Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey hey, we’re the— Davy!” Micky hissed, changing the words of their signature tune but not missing a beat, either drum or sung. “Hey— Dave, we’re— Dave, Davy!” he called louder and more urgently.

Davy didn’t heed the appeal, despite Micky trying to signal him with a drumstick. Well, chance of the l’il biscuit relinquishing center stage and moving back toward the drums during their encore, especially one following their set at ‘their’ club, Make the Scene? Slim to hell no, Mike reckoned. Or in Davy-speak, you must be joking.

Davy did spare Micky a quick backward glare when Micky began to beat out a drum fill that built to a crescendo, instead of playing the simple lick that faded out as the end of the song demanded. He added his frown to the ones Mike and Peter sent the loon’s way.

“He’d better not be going into a drum solo. ’E’s not exactly Buddy Rich. More like Buddy Poor, state of ’is finances,” Davy muttered to Mike, who shook his head to say that no, Micky wasn’t after Davy’s limelight, before stepping into it himself.

“Thank you and good night!” Mike called to the audience, moving slightly, mainly at Davy’s elbow nudge, for the others to join him to take a bow. He didn’t have to beckon Micky away from his kit—Micky was at Davy’s side in a heartbeat.

“That her?” he asked, nudging Davy. “Next to yours?”

“Yeah.” Davy blew that night’s date a kiss as the Monkees exited the club’s stage. Her answering squeal played them off.

“This week’s date,” Peter corrected.

“Huh?” Mike had a cupped hand over one ear and was waggling the end of his little finger in the other. Chick sure had high pitch and good volume.

“Not just tonight.” Peter wiped his bangs from his forehead with the back of a hand. Winter in LA, at least in Make the Scene on the Strip, wasn’t cold. “He’s been seeing her for almost a week.”

“That so? And that a record? Be givin’ me and Peter a run for our money soon!” Mike clapped Davy on the shoulder, though he doubted Davy, that one-man British Invasion, would ever be in the kind of loving, committed relationship that he and Peter had enjoyed for coming up to seventeen months now, in December 1967.

Well, at least not until Davy was a lot older and had sown all his wild oats. Although, as Micky’s Texan grandmother had once asked, “Just how many wild oats that boy done got to sow? I don’t even wanna imagine the size of his hopper.”

“His…” Eyes wide, hand clapped over his mouth, Micky had been too overcome at his elderly grandmother’s words to continue.

“The hopper on the back of his tractor?” his grandmother had explained, miming driving the heavy farm equipment. “Land sakes, child!”

“But that was her?” Micky continued, following Davy into the club’s small dressing room.

Mike understood the double-checking—when Davy included Micky on a double date with him and whoever he was seeing, Micky tended to get the fuzzy end of the drumstick.

“Yes, I told you!” Davy’s words came muffled from behind the wet towel he was blotting his face with. “Julie’s aunt and uncle are in town for a couple days with her cousin, Kay, so she has to take this Kay around with her.”

“Gee, I don’t know…” Micky made a face at Davy’s in the mirror. “Just, I’m kinda hung up on Honey, you know?”

“We know,” Mike muttered. Micky had been banging on about the girl for at least two weeks, and banging as hard as he did on his drums. And with her on his mind, he didn’t have any spare brain capacity left to ponder the issues at the club that the rest of them were all turning over in their minds.

“How hung up?” Davy asked.

“He said ‘kinda’,” Peter joined in, casing his bass.

“Yeah, but words mean different things to different people, don’t they?” Davy held up a finger warning No when Peter drew in a breath, clearly intent on a philosophical discussion on semantics.

“On what?” Mike didn’t think he’d heard correctly. Hoped he hadn’t.

“Se-man-tics,” Peter enunciated clearly.

Mike shook his head and rubbed at his ear again. All the loud music, he really oughta get his hearing checked.

“They do!” Micky agreed. “Like fanny—here it means the bottom, and for chicks and guys, whereas in Britain, it’s the…” His rapid eye movements showed him trying to come up with a polite expression for the— “Front bottom area, and just in chicks.”

“Oh god.” Mike could sense this was gonna be a long evening.

“And don’t get me started on randy!” Micky shook his head. “Like, that old college buddy of mine, Randy, was in England, and when he introduced himself to a dame saying ‘Hi, I’m Randy’, with that big smile of his, she slapped his face and told him he should be ashamed of himself!”

“Micky—” Mike tried.

“And when he grinned after, and said yow-ee, he liked to see a woman full of spunk…” Micky closed his eyes sadly. “Still at least hospitals and medical care’s free there. And ambulances.”

“Right…so I want numbers, not words, Dolenz.” Davy, facing the mirror again, took a second to point the stick of greasepaint he used as concealer at Micky. “Like, on a scale of one to ten, with one being ‘ooh, nice pins, yeah I probably would’ and ten being ‘she’s where it is for me. I never ever never want to look at another bird again ever’, how hung up are you on this Bunny?”

“Honey. My sweet little Honey-Bun.” Micky’s fond, warm smile was…a little scary. “Erm…four point seven five,” he answered eventually.

“Four point seven five? That’s nothing!” Davy scorned.

“Nah, that’d be zero? Or zero point zero zero if you’re bein’ fancy?” came in a not-quite drawl, not-quite twang from the door and a blond guy entered with that half-saunter, half-swagger walk of his. “Hey.” He sketched a wave to the room with the hand that held a bottle of beer.

“Hey, man!” Mike replied, shaking Stephen’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming.” He meant it. He’d always respected Peter’s old friend from the Village as a musician, and while Mike was too wary to classify Stephen yet as a friend, Mike, well, had come to kinda respect him as a person. Didn’t stop him watching close when Stephen and Peter hugged hello though.

“Solid set. Tight yet loose.” Stephen nodded once as he gave that high praise.

“Thanks!” Peter slid Stephen’s bottle from his hand and took a sip before handing it back.

“’S goin’ on with the Smothers Brothers?” Stephen waved his bottle between Micky and Davy.

“Oh, just the usual. Wanna ringside seat? No extra charge.” Mike pulled out a stool for Stephen to sit. He could watch from there…and it wasn’t next to Peter.

“Didn’t you say she wasn’t around this weekend?” Davy asked. “So you can double date.”

“I don’t know…” Micky tried to copy Davy’s casual expertise with the makeup items on the dressing table…and failed. Did he really need to dot on fake freckles with eyebrow pencil? Mike doubted it. “I ain’t sure, Davy. I don’t wanna blow it, dig?”

“Nah. Course ya don’t. Better if she does,” Stephen replied. He crossed one leg over the other at the knee, passed his beer to Peter, and stretched for the nearest instrument, pulling his hand back when he realized from Mike’s raised eyebrow it was Mike’s Gretsch. He switched arms and reached for Peter’s Guild acoustic instead.

