It took Randy hours to find Joe after the show. Talent relations, security, and Colby were all looking for him, too, so Randy couldn't really fault Joe's desire to lay low and deal with the management later. 'I'm honestly surprised he wasn't looking for Colby's bitch ass just to have something to break. At least he was keeping out of trouble.'

An hour into his search, Randy was ready to give up and head back to the hotel. Texting back and forth with Dave to make sure they were covering equal ground around the arena, Randy was preparing to fire off an "I quit looking" and go to Dave's car when a tall sliver of light from a door at the end of a long hall caught his eye. Barely visible unless you happened to pass a stack of crates at just the right angle, the door had to be propped by someone who didn't want to be caught, bothered, or otherwise molested.

Texting Dave to meet him by the unused loading docks, Randy edged the door open and cautiously poked his head out under the security light. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he saw nothing except a large, lone black pickup parked like a four-wheeled island far out in the lot, near enough to a light for its owner to see what he was doing, far enough to not clearly see who the owner was. That is, unless you were a complete idiot who didn't recognize a six-foot-four man with ridiculously long hair who just happened to be hanging around after a WWE show.

"Jackpot." Randy whispered to himself, and leaned against the wall to wait for Dave, sending one more text for him to come back with alcohol. 'And judging by the amount of kicking I hear, a LOT of alcohol.'

All three men sat or paced quietly around the pickup, various six-packs of beer stacked in its bed between them, like some sort of tailgate gone wrong, none willing to admit they'd all let it go too far, all been keeping secrets.

"So." Dave cleared his throat, peeling the label off his beer bottle as he spoke, "Who wants to go first?"

"At least you picked a decent truck and a nice city to pull this shit, Joe." Randy mused. "Anaheim has decent weather. If you did this in East Buttfuck, North Dakota, I'd fucking shoot you. By the way, hi, my name is Randy, and I'm here because I'm an asshole who let two of my only friends do something incredibly stupid, instead of stopping them. That means you and Meg, Joe."

Joe, who had climbed into the back of the truck to fish for another beer, launched his full bottle across the parking lot once Randy finished speaking, watching it explode once it impacted the pavement. Randy and Dave had to admit, it was pretty spectacular. Thanks to college football, the thing had amazing distance, and when it hit the ground it was a bit like wet, sudsy fireworks, all shimmering glass and white, crawling ooze.

Joe never looked up. He simply opened another beer and began to alternate between drinking it and staring into it. "She never...calls me." His voice was barely above a whisper. "But she calls all of you. So...you know things. All I have is this letter. She didn't even use my name." He put his beer down and pulled Meg's hotel stationary, worn and crumpled, from the pocket of his track pants, and gently shook the medallion out into his hand. "Maybe it wasn't even for me, you know? It says she's coming back, but...what do I do with that? I don't even know who she was when she left. How did she hide that from me? That...mess...that she was inside." Joe's voice never rose, but wavered the longer he spoke. He held the wad of paper and medallion out to Randy. "So, you tell me. What is all this supposed to mean? That I hold my breath and hope I get Normal Meg back, and not Crazy Meg? That we never get any more surprise mail and she never snaps again? I ended my engagement for this? Fuck, I don't know, maybe she called and told one of you."

Randy struggled to keep his hands around the neck of his beer bottle, leaving Dave to reach up over the wall of the pickup and take the paper and medallion from Joe, knowing full well that if Randy let go of his hands now, it would be full-out war in a too-small space.

"Joe," Dave began, slowly, "She's only called us to tell us she's alive. Working. She's not doing well, that much is obvious. Meg's trying to do this to keep Jackson away from you. You said that yourself the day she left – we all said it. She knew if she stayed Jackson would use her to get to you. Meg never wanted to be responsible for taking your career away from you. Nobody's saying she the right thing -"

"No shit, Dave!" Joe's voice roared out into the darkness, echoed off the walls, rousted gulls and pigeons from their nests in the eaves of the arena. "But what is this? What did she do? What...did she...do?" His words began to heave into something he was trying desperately to control. "And why...why aren't you...either of you...why won't she let me call her?" His eyes were wild, and he snatched his beer back into his hands, gripping the neck so hard his hands shook.

"Joe, Meg asked not to talk to you. You know that." Dave was quiet, reaching up to place a hand on Joe's arm. "She's scared if she does, she'll break down. She keeps saying she has to stay til she solves the problem."

