Stay there. Fine. Stay there. Stay here, exposed in the middle of a wrecked club somewhere he can't get his back against something. Somewhere he can't see who's coming from every angle.
Some fucking chance.
John moves. Not far, but far enough. Across to the side of the stage, putting the wall at his back, and he pulls a pack of smokes from his pocket. Sure, he carries his own sometimes. Even matches, which he strikes against his shoe, lighting up and leaning his head back against the wall as he exhales, waiting for Scott's return.
So maybe he was a little blunt. It doesn't make it any less the truth.