Davy sat quietly on the couch, not having bothered to even turn on the table lamp as dusk hovered and promised to soon enfold him. He was in a rare mood tonight. Wistful, pensive and contemplative. Add to that a little dreamy . . .
No particular emotion seemed to catch his fancy. It was just that he seemed to be extra heedful . . . but of what? The atmosphere? His spirit? His essence? But that was silly. That would be overly dramatic. The theatrical side of him must be taking over.
Just as he was pondering this, the door to the Pad opened via a hand that exhibited very slight, almost imperceptible hesitation, reminding Davy of skepticism, as if the owner of the hand harbored unspoken questions. After a brief moment, the person stepped inside in a refined manner, so atypical of any of his three room mates. In a bare second, Davy recognized him, although his discreet, restrained manner was divergent of his normal character.
Peter . . . dressed all in black. From his sweater, to his jeans, and right down to his boots. A hushed, dark and baffling manner accompanied his entrance.
This was not the Peter Davy knew.
Davy felt a shudder skate down his spine. Peter looked flawless. The blonde sun streaked mane, every hair in place, the confident air, the clack of his boot heels on the bare floor all commanded attention.
But most of all, it was his eyes . . . they adhered to Davy's eyes like a bulldog clamps onto an enemy. No mercy, no leniency. Davy got the impression there was no margin for error, on his end.
Why would he feel that way? Absurd. Peter was Peter-innocuous and benevolent. He couldn't have changed in a few hours. But right now, the bassist looked almost intolerant. Impatient, but in a very disciplined way. Determined, his strong jaw firm and decisive. There was a resolve in the man's eyes. And Davy, usually the strong-willed, purposeful one, was humbled in a way he wasn't sure he favored.
Peter, apparently single-minded, solemnly approached the couch Davy was perched on. He essentially stalked, his step slow and measured, his eyes still boring holes in Davy's own eyes, even as Davy refused to look away. To say Peter disconcerted him would not be quite descriptive enough.
The man was breathtaking. Peter was a handsome piece of artwork all in black with that dauntless look on his face. It was disrupting in the extreme though, because it was completely foreign. You never saw Peter looking intrepid like this.
Davy suppressed a shiver and let Peter's gaze continue to grip him. A gaze that was somber, yet not dreary. More like steadfast.
"What's up Pete?" Davy's attempt to sound light-hearted fell short. Frankly, his friend was giving him the creeps. It was as if Peter had morphed into Michael, when Michael had something really grim to say. And that could be decidedly disturbing.
Any road, gone was the Peter Davy knew. Peter had something on his mind, and Davy was more than disinclined to find out what it was. No one would describe Peter as formidable, but looking at Peter at the moment, Davy wouldn't find it particularly difficult to challenge someone to argue that notion.
Peter drew nearer, keeping his pace consistent and deliberate, and Davy had to steel himself to keep from shrinking away. A waft of Peter's cologne floated like the gentlest of breezes to Davy's nose, and caused his gut to clench. The most curious part about this was that Peter's expression was spooky, yet effective in getting Davy's attention—in a very becoming kind of way. Confidence looked good on him.
So did ominous, if there was any rhyme or reason to that. And there wasn't—not really. Dusk was waning already, twilight now spreading. Davy turned his head and glanced at the silhouette of the moon through the window.
It was full. Figures.
Davy was stunned when the urge to flee almost overwhelmed him again. From Peter? He must be bloody out of his mind. Peter was no threat of any kind, nor had he ever been. Yet his eyes had strayed from Peter's entrancing hazel ones, and Davy would prefer to keep it that way.
Peter still had not addressed Davy's greeting. He maintained that inscrutable, mysterious air. When he sat down next to Davy, Davy was secretly appalled, although any other day, it would have just been routine. Peter had a hungry wolf look about him.
"Did you miss me, Jonesy?" Peter finally broke the silence. Miss him? Davy had only seen him hours before. And by the way, where had Peter gotten dressed in those black clothes, and why was he so scrupulously clean, with his hair combed to perfection?
