Author's notes: I got the idea for this after reading Stephen King's "Rose Madder," so if anything sounds terribly familiar, that's why. I got major help on this from my fellow Monkees fans, and a huge thank you goes to Agent Newbeau, without whom I probably would have gotten stuck somewhere in the middle. I also have to thank Jeremy Ray, who is a pal in a whole other fandom, but who was still willing to help me with the fight scene. "Yes, fight scene." As usual, the gals on Long_Title were great with reviews and constructive criticism, so thanks gals!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Monkees, I don't know the Monkees, and I don't have any money so please don't sue. That is all.

The club was hopping. The Monkees had just started their latest gig at the Vincent Van Go-Go and were a major hit. People were up on their feet, dancing and cheering, and the energy was high.

They had just launched into "Last Train to Clarksville" when the door to the club swung open and he walked in. Mike didn't pay him much mind at first. He was a big guy - burly, muscular, and with a hard look in his eyes. Not exactly the Vincent Van Go-Go type, but he'd probably just wandered into the wrong place. Mike would have thought nothing of it if he hadn't seen the girl.

She was tiny - a petite brunette with mousy, stringy hair and a pale complexion, sitting alone at a table in the corner. When he walked in, she went eight shades paler, her eyes widening in fear.

Mike's own eyes narrowed, an uneasy buzz slowly growing in his stomach. He was immediately glad he didn't have to sing on this particular song, or he would have hit a bad note for sure. His fingers danced across Black Beauty's polished surface of their own accord, however, and the song remained untarnished.

He snuck a quick glance at the other guys, but they didn't seem to have noticed what was going on. Davy only had eyes for a cute little brunette in the crowd who was making eyes at him, Peter was pounding away at the bass, lost in the music, and Micky was emoting like nobody's business, putting an extra spin in the drumsticks at every possible opportunity.

Mike turned his eyes back to the menacing newcomer. The man had apparently seen the girl at almost the same time she saw him. He grinned - a toothy, predatory grin, and started toward her. She shook, hands clutching the edges of the table, eyes darting around desperately, looking for an escape, body tensed to run.

It all happened in the space of a few seconds, but to Mike it almost seemed like slow motion. His mind worked furiously, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Something was very wrong here . . . he had to help her. He needed a diversion.

He looked lovingly down at BB, an idea blossoming in his mind. But could he do it?

He looked up - the man was getting closer and closer to his terrified target, the dancing clubgoers swirling obliviously around them. There was no other choice.

Mike gritted his teeth, whispered a soft "forgive me," and yanked.

TWANG!

Micky dropped a drumstick.

"Oh my stars," Mike yelped, right into the mic, "Oh my heavens, I've broken a string, wouldya lookit that?!" He was babbling, his voice overly jovial, but his eyes stayed fixed on the strange man who kept moving closer to the tiny girl. "Well, I have an extra string in my case so we'll just haveta take a 5-minute break while I restring. So sorry! Five minutes!"

And with that, he vaulted off the stage, leaving his bandmates staring after him, open-mouthed, Micky's hands still poised over the drums.

"Uh, hi there, uhh . . . darlin'," he said to the girl as he skidded to a stop at her side. The other man reached her at the same moment and grabbed her, his fingers digging painfully into her arms. Mike forced himself to smile at him. "Hey buddy." Then he turned back to the girl.

"I broke a string, didja see? It was terrible, right in the middle of a song!"

"Is that right," she managed faintly, staring up at him with fear shimmering in her eyes.

He turned back to the man and held out a hand for him to shake. "Mike Nesmith, I'm a friend of uh . . . hers. I'm in the band."

The man just glared derisively at him, so Mike dropped the hand and wiped it on his jeans. "Anyway . . . listen darlin', could you maybe help me restring this beauty? Like you did last time?"

She startled, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Oh, sure, Mike . . . like last time. No problem."

"Was I interrupting - "

"Oh, no." She pulled out of the other man's grasp and stepped closer to Mike, almost unconsciously grabbing at his arm for support. "No, he was just leaving, weren't you Charlie?"

Charlie glowered at them, hands clenching into fists at his sides, but he had no choice but to agree. They were starting to draw attention.

"Okay, great then! Bye Charlie!" Mike gently cupped her elbow and steered her away, back toward the dressing rooms. "Don't look back," he whispered, pulling her a bit closer to his side. "And laugh as if I said somethin' funny."

She did, albeit a bit shakily. He laughed too. Peter approached them slowly, confusion written all over his face. "Mike - ?"

"Just wait 'til I get back, Pete," Mike hissed, never breaking stride. "This little lady an' me are gonna have a quick talk while I restring."

