FOUR … better get out while you can…

“So, would you consider yourself a lyricist first, and a bass player second? And what is your favorite color?” Mackenzie ticked off a few words on her pad of paper and looked up expectantly, her face very business like.

Pete blinked at her, then burst out laughing. He leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers together behind his head. His shirt rode up about two inches, revealing tanned, taught flesh and a very interesting tattoo.

“Oooh, I like that,” Mackenzie said, leaning forward and pointing with her pen at his stomach.

He didn’t miss a beat, as was his custom. “What, my crotch? Thanks.”

Mackenzie flushed to the roots of her hair and shook her head, wishing she had a bottled water still. “No, your tattoo.” She flashed him a disapproving look. “I don’t make it a point to talk about people’s crotches, thanks.”

Pete leaned forward, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Maybe you should.”

“Thanks for the advice,” she replied wryly. “Now back to the questions, please?”

“I like red,” he responded, leaning his arms on the tabletop and watching her jot down the word ‘red’ with a grin on her face. “Is your hair naturally curly?”

She nodded, writing something that Pete couldn’t make out from across the table. He would have grabbed for the pad, but he liked to keep a specific distance between members of the press. Even ones whom he was desperately interested in. “My mom’s Irish,” she stated, looking up at him. “And I thought I was the interviewer?”

“I don’t remember us discussing who was the interviewee.”

“I thought it was implied that it was you, namely because I am the journalist and you are the rock star.” She quirked an eyebrow, her lips curled into a smile.

“Never agreed to that,” Pete stated dismissively. “What’s your middle name?”

“What’s yours?” Mackenzie fired back, enjoying the back and forth far more than she should. Both as a professional and as a feminist. Or maybe just as a girl.

Pete smirked. “Touché.” He cocked his head to the side and she noticed the faint hint of makeup lining his eyes, probably left over from the night before. She also noticed that she felt a slight pull in her chest when he smiled at her, which was never a good sign. “You’re not going to make this easy are you?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Mackenzie shook her head free of all thoughts of how attractive he might look naked (and scalded herself quite rigorously).

The look he gave her made her heart flip over, and she was very aware of the heat of her face and the fact that he seemed to know exactly what she had been thinking. Not good.

“You’re not going to make my asking you out easy,” Pete said matter-of-factly, standing to retrieve two bottles of water from the mini fridge to their right.

“Is that what you’re doing?” She asked, thanking him for the water and taking a long gulp.

He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, but apparently not very convincingly.”

Mackenzie smile sheepishly and brushed some stray hair out of her face, noticing belatedly and with horror that her hands were shaking ever so slightly. She hoped it was from hunger. “Well, I’m a little rusty,” she muttered tremulously.

Pete dropped down across from her again, letting his legs fall out into the aisle of the bus instead of cramping himself up by trying to fold himself under the tiny table where her legs were already taking up most of the small area. “I knew there was a story there,” he said gleefully. “Spill it.”

“How was it growing up in Chicago?” She asked, ignoring his obvious advances the only way she knew how. She pressed her lips into a thin line and adopted an expression of mild disinterest.

He laughed loudly and then sighed. “I heard they’re serving pizza in the tent today. Let’s go get some. My treat.” He jumped up and started for the bus door, but stopped and turned back. “Not that they require money, but if I pretend it’s my treat then I’ll at least score some points, right?”

Mackenzie shook her head, laughing quietly as he bounded out of the bus. She followed him at a slower pace, wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

*

Mikey was sitting at a table alone, eating something resembling salad and reading a magazine when Mackenzie and Pete arrived, looking for a place to sit. Pete dropped his tray down across from Mikey; it was practically groaning with the weight of all the pizza, salads and rolls he’d piled onto it. Mackenzie had a bottle of water, a salad, and a slice of plain cheese. Pete’s treat, as he’d promised. (Normally the talent wouldn’t have to pay, but the visitors would.)

“Here, Mike,” Pete said, sliding two slices of pepperoni over to Mikey and then tossing him a couple napkins. “Eat quick before Frank sees I’m feeding you.”

Mackenzie picked up her fork but then glanced curiously at Mikey, who was now across from her. “This is sort of like Cinderella, isn’t it? You get food, they eat it. And don’t allow you any perks like going to the ball?”

Pete laughed around a bite of pizza, and Mikey looked up at her in surprise. “Technically,” he said, adjusting his glasses and reminding Mackenzie of a nerd about to explain a science problem, “I’m not not allowed to eat.”

“Double negative,” Pete muttered, swirling some salad dressing over his lettuce. “Mikey gets caught up in stuff,” Pete explained to her, chewing noisily. “He has a plate of food in front of him, but forgets about it to read or talk on his phone or whatever. And then one of the boys fly in and attack his untouched food like piranhas. And that is why Mikey is basically about four pounds, soaking wet.”

“But you’re allowed to eat?” Mackenzie asked him, unable to keep the concern from her voice.

Mikey smiles at her, and she can’t help but smile back. “I’m allowed to eat. There’s no story there.”

“He has a fast metabolism,” Gerard states, dropping down beside his brother and ruffling his hair; Mikey grumbles and flattens his hair out again. “Can eat anything he fucking wants and can still wear clothes from the Little Boys section at Walmart.”

Apparently to showcase this, Mikey picks up a slice of pizza and takes a huge bite out of it.

“He’s a medical marvel,” Pete agreed, watching as Mikey devours the entire slice in one bite. “And eats like Frankie. Has he been teaching you his technique?”

“That is a loaded question,” Gerard replies primly, turning to Mackenzie. “Have we met? I’m Gerard.”

She knew this of course, as he was pretty identifiable even when her mind was elsewhere. His normally dark hair was cut short and colored a light blond that was practically white. Nearly as white as his pasty skin. He seemed to have that in common with his brother. The inability to tan. Not that tanning was good for you anyway, Mackenzie reasoned with herself.

“This is Mackenzie,” Pete said, jabbing a thumb in her direction. “She’s here to discover all our secrets and the skeletons in our closets.”

Gerard chuckled. “A journalist, then?”

Mackenzie nodded. “From The Scene. Hi.”

He smiled before going back to his food.

“You would have met her earlier if you hadn’t been dead,” Mikey said helpfully, finishing off his second slice of pizza and dabbing at his mouth with a wadded up napkin. “She was on the bus.”

Gerard’s eyes widened. “There was a girl on the bus and I didn’t know?”

Mikey looked at Mackenzie, and for some reason she found herself hanging on his every word with her mouth open and possibly even drool coming out. How embarrassing and unlike her. “Gerard thinks he’s got a sixth sense. He can feel female vibrations from one hundred yards.”

“It’s not finely tuned yet,” Gerard explained, gesticulating and nearly hitting his brother in the nose. “Off the record, though, okay?”

“Of course,” Mackenzie replied with an easy smile. She would do whatever they wanted as long as they trusted her enough to open up and let her write the most amazing story her boss had ever read in his entire life.

[lyrics: My Chemical Romance, “I Don’t Love You”]