Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and cold ash. Mike crouches beside the dented percolator with a butter knife in one hand and the lid half pried open. The grounds spill across the counter in wet clumps. Mona moves behind him with her hair pinned back and cigarette smoke curling past her cheek. She holds a rehearsal book under one arm and a mug in the other, balancing both without looking up. Ware kneels near the amp crate untangling cords. John tunes the twelve-string on the windowsill with a flat pick between his teeth. Susie sits on the couch with one foot tucked under her thigh, applying eyeliner in the reflection of a cigarette case.

The cat, Charlie Brown, winds through the mess near the breakfast table and jumps onto the radiator without ceremony. The heater clicks once and hisses to life. Chadwick and Phyllis speak in the kitchen. Their voices rise and fall in clipped bursts, too low to make out.

The radio on the counter gives a burst of static before it cuts over to a newscaster’s voice.

“We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin from Dallas, Texas—”

Everyone stops what they’re doing.

Mona stands near the pantry with her mug held midway to her mouth. Her posture stiffens. The cat’s ears flatten. Mike sets the butter knife down with care but does not straighten.

“President Kennedy has been shot… in Dallas…”

Susie lowers her compact. Her hand rests on her knee with the liner cap still gripped tight. Ware turns his head toward the sound. No one speaks.

“Turn it up,” Susie says.

Mike crosses to the counter and adjusts the dial without a word. The volume rises enough to carry across the room. The announcer’s voice tightens as he reads.

“Mrs. Kennedy was with him. There are conflicting reports. Some say the shots came from a grassy knoll—others from the School Book Depository—”

Mona steps forward, eyes on the speaker grill. Her voice lands quiet and even. “She was right there.”

Mike lowers his arm. His hand closes into a fist. The lines in his neck sharpen.

“I didn’t vote for him,” Ware says. “Didn’t like him much either. But no man deserves that.”

“I voted,” Mona replies. “It was my first.”

“I missed it by a month,” Mike says. “Would’ve gone Nixon.” He crosses his arms and watches the radio. “Most of Texas did.”

A pause follows, but no one sits.

Then the next bulletin arrives. The announcer’s tone shifts. He delivers the next words without inflection.

“The President is dead.”

Mike moves without thinking. He punches the wall beside the light switch. The plaster splits beneath his knuckles. The sound cracks across the room like a dropped cymbal. He holds his hand close to his chest. Blood gathers along the ridge of one knuckle and begins to slide.

The blow breaks the moment. Ware looks up fast and rises halfway before catching himself. John flinches and grips the neck of the twelve-string. Susie blinks twice and lowers her hands from her lap. In the kitchen, the running water shuts off with a clunk. Phyllis appears in the doorway with her arms folded. Chadwick stands behind her, mouth tight, shoulders squared.

Mona puts her mug on the table and crosses to Mike. She reaches for his wrist and lifts his hand gently to inspect the damage. Her thumb brushes the edge of the torn skin. She doesn't flinch, but her jaw tightens as she guides him toward the sink.

Across the room, the cat leaps down and disappears behind the couch.

Everyone stays quiet.

Phyllis sets a pot of water on the stove without speaking. Susie lights another cigarette with a practiced flick. Chadwick opens his mouth like he might say something, then shuts it just as fast.

Mona lowers herself to the floor beside the radio. Her skirt folds beneath her legs. She keeps her eyes fixed on the speaker, like she’s waiting for the voice inside to explain something it can’t.

“I loved him,” she says. “And I didn’t even vote for him.”

“Jackie didn’t even change,” Susie replies. Her voice is low, raspy from smoke and shock. “Said she wanted them to see what they did.”

Mike leans against the counter, his eyes on the wall. “LBJ’s probably been waitin’ his whole damn life for this.”

Mona exhales sharply. “Don’t.”

Mike turns his head toward her. He watches her for a moment, then drops his gaze. He doesn’t answer.

That night, Mona sits curled against Mike on the couch with a blanket across her legs. The television flickers in the far corner of the living room, its light casting dim shadows across the walls. The sound stays low. The same footage plays on a loop—Jackie Kennedy in her bloodstained pink suit, the open limousine, the sudden shift as agents move forward. The motorcade rolls through frame again and again.

Mike’s arm is draped around Mona’s shoulders. His right hand rests against her upper arm, fingers swollen and bruised. Two of them are stiff, darkened from the impact. He keeps that hand close to her body, as if the contact steadies him.

Across the room, Susie sits sideways on Ware’s lap. She rests her head against his shoulder, her cigarette burning low between two fingers. They sit in silence.

Phyllis and London sit together on the floor near the coffee table. Phyllis’s back is pressed to London’s chest, his arms wrapped loosely around her middle. Her eyes stay fixed on the screen.

“You scared me today,” Mike says.

Mona’s eyes remain on the television. “What?”

“When you stopped talkin’.”

She lowers her chin slightly. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“I didn’t need words,” he says. “I just needed you.”

She leans into him until her head touches his collarbone.

“I’m still here,” she says.

He presses his lips to her temple. “Good.”

He holds her tight.

Later that night, they step out onto the fire escape. The apartment behind them stays dim, quiet except for the clatter of dishes and the low drone of the television. Mona wears Mike’s flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She sits cross-legged beside him. Mike has a blanket across their shoulders and a cigarette between his fingers.

They sit in silence. The air is dry and cold. The city stretches beneath them, still moving.

“She tried to hold him together,” Mona says.

Mike exhales smoke. “She loved him. You could see it.”

“She was right there.”

He nods. “Right there.”

Mona tilts her head toward him. “Would you do that for me?”

“I wouldn’t let it get that far,” he says.

She looks down. “That’s not what I asked.”

He meets her eyes. “Yes.”

The window creaks. Susie leans out, wrapped in a blanket and holding two mugs.

“You want cocoa?” she asks.

Mike glances over. “Did you spike it?”

“Of course I did,” she says. She climbs through the window.

Mona shifts, and Susie sits beside them. She tucks her legs under the blanket and hands off the mugs.

The three of them sit together, close against the cold rail. The traffic below hums without pause. A siren cuts through and fades. The television mutters from inside.

No one says a word.

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1963

Sunlight enters through the apartment windows and catches dust in the air. The kitchen smells like over-toasted bread and strong coffee. The record player clicks off. No one crosses the room to change it.

None of them has slept. They went through the motions—changing clothes, brewing coffee, rinsing their faces—but sleep never came.

Phyllis stands at the stove, scraping burnt eggs from the skillet. Chadwick reads from the newspaper with a flat voice, stopping often. London sits on the floor by the outlet, repairing the toaster. No one discusses the broadcast. No one mentions the funeral.