"Is Beauty - "

"She's just fine, a little shaken I suppose," Mike grimaced. He could practically hear the guitar's pained cries. "My finger musta slipped, heh-heh."

Peter eyed him suspiciously but decided against arguing. "Okay, then . . . who is she?"

"No idea," Mike told him as they disappeared into the dressing room and closed the door behind them.

She sagged against him as the door closed, her heart beating wildly in her chest. "Oh, thank you so much, Mike . . . I don't know what I would have done--"

"No problem," he interrupted brusquely, heading for his guitar case. He began muttering to himself - or to the guitar? "So sorry Beauty . . . jeez, that was terrible . . ."

"Is . . . is it gonna be okay?" she asked hesitantly. "It's not damaged, is it?"

"Heavens no," he yelped, cradling the injured guitar to his chest. "No, I just snapped a string, is all."

"You did it on purpose, didn't you?"

He didn't answer.

"To help me?"

He shrugged.

"Thank you." She sank down onto the couch and to her mortification, began to cry.

He was by her side in an instant. "Aw, hey, listen, don't cry . . ." He awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders, and she grabbed him in a desperate embrace, sobbing into his shirt. He stiffened a bit, but didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

"It's okay . . . hey c'mon, it's okay . . ."

The dressing room door cracked open and a heavily accented voice rang out. "'Ey Mike, what's takin' so long? You forgot your extra strings?"

"No, Davy," he barked, his annoyance plain in his voice as his arm tightened around her. "Can'tcha see I'm busy here?"

"Oh . . . Sorry."

The door closed again and he blew out a frustrated breath. "Look, uhh . . . miss . . . I'm sorry but we gotta play . . . you can stay in here if you want, it's safe. You can even lock the door in case he's still out there."

"I don't want to impose," she sniffed, pulling away and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"It's not an imposition." He got up, almost reluctantly, and went to restring the guitar. He did it carefully, lovingly; his brows knitted together, his hat askew, an adorable pout on his lips. She found herself staring, fascinated by him.

"Well, I gotta go," he said suddenly, and she shook herself out of her daydream.

"Oh! Right . . ."

"You just wait here, okay? I think there's magazines an' things. And you can play with Davy's extra maracas if you want, he won't mind."

"Maracas?"

"Yeah, y'know . . . if you get bored."

"Okay . . ."

"I gotta go."

"Right . . ."

He hurried to the door and stepped out, but before he closed it he poked his head back in. "I didn't catch your name."

"Oh . . . it's Susan."

"Okay, seeya Susan."

"Bye . . ." she said faintly, but he was already gone.

Mike climbed back up on the stage, ignoring the questioning looks from the others. "Um, okay . . ." he said, wincing as a burst of initial feedback stung his ears. "Well, I'm back. Okay, so . . . should we start that song over again or just go on?"

"START IT OVER!" screamed the whole club, almost in unison, and Mike stumbled backwards from the force of the yell.

Micky was laughing, giving the clubgoers a thumbs-up.

"What - ?"

"'E told them to do that," Davy told Mike, the laughter evident in his voice. "We knew you were gonna say that!"

"You're way too predictable, Mike," Micky agreed through his laughter. The crowd roared.

Mike just frowned slightly and counted them off.

Susan closed her eyes and leaned back with a sigh, resting her head on the back of the couch.

Her arms were beginning to throb where Charlie had grabbed her, and she knew there would be new bruises to match the old. Her eyes flew open as a thought suddenly occurred to her. Charlie had seen where she'd gone, what was to stop him from just walking in? Praying she wasn't too late, she jumped to her feet and quickly locked the door.

Charlie cursed. He'd only just reached the door when he heard the telltale click of the lock. He pounded on the door with a closed fist, yelling, "Open this door, Susan, I know you're in there!"

She didn't answer, but he heard her gasp from just inside the door. "Open up," he yelled again, pounding even harder. "You can't treat me this way!"

"Hey man, keep it down, you're drowning out the band," sneered a skinny boy behind him. Charlie glared at him - just another long-haired weirdo like the jerk that had run off with his wife. Who did that Mike whatever-he-said think he was, anyway?

Charlie cursed again and stepped away from the door. He couldn't get to her here, that much was obvious. He might have been able to break down the door, but that would only attract attention. The hippies wouldn't let him get away with it. He slouched toward the door, sending a venomous look back at the stage, at the freak in the stupid hat. The freak just stared right back at him, and Charlie was sure he saw a smug smile cross his face.

"You better pray for your life, freak," he whispered, his eyes never leaving Mike's. "It won't last much longer."

Mike let out a shaky breath as Crazy-Charlie finally left the club. Davy was looking at him, obviously confused and a bit concerned, but Mike tried to ignore him. The sooner they got through with this gig, the better. He couldn't concentrate too well. Charlie had mouthed something at him before he left, and Mike would have been willing to bet Black Beauty that it hadn't been a very nice thing to say.

