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scribblinlenoreSo, yeah, Patrick was in some pretty crappy bands back in his pre-Pete-Joe-Andy days. In the worst one, nobody could play an instrument but him. The lead singer was the king of the misheard lyric, another turnip boy, the Ford stuck in the road, just…no. Really the only reason the other guys even bothered was to meet girls who might actually sleep with them, not that they were all that successful at it.
That was a really good band compared to this one.
It's been a long--he's tempted to say century, but probably it's only been an hour of screeching and caterwauling and some truly ear-splitting feedback as the band-that-wasn't-the-band-on-the-demo tortures one after another of Patrick's favorite songs.
They finish up the latest assault on his love of music, and the singer, Brad, Patrick thinks his name is, smiles at him, kind of disturbingly like a puppy waiting to be petted. Apparently, Patrick is supposed to say something here.
"Um. So. That was…Saves the Day."
Or, you know, it was supposed to be. But, hey, kidnapped, so he keeps that to himself. And, seriously, Pete so better be working really hard to get him out of here.
Brad's head bobs up and down enthusiastically, as if Patrick has paid them some huge compliment just by managing to recognize what that racket was supposed to be. "We learned it just for you, dude. You know, 'cause it was the first song you sang for Pete."
Patrick's not sure what he's supposed to say to this. Thank you, not so much.
Not for the first time, Patrick can't help thinking, things like this are supposed to happen to Pete. I'm the boring one, seriously, ask anybody. And then he has another flash of oh fuck, oh fuck that he handed over the password to his blog to this bunch of maniacs. But they asked for it--and, hey, kidnapped--so he'd given it up. Jesus. He hopes they haven't started a pop-punk-to-the-death (or, you know, to-the-pain) war with My Chem or Panic or something.
The bassist--Patrick never caught his name and thinks of him as the squirrelly little dude who's so not Pete Wentz. He leans in to Brad, and then Brad starts doing the aerobic head-nodding thing again. "Oh, yeah, yeah. We totally should--" He beams at Patrick. "Dude, it's a little rough, but we've been working on 'Grand Theft Autumn' and--"
"Oh, hmm," Patrick says quickly. "Maybe we should take a break?" And, hey, kidnapped, so he adds weakly, "You know, don't want to strain your voice."
Although, really, laryngitis would be a good sound for this guy.
Brad nods solemnly. "Good point, dude. Us singers got to take care of the pipes, right?"
They don't make him go back to the room with the cot, which is good, because Patrick may not be prone to claustrophobia, but that little cinderblock prison would put anyone's zen to the test. Their hideout is some kind of warehouse that's seen better days. Mostly it's empty, just their gear and a few metal folding chairs.
Their drummer, who looks nothing like Andy but appears to have copied his tattoos in fairly wholesale fashion, pulls a chair over for Patrick. "Take a load off, dude."
The rest of them drag over chairs of their own and circle around, watching Patrick like they're waiting for him to start cracking jokes or something, like they're all just guys in bands hanging out together. Patrick starts to wonder if he's the only one who remembers, oh, hey, kidnapped.
The guitarist sits down next to him, and Patrick thinks he could probably get a contact high going if he breathes too deeply. Why is it always guitarists? He totally doesn't know.
"Man, you want--" He digs a joint out of his pocket.
"No, thanks, that's-- I'm good."
Too bad Joe isn't here, Patrick thinks, and then realizes what that would mean. He offers up a mental apology: Um, yeah, no, sorry, dude.
"Patrick doesn't do drugs," the squirrelly little bassist who so isn't Pete Wentz pissily informs baked guitarist guy, as if Patrick isn’t sitting right there.
Guitar guy shrugs. "Whatever."
He ambles off, no doubt in search of someone to toke up with, and squirrelly little bassist who so isn't Pete Wentz throws himself onto the chair beside Patrick, cutting a vicious "he's mine, back off, he's mine" glance at his bandmates. And seriously, this is the kind of crazy-ass obsession that Pete is supposed to inspire, not Patrick. Didn't anyone get that memo?
The squirrelly little bassist leans into Patrick's space until they're brushing elbows and pretty much sharing the same oxygen supply, and hey, so he does have one thing in common with Pete. That's just awesome.
"I knew you weren't the one who wanted to dick us over, leaving the show like that. I told everybody. That's Pete. It's not Patrick. Didn't I tell you guys?" He looks to the drummer dude, who just shrugs, as if he's learned to ignore squirrelly little bassist when he goes off on some rant. "And, seriously, where does Wentz get off? That no-talent douche. Everybody knows the band is all you, Patrick. Dude, you totally need a new bassist." He bats his eyes, as if offering himself up for the job.
"Um. Yeah. No." Fuck being kidnapped. Nobody bad-mouths Pete to Patrick's face. "Pete can play just fine, and there wouldn't be any Fall Out Boy if it weren't for him. All instrumental punk-pop, yeah, probably not going to get us too far. And, hey, I'm not saying I'm the best musician in the world, but anyone who thinks I'm, like, you know, pretty okay, has Pete to thank for that. Because he's made me the musician I am. And, seriously, why do people think I want to hear shit about Pete? What? You think I'm going to be all 'hey, you're right, Pete sucks, he's totally fired.' Yeah. Just. No."
He runs out of breath and realizes he's been, you know, kind of yelling at his kidnappers. Um.
Squirrelly little bassist has turned totally red in the face, and shit, this really is a pretty crappy time for a relapse of Patrick's old anger management issues.
"Dwarp, give him a break, okay?"
Patrick looks up, and there's the tall girl with the creepy smile from the night before, and, how fucked up is it that he's only here because he got peer-pressured into a Pink Flirtini?