“Look, you know what they say—what happens on the Sunset Strip stays on the Sunset Strip.” Davy added a nudge and a wink to his wise words.

“Only one problem with that—it don’t.” Stephen hit a hard B diminished chord, making Micky jump. “LA’s a small town. Gossip gets around faster than a sneeze through a screen door.”

The back-home saying had Mike grinning, relaxed enough to accept Stephen’s beer when Peter offered it to him.

Davy emerged from inside the clean shirt he was changing into and threw a whose-side-are-you-on? glare at Stephen. “Look, Mick,” he began, with the fervor of one who was seeing his evening plans torpedoed, “I understand you’re reluctant to take Kay out because you’re thinking about your absent Money—”

“Honey,” three people corrected.

“Honey.” Davy nodded. “But you know what else they say, in situations like this?” The pause, in which Davy turned to face them all, his face lighting up, told Mike a zinger was incoming—

“What?” Micky asked, reduced to straight man—

“Make Kay while the Hun shines*!” Davy slapped his thigh, almost falling over he was laughing so hard at his own joke.

“Oh, good one!” Peter mimed bowing down.

“Thanks.” Davy took a bow. “Right then, Dolenz. Come on!”

“Shouldn’t Micky change?” Mike wasn’t so much worried about Micky’s chances being improved if he dressed for success as he was Micky spilling stuff on his band shirt. Or dripping stuff. Or squirting stuff. “He’s careless with the ketchup and mustard dispensers!” Mike explained in a yelp when Peter gave him a startled look.

“Condiments can be tricky,” Peter agreed, ruffling Micky’s curls.

“They can!” Micky nodded his agreement. “I never know how hard to grip, you know? Or how many squeezes to give and how much time to let elapse between pumps and—”

“Leaving aside Micky’s lack of expertise at coaxing thick, sticky liquid out of…” Davy trailed off, looking pained. “Yeah, sorry, that doesn’t work. Made meself feel bad, I have. Soz again. What I was going to say is it’s best he wears the same clobber he did on stage so she can recognize him.”

“Huh?” four people asked.

“Like cartoons? They always wear the same clothes, so the audience recognizes them?” Davy indicated Micky, who…wasn’t the world’s most uncartoon-like guy ever, Mike had to agree. “Oh, and burgers are on me.”

“Aww—if they are, gonna ruin that nice shirt!” Stephen called after Davy as he dragged the still protesting Micky away.

“What’s the betting Davy wriggles out of paying?” Peter asked.

“Same odds as Micky ducking outa dismantling his drum kit,” Mike answered, sighing when he thought of Micky’s kit still set up on stage. Oh well. “So, now the cabaret’s over, thanks again for coming, Stephen, so…” The guy looked lost in thought. “Stephen?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bent over the guitar, brow wrinkled, Stephen strummed a chord. “You wanted me to come see ya ’cause ya wanted some pointers, right?”

“Thoughts!” Mike got in quickly. “Any thoughts you might have about the club, with you touring so much around the state and outta state.” Guy had been on the road more than he’d been at home for the past two years and seen a helluva lotta venues.

“The club?” Stephen looked around the small room as though he was seeing the main room and stage too. “Well, ’s kinda cornball, right?”

“Cornball?” Mike yelped. Yes, fine, he was a little sensitive about Make the Scene, formerly the Duke Box, the West Hollywood night spot that the Monkees very part owned, but— “Cornball?” he repeated.

“Fine, not cornball. Jeez.” Stephen tightened a peg on the Guild. “I guess I mean old-fashioned?”

“The place was redecorated last year, after the fire, man!” Mike reminded him.

“Well, hell, I don’t know! It looks like a Sunset Strip club,” Stephen essayed. “Like Bido Lido’s or Brave New World or It’s Boss, you know?” He frowned. “But there is a saying, right, like for when Davy was tryin’ to convince Micky? What Davy was riffin’ on?”

“What?” Mike was lost.

“A saying, man! It’s in my mind. Well, in my ear…” Stephen tilted his head, trying to catch it. “Advice, you know? Ya gotta love where… No, you have to love near, when, she’s far away— Ah, no, that ain’t it!”

“Uh-huh. I know the saying you’re thinking of.” Peter nodded. “If you can’t be with the one you love…”

“Love the one you’re with,” Mike finished, understanding.

“Yeah! That’s it! Yeah!” Stephen leapt to his feet. “Honey!” he yelled.

“Honey?” Mike mouthed to Peter.

“It’s kinda catchy, a little poppy, kinda bluesy, a lot rocky—yeah!” Stephen raced for the door, one wrist turning as if he were playing a shaker and the other hand moving as if playing a conga drum, and a second later his feet thudded down the corridor making a rhythm all their own.

“He…took your guitar,” Mike said, after a pause.

“He did,” Peter agreed. “His need was greater.”

“I guess?” Well, Mike understood about when inspiration stuck. “Well, least it weren’t a total loss him giving up his time to come here—for him! We ain’t no further on.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Peter looked at his discarded band shirt and Davy’s, then Mike’s when he pulled it off. “The clubs Stephen mentioned? They’re all for younger teens, and they are a little…”

“Sunset Strip club-like,” Mike finished, pulling on a new shirt and nodding at the heap of stage clothes.

“Those places were something unprecedented when clubs opened up here, a few years back,” Peter continued. “When it was enough for a club to be a club. To exist.”

“Generic,” Mike said, still looking at their band costumes. He tried to keep his tone neutral.

“Finger on the pulse,” Peter contradicted, making sure Mike looked him in the eye. “The tempo of the times.”

“Yeah?” Mike wouldn’t feel negative. He wouldn’t.

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter grinned. “Only one problem with that”—he switched from imitating the Beatles to Stephen—“is that the beat goes on.”

“Ya got that right, Sonny Bono.” Mike huffed out a laugh at Peter’s finger-clicking impersonation. But yeah, Peter was probably right.

“The times they are a-changin’,” Peter intoned, nodding yes to Mike’s unspoken thought. “And I am.”

“Ya usually are…’cept when I am, shotgun,” Mike told him. “Well, come on, Mr. Zimmerman.” Mike took advantage of them being alone to take Peter by the hand. “Best go find Lola. See what ideas she’s got.”

The majority owner and manager of Make the Scene usually had a whole truckload of ’em and now, perched on a high stool near the bar, out in the club proper, was no exception.

“A refit,” Mike echoed. “A redo, ya say?” He looked around. “Like what?”

“I don’t exactly know,” Lola admitted. “Which is why we should consult someone who does. Who does this for a living. Well, is starting to…”

“That so?” Mike could already imagine the consulting fees. “There’s someone, or some business, who what, looks at clubs or bars and redecorates them?”

“More than that. Rethinks them. Reimagines them,” said a familiar female voice from behind him and Peter and they both turned from the smiling Lola to the voice’s grinning owner.