So what was he going to do? Susan was in trouble, but why? Who was she? Who was Charlie, and why was she so afraid of him? What was he going to do once the gig was over? She was safe for now, locked into the dressing room, but then what?

He forced his thoughts back to the music as the song ended. "Okay, this next one is called 'You May Just Be The One'," he began, and stopped, frowning as Micky started to giggle. "What, Micky?"

"It's 'You Just May Be The One,'" Peter snickered.

"Yeah," Micky added, "Don't you know the title to your own song?"

The crowd started to laugh, and Mike felt his face grow hot. "What is this, 'Pick on Mike Night'?" He faced the crowd and waggled a finger. "And shame on you for encouraging them!"

"We love you Mike!" shouted a pretty girl near the front.

"Yeah, we love you," agreed a drunken guy near the back. "Atta' boy Mike!"

"Well, so long as you love me. Anyway, here's the song . . ."

Susan jumped and leapt off the couch, dropping her magazine as there was a knock on the door. "Who's there? Go away!"

"Susan?"

Her hand flew to her heart and she sagged, letting out a long breath. It was Mike.

"Susan, we gotta pack up . . ."

"Yes . . ." She picked up the magazine and hurried to the door, unlocking it and stepping back. "I'm sorry . . . I thought you were Charlie . . ."

The band piled in, falling all over themselves to get into the door. Mike was violently shoved aside as the fuzzy one plopped himself in front of her. "Who're you?"

"I . . ."

Mike rolled his eyes as he made the introductions. "Her name's Susan. Susan, these're the guys. The blonde one's Peter - "

"Hi," Peter said with a shy wave.

"Davy's the short one - "

"'Ello luv!"

"And the fuzzy one with no manners is Micky."

"Hi doll," Micky said, grinning and shaking her hand vigorously.

Susan winced and pulled away, grabbing at her arm.

Micky stepped back, alarm flashing in his eyes. "I'm sorry, did I - "

Mike was by her side in an instant. "Are you okay? Jeez Mick, what didja - "

"No . . . it's not his fault . . . my arm's just sore, that's all . . ."

Mike took her arm, and with infinite care, rolled up her sleeve. All four men gasped when they saw the finger-shaped bruises left when Charlie had grabbed her. Mike went terribly pale and stumbled backwards. "Oh shit . . ."

"No . . . I just bumped into a door . . ."

"Yeah Susan," Mike said, his voice dull. "And I bet you fall down a lot too, doncha? You're so clumsy Susan, always bumping into things . . . things that just happen to be shaped like His hands."

She was crying now, shaking her head as the tears rolled down her cheeks. "No . . . no . . ."

Peter suddenly gathered her in a protective hug, carefully avoiding squeezing her too hard. He stared at Mike, bewildered. "What are you talking about, she doesn't seem clumsy to me. He didn't mean it Susan . . . "

Mike just glared at the doorway, then stalked over to BB's case and began putting his things away without a word.

Susan buried her face in Peter's shirt, feeling the sobs rising up from somewhere deep inside.

"Aww, come on," Micky said quietly, placing a hand on her back, "Don't cry . . . we're sorry . . ."

"Yeah, it's okay, he just gets weird sometimes."

"You . . . you talk about him like he's not here," Susan managed, wiping at her nose and sneaking a glance at Mike. He had his back to them, his posture stiff.

"He's used to it," Micky shrugged. "Besides, it's his own fault for making you cry."

"He didn't make me cry."

"Then why ya cryin'?"

"I don't know . . ."

"Where you stayin', Susan," Mike asked suddenly, without turning.

"I . . ." She paused, unsure of what to say. She had been staying at a motel not far from the club, but now that Charlie had seen her here, she wasn't sure it would be was safe. Motels nearby would be the first place he'd look. "I have a motel room."

"Near here?"

"Yes . . ."

"But you don't want to go back there." It was a statement, not a question.

"Well . . . do you know of anyplace else? Somewhere cheap that's not too close to here? I just worry that he'd find me - "

"You're staying with us," he interrupted, his voice low.

He couldn't believe he'd just said that. How in the world were they gonna put her up? They only had two bedrooms, and both were already fully occupied. Not to mention he didn't even know this girl, and he hadn't asked the guys if they'd mind, and they barely had enough food to feed themselves . . .

"What . . .? Oh, I couldn't do that," she was saying, but when he finally turned to face her, her eyes were just brimming with hope. Davy was staring at him with his mouth open, as was Micky, and Peter looked even more confused than usual.