Randy sat on the gate of the pickup, sliding back to lean against the wall of the cab, opening another beer as he moved back to face the two men. "Do you know how much I blame myself? I chased her to the door, but I didn't grab her. If I did, she wasn't going anywhere. But I didn't. I trusted her. And obviously that was stupid. Now she's in God knows where doing God knows what, waiting for him to pounce on her. It sounds like she's back down south, but who knows."

Shoulders tensed, Joe he forced his head to stay still. 'There. Now you know. New Orleans. Every story she ever told you, she always wanted to go home. Her home. What next?' "Okay. Both of you. Everything you know. Now." 'Now they tell me what happened next.'

Randy and Dave shifted uncomfortably, with Randy speaking first, still feeling the ire from Joe's earlier flippant comment about Meg being a mess. "Dude, it doesn't work like that. We can't tell you what we don't know. And she promised you-"

Lunging forward across the bed of the truck, Joe caught Randy's neck under his forearm, pinning him to the glass of the cab. Dave froze, knowing there was nothing he could do at this point other let the two idiots sort it out themselves.

"Whatever the fuck her promise was, it's worthless. She's not here now, is she? She's probably off fucking her ex, because she got what she wanted from me. You said "South," so good for her. She probably went to New Orleans, and from what she told me, she's probably living in some trashy, rat-infested home in the bottoms, or flats, or downs, or whatever the fuck they call that shit when it floods. If she's as drunk and high as you two say, Jackson's just dropping by for a fuck and leaving her on a dirty mattress, which is right where she belongs. I was gonna give that bitch everything. Fuck. Her."

Randy did the only thing he could think to do while pinned under Joe's arm, which was to spit. He caught Joe in the eye, and then swung as hard as he could, kneeing upward as he went, having the advantage of every angle but a complete lack of oxygen to work with. Joe, keening in pain, fell backward, grabbing at his crotch, a wet blur across one eye and a red blur across the other. Randy didn't bother continuing his assault; Joe wasn't getting back up any time soon. Besides, his phone was ringing with an unknown number.

"Meggie. Hey." He was gasping, but knew now wasn't the time to worry her.

"Y'ok, Ran? Y'soun' out of breath?"

"And you sound drunk, so we're even." He paused to open another beer and step around Joe's prone figure before climbing down into the open space of the parking lot. "Dave says hi. He's a little busy, though. Joe...fell down." Dave had popped up into the bed of the pickup, shaking his head at Randy as he passed. 'Really, spit? So. Gross.' Dave whispered as he slid by Randy.

"I saw th' thing wi'th' concrete whatsama...thing. Bad."

"Meg, hon, come home. I'm not mad at you. Dave's not mad at you." Desperation crept into Randy's voice, but he didn't fight it away.

"Nope. Real close t'Jackson. Gotta get done w'him. Joe hates me anyway."

"What? Why would you say that?"

"He di'n't ans'er my calls. S'now I don' wanna talk t'him." Meg waved her hands while she talked, trying to convince herself her words were logical and true.

Perplexed, Randy continued. "Okay, wait. You told us not to let him call you, but you were trying to call him?"

Meg retched, and Randy winced. "Yeah. I...use those...nummers."

"Meggie...Okay. Wait. You were trying to call him?" The night was becoming an unhinged merry-go-round, up and down faster and faster, Joe trying to decapitate Colby with a concrete block, then fighting Randy while arguably drunk, his spiteful, hate-filled rant against Meg, and now Meg saying she never really meant for Joe to...not call her?

"Yeah. An' if he called me, I couldn' ans'er. I ditch th' phones."

Suddenly it all clicked for Randy. She never meant for him and Dave to tell Joe he couldn't ever call her, just that he couldn't call back on the numbers she was using. Burner phones. They were all single-use numbers, calling cards, gas station phones, or worse, ran the risk of ringing in Jackson's presence once she found him. Every number that had ever popped up on Randy's phone as private, blocked, or unknown had been answered by him, every time. He was thinking, praying it would be Meg, and he was right – but Joe hadn't ever made the connection, or had been too angry to care. He had been ignoring the calls the whole time she was gone, and she hadn't left voicemail, since there would be no callback number to give safely. Meg gave up, asking Dave and Randy to tell Joe no, no calls, no more.

