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One




A nameless, indefinable feeling drove Mike from his bed before dawn. Clad in only his pajama bottoms, he padded down the stairs and into the living room. Climbing onto the bandstand, he looked out the restored bay window over the beach, wondering what the trouble was. His skin was prickling again, and it disturbed him to no end when it did that.

Hearing the noise again, he walked onto the balcony and scanned the beach. Seeing nothing, he looked over the railing and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Micky!”

Micky stood alone beneath him, his limbs flailing furiously as he repeated the same few katas over and over again. Even five yards distant Mike could see the drummer’s body trembling with exhaustion. Mumbling something about damn fools, Mike took the stairs to the beach two at a time, vaulting over the last three completely and reaching Micky’s side in a matter of seconds. “Micky, Micky!” he called, hoping to alert the overextended man that he wasn’t alone.

“Get off me!” Micky snarled, wrenching himself out of Mike’s grasp. His bare chest and shoulders were soaked with sweat, and his breaths came in short wheezes as his body fought for air.

“Micky, stop!” Mike shouted, grabbing him again.

With another snarl—this one through clenched teeth—Micky yanked Mike forward, lifting him up onto his back and slamming the Texan to the sand. Mike let out a choked sound as the wind was knocked from him. He blinked for a second, then rolled to the side quickly, dodging the blow Micky sent toward his head. “Micky, it’s me!”

Micky panted, not a trace of recognition in his glazed eyes.

Mike spun around, grabbed a double cupped handful of sand, and whirled it into Micky’s face. Micky screamed and staggered backwards, his spent legs finally refusing to support him any longer. He hit the sand with a grunt and lay there, gasping for breath.

Mike counted to ten slowly, then carefully crawled over to him. Micky’s torso was more muscular from his seemingly endless morning and evening workouts; the muscles were clearly defined under his tanned skin. He’s been pushin’ himself way too hard, Mike thought, touching the contorted, spasming muscles of Micky’s arm. Touch turned into the short, controlled strokes of massage, as Mike tried to work out some of the cramps in the forearms. Gotta talk to him. Keeps this up, he’s gonna burn out.

Micky moaned, still too breathless to speak.

“What’d you do?” Mike asked softly as he kept rubbing the drummer’s arms. “Stay up all night again?”

Micky shook his head. “Not . . . all night. Couldn’t . . . sleep.”

Mike nodded as he moved down to Micky’s calves. The legs were in the same shape as the arms—larger, more defined muscles now helplessly spasming. Mike winced sympathetically as he gently drew out the heel and pushed Micky’s foot so that it pointed toward the sky. “Nightmare?”

Micky’s breathing gradually slowed. “Yeah . . . you could say that.”

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked quietly as he flexed Micky’s other foot.

“No,” Micky said. “I just . . . gotta work harder.”

Mike’s head snapped up. “You gotta what? Micky, you’re hyperextendin’ yourself as it is!”

“Mike, you don’t understand!” Micky’s voice was plaintive. “I gotta be ready! I can’t let you guys down!”

“Ready is one thing, obsessed is another.”

“I’m fine, okay?” Micky stood up, shaking Mike off. “Quit worrying about me.” With an impatient shake of his curly head he headed back into the house.

“Can’t help it,” Mike sighed, watching the way he walked. “You’re my friend.”


~~~~~



Later that morning Peter sat at the kitchen table, a warm cup of tea in his hands. Mike and Micky were still asleep, which troubled him. Micky had always been a late sleeper but Mike was usually up soon after Peter.

Davy came out of the bedroom, looking up the stairs. “Where’s Long Tall and Equine?”

“Still in bed,” Peter replied absently. “It’s nearly eleven—maybe he couldn’t sleep.”

“Maybe . . . ” Davy sat down beside him and drummed his fingers. “You wanna go check on them?”

“Not yet,” Peter said. “I’m not getting that . . . feeling yet.”

“Me either.” He shuddered. “That . . . well, hello.” Mike was weaving his way down the stairs.

“Mike!” Peter said, trying to contain his concern. “Are you okay?”

I am. Micky knocked the wind outta me earlier.” He sighed. “Guys, we gotta talk about him.”

Peter nodded. “You’ve noticed it too, huh?”

“Noticed what?” Davy said, looking puzzled.

“Micky. He’s always working out. Always.”

Davy shrugged. “So? We are, too.”

“All night?”

“Well, not all night,” Davy admitted. “But what’s the big deal?” Mike told them what he’d seen on the beach that morning. “That doesn’t sound like him,” Davy said. “He’s always been intense, but—”

“This is ridiculous.” Mike poured himself a cup of tea and took a swallow as he sat down. “He was in spasms.”

“He’s pushing himself too hard,” Peter said, staring at the table. “He’ll end up tearing muscle or tendons if he keeps this up. His temper is . . . out of control.”

Mike nodded slowly. “And I have no idea how to calm him.”

Davy asked, “Why do we have to calm him? Anger brings power—”

Mike stood up, his back to the bedroom doors. “It’s not about power, Davy. It’s about control. Losing your cool in battle leads to disaster. Micky’s as talented as any of us, but until he gets a handle on that temper, he’s just puttin’ all of us in danger.”

Davy’s eyes widened as he looked past Mike. Mike slowly turned, looking up to the balcony where Micky stood, his features ice cold and set into stone. “So I’m just putting you in danger, am I? I’m just some dumb brute who can’t control himself, right?”

Peter stood up. “Nobody said you were a dumb brute, Micky.”

Micky glared steadily at Mike. “Nobody had to. I’m not stupid. So, Great Leader, what’s your plan? How’re you gonna deal with the loose cannon, huh?” His voice sharpened with anger. “Since you seem to have all the damn answers!”

“Micky—” Peter took a step forward, trying to disarm the tense situation.

With an easy, loose grace Micky vaulted down to the floor, his body whipping around as he dropped into a crouch, his leg knocking Peter’s out from under him. Peter went down hard, his breath releasing in a “WHOOF!” He rolled over and came up in a defensive stance, his hands held out in front of him. “Micky—”

“Forget it! I’m outta here!” Micky shouted. “If I’m such a problem you all can do without me!” He wrenched the door open and exited, slamming it behind him.

Peter looked at Mike. “Well, that went well.”

Mike nodded. “He just needs time to cool off. He’ll be home later, huffing and puffing as usual.”

“Want me to go after him?” Davy asked, already lightly bouncing with nervous energy.

“No,” Mike said firmly. “You’ll just end up making it worse. This is somethin’ Micky’s gotta deal with on his own.”


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