Mike sighed. "Look, Susan, we both know where you got those bruises, okay? He's seen you tonight, and that means he knew you were somewhere around here. I dunno why he's chasin' you, or why he hurt you like that, but I don't intend to let him do it again. You gotta come with us until we can find a way to keep you safe from him - permanently."

She didn't have an answer for that.

"Guess we have a houseguest," Micky said finally, breaking the silence.

"Who . . ." Peter seemed to be searching for words. "Who's chasing you, Susan? Who hurt you? I don't understand."

"My husband," she answered quietly.

Peter gasped. "Your husband? But . . . but that's not what husbands are supposed to do!"

"No it's not, Peter," Mike broke in, "But it happens sometimes." He looked down at the floor and glared at his feet, remembering. "Happens all the time."

"Dammit, Catherine!"

Mike gasped and slouched further down, praying he wouldn't be found. But a shadow loomed over him . . .

"Mike? You okay?"

Someone was talking to him. He wrenched himself back to the present and realized he was sitting on the couch, staring into space. Peter was looking down at him, his eyes concerned. "Oh . . . I'm fine."

"Why are you crying?"

Startled, Mike lifted a hand to his cheek and felt wetness there. He roughly wiped the tears away and stood. "I wasn't cryin'," he answered gruffly. "Had somethin' in my eye. You ready ta go?"

"Yeah," Davy answered quietly, while Micky and Peter nodded.

Susan silently handed him BB's case. "Lead the way."

Charlie smiled to himself as he finally spied Susan leaving the club. She was with that freak in the hat, and three other guys. "Slut," he muttered, but stayed hidden. He would catch up to her soon enough. Her and the guy in the hat.

Susan's eyes widened as the car pulled up to a nice-sized house right on the beach. "You live . . . here?"

"Sure do," Micky answered brightly, vaulting out of the car as Mike shut off the ignition. "You like it?"

"It's . . . beautiful!"

"You think it's great now," Davy teased, taking her hand and leading her to the door, "Wait'll you see the inside!"

He opened the door with a flourish and ushered her inside. She stared, her mouth working as she searched for words. "This is . . . well, it's . . . that is . . ."

"I believe the word you're looking for might be 'interesting,'" Mike supplied helpfully.

"Yes," she nodded slowly. "Very interesting."

Micky looked wounded. "Doncha like it? I decorated it myself!"

"Really?" She tried unsuccessfully to hold back a giggle. "Well, it . . . looks just like you."

"Oh, thanks!" Micky thought about that for a moment. "I think."

"Peter, take Susan upstairs," Mike ordered, suddenly all business. "She's stayin' in my room. Mick, you take the couch, I'll sleep in the chair."

"What - ? You mean you share that room? I can't put you both out, I'll stay on the couch, I can't let you - "

"Forget it, Susan, that couch is not suitable for a lady. Micky, on the other hand, could sleep on a bed of nails."

"Those are actually pretty comfortable - " Micky began, but Davy put a hand over his mouth.

"What about you?" Susan persisted. "You can't sleep in a chair!"

"Sure I can."

"No, I don't feel right about this. You stay in your rooms, I'll be fine on the couch."

"But - "

"HOLD IT!"

Everyone stopped short and whirled around to face Micky, who'd just shouted at the top of his lungs. "Susan, you can stay upstairs in my bed. Mike's right, I don't mind the couch, in fact, I kinda like it. It looks just like me. Mike, on the other hand, will never be able to sleep in that chair, so he will sleep in his own bed. He's a gentleman, he won't come after you in your sleep, and he doesn't snore or talk in his sleep or anything like I do. Besides that, you probably shouldn't be alone your first night here anyway, okay?" He drew in a deep breath, having made the whole speech without really breathing at all.

"Um . . ." Susan tried to think of a logical rebuttal, but couldn't remember enough of the initial argument to do it. "Okay . . . I guess."

"Great, then it's settled! I'll go make the bed." Micky bounded up the steps, singing to himself.

Mike shook his head. "I think he gets weirder every day."

Susan sighed and rolled over, pulling the covers up snugly under her chin. She smiled a bit as she saw Mike in the bed across the room, his dark hair mussed in sleep, his face slack in dreamless slumber. He looked very young that way, without the carefully constructed mask he wore when he was awake.

"What are you hiding," she whispered to herself as she watched his covers rise and fall with his breathing. "And why were you so determined to help me?"

She rolled back over onto her back and regarded the ceiling thoughtfully. He might have just done it out of the goodness of his heart. Maybe he always tried to rescue damsels in distress. But something told her there was more to it. The way he'd reacted when he found the bruises for the first time . . . he'd gone so pale, and something odd had flickered in his eyes. The way he'd retreated into himself and suddenly begun to cry . . .