"I have a right to my opinion, Gemma!" Dwarp proclaims indignantly.
"Dude, you're talking about his boyfriend." Gemma slants a sympathetic look Patrick's way.
"Um--" Patrick stutters.
He could say: you only think that because Pete tells anyone who'll listen that we're in love and getting married, but seriously, I've seen him propose to shoes he really likes. Then again, the look Dwarp is giving him has kind of a hopeful vibe to it, and Patrick has two thoughts about that: a) just…no and b) does no one else get that he's only here because he's kidnapped? He decides there's really no need to blurt out that Pete isn't kidding about that whole gay above the waist thing.
Dwarp mumbles, "Some douchebags have all the luck."
He slinks away, and Patrick breathes a little sigh of relief until Gemma plops down. Because, hey, Pink Flirtini! It doesn't exactly make him want to have a friendly chat with her.
"I'm Brad's girlfriend by the way," Gemma starts up cheerfully, like she has no concept that Patrick might be holding a grudge over, you know, being drugged and kidnapped. "So, Patrick, you seem like you're about a lot more than just being a rock star and shit. Am I right? Are you into what's going on?"
"Um, you mean--" He scrunches up his forehead. "What do you mean?"
"The big picture, dude. Thinking outside the military-industrial-entertainment complex box. A whole new paradigm. Getting this revolution moving."
He puzzles that over and thinks maybe…she's talking about politics?
"Oh. Um. So, yeah. I mean, I'm pretty liberal, and I like to do what I can. Although, you know, I'm not all that comfortable talking about it a lot in, like, interviews and stuff. That's more Pete's thing than mine."
Gemma shakes her, looking frustrated, like he's gotten the answer wrong. "No, dude, that's totally, you know, reality-based. Can't take down the system as long as you admit there is a system. Right? You gotta, you know--" She waves her arms dramatically. "You know?"
"Um. Okay?" he says uncertainly.
"Yeah, yeah, I thought you'd get it," she says excitedly. "We've got, like, a manifesto and everything. Okay, not written down and stuff. But, hey, I'd be happy to walk you through it--"
So, Patrick realizes, these are his choices. He can either listen to music that makes him wish he'd just go deaf already or hear 101 ways to start a non-reality-based revolution.
He looks around desperately for Brad.
"Oh, hey, weren't you guys going to play 'Grand Theft Autumn' or something?"
***
Nate's car turns out to be a classic Dodge Charger.
"Sweet," Pete says, buckling the seatbelt. "Your brother's got good taste."
"It was our father's."
Pete angles a glance at him. Michael's face is determinedly expressionless, but Pete senses a story there.
They ride in silence. Pete starts to squirm in his seat, drums his fingers on the dashboard. On the best of days, he's got so much restless energy it feels like he's going to vibrate right out of his own skin, and this is not the best of days. He reaches for the radio, fiddles with the dial, and hits on "About A Girl." His opinion of South Florida goes up a notch.
Michael turns it off with an aggressive twist of his wrist. Pete hums the chorus, biding his time, and when Michael is busy checking traffic, Pete flips the radio on again. It quickly turns into a battle of wills, off, on, off, on, until Michael shoots Pete a look that practically screams, I will punch you in the face if I have to. Pete has seen that look often enough from Patrick. He's learned to take it seriously.
The radio stays off. Pete stares out the window.
When that gets boring, about two seconds later, he shifts in his seat to look at Michael. "So, what's up with you and the hot chick? Fiona. That's her name, right?"
There's no visible reaction, but Pete knows when he's hit a nerve.
So he does what he does, pushes it a step further. "She's really, really hot."
This earns him a quick, cutting sideways glance.
Pete holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm just saying."
He goes back to looking out the window, only now he's grinning.
They pull up in front of a house, the kind with plastic flamingoes in the yard. Pete likes the mom already. He trails Michael up the front walk. The door flings open, and a short, round blonde woman flies out, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
"Michael, you might not think the coffee maker is important, but it has sentimental value. Your aunt Rosie gave it to me and your father as a wedding gift, you know."
"I know," Michael says wearily. "I know. That's why I'm here. Mom, this is Pete."
"Oh, hello." She brushes her hair back from her face. "Any friend of Michael's is always welcome."
"Pete's more of a client, really," Michael says nastily.
Yep. Definitely hit a nerve.
The mom gives Michael a hard look. "Still welcome." She tilts her head at Pete. "Are you usually so pale? No, no, I didn't think so. Come on in. I'm sure Michael hasn't given you anything to eat except yogurt."
Pete follows her inside. "You've got a beautiful home here, Mrs.--"
"Westen. But call me Madeline. How do you feel about grilled cheese, Pete?"
Yep, he and the mom are going to get along just fine.
Ten minutes later, Pete is ensconced at the kitchen table with a sandwich fresh out of the skillet, a big bag of Ruffles, and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi at his elbow. Michael has the coffeemaker disassembled on the counter, a little pinch between his eyebrows as he tinkers with it. Pete gets another flash of Patrick, huddled over GarageBand, making magic happen. His throat goes so painfully dry the grilled cheese nearly gets stuck.
Madeline sprawls in the chair next to Pete, lights up her third cigarette, and to take his mind off things, he starts regaling her with stories of his adventures on tour.
"Did someone make you jump off the top of those speakers?" She frowns. "You weren't pushed, were you?"
Pete shakes his head, holding back a smile. "Nah. It's just-- this thing I do. You know, the crowd likes it. Usually I don't break anything."
"Michael went through a stage where he liked to jump off the top of the garage. I had to take away his Spiderman sheets. It scared me to death. You scared me to death, Michael." She raises her voice at him.
"Sorry, mom," he says automatically.
