Mike drove Bonnie home as promised, after stopping at the drug store where he made her go in on her own to buy something to cover up the "evidence of your doing me like a chew toy." She went in and got the palest, most waterproof shade she could find.
"That doesn't really look like your color," the man behind the counter told her.
"It's for a friend."
"That your friend waiting outside?" the clerk inquired as he strained to look out the window where Mike was slouched in the Cobra, shades down, trying to be incognito. As if that car could ever be mistaken for run-of-the-mill.
Bonnie inserted herself directly in the clerk's line of vision. "No, that's my ride, now can I have my change?" She beat it out of there and fairly leaped into the car. "Hit it, Nesmith, we're being watched."
When they got to her place Mike spent some time looking around, examining exotic knickknacks and books. "Sure you're not a gypsy fortune teller?" he joked as he lifted the edge of a fringed tablecloth. "There's enough beads and ribbons here to supply a caravan." He pored through another set of bookcases and cracked, "Where's the Ken Kesey?" When he stood and saw her glaring at him, he told her, "Don't be so uptight. I like it," he assured her, "it's you, Morris, you crammed a lot of you into this little place."
He left the main living/dining/kitchen area to stick his head into the bedroom, navigating the beaded doorway as if he were struggling through jungle undergrowth. Bonnie came up behind him as he was checking out the stained glass panels at the top of her bedroom window. Shortly after she'd moved in she noticed they cast a rainbow of light on her double-sized bed, so she covered it in white muslin and jewel-colored velvet throw pillows. She loved the effect in the morning when the sun shone brightest on this side of the apartment.
"Is that the door to perdition?" Mike asked, pointing to the red door in the corner.
"Nah, bathroom. But close, when the plumbing gets fussy."
The colors from the window were muted at this time of the early afternoon, but Mike leaned down to run his hand over the white quilt. "Very cool."
"Cool I can do," she told him as she went back to the living room. "Luxury's a little out of my range. You won't find much soft stuff next to your skin here, but I like it."
"Au contraire," he disagreed. He stood close and ran his hands inside the bottom of her shirt, fingers stroking her stomach, and bent his head to nuzzle into her neck. "Plenty of soft stuff right here." Then he stepped back and unbuttoned his shirt. "Okay, let's see how good you are at repairing the damage."
She directed him to a low, padded stool upholstered in Indian fabric.
"A tuffet?" he exclaimed in exaggerated amazement. "I never knew anyone who had a real tuffet," he laughed as he sat. Crouched, more like, his long legs doubled so his knees nearly touched his chin. "Do your thing, Miss Muffet."
Bonnie uncapped the makeup and did her best, but soon realized that professional stage makeup was the only thing that would really do the job. And makeup girls' gossip was just what they were trying to avoid.
"How's it look?"
Bonnie stood back and sighed in dismay.
"Like cheap makeup over hickeys."
"Ah, shit." He stood and checked himself in the bead-bordered mirror on the wall. She was right. Against his pale skin even the lightest shade looked like dark spots. "I look like an overripe banana."
"Hey, I got the lightest foundation they had! Jesus, Nesmith, you're whiter than George Wallace, what else can I do?"
"Maybe control your carnivorous urges," he muttered as he pulled on his shirt. Bonnie put the cap back on the makeup and winged the bottle at him.
"You might think about those violent ones too," he suggested as he ducked to let the bottle fly by and land on a pile of pillows in the corner. "That's five."
Her temper interrupted, she corrected, "That's six."
"Nah. You get a pass on the bite…given it some thought and," he leaned over and growled in her ear "…kinda sexy, grrr..." Then he tucked in his shirt and buckled his belt, and shrugged. "Look, we won't sweat it. I'll just tell anyone who asks I got chewed up by some friendly girls in New York. You know they'll believe that." He paused for a moment, serious. "That gonna bother you?"
"No it's not gonna bother me. Actually I like the irony." She looked at him for a minute, shook her head, and dodged past him to go to the phone. "Nesmith you and this job and this life make me crazy. Now, I got calls to make."
She ended up leaving messages with Davy and Micky's answering services, hoping they'd actually call for messages (it was not always a given). Peter, however, was home.
"Hey, Bonnie, you're alive! Bob called looking for you. Where'd he find ya?"
"Nesmith's pad. Long story." She told him about the beach shoot, and apologized for invading his day off.
"That's okay, I'm just hanging out with some friends. Mike's pad, huh? I'm glad everything worked out. I felt real bad about mixing things up with you guys."
Bonnie was puzzled. "Mixing things up? How'd you do that?"
"By telling Bob about your résumé thing. You mean Mike didn't tell you?"
She looked over at Mike, who was flipping through one of her books. "No, he didn't. I mean it just wasn't important to me anymore, I was stupid to make such a big deal about it in the first place."
"Still, I shouldn't have shot my mouth off."
"So why didn't you tell me yourself?"
"He figured you'd think we were both lying to save his ass. I feel like a jerk, I never really thought he was right."
Bonnie was silent for a minute, and looked at Mike again, who looked up at her and smiled goofily before going back to the book in his hand.
"I got news," she admitted to Peter, "he was right. I'd never have believed you. I feel like a real jerk."
Peter's laughter floated – that was the only word for it, "floated" – through the receiver.
"People get mixed up sometimes, no sweat."
She stared at the phone in her hand, wondering once again if this guy could be for real, knowing that he was.
"You're too good for this business, man."
"Please don't call me 'sweet Pete' again."
Shuddering, she agreed, "Deal. Okay, see you tomorrow at the beach location, bright and early."
As she was about to say goodbye, Mike sprang from the chair where he was sitting. "Wait, lemme talk to him."
He took the phone from her and walked as far away as the cord would allow, keeping his voice low. When he came back, he gave Bonnie a nudge. "C'mon, we got places to go."
"But we gotta work tomorrow!" she protested.
"Put on something funky, we are going where they play the good stuff. Don't just stand there, woman," he hustled her toward her bedroom doorway, "you need to get out in the real world and so do I! I got a taste of it in New York, and man it has been too long. Can't believe I had to fly three thousand miles to hear good music, when it's right around the corner. So get a move on. I promise you'll be in bed by 11." He grinned wickedly and cocked an eyebrow. "Earlier, if y'play your cards right."
Bonnie disappeared into her room and emerged moments later in a tied dyed silk peasant blouse, faded bell bottoms and sandals, her hair twisted up in a careless knot spiked with a pair of black lacquer chopsticks. She wore rings on most of her fingers and a tangle of silver bracelets that tinkled musically when she moved.
"This okay?" she asked. He was in full-denim mode, himself: tight jeans, tight knee-high buckskin boots, denim shirt and jacket. It only now occurred to her that he looked good enough to eat as he leaned by the door, shades perched on top of his head.
Mike stood up straight and saluted. "Mama, you are a rock'n'roll wet dream," he said plainly, "so let's go before I do something neither one of us will regret. And remind me not to piss you off tonight," he requested, eyeing her jewelry-laden hands, "one crack from those and I'm a dead man."