Charlie never cried. Charlie rarely showed any emotion at all, except anger. It hadn't always been that way. Susan closed her eyes and tried to remember when she'd first met him. He had been kind, attentive, and gentle. He would treat her to meals at the most expensive restaurants, tell her how beautiful she was, and make her feel like a princess. The day he'd asked her to marry him had been the happiest day of her life.

The wedding was a fairy tale. She'd worn a lacy white dress with pearls and a veil, and he'd been very handsome in his black tuxedo. They'd written the vows themselves and she had never forgotten the look of love in his eyes when he'd promised to love and cherish her for all of his days.

"Why did it have to change?"

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until Mike stirred, mumbling something unintelligible as he was roused from a deep slumber.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mike," she said hastily, keeping her voice quiet and even. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go on back to sleep, it's alright."

He mumbled again, something that sounded like "Okay, g'night," and was still.

Susan raised her eyes once more to the ceiling and tried to imagine what it would feel like to lie in his arms.

Nighttime had finally fallen. Charlie stepped out of his hiding place and grinned to himself, fingering the gun he'd hidden in his jacket. Now that it was dark out, he knew he could get to them without being seen. He peeked into the window and saw them on the couch, legs and arms intertwined, her hands caressing his back, pulling him closer to her. He growled deep in his throat and stepped away, heading for the front door.

Charlie stepped around him, pausing to kick him viciously in the side. His shoe came away covered with blood and guts and he smiled triumphantly. "Come here, Suzie," he cooed, reaching out for her. A door slammed . . .

Charlie awoke with a start and for a moment he didn't know where he was. Then his dream came back to him and he knew. He was at their house by the beach. He sat up slowly and looked over the rocks that hid him from view. The fuzzy one was walking along the beach . . . he must've slammed the door, and that was what had wrenched Charlie out of his dream.

He smiled, remembering. There had been so much blood. He wished he really had a gun, but he'd have to use his hands. That Mike person didn't look so tough, and neither did his hippie friends. He could get to Susan, it would just take some careful planning.

He sat back and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dream. This time he imagined it without the gun, he saw himself locking his fingers around Mike's throat and squeezing . . .

Charlie laughed.

Susan shuddered suddenly. She could have sworn she'd heard Charlie's laughter, but that was impossible, wasn't it? He couldn't find her here . . .

"You okay Susan?"

She jumped, startled, as Peter suddenly appeared in front of her. "What . . .? Oh . . . I'm fine . . ."

"You looked sort of pale."

"I was just thinking."

"You're still frightened," Mike guessed from the stove, where he was boiling water for coffee. "Don't worry, Susan, we won't let him get to you."

"I know." She smiled at him, hoping she didn't look as shaky as she felt. "Thank you."

"Susan," Peter began hesitantly, his eyes drifting to the spot where, under her sleeves, Charlie had left his mark, "Why does he want to hurt you? I don't understand."

Mike dropped the spoon he'd been holding and whipped around, regarding Peter with a dark glare. "Peter, don't ask her that, it's not polite," he said, obviously biting back harsher words.

Peter looked about to cry, so Susan spoke hurriedly, placing her hand over his. "It's alright Peter . . . I don't know why he wants to hurt me. You're right, it's not what I expected from a husband either."

Mike picked up his spoon and turned back to the stove, muttering to himself. Susan hesitated, then stood and went to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay to talk about it, you know . . . whatever it is that's bothering you . . ."

"Ain't nothin' botherin' me," he snapped, wrenching away. "I gotta go, we're out of sugar."

"But Mike, there's more sugar in the - " But Peter was cut off as Mike slammed the door behind him.

"He's not going for sugar," Susan explained quietly, turning the fire off below the coffee. "Something's upset him."

"But he said - "

"He lied." Susan stared at the doorway, deep in thought. "Do you remember his reaction to finding my bruises last night, Peter?"

"Yes . . . he got all weird."

"And he started to cry . . ."

"He had something in his eyes," Peter started to correct her, but she shook her head.

"No Peter, he lied about that, too."

"But . . . why?"

"I guess he was embarrassed about crying in front of us. He doesn't usually show much emotion, does he?"

Peter thought about that carefully. "I guess not . . . he pretty much keeps to himself."

"Did you ever wonder why?"

"Not really. That's just how Mike is."

"Oh . . ." Susan sat back and folded her hands in her lap. "I see."

Mike let out a shuddering breath as he stepped out into the early morning sun. His entire body seemed to be tensed up, and his stomach was rolling painfully. Part of him wanted to run back inside and apologize, but pride prompted him to keep walking.

He turned his gaze out to the water and watched Micky and Davy as they bobbed up and down in the waves. Micky looked in his direction and waved, but Mike turned away, pretending not to have seen.

