West of Mars -- the Meet and Greet

Warning: today's outtake was brought to us by the letter B and involves abuse of clothing. And ShapeShifter's Mitchell Voss -- but that's not new..


It wasn't unusual for the bus to pull up to the hotel, for Charlie to go inside and get everyone's room keys, and then wake the band up and send them to their rooms to finish their night's rest. Usually, it was hard to get to sleep in a bed that wasn't rolling down some freeway. After all, they'd spent how many hours in a bed that'd been doing exactly that?

Trevor liked to break up the time between bus and bed with a third -- better -- word that started with the letter B: breakfast. Especially now that they were staying in places that would lay out these huge buffets and clear the plates while he went fucking nuts and crammed as much down his gullet as he could. Sleeping on a gut full of free food was paradise. Even your dreams were better when your belly was stuffed. And Trevor Wolff had good dreams in the first place.

Sure enough, this place had the free breakfast thing going. "One hour left," Charlie told him in that solemn, Charlie way.

Problem was, he didn't want to go alone. Eating by yourself was … stupid. So Trevor stretched, lit a cigarette, and waited for the daily soap opera that was better known as Waking Mitchell.

At last, the big idiot came out from the bunks, yawning, stretching, and scratching his chest. He wasn't fully awake yet, which was a good thing, as far as Trevor was concerned. Conversation would be kept to a minimum, which meant they'd be able to eat more food in less time. Time which was ticking away; less than an hour before the free buffet ended.

"Gimme the room key," Mitchell mumbled, holding out a hand, his eyes barely open.

Charlie grabbed his hand and shoved it aside. "Put some clothes on."

Trevor snickered. It'd have been more fun if Charlie hadn't interfered, but then again, he liked Charlie well enough. Letting Mitchell wander into a hotel in nothing but those gross boxer-things Rusty made him wear would probably mean a new tour manager for ShapeShifter. Not in Trevor's best interests.

Mitchell shuffled back to the bunks, presumably for some jeans. Maybe even shoes, Trevor thought with a giggle he could barely keep in.

When Mitchell came back, his shirt was slung over his shoulder, his eyes were a little more open, and his jeans were buttoned and zipped, but his shoes weren't tied. And he had Rusty with him, too.

That was almost enough to make Trevor lose his appetite.

"Hungry?" he asked the lovebirds as innocently as he could.

Mitchell nodded, zombie-like. Rusty just stood there, looking confused, like she usually did. She probably thought he was up to something but really, all he wanted was breakfast. Bagels, bacon, maybe even a banana.

He led the way into the hotel lobby, ignoring the stares. He was used to them: a bunch of long-hairs trekking through a pretty okay joint. It scared the respectable folk. Made them think the world was going bad, that they had to scramble to a hotel higher up the snob rating in order to be safe. Little did they know that ShapeShifter was planning on being right there with them.

Either Charlie had scared the fans away or else the band had shown up at the hotel before they were expected, because while the guests curled their upper lips at them, no one rushed over for an autograph or to just say hello. Sadly, there weren't any girls who could convince Trevor to skip breakfast. Or better yet, come along as his guest and then help him get properly good and sleepy afterward.

Mitchell didn't seem to care. "Which way?" he asked, squinting at the signs. Trevor sighed. Next thing you knew, the big idiot would show up with glasses, and how un-rock-and-roll was that?

"Over here," he said with a sigh, wondering why Rusty didn't take charge. She usually could be counted on to do that sort of crap. Maybe she was still expecting a prank.

It was almost a shame to disappoint.

Count on Mitchell to come through, though. As they walked into the hotel restaurant, the fine odor of bacon reaching Trevor's twitching nose, the hostess stopped them. "Umm, sir?" she said, looking up at Mitchell like she knew he could morph into a dragon at any second.

"Problem?" he asked, puffing up his chest and slipping into Rock Star mode.

"When we say that shirts are required in the dining room, we generally mean that they need to be worn, not tossed over your shoulder."

"Huh?" Mitchell asked as Trevor dissolved into laughter, losing it all the more when he realized that Rusty had been waiting for exactly this. Shit, she was good at setting M up. Better than he was, sad to say.

Rusty was the one who picked up Mitchell's shirt and held it out. "Don't gross out the guests before lunch, okay?"

"Why didn't someone say something?" Mitchell asked. Trevor stared in fascination as the idiot actually blushed. So bad, it spread to his chest.

No wonder people wanted those parts covered, Trevor thought.

"Why didn't you just get dressed?" Trevor asked him. "You put everything else on."

"No, not everything," Rusty said and pulled at the leg of Mitchell's jeans.

Sure enough, the big idiot had skipped the socks.


Want more of Trevor and Mitchell?
Brotherly Love

Buying Chicken
Flags

And if you're not entirely certain who's who after all that, click on their names in any of the entries to read their bios. That should bring you up to speed.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, touring, Trevor