Susie comes in from the hallway. She wears one of Ware’s black shirts over her slip and carries two mugs of coffee. She sets both on the table, takes the chair nearest the television, and pulls her knees up to her chest. She doesn’t say anything.

They remain near each other.

In the living room, the television glows in silence. Then the coverage resumes.

They all wear black. No one speaks about it. One by one, they choose dark skirts, wool slacks, turtlenecks, sweaters. Coats hang loose on the backs of chairs. The effect is somber, unspoken.

The casket appears. The riderless horse follows. The drum cadence begins—slow and measured.

Jackie Kennedy walks behind the caisson. She holds her daughter’s hand. Her son lifts his hand in salute. The camera remains fixed on their steps. So do they.

Susie starts to cry when the procession turns onto Constitution Avenue. She wipes her eyes and stays in her seat.

Phyllis rises and walks to the sink. She begins washing dishes that are already clean.

Ware moves to the couch and sits beside Chadwick. London stays cross-legged near the wall.

Mike leans forward with his arms braced on his knees. His expression does not change.

Mona rises and walks to the organ. She pulls out the bench and sits. Her fingers pause above the keys. She presses one, then another. The sound is low and unresolved, but it builds.

Mike steps behind her. His hair is damp. He rests one hand on her shoulder.

“You writin’ a song or castin’ a spell?”

“Little of both.”

“You need a co-writer?”

She nods. “Start from the top.”

He hums over her chords. His right hand aches when he shifts. Two fingers remain stiff and bruised.

“Ain’t no crown on the moon,” he sings, “just footprints in the dust.”

She stops playing and looks at him.

“That’s the chorus.”

They begin again, without stopping.

That night, Susie wipes her eyes, sniffs, and says, “We should go out. I’m sick of death. It’s in the carpet. It’s in the damn coffee.”

Mona nods. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. Somewhere real.”

No one argues. They drift back into motion—slow, mechanical. Mona grabs her purse from the floor beside the couch. Mike finds his jacket slung over the banister. Phyllis double-checks the stove, even though it’s off. Susie snaps her cigarette case shut and mutters something about needing bourbon more than air. Ware holds the door. London grabs his keys. They file out two by two.

The sky hangs heavy over Sunset. Clouded over, steel-toned, too cold for November—but no one goes back inside for a coat. Mona climbs behind the wheel of the LeSabre. Mike slides into the passenger seat. The others pile into the Rambler. No one turns on the radio. No one speaks on the drive.

Musso & Frank still glows against the gloom, red neon humming above the boulevard. Inside, the maître d’ recognizes Mona and nods toward their usual booth near the back. The place is quiet tonight. Too quiet. The usual clink of glass and laughter replaced by low murmurs and the faint rustle of newspaper from the bar.

They slide into the booth. The waiter approaches and nods in recognition. “Steak sandwiches all around?”

Mona answers for them. “Seven. And seven bourbons.”

He gives a tight smile and heads to the kitchen without writing it down.

They eat in silence for a while. Then Susie pushes her plate aside and lights a cigarette. “Y’know,” she says, tapping ash into her water glass, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that pink suit. The blood. The way she held her head up.”

Mona’s voice is quiet. “She looked like a ghost. Like something sacred had just walked out of her.”

Mike stares into his drink. “She didn’t flinch. Whole world caved in, and she didn’t flinch.”

They fall silent again. The sound of silverware clinks faintly from the other tables.

“Do you think we’ll ever know?” Mona asks. “Who really pulled the strings?”

Mike leans back. “Even if we do, it won’t change a thing.”

Susie exhales smoke through her nose. “You sound like you’ve given up.”

“I haven’t,” he says. “But I know how the game works.”

Mona narrows her eyes. “Then maybe it’s time we stop playin’ by their rules.”

He looks at her. “That’s my Evil Witchy Woman.”

Susie groans. “You two better not start makin’ out in this restaurant.”

Mona smiles. “No promises.”

They sit a while longer. Then Mona speaks again. “She crawled onto the trunk. Jackie. After he was shot.”

Susie pauses with her cigarette midair. “I know.”

“She tried to pick up the pieces of his head,” Mona says. “She tried to put him back together.”

No one speaks. The restaurant hushes around them, the sound of conversation dimming to a low murmur.

“She loved him that much,” Mona says. “Her instinct was to fix him. With her hands.”

Mike’s jaw tightens. “She wasn’t just the First Lady. She was his wife.”

No one moves. Mona pictures Jackie in that blood-soaked suit, crawling across the trunk in her heels and gloves. A woman in Chanel, searching for pieces no one could piece back together.

Mona stares at her drink. “I want that,” she says.

Susie blinks. “What?”

“That kind of love,” Mona says. “Where instinct takes over. Where your first thought is just—hold them together.”

Mike watches her and reaches across the table to take her hand. “You already got it,” he says. “You know that, right?”

She looks up. Her eyes are wet, but her voice stays steady. “Do I?”

Mike nods. “I’d crawl across a mile of hell for you, New England.”

She squeezes his hand. “I’d hold you together with my bare hands, Texas. That’s a promise.”

Susie exhales hard and leans back. “Jesus H. Christ,” she mutters, “you two are gonna kill me with this devotion crap.”

Phyllis smirks into her drink. “It’s disgusting, isn’t it?”

“Disgusting and tragic,” Susie says, waving her cigarette. “We get it. You’re madly in love. But do you have to make the rest of us look like a pack of cold fish while you do it?”

Chadwick snorts. “Speak for yourself. I’m inspired.”

London shrugs. “It’s romantic. Don’t let her sour it.”

Mike leans in, still holding Mona’s hand. “She’s just jealous.”

“I am not,” Susie says, grinning.

Mona raises her glass. “To holdin’ each other together.”

Mike clinks his glass against hers. “Even when the world falls apart.”

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1963

The apartment is dim. Morning sunlight filters through yellow curtains, falling across an ashtray full of yesterday. Everyone is quiet. Too quiet.

Mona cracks eggs into a bowl and sets the skillet on the burner. She grips the spatula tight, moving through the motions without thought. The stove clicks and flares to life. The eggs hit the pan and sizzle. The television hums low in the background, steady and unrelenting.

Then the tone shifts. A sharp, breathless urgency in the anchor’s voice:

“Lee Harvey Oswald has been shot—”

She drops the spatula.

Mike’s in the room in seconds. “What?”

“Someone just killed him. Live.” Mona shakes her head, stunned. “That’s not justice. That’s a public execution. A goddamn message.”

Phyllis blinks like she’s surfacing from underwater. “Jesus, Mona.”

Susie shakes her head. “She’s right. They didn’t want a trial. They wanted the story buried before it could take root.”

Chadwick leans forward, elbows on knees. “Nobody gets to talk now. Not Oswald. Not the press. Not even us, if we’re not careful.”