He picked up his step until he was far away from them, hidden behind a cluster of rocks several feet from the house. Once there, he took off his shoes and socks and sat down, leaning back against the cold, weather-beaten surface.

The second he closed his eyes, he saw Peter's face as he had been in the kitchen, his eyes wide and hurt, his jaw working as he fought the tears that threatened to spring to his eyes. Mike grimaced and lowered his head into his hands. It seemed he'd been the cause of a lot of hurt lately, as his temper got away from him more often than ever. "Is this what it was like for you, Dad," he wondered aloud, his voice hoarse with sudden tears. "Or did you even notice what you were doing to us?"

The tears came full force then, and he clamped his hands over his mouth to muffle the sobs. His entire body shook with the force of his grief, and he was so lost in himself that he didn't hear Susan's approach.

He was curled up in a ball when she found him, his back pressed hard against the outcropping of rock, his face buried between his knees. He had shoved the knuckles of both hands into his mouth to quiet his sobs, but the soft breeze had still carried the sounds of his sorrow to her.

She walked to him slowly, knowing he would only be angry and embarrassed if she startled him. She had never seen anything so pitiful, though she knew that if anyone had ever ventured into her bedroom some days while Charlie had been at work, they may have found a similar sight.

After a moment's hesitation, she took the last few steps to his side and knelt there, wrapping her arms around him. He gasped and went rigid, but his tears didn't slow.

Susan pulled him close and rested her chin on the top of his head, letting his cheek rest upon her bosom. He tried to pull away but she held fast, murmuring softly and beginning to rock gently back and forth. Slowly, his resistance faded and he melted into her, his arms moving up to clutch her to him.

For a long time they sat there together, his sobs drowning out the lullabies she sang to calm his aching heart. Slowly, the sobs quieted to sniffles and his grip eased as all the strength seemed to leave his body. She let him lie there against her, her arms still wrapped around his thin form, the fingers of her hand trailing through his hair.

He let out a deep sigh and pulled away slightly, just enough to look her in the face with sad, wet eyes. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she answered, giving him a sympathetic smile.

He shuddered and leaned back into her, his arms still wrapped tightly around her waist. "How did you find me," he asked, his voice muffled by her shirt.

"Micky and Davy pointed me in the right direction," she answered. "I hope you're not mad."

"No . . ." He sat up, reluctantly removing his arms from her waist and wiping at his tear-streaked face. "I'm not mad . . ."

"Do you want to talk about it?" She placed a hand on his shoulder, not quite willing to give up the physical contact.

He shook his head automatically, but then he stopped and stared up into the clouds. "I was just . . . my father used to . . . he'd hit my mother and me."

Susan drew in a sharp breath. No wonder he'd reacted so violently to seeing the results of Charlie's frequent attacks. But he'd said it so dully, his voice so low and so detached . . . "I see," she managed.

"He would hit her for every little thing. If she didn't clean the dishes just right, or if he didn't like the dinner she'd cooked. But the worst was when he'd hit for something I did. He finally left us when I was six, and I was glad. Mom never wanted to leave him because she thought a child should have both his parents, but we were both glad when he left. We didn't have to be afraid anymore."

He turned and affixed her with a desperate gaze, his eyes flickering down to the bruises on her arms. "Susan . . . I hate it when Peter asks questions like that. When he asks why Charlie did what he did, because . . . because I'm scared of the answer. What if he can't help it? Maybe his father did the same thing . . . maybe I'll do the same thing--"

"No!" She grabbed him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she wrenched him around to face her, her eyes burning into his. "No, Mike, you could never be like them. You are a kind and gentle person, you would never hurt anyone the way Charlie has hurt me - "

"I hurt Peter, didn't I? You saw the way he looked at me - "

"Peter is a very sensitive person, he reacts to things much more intensely than most people. But you know what? He accepts you for just who you are. When you said you had something in your eye, he believed you, and it was the same when you said you were going for sugar. Peter loves you to death, Mike, and he respects you. He wouldn't, if you were like them. He wouldn't trust you the way he does."

"Peter loves everybody," he mumbled, but she could see in his eyes that she was getting through to him.

"They're all your friends, you know. It's amazing how close you guys are . . . they all look up to you, not just Peter. Doesn't that say something to you?"

"Yeah, that they have bad taste in friends." But he smiled as he said it, and he clasped her hand in his. "Thanks Susan, for comin' out here."

"I knew you were upset, and I felt kind of responsible," she admitted, squeezing his hand. "I'm just causing trouble for you - "

"No, I had to face it sooner or later. Besides, I'm glad to help you out. I guess it's my way of makin' up for not bein' able to help my mom."