“Miss Ri…?” Mike couldn’t get the words out.

Yeah. Standing there now, her on-one-side blonde braid longer than it’d been when he’d last seen her but the gleam in her green-blue eyes just as saucy, was Ricki. Once upon a time the Duke Box’s temporary bar manager…and Mike’s former play partner, in a threesome…with another woman.

Ah.

*‘To shine on” is an expression that has been around since the 1950s, meaning to ignore, to reject, to disregard, to avoid, skip.

Chapter Text

“Nesmith.” Ricki held out her hand.

“Miss Ricki!” Able to speak and happy to be in control of his limbs, Mike shook it.

“So formal!” Lola mocked, hugging Ricki tight.

Mike risked a peep at Ricki as the two women embraced, trying to glean if Lola knew he and Ricki had a history…or even if Ricki had told her that they were anything other than former co-workers.

“Peter.” Ricki held out her hand to him too.

Peter knew about him and her, of course, just as she did about him and Peter. And since learning of their relationship the former bar manager and oh yeah, one-time talent booker had been scrupulous to avoid any suggestion of intimacy or closeness, both in Peter’s presence and absence.

“Miss Ricki.” Shaking Ricki’s hand, Peter imitated Mike, making both chicks laugh.

“What—” Mike started to say, but a shout of “It’s here!” from near the main door cut him off. The staff, doing clean-up and close-down once the club closed, bustled in toward the tables.

“It’s— Not Chinese food? Leah!” Ricki shouted to the staff member who’d been here when she had and now came into view. Ricki rushed to hug her too, and Kerry, new since Ricki’s time, grabbed the sacks of food before Leah dropped or squashed them.

“So good to see the tradition still holds!” Ricki exclaimed at the same time she answered Leah’s questions, helped set the food out, and grabbed sodas and beers. The number of things women could do at the same time made Mike dizzy.

“Yeah,” Mike replied, helping push two tables together and range chairs around them. He tried not to think that the staff suppers provided after the club closed had used to taste better when he wasn’t paying for any part of them. “No such thing as a free supper,” he muttered, pulling out a chair for Peter and sitting next to him.

“You got mushroom and chicken chow mein, hold the chicken?” Ricki asked Lola, grinning across the table at Peter, reciting his usual order. “Hope so, seeing we got no Micky here to eat the bits of chicken out of the dish for you if they leave it in! That kid’s so quick with his chopsticks. Probably ’cause he’s a drummer, right? I saw him rush off as we came in. Davy too.”

Kerry’s face darkened. Yeah, their short fling had, well, flung badly, Mike knew. Seemed Ricki cottoned on, way she started prattling on about the one of everything, from chop suey to foo yung, they’d gotten.

“Oh, that’s a new item.” Leah answered her question about one of the foil boxes. “They got this other new thing, Chinese peas? I thought Peter might like it, because, peas, but they said it’s got pork and when I said hold the pork, they couldn’t, so they pointed out their new spareribs instead and I thought Mike would like that!”

“It looks…different,” Mike said diplomatically, taking some upside-down ribs to put right way up on his plate. He sniffed, detecting cayenne pepper, sure, but fruit too?

“See, things change!” Ricki called across, nodding at Mike’s plate. “Get reconceptualized, rethought…”

“Yeah.” Mike scraped off the pineapple, onions, and green and red peppers for Peter to take. He took a forkful of pork rib, tasting…apricot? which made him mutter, “But if it ain’t broke, why fix it?”

“Oh, Mike, even the most successful venues don’t stay the same forever,” Lola argued.

“True.” Ricki broke off a piece of egg roll. “Even the strongest concepts get tired…or people tire of them. I loved the Sea Witch, all that raw wood, portholes, and the figurehead outside? Supposed to look like a ship?”

One of the first clubs on the Strip. Mike nodded.

“Ooh, and the Haunted House on Hollywood and Vine,” Kerry threw in. “With the portcullis door and then the long narrow corridor with spiders’ webs before you get to the discotheque room, everything dark and spooky…”

“Ghoul a-go-go.” Ricki wiped her mouth. “But it’s gotten to the point where everyone who’s going to go to those places has gone, and they want something new.”

“Even Gazzarri’s changes the décor and the girls every year,” Lola added, speaking to Mike.

“And they’re high concept venues,” Ricki muttered.

Mike shot her a glare for that, then Peter a sidelong look in case his sugar had caught the first, and misinterpreted it. “I know you overhaul the business side of things,” he began, to Ricki. “Or start off the processes and systems right from the start if you’re in on the beginning of a project, but the rest—” He clammed up, remembering he’d seen an example of ‘the rest’ in the form of a bar she’d taken him to—one she’d helped create. Peter…hadn’t been with them.

“Hey, I just found the fortune cookies!” Leah exclaimed, ripping the paper bag open down one side to make a plate for the small half-moon shells it contained. “Boss?” She indicated Lola should have first pick.

“Okay… ‘A true and sincere friendship exists between you and your friends’,” Lola read after breaking the shell in half and pulling out the slip of paper.

“Aww!” chorused her staff, as most people took their own cookies.

“Michael?” Peter asked, when Mike dropped his ‘fortune’ to the table and tried to cover it with a napkin after reading it. He narrowed his eyes. “What’s it say?”

“Oh, you know, nothing,” Mike started, ashamed of himself a second later when he fell for the oldest trick in the world, one Micky used regularly—Peter half-standing and staring over people’s heads, peering…which had Mike rising and squinting too…and allowed Peter to slide the strip of paper free.

‘“An old acquaintance will re-enter your life’,” Peter read, his voice clipped, glancing across the table—

—where Ricki, cookie cracked in half, read, ‘“Plan for many pleasures ahead’.” She caught Mike’s eye then Peter’s and gave an embarrassed laugh. “But what I was explaining, over the phone, was it’s more than just planning,” she said, speaking to Lola now. “My work.” She shifted to include the other girls in her talk. “Interior design for entertainment spaces, but with operational consultation too. Staff, stock, and financial management, customer service, business efficiency. And creating the look, the design, and fitting the space out.”

“Wow!” Kerry exclaimed. “That’s a lot!”

“Oh, it’s not just me!” Ricki laughed. “I work with a contractor— Who’s here! Hey, Adam! Over here!”

She waved and a thick-set, burly guy, his long hair caught at his nape in a leather tie, joined them. Mike couldn’t hear everything over the table’s greetings and questions, but caught that Ricki had worked with him on a project in San Francisco, had gotten the idea for the business…

“—and a designer,” Ricki finished, gesturing.

Mike hadn’t seen her behind the big guy, but caught a glimpse of long dark chestnut hair before a small, slim chick stepped out from behind him and sat at the end of the table…next to Peter. Huh. The noise and energy changed, as it did when newcomers joined a group, but Mike didn’t have his usual oyster-absorbing-sand reaction, trying to assimilate it all, take it all in.