Madeline lets out an exasperated sigh, a sound Pete is all too familiar with from his own mother. "So, what did you do? You couldn't go on with the concert like that."
"Well, I probably shouldn't have, but…" He makes a wry face. "Man, that hurt like a son of-- a whole lot. But I got one of those rocker boots, so we didn't have to cancel any shows."
"Not even one?"
Pete shakes his head. "Couldn't let down the fans."
"What a responsible young man!"
Pete ducks his head, letting his bangs fall into his face. "Aw, thanks, Mrs. Westen."
"Madeline," she corrects him. "Here, have some more Pepsi." She tilts the bottle and fills his glass all the way up to the top. "Michael, did you hear that? Pete played with a broken foot, just so his fans wouldn't be disappointed."
"Pete's practically a saint, mom," Michael answers dryly.
This is tantamount to shouting "I dare you to be an asshole" in the world of Pete Wentz.
"Hey, Mrs. Westen." Pete smiles winningly. "I mean, Madeline. So I met…Fiona is her name, I think? She seems like a really cool girl."
Madeline nods as if she never plans to stop. "That's what I keep telling Michael. But will he listen?"
Pete widens his eyes for effect. "Oh, you mean Fiona and--"
"Not any more." Madeline shoots a baleful glance at Michael, who in turn scowls at Pete.
Pete rests his head on his hands. If Patrick were here, he'd actually be having fun.
"I still don't understand how you could let a wonderful girl like Fiona get away." Clearly, this not the first time they've had this conversation.
Michael's jaw clenches so tightly it looks like it hurts. "Mom, this really isn't a good time--"
"Well, when is it going to be a good time, Michael? At this rate, I'm never going to have grandchildren!"
Pete pulls the Ruffles bag closer, ready for some fun, but Michael's cell phone puts an untimely end to the show.
"Yeah, Sam, what'd you find out?" He listens intently, and his gaze flickers over at Pete.
Pete's stomach lurches, the sandwich threatening to come back up. He feels like the biggest jackass for dicking around while-- Jesus, let Patrick be okay. Just let him be okay.
The conversation seems to go on forever, although it probably lasts less than a minute, all "yeah" and "okay" and "keep me posted," the kind of vague-ass nothing that's just crazy-making. By the time Michael finally hangs up, Pete's fingers are curled around the edge of the table so hard his knuckles have turned white.
"What?"
"Sam did some digging, found out the members of the band are also members of something called Revolution America. It's a small radical group, although no one seems very clear on what they're radical about. As far as we can tell, they spend most of their time selling pot. But it's possible that kidnapping Patrick means they're trying to ramp up their activities. "
Pete stares. Possibly his mouth falls open. "Seriously? I really thought they were totally full of shit."
Michael frowns. "You knew about this?" With the implied, and you didn't think to tell me about it?
Pete shakes his head. "No. Not really. Just-- something they said in the note that came with the demo. That they wanted to be the world's biggest band because music starts revolutions. I thought they were riffing on Gerard." Michael's expression is completely blank, so Pete clarifies, "Gerard Way. He likes to say music saves lives." Still nothing.
"Oh." Madeline starts nodding. "My Chemical Romance, Michael."
Michael stares at her like he wonders who took his mother and left this woman in her place.
"The McCrary boy down the street--you know the one, Michael, comes to mow the grass? He was playing their music last time he was here, and I asked him about it, and he went on and on." She drops her voice confidentially. "I think he might have, you know, a bit of a thing for, not Gerard, the other one." She waves her hand. "The brother."
"Mikey?" Pete nods distractedly. "Yeah. That happens. So does this mean--" He looks almost helplessly at Michael. "Are they going to hurt Patrick?"
"There's no reason to believe that," Michael says carefully. "But it does add…a dimension. We should go, get ready for tonight."
"Oh, Michael, do you really have to rush off?" Madeline gets up, hands on her hips. "Pete didn't even get to finish his sandwich."
"It's business, Mom. Here you go. The coffee maker's all fixed."
Pete feels heavy-limbed and numb, like when the dosage is off on his meds. But he manages to stumble through thanking Madeline.
"You come back anytime," she tells him warmly.
Michael starts for the door, and Pete falls in behind him. Madeline shadows them the whole way. "I don't know why you don't bring your friends over more often, Michael. You know how much I like meeting new people."
She waves goodbye from the porch as they drive away.
Pete can't sit still in the car. He twists and untwists his hands in the hem of his hoodie, jiggles his leg up and down. He's got snatches of "Saturday" playing in his head. Jesus. Patrick.
"Were you bullshitting me back there about this group? Are they, like, fucking terrorists or something?" There's a pause while Michael chooses his words, and Pete snaps. "And don't talk to me like I'm the fucking client. I want the truth!"
"All right," Michael says levelly. "Sam didn't find any evidence this group has ever been violent, and my feeling is that we're dealing with the Three Stooges of radical activism. But zealots, even incredibly stupid ones, can be unpredictable. So we get Patrick away from them as soon as possible." Michael meets his eye. "Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. That's the plan."
Pete's heart slams against his ribs with sudden hope and the need for Patrick now, now, right fucking now. He has to grab onto something, anything, so he won't go crazy, and he reaches for the most convenient distraction.
"So, seriously, man, what's the deal with you and Fiona?"
Michael's eyebrows knit together almost comically. He's not the first person confused by Pete's zigzagging moods and conversational about-faces.
"Dude, I'm just saying. I don't get why you're not all over that."
"Uh-huh," Michael says perfectly unruffled, not at all what Pete was going for. "So why aren't you all over Patrick?"
This shuts Pete up, for a second at least.
