“Mike, I’m really sorry.”
Peter heaved his bass into the trunk of the Monkeemobile, careful not to bang it against Mike’s guitar. The two cases were wedged next to Micky’s drums, which, as always, took up a large part of the trunk.
Mike grunted as he dug the keys out of his pocket.
“No, Mike, please,” Peter said, lightly touching the Texan’s arm. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
Mike sighed and shut his eyes. “I’m not mad, Pete. Honestly. I just . . . ”
“I know, Mike. I know. I wouldn’t have done it if that girl hadn’t been in trouble.”
“I know,” Mike said. “Let’s just go home, okay?”
Peter leaped nimbly into the back seat as Mike revved the engine and sent the dragster squealing out of the parking lot.
~~~~~
“Now look, guys,” Mike said, pacing in front of the couch where Peter and Davy sat. Micky sat in one of the armchairs, his legs propped up on the table. “We’ve been really careful so far, and no one’s ever caught on. Tonight just shows how careful we gotta be from now on.”
“Yeah, but Mike—that girl was in trouble,” Davy said.
“I know, Davy—but that’s what the police are for. We are not the guardians of the universe.”
Peter sat up, his tawny brows drawing together. “Then what good is it, Mike? What good is it for us to have these abilities and not be able to use them?”
“Because, Peter,” Mike said patiently, “every time we do we put ourselves in danger. The only reason we haven’t ever been found out is because we don’t use them.”
They all nodded.
A knock on the door made Mike jump, his fists rising. He stared at them as if they were foreign objects instead of his own hands, and he thrust them down to his sides with a dismayed snort.
Micky swung his legs over the arm of the chair and gained his feet, bouncing over to the door. It opened to reveal the girl that Peter had saved earlier that night.
Peter shot to his feet. “Hi! Uh, come in!” He darted around the table and jogged to the door, reaching out to grasp the girl’s hand. She took it, trembling slightly.
“M-My name’s Marie. I just . . . wanted to thank you, for . . . saving me.”
“My name’s Peter, and you’re welcome. I’m glad I could help,” Peter said, smiling openly. “Would you like to come in?”
Marie nodded shyly and entered, glancing around the Pad. She looked at Mike, Davy, and Micky uncertainly.
“This is Mike Nesmith, Davy Jones, and Micky Dolenz. We’re the Monkees,” Peter explained.
Marie smiled. “Yes, I gathered that much. I just didn’t know your names. Pleased to meet you all.”
“Did you know that guy? Was he your boyfriend?” Davy asked.
Marie shook her head. “No. I never saw him before. Anyway, I just came to thank you,” she said, turning to Peter, “for helping me. I won’t forget it.” She leaned up and kissed Peter gently on the cheek before slipping out the door.
Micky whistled. “Not bad, Peter. She was cute.”
Peter grinned for a moment, then the smile faded. “Where was the harm in that, Mike?”
“Peter—”
Peter looked up, his eyes intense. “Don’t ‘Peter’ me, Mike. When you can tell me where the harm was in that you let me know. I’ll be on the beach.” He stormed into the downstairs bedroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing an old black sweatshirt and jeans. He didn’t look at Mike as he headed for the back door.
Mike sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Go on to bed, guys. I’ll go and talk to him in a while.”
~~~~~
Mike waited until Micky and Davy were asleep before he wandered out onto the verandah. The full moon was bright and hovering over the ocean, a wide swath of light cut across the water. A lone figure was walking along the beach; Mike pulled off his hat and jogged out to join him.
Peter looked up as he approached. “Hi, Mike.”
“Hey, Peter,” Mike said, falling into step beside him. They walked in silence for a while, two friends who didn’t really need to speak to know what the other was feeling.
“Mike, I’m sorry,” Peter said.
“It’s okay, Peter.”
Peter stopped, gently touching Mike’s arm. “I know, but I just needed to say it, okay?”
Mike scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. And . . . I want you to know I can see your point, Peter. I’ve been tempted myself a few times.”
Peter tilted his head as he gazed at Mike. “It bothering you?”
Mike continued to scratch the back of his neck. “No. It’s just the first time I’ve thought about it in a while.”
Peter grasped Mike gently by the shoulders and turned him so that the moon shone on his nearly black hair. He spread the dark locks with his fingers, revealing a small black tattoo on the back of his neck—the Chinese zodiac symbol representing the Horse.
“Still there,” Peter murmured, withdrawing.
“What about yours?”
Peter turned, pulling his long hair out of the way. A small symbol, like a wide line bisecting a square, was tattooed just below his hairline. The Monkey. There were similar tattoos on Micky and Davy as well--the Dragon and the Tiger, respectively.
“Clear as day,” Mike said.
“Listen, Mike, I’ve been thinking,” Peter said, turning to face the Texan once more. “Why can’t we use these abilities? I mean, there can’t be anything wrong in using them for good. I don’t see why we should have to hide them like we’ve been doing.”
“I know. And there’s part of me that agrees with you. But Peter—we’re musicians, not vigilantes. We start usin’ these . . . talents . . . and before you know it we’ll get sucked into somethin’ we might not be able to get out of. It’s safer if we just play it cool and concentrate on our music.”
“Hey Mike?” Peter said, tracing a line in the sand with the toe of his moccasin.
“Yeah, Pete?”
“You ever get the urge to use them? You ever . . . go out and just . . . practice? On your own?”
Mike kicked at the sand. “Sometimes.”
Peter stepped back, raising himself up onto the balls of his feet. His stance relaxed, his arms hanging deceptively loose at his sides. “How about now?”
Mike nodded, taking up position a few feet away. The ramrod stance he usually adopted on stage disappeared, his legs bending into smooth angles as he extended his arms, his long fingers curling into tight, perfect fists.
There were no shouts or battle cries as they clashed—only the quiet whispering of rapidly moving bodies and the soft sounds of their breathing. They moved back and forth across the sand in a ritual dance, their hands and feet making gentle taps as they kicked and swung at each other.
“You’re getting better,” Peter said, pausing.
“You too,” Mike said. “You’re not even breathin’ hard.”
Peter gave Mike a small smile that was a far cry from his normal dimpled grin. “I think we should stop hiding, Mike. Imagine the good we could do with these . . . powers.”
Mike sighed. They’d become very adept at hiding, each one masking his unusual abilities in his own way. Micky covered it up with his clowning, Davy with his Don Juan-ish pursuit of women, and Peter with his innocent face and demeanor. Mike put his Texan good ol’ boy image to good use; no one except his bandmates would have ever suspected that he was capable of shattering boards with his slim, articulate hands.
“So . . . you value fightin’ more than music now, huh?” Mike said casually.
Peter started. “What?”
“Peter, we start usin’ these . . . powers, and you can kiss the Monkees goodbye. People’ll look at us different and we won’t be able to be who we are.”
Peter nodded. “I wish this hadn’t happened, Mike. Things used to be much more simple.”
Mike rested his arm on Peter’s shoulder, taking some solace in the blond man’s solid stance. “I know, Pete. I know.”
On to Chapter Two
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