No, this was more like watching two separate scenes or even different performances on two side-by-side screens, with what was going on to his right noisier and more animated, with more characters, than the scene to his left…which was a duet.

So Mike, attention pulled in two directions, nodded along to Ricki pitching what she could do and describing her team’s credentials, catching stray words like general contractor, stage and set designer, corporate—offices and banks, and hospitality and recreation field, while all the time he strained to hear, without looking like he was listening, from his left—

“Lorelei?” Peter exclaimed.

“I know.” The chick huffed out a laugh. “German mother, GI father.”

“So are you or have you ever been in fact a siren?” Peter laughed too.

“Well, I don’t sing,” the girl said.

Mike’s shoulders, that he hadn’t realized were high and tight, slackened a little on hearing that, even if he didn’t get the joke, or allusion, or what the hell ever it was.

“I play the flute,” Lorelei continued, and dang if Mike couldn’t imagine her looking up through her thick heavy bangs, no, her thick dark eyelashes and pouting her pert lips when she said that. He stabbed hard at a shrimp, spearing it free of its rice.

“Oh, you’re a flötenspieler!” That was Peter.

“You speak German?” The girl’s voice was about as high-pitched as a siren, in her disbelief. “Wow! That’s—”

“Cookies!” Kerry interrupted—everything—passing the remainder, still in their white paper bag plate, down to the end of the table. Peter’s end of the table. “You haven’t had one yet. Go on!” she urged.

Peter indulged her…and Mike wasn’t sure he trusted the hitch of Peter’s lips when he read his paper fortune to himself, or the way he half-twisted in his seat, then slanted his head as if to make sure Mike was paying attention before he spoke—

‘“Something exciting will happen tonight’,” Peter proclaimed, making the barest, tiniest of eye contact with Mike.

Mike opened his mouth to replay, to speak, to say something, anything, but stopped at the snap of another cookie, broken in petite slim fingers—

‘“Happiness is not pleasure. It’s victory’,” the chick announced.

“Wut?” Mike burst out, not sure who he was speaking to.

“Chime. Mike, Chime.” Lola waved at him.

“Chime,” Mike repeated, his brow creasing.

“My company.” Ricki waved a binder. “The name.”

“Don’t tell me,” Mike replied, “It’s got a nice ring to it, right?”

That got a few laughs, from the business end of the table, and a sharp exhale and an even sharper elbow scrape down Mike’s ribs from Peter. It could have been an accident, Peter turning in his seat to speak to the girl on his left, but Mike knew it hadn’t. Glancing up and beyond the table, he caught a glimpse of Peter in the distance—his reflection in the fancy mirror covering a section of wall.

“Peter?” Mike moved slightly, encouraging Peter to do the same so Mike could see him free of the colored mosaic glass on the mirror. Peter didn’t move, making it hard to connect with him, somehow. “Peter, I would never…” Mike jerked his head to his right, where Ricki sat, trying to make Peter out through the fragmented glass that was overlaying now a muted pearl square, now a straw yellow, now a pale sky blue over what little of his face was visible.

But Peter knew that. Knew Mike would never come on to someone else, just like he wouldn’t, right? He wouldn’t be flirting with this new chick, this Lorelei? No. He wouldn’t. Mike nodded, agreeing with his thoughts. Wrenching his attention to Ricki and her contractor was as hard as pulling taffy, but Mike managed it.

Yes, he supposed, Ricki did have insights into what was happening beyond West Hollywood, in more inventive, pioneering San Francisco venues. Yeah, he agreed, Make the Scene should get a substantial discount for being the company’s guinea pig. Or calling card, as Ricki phrased it. Ricki who already had ideas about the place.

“Seems Lorelei does too!” Lola joked, pointing to the chick. “And she’s sketching them already!”

She was? No, Mike saw, leaning back in his seat and rubber-necking to do so, she was goddamn sketching Peter! Peter, who was letting her!

“I know I’ve never met you, but I’m sure I know you,” she suddenly said, looking up from the drawing to trace her pen in the air near Peter’s face, like she was getting the line of his profile that way then translating it to her paper. “Like I’ve seen you before…”

“Oh, come on!” Mike silently howled. Normally, Mike would be nudging Peter at this point, or Peter pressing on Mike’s foot at how cheesy that was. Only it was kinda tricky to do that, when Peter was the one on the receiving end of the pick-up line! No wonder that image of Peter he’d glimpsed in the fancy mirror had looked wrong, looked fragmented—it was fractured, the wrong way round! “Like a kaleidoscope,” Mike murmured, letting the colors spin to make the true picture—the chick flirting with Peter!

He gave a cough, in warning.

“We haven’t met,” Peter started.

Good. Mike went to press his foot against Peter’s.

“And you haven’t seen us perform…” Peter continued.

He didn’t need to do that!

The chick shook her head. “I’d remember.”

Oh, Mike bet she would.

“Then, given your background, you might be familiar with a form of me?” Peter went on.

Mike did not understand that, or the words Peter used next, although one sounded like an obscenity and one a body part. He watched Peter turn his head to better show off his profile. “You’ve probably seen me for one month of the year,” Peter finished.

“Kleines Kunstwerk…Gipsbüste,” the chick repeated, frowning. Then her face cleared and she squealed, pointing at Peter, “Auf Kalendern! And, oh my God, in my Skizzenbuch!”

“Anyone understand any o’ that?” Mike asked the group at large as the chick scrabbled in her purse for a small leatherbound book, like a diary or sketchbook, he belatedly understood.

“Kunstwerke Skizzenbuch, by the look of it,” Peter corrected. “Art works sketchbook, with reproductions of minor classic works to inspire artists and—”

“With you in it!” Lorelei shouted, finding the page she wanted, and showing them all a reproduced photo of the sculpted head of a young boy…with a tilted pixie nose, the cutest elf ears, and the sweetest little face imaginable.

“Peter.” Mike gulped, pointing from the photo to the real thing. He’d known of course that Peter had done some modeling in his time. “Just didn’t know you started so young,” he muttered.

His words were lost as everyone rushed to see, exclaiming, demanding explanations and exclaiming more at Peter’s explanation that he’d had no choice but to sit for the artist—he’d been four and she’d seen him in the street, stopped him and demanded he take her home to his parents and for once it wasn’t because he was in trouble, but because she was a famous artist whose eye he’d caught and who wanted to sculpt him it and who could not be refused because it was an honor to be chosen and…

“And you’re on calendars!” Ricki understood. “Mike, did you realize you had a pinup in the group?”

“I should ask for your autograph!” the chick said, and Peter smiled at that.