London exhales through his nose. “Then maybe it’s time someone told the truth anyway.”

London freezes, mid-pour of orange juice. Chadwick curses under his breath. Phyllis sits down slowly at the table, eyes wide.

Susie blinks. “No trial,” she murmurs. “No answers.”

“They didn’t want answers,” Mona says flatly. “They wanted silence.”

Mike’s face is hard. His jaw locked. “They wanted to erase the whole story.”

Chadwick shakes his head. “One bullet shut it all down.”

“Ruby,” Phyllis says distantly. “The guy’s name is Jack Ruby. A nightclub owner.”

“A hitman,” London mutters. “Or a distraction. Or both.”

They watch the replay together, stunned. Oswald collapsing in real time, the flashbulbs going off like fireworks, the chaos spinning around the slow-motion of a man dying on television.

Mike stands behind Mona and grips her shoulders. His fingers tighten as he steadies her and keeps a lid on it.

“No one’s comin’ to fix this,” he says. “It’s on us now.”

Mona looks up at him, and for the first time all weekend, her expression is pure fire. “Then let’s start.”

AFTERMATH

They stay inside the apartment that day.

Hillman shows up first. He walks in without a word, opens his case, and tunes his mandolin. London grabs the bass. Ware brings out the snare. Phyllis grabs a pencil and staff paper. Susie clears the table like she’s setting a stage.

Mona goes to the organ. She pulls out the bench and sits—not to mourn, but to put something into the world that wasn’t there before.

Her fingers hover above the keys, then press down. The tones are low and deliberate. Each chord carries weight. No melody yet. Just shape and effort.

The sound is thin at first, with silence between each phrase. But the structure begins to form. A sequence. A direction.

Mike pads in behind her, barefoot and quiet. He rests his hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s pick up where we left off,” he murmurs.

Mona keeps her eyes on the keys. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He sits beside her on the bench. “Start from the top.”

She plays the opening again. The chords are soft, tentative. He hums along. Then says:

“Ain’t no crown on the moon, just footprints in the dust.”

She presses the next chord, steady and slow. “You still hung up on that line?”

He gives a faint shrug. “Can’t let it go.”

Mona plays another chord. “We already said we’d do this.”

Susie leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Then what the hell are you waitin’ for?”

Mona glances toward the organ. “I’m not.”

“Good,” Susie says. “Play it like you mean it.”

Chris glances up, then nods toward the organ. “I’ll back you.”

Phyllis blinks a few times and smiles. “It’s happening.”

London nods. “It’s time.”

Mike wraps an arm around Mona’s waist and rests his chin on her shoulder.

“You think people are ready to hear this?” she asks.

Chapter Text

The casting process for The Monkees buzzes with nervous energy. The sound of chatter, shuffling papers, and nervous laughter echoes through the hall. Mona Jensen, clipboard in hand, checks in an endless stream of hopefuls. She recognizes a bunch of guys from the LA and Laurel Canyon scenes—faces she has seen at clubs, jam sessions, and industry parties—but she maintains professional indifference, greeting everyone with polite efficiency and never letting on that she knows them. She smiles tightly, her mind already on the logistics for the day.

The energy shifts when she freezes. Her eyes widen in disbelief.

"Michael?" she whispers, barely concealing her surprise.

Mike Nesmith, or as he is known here, Michael Blessing, stands there with his usual relaxed posture, giving her a subtle nod and a half-smile. "Mona," he murmurs back, voice low and knowing.

Mona’s mind races. Of all the places he could show up—here? She glances around, praying no one notices her reaction. She quickly thrusts an intake form at him. “Fill this out, please.”

Mike scribbles down Michael Blessing without hesitation. They had agreed on the pseudonym, but she never imagined this scenario. As he writes, Mona watches his fingers, remembering late-night jam sessions and whispered conversations. The past suddenly feels too close.

Before she can regain her composure, Bob Rafelson’s unmistakable voice echoes from his office.

"Jensen! I need you in here."

"Yes, Bob," Mona answers automatically. Her heart pounds. She glances down at Mike’s form—still in her hand—and rushes into Bob’s office, hoping to slip it back into the stack unnoticed.

“Give me that,” Bob demands, holding out his hand without looking.

"Yes, Bob." She hands it over, realizing too late which form it is.

Bob reads the top. His eyebrows shoot up. "Michael Blessing! You're up!"

Mona’s stomach drops. She watches helplessly as Mike, ever the picture of calm, stands and saunters toward the audition room. Before anyone can see her expression, she darts out, muttering something about an errand.

Hours crawl by. Mona keeps her distance, catching only glimpses of Mike’s tall frame and signature green wool hat. She forces herself to focus on paperwork, wondering how they can possibly keep their relationship secret now.

The tension rises when she notices Phyllis from wardrobe casting lingering glances at Mike. Phyllis finds every excuse to hover nearby, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve and adjusting his collar with a little too much care. "Green’s really your color," Phyllis purrs, straightening his hat with a lingering touch. Mike offers polite smiles, keeping his responses brief, but Mona can see Phyllis practically swooning. Mona grits her teeth, her pen tapping harder against the clipboard.

“Seriously, Phyllis, the hat’s fine,” Mike says with an easy laugh, taking a small step back. But Phyllis only smiles wider. "Just making sure you look perfect, Michael."

Mona forces herself to keep her head down, pretending to be absorbed in paperwork. Professional distance, she reminds herself. Don’t let it show.

The tension thickens when Bob steps into the room—not with a grin, but with his usual unreadable expression. His gaze flicks between Mona, Mike, and the rest of the hopefuls still waiting.

“Jensen. Blessing. My office. Now,” Bob says, voice clipped but calm.

Mona stiffens. "Yes, Bob," she replies, masking her nerves. Her heart pounds as she sets her clipboard aside. Bob’s tone leaves no room for argument.

Mike glances at her briefly, offering a subtle nod before following. The room falls silent as the two of them trail behind Bob into his office. Phyllis watches them disappear, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Inside the office, Bob closes the door firmly and turns to face them. He tosses a file onto his desk—Mike’s photo clipped to the top.

"Well," Bob begins, leaning back in his chair. "Jensen, it seems we’ve found our guitarist."

Mona’s stomach flips. "He got the part?" she asks, playing her role perfectly.

Bob nods, giving Mike a once-over. "He’s got something special—guitar skills, comic timing, and that dry wit. Perfect fit for what we’re building."

Mike shifts his weight, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Appreciate that, sir."

Bob narrows his eyes briefly but shrugs. "Congratulations, Blessing. The role’s yours. Jensen, get his paperwork in order."

"Yes, Bob," Mona replies smoothly, forcing herself to remain professional.

As they leave the office, Mike leans toward her with a smirk. "Told you I’d get it."