"Um . . . it's only been a short time since I saw you last . . ." Davy found it hard to form words around his dry mouth and tongue. His throat seemed to spasm too.
"When are you going to stop being so evasive with me?" Peter shot back. His voice was low and caressing, whisperish and tailored for seduction. What? Seduction? Davy was no prude, but he and Peter were friends. It was all they'd ever been. So what was Peter implying? Davy was becoming more agitated by the second. He wished Peter would stop eating him up with his eyes. He'd never seen this side of Peter, and he didn't want to see it anymore. He hoped to God this was some kind of sick joke.
"What do you mean?" he asked, confusion showing clearly in his deep brown eyes.
"You parade around in your pajamas, brush your teeth in that sexy way, look at me in that suggestive way when you eat your cornflakes . . . "
"Wait a minute here, Mate! How is does one look at someone suggestively when one eats cornflakes! It's not possible."
"Oh yes it is, David. For you, anything's possible!"
Davy gasped, a horrific sense of forboding cloaking him. "I've never, but never . . . wanted anyone but girls." Davy didn't like what Peter was more than insinuating.
"You flirt! You define temptation!" insisted Peter.
Ah, so there it was. Davy knew he hadn't done anything like that on purpose, and now Peter had just screwed himself. He'd admitted Davy tempted him. Through no fault of Davy's, to be sure. He'd only been himself. But Peter now had Davy feeling squeamish and uncomfortable.
"I have not ever . . . flirted with you," Davy blanched at the word. But he couldn't think of a similar descriptive word that didn't sound so . . . disgusting and distasteful. "I don't want any part of this conversation, as of this second!" Davy tried to sound assertive. "And by the way, where are Mike and Micky? Why aren't they home?"
Peter smiled not unlike the Cheshire Cat. "I gave 'em tickets to a double feature flick, and money to get dinner at Denny's afterward. They won't be home for at least five or six hours," Peter's eyes hinted of his sly thoughts, his plans, without openly revealing anything. That was perturbing. "And even if they did come home early, I've got the keys!" He smugly dangled them in front of Davy's face.
Everyone knew Mike was the only one with keys to the Pad. They had all been too lazy to have copies made as of yet, even though they'd lived in the Pad for two years. So the door had just gone unlocked most of the time, unless they all went out together.
"How'd you get those?" Davy's suspicious eyes raked Peter brutally.
"I took 'em outta Mike's pants pocket. I'm good at picking pockets. Bet you didn't know that, did ya? I even put them back in his pocket too, less the Pad key, and got away with it! He's still got the Monkeemobile keys, but no Pad key." Peter's smirk looked way too self-satisfied as he emphasized those last few words.
"When did you learn to pick pockets?" Davy was wondering what had happened to the sweet, generous, considerate Peter he'd thought he knew so well.
"Greenwich Village. When I was playing in the coffeehouses and the streets. A poor guy taught me. You never know when something like that might come in handy. I mean, like when the world's coming to an end, and it's everyone for themselves. Some desperate dog eat dog scenario like that. It could be a lifesaving skill. I haven't used it though . . . until today."
It wasn't cold in the room, but Davy was doing a sort of shiver-tremble thing. He could feel his insides quivering in the weirdest way.
"Why did you take Mike's keys anyway?" he asked in a thin voice. Peter got up off the couch and sauntered over to the front door, smugly and confidently locking it with a satisfying click and a flourish of his hand, never taking his eyes off Davy's.
"So we could be alone," he replied, and a grin that was positively evil took possession of his mouth. Now Davy's skin was crawling. How could Peter have put on an act that had fooled all of them for so long? Uh-uh. No way, no how. Peter was putting on an act right now. And there must be a damn good reason for it, as Davy had never doubted Peter's integrity. Still didn't. It was just Peter's pretense that had Davy baffled.
"So . . . what are you saying, Peter? What's come over you?"
