Mike slipped into Bonnie's suite as quietly as humanly possible. She'd left the party early, midnight or so, after being as sociable and party-wild as she could manage after a fifteen hour day, to finish the Seattle paperwork. He'd never get why she couldn't save up the stuff the roadies and techies provided and sort it out later. Then again, she never could get why when an idea came into his head he had to sit down right then and there and write it down on whatever was available before it evaporated. Their whole life together was made up of don't-get-it and got-it. Got-it consisted mostly of whatever time they could grab off the Monkees clock. Right now qualified, but she was already crashed out in the latest big hotel bed she'd scored for the tour. She'd left the desk light on for him (got-it) and he could see her notebooks neatly closed and stacked and ready to be packed away in the morning with the rest of the finished business of Seattle.
He wished she'd seen him when that redheaded groupie had been working him so hard. That she'd seen written all over him what had kinda surprised him... not restraint, but one-hundred percent who-cares. He really knew that by now the residual doubt was gone, but extra evidence couldn't hurt. It especially couldn't hurt him, when the fact of his surprise left him feeling so guilty.
He undressed and left his after-gig clothes where he knew she'd want to find them, to be easily rolled up and shoved in a secondary bag to join the laundry luggage, due for delivery in Chicago to one of the many magical places that she and other people arranged for things that The Performers never had to think about.
Damn. Chicago. Where they started... where he'd almost finished them. He thought about that dumbass question from that asshole reporter at the press call yesterday. Shit... was this a test on the domestic front? Only if it tested the limits of his patience with the chicks who remembered him from before. Yeah, the Mike Nesmith who would unzip for anyone who slowed down long enough was semi-long gone and not groovy with being reminded of the unzipped old days. The "sincere" ones never got close to him; security made sure of that. But the regulars and the party girls like that redhead tonight... they knew too much about him to be fooled by his new style. And they weren't impressed by "get lost". Oh they believed it, they just didn't buy the I'm-so-above-it jive. Because he wasn't above it, he was just past it, and he was no better than they were. He wasn't used to feeling this dirty.
After a longer than usual shower, doused in Bonnie's soap and shampoo, he finished drying his hair and switched off the desk light before walking barefoot and silent to the big bed. She was balled up dead center as had become her habit on the road... there was no "his side/her side" in hotels. Any old side would do; first one in got the middle. He sat down for a minute and had a look at her as he did sometimes, taking advantage of the silence and solitude to think about the things that weren't Music and Art and Success, and that didn't demand anything from him except who he really was. The dim street light through the thick curtains barely outlined Bonnie's upturned face, all work and worries smoothed away in sleep, and as he watched her he wondered if he'd ever lose that pull at his conscience that reminded him of how he'd almost tossed it all in the crapper in exchange for his stupid dick.
God damn I hope I never do.
And then as always she caught him out, her sleepy smile wrecking him. As always.
"Hmm Nes... have enough fun for both of us?"
He slid under the covers and pulled her against him.
"Yeah babe. Just enough."