Mona rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. "Don’t get cocky, Michael. The hard part’s just starting."

The next day, Bob gathers everyone for formal introductions. The studio buzzes with new energy as the rest of the cast assembles. Mike and Mona walk together, maintaining their professional distance.

They enter a room where three other young men are already gathered. The first one—short, charismatic, and with a glint of mischief in his eye—stares directly at Mona. Recognition flashes instantly.

"Oh no," Mona mutters under her breath.

Davy Jones steps forward. "Well, if it isn’t Mona Jensen. Didn’t think I’d see you here."

Mona forces a polite smile. "Jones."

The air turns tense. Davy’s eyes narrow, recalling their first encounter backstage at The Ed Sullivan Show. The tension lingers as they shake hands—just a little too firmly. Mike watches this exchange with mild amusement, noting the sparks of unresolved history.

Before it can grow more uncomfortable, Peter Tork bounds forward, breaking into a wide grin.

“Mona!” Peter exclaims, pulling her into a warm hug. “Man, it’s been too long.”

“Peter!” Mona beams for the first time all day. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Peter gives Mike a subtle look, their unspoken understanding passing between them. Peter knows they’re married but keeps the secret, playing along perfectly.

“Neither have you—still the fastest fingers in LA,” Peter teases.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Mike quips. “He’s been bragging about his bass skills all week.”

“Hey!” Peter laughs. “All I know is, I missed jamming with you two.”

Before Mona can respond, a loud, energetic voice cuts through the room.

“And who’s this gorgeous lady?”

Micky Dolenz swaggers up with an exaggerated bow. “Name’s Micky. You must be Mona. How about a dinner to celebrate this new partnership?”

Mona arches an eyebrow, smirking. “Bold of you to assume I’m interested.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Micky grins. “I’m charming! Aren’t I charming?”

“No,” Mike and Davy reply in unison.

Peter laughs quietly, glancing at Mike with a smirk, fully aware of the reveal that’s about to happen.

Mona tilts her head, her signature smirk growing wider. “Charming or not, there’s one teeny detail you missed.”

Micky raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

Mona steps closer to Mike, looping her arm through his with deliberate slowness. "This charming Texan right here happens to be my husband."

Micky’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open. "Wait—husband? As in married? To him?"

Mike tips his hat with a smug grin. “Guilty.”

Peter bursts out laughing. “Oh man, your face, Micky! I wish I had a camera.”

Mona chuckles, enjoying Micky’s shock. “Sorry, Dolenz. But I don’t share.”

Micky recovers with a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Guess I should’ve known better. The best ones are always taken.”

“Glad you caught on,” Mona teases. “But seriously—all of you—we need to keep this between us. Bob doesn’t know. If word gets out, it could cost us both our jobs.”

The room falls silent. Micky’s grin fades into something more sincere. Davy crosses his arms, giving Mona a thoughtful look. Peter nods knowingly.

Mona plants her hands on her hips. “Swear it. Right now. Every one of you.”

Peter raises his right hand with a solemn expression. “Sworn. You have my word.”

Micky places a hand on his heart. “Cross my heart. Secret’s safe.”

Davy hesitates but finally nods. “Alright. I won’t say a word.”

Mona surveys them all one last time. “Good. Because if anyone spills, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Mike chuckles softly. “She means it, fellas.”

But Mona doesn’t move on just yet. She steps even closer, lowering her voice to a dangerous whisper. “I mean it. If Bob finds out before we’re ready, it won’t just be our necks on the line—it’ll affect the whole production. If any of you want to stay on his good side, you’ll keep your mouths shut.”

Micky gives a mock salute. “Scout’s honor. No leaks here.”

Peter nods seriously. “We get it, Mona. Lips sealed.”

Even Davy, who has been quiet, meets her gaze. “You’ve got my word.”

Mona scans their faces once more. “Alright. But I swear, if I hear so much as a whisper—”

“—We’ll blame Micky,” Peter interrupts with a grin.

“Hey!” Micky protests, laughing. “Why me?”

“Because you can’t keep your mouth shut,” Davy snickers.

Mona finally cracks a smile. “Enough. Let’s go.”

As they head down the hallway together, the tension gives way to smirks and quiet laughter.

Suddenly, Susie appears at the end of the corridor, her arms crossed and a knowing look on her face. “So...you weren’t gonna tell me either?”

Mona freezes. “Susie—”

“Relax. I figured it out the second I saw him with that hat. But seriously, Mona, you owe me details.”

Mona sighs, shooting Mike a look. “Later. I’ve got a group of troublemakers to manage first.”

Susie smirks. “Good luck with that.”

Mona glances back at the Monkees. “I’ll need it.”

As they turn the corner, Micky leans toward Peter. “Think she’ll let us call her ‘boss’ now?”

Peter grins. “You first.”

“Uh, no thanks. I value my life.”

Mona hears them and glances over her shoulder, her smirk returning. “Good choice, Dolenz.”

Mike laughs. “Told you she bites.”

The group laughs together, the secret safe—for now.

The group settles into a nearby rehearsal space, the buzz of the studio still humming behind them. Mona gestures for everyone to take a seat. Mike remains casually leaned against the doorway, watching the dynamic unfold.

“So, what now?” Micky asks, propping his feet up on the nearest chair.

“Now,” Mona begins, “we figure out how to make this mess of a show work.”

“Mess?” Micky grins. “I thought we were charming.”

“Charming doesn’t make deadlines,” Mona retorts, shooting Micky a look that makes him sit up straighter.

Peter strums a few chords on a nearby guitar. “Hey, Mona, remember that riff we used to jam on at the Troubadour?”

Mona glances at Mike, who nods with a small smirk. “You mean the one you always forgot halfway through?”

Peter laughs. “Hey! I improved.”

Davy watches the interaction, his gaze thoughtful. “You two have known each other a while, huh?”

Peter’s smile shifts into something more knowing. “Yeah. Long enough.”

Before anyone can press further, Bob’s voice echoes from down the hall. “Jensen! Soundcheck in ten. Get moving!”

“Yes, Bob!” Mona calls back, her voice sharp and professional. She turns to the group. “Alright, you heard him. Let’s go.”

As they rise, Susie reappears in the doorway. “Thought you might need a hand.”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “And you just happened to be walking by?”

“Call it intuition.” Susie grins before glancing at Mike. “Texas.”

Mike tips his hat. “Hollywood.”

The exchange earns a few curious glances from Micky and Davy. Susie ignores them, stepping closer to Mona.

“So...later. Drinks. Details.”

Mona groans but nods. “Fine. But only if these clowns behave.”

“Don’t count on it,” Davy mutters, earning a smirk from Mike.

The cast disperses, leaving Mike and Mona alone for a moment. Mona leans against a prop wall, crossing her arms.

