Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders.

A/N: The idea to have a chapter like this was given to me by an incredible reader, Small Town Big Dreams. The author who gave me the inspiration for this chapter is waitin' for my winston; she has reviewed every single chapter and is always helping me. Thanks to you two and to all of my other supporters!

Chapter Twelve: Co-Starring on Crime Scene Investigation Part One

Miami and Dallas Winston did not mix well. First off, Dallas was not a big fan of hot weather. He claimed that he just preferred the cold, but the rest of the gang knew better. They had been Dally's best friends since he moved to Tulsa from New York years back. They knew him better than anyone, and they knew the only reason Dallas Winston did not like hot weather was caused by a very bad condition: Sunburn.

"I can't believe you idiots dragged me out here," Dallas muttered, sky blue eyes hidden beneath a pair of non-designer sunglasses, thank you very much. Ponyboy was wearing his Chanel sunglasses, the ones designed for women, but Dallas was as content as a hood could be with his cheap black glasses, purchased at a local drug store. He flipped a page of his script for the show they'd be co-starring on, Crime Scene Investigation, or CSI: Miami. Filming began the next day, and everyone was working their asses off to memorize their lines.

Darry rolled his eyes as he read his script too. He had a pretty big part, which was remarkable, considering he was one of the least popular members of the band. "Just quit it, will ya Dal?"

Dallas sighed and combed his fingers through the mop of platinum blonde hair atop his head. "I'll quit it when the sun ain't fryin' my hair."

Steve snickered at Dally's remark and took a drag of his cigarette. "You're such a DQ, Dallas."

Dallas threw a look at Steve. "What the hell does 'DQ' mean?" he implored, knowing that whatever the hell it was, it wasn't a compliment.

"Drama queen, duh," Ponyboy commented, as if Dallas should by all means know the stupid language of teenage girls. Then again, Ponyboy was the closest thing to a teenage girl in the gang, and this statement was only emphasized by the oversized, designer sunglasses he was wearing. Actually, Sodapop came pretty damn close to being the girliest one too. After all, he had tried to wear Pony's sunglasses to the American Idol auditions in Atlanta last week.

"Whatever, man," Dallas mumbled.

"Steve, you know you're not supposed to be smoking in public!" Soda whined, pulling the cancer stick from Steve's mouth. "Smoking is a bad influence to children and we don't need to lose any more fans after Justine."

"Aw shucks, Sodapop, you always know how to crash a party," Steve muttered as he stood up, running to the ocean to get crashed by waves with Two-Bit, who was currently sweet-talking some fellow Troop fans, each arm slung around a blonde's shoulder.

The rest of the day roamed on, and the boys were on their way to grab a bite for dinner at Panera Bread. Panera was one of the best places for college students and business people to go and study or work, because the environment was just so comfortable. The jazz music was soft, the place was air-conditioned, and the only background noise besides the music was the soft hum of casual conversation.

The seven boys ordered ten loafs of bread; one for each, and an extra for Darry, Dally, and Two-Bit, since they were the three biggest in the gang. Each had a bowl of soup, a salad, and a sandwich, along with their bread and a beverage. The dinner was silent as each Trooper read their lines. Sleep came quickly for the sexy seven. They'd have a big day tomorrow.

X

"These shoes do not match my shirt."

Elaina Gold glanced up at the sixteen-year-old boy standing in front of her. "Excuse me?"

"I said, these shoes do not match my shirt."

The thirty-four-year-old woman placed her fragile hands on her narrow hips. "Sir, I have been the wardrobe consultant for television shows for the past ten years. If you have a problem with the way I'm doing my job, please, enlighten me."

An overdramatic sigh escaped the lips of the teenager. "Green plus orange is a recipe for disaster, period."

"I refuse to change the outfit. You're supposed to be part of a band, not a designer," Elaina argued, bending down to tie the laces on the white and orange sneaker. "Like I said, if you have an issue with the way I'm doing my job, just tell that to my boss and-"

"Security!" Soda screeched, making Elaina jump in surprise. In an instant, two big-muscled men strode in the dressing room. "Boys, this woman is making me wear orange and green together!"

The taller, bigger man gasped in shock. "Oh no, she didn't!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers.

Soda bobbed his head fervently. "Oh yes, she did."

"Ma'am, we are going to have to take you to time-out," the second man said, pulling Elaina up by her wrist.

"B-but I didn't even do anything!" the poor girl cried as she was escorted out of the room.

"Bitch, be warned! You have just been Soda-d!"

X

A standing ovation at a boy band's concert was not rare, considering all of the fans were already on their feet, screaming and dancing the entire time. The Troop had just finished their new hit song, "The Call", and were feeling as good as ever.

The seven boys walked to their dressing rooms; their foreheads covered with sweat and their mouths grinning with satisfaction. Soda's chocolate brown eyes were dancing with delight; they'd done it again: swept a bunch of girls off of their feet.

Steve moseyed on into his room, turning the doorknob, only to find that it was unlocked. A bit taken aback, but tired nonetheless, he ignored the quirk, and entered the dressing room.

The deep purple of the walls annoyed him; he was tired, and had a throbbing headache. He peeled off his short-sleeved, button-up white shirt, threw it down on the wood floor, and ran his fingers through the mass of dark swirls of hair on his head as he glared at himself in the dirty mirror.

Steve exhaled and sat down on the crimson cushioned chair. The seventeen-year-old boy was lost in thought, until he discovered a piece of folded loose-leaf on the vanity, his name scribbled on the front. He slowly unfolded the paper, expecting it to be a joke from Sodapop, but was indeed shocked when he read the note.

Steven Randle,

You have two hours to live.

Sincerely,

Your Worst Nightmare, XOXO

X

I promise, any confusion will be cleared up next chapter, which should be posted soon. You can thank my school district for giving me a snow day (the third one this year!) because that is the only reason this chapter is up so soon. Please read, review, and enjoy! :D