Peter rested his booted foot on a lower brick of the primitive coffee table. "We need to talk," Peter's face lost the wicked look, and he faltered for a moment. "I didn't know how else to . . . achieve it."
"Well, if you ask me, you're being quite dramatic."
"Nothing else works!" Peter sounded frustrated and crestfallen simultaneously. His self-assured, cocky behavior was crumbling right in front of Davy's eyes. A fragment of the real Peter was showing through now.
"Please stop acting in such a fucking cryptic way. Just tell me what's up," not for one minute was Davy buying this crap about Peter thinking he'd been "teasing" him. There had to be a lot more to this story. Peter certainly wasn't saying what it sounded like he was saying. Davy's cheeks felt hot, and he was noticeably flustered. He sure hoped it wasn't what it sounded like!
Momentarily, Davy wondered if Peter might have gone off the deep end, gone mental. But that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Peter had always been steady and perfectly reasonable, albeit maybe a bit emotional. And Davy knew enough to know that a person would surely show signs before they completely lost their marbles.
So, was this for real? Davy had been nothing but himself in front of the other guys. He hadn't oozed the charm like he did with girls. No reason to—they were guys. He'd burped, done more gross things than that, had acted like a complete idiot and had told countless jokes that were seriously off-color. How could Peter possibly find that attractive?
"Besides," he said as he decided to use it for ammunition. "We're all barbaric heathens in this household. Hardly endearing."
Peter scoffed. "If you only knew . . ."
"Cryptic again! If I only knew what?"
"Shouldn't be cryptic at all, David. I've all but spelled it out."
He had indeed spelled it out, but Davy's system wouldn't, couldn't accept the shock. If he sprinted for the door, he could probably make a quick getaway. But wait, that was stupid. There was no reason to be running from Peter! Harmless, insipid Peter. The thought was bizarre.
"How come you've never said anything before this?" Davy was struggling to keep his head above water.
"Because . . . it was never the right time, I guess," Peter was becoming milder and looking like he might be losing a bit of his aplomb. This gave Davy incentive to get the blonde talking so he could find out just exactly what was on Peter's agenda.
"It hasn't been easy," Peter was taking the ball and running with it. "I've heard you moaning in your sleep sometimes. It makes me get ideas. Besides the ones I already had, that is."
The ones he already had?
Davy wasn't gonna touch that one with a ten foot pole. And, son of a bitch, the moaning Peter had heard-he hoped Peter hadn't figured out he occasionally had wet dreams. Oh, the humiliation! His mind raced from there. He thought of all the times he'd been thinking of a girl and gotten a hard-on. It was difficult to hide in pajamas or when he walked around in just underwear or even in band pants. He wondered if Peter had noticed. Even as the thoughts flowed, Davy knew what the answer had to be. If Peter had been checking him out for ages, how would he miss that? Davy felt a little sick.
Now how to let Peter down gently? Davy still toyed with the idea of this being a joke, but in the same breath he knew Peter wouldn't be that cruel. This had to be kosher, much as he didn't want to even go there.
"We can just talk. At least I . . . have you to myself for a few hours," Peter's face sported a slightly pathetic, lost look. He'd gone to all this trouble—for him, Davy. Why? Davy was in danger of getting a headache if this kept up. It was taking a toll already. He could hardly see straight for the whirlwind of turmoil in his mind. His cherished friend—why did it have to come to this?
Unbidden, Davy's mind turned to other thoughts. He couldn't help but be astonished at how hot Peter looked all in black. It gave him a mysterious, enigmatic air. He'd looked so poised as he'd come in the door. So in control. Almost audacious. So very unlike Peter. And now Davy could see just how much of a performance Peter had put on. How much effort he'd put into it. And it was in vain, because now Peter looked disheartened. He was probably realizing the futility. It tweaked Davy's heart.