“Think they’ll keep the secret?” she asks.

Mike shrugs. “They better. You did scare them pretty good.”

Mona smirks. “Good. They need to be scared.”

Just then, Micky pops his head around the corner. “Hey! We’re grabbing burgers after. You two in?”

Mona glances at Mike. “We’ll catch up.”

As Micky leaves, Mike turns to her. “You know, for someone so good at keeping secrets, you’re terrible at lying.”

Mona arches an eyebrow. “You saying I’m not convincing?”

Mike steps closer. “I’m saying Bob and the rest of the crew will figure it out eventually. All of them.”

“Then we’ll deal with it. Together.”

Mike grins. “Damn right.”

The dimly lit apartment buzzes with low music and conversation. Susie hands Mona a drink.

“For the record,” Susie starts, collapsing onto the couch, “it’s still my apartment. If you two are going to be all lovey-dovey, at least warn me first.”

Mona smirks. “You mean our apartment that we pay equal rent for?”

“Semantics.” Susie waves her hand dismissively. “But seriously, you two need to work on being subtle.”

Mike, lounging in the armchair, laughs. “If we were any more subtle, no one would believe it.”

“Right,” Susie rolls her eyes. “I’m living with newlyweds who think they’re secret agents.”

Mona points at her with her drink. “And you love it.”

“Not when I have to listen to you two argue over whose turn it is to do the dishes.”

Mike shrugs. “I mean, it’s always her turn.”

Mona glares at him, setting down her glass. “Excuse me?”

Susie grins, watching the playful exchange. “See? Domestic bliss.”

Before Mona can fire back, there’s a knock at the door. The trio freezes.

“Were you expecting someone?” Mona asks, glancing at Mike.

“Nope.”

Susie sighs dramatically. “If it’s Davy, I’m telling him you’re not home.”

Mike gets up and peeks through the peephole. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” both women say in unison.

“It’s Micky... with burgers.”

Mona groans, grabbing a cushion to bury her face in. “I told him we’d catch up, not invite him over.”

Susie laughs. “Guess he figured it out. Told you two were terrible at lying.”

As Micky’s cheerful voice comes through the door, Mike turns back to them with a grin. “Should we let him in?”

Mona pulls the cushion away just enough to mumble, “Might as well. The secret’s out.”

Susie stands, brushing past them. “I’ll get the door. Welcome to my life.”

The door swings open, and Micky steps in with a wide grin. “Hey, family dinner!”

Mike and Mona exchange a glance, half-exasperated, half-amused.

“Family dinner, huh?” Mona sighs. “Sure. But you’re doing the dishes.”

Micky laughs, heading for the kitchen. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

Mike wraps an arm around Mona’s shoulders. “Home sweet home.”

Mona rolls her eyes but leans into him. “Yeah. Home sweet chaos.”

Susie raises her glass from the couch. “To chaos!”

“To chaos,” they echo.

The smell of coffee wafts through the air. Mike stands in the kitchen, flipping pancakes while Mona sifts through sheet music at the dining table. Susie walks in, bleary-eyed, hair wild.

“If you two are gonna play house, you’d better start making me breakfast too,” Susie grumbles.

Mike flips a pancake onto a plate without missing a beat. “Already on it.”

Susie grins. “Guess I’ll keep you two around a little longer.”

Mona smirks. “Oh, you love having us here.”

The door buzzes unexpectedly. The trio exchanges wary glances.

“Now who?” Mike mutters.

Susie peeks through the window. “Uh...guys? It’s Davy. And Peter. And Micky. With bags.”

Mona groans. “Tell me they’re not moving in.”

Mike laughs. “Looks like breakfast just got a lot more crowded.”

Susie swings the door open. “Well, if it isn’t the Three Stooges.”

“We brought records!” Peter grins.

“Thought we’d hang out,” Davy adds.

Micky lifts a bag. “And more burgers. Breakfast of champions!”

Mona drops her head into her hands. “I knew this would happen.”

Mike shrugs, grinning. “Guess family breakfast is a thing now.”

“Family?” Susie snorts. “We’ll see about that.”

As laughter and music fill the room, the morning sun streams through the window. The apartment feels a little fuller, a little louder—but somehow, it feels right. The secret’s still safely within this circle, but the chaos? The chaos is here to stay.

The apartment is a whirlwind of noise. Micky plops down on the couch with a grin, claiming the best spot. Peter sets up records by the player, flipping through the collection with interest, while Davy drops onto the armchair, his usual smirk in place.

“This isn’t what I meant when I said ‘family breakfast,’” Mona mutters, glancing at the sudden invasion. She leans on the counter, sipping coffee.

Mike grins from the kitchen. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah?” Mona narrows her eyes. “How?”

Susie saunters in from her room, glancing at the crowd. “Breakfast club, huh? Someone better have brought coffee.”

“Already brewing,” Mike replies, flipping another pancake. “You’re welcome.”

Peter smiles. “This place feels like home already.”

“Too much like home,” Mona mumbles. “How long do you all plan to stay?”

Micky raises his burger bag. “Until the burgers run out.”

Davy laughs. “You love us, Jensen.”

Mona sighs, glaring at the crowded apartment. “Yeah, yeah.”

After breakfast, Micky drags Mike’s guitar from the corner. “Let’s play something!”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “I don’t share my guitar.”

“C’mon, Texas,” Micky teases. “Let’s hear you and Mona jam.”

Mona exchanges a look with Mike, who shrugs. “You in?”

“Always.” She picks up her banjo, plucking a few notes. Peter eagerly grabs the bass, grinning.

“You sure?” Mike teases. “Last time you nearly forgot your part.”

“Try me.” Mona’s fingers fly across the strings, starting a familiar riff. Peter joins in seamlessly.

“Damn,” Micky whispers. “They’re good.”

Davy leans back, watching the chemistry between Mike and Mona. “Too good.”

As the music swells, Mona glances at Mike with a smirk. “Still think I’m outta practice?”

Mike grins. “Never said you were.”

The jam continues, laughter mixing with the music. Susie records the moment on her camera, smirking. “For posterity.”

The apartment quiets. Micky snores on the couch. Davy thumbs through a magazine. Peter lounges near the window, guitar resting against his leg.

Mona sits beside Mike at the kitchen counter, their shoulders brushing. Susie brings over fresh coffee, giving them both a knowing look.

“You’re getting worse at hiding it.”

Mike chuckles. “Hiding what?”

Susie rolls her eyes. “Please.”

Peter glances over. “You two aren’t fooling anyone.”

Mona sets down her cup, giving Susie and Peter her best glare. “Don’t you dare.”

Susie raises an eyebrow. “Why not? You think Micky hasn’t figured it out? He’s not as clueless as he acts.”

