|Night of the Gig
Author: EveningInHornersCorners PM
Mike is sick the night of a gig, and he directs his bandmates towards his cousin, Catherine, as a replacement. Then she and the Monkees are stranded at a nightclub, and something happens to her. Something that could kill her.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Hurt/Comfort/Friendship - Chapters: 14 - Words: 4,984 - Reviews: 18 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 5 - Updated: 10-17-12 - Published: 08-25-12 - id: 8466038
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"What song should we play next?" Peter asked as they finished "I'm Believer".
"I Wanna Be Free?" Davy suggested.
"You just want to do the vocals." Micky protested.
"You did them on the last song." Davy retorted as he fiddled with his maracas.
"Last Train to Clarksville?" Peter piped up.
"Great! That all right with you, Mike?" Micky looked at his friend, who seemed to be in another world altogether. "MIKE!"
"Oh. What?" he replied vaguely.
"Is Last Train to Clarksville alright with you?"
"Who wants to count off?" Micky asked. "How about you, Mike?" He'd noticed the guitarist looked a bit pale and was still kind of faraway. Maybe counting off would jerk him back into reality. They needed him to be awake during their gig tonight.
"Okay. A one, two, three, four!"
"Take the last train to Clarks…"
"What was that?" Peter asked quickly, immediately quieting his guitar strings.
"I don't know!" Davy said uncomfortably.
"Mike, aren't you going to give us some don't-worry lec… Mike!" Micky cried as he realized his friend had fainted.
"Peter, go get the smelling salts."
"We don't have any." He replied.
"Then go get the hot sauce. That should wake him up. Davy, get a glass of water."
"It's because I'm short, isn't it?" the percussionist muttered as he started towards the kitchen.
As Micky had predicted, the hot sauce indeed worked and Mike was soon revived.
"What…what happened?" he asked, looking around at his three friends.
"You fainted, that's what happened." Micky replied before the others could utter a word.
"It's cold in here, isn't it?" Mike said, shivering a little.
"You must be out of your birds! Cold in the middle of July?" Davy exclaimed.
Peter reached out cautiously to feel Mike's forehead, then quickly retracted it.
"He's burning up!"
"Mike, how do you feel?" Micky asked urgently.
"Don't worry about me. Let's get on with the song."
"Mike…" Davy began.
"But we have to be ready for the gig tonight." Mike protested.
"We do, but not you, Mike. You've been in another world for our entire practice, and you have a fever. That's good enough for me." Micky declared, dragging his friend over to the couch.
"No buts! You're going to stay here and rest."
"But who'll play his parts at the gig tonight?" Davy inquired.
"You guys…" Mike started.
"Be quiet, Mike." Peter said mechanically.
"Davy, couldn't you?" Micky begged.
The percussionist shook his head. "I've never played guitar."
"Oh, what'll we do?" the drummer gasped despairingly.
Then Mike spoke up. "Guys, I have a cousin living near here. She threatened to come and watch us play, so I gave her some sheet music and she's just about memorized it. When we were kids we used to practice together. We played the same instrument."
"Why didn't you say something, Mike?" Peter asked.
Micky immediately pounced on the opportunity. "Where does she…she! We can't have a girl replace you! It would ruin our image!"
"Image?" Peter repeated confusedly.
"What image, Micky? I wouldn't mind having a girl along. It would give the fans something to connect with. I say we go for it." Davy exclaimed.
"Well…Okay. What's her phone number?"
Catherine Nesmith closed Gone With the Wind somewhat disappointedly. Why did Rhett have to ruin it at the end by being so awful? She'd never been a big fan of these so-called "classics". She really preferred more obscure books. At the very least they were usually written in a style more accessible to the reader.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
The sound of the phone jerked her out of her train of thought. She quickly got up from the couch and answered it.
"Hi, this is Davy Jones. Is this the Catherine Nesmith residence?"
"Yes, it is. I mean, no, not exactly….I live here with my parents. But I don't believe I know any Joneses."
"You don't. I'm a friend of your cousin, Mike. He told us to call you."
"Oh. Why? Is bachelor cooking finally getting to you? In that case, I think you'd be better off talking to my mother."
"No, nothing like that. You see, Mike's sick and he said you might be able to replace him for our gig tonight."
Mike would volunteer me. Catherine thought.
"Wait, you're all boys, right?"
"And how would the audience take it if a girl was playing with you guys? You might be stampeded. I'd better not. Thanks for offering though." She began to hang up the phone when Davy spoke again.
She didn't know what it was, the sheer desperation in his voice or loyalty to her cousin, but she sighed and asked, "What time?"
"We'll pick you up at 6:30. Oh, thank you!" The receiver at the other end banged down. After hanging hers up in a more civilized manner, she glanced at the clock. 6:10. Only twenty minutes until she'd meet these characters Mike had spoken of.
She got up and made her way to the bedroom to freshen up.
Suddenly a sharp pain gripped her abdomen. She leaned forward, and a moment later it passed.
Probably just a stitch. She said to herself, deciding not to give it any thought. She reached for her hairbrush and started counting strokes.