the pre-show introductions. Instead of acknowledging the other eavesdropper, Mike looked away. So, that must be Nick.

*Trista*

Trying not to seem like spoiled brat was nearly impossible. Knight's little scolding--which had been unreasonably harsh--had done nothing to improve the semi-permanent sour mood Trista had found herself in lately.

Who pissed in her breakfast anyways? Or drink or whatever? She just got super bitchy. Musta been some sort of screw up during the show.

Whatever the cause, Trista knew Knight had been a great deal more irritable after the show than before it. Restlessly, she rolled over on her tiny bunk. After nearly a full month's worth of nights previous to this one, sleeping in the crew truck seemed impossible. Trista was begining to wonder if she would ever become used to the rumbling, the snoring, the creaking, the rattling, the whirring, and the hundreds of other little noises.

It's so blinking noisy. How in the hell am I supposed to sleep?

Scowling, Trista rolled over so she was facing the small aisle between the bunks. Everyone that she could see slept soundly. She had done the same amount of work as they, yet Trista could not attain their deep slumber.

Sighing, she flipped onto her back and stared at the bunk above her. I'm going to be dead tired tomorrow. I gotta sleep! Think empty nothing thoughts. Happy thoughts. Slowly, Trista summoned up images of peaceful places and events that had not ever happened. The imaging did not work. She felt as if the more personal the ideas became, the better everyone in the truck could hear her thoughts.

Unhappy, Trista grabbed her jacket from under the bunk and draped it over her head. The added darkness did the trick. Within moments, Trista was asleep. Some time later, her concious mind fell into the midst of a dream.

In a large place, possibly a stage, she and Nick stood facing each other. A distance of about seven feet separated them. He was arguing intensely with her. Both of their voices were cold and level with hate. Trista had the impression she was trying to hurt Nick, and he was trying to defend himself.

His face twisted in anger, and Trista knew something bad was about to happen. The scene shifted. Nick was now directly in front of her, with his hands on her arms. Instead of struggling, as her mind screamed she must, Trista stood stone still. An odd sort of anticipation kept her rooted to the ground.

Swiftly, he began kissing her, on her neck, her lips, her cheek, her forehead. Despite her urgent need to twist away, Trista remained compliant. Her mind whirled in shock as she leaned forward to encourage him. On and on it went, crossing boundaries that shattered as soon as they were touched.

One, yet separate from her dream self, Trista thought miserably, Why him? Why would this be him? Why not Mi--someone I like? The dream took a much more suggestive turn. Stop! No more. DO NOT GO THERE.

A treacherous voice pressed forward. Yes.

I can't believe this is happening. Please don't go there. C'mon Tris, you'd never do this in real life. Why now? Just stop.

Test it out. Yes. Oh yes. Go. This other voice, that Trista recognized as her own, proceded to give instructions to her body in the dream.

Don't do it. Oh God, please. I don't really want this. NO! Stop. This isn't--

Gasping, Trista threw the coat off of her head. The truck had stopped moving. Some of the bunks were unoccupied, signalling the start of a new work day. Closing her eyes, Trista bit her lip as the dream came flooding back. Self-loathing struck her so intensely that she was subject to a nearly overpowering wave of nausea. Trista winced painfully and covered her eyes to stop the interior of the truck from spinning. A shudder wracked her body as she remembered the feelings--desire, lust, need, excitement, and worst of all, joy. Softly, she moaned into her hands.

Never. Not with him. I don't care if Mike's "dangerous". Given a choice between him and... I'd take Mike any day. He's not half as dangerous as, as Nick.

Still feeling disgusted, Trista shoved on her sneakers and tottered out of the back of the truck. The harsh Chigcago sun, though filtered through the smog, was still many times brighter than the inside of the truck.

"Morning sunshine." Trista stumbled sideways, heart hammering in her chest. Looking over, she stared at Nick. His kohl-lined eyes were sharp with concern. He held out a cereal bar. "Got this from the vending machine, figured you might want a little something after last night."

Trista's mind did a mental stumble and collapsed in a heap. She stared at him before squeaking, "Last night? What about last night?" Oh bugger. It wasn't a dream, was it? It has to be a dream. It has to.

"Well, nothing, I guess, if you're just going to ignore it. You just look a little roughed up." He waved the bar at her. "Want it?"

Trista felt a hollowness creep into her legs. "Last night. What happened?"

Nick made a show of looking over both his shoulders. "I don't know if we should be blabbing about your personal life right here in the open. Besides, if you don't know, I don't know nothing either." He smirked at her in a self-satisfied manner.

For a moment, a wild desire to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his eyes rolled seized Trista. She raised her hands in a half attempt, realized she was about to touch him, and then remembered she really did not want to touch him at all. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she glared at the ground to compose herself.

"For Chrissakes, Nick!" Trista pleaded, "What happened last night that you seem to know so much about?"