Chapter Five
Bob rubbed his hands together. “Good time, we’re early!”
The time backstage, Peter realized, was precious—and quiet—preparation. As he and the Monkees got dressed in their suits and makeup, with Mike donning the wool hat that Peter realized he hadn’t worn at all that day, he became aware of a steadily building roar that grew louder with each passing moment. It sounded like a plane passing through the arena. “Mike? What . . . what is that?”
Mike frowned. “What’s—” Then he cocked his head. “Oh, that’s the crowd.”
That’s a crowd? Peter couldn’t help but tremble as he followed them backstage. He and Davy huddled on one side while Mike and Micky waited on the other. The lights flared blindingly as they leaped onstage to a thunderous roar of applause. This must be what it’s like to stand in the middle of a thunderstorm, Peter thought as flashbulbs flared from every direction. He somehow found the bass guitar and hefted it, his heart pounding in his chest.
Micky yelled some patter into the microphone, then shouted, “And now, let us take you down the memory lane of music, to 1966 and THE ONE THAT STARTED IT ALL!”
Mike began to play the familiar notes of “Clarksville.”
Once the music began Peter’s body relaxed and loosened the same way it did in anticipation of a fight, and he let the music carry him away. Although the constant hysterical screams made it difficult to hear, the vibrating strings under his fingers were all he needed to send the music flowing through his body. The others seemed to be getting into it as much as he, bouncing around and joking with each other, drawing energy from the crowd and from each other. For the first time since he’d awakened on the plane Peter could feel his friends with him.
Davy smacked Peter on the arm right after “Mary Mary,” yelling in his ear, “C’mon! We gotta get changed while Mike and Micky distract them!”
Peter ran backstage with him, quickly changing out of his suit into a white cable-knit sweater. “Go on, you’re on!” Mike said breathlessly as he appeared backstage, immediately yanking off his hat and tossing it aside. “Cripple Creek!” he hissed at the sight of Peter’s bewildered expression. Peter’s eyes widened and he grinned. As he turned to go, Mike caught his arm and hissed, “And you introduce me next!”
“Got it,” he said and lunged back onstage, pausing to savor the moment. 25,000 people—most of them girls—screamed and cheered, and he grinned. “Thank you!” Alone, with no Mike or Micky to tell him to hurry up, he rambled for a bit, teasing the girls closest to the stage whose arms were raised in supplication. “Cripple Creek” blazed from his fingertips, played at double time in his excitement.
“You’re such a lovely audience,” he announced when he’d finished, “We’d like to take you home with us we’d love to take you home! I don’t really wanna stop the show, but I thought you might like to know, that the singer’s gonna sing a song . . . and the man’s name is Mike Nesmith!”
Mike bounded onstage in a sweater identical to Peter’s. Jerking his head to Peter in a silent order to go change again, he picked up maracas and began to—dance.
Peter paused just offstage, watching for a few incredulous moments. His Mike hated dancing, and most of the time wouldn’t even agree to shimmy onstage.
Davy came out, dressed in some gaudy excuse for a tuxedo. “Go on, get changed!” he gasped, pushing Peter.
Peter stumbled back to the dressing room, where Micky was buttoning a high-collared blue shirt. “What’s wrong, Peter?” He gestured to the yellow eight-button shirt on the chair next to him. “You got a couple minutes to rest before we’re all back up.”
“S-seriously?” he asked, barely daring to hope.
“Yeah,” Micky said, flipping his collar up. “Right after Micky ‘James Brown’ Dolenz.” Giving Peter a cocky grin, he spun on his heel and headed for the stage.
“Micky James who?” Peter whispered, fingering the shirt. The manic, supercharged energy was fleeing, leaving an empty hole in its place. He wanted to go home, back to where things—though certainly no calmer—at least made sense.
The door opened and a girl slipped in; she couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen. She looked at Peter and startled shock took over her expression.
Peter blinked at her. “Um, hello?”
Her eyes scanned him and the stunned look was slowly replaced by pure, naked lust. Peter swallowed, taking a step back at the predatory look on her face. “You’re not Davy, but you’re still a Monkee,” she purred, leaping into his arms.
“Lemme . . . go,” he said, carefully shoving her away. “That’s not my scene—sorry.”
