Mike sighed, letting the hot water roll over his head, sending his wet hair into his eyes. He braced his hands on the wall and lowered his head, the jets from the shower head massaging the dull ache in his shoulders.
Contrary to Chief Hutchinson’s word, the time they spent in the police station had stretched from one hour to two, then three. Mike had been too tired to put up much fuss—he and Andi had fallen asleep on the couch in Hutch’s office; Davy had curled up on the floor and had been joined shortly thereafter by Peter, and even Micky’s insatiable curiosity about the workings of a small-town law enforcement office couldn’t keep him awake for long—Hutchinson had returned to find the drummer sprawled out across his desk.
When they were finally released, it was already early evening. They found the Monkeemobile parked right outside, washed, waxed, polished, with a full tank of gas. The contents of the trunk had been remarkably untouched—their possessions were intact. Two police cars had escorted them to a hotel several towns over—Mike had finally discovered the name of the town where the trouble had all started: Valentine.
Hutchinson had arranged for two separate hotel rooms on the same floor; as Mike and Andi headed for their room they could already hear the others arguing about who was going to get the shower first.
He sighed again and stretched. A sudden movement caught his eye and he looked out through several locks of hair to see Andi slipping into the shower with him. An irrational sense of dismay surged through him.
As if sensing his momentary discomfort, she smiled. “Relax.” She moved to stand behind him, and a few moments later he felt her thumbs pressing against the back of his neck. They moved in slow circles, working the tension from his neck, then moved down to the rigid spot between his shoulder blades, kneading the muscles until they unlocked themselves, flooding him with relief so intense he thought his knees would buckle.
Her hands moved down to the deep purple, almost black bruise on his back. Her fingers barely touched it, but Mike still drew in a sharp, hissing breath.
“Sorry,” she murmured. She rubbed his back, assiduously avoiding the bruise, until Mike reached up and turned off the water.
“Feel better?” she asked.
“Yeah, much.” He stepped out and quickly wrapped a towel around his waist, keeping his eyes on the floor as she followed.
Andi crossed her arms, apparently unconcerned with her unclothed state. “You can look at me, Mike. You’re allowed now.”
He raised his eyes cautiously. She looked the same as she had the night before, and he relaxed.
“I know, I know,” she mused as he dressed. “Gentlemanly habits are hard to break.”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He looked at their reflections in the large mirror over the sink—their cuts and bruises seemed to stand out all the more since the dirt had been washed away. “Man, look at the two of us.”
“Yes, battered and bruised, but still going. I’m proud of you guys. Thanks for standing with me today.”
“You’re welcome,” he said as she led him out and sat him on the edge of one of the double beds. “We couldn’t just let you go out there and face those creeps alone.”
She leaned in close and examined the cut on his temple. “You don’t need stitches. This will heal on its own.” He could hear an undercurrent to her voice that made him believe that she wasn’t just talking about him. She reached into the open first aid kit next to her. He hissed as she swabbed alcohol over the cut, but the pain was fleeting and within moments a Band-Aid was neatly placed and she was sitting next to him. “I should have said this much earlier, but . . . thank you for . . . um, taking that hit for me. That was very brave.”
“No problem. I couldn’t let him hurt you like that.” There was so much he wanted to say, so much that needed to be said about the rollercoaster ride they’d just been on. She regarded him silently, her hands laced around her upright knee. “I understand,” she said at length. “Some pretty crazy things have happened in the last few days.”
He nodded. “And it just feels . . . unfinished, you know?”
“Yeah, I do. But I think we said everything that needed to be said. We were both right and we were both wrong, and I also believe that we weren’t ready for our first argument, and we lost our tempers . . . along with our control.”
Mike nodded again, examining his scraped knuckles. “So what’s gonna happen in our next fight?”
Andi sighed, pulling back the covers to the bed. “Come on, into bed,” she commanded gently. Mike stretched out on his stomach—his bruise made lying on his back impossible—and Andi gathered the blankets around him before slipping in beside him.
They laid next to each other for several long minutes, listening to the white noise of traffic outside, the almost inaudible hum of the bedside lamp, and the gentle sound of their own breathing.
At length she spoke. “My father once told me that after you make a mistake, God’s gift to you is the ability to prevent it from happening again. You have the knowledge of what went wrong, and the next time such a situation appears, you can act differently.”
“So the next time we fight we can keep it from blowing up.”
“Exactly.” She yawned, a pleasantly heavy feeling in her stomach. She felt Mike’s lips brush against her forehead before sleep claimed her. “I love you,” she murmured as she drifted off.
Mike rolled carefully onto his side and draped his arm over her. For the first time in weeks he felt content and happy in her presence. It was a feeling which was different, somehow—which carried more permanence than it had before; he realized that spending his life with Andi was a distinct possibility.
~*~
Micky bounced down the hallway, tapping an irregular rhythm on the walls. He knocked gently on Mike’s and Andi’s door, only half expecting a response. When he didn’t get one he tried the knob; the door was unlocked. As he swung it open the greeting he had been preparing to shout at the top of his lungs caught in his throat and died.
What he saw did not surprise him; he knew perfectly well that sometimes Mike would wind up in Andi’s bed and vice-versa. Even though they took pains to keep it secret, a few times Micky had awakened in the middle of the night to find Mike’s bed empty, or Andi curled up in her quilt next to the Texan. He hadn’t teased them about it because firstly either Mike or Andi—or both—would kill him, secondly because there were other less-sensitive things to tease them about.
It was with that in mind that he crept silently into the room and switched off the light, then left as silently as he had come, locking the door behind him.
On to Epilogue
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