Mona exhales and leans in. “Micky knows.  After yesterday—when he hit on me—I had to tell him. Figured it was better coming from me than them putting two and two together.”

Susie’s eyes widen. “Seriously? You told him?”

Mona glances toward the living room where Micky snores, and Davy flips another page. “We’ll just have to hope they can keep their mouths shut.”

Mike grins at her protectiveness. “Relax, babe. They know when to keep quiet.”

Peter gives a mock salute. “Our lips are sealed.”

“Good,” Mona mutters. “Or you’ll regret it.”

Susie shakes her head but smiles. “This is going to get interesting.”

The studio is buzzing when the group arrives. Bob paces near the cameras, cigarette in hand. “Jensen! Where are they?”

“Right here, Bob.” Mona waves him over. The Monkees trail behind her, looking half-awake.

Bob eyes the group. “You better be worth all this trouble.”

Micky grins. “We’re charming, remember?”

“Charming doesn’t make ratings,” Bob snaps. “Jensen, you’re responsible for this circus.”

“Yes, Bob.” Mona’s voice is calm but firm. She turns to the guys. “Places, now.”

Mike leans close, whispering, “Bossy suits you.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

As the cameras roll and lights flood the stage, Mona watches from the sidelines. Despite the chaos, the Monkees shine. She exchanges a glance with Susie, who gives her a thumbs-up.

The secret’s still safe. For now. But with this group? It’s only a matter of time before everything unravels.

Mona crosses her arms, watching Mike strum his guitar, his smile just for her.

“Home sweet chaos,” she murmurs.

And chaos it would stay.

The studio empties slowly, crew members packing up equipment. The Monkees laugh together near the back, unaware of the intense gaze Bob Rafelson fixes on Mona.

“Jensen. My office. Now.”

Mona freezes for a heartbeat before schooling her expression. “Yes, Bob.”

Susie glances up from her seat by the makeup table, mouthing, Good luck.

The door clicks shut behind them. Bob leans against his cluttered desk, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“Alright, Jensen. Spill it. What’s going on?”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “Going on with what?”

“Don’t play coy.” Bob squints at her. “I’ve been around long enough to smell a secret from a mile away. You and Blessing—there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Mona crosses her arms, keeping her voice steady. “Mike’s doing his job, and so am I.”

Bob exhales a cloud of smoke. “Is that right? Because the chemistry between you two? It’s a little too good. And I don’t like surprises, Jensen.”

Mona holds his gaze. “If there were something to tell, you’d be the first to know.”

Bob narrows his eyes. “You’d better be right. Because if there’s a scandal brewing under my nose, it won’t just be your job on the line.”

Mona stiffens but nods. “Understood.”

Bob taps his cigarette into the ashtray. “Good. Get back out there. And Jensen?”

“Yes, Bob?”

“Keep your circus in line.”

Mona forces a smile. “Always.”

Mona returns to find Mike waiting near the stage.

“Everything alright?” he asks, reading her expression.

“Bob’s suspicious.”

Mike quirks an eyebrow. “Of?”

“Us.”

Mike chuckles. “We’ve been careful.”

“Careful enough? I’m not so sure.”

Susie joins them, glancing between their faces. “How bad was it?”

“Manageable. For now.” Mona sighs. “But we need to be even more careful.”

Mike slips his hand briefly into hers, squeezing it before letting go. “We’ve got this, babe.”

Mona glances at the group, chaos buzzing as Micky chases Davy with a prop sword. Peter strums absentmindedly on a guitar.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, “we’ve got this.”

But deep down, she knows it’s only a matter of time before Bob pieces everything together.

The question is: Will they be ready when he does?

The apartment quiets after another chaotic day. Micky snores on the couch while Davy hums a tune under his breath. Mona leans on the kitchen counter, flipping through a script. Mike leans beside her, sipping coffee.

"We can't keep this up forever," Mona mutters.

Mike glances at her. "You mean the act?"

Mona nods. "Bob’s too sharp. He already suspects something."

Susie walks in, towel around her neck, still damp from a late shower. “And what’s the plan when he finds out? Because, honey, he will find out.”

"We need a story," Mike says. "Something that makes sense."

Mona rolls her eyes. "A story, huh? Like ‘We just accidentally fell in love on set’? Bob’s not gonna buy that."

Susie snorts. “Especially after how hard you two worked to hide it."

Peter peeks in from the living room. "Or you could just tell him the truth. Might save you some grief."

Mona shoots him a look. “You volunteering to break the news? Didn’t think so.”

Peter raises his hands in surrender. “Fair point.”

Later that night, Peter finds Mona tuning her banjo in the corner of the living room.

"Hey, feel like jamming?" Peter asks with a grin, picking up his guitar.

Mona smiles. "You know I’m always up for ‘Dueling Banjos.’"

They sit across from each other. As Mona plucks the opening notes, Peter follows seamlessly. The room fills with music, their fingers flying over the strings, perfectly in sync. Micky and Susie peek in, drawn by the sound.

Mike emerges from the kitchen, watching the duo with a grin. After a few moments, he steps forward. "Hey, mind if I join in?"

Mona glances at Peter, then at Mike. "It’s a duet, babe."

Mike’s grin falters slightly. "Guess I’ll just watch, then."

Mona sets down her banjo with a thoughtful expression. "You know what? Give me a couple of days. I’ll write a third part and teach it to you. We’ll make it a trio."

Mike’s face lights up. "You mean it?"

“Of course. It’ll be fun." Mona winks at him. "Besides, you’re gonna need the practice to keep up with us."

Peter laughs. “She’s not wrong.”

Mike chuckles. "Alright, Loudmouth Yankee. I’ll hold you to that."

The three share a smile, knowing the jam session would be just the beginning.

The next day, the studio buzzes as usual. Lights are adjusted, cameras are tested, and extras mill about, waiting for their scenes. Bob Rafelson stands at the back of the stage, arms crossed, watching the controlled chaos with a calculating look.

Mona organizes props nearby, keeping an eye on Mike, who is chatting with Micky. She feels Bob’s gaze before she sees it. Slowly, deliberately, he starts walking toward her.

“Jensen.” His voice cuts through the noise like a knife. “My office. Now.”

Mona sighs. Not again.

“Yes, Bob.”

The Monkees exchange glances. Susie leans in to whisper something to Peter, who only shrugs.

Mona closes the door behind her. Bob doesn’t offer her a seat. He paces instead, cigarette smoke curling in the air.

"I don’t like being lied to, Jensen," he says without preamble.

Mona keeps her expression neutral. "Neither do I."

Bob turns sharply. "Cut the crap. The chemistry between you and Blessing? It’s obvious. Too obvious. So here’s how this is going to go. You tell me what’s going on, or I start making calls. Got it?"

Mona folds her arms. "And if I don’t?"