"Told you. We're just--"
"Hey, it's none of my business," Michael says, so casually it's infuriating. "But you seem to spend about ninety percent of your life with him. Your nostrils flare, your eyebrows go up, and your eyes widen any time he's mentioned, all classic signs of attraction. And the way you talk about him sounds like you're talking about your wife." He flashes a smile at Pete. "I'm just saying."
There's nothing in any of this that comes as a particular surprise. Pete's job is self-excavation, and he knows all the twists and turns in his own psyche. For self-preservation purposes, though, he's never allowed the words "I'm in love with Patrick" to congregate together in his head, and now that they're cuddled up all close and friendly, it feels like he's been punched in the gut by the painfully obvious.
"I promised his mom I'd keep him out of trouble," he mumbles lamely, picking at a hole in his jeans, unraveling the threads. "I just-- I don't want to fuck him up, you know?"
There's a pause, and then Michael says quietly, "Yeah. I know."
***
What the fuck is Pete doing? This is a thought that Patrick has, oh, about a million-billion times in the average day. But he can't remember it ever sounding more shrill in his head than it does right now.
"So, dudes," Brad beams at the rest of his band, "I'm heading off soon to meet Pete and this label guy. When I come back, we are so totally going to have a record deal!"
They do a group high five, and Patrick feels a little like the veggie burger they fed him for dinner is going to come back up. He's pretty sure there's no way Pete talked someone from Island into flying down here on a moment's notice. It's just like Pete to think he can bullshit his way through anything, although Patrick would like to believe he'd be, you know, maybe a little more careful with Patrick's life riding on him.
God. He's never getting out of here.
"Hey, sorry, man," Brad tells him. "I've got to put you back in the other room while I'm gone. But when I get back we'll totally celebrate. You know, I was thinking we could open for you guys on your next tour, but then I started laughing. Because, seriously, we're going to be way too big by then. But maybe we can headline a tour together or something. It'd be cool to go on the road together, you know?"
He herds Patrick back into the cinderblock cell.
"Of course," the maniac ambition in his face dims a little, "I'm assuming that Pete comes through for us."
He narrows his eyes at Patrick, as if thinking up ways to make him pay if Pete fucks up, and that's just awesome. Really. Patrick wasn't sure his day could get any crappier.
Brad waves his hand. "Nah. What am I saying? He's going to come through. I mean, he does want you back, right?"
Patrick nods, because if there's one thing in the whole world that he can count on, it's this.
The too-big smile breaks out on Brad's face again. "Sweet. The next time I see you we'll be label-mates!"
He shuts Patrick up in the room, and there's the unhappy sound of the padlock snapping into place. Patrick flops down onto the nasty cot, stares at the bare, industrial wall, and tries to convince himself. Pete knows what he's doing, right? Jesus. Who is he kidding? Pete doesn't have a damned clue. Patrick is so very fucked.
His chest seizes up, and suddenly he can't breathe. It's like all those times before a show when he really thought he was going to pass out. Don't freak out, don't freak out, he thinks sternly at himself. Pete might fuck up on the small shit, but he always comes through on the big stuff. Not to mention that Patrick is practically Pete's personal property, at least as far as Pete is concerned. It's a notion that Patrick has never found exactly flattering, but in a situation like this, it might actually come in handy. Pete will put all that creepy-stalkery focus he's so good at into getting back what's rightfully his.
And then too...
Patrick's optimism gathers steam.
Pete is freakishly persuasive. Just look at all the stupid shit he's gotten Patrick to do over the years. Bedussey? Come on, he insists to himself. Brad doesn't stand a chance.
He gloats a little at the thought, until it occurs to him kind of bitterly that he wouldn't even be in this situation if Pete weren't so good at talking him into things. Coming down to Florida had so not been his idea. They'd just gotten off tour, and Patrick's plan had been to hole up in his apartment and do nothing but work and try not to see another human being for as long as he could swing it. Touring was great, but there was always someone around, and Patrick really missed the concept of "alone."
Then Pete showed up at the door.
"Hey, get packed. We're going to Miami to see that band. You know, the one you liked."
Patrick shook his head vigorously. "Nope. I'm staying right here and working on music."
Pete's answer to this was to drag Patrick by the arm to the kitchen because he needed coffee, insisting the whole way how awesome it would be in Florida.
"Get some sun. Drink a few margaritas. Hear some music. We need a break before we start on the new album. You need a break, Trick. Trust Dr. Wentzy on this."
Patrick sighed and made one last ditch effort, "Can't you get somebody else to go?
Pete shook his head, sipping at his coffee.
"Why not?"
Pete grinned. "Because you're my favorite." He leaned in and kissed Patrick softly, sweetly on the lips.
Patrick feels a wave of warmth just remembering it, warmth that curls low in his belly...and yeah, he needs to stop thinking about that right now. Jerking off to thoughts of Pete is a bad idea at the best of times, and, you know, kidnapped, so not the best of times, like, at all.
He stares up at the ceiling and lets out his breath and thinks unsexy thoughts. Dick Cheney and polar bears with the Arctic thawing out all around them and how that squirrelly little bassist so isn't the person he's trying really hard not to think about. Jesus. He's been doing this for too long, working so hard to keep his Totally Platonic flag flying, while Pete does everything in his power to make that just as fucking difficult as it can be, kissing Patrick and hanging all over him and sending him a love letter in pretty much every song. There are times when Patrick is convinced that Pete is the slinky-hipped karmic payback for some, like, atrocity Patrick committed in another life.
But the thing is: he's Patrick's slinky-hipped karmic payback. And if Patrick can just see him again, Pete can crawl all over him and tell every reporter they talk to that they're in love and going to Canada and plan to raise many adorable, vegan Wentz-Stumplettes and never mean a word of it. Patrick will be fine with that. He really, really will. Shit, he'll be fucking grateful. Just--
Pete.