Oh, not a flirtatious smile, aimed at the girl. No, this was more of a smirk, and aimed at Mike. At Mike, who, heart thudding hard, frowned in confusion…until light dawned…

Chapter Text

Realization broke over him like a surging wave. Peter wasn’t paying him back, because there were no charges to answer to or price to pay. Peter wasn’t turning the tables, because Mike had never upset them in the first place—he hadn’t been coming on to Ricki.

No, this was Peter being a brat. Acting up. Or acting out, whatever the expression was.

“But…” Mike was only aware he’d spoken the word out loud when Peter moved in his seat to look at him. Well, to let Mike at him. Look and see the light in his eyes. Mike looked and saw…speculation, challenge, then confidence.  

Oh. Mike got it now. Should have gotten it sooner. Pete wasn’t acting up, as in being disruptive. Well, he was kinda, disrupting Mike’s blood pressure. More than he did by merely existing. And he wasn’t acting out, behaving like a jerk rather than verbalize something. Nope—Peter was acting, period. More precisely, playacting. Playing a game. The kind Mike was familiar with…because he played them along with Peter. Inside the pad…and sometimes outside, like this.

Well, Mike would play now too. Would give Peter what he needed. And because Peter was the smart one and probably knew it was what Mike needed, too. The nod Mike gave was small, almost imperceptible, but Peter caught it. Least, Mike assumed so, by the way Peter’s eyes widened and his smile sweetened, turning him into the most naïve flowerchild version of himself, when he turned back to his companion.

Davy had accused him of laying in on with a trowel, that ‘Who? Sweet little me? All blond hair and innocent eyes and fluttering lashes?’ persona to get a chick to come on stronger, make all the running. Micky had tried to argue that no, look, Peter wasn’t doing anything, was letting the girl know he wasn’t into her, but real polite-like, and Davy had tsked and shaken his head and said Micky had a lot to learn. And had not taken Micky up on his demand that Davy teach him then. For which Mike was grateful.

“Oh!” The exclamation didn’t come from Mike but from someone else at the table watching the chick draw Peter in profile, on the blank page next to the reproduction of the bust of him, Mike saw by craning his neck to do so. The two heads were turned to each other, their noses almost touching. “That’s so cool!” Leah added, and with a perfunctory “May I?” held it up to show everyone.

“There is an actual photograph of four-year-old me nose-to-nose with the head like that,” Peter commented. “It’s a little uncanny.”

“I’d really dig seeing it,” the chick responded, leaving a weighted pause after her words.

“Then I shall have to ask my mother to dig it out!” Peter blinked a few times…in a way that wasn’t quite fluttering his lashes, but wasn’t a whole country mile from it.

“Maybe Loralei could do a mural somewhere here,” Ricki suggested quickly, glancing from her employee—and Peter—to Mike. “Oh, I don’t mean of Peter,” she added, maybe just hearing her own words after she’d spoken merely to break the moment. Mike kinda appreciated her looking out for him, he supposed.

“A mural?” Lola asked.

“Yeah. I-I mean you should see the ones she did at Alchemy, a new live music bar in Upper Haight,” Ricki answered, her gaze on Mike.

“What? Road trip to San Francisco, you say? We can hire a VW bus, put all the gas and food on the club’s books!” Kerry danced in her seat, waving her arms.

“No—I got photos.” Ricki wiped her hands on a napkin and hunted in her purse.

“Well, it could be a possibility… I’ll be able to say when I get the lay of the land,” Loralei replied, gazing about her.

“Really? Wouldn’t you be more at home in the ocean?” Peter blinked again.

Oh yeah. Mike didn’t know if Peter was doing a routine or a bit or— And he missed the girl’s response in trying to form his own response to Ricki asking if he were hung up on the club’s name, would he consider changing it and—

“Actually, I should get the feel of the place.”

Mike heard that all right, and the scrape of her chair as Lorelei stood…then the noise of Peter’s as he got to his feet too, a polite, well-brought-up, good-mannered host. “This time of night?” Mike couldn’t help asking, indicating the darkened venue.

“It’s when the clients will be seeing it,” she retorted.

“Good point,” Lola commented.

From then on Mike had to widen the range of his divided attention to no longer a split screen but a whole damn cinema. No, stage, he supposed, spying from the corner of his eye Peter accompany the chick to the bar. Stage set was maybe more accurate. “Of course,” he replied to the contractor guy who assured them that he measured up accurately and in daylight, took real measurements, didn’t just wander around seeking inspiration like that.

That was the guy jerking his thumb over his shoulder to where Loralei was flitting around the club floor, assessing and sensing the space…with Peter as her guide. Mike lost track of the pair, and got kinda into the guy, Adam’s, story about how he got started in the field until the metallic whine of a door dragged him back. The noise the fire door made, the door that was locked once the club closed, but that could be opened from within the club, in the short corridor that held the dressing room. And the reason anyone would access it? To gain entrance to the outside. To the night.

The pair weren’t gone long—Mike timed them—but it sure felt like it. He stood as soon as Peter came into view again, and grabbed a handful of empty containers and plates. “Peter, give me a hand here?” he asked, gesturing to the table as he rounded it. And iffen he goes all out on his naïve act and applauds me, says I’m doing well, I’ll…do something, Mike resolved.

Peter didn’t go that far but Mike would bet anything the thought crossed Peter’s mind when he hesitated before assembling a bar tray of used glasses and following Mike behind the counter with them.

“Mind telling me just what ya think ya doin’?” Mike inquired over the noise of glassware and running water. “And don’t say clearin’ trash.”

At the faucet, Peter laughed. “Having a flashback, actually. To being a dish pig.”

“A what?”

Peter flourished the dishrag in the sink. Oh yeah. He’d been a dishwasher in a club.

“I mean with Lora-Lee,” Mike gritted out.

“Lei. Loralei,” Peter corrected. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything, Michael.”

Mike stared, one of his intense ones.

“Being helpful?” Peter shrugged. “Facilitating possible renovations by assisting in an assessment?”

“That so? Well, I been making my own assessment and I don’t think she needs any assisting. The woman seems perfectly capable all on own.” Mike caught up with himself…with his reaction. The emotions he was feeling. Peter and the petite brunette, the artistic, musical, foreign language speaking chick, looked good together. “Ah thought German girls were all six foot tall and three foot wide across the shoulders,” he muttered, glancing over at her.

“Michael.” Peter made his name the equivalent of clicking his tongue. “It’s really not good to fall into stereotyping.” And Jesus, the amount of self-righteousness he slathered his words in. Enough that Mike was reduced to gaping after him as he went back to the table.

He didn’t get the chance to speak to Peter any more after that, with all the talk and ideas and arrangements being made. He had to admire Peter’s wide-eyed act, he supposed, how it kind of absorbed any overtures or advances the chick made, especially the way he blinked at the card she gave him, emphasizing that her phone number was on it, in case he wanted to call her…with any ideas or thoughts, and the way she waited for him to reciprocate.

