Mike watched Will stagger over to the stage, where Micky, Peter, Davy, and Ella were not even trying to hide their hatred, and slipped out from behind the curtain, slowly making his way around the edge of the club. Even though the Vincent Van was almost full, Mike could hear every word that dripped from Will Fredricks’s arrogant mouth.
“I must hand it to you--you guys have been playing really well since Mike up and left you. I still say you should dump the chick, though.”
Peter’s face flushed bright red and his jaw tightened, his eyes blazing with uncharacteristic anger.
“Easy, Peter,” he heard Ella said softly. “Just stay still and don’t do anything you might regret.”
“You should listen to her, Tork,” Will sneered. “You wouldn’t last three seconds against me.”
“Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t,” Mike said as he slid up behind Will, pitching his voice to the softest, most menacing purr he could manage. As Will slowly turned, his jaw dropping to the floor, Mike squared his shoulders and widened his stance, trying to make himself look as large as possible.
“M-m-m-m . . . ” Will stammered, his eyes moving from Mike’s deeply tanned face and neck to the small pink scar on his temple. “Mike! What a surprise! Good to see you, buddy!”
Mike glared; Will had attacked him, beaten him, and dumped him out in the middle of nowhere. His friends had gone through an enormous amount of grief and anguish and emotional torment . . . and for what?
“Don’t you ‘buddy’ me,” Mike snarled, unbottling the rage that had been building inside of him. “I just wanna know one thing--why?”
“Why what?” Will asked ingenuously, trying to feign ignorance.
“You know what!” Mike snapped, not caring who saw or heard as he reached out and shoved Will. “You and your friends almost killed me and dumped me outta your truck! I want to know WHY!” He gave Will another push.
Will’s short temper finally ignited, which was what Mike had been counting on. “Because you always win! Every time I tried to get some success for me and my band you were always there to snatch it up! And that wasn’t enough! No, you had to play your ‘Mr. Bigshot Nesmith’ routine, acting like you were in charge of everything! And I hate you for it!” Mike wasn’t surprised by the venom pouring out of the blond Rebel; what did surprise him was the intensity. How could he have gained such an enemy and not known it?
“So you and your friends used me as a punching bag and then dumped me in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes!” Will hissed. “I thought I’d finally be free of you, but now you’re back! What do I have to do to get rid of you!?”
“You’re not going to be doing anything, son,” a large man in a dark gray suit said as he seized Will by the shoulders. “We have the confession on tape, Mr. Nesmith--assault, kidnapping, attempted murder . . . he’s going away for a long time.” Will struggled helplessly as the two officers dragged him from the club, shouting curses and threats every inch of the way until the doors closed firmly behind him. The assembled crowd stood in shocked silence as Mike walked over to the stage.
“Is that it?” Peter asked.
“Yep, shotgun, it is. They might want me to come down and fill out some paperwork, but it’s pretty much over.”
“This calls for a celebration!” Ella shouted. “You feel up to playing, Mike?”
Mike shook his head. “Nope. I wanna see how good you guys play without me.”
Peter froze, his eyes wide. “Why? You’re not leaving us, are you?”
Mike shook his head once more, then brushed the hair out of his eyes. “No, Pete--I’m not going anywhere. I want to see how well you play without me because it’s gonna be a long, long, long time before you play without me again,” he added with a wink.
Peter sighed in such exaggerated relief that he almost collapsed against Micky’s drums--the stumble served to dispel the tension in the room, and everyone laughed as the mostly Monkees launched into their first song--
“I’m Not Your Steppin’ Stone.”
~*~
“Yes, ma’am, I am. Well, the name Robert wasn’t too far off--it’s my first name, but I go by my middle name, Mike.” Mike sat hunched over the phone, listening to the far-off sound of Deborah’s voice. “Yes, I am a musician; I’m in a group called the Monkees. Yes, the Monkees. Well, thank you--we like it, too.”
Micky stood on the verandah, dividing his attention between Mike and the beach, where he could barely make out the silhouettes of Peter and Ella, walking hand in hand, and Davy, who trailed about fifty feet behind.
“Hey, Mick,” he heard Mike say, then felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey Mike. How’d the phone call go?”
“Well, I talked to Deborah--Mrs. Barrett. She said they’re just glad I’m home safe and that I remember everything, and they invited us up to their farm for a visit.”
“Us?”
“Yep--you, me, Davy, Peter . . . and Ella. She said she wanted to meet the people who ‘inspired me to cross the state of California’.”
Micky smiled. “She sounds nice.”
“Yeah . . . she and her husband and son are really great folks . . . but I’m still glad I’m back here where I belong.”
Micky returned his gaze to the horizon, where the purple sky was rapidly turning midnight blue. “I am too. I mean, having responsibility and taking care of the group and everything was nice, but . . . I don’t think I’m cut out for it full time.”
Mike stuck his hands into his jean pockets. “I don’t know, Mick. From what I’ve seen you handle it pretty well. Sometimes . . . it’s easy to just kinda . . . think of you as this clown, you know, but when push came to shove, you really came through and . . . well, I know this is gonna sound silly, but . . . I’m proud of you.”
Micky grinned unabashedly for the first time in weeks. Thanks, Mike, he thought as off in the distance Peter put his arm around Ella’s shoulders and gently steered her back towards the house.
That means more to me than you’ll ever know.
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