***
Using an untrained civilian in a sensitive operation is never a spy's first choice, but there are times when there's just no way around it. Michael has learned the hard way that there are three key strategies for keeping a civilian-assisted op from blowing up in your face: Inform. Reassure. Empower. And then pretty much close your eyes and hope for the best.
Pete Wentz soon proves to be a one-man argument against the "empower" part of the equation. Michael doesn't especially need pointers on playing a music executive. He's done it before, and the day he can't outthink an opponent as apparently dimwitted as these kidnappers is the day he retires for good. The point is to distract Pete, to give him some harmless control over something. He's expecting a quick primer on bands today or the rundown of his record label's politics, anything but the fashion show it quickly devolves into. Three outfits later, and Pete is still cocking his head and wrinkling his forehead critically.
"It says I sell farm equipment."
The one before this had declared day trader on the way to bankruptcy court, or so Pete had claimed.
"Maybe a shirt without a collar." He taps his chin, considering.
Michael opens his mouth, sorely tempted to point out that the jeans hanging off Pete's bony hips look suspiciously like he borrowed them from someone's little sister, and as far as Michael is concerned, his sparkly hoodie says homeless person squatting in an old glitter factory.
"You said you wanted to look the part," Pete reminds him.
Michael breathes out slowly. "Fine. But this is the last one."
On the way back to his closet, he wonders if perhaps he should empower Pete out the nearest window.
By the time he returns in jeans, t-shirt and black jacket, Pete is perched on top of the vanity in the bathroom, straightening his hair with a flat iron. He's lost interest in his game of human paper dolls apparently, because he just glances distractedly at Michael and shrugs.
Michael grits his teeth and reminds himself that people often express worry in remarkably annoying ways. Pete is just more annoying than most.
"Let's go over the rules again," Michael prompts him.
"Act natural," Pete answers by rote. "Follow your lead."
Michael nods. "Most importantly, let the kidnapper believe he's going to get what he wants."
Pete finishes up with his hair and leans in close to the mirror to line his eyes. "So, no mentioning how much his band sucks then?"
"That would be something you'd want to avoid," Michael says sardonically.
"What I don't understand is why we can't just grab this guy and make him tells us where Patrick is."
He smudges the black line with his finger, and suddenly Pete's eyes seem darker, more bottomless than they actually are. Possibly this is something Michael shouldn't be noticing. Pete's gaze meets his in the mirror, expectant, waiting for an answer.
"You never want to up the stakes if you don't have to," Michael rattles off the explanation automatically, these tactics as natural to him as breathing. "The kidnappers aren't professionals. They won't be anticipating counter measures. Our contact will show up tonight in his own car. Sam and Fi are staking out the parking lot, and they'll plant the tracking device. Sooner or later, he'll lead us to where they have Patrick."
"And if it doesn't work?" Pete looks back over his shoulder at Michael.
"It will," he says confidently.
"But--"
"Don't," Michael cuts him off. "Leave the strategizing to me. You just worry about doing your part. It's natural to be nervous, but you really need to act like yourself. The kidnapper needs to feel that this is just about a music deal. Anything that seems out of place could spook him."
Pete nods. "I figured. That's why I'm--" He gestures with the lip gloss wand. "Getting ready to go out like I'm not terrified my best friend is going to be killed because I'm a stupid jackass who pissed off the wrong band."
"Nothing's going to happen to Patrick," Michael says firmly.
He catches Pete's gaze in the glass, and there's nothing even remotely held back in Pete's expression, those bottomless eyes practically begging Michael. To be right. To make it all better. Something. Anything. Suddenly, the sense of bodies and heat, the smell of sweat and Axe spray is overwhelming in the small space. Michael isn't even sure why he's still standing there.
The next instant, it's as if a switch is flipped. That painful honesty is gone, and the mischief is back.
"Hey, dude, you could use some--" Pete turns, dabs lip gloss at Michael's mouth.
Michael catches his wrist, fends him off. Pete grins like a lunatic.
"Is this what Patrick has to put up with?" Michael asks.
The grin fades instantly, as if Pete has had cold water thrown in his face, which was the point. The last thing Michael needs is distraction.
"A lot more probably," Pete says faintly. "He is my favorite person to drive nuts."
The scent of fear gets stronger, sour and uncomplicated, until it's all Michael is aware of.
He takes a step back. "We should go."
The club's parking lot is nearly full when they arrive. A first-time kidnapper, even a stupid one, would be cautious, get there early, keep an eye out for cops. Michael hits number two on his speed dial. "Sam. You got it?"
"Yep, Mike. Had no problem spotting him from the pictures we have of the band. Pulled the old staggering lush routine. Works every time. Our boy was way too busy cursing me out to notice Fi planting the tracker."
"Drunken lush routine, my ass," he hears Fiona scoff in the background. "I was in and out of there before you so much as slurred a word."
"Oh come on, Fi. I mean, hey, you're good. Okay. Very good. But the drunken lush routine--"
"Good work, guys," Michael interjects and snaps the phone closed.
"Show time?" Pete tries to sound casual, mostly fails, twisting the sleeve of his hoodie nervously around his fingers.
"Everything's set," Michael assures him. "You're going to do fine."
Inside, Michael scans the room, memorizes the layout, and finds the exits. He checks the crowd for anybody who stands out. A first-time kidnapper is nervous, will probably bring some friends along. They're not hard to spot. Three Stooges really does about sum it up.
Pete heads for the bar, orders a beer. "You said I should relax," he says when Michael gives him a look.
"Which is different than getting drunk," Michael points out. "Do you see the guy we're supposed to meet?"