"I can understand that . . . so, are you ready to go back? I left Peter to finish the breakfast - "

"Oh man, then we better get there quick!" He stood without letting go of her hand, and she was hauled her to her feet with him. "Last time he made breakfast by himself, we ended up with mustard pancakes."

Susan gasped, her free hand flying up to her mouth. "Mustard pancakes?"

"'Fraid so. And don't even get me started on the cream of root beer soup."

"Oh dear . . ." Susan gulped and picked up her pace. "By all means, let's hurry back."

Mike laughed outright, and she looked up at him, surprised and delighted. He noticed her eyes upon him and looked over, squeezing her hand affectionately. "I feel so much better, Susan . . . it's like a weight's been lifted off me for the first time in . . . in a long time. I guess I really needed to let that stuff go."

"You can't hold things in forever," she agreed, her voice quiet and somewhat sad. "They start to eat away at your insides until there's almost nothing left of you but the pain . . . that's why I left Charlie. I realized one day that I wasn't even a person anymore, and . . . and that scared me. I was so happy, Mike, when I thought I was free of him . . ."

He nodded, placing an arm around her shoulder and pulling her closer as they walked. "I know it was a shock when he walked into the Vincent Van . . . what were you doing there, anyway, how long had it been?"

"Oh, it's been almost a month since I left him . . . I never thought he would find me . . . I'd finally got up the courage to go out in public again and there he was . . ."

"That was your first time out?" Mike stared down at her, open-mouthed. "What were you doing before?"

She shook her head ashamedly. "Hiding. I stayed in my motel room and lived on crackers and sodas from the vending machines in the hallway. I was terrified all the time, convinced he'd come around the corner . . . convinced it was only a matter of time before he found me." She laughed humorlessly. "Turns out I was right."

Mike was silent for a while, unsure of what to say. Then, "Why the Vincent Van?"

"Oh, it was just the kind of place I used to love before I married Charlie. He never liked go-go's, even when we were going out, so I'd just go with my friends. But when we were married . . . well, everything changed." She looked up at Mike again, her eyes begging for understanding. "He wasn't like that in the beginning, Mike. He was so nice and attentive . . . he treated me right." She paused and swiped at the tears that sprang to her eyes. "The first time he ever hit me was on our wedding night."

Mike pursed his lips as an angry glower settled on his features. "That ain't right. Man, if it was my weddin' night, I'd have other things on my mind."

Susan shuddered. "Oh, he did that too."

"It ain't s'posed to be like that," Mike fumed. "It's s'posed to be somethin' you both can enjoy. If it was me - " He cut himself off and his face flushed as he realized what he was saying. "Oh . . . well . . . never mind that."

Susan blushed a bit too, but had to smile despite herself at the thought of it. "If it was with you, Mike, I know it would be wonderful."

Mike went even redder, but was saved from any comment on that remark as they arrived at the Pad. "Well, here we are," he chirped, in a voice two octaves too high. He cleared his throat before continuing. "Let's see what we got for breakfast, hmm?"

"Sure," she responded faintly, unable to stop smiling. "Whatever you say."

Peter sighed to himself as he finished dishing the fifth and last breakfast plate. "MICKY, DAVY," he called out the window, "BREAKFAST IS READY, COME ON!" Then, putting the empty pan in the sink, he sank into his chair and stared down at his food, wringing his hands in his lap.

He glanced at the closed front door and wished for the millionth time that Mike would hurry up and come back. It was driving him crazy knowing he'd upset him, and he hadn't even meant to! Mike was so sensitive lately, and it didn't help that Peter had no idea what was going on . . .

He frowned as he picked at his eggs. It all had to do with Susan. No, not with Susan, he amended, with Charlie. They were all worried about Susan, especially after seeing those bruises on her arms. Charlie was dangerous, and he meant to hurt her. Why, Peter couldn't understand. And it was because of him that Mike was so upset now.

He blinked back tears and tried to remember what Susan had said. It's not your fault, Peter. No one blames you for asking these questions, they make a lot of sense. But I think it bothers Mike that he doesn't have the answers.

He considered that. Why would not having the answers bother Mike? He'd not known things before and it hadn't made him so moody as he had been lately. It seemed to Peter that Mike ought to be used to not knowing things. Not that he didn't know much, in fact, Mike was one of the smartest people he knew, but he didn't know everything.

"Nobody knows everything," he said aloud.

He sighed again and pushed his plate away. The steam was slowly beginning to stop rising from the others' plates, so he stood and went over to the window, yelling out for the second time, "MICKY, DAVY, COME ON! YOUR FOOD'S GETTING COLD!"

"OKAY!!!!" came the yell back, and Peter trudged back to his seat. Susan and Mike's food would get cold too, but he didn't know where to yell for them. Susan had said she was going to try to talk to Mike, and if Peter knew Mike as well as he thought he did, she might be out there a while.

