~~~~~~
Peter jolted to awareness with a cry, sitting straight up before it registered he wasn’t being held down—he was strapped into a seat on an airplane!
Across from him, Davy jumped. “Whoa, what was that for? Bad dream?”
“Whe . . . where are we going?”
“I dunno,” Davy replied, turning his attention back to the magazine on his lap—one with his face on the cover. “Who can keep track any more?”
Peter did a double take at the magazine, then turned to look at Mike and Micky. “What’s his face doing on there? From that movie we helped Catalina out on?”
Micky looked up, his expression foggy, his eyes struggling to focus on Peter. “Huh? A movie with salad dressing? You high, Pete?”
Peter blinked. “High? Micky, you’re not making any sense!”
“You’re the one who’s not makin’ sense, Peter,” Mike said, his eyes cold behind his dark sunglasses. His wool hat was nowhere to be seen. “You need to get with it before the show tomorrow, man.”
“Show? What’re we going to see?”
“That’s it,” Mike grumbled. “I’m takin’ whatever drugs you got in your bag and throwin’ them out.” He stabbed a finger into Peter’s face. “You are not gonna ruin this for us!”
Peter cringed. “Drugs? I-I don’t do that shit!”
“The hell you don’t, Tork,” Mike grumbled as he disappeared around the edge of Davy’s seat.
Peter frowned. “What the hell is going on here?” he whispered.
“Don’t mind him, Peter,” Davy said, tipping a thumb in Mike’s direction. “He’s had a bug up his arse all this tour.”
“Tour?” Peter echoed stupidly, turning to look out the window. The plane was getting lower and he could see a large crowd gathered below. “Wow . . . someone popular must be on the plane—look at that crowd!”
Micky and Davy exchanged looks. “Peter . . . maybe when we get to the hotel you could, I don’t know, see a doctor or something,” Micky said.
“No, I’m okay.” Boy, do I wish that were true!
A tall man with wavy brown hair and sunglasses walked back, leaning on one of the seats. “Guys, get your belts on, we’re landing.” Peter immediately strapped himself in, looking out the window curiously as the ground grew closer and closer. The signs, when they became visible, proclaimed their love for the Monkees.
“Wow . . . ” Peter murmured, in awe. Fans . . . we have fans now . . .
Davy’s face lit up. “It’s a small crowd this time!”
“This is small?” Peter said. I wonder what a BIG crowd looks like.
“This is small.”
The plane touched down and the same man came back. “Okay, guys . . . say hi to the fans, then right to the car.”
Peter got up slowly, deciding to follow Micky and Davy’s lead until he could figure out where he was. “Wait . . . what about our luggage?”
“We’ll take care of it. The driver knows where to go.” The man tied the laces at Peter’s throat and smiled. “There. You’re beautiful. Go.”
The sheer volume hit him first when he exited the plane. It was night, and the spotlights placed all around gave the area an unnatural illumination. Peter stumbled down the stairs after Davy, who insisted on going first, feeling a tremble of mixed nervousness and excitement when his feet hit the tarmac. They walked along the fence, girls pressed against it, screaming and weeping—or both at once. Suddenly one of the hands straining to reach through the fence wrapped solidly around Peter’s arm. His reaction was immediate. He twisted away from the hand, his hands rising into a ready position while his torso curved, his legs bending underneath him into a perfect tiger stance. Gasps erupted from behind them as flashbulbs went off. Another hand seized him—this one on the back of the neck, dragging him away from the crowd. “What the hell was that?” Peter heard Mike’s enraged voice snarl in his ear.
“What was what?” Peter gasped, blinking back spots from the bulbs.
“Mike, his neck!” Davy gasped.
Mike’s hand slid down and he squinted at the symbol in black. “When’d you have that done, Peter?”
“Hey, coooollll,” Micky breathed. “I want one!”
Mike ignored him. “Well, just make sure you don’t get your hair cut too short, man,” he said. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Long-Haired Weirdo Now Tattooed Freak.’”
“Guys, the car,” the tall man called.
Micky waved at the group, and his hand was pulled against the fence. He laughed good-naturedly, like it happened all the time, and called for help. Mike and Davy both helped him pull free, and together they managed to all climb into the car. It roared away, the police escorts in front and behind traveling with sirens wailing and lights flashing. Some of the crowd broke away from behind the fence and chased them, shrieking all the way.
“Wow,” Peter said, twisting around to catch a glimpse of the pursuing fans. “They’re actually chasing us . . . ”
“Yeah, they’ll ease up here in a minute.” Davy sounded bored, as if being wildly chased by mobs of people was routine. “Usual hotel, Bob?”
“Usual hotel,” the tall man, sitting in the front seat, nodded.
Peter just sat back, collecting his thoughts as he tried to avoid the concerned/curious/suspicious gazes of the young men around him. He recognized their faces and voices, but one thing was clear . . . they weren’t his friends.
They were hustled into the hotel and into four separate rooms on the same floor. Peter looked around the room blankly, his eyes settling on the phone. The Pad! He could call the beach house, and if his bandmates didn’t answer, then he would know that he wasn’t stuck in some alternate universe where everything was spookily awry. He picked up the phone and heard a nasally voice ask “What extension please?”
“I, um . . . I need to make a call to Malibu, California. 1334 Beechwood.” He gave her the number.
“There’s no such town, sir.”
Peter blinked. “Of course there is! Malibu Beach! It’s west of LA!”
“Sir, there is no such town west of LA. Or east of LA. Or north or south of LA. It doesn’t exist.”
“Oh. S-Sorry to bother you.” He dropped the phone back onto the cradle and sank onto the bed. Doesn’t exist . . . how can my home not exist?
There was a rap on the door and Bob stuck his head in. “You okay?”
“No,” Peter said. “No, I’m not okay, okay?”
“Thought not. Here, you left these in your suitcase.” He threw him a shaving kit—inside were packets of pills. “Figured you might be hurtin’ by now.” Shining a gentle smile on him, Bob withdrew.
Peter trembled as he looked at them. What had he stumbled into? He’d never touched anything more powerful than the occasional beer, and now he had . . . who knew what in his hands. He knew one thing, though . . . that way wasn’t right. With his abilities, a clouded mind would be dangerous—at best. Still trembling, he zipped the case back up and rolled onto the bed, blinking up at the ceiling. I want to go home.
On to Chapter Two
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