Mike waited, tense and half-holding his breath, when Peter started to dictate a phone number to her in turn…only to relax with relief when it was the club’s. “I’m probably here more than I am of any one other place, and there’s more people here and for more of the day and night to take messages,” he explained with his kindest smile.

They’d left West Hollywood and were almost in Santa Monica before Mike spoke, interrupting Peter humming happily along to the radio. “That little display…” he began.

“Display? Oh the presentation, the possible themes and colors? It was creative.” Peter hummed more. “Eye-catching. Well designed.”

“Oh yeah.” Mike had to agree. “I’d use all three of those adjectives to describe the show you put on.” Peter…you know you’re playing with fire.”

“What? Michael, I wouldn’t dream of smoking in the car. I know how you feel about it.” Peter's tone was pure sanctimoniousness.

Mike let the silence linger in the dark of the night before they hit the streetlamps of Beechwood and he spoke again. “As soon as we get home, you are going straight upstairs and waiting for me,” he instructed.

Peter didn’t reply but Mike saw the words register.

“Oh, and Peter?” Mike added when they pulled into the drive and Peter exited the Pontiac.

Peter halted. “Yes, Michael?

“Naked,” Mike ordered, watching that hit, not just register, as Peter fumbled with his key in the front door. Mike sat in the car for a few minutes, giving Peter time to do as commanded before storming up the spiral staircase and into their room, where he crossed to the bureau and took out what he needed. “I’m giving ya one last chance to explain yourself,” he informed Peter.

“Michael, there is simply nothing to ‘explain’,” Peter scoffed. “Lorelei was being friendly. A little overfriendly, perhaps and—”

“And you’re sticking with that?” Mike interrupted. He walked slowly over to Peter. “In that case, I’m giving you one other last chance…to back out.”

Peter didn’t reply—Mike hadn’t expected him to—but just looked at him.

“With a muttered, “All righty, then,” Mike placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder to force him to his knees, and…got to work in silence. For a few minutes. After which he took a moment, a long, long moment, to look down at Peter.

“You got any idea how fucken sexy you are like that, shotgun?” He wasn’t surprised when Peter didn’t reply. Just struggled at the tie around his wrists a little. Making Mike smirk. A lot.

“You knew what would happen iffen ya carried on like that,” he reminded Peter, stepping closer. “Flirtin’ with that chick in goddamn front of me! Oh, wait, yeah, she was flirtin’ with you. And you ‘can’t help it if chicks come on to you.’ You weren’t ‘doing anything’.”

 “And maybe that was the thing,” he continued, as himself after imitating Peter for the last three sentences. “That you weren’t puttin’ a stop to it. And if you were helpless then, with that girl, why then now…buck-naked, hands tied behind your back, on your knees for me, your dick so hard it’s ready to burst, even though I ain’t touched ya yet…” He paused for his words to sink in, and Peter to react to them. The shiver that pebbled goosebumps along his ribs and made the hairs on his arms rise…

“And those lips of yours.” Mike deepened his tone at the same time as he unzipped his pants, making Peter’s eyes widen. “Just made for sucking my cock.” Peter’s eyes were as round as plates when Mike stepped closer still and brushed the tip of his cock across Peter’s full pink lips. “And I’m plannin’ on makin’ full use of ’em…”

He dragged the tip of his hardening cock across Peter’s lips again, slower and more deliberate. “Lick it. Taste me,” he hissed, their scene turning him on as much as Peter’s toned body, arm and chest muscles bunching where his wrists were tied behind him, and still tan, even in early December, and as much as Peter’s agile tongue reaching out to lap Mike. “Taste good?” Mike asked, all fake solicitousness.

“S-salty.” Peter licked his lips, leaving them shiny and inviting. As he damn well knew it would. And did. “Bitter.”

“Can’t have that.” Mike worked his cock a stroke or two, coaxing more liquid out, then brought it to Peter’s lips. “Better?”

Peter lapped at him again, this time longer and harder. “Sweeter?” he tried to decide, pulling away a little.

“Sounds like you need to taste more, make sure,” Mike replied, not surprised at Peter’s nod.

“And sexy as you look now, you’ll look a whole load sexier with my cock in your mouth,” Mike continued, his accent thick and voice husky…of their own accord. A millisecond later, he was fighting a groan at the wet heat of Peter’s mouth, then controlling his tremble when Peter swiped his tongue along the underside of Mike’s dick. “Oh, hell yeah,” Mike moaned, unable to stop his appreciation slipping out.

Before Peter could get too smug, too self-confident at his skills, Mike laced his hands around the back of Peter’s head. “Gonna fuck your mouth now,” he warned.

Peter flicked his gaze up to Mike’s, and Mike stroked Peter’s face with his thumbs. “Don’t you worry none, pretty boy. I’ll start nice an’ slow. Won’t go rammin’ my big hard cock down your throat.” He grinned. “At first.”

The look in Peter’s expressive brown eyes was half-startled, but mostly hot. Oh, and needy. He craved what they did, their games, this just as much as Mike did. And things never got old, even though they’d been together for a good eighteen months now, were coming up to their second Christmas as MichaelandPeter. Oh yeah, Peter might try to feign fear or reluctance—when he remembered—but he enjoyed it when Mike fucked his face. No—goddamn loved it. Got off on it as much as Mike did. Well, fair was fair—the size of Peter’s cock, Mike liked Peter face-fucking him too.

Only now, it was Mike’s turn, and he rocked his hips forward, as slowly as he could, pushing steadily into Peter’s mouth, and within seconds, as they did in most things, they’d caught their rhythm. As much as Mike loved Peter’s big brown eyes, he liked seeing Peter’s thick lashes flutter down, shuttering his eyes closed when he lost himself in what he was doing. Like now, settling into this, letting Mike set the pace.

So Mike pushed deeper, testing Peter’s gag reflex. Peter choked, the sound rough and spluttering, and his eyes sprang open, but the fierce light in them told Mike to continue. When Mike hesitated, Peter pushed forward, his eyes once again closing. Mike’s darlin’ had pride.

And skill—Mike relaxed, his carefulness easing some and pure, sheer enjoyment stealing over him. Oh, he kept his thrusts shallow…ish, mostly fucking into the front of Peter’s mouth, then hissing when Peter sucked harder. That little imp never followed Mike’s cues for long. Lived to extemporize. So when Peter traced his tongue across the underside of Mike’s cockhead, the groan Mike let out was long and deep, dragged from him.

Which meant it was time. Time for Mike to take back the lead. Get this back on track. “Gonna test that talented throat of yours now,” he whispered, making his voice as silken as it could go. “Hit your foot against the floor if you need me to stop.”