How long must Peter have been planning this? He'd gotten tickets to a movie both Mike and Micky wanted to see badly enough to drop anything else they might have had planned. He'd also made sure Davy would be home, likely by asking seemingly vague questions during small talk that Davy had answered offhandedly without realizing he was being hoodwinked. Then going to the trouble to dress so immaculately and impeccably—all for Davy! If that wasn't a compliment, then what was? Davy didn't know a whole lot of girls who would have gone to that much trouble.
Peter was staring at him expectantly, and Davy jolted, shying away slightly. Peter had said something while he'd been deep in thought. Oh yeah, he'd said he'd have Davy to himself for a few hours. Good Lord, what was he going to do? It wasn't as if Peter could overpower him—they all knew he couldn't. But the important question was, how was he going to put up with Peter's hints that weren't the least bit subtle for several hours?
"You aren't interested in guys, Pete. You just think you are," he said somewhat weakly.
"You mean you. Only you, and yes . . . I am," was Peter's reply. "I oughta know by now. In two years it hasn't diminished."
Davy could think of no response for that one. It was too established in Peter's mind. It had obviously taken up permanent residence.
"Keeping my hands off you has been like curbing my appetite for ice cream; approaching impossible. And I've endured it silently," Peter raised his chin slightly as if to rub in the fact that he'd abstained from coming on to Davy, and should be applauded for it.
Again, Davy was engulfed with pity that hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He also felt guilt where there shouldn't be any. He couldn't be responsible for Peter's yearnings, damn it! Just because he was the source of it didn't change things either. He felt a moment of resentment that this was resting on his shoulders. Why couldn't Peter have these feelings for Mike or Micky? Why him?
Because it was always him. Like it or not, he regularly got proposals from both women and men. It was admittedly more often women, but he'd seen men staring at him too. He was burned out on it. Shallow people, shallow motives. They just wanted to use his body, most of them. It wasn't arrogance or conceit on his part; it was just a fact.
He liked to get to know women first. He wasn't comfortable with hopping into bed with strangers, although he'd done his fair share of it anyway, simply because it had been so available. It had felt adventurous, until it had lost its appeal. And here Peter was offering—what? Davy didn't even know exactly where Peter's head was in all of this. He did know one thing though, and that was that Peter wasn't shallow. He was deep, but it usually wasn't apparent until you got to know him. Given a chance, Peter could charm even the most grumpy of the cynical. But he was so often passed over and not taken seriously because he had a way of withholding his ability to enamor. So Davy, who was mostly in the spotlight anyway, completely obliterated what Peter had to offer. Not that Davy had meant to. It just always transpired in that way.
Pondering all this, Davy's attention had wandered from Peter, so he startled quite sharply when Peter's hand settled on his shoulder.
"I have to know . . ." Peter paused, presumably petrified. Davy could read him more than passably well, and the lack of confidence was overriding the facade of brashness Peter had been wearing when he'd entered the room.
Davy raised his eyebrows as he coaxed his eyes to meet Peter's. Yes, definitely fear there.
"I have to know . . . how you feel about me."
Davy could not believe Peter's audacity. He'd already told him he wanted no part of this conversation, that he'd never wanted anyone but girls, and yet Peter had extended the conversation anyway. Davy was no less at blame though, for he had allowed Peter to continue. Now he'd gotten himself in deep shit. Peter was putting him on the spot. Peter was also leaving himself vulnerable to some big-time hurt. Peter was clearly the one with the most to lose. So Davy had to somehow figure out how to be subtle, yet still get the message across.
"Since Micky and Mike are going out to dinner, I'm gonna go get a pizza for us," Peter had changed tactics and was apparently not going to insist on an answer from Davy.
"I'll go with you," Davy felt he should at least do that since Peter had spent enough of his own money already tonight. Peter's eyes lit up at this, but whether it was because he was happy to have company, or because that company would be Davy, who knew?
