When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 8

*Trista*

"Are you sure you don't want this?" He stepped forward, offering the food. Instinctive revulsion forced Trista to step back. Nick rolled his eyes in contempt and shoved the bar into his pocket. "Last night, well," a gleam came into his eyes that chilled Trista, "you got into a little trouble. Knight bawled you out, and I accidentally-on-purpose happened to listen in. For the record, you still look as bitchy as when you were getting a strip torn off of you."

"And after that?"

"Well, I dragged around amps and trusses and lights and trunks and more trusses and more amps and more lights and--you get the picture." He grinned wolfishly.

"And then wh--"

"Nick, what are you up to kiddo?" Keely, even so briefly after waking, still managed to look as gorgeous as always. "Not pestering Tris are we?"

Though she directed her question at Nick, her eyes watched Trista. The tiny gesture of protection served to wash away Trista's momentary jealousy of Keely's naturally fine appearance.

"More like the other way around." Nick muttered, and then brightened. "But I guess that's something. Now, where were we? No, wait, I remember. You were grillin' me over last night."

Keely echoed, "Last night?" She looked from Trista to Nick and back again. "What happened last night?" Her voice rose to a surpised screech as she made a mental leap. "You two! Last night! Really? I never would—"

"Shush! Keely, no!" Trista leaped at Keely, grabbing the older woman's shoulders.

It was too late. From the far edge of the parking lot to the door of the arena, nearly every roadie in sight turned to look in their direction. A few catcalls and rowdy comments chased each other through the air.

"What?" Keely looked around in confusion. "It's not like you can keep a secret in this traveling gossip wagon. What's the matter with your lover-boy?" She flicked a short finger at Nick, who was doubled over and turning red with laughter.

"Keely," Trista hissed, "it didn't happen. I don't remember it actually happenin', and since it would involve me, then I think me not rememberin' is a pretty good clue that it didn't chuffin' happen!"

"Well, you never said anything otherwise," Keely protested.

"You didn't give me time!"

Keely rolled her eyes and extricated herself from Trista's clutches. "Okay okay. Sorry. False alarm people!" she yelled. "Nothing to see. Nothing. There, now, I'll just leave you two," she waved her hand as she searched for a term, "whatevers to chat alone." Giggling sporadically, Keely wandered back inside the crew truck.

"Oh God," Nick sucked in a huge breath of air. "God, that was fucking priceless."

Trista felt a smile edging its way onto her face as she watched him struggle to regain his composure. In a way, he reminded her of her old childhood playmates. His brown eyes were gleaming with merriment, and his hair looked like he was fresh from some sort of mischief. With another burst of laughter, Nick slowly straightened. A genuine smile warmed his eyes as he took in the faint curve of Trista's lips.

Instantly, Trista felt her face ice over. She was not his friend. They could not be friends. All he wants is to take advantage of me without worrying about catching something. Why else would someone like him follow me about? Look at Keely. Knight's just as eye-catching. It's not like I'm the prettiest thing around. I'm just the safest choice. For that, Nick was a loser; plain and simple.

Is he really? How many people make snap judgments like this? He just sucks at pretending to be some hardcore bad boy. Look, he thinks Knight's an icy bitch, but that's because he's stupid—or maybe he hasn't had the chance to know different? Trista frowned as she realized she was becoming more sympathetic towards Nick.

"You should watch your face some time," Nick commented dryly, "It's like watching a show. All sorts of things go across it, just like a screen. So, what do I have to pay to get a little voice for that picture show?"

"How about you tell me whatever it was you heard or saw last night and I'll let you live?" Trista growled.

"Say it like you mean it. C'mon. You sound like you couldn't even take on a fuckin' fly, let alone beat the shit outta me." Trista felt her temper begin to fray. Obviously, it showed on her face, because Nick swiftly shifted tactics. "Okay, I'll make you a deal."

Trista crossed her arms as she eyed up Nick. "What?"

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know under one condition: you and I each go do our little jobs. Then, at noon sharp, we meet back here."

"And what?"

His expression was devoid of any sort of scheming expression. "Then you and I sit down and have a civilized conversation. Then, I'll tell you what you need to know." Placidly, he stuck his hands into the pockets of his battered jeans.

"If I refuse," Trista thought aloud, "then what do you do?"

"I just go my separate way, and keep my mouth shut."

His sudden change in attitude made Trista all the more cautious. Out of a need to regain control, she stated, "Not at noon. Now. You can't set all the terms."

"I've got the upper hand, so yes I can," he stated smartly. "But, now's fine. Shall we pull up the nearest hunk of concrete and start?"

When Trista did not move, he lithely dropped himself onto the ground. Authoritatively, he tapped the cement beside himself. "C'mon. I'm not twisting my neck to talk to you."

Trista reluctantly sat down, keeping as far away from Nick as civility allowed. Sourly, she looked over at him. "Well, get on with it."

He snorted. "It's a conversation, not a torture session. I'm not going to ask about the time you puked on the teacher in first grade or the crush you had on Joe Somebody in grade ten. Okay? And I'll trust you'll be polite enough not to ask about the time I ripped my pants wide open trying to climb a fence, or the time I tried to kiss a girl and she basically ran inside her house." Raising his eyebrows, he looked over at her. The slight grin on his face was irresistible to not return. "Okay, now, let's do the basics. Favorite color?"