Peter nodded, eyes wide open and fixed on Mike now, which made Mike squirm with how dirty this felt. Dirty and so right that he pushed in, forcing through the tight constriction of Peter’s throat that threatened to make him come where he stood. Peter choked a little, gagging in the way that was so fucken wrong it was right, but when Mike peered down, wanting to pause, he met only defiant heat in Peter’s eyes.

Chapter Text

“All right then,” Mike husked, reading Peter’s expression—let’s see how long you last, Tex. Mike pulled back and pushed deep, pulled out and thrust deeper still, then once more, the sound and oh sweet Lord, the feel of Peter’s throat half-choking, half-spluttering around him undoing him. The fact that Peter was doing it on purpose, was exaggerating, made no difference. Well, yeah it did—that and the tears welling in Peter’s eyes, thickening and spiking his eyelashes? It lit Mike up from the inside out, and he couldn’t last another second if his life depended on it. He pulled out.

“Open your mouth, boy,” he ordered, forcing his voice to come out without a waver. “I’m gonna come on your tongue.”

And Peter for once, like a miracle, obeyed.

Mike wrapped his fingers around his shaft and an embarrassingly few strokes later was releasing into Peter’s mouth, spilling hot and thick onto his tongue and so fast and strong it made Mike’s head light and the room spin a little. His vision went white at the edges and he tried but couldn’t catch his breath, not the way his climax hauled him along for the ride, making him its prisoner until, hand locked, he stroked out the final spurts. Only then could he heave air into his lungs and make his now trembling muscles loosen.

A noise from Peter, along with a shake of his head, had Mike relaxing the hand he still had speared into Peter’s hair. “Yeah,” Mike ground out, understanding Peter’s question. “Yeah, you c’n swallow, boy.”

The sight and sound of Peter doing so, his strong throat working and his gaze pinned on Mike, threatened to drag another climax from Mike. And recalled him to his duties—

“Here.” Weak himself, he helped Peter up and undid the knot holding the tie around his wrists, rubbing them for him. “Don’t fret. I ain’t forgot you.”

It didn’t take much to get Peter flat on his back on their bed…and it didn’t take Peter long to get a hand to his erect swollen cock, his fingers curling into a fist around it. Well, he badly needed the relief, which made the expression on his face when Mike knocked his hand away priceless.

“I’m taking care of things,” Mike reminded the indignant Peter.

“You mean taking care of me,” Peter corrected, his voice strained.

“Of you…” Mike considered. “…of things for you, let’s say.” He saw his words, probably helped by the glint in his eye, register. “Now, see, there’s a whole heap o’things we could do next”—he ignored Peter’s piqued, “I’ll say,” accompanied by a wiggle of his hips— “but I got an idea… How’re your wrists?”

“My—? Oh.” Peter gave his recently bound hands a shake. “Fine?”

He was right to sound suspicious, when a second later Mike had Peter’s arms stretched out over his head and used the tie once again, this time to fasten them to the headboard. Peter didn’t have time to pull against them or protest before Mike was at the drawer, the drawer…that held their lube and…toys, and from where he took a new package out.

“Yeah, picked up a little something,” he said as casually as he could, tipping it from the bag, not giving away a hint of how he’d reacted on seeing the toy. What he’d imagined. How he was feeling now. “New. Improved. Better…” He waited for Peter’s reaction—

“Bigger…” Peter breathed, his gaze on the butt plug.

“Uh-huh,” Mike agreed, slicking the black rubber plug up, unsurprised when Peter’s pupils grew large and his breathing hitched. He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, just used his shoulders to make Peter bend his legs, the soles of his feet flat on the sheet under him, and then push Peter’s legs up the bed a little.

He thought Peter caught his breath when Mike brushed the slick toy against his entrance, then gasped when Mike pressed in, working the plug inside Peter, and groaned when Mike had it seated. Deep.

“It’s a good design there,” Mike commented, bending low to his task. “You can move it easily…”

He did and Peter gulped. Mike eased it back into position, and Peter shuddered. His already thick, erect cock twitched against his abs as Mike watched. “Yeah, you c’n play with it nice ‘n’ easy,” Mike remarked, doing just that and seeing the tip of Peter’s dick grow slick with pre-cum. “Heh, and talkin’ of playing…”

Peter’s body arched as Mike used his other hand to jack his cock. Just once, but hard and firm enough to…leave an impression. One Mike left Peter no time to process before he leaned low between Peter’s bent and splayed legs, low enough to swirl his tongue around Peter’s nipple, then drag his teeth across it. He had to pull back when Peter, a strangled hiss escaping his clenched teeth, bucked up and almost smacked into Mike.

“Michael,” Peter got out on a gasp.

“Yeah, sugar?” Mike inquired. “Looks like you want something there.”

Peter did—he was almost humping the air. Saying nothing though. Just sweating and trembling, and fighting not to give vent to the whimpers that wanted to escape him. Mike wasn’t a sadist. Much. Well, okay, but he wouldn’t make Peter beg. This time. “What, you want my mouth on you?” Mike asked, stroking Peter’s dick. “Sucking this nice thick cock of yours? A reward for how well you blew me?”

Sweat flew from Peter’s forehead when he nodded. Mike tried not to smirk. Just blew Peter’s bangs away from his brow and used a corner of the sheet to mop it for him, then made Peter jump a little when Mike bent to his dick, sucking the tip. And just when Peter was about to wiggle his hips in invitation or, more likely, arch his back in demand, Mike tapped a firm finger against the toy inside Peter’s ass.

Before the echoes of Peter’s howl had died away in the bedroom, Mike rolled Peter’s balls in his palm, then slipped a hand lower to stroke a finger across the soft stretch of skin between his ass and sac. The noise Peter loosed at this was more like a scream, and his body twisted like a fish on a line. “Shh, darlin’,” Mike whispered…right before he stroked harder, more insistently, then had to jerk himself backward when a violent shudder wracked Peter’s whole body.

Sweet Moses. What would Peter do iffen Mike set to work on his dick? Interested to learn, Mike smoothed his other palm across the sensitive head of Peter’s cock and Peter bucked up, his body bowing into a high arch as he cried out. He wouldn’t be lasting much longer, but Mike had wanted to see, to try… Should he? Before his brain came to a decision, his body decided for him and Mike pressed Peter’s dick against his belly, to give himself room to well, take a slap, as gentle as could be, at Peter’s full balls. They’d seen it in a skin flick and—

And the wild, primitive, desperate sound that escaped Peter’s lips shot through Mike like a bolt of lightning. Had he ever heard anything like it? He didn’t reckon so. And one glimpse at Peter straining, abs clenching, thighs tightening, skin sheened in sweat, suffering, had Mike dropping low to take Peter’s cock into his mouth. To take it deep, right down to the root…while he fucked his ass with the toy he bet Peter had forgotten about. Mike almost had.