"Oh my God, Meg. Meg. He didn't know. Meg, he didn't know!"

A digital voice cut on the line, giving a two minute warning. Joe was still rolling from his back to his side and back again, clutching at his crotch, wiping blood from his eye where Randy had opened a shallow cut, pushing Dave's hands away, refusing anything that even vaguely resembled help.

"Nah, Ran, he's jus' done. I fucked up, but I still gotta stop Jackson. He's never gonna be done w'me elsewise. Tell Dave I love 'im. Miss you, Ran. Love you. Have faith, 'kay?"

The call cut off, despite Randy yelling no again and again into the phone.

Randy stabbed the 'End Call' button on the front of his phone, even though it was completely useless. He spun in half a circle, glared at Joe, spun back again, stuffed his phone in the pocket of his track pants, and then snatched it out again. He ran his hands over his head, stomped toward Joe, then back, repeating the maneuvers like a sort of frenetic, rage-filled dance until he finally broke and closed the distance between himself and Joe in a few quick steps, hauling Joe up to a sitting position on the gate of the truck, half by his shirt, half by his hair.

"You," Randy snarled, cranking Joe's head backwards, forcing eye contact, "You motherfucking idiot. That was Meg. On my phone. Talking to me. Do you want to know what she said, Joe?"

Joe had the distinct feeling he was going to hear all about it whether or not he had any interest, so he simply narrowed his eyes and waited.

"How many calls have you gotten, asshole, that were from blocked numbers? Or unavailable numbers? Private numbers? Hm? Answer me, you piece of shit!" Randy shook him by the shirt-hair combination he had locked into his hands, and though Dave reached in to try to loosen Randy's grasp, it was futile. "You've gotten dozens of those calls. You know how I know? Because I've gotten dozens of those calls. So has Dave. Every fucking one of those calls was from Meg! She's using burner phones, you dumbfuck! When she told us not to have you call her back, it didn't make sense – except that you couldn't call back her burners. You never picked up, did you?"

At that, the corner of Joe's mouth twitched, and Randy seized on that hint of emotion, using it to tear into Joe, going for what he knew would hurt, becoming icily quiet. "She thought you didn't want to talk to her. And you can't return a call to a fucking burner phone! Remind me again why you always came to me for help with her, Joe. You obviously don't want her. You threw her away. She ran because she didn't want to destroy everything you built for yourself, not because it was about her."

Randy's face cracked into the same off-kilter, sick smile that Joe remembered on Meg's face the day she left, and both men felt the merry-go-round pick up speed. Joe hadn't moved to make Randy release his grip, and Randy had actually started to sway Joe from side to side in a sort of perverse dance of recollection and appraisal. "You actually had the balls to sit there and give me a lecture, remember? You said, 'Wah wah Meg belongs to me, hands off, hands off,' - you remember that night, don't you - and that was the same night you told me you were tired of her being insecure. You know what? I should have told you to fuck yourself. Because look at you – who's insecure?"

Randy threw Joe backwards, stomping first away from him, then towards him again, before throwing his hands up around his own head. "Which one of us ever loved her, Joe?" Dave, stock-still through the entire scene, flinched as Randy suddenly charged into view in front of him. "Give me the medallion. I don't care about the paper, she didn't write that to me. But I want the medallion. It doesn't mean anything to him."

Dave's eyes slid to Joe, who hadn't moved from his perch on the tailgate, looking for some sort of sign that this would or wouldn't be the start of another war. After waiting what felt like an eternity, Dave slowly shook the small oval and its chain out from the crumpled chunk of stationery. It looked like a tiny metal snowflake against the desert-colored expanse of Randy's palm, and he closed his hand slowly around its cold surface.

Without turning to look at Joe, Randy spoke one last time. "Call me when you've got your head out of your ass. Until then, I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I don't fucking know you backstage, I don't know you in the hotel, I don't want to hear shit from shit about shit dealing with you. If it's a choice between you or Meg, I'm picking her every time. And as for you," Randy paused, pointing at Dave, "You're riding with me, so I suggest you start walking." Randy shook out his shoulders, pocketed Meg's necklace, and walked back across the parking lot, not waiting for Dave to make up his mind about following, and at the same time, knowing full well he would.