"Green or gold," she responded sharply. He may be kind, but I'm not going to make friends with the prick. I don't know why I don't like him, but I really do know that I don't like him. So, we're not going to be friends.

Nick cleared his throat. "This is the part where you ask me what mine is." He pursed his lips and cocked his head to listen. As Trista remained in silent agitation, Nick prompted, "Repeat after me...."

"What's your bloody favorite color?" Trista snarled.

"Civilized. Civilized. Play nice. My favorite color is, blue."

"Typical boy," Trista muttered to herself.

"I heard that." Nick shot back. "Now, your turn to ask a question."

"Why do you insist on annoying the hell out of me?"

"Rhetorical questions aren't allowed. Try again."

Figuring there was no way out of this torture without playing along, Trista leaned back on her hands and stared up at the grey sky. "Fine. What's your favorite, uh, type of weather?"

"Never really thought about that." He paused, and his eyes grew soft and cloudy. "I'd have to say clear, with a huge-ass thunderstorm on the horizon. A bit of wind, and bit of heat too. Yours?"

"A really windy day, the kind where its so strong that you can't even fly kites."

Maybe this isn't so bad after all.

"Okay, um," he pursed his lips thoughtfully, "what's your favorite food?"

"For desert or lunch or what?"

"Let's go with you being only allowed that food as the one you had to eat for an entire week."

"Hands down, I'd say homemade scones with a massive, disgusting, amount of raspberry jam. Yours?" Trista coughed to hide her stomach's growls.

Without a word, Nick tossed the cereal bar onto Trista's legs. He stared over his shoulder while he answered, giving Trista a chance to covertly gnaw on the food. "I'm kind of a sucker for moldy pizza crusts out of dumpsters."

Trista swallowed her mouthful and looked at him askance. "You know what that would taste like?"

"Yeah. It's a little wet, but at the same time, really stale. The mold makes it sort of bitter."

"You've eaten moldy pizza crusts?" Trista asked slowly. He's gotta be just winding me up. Pulling my leg. Right?

Nick regarded her with a dead-serious expression. "Have I ever, ever, ever, lied to you?"

"I've only known you for three days." Trista stated. "This is the first time we've had an extended chat. That's not a lot of time for you to start lying. If you're telling the truth, why'd you do it? Was it a dare?"

"No. I did it 'cause I was hungry."

Trista threw back her head and laughed scornfully. "You, are telling me, that you were a street kid? Nice try."

"And what makes that so hard to believe? Hmm? Gimme one good reason." He cocked his head sideways and narrowed his brown eyes.

"You're too healthy looking. You should have some sort of drug addiction or some emotional baggage that forced you out there. You shouldn't look so..."

"Hot?"

"I never said that! I meant you should be scrawny and have bruises under you eyes or some sort of psychological problems. No—wait, you have the mental part of that covered." Trista smiled sweetly as she delivered the barbed words.

Nick rolled his eyes. "Stereotypes. I'm not starving, but I sure as hell ain't a sumo wrestler. And maybe the bruises are hidden under my make-up? Or under my clothes? Some people are find it just as easy to hide emotional baggage under their skin. I betcha that every single one of your beloved band—I bet even his lordship the bass god—is so fucked in the head that there's some nights when they can't sleep worth a damn. But can you tell? Nope. Nothing on the surface. That's what the world wants now. Bullshitters who lie, and pretend to feel nothing. It's just easier to look the other way. No one likes to see someone else suffer because that means they've got to get the fuck off their fuckin' ass and do something about it!"

He opened his mouth to say more, and then abruptly slammed it shut. After a moment, a sarcastic smile twitched the corner of his mouth. "Is that enough emotional baggage for you?" the smile grew even more mocking as he sang, "And there's nothing wrong with me, this is how I'm supposed to be, in a land of make believe that don't believe in me."

Trista was taken aback at his outburst. She stumbled for something appropriate to say. "I'm...That's...You have a really great voice." Oh, bang-up job there Tris. Way. To. Go. You're supposed to apologize. Now if you don't sound like a Nick groupie, I don't know who does. Good show.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to nose in your business," she amended hastily.

"Nah, you weren't." His smile become slightly more genuine. "Thanks about the voice thing, if you meant that." He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Yeah." Trista continued on with the hope to turn his thoughts to brighter subjects. "It's not like you sound like a duck or anything. It sou—you sound really good."

"It's a blessing and a curse, you could say."

"Dare I ask how come?"

"It—with a few other things on top—is the reason I ate the pizza crusts. But, now—with a bed every night and meals and a little pay—it's all good. I'm fine. Happier than fuck."

"And if you are, I secretly have the ability to sprout flames from my nose," Trista replied solemnly.

"You should see yourself when you're bitchy, you come pretty close," he teased gently.

"I guess it's better than looking like a raccoon that just stuck its finger in a socket all the time."

"Hey, that was dirty."

"You said I was a bitch, so I guess we're even."

"No, I said you acted bitchy. Difference. Bitch. See? Now, for me to be even, you look like...." he tapped his scruffy chin slowly.

"You need a shave," Trista observed.

"I know," Nick replied absently. "You look like.... I don't know. I can't put a word to it."

"Is that a good thing on a bad thing?" Trista asked flippantly. Her insides began to twist uncomfortably as Nick failed to create a return quip. Instead, he crossed one leg over the other and stared at the tips of his sneakers.

"What do you think?"