Pete cranes his neck wildly as he looks around.
"Asking you to be subtle would be a waste of time, wouldn't it?" Michael deadpans.
"Seriously, dude. Do you want me to act natural or not?" Pete lowers his voice to a whisper, "Other side of the bar. What do we do?"
"Just let him come to us."
It doesn't take long before the guy gets up and starts pushing through the crowd towards them. He's thin and weasely looking, stubbled jaw, rumpled clothes, hair almost colorless, falling greasy and lank into his face. Michael bets he smells bad, too. Pete gets more tense the closer the guy gets, and unfortunately, it's not nervousness. He's practically vibrating with rage.
"Hey man," the guy says, smiling like they're all old friends. "I wasn't sure if you'd make it."
Michael winces inwardly, expecting this to set off a flash fire of ranting from Pete, don't you fucking get how important Patrick is to me, blowing the plan right out of the water.
But Pete just plasters on a PR-dream of a smile, more capable of bullshitting than Michael has given him credit for. "Hey, dude, you know how stoked I am about your music. This is Michael, the guy I told you about from the label."
Michael holds out his hand. "Good to meet you. Pete can't stop talking about your band."
"Brad." The guy is a little slow to shake, Michael notices, still trying to be cautious.
Time to shift into high gear.
"So, Brad, I hear we have some competition from Reprise. Let's sit down and talk about why you want to sign with us."
Michael sweeps him off to a private booth, spewing flattery and empty promises. Brad nods along to every word like a bobble-head doll. Pete trails behind, rolling his eyes at Michael when Brad isn't looking.
They sit. Michael doesn't stop talking. Pete does his best impersonation of listening like he cares. Brad's eyes get bigger and bigger and finally start to cross, overwhelmed by the pictures Michael is painting of screaming crowds and Madison Square Garden and the cover of Rolling Stone.
"So, we're good, right? We're all good. You're gonna sign with us. Right? Right? Tell me I'm right, Brad," Michael spits it out rapid-fire, leaning aggressively into Brad's space.
Brad blinks, a starry-eyed deer caught in the imaginary limelight. "Yeah, yeah, man. We're good. We're…fucking great!" He breaks into a ridiculous smile.
"I knew we could do business." Michael snaps his fingers at the cocktail waitress, who gives him the kind of look that usually goes with a switchblade to the ribs. Good for her, he thinks.
Out loud, "A bottle of Cristal, sweetheart. We've got some celebrating to do." He winks lewdly, like every bad cliché.
Pete ducks his head to hide a smirk.
Brad is the audience bad clichés are made for. "Oh, hell yeah!"
The champagne comes, and they chink glasses.
"Here's to all the platinum records we're going to be putting up on the wall," Michael toasts.
Pete chokes on his champagne, probably from laughing.
"So, you're working on an album, I hear," Michael breezes on. "Patrick's producing? That's good, good. We'll want you out touring immediately. That's not going to be a problem, is it?"
"No, no!" Brad's face is as flushed from all the attention as a drunk after a two-day bender. "Touring would be so fucking cool! But hey, hey, I've still got some questions. Will there be merchandising? I mean, we're gonna need merchandising, obviously. A band like ours? Can't disappoint the fans. And what about publicity? Rolling Stone is a start, but we gotta be out there, you know? Like seriously out there. And when do we play SNL? 'Cause we're really gonna want to do that, okay? Like as soon as possible."
Fortunately, Pete isn't drinking anything at the moment. Otherwise there would no doubt be champagne spewing out his nose.
Michael plasters on the smarmy smile that has always served him well. "Yeah, Brad, yeah, I like the way you're thinking. But I think we need to set our sights even bigger. Much, much bigger."
Brad's eyes are as wide as saucers. "How much bigger?"
Michael throws his arms open wide.
Brad starts to squirm in his seat like a kid who has to go to the bathroom. "Oh, dude. Dude. I gotta--" He waves his hand. "The rest of the band. I promised I'd call, let them know-- Be right back."
He bounces up from the booth, goes off to find a quiet corner to make the call.
"We're being watched," Michael says in Pete's ear. "Stay in character."
Pete's answer to this is to kiss Michael on the cheek.
"The character where I'm an executive at your record label," Michael clarifies.
Pete curls a hand around his shoulder. "If there's anybody in the band who's not a complete moron, they're going to wonder how I got you to agree to sign them without hearing them play for yourself." He kisses Michael's neck. "So I'm answering the question."
Pete's breath is warm against Michael's jaw. It lingers there.
"Not bad for a civilian," Michael says, his voice a little rougher than he'd like it to be.
He feels Pete's smile against his neck. "You only think I'm a civilian because you don't spend much time on the Internet."
Brad comes back to the table, practically skipping, and slips into the booth. "So, the band says hi. They're totally stoked."
Michael nods. "Good, good, that's what I like to hear. I'll want to meet them, of course. I've got this thing with Jay-Z, need to fly out in the morning, but I can make it back down near the end of the week. I'll bring the papers with me, and we can get this thing going. How's that sounding, Brad?"
Brad swipes a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Just-- Wow. Fuck!"
"Great, great." Michael pulls out his wallet, slides a business card with his fake title and actual cell number across the table. The last thing he needs is one of these dimwits calling up the label and asking for him. "I'll be in touch."
Pete is still pressed up against him, and Michael dips his head, says in a bedroomy voice, "You ready to--"
"Yeah, Mike, yeah." Pete slides out of the booth, all loose-hipped eagerness.
Michael follows, pretending not to see when Brad gives Pete the thumbs up. Mission accomplished, apparently. He rests his hand intimately on the small of Pete's back, and they start to walk away.