But he remembered now, and it only took a couple of good hard rubs over Peter’s prostate before Peter was coming, releasing into Mike’ mouth with a long helpless groan. Mike kept sucking throughout as he swallowed, teasing the tip of his tongue into the small slit at the head of Peter’s dick then flicking it in and out.

“Michael.” Peter’s whole body jerked, shaking their bed. “Michael…”

Just the one word, but he made it say so much. Convey so much. That Mike could choose to ignore. Could raise a brow to and inquire if Peter was feelin’ sensitive? Well, Mike wasn’t feelin’ tired and could keep playing like this for a good long while yet, could even see if he could get Peter to come again, that Mike bet he would, if Mike slapped his balls harder this time, smacked his dick even, working his way from the tip down to the balls, then back up again.

And maybe Mike would…next time. But this time he rubbed a soft hand across Peter’s stomach, soothing him he slid the toy from his ass, Peter’s sphincter muscles too lax to put up any fight at having the stimulation removed. Relieved to have the torment removed, Mike bet. Then Mike released Peter from his bonds, rubbing his wrists and arms to get the circulation back as quick as possible. Peter still looked out of it when Mike wiped him down with a towel.

When he reached Peter’s legs, straightening them out for him and lying them flat then dabbing at them to blot the sweat, Peter stared down at him, his eyes dazed and his mouth curving up in a little smile. A smile Mike couldn’t resist, one he had to kneel up and press his lips too, smiling in turn, not that surprised when Peter revived a little, because he was Mike’s beauty, sleeping or awake, and kissed Mike back so the kiss became a long, soft make-out session, their movements slow and languid.

“That…” Peter said when they finally broke apart. “That was…” He shook his head, getting his overdue-for-a-trim hair out of his eyes. “All because of some chick? And not even?” He laughed at the whole thing, at him being a brat, and Mike…learnin’ him not to be. “Me not-flirting with a girl. And you getting so…so…”

Mike shrugged, not meeting Peter’s gaze and trying not to think that fires started with the smallest of sparks. That people made jokes about things that mattered to them. That Peter had seized on this pretext because it was on his mind. Because despite what they had—and that was a helluva lot—Mike couldn’t help wondering sometimes about Peter and chicks. Or a chick. If he ever… No, would he ever—

“No,” Peter answered, voice firm and eyes on Mike’s.

“I know. I don’t mean that.” Mike stirred Peter’s bangs apart for him.

“Then what do you mean?” Peter, on his side, propped himself up on an elbow to look Mike in the eyes.

“Just, hell, I don’t know!” Mike admitted.

“Try.” Peter spoke softly but the word hung in the air.

“That, well, a relationship with a girl’s different. It’s something to miss. You like hanging out with chicks. They like hanging out with you. All over the town, from here in Beechwood to the beach to your favorite coffee bars and spaces to the clubs on the Strip! I… Like I said, I ain’t sure.” He shrugged again.

“Well I am.” Peter stroked his face. “And if I wasn’t…”

“What?” Mike’s heart thumped.

“There’s always the Ricki route.”

“The… Jesus, Peter!” Mike got it. “We’d never— And we’re the wrong ratio, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” Peter assured him. “And admit that when she came in tonight, with a guy and another chick, your first thought was that she was still into the whole ‘caring is sharing’ scene.”

“I…kinda did yeah,” Mike confessed. “Kinda still do, except she wouldn’t…”

“Fuck where she eats?” Peter asked.

“Peter!” Mike exclaimed. “Well, yeah.”

“Hmm.” Peter considered, then cleared his throat and coughed. “Any water here?”

“Sorry.” Mike should have thought ahead. But he’d been too eager to leap up the stairs, to get stuck in, as Davy phrased it. “And I can do better than that, anyway—got soda in the icebox.” Mike was already slipping from the bed. He’d go downstairs for the drink and atone for his neglect. “Back before I’ve gone. And yeah”—he got in ahead of Peter’s next request—“I’ll bring snacks too. Chinese food don’t fill ya up for long.” He held up a finger to warn Peter not to make any kind o’ smart remarks about being filled up in other ways and left the room.

Yeah, they had some cheese and soda crackers and some of that mashed garbanzo bean spread Peter had been experimenting with. He should make up a nice plate of snacks for Peter, apologize for his lapse…his backsliding into his old patterns of negativity and doubt. But the fact that Peter had chosen that theme for the scene, and the sight of that tiny brunette, all arty sensibilities and big hungry eyes, using both those things on Peter…

No. He wouldn’t dwell on it, on worrying that Peter might miss girls’ company, their softness, their ways. Peter didn’t and iffen he ever did, well, Mike would have to handle that then, not go borrowing trouble now. No, he’d think about things now, like—

—like who was sitting on the sofa. Because it wasn’t one of the people who lived in the pad. Both Davy and Micky were out and neither had hair that long! Okay, so Mike was only glimpsing it from the back. He moved to the extreme end of the step he stood on and stretched around to get a better look…at the girl about their age, all long light brown hair and her arms wrapped around her body. What the hell? Mike’s gaze traced the case at her feet and the open door to the deck, presumably her method of entry. This chick—

— who sprang to her feet as Mike’s foot clanged on a step of the spiral staircase. “Who the—” Mike began, but didn’t have to complete his question, not when the girl stared over his head to the top-floor balcony and called out “Peter!” Mike swivelled around, to see Peter standing there behind him.

A surprised Peter, who called, “Hilary?” and added the question Mike wanted the answer to, concerning Peter’s, well, ex, who was now his brother Nick’s fiancée. “Hilary? Is Nick with you?”

Why do I think not? Mike thought wearily.

“What are you doing here?” Peter continued.

“Peter!” Hilary cried, rushing to him when he hurried down the stairs to fling her arms around him and hug him tightly. “I’m so sorry, but—”

“Hey, it’s okay, Hillybilly.” Peter stretched out a hand for the box of Kleenex on the table and pressed one into Hilary’s hand, for her to wipe her eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Mike hated to be the prophet of doom, but thoughts of accidents—Peter’s brother, or the younger two, his parents, heck, even his grandmother with Hilary being so close to them—poked their way into his brain. “The family?” He tried to prod her when she blotted her tears and blew her nose. No, they’d have gotten a telephone call, right? Something more official? Mike actually shook his head, shaking away the negative thoughts trying to shroud him. This didn’t feel…dark. Nevertheless, he made sure to stand shoulder to shoulder with Peter, pressing close.

“The family?” Hilary repeated, a wild look in her eye. “Family. Families.” There might have been a catch in her voice, but that was a definite sneer. “I couldn’t take any more, so I ran away!”

“You ran—” Peter got there before Mike did.

 “Away. To here!” She looked from Mike to Peter, then settled her entreating gaze on Peter. “Please say I can stay?”