Bob levels her with a stare. "Then I replace you both."

The room goes silent.

After a beat, Mona exhales. "Alright. You want the truth?"

Bob nods. “Finally.”

Mona looks him straight in the eye. "We’re married."

The words hang there. The ticking of the wall clock fills the silence.

Bob blinks. "Married?"

“Since well before the show started.”

Bob drops into his chair, rubbing his temples. "Jesus Christ." He leans back, studying her. "You mean to tell me that all this time I’ve been running cattle calls, sitting through hours of auditions, and you had the perfect guy right under my nose?"

Mona swallows. "It wasn’t planned. We didn’t want anyone thinking he got the job because of me."

Bob exhales a long stream of smoke, shaking his head. "Jensen, you could’ve saved me a hell of a lot of time and trouble if you’d just told me your husband was multi-talented and interested in auditioning."

Mona shrugs, keeping her tone even. "Didn’t know he was interested until he showed up. Neither my ad nor his gave a lot of information, you know."

Bob stares at her for a moment longer, then lets out a short laugh. "Touché."

“Hindsight’s 20/20, Bob.”

Bob points a finger at her, smirking despite himself. "Next time you’re hiding a star in plain sight, Jensen, do me a favor—don’t.

Mona hesitates, then steps forward. "Bob... one more thing. Can you keep our marriage a secret? At least for now? If the network finds out, it could get messy."

Bob studies her for a long moment before sighing. "You two sure don’t make it easy, do you?"

"Please, Bob. Just until we’ve proven this works."

Bob flicks ash into the tray and waves a hand. "Fine. But you’d better make damn sure you don’t give me a reason to regret it."

Mona nods, relief flashing across her face. "Yes, Bob."

Mona emerges from Bob's office looking composed, but Mike catches the flicker of nerves in her eyes.

"Well?" Mike asks, pulling her aside.

"He knows."

Mike sighs. "How bad?"

"Bad. But not unrecoverable." She glances toward Bob’s office. "He’s giving us one chance to prove it won’t affect the show."

Micky joins them, grinning as usual. “Told ya the cat’d get outta the bag.”

Davy smirks. “Took him long enough.”

Susie saunters over. "So, what now?"

Mona straightens. “Now? We work twice as hard. Bob’s watching everything."

Mike slips his hand into hers briefly. "We’ll get through this. Together."

The group gathers on stage. Bob steps out, watching them with narrowed eyes.

“Alright, people. Places!”

The cameras roll. The Monkees shine.

Mona watches Mike strum his guitar, his smile lingering for her alone.

“Home sweet chaos,” she murmurs.

This time, they’re ready for it.

A few days after the jam session, Mona and Peter sit in the apartment's living room. Manuscripts, pencils, and coffee mugs clutter the table. Mona’s banjo rests on her lap while Peter tunes his guitar.

"Alright," Peter says, glancing at Mona. "We need something that sounds like Michael, but pushes him too. You know his playing better than anyone."

Mona smirks. "Exactly. He’s quick, clever with chord transitions, but he learns by watching and listening. He can’t read standard notation, so we’ll have to tab it out for him."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "No sheet music?"

"Not for him. The regular manuscript will help us learn and teach it, but Michael needs tabs—and lots of repetition."

Peter grins. "One day you’ll teach him how to read music."

Mona laughs. "Oh, I plan to. I’ll get him there eventually."

Peter strums a chord. "Count me in when you do. I’ll help. It’ll be fun watching him sweat."

Mona smirks. "He’ll complain the whole time, but he’ll thank us later."

They start working, alternating between testing notes and scribbling changes. Mona creates a separate tab sheet, carefully writing out each note in a way Mike can follow. The room fills with experimental melodies—some sharp, some smooth. Peter taps his pencil on the desk.

"He’s gonna hate this run here," Peter says with a grin, pointing at a complicated riff.

"That’s the point," Mona replies, plucking the sequence on her banjo. "If he can’t handle this section, he’ll have to ask for help. And I’ll enjoy every second of it."

They laugh, but the work is meticulous. Mona insists on making the part unique—nothing borrowed, nothing simple. By the second hour, they have a draft.

"Let’s try it," Mona says, handing Peter a copy of the tab. "You take Michael’s part."

Peter plays through the new sequence. He trips over a rapid-fire set of notes, blinking at the tab.

"Whoa. This is tough."

Mona beams. "Perfect."

They refine the transitions, adding subtle tempo shifts and unexpected pauses. After another hour, Peter sets down his guitar.

"Okay. This part is genius. No one’s playing it without the tab."

Mona taps her pencil against her lips. "Now we teach it to Michael."

That evening, Mike walks into the living room, guitar slung over his shoulder. "So, what ya got for me, Loudmouth Yankee?"

Mona pats the spot next to her. "Sit. You’re about to see real genius. And don’t worry—I tabbed it out for you. Took Peter and me hours to get it just right."

Mike raises an eyebrow but takes a seat. "Hours? You two didn’t hold back, did ya?"

"Not for you," Mona replies with a smirk. "Peter and I designed this to stump anyone without the manuscript. We wanted it unique—and complex."

Peter grins from the corner. "This part’s got everything—syncopation, key changes, tempo shifts. We even snuck in a run that almost tripped me up."

Mike scans the tab sheet, his grin faltering. "This... is complicated. Looks like a math problem. You sure this ain’t for some prodigy?"

Mona leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. "Told you it would be fun. But don’t worry. We’ll walk you through it—step by step."

Peter winked. "And one day, we’re teaching you how to read music properly. You’re not escaping that lesson."

Mike snorts. "Yeah? You two gonna gang up on me now?"

"Always," Mona says with a grin. "You’ve gotten by with tabs long enough. It’s time to level up."

Michael chuckles. "Alright, show me what you got. But I’m warning you—I learn by watching and listening, not reading."

Mona gestures to Peter. "Perfect. Then watch closely."

Peter plays the first section slowly. Mike watches his fingers with intense focus, nodding along. Mona joins in with the banjo, their melodies weaving together.

Mike picks up his guitar, hesitating. He tries the section, fingers stumbling over the complex rhythm.

"Hold up. What was that?" Mike asks, squinting at the tab.

"That’s the syncopation. Keep up, Texas," Mona teases.

"Again," Mike mutters, determination flashing in his eyes.

Hours pass. Mike mimics Peter’s finger placement and listens for Mona’s rhythm cues. Slowly, the rough edges smooth. His fingers find the right frets. His grin returns.

"Got it," Mike says, strumming the final note. "You two weren’t kidding. This is brutal."

Mona leans in, satisfied. "But you did it."

Peter claps him on the back. "You’re officially part of the trio."

Mike grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Mona says. "Next time, we take this new version to the Troubadour."

