Chapter Three
The alarm found Peter the next morning alert as usual; he rolled out of bed, feeling his heart thudding to his feet when he realized he was still in the hotel room. It hadn’t been a bad dream—he really was on tour with three men who looked like his friends but weren’t.
He gathered things together for his shower, and grimaced as he entered the bathroom and found a small camera there. Lifting his toothpaste and brush, he shot a tired-looking grin to the camera and mumbled, “It’s the morning, man, what can I tell ya?” before reaching over and shutting it off.
After bathing efficiently, he moved to Mike’s room. Opening the door when there was no reply, he found Mike, in just a towel and gold necklace, damp and tousled and talking conversationally to the camera in his bathroom.
Peter leaned against the wall, out of view of the camera, and smiled as he listened to Mike relate being teased because he used the same stuff on his hair that a girl did. “Some things never change,” Peter finally cracked.
Mike turned, looking over his shoulder. “You’re up, I see.”
He nodded. “Think we can talk without the eyes?”
“Sure. Bob, turn that dang thing off.”
The light went off a second later, as did a slight hum in the background. Peter cocked an eyebrow. “Remote control?”
“Yep. Scare the hell outta ya if you’re not expectin’ it.”
“I turned mine off myself.”
Mike winked. “Bob must like you, then.”
He rolled his eyes. “So what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Breakfast, where we do the cute Monkee thing, and then some staged shit through the day that’s supposed to make it look like spontaneous fun.” Mike rolled his eyes. “I can see Bob’s point—just us sittin’ around in our hotel rooms would be kinda borin’—but I hate havin’ to perform all the time.”
“Like you’re never offstage.”
“Exactly. I just . . . I’m not Woolhat, you know? That ain’t me. I hate havin’ t’be a Monkee all the damn time.”
“I guess we have it easy. We’re Monkees all the time, but we’re also the Four Winds. We’re only on when we’re onstage.”
“Peter, can I ask you somethin’?”
“Anything.”
Mike crossed his arms and leaned on the wall. “You told me about those abilities and everything . . . have you ever had to use ‘em?”
The smile faded. “Yes.”
“You ever get hurt?”
He nodded. “Micky’s been stabbed, shot . . . I’ve been stabbed. Davy and I were beaten badly. Poor Mike lost his sight for all of an hour, not to mention getting the shit beat out of him.”
“He lost his sight? How?”
“Sneak attack in the darkness. Flash-blind for . . . ” He scratched his neck. “Well, okay, he didn’t lose it lose it, but still . . . ”
“An’ you wanna go back to that? I mean, we might get pawed by some overexcited fans, but . . . ”
“It’s my life. We’re . . . we don’t fight to kill.” He paused, paling as he recalled a certain señorita who’d done just that. Visibly shaking himself out of it, he continued, “We fight to disable only.”
“Yeah, but . . . ” Mike’s face held a strange mixture of emotions, his eyes staring fixedly at Peter’s chest. “You still get hurt.”
“That’s part of our jobs. We’ve accepted it.”
At length Mike nodded. “I can respect that.”
“Good. Now there’s one thing here I can’t respect.”
“What’s that?”
Peter nodded toward his towel. “You’re gonna catch your death. C’mon, get dressed so we can get this over with!”
Mike let out a startled chuckle and patted Peter on the shoulder. “Yes, Mother.”
Peter grinned and headed back out, meeting Davy in the hallway. “Hey. Ready to go face the cameras?”
Davy gave him a cautious look. “You’re feeling better, then?”
“Some, yes. How are you doing this morning?”
“I’m tired,” Davy said. “I’m tired of all this stuff. After breakfast I’m going outside for a bit, pinch some alone time before me and Micky go ridin’ this afternoon.”
Peter’s eyes brightened. “Riding? Horses?”
“Yeah . . . ” Davy said slowly. “I used to be a jockey, y’know, and Micky had horses as a kid.” He paused, giving Peter a slow, contemplative look. “You want to come with us?”
“Could I? It’s been forever.”
“Sure.” For the first time since Peter had awakened on the plane, Davy smiled at him. “More the merrier.”
Peter’s full smile shone out. “Thanks.”
“Come on. I’m starved.” Davy led the way into Mike’s room to find the Texan, along with Micky, already digging into the full breakfast laid out on the table. “Come on,” Davy repeated. “Quick, before those two eat it all.”
Peter chuckled, thinking about the growl he’d had to give the ringing phone while waiting for Micky to wake up. He’d forgotten he was on camera, and the director had been taken aback by his forcefulness. Fortunately, his hair had hid the tattoo, but the “Awww, MICKY!” was now on tape for posterity.
He sat down beside Mike. “Hi. Cute shirt.”
Mike batted his eyes and raised his voice to a girlish level. “Why thank you darlin’ . . . I knew it was your favorite.”
Peter tilted his head. “I wore your favorite too.” He batted his eyes and deepened his voice, gesturing at the black button-down shirt that made regular appearances in both of their wardrobes.