With no car, they walked to a nearby pizza place the boys often frequented. As Davy paid for the combination pizza before Peter got a chance to, Peter asked for bread sticks and anchovies on the side, while standing just a little too close to Davy, his body heat infiltrating Davy's clothes. It was subtle, and Davy wasn't at all sure it was intentional, but the curious part was that he was finding that he wasn't minding it at all. When Peter casually brushed his forearm against Davy, the Brit suddenly felt a tingle in his groin, and that turned into a rush. A pleasurable rush.
Okay, so Peter had come unhinged, and seemed to have dragged Davy right along with him! Thanks a lot, Pete!
"Oh, and . . . can we also have sardines with that too, please?" Peter asked the cashier.
"Are you quite done, now?" Davy inquired, embarrassed because of all Peter's requests.
"I'll pay for the extras."
"No! You won't! Just cool it." Davy pulled out a twenty and handed it to the cashier who was busy making goo-goo eyes at him. For one of the few times in his life, Davy didn't turn on the charisma, even though she was attractive. He wasn't quite sure why either.
Twenty minutes later, they left, hot pizza in hand and returned to the Pad. It smelled so good, and Davy wondered how he'd forgotten how hungry he was. He guessed Peter had distracted him with all his humiliating remarks. Not that Peter had meant to humiliate him, and humiliate was a rather strong word anyway. It was just that Davy had been a little offended. Why would Peter so freely tell him something like that? When he knew Davy was a lover of the ladies?
Davy felt as if he'd been splashed with shame. Who was he to judge Peter? He knew that Peter spoke his mind. Peter had trouble hiding his sentiments. He'd been attached to Davy for some time, but Davy had never questioned it, thinking Peter was just being a great friend, which he was, but Davy's mistake had evidently been not reading anything else into it.
He should have been more careful.
They sat next to each other, silently eating the pizza, sipping Cokes, Peter's eyes on Davy, Davy trying to dodge Peter's eyes.
To Davy's alarmed dismay, the tingling had begun again. His head spun with excuses. Peter had just put ideas into his head, and subconsciously, in some weird, perverted way, it had turned Davy on. It couldn't be for real. Impossible. Peter couldn't possibly make him tingle. But the more he thought about it, the more skittish he became. This time, Peter wasn't even touching him, and that was the most alarming of all.
"Why did you spiff yourself up, dress all in black, and then come in the door all dodgy like you did, knowing I was the only one home?" Davy had serious misgivings after he said that—why in the hell had he asked? Especially when he wasn't at all sure he wanted to know the answer.
"I did it for you," Peter said this as casually as if he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Davy's mouth formed more words, against his will. "And why would you do it for me?" Damn it, if he didn't quit asking questions, Peter was going to end up embarrassing the shit out of him.
"I thought it might please you." So innocent sounding, yet so telling. Everyday conversation was how Peter's inflection struck Davy, yet Davy saw the ever slight tremble in Peter's hand when he picked up his Coke for a sip, how his lips quivered so subtly that Davy almost didn't catch it. The bassist was still nervous, but these were smooth moves for Peter. Bold moves. He had to have practiced it.
Peter's eyes grabbed Davy's, and brown and hazel meshed. Peter spoke up, and his voice was suddenly buttery soft, almost sensual. "Can I just look at you for a while?"
No one but Peter, with his guileless, pure way of asking a question. But what a loaded question it was. Davy found it unnerving how Peter could be so plain spoken about it, yet add in that sultry flavor to it, that tang of sensuality.
"You can look at me most of every day, and part of the night too," Davy was grasping at straws, stalling, hoping there would be a reasonable explanation for this insanity. But so much had already been said that he knew there was no masking his discomfiture, his confusion, his embarrassment. Peter knew that he knew. And there was no getting around that.
"I don't get to look at you the way I want to," Peter explained. "There's always the other guys around, and when we finally go into the bedroom, it's time for bed, and the light goes out, and there goes any opportunity I might have to . . . stare at you in private. Look at you for as long as I want."
Davy was becoming completely flustered and strangely agitated. An odd tension hung in the air.
When Peter spoke again, his voice flowed over Davy like hot chocolate. "Please . . . indulge me, David."