Her eyes widened. “B-But . . . that’s what you guys LIVE for, isn’t it?”
“Not me,” Peter said. “Sorry. I’m . . . I can’t do that.”
“Ooh . . . am I in trouble?” she whispered, suddenly looking not so much a lusting young woman, but a frightened young girl.
Peter shook his head. “No. It’s okay. I’m not going to shout for security.”
She smiled—a genuine one this time. “Thank you . . . ” she said, hugging him.
“You’re welcome,” Peter said, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips. Something to remember him by. “Don’t be so eager to give up something so precious,” he whispered as they parted.
She just stared at him. “I love you.”
Peter smiled ruefully. “No you don’t. You don’t know me—how can you love someone you don’t know? You love what you think you know about me, that’s all.”
She blinked again, obviously thinking. “You’re really smart.”
Peter smiled. “Haven’t heard that often. Now go on—there’s still plenty show to see.”
She smiled and headed out, all but skipping. Peter shook his head, changing into the yellow shirt while Mike came charging in, yanking off his sweater and throwing it over his shoulder. “Man, those chicks are somethin’ else!” he panted.
Peter frowned. “Hold on . . . you’re married.”
Mike gave him a look, his hair damp and wildly tangled. “I am. So? I can’t control those chicks jumpin’ up and down screamin’ their lungs out.” He cocked his head. “You feelin’ okay?”
Peter looked at his watch, unable to meet Mike’s eyes. “Had a backstage visit.”
“Yeah? Of the female kind?”
He nodded. “Teenage kid.”
Mike shook his head. “So what happened?”
Peter told him, quickly, as he waited for Mike to change.
“Sounds like you did the smart thing,” Mike said. Peter noticed that he said ‘smart’ and not ‘right.’ “C’mon—Micky’s almost done.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could say anything, Bob jumped in the doorway. “Two minutes!”
Mike spun. “We can tell time!”
Peter chuckled—for a moment he was home with his own Mike. “Mike, quick—before we go back out . . . what did you mean by that?”
“By what? You did the smart thing, not givin’ in to her. We don’t have the time for you to have a backstage bang!”
Peter froze, his breath seizing in his throat. “Back . . . what?”
Mike turned, his eyes widening fractionally. “Sorry . . . I musta forgot.”
“One minute!”
“Forgot?” Peter whispered.
Mike glanced at the door, then grabbed Peter by the arms. “Look—I ain’t sayin’ it’s right, but . . . havin’ girls around is part of the whole pop star thing. It’s . . . unavoidable, okay? And after long months on the road . . . well, havin’ beautiful girls willin’ to take it off for you . . . you don’t want to avoid it.” He cocked his head. “C’mon, we gotta go now.”
Peter allowed himself to be pulled, his head reeling from that information and from the implications in Mike’s words. He felt his face reddening beyond his control.
Micky skidded by them, his shirt already half off as he double-timed it into the dressing room, emerging barely thirty seconds later wearing his yellow eight-button shirt. “Ready guys?” he panted.
Davy nodded, buttoning his shirt.
“All right, boys,” Mike said. “Two more songs and we’re done!”
“And we can go home!” Davy laughed.
Not me, Peter thought. Doesn’t look like I’ll ever get to go home.
They got out again and played “I’m a Believer,” and then Mike launched into a screeching version of—something. Davy ordered everyone to clap their hands and the arena rocked with rhythm claps. Davy nodded and called a countdown, and the screeches abruptly resolved into “Steppin’ Stone.”
The thoughts—the swirling, tumultuous thoughts were shoved aside as the music swept him up once more, surging through him with such power that when the song ended he sagged, tired and worn out and wishing more than ever that the whole bad dream would end.
In the fourth row, visible from the stage, a couple was arguing. The man grabbed his date and shook her hard, then delivered a slap so hard her head snapped around. Peter yanked one of the drumsticks out of Micky’s hand and whirled, hurling it at the man. Unlike the first time he’d done such a thing, this drumstick hit the man in the back of the head with enough force to send him tumbling into the seats.
All action onstage stopped, except for Micky coming slowly to his feet and Davy turning—both their jaws unhinging as they stared in shock at the North Wind revealed.
On to Chapter Six
Back to Chapter Four
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