Across the table, Davy was holding a sandwich and commentating. “I am picking the sandwich up. I am putting the sandwich in my mouth. I am biting the sandwich.”
Peter had stolen a camera from one of the two girls who were sitting giggling adoringly at Davy’s antics, and he was snapping the shutter and making camera noises. Mike was sitting between them, trying to look unamused by the antics and failing miserably. Micky was atypically quiet, his eyes still squinted against the early morning sun.
The camera suddenly buzzed at him, indicating a low battery, and he deliberately bobbled it, fumbling as if he were going to drop it, drawing gasps from the two girls even though he had perfect control over it. Mike caught the move out of the corner of his eye and he smiled. Peter handed it back to the girl and lifted the cover of one of the plates, beating it like a gong.
“Ow, Peter!” Micky winced, shying away. A waiter appeared with the check.
When nobody else took it, Peter grinned and accepted. “Oh, well, sure, why not? Extravagant . . . a dollar twenty, right?”
Mike poured some of his orange juice back into the pitcher. “It’s totally ridiculous. I mean, you give him a dollar-fifty, keep ‘em in their place,” he said in his “farm report” voice. As soon as he finished the glass slipped from his hand, splattering the table with juice. Peter grabbed a napkin and without a word wiped himself off.
Mike stood up, grinning in a self-effacing way. “I better go . . . ” he said, slinking off.
Peter winked at him, to show there were no hard feelings and wiped at his ear in a Monkees-ish way. Mike shook his head, grinning as he headed off.
Peter caught up with him a little later, grinning as he changed into a white shirt. “Where you headed to?”
“Don’t know yet,” Mike said. “They dragged the GTO out here—might go for a drive.”
“Sounds good. I got invited to go horseback riding with the others.”
“Then go with them,” Mike said. “Think I might need some alone time, you know what I mean?”
“I know. You need to decompress. My Mike is the same way.”
Mike nodded and headed off, sticking his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders in a manner so familiar it made tears spring unbidden to Peter’s eyes.
Peter held out a hand. “Mike, wait!”
The Texan stopped. “You forget somethin’?”
“Yeah. This.” He looked to make sure no cameras were on them, then he gave Mike a quick, one-armed hug that startled the taller man at its strength. “You take care of yourself, okay? You’re not alone if you don’t want to be.”
Mike blinked a few times, startled by the show of affection. “S-Sure. Thanks.”
~~~~~
Peter walked out, watching Micky surrounded by autograph hounds and doing his ‘robot’ routine. He smiled to see Davy, shirtless, arguing with a swan, of all things. “You guys about ready?”
“Yeah, as soon as this chicken stops chasin’ me!” Davy said, dodging the swan as he went for his shirt.
Micky finally disengaged himself from the crowd and joined them, his eyes much brighter and more alert. “Ready.”
The camera turned off and Peter moved, chasing the swan back to the pond. He turned and smiled at Micky. “You look much better.”
“So do you,” Micky said. In a much quieter voice he said, “How many’d you take this time?”
Peter smiled. “None.”
The drummer’s eyes widened. “Seriously? I underestimated you. You’re learning to deal with stress, man.”
“Tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“About my dealing with stress?” He waved a hand. “I’m a little spaced.”
“You’re not popping pills and wandering around in a daze,” Micky said, not looking at him. “And honestly, you’re more fun like this.”
Peter grinned. “Tell me that if you see me starting to do pills again.”
He nudged Micky. “And what about you? How many did you take?”
Micky grinned. “None. Never have. I only take . . . herbal supplements. You know that.”
Peter folded his arms. “You were whacked out on the plane.”
Micky’s grin faded. “But that’s it, Peter. I’m not some crazed dope fiend, okay? And besides—you are the last person to tell me about drugs.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m not gonna push it.” From the puzzled look that Micky gave him Peter surmised that Micky wasn’t used to seeing him backing down from an argument.
The three of them wandered around to the front of the hotel, where Mike was waiting with the car. “Hey, you guys need a ride somewheres? I’m a goin’ to Texas!”
They stood, stunned, then Peter vaulted into the car. “Drop me off at Reno!”
Davy laughed as he got in. “The airport, mate! I’m goin’ t’see my da!”
Mike looked at Micky. “That one looks like a long-haired weirdo t’me.”
Peter grinned. “Yeah, but he’s harmless. He’s into herbs.” He winked at Micky.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Micky said, hopping into the back with Davy. “Let’s just go before I lose my nerve,” he winked.
Davy leaned over. “I’m surprised you’re driving us to the stables.”
Mike shrugged. “Just ‘cause I’m not a horse nut like you guys doesn’t mean I’m scared of them.”
Davy squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”
“Yeah,” Peter said, shining a smile on him. “Thanks.”
“All right, guys, quit it,” Mike said, pulling the car away from the curb.
On to Chapter Four
Back to Chapter Two
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