Brad calls after them, "Hey, Pete, say hi to Patrick for me when you talk to him."
A message. I like what I heard. A good thing, except for the way it makes Pete stop in his tracks, a look crossing his face like World War III is about to break out. Michael digs his fingers into Pete's hip, and after a second, Pete gives in and keeps going
Outside, Michael keeps Pete close at his side, partly because he doesn't know who might be watching, partly because he doesn't know what Pete might do. Pete doesn't complain. He moves on auto-pilot, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Michael drives them back to the hotel. "It doesn't look like anyone's following us, but just in case, we need to keep up appearances. Both of us will stay in your suite tonight."
Pete nods distractedly. He's staring at his phone as if he can make it ring with the power of his mind.
When they get to the room, Michael makes Pete wait outside while he does a quick check. It's clear. Pete trudges inside and slumps on the couch, phone clutched to his chest.
"It went okay tonight?"
Pete means it to come out a statement, Michael thinks, but he can't quite keep the need for reassurance from creeping in.
Michael nods. "Just as we'd--" His phone rings. It's Sam. "Yeah?"
"Brad's just leaving the club."
"Keep an eye on him, but don't get too close," Michael tells him.
He can hear Sam relaying the instructions to Fiona, and then her voice crackles in the background, "Tell Michael I don't need any lessons on how to follow someone."
Michael feels his shoulder blades relax just a fraction, because they're his team and they're on it. He's not going to have to look into panicked dark eyes and explain that Patrick's not coming back like he promised.
He closes the phone and is about to fill Pete in when his phone starts ringing. There's no doubt who it is, not with the desperate hope that lunges in Pete's eyes. He picks up and words come streaming out of him, "Are you okay? Have they done anything to you? They're not trying to make you eat meat, are they? God, I miss you. I missyoumissyoumissyou..."
Pete heads down the hall to one of the bedrooms, the words growing more muted until the door closes and they're blotted out altogether. Michael is glad. Other people's intimate conversations make him only slightly less uncomfortable than his own.
He settles onto the couch and waits. But Sam doesn't call back, and Pete doesn't come out of his room. The passing seconds have that surreal underwater quality time gets when nothing is happening. Finally, Michael gets up again and drifts down the hall, because he doesn't know what's going on. That's not how you run an op. He hesitates outside the door. Now that he's this close he can hear the low murmuring of Pete's voice.
Michael pushes open the door, steps inside. For a moment, he can't locate Pete. There's just his voice drifting in the air, the bed empty, same with the couch and chairs. Michael walks further into the room and finds him at last, wedged into the small space between the nightstand and headboard.
"Me too, me too," Pete says softly. "Trick, I really--" And then he blinks, dazed, before his expression twists into something that could cut. "I fucking hate you!"
Which means, Michael knows, that Patrick is gone, and Pete is talking to dead air.
"He okay?" Michael asks.
"For now," Pete says dully.
The platitudes line up in Michael's head for the choosing. Just stay positive and We're doing all we can and This whole thing will be over before you know it. He's said them all before.
His phone interrupts. "Yeah, Sam?"
He listens to the update, and Pete watches intently, and the moment Michael hangs up, he demands, "What?"
"It's nothing to get excited about," Michael tries to short-circuit the reaction he knows is coming. "We tracked Brad to a residence, but there's no sign of Patrick there. That's not unexpected. He'd want to play it safe, make sure no one was following--"
"Whose house?" Pete asks, with the kind of calm that comes before an explosion.
"His mother's."
"Wow, Mike. You found Brad's mom. That's just--" He clenches his jaw. "That's just fucking awesome work there, man."
"Brad's their ringleader," Michael tells him patiently. "He will go back to wherever they're keeping Patrick. It's just a matter of time."
Pete launches himself up from the floor, his hands catching Michael's shoulders, shoving him hard. "You fucker! 'We'll get Patrick back tonight, tomorrow at the latest'. Sound fucking familiar?"
Michael grabs Pete's wrists, forces his arms down to his sides. "Just calm down. This doesn't mean we're not--"
But Michael should realize by now that telling Pete to calm down is like waving red in front of a bull. Pete's eyes go bright with violence, and he lunges, jaw set, fists up. A hundred forty pounds of fury is no match for field-tested hand-to-hand combat skills, but trying to stop Pete without hurting him is trickier. Michael stands his ground, a brick wall deflecting blows. Pete flails away, more and more frustrated, his chest heaving as he growls motherfucker. Michael dodges swinging elbows and waits for Pete to burn through his terror. This is what happens with most people in these situations.
Of course, Pete Wentz is not most people. Michael isn't sure why he keeps forgetting this. Pete stills, and Michael thinks finally, but then Pete grabs Michael by the collar, catching him off balance. Michael stumbles, and Pete surges, mouth grinding against his, sharp teeth sinking into his lip. Michael can taste his own blood, and then Pete's tongue is trying to push down his throat, all spit and insistence and daring Michael to do something about it.
Throwing Pete up against the wall, forcing an arm to his throat until he's wheezing will just be giving him what he wants, Michael knows. He does it anyway, his patience slipping away like sand. Pete's head hits the wall hard enough that Michael feels the vibration of it in his arms, beneath his feet.
"Fuck or fight," Pete chokes out. "'s all good."
He manages to duck his head, just a little, just enough to swipe his tongue messily over Michael's hand, the hand that's pressed into his trachea. Because he wants Michael to hurt him. Because--
Michael doesn't let go, because Pete is one hell of an unpredictable little mood swing waiting to happen, but he does relax the pressure against his throat. "It's not your fault Patrick was kidnapped. The people who took him saw him as a means to an end, and they're the only ones responsible for what's happened."
