Chapter Two
Just as Peter was sliding into an uneasy doze, there was a knock on the door. “Yeah?”
It opened and Mike poked his head in. “Hey, we got dinner ready in my r—” He stopped when he saw the shaving kit, his uncovered eyes narrowing. After a few moments it cleared. “Took your pills, or whatever?”
He shook his head and rolled to his feet. “Did you say dinner? I am a little hungry.”
Mike entered the whole way and closed the door, leaning on it with his arms crossed. “Okay, Peter. It’s just you and me. Spill it.”
“Spill what?”
“The tattoo. You not knowin’ where we were goin’. Bein’ surprised by the fans. That little move you did when we got off the plane. And that.” He pointed to the shaving kit. “The Peter Tork I know would’ve chugged half a dozen pills and been mellow and groovin’ by now.”
“Yeah, well, right now I’m not the Peter Tork you know,” he said.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “So. Tell me. It won’t go no further than this room. I promise.”
He shook his head. “It’s so far out I don’t know where to start.”
“The beginnin’ might be nice.”
Peter sat down. “That’s way back in a Chinese restaurant.”
Mike sat next to Peter, listening quietly as Peter told about the Four Winds, their abilities, the tattoos, and the adventures they’d had. When he finished all Mike said was, “I don’t know where you got that, Pete—but it certainly ain’t from drugs.”
Peter nodded.
“The only problem is,” Mike said as he stood, “is that none of that ever happened outside of the TV show.”
Peter’s eyes closed.
“But,” Mike added, “that still doesn’t explain the tattoo. You didn’t have it yesterday.”
“I’ve had it for months now.”
“Months?” Mike repeated incredulously. “How is that possible?”
“I told you.”
Mike shook his head. “This is way too freaky, Peter . . . and come at a bad time, too. This is the last thing we need before a concert.”
“I know. I know.” He met Mike’s eyes. “All I want is to go home.”
“You’ll be all safe back in Beverly Hills . . . as soon as we finish this tour,” Mike said, rubbing his eyes.
“Beverly Hills? I live in Malibu Beach . . . are you all right?”
Mike shook his head. “Peter, you live in Beverly Hills? Remember? Hell, man—you asked me to check out your new house ‘fore you bought it.”
“That’s your Peter, Mike.”
“My Peter?” Mike gave Peter a very strange look, as if we were regarding an escaped mental patient. “You’re talking crazy . . . ”
“Okay, forget me. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Peter, I’m fine. I don’t need any yoga or tantric sex or anythin’ from your pill stash.”
Peter tilted his head. “Wasn’t offering any of that. Wanted to lend you an ear to bend.”
Mike paused. “I’m tired. We got one last show tonight and then we can finally go home. I can spend some time with Phyllis and Christian before we start shootin’ again.”
“Ph . . . ” He smiled, reading the light in Mike’s eyes. “Wife and son.”
Mike’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “Nice to know that in whatever weird dimension you’re from I’m still married.”
“No . . . you’re not. You’re a bachelor who lives with us.”
Mike’s face fell. “No Phyllis?”
“Nope.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now . . . where’s this dinner you mentioned?”
Mike recovered quickly. “I got a spread in my room. Don’t know if Micky and Davy are gonna be there or not.”
“Let’s go eat, then. I’m starving. I haven’t had anything since a quarter of an apple—” he froze. “Was that just this morning?”
“An apple? Peter, you—” Mike stopped, waving his hands. “Nevermind. I don’t wanna know.”
He blinked. “Really, it’s nothing bad. We were sparring and we had to keep an apple moving between us till it was all gone. That was all.”
Mike led Peter down the hall. “Sparrin’?”
“Honing our skills.”
Mike stopped entirely. “Skills?”
Peter sighed. “Weren’t you listening to me?”
“Oh.” Mike opened the door to his room and walked in—food was laid out on the room’s small, circular table. “Dig in. It all goes on the same tab, anyway.”
“Oooh . . . ” Peter loaded a plate and sat in a half-lotus on the small couch, eating.
Mike slouched into one of the chairs, leaning back and putting his booted heels on the edge of the table. “Okay, so . . . if you’re really from somewhere else, what am I like?” His tone was heavy with sarcasm, but underneath lurked just a hint of curiosity.
“You’re calm . . . peaceful . . . you’re the South Wind. Blows fiercely, but warmly.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Mike said through a mouthful of food.
“You’re our leader.”
A rueful chuckle. “I wish.”
Peter frowned at that. “What?”
“Between Davy preenin’ for those stupid cameras and Micky wantin’ to play drums one day an’ not the next, it’s you fightin’ me musically.”
Peter’s frown deepened. “Now hold on. Our styles are different, but they merge well.”
“Maybe where you’re comin’ from, Peter. Here you fight me every inch of the way—except when it came t’Kirshner. Then you were with me.”
He frowned deeper. “Huh. I can’t even imagine—”
There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” Mike barked.
Bob poked his head in. “You guys need some sleep . . . the breakfast filming is at nine.”
“The . . . what?” Peter asked.
Bob sighed. “The cameras will be filming tomorrow. A day in the life thing. Remember?”
Mike groaned. “Not that shit again. Isn’t it enough we’re on TV every week?”
“Might be a good PR stunt.” Bob smiled and left.
Mike threw a french fry at Bob’s retreating back. “I swear . . . one of these days I’m gonna put my fist through one of those cameras.”
“Or I will.” Peter turned a knife over in his palm and threw it toward the door. It impacted dead center, sinking deeply into the wood and quivering for a second.
Mike stared, wide-eyed. “L-Lucky shot,” he stammered. Peter smiled and lifted another. The point of the second sank into the end of the first. “You’re for real,” Mike whispered, his eyes widening to nearly perfect circles.
“Than, at your service,” he said, bowing slightly, grinning that familiar dimpled grin.
Mike stood up, recognizing the mirthfully teasing look in Peter’s eyes. “Remind me not to mess with you, then.”
“You want him back just as badly as I want to go home.”
“Yeah. I do. I mean—you’re nice, but you don’t belong here any more than I would in your . . . world or whatever.”
“Exactly.” Sighing, he set the plate aside. “I’m going to go to bed. Maybe I’ll wake up in my own bed.”
“Okay. And if not . . . we’ll still be around, okay?”
“Okay.” He stood up, stretched lithely, and pulled the knives out of the door. “Good night, Mike.”
“Night Peter.”
He went back to his room and laid down, staring at the ceiling until sleep took him.
On to Chapter Three
Back to Chapter One
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