His thoughts were violently interrupted as Micky burst into the Pad, dripping wet and covered in sand. "TA-DAAA!" he yelled as he slid into the kitchen and bounced off the refrigerator with a whoop. "Hi!"

Peter barely looked up. "Yeah, hi."

Davy walked in much more casually. "'Ey, what's wrong, Petah?"

Peter sighed again and rested his chin in his hand. "Nothing."

"Yeah, sure," Micky said, rolling his eyes. "So why do you look like you just lost your best friend?" He plopped down in the chair next to Peter's and placed a hand on his shoulder. "What's up, man, you can tell us."

"Yeah, we're'ere," Davy added, taking the seat on his other side.

"That's just it," Peter told them, tears finally welling up in his eyes. "I think I have!"

"Huh?" was Micky's incoherent reply.

"I think Mike's mad at me."

"Mad at you," Davy repeated curiously, "Why?"

"I kept asking him questions and he didn't like it. He got all upset and he went out for sugar we already have."

"Hunh?" Micky asked again, but Davy seemed to understand.

"Look Petah, you know 'ow Mike can be. Even if he is mad, he won't stay that way for long. Don't worry about it."

"You think so?" Peter sniffled, looking at Davy hopefully.

"Sure!" Davy looked at the two empty seats and shrugged. "Besides, Susan went after 'im, right?"

"Yes . . . how'd you know?"

"We saw 'er going the same way he went an' figured she was goin' to look for 'im."

"Yeah," Micky agreed, through a mouthful of eggs. "Besides, it seems like she understands him pretty good. She'll talk some sense into him."

"She's really nice," Peter said absently, a smile lighting up his face. "I like her a lot."

"Me too," Davy agreed, and Micky nodded his agreement. "I'm glad we could 'elp 'er."

"Do you think she's found Mike yet?"

As if in answer to his question, the front door rattled and Mike stepped in, Susan following behind him.

"Mike!" Peter leapt from his seat and ran to them, throwing his arms around Mike. "I'm sorry Mike, I didn't mean to upset you, please don't be angry with me," he babbled.

Susan placed a hand on his arm and smiled reassuringly at him. Mike pulled out of the embrace, looking a bit red in the face. "Uhh . . . it's okay, Pete," he said, "I ain't mad. You just . . . it's just it's hard for me to think about this stuff, is all."

"Hi guys," Micky greeted them as he and Davy joined the group in the living room. "Didja have a nice walk, Mike?"

"Uh-huh."

Micky stopped dead in his tracks and looked hard at the red-faced Mike, then at Susan, who had a very peculiar half-smile on her face. Then his mouth widened into a mischievous grin. "You guys kissed, didn't you!"

Mike went yet another shade of red. "No we did not!"

"You did!" Micky began to giggle, while Peter just stared at the two of them, his eyes wide. Davy snickered into his palm. "I've seen that look before," Micky insisted, indicating Susan, who still wore a somewhat dopey grin. "Miss Buntwell left here looking like that after you two hooked up - "

And Davy clapped a hand over his mouth before he could finish his thought. Mike was turning purple by now, and Susan's lips were twitching as she fought her own impulse to laugh. "Honestly, Micky," she said, her voice trembling slightly, "We were just talking."

"About kissing," Micky finished, as soon as Davy removed his hand from his mouth.

"No! For crying out - " Mike cut himself off with an angry sigh and stalked into the kitchen, pushing past Davy so roughly that the shorter man stumbled and almost fell over.

"Micky . . . I'm serious," Susan said quietly, the urge to laugh slowly passing. "We were having a rather serious conversation."

"Then how come you're all red and he's all giggly?"

"You mean how come I'm all giggly and he's all red?"

"Yeah."

"We . . . well . . ." The smile returned to her face unbidden. "Just trust me, Micky. We didn't kiss and we didn't talk about kissing. Okay?"

Micky looked doubtful, but finally decided to drop the subject anyway. "Okay," he shrugged, and both Davy and Peter let out sighs of relief.

Susan leaned in closer to Micky and whispered in his ear. "But later, you've got to tell me about this Miss Buntwell."

Micky grinned widely in response.

"If you're done," Mike grumbled from the kitchen, "I'd like to talk to you guys."

Peter was in the kitchen immediately, seated obediently in the chair across from Mike. "Sure, Michael," he nodded solemnly, barely noticing as the others took their own seats around the table. "What is it?"

Mike took a deep breath and glanced at Susan as if for support. She smiled at him and gently placed her own hand over his. He seemed to take strength from the gesture, and began to speak.

"My father used to beat me and my Mom when I was a kid."