Pete's chest hitches. His eyes have been flashing demented fury this whole time, and now they go even brighter, only in a different way. A truly horrifying thought crosses Michael's mind, don't let him cry, just don't let him cry.
Once again, he underestimates Pete's persistence, or utter lack of self-preservation, or possibly both. Because suddenly Pete is back in Michael's face, scrape of stubble against Michael's cheek. "Seriously," Pete slurs, biting kisses onto Michael's lips. "Fuck me. Hit me. Just-- something."
Michael forces him back against the wall, grips Pete's jaw in his hand, thumb beneath his chin, digging in. The human throat is a landscape of vulnerability. Just a few pounds of pressure here or there and it's all over. This is what experience has taught Michael. Experience that has filed him down until he is all smooth, deadly edges. Nothing surprises him anymore, not this certainly, fucking or fighting, the same story since the beginning of time. By all rights, at this point in Michael's life, things like loneliness, like desire shouldn't even exist for him anymore.
He bites Pete's lip, because it seems only fair. The taste of different blood in his mouth balances things out in a strange way. Pete is caught off balance for maybe a second. Clearly he expected Michael to come up swinging. But Pete is a marvel of knee-jerk reactions, and he's kissing back the next instant, trying to climb Michael like a tree. Michael's hands close around Pete's arms, pushing and pulling, a little bit like he wants to tear Pete apart. And maybe he does a little bit, because Patrick may not be Pete's fault, but Michael does blame him for this.
Pete shoves Michael away, just enough to strip off his hoodie and T-shirt. "I want you to fuck me." He grapples with Michael's shirt, manages to get it up over his head. "But first."
He sinks to his knees, grabs Michael's belt, hands rough and more than a little desperate as he pushes at Michael's zipper. He goes down like he's trying to choke himself on Michael's cock, like that's what he needs. Michael is happy to oblige, hands in Pete's hair, tugging too hard, pulling Pete in to every thrust. Pete gurgles, but it sounds nothing like stop. His tongue does dirty, tricky things, as if driving Michael insane is also something he needs.
Michael closes his eyes and doesn't think about anything at all. Experience has taught him.
Eventually, Pete pulls off Michael's cock with a wet, obscene pop. "Don't come. You still have to fuck me."
He scrambles to his feet, pushing his jeans and underwear down his legs, kicking them away. He yanks open the nightstand drawer, pushes lube and condoms into Michael's hands.
"Don't dick around getting me ready. Just put it in. I can take it."
Pete lies down on his stomach, shoves a pillow beneath his hips, and spreads his legs.
Michael opens the wrapper, rolls on the condom, slicks up his cock. He has no idea how long he's been hard. There's a part of him that feels disembodied, watching from a distance as he makes a train wreck out of this job. The rest of him feels hot all over, a burning in his stomach as he climbs onto the bed and makes a place for himself between Pete's splayed thighs.
He braces a hand on Pete's hip and presses his cock against Pete's hole. Pete tenses as Michael pushes in, but he doesn't say stop. So Michael keeps going until Pete is moaning and twisting beneath him, a sheen of sweat on his back, and Michael is panting and shaking and all the way inside.
There are spasms along Pete's back, no doubt because it hurts, but he takes a deep breath and lets it out. His shoulders drop, and his entire body just relaxes, like he's thrown up his hands and let go, freefalling into the experience. Like he doesn't know the definition of the word "caution." Michael can't remember, can't even imagine anymore, what that's like, and it sparks a resentment he didn't even know he had. He pulls out and shoves back in. Pete needs to feel something, and Michael is going to make sure he does.
Pete groans. "Come oooooon. Do it. Fuck me."
It's the sound track of all the sex that Michael has ever had, and just like that, the resentment is gone, as mysteriously as it came. Michael sets a rhythm, deep, long, unhurried strokes. Because it's just sex, not punishment or redemption or anything else.
Pete works a hand underneath his own body, hips jerking in time to Michael's thrusts. He buries his face in a pillow, and words stream out of him. Muffled, but Michael doesn't need to hear to know, that it's really just one word, one name, repeated again and again.
Michael presses his forehead to Pete's shoulder, closes his eyes. He runs a hand along warm, smooth skin, the delicate dip of the back, and he could pretend, too. Slender strength under him, tight heat around his cock, and it would be easy enough. Except that experience has taught him how dangerous pretending can be, especially to himself. And sublimation isn't just sex.
He pulls out abruptly, flips Pete over. Pete comes up with fists flying, eyes hard and bright, serious about punching Michael in the face, at least until Michael shoves his knees back to his chest and sinks into him again.
"Fuck!" Pete arches up.
The surprised hiss in the word is gratifying. Michael pulls out and shoves back in even harder.
"Yeah. Do it, Michael." Pete's eyes sparkle in the dim light, his hard smile edged with sarcasm. "Fucking fuck me."
Michael slips his hands beneath Pete's body, lifts his hips. Pete sucks in his breath and bites his lip and jerks his own cock. He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat, and that makes Michael pound into him faster, almost brutally hard.
"Fuck!" Pete cries out, and then his ass is clenching around Michael's cock, and there's warm-wet spreading between their bodies.
Michael squeezes his eyes closed and comes.
The afterwards is all instinct: roll over, tie off the condom, get out of bed, methodically gather up his clothes, escape, escape. Because it's just sex, and it's over now. Michael is glad to know that whatever evidence he's leaving behind on Pete's skin is hidden in ink.
Pete lies sprawled where Michael left him, boneless and heavy-lidded, his sleepy dark eyes following Michael as he moves toward the door.
"Let's just--" Michael starts, stops.
Pete shrugs. "'s just sex. Shit happens."
His wide yawn slurs the words.
Continue to part three.