Mike adjusts his guitar strap. "Guess I better keep practicing."

Peter laughs. "You’d better. It’s not gettin’ any easier."

As they run through the full piece one more time, the three instruments blend perfectly. For the first time, the trio sounds complete.

"Home sweet chaos," Mona murmurs.

And this time, the music feels right.

The following day at the studio, the cast and crew shuffle between scenes. The set quiets momentarily as Mona, Mike, and Peter find a corner to run through their trio arrangement.

Mona taps the beat with her boot heel. "Let’s give it another shot—Michael, remember the syncopation in the second section."

"Got it," Mike replies, adjusting his guitar strap.

The three launch into the song, fingers flying over strings in perfect harmony. Their music fills the room, drawing curious glances from crew members.

Suddenly, Micky appears from around the corner, eyes wide. "Hey! That sounds incredible! Can I join?"

Mona and Peter exchange a glance.

"Micky, it’s a trio," Mona starts, laughing. "It was written that way."

"Aw, c’mon! I’ll find a part. I can add a drum beat or somethin’. It’ll be groovy!" Micky grabs a pair of drumsticks from a prop table.

Peter grins. "Let him try. What’s the worst that could happen?"

Mike groans. "Famous last words."

They begin again. Micky bangs on a random surface, missing beats entirely. He tries harmonizing, but his timing is off. Mona stumbles, laughing. Peter doubles over his guitar. Mike throws his head back, laughing.

"Micky, you’re killin’ us!" Mike gasps.

"Hey! I’m adding some flair!" Micky protests.

"More like adding chaos," Mona teases.

The set erupts with laughter. Bob Rafelson steps out of his office, surveying the scene with a raised eyebrow.

"Jensen! What’s going on here?"

Mona composes herself. "Just a little music between scenes, Bob."

Bob shakes his head but smirks. "Keep it down. And Dolenz—stick to your drums when we’re rolling."

"Yes, Bob!" Micky salutes with a grin.

As Bob walks away, Mona turns to the group. "Alright. One more time. Micky—no flair this time."

"No promises!" Micky winks.

The music starts again. Micky holds back—mostly. The trio finds their rhythm, laughter blending with the melody.

"Home sweet chaos," Mona murmurs once more.

And this time, it feels exactly right.

Later that evening, after the laughter and chaos at the studio, Mike and Mona settle into their apartment. The sun dips low, casting a warm glow through the sheer curtains. The clutter of coffee mugs and music manuscripts from earlier still litters the living room table. Mike sprawls on the couch, guitar in hand, plucking absentmindedly at the strings. Mona sits cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a real estate catalog.

Mike glances at her with a smirk. “Whatcha lookin’ at so hard, Evil Witchy Woman?”

Mona lifts the catalog, giving him a knowing look. “Houses. Figured we could use more space, especially after today. Can’t exactly fit all that chaos in here forever.”

Mike leans back, resting his guitar on his lap. “You thinkin’ of ditchin’ this place?”

Mona shrugs. “Not yet. But once we get paid? We’re house hunting.”

Mike grins, running his fingers through his hair. “Mmm, house huntin’. That sounds real domestic, New England.”

Mona smirks. “Well, you better get used to it, Texas. I’m not about to live out my days in a two-bedroom apartment with Susie lurking around.”

As if on cue, Susie’s voice echoes from the hallway. “I heard that!”

Mike and Mona laugh. Mike sets his guitar aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Serious, though. You really wanna find a house?”

Mona closes the catalog and meets his gaze. “Yeah. Once the checks start coming in. We’ve both earned it.”

Mike watches her for a moment, his grin softening. “You ain’t wrong about that.”

Mona nudges his knee with her foot. “We’ll find a place with a porch. Big enough for jam sessions. Maybe a little garden.”

“Porch, huh? So I can watch the sunset with my Evil Witchy Woman every evenin’?”

Mona laughs, stretching her legs out. “Exactly.”

Mike leans back, folding his hands behind his head. “Long as there’s room for my guitar collection and your banjo obsession, I’m in.”

“Deal,” Mona says, her smile softening.

The room falls quiet for a moment. The hum of Los Angeles traffic drifts in from the street. Mike picks up his guitar again, strumming a slow, thoughtful tune. Mona leans back on her hands, eyes half-closed, listening.

“We’ll get there,” Mike says, breaking the silence. “Soon as the money rolls in.”

Mona smiles. “Yeah. Soon.”

Mike strums a few more chords before glancing at her with a mischievous grin. “So… you think Susie’ll help pack when we move, or will she pretend to break a nail?”

From the hallway, Susie yells again, “I HEARD THAT TOO!”

Mike and Mona dissolve into laughter, the sound filling the small apartment. The future might be uncertain, but one thing’s clear: they’re ready for whatever comes next—together.

Chapter Text

Head Music Supervisor Don Kirshner picks up the phone and dials the number to one of his favorite record producers. He puts the phone on speaker.

"Hey, Snuffy! It's me, Don."

Snuffy gives Don a terse greeting in a gruff Texas drawl, "Hello, Don."

"Hey, I got this hot new group I want you to produce. They're going to be on TV."

"Don, I can't..."

Kirshner just barrels through, ignoring the Texan's objection, "Snuff, I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"Donnie, I wish I could, but I've got several other projects goin' right now. How 'bout another time, okay?"

"Aww, Snuff. It's just for a few weeks. I want you to get 'em while they're still hot. You'll love them, I promise."

"Who are they?"

"They're this young bunch of kids called The Monkees."

"The Monkeys? Like the animal?"

"Yes, but with two 'e's at the end."

"Oh, MonkEEs."

"Yes."

"Nope. Not interested. I ain't got time. I'm much too busy at the moment. I'm sure a man like you with your connections can find some other hotshot producer. I'm out." Snuffy hangs up the phone before Don can continue begging. Undeterred, Don rings Snuffy again.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Snuff! So, you'll do it?"

"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, Don! Do you ever let up?"

"Come on, Snuffy! It'll be fun. You and the boys will get along just fine. I'll pay you top dollar. I'll even give you an exclusive producing contract. What do you say?"

"Okay, you've twisted my arm. However, if anything goes wrong, I'm out."

"Deal. My secretary will get back to you with the details. Oh and Snuffy,..."

"Yeah, Don?"

"Watch out for the Nesmith boy. He's a bit of a prima donna, if you know what I mean."

"I'll put him in his place if he gets too uppity."

"Great. See you next week." Don hangs up the phone and buzzes the intercom to Mona's office.

"Jensen, will you type up a record producing contract for Snuff Garrett to sign when he gets here?"

"Who the hell do you think I am, Don? Your secretary? And it's Mona to you."

"You mean you're not the secretary?"

"No, Don. I'm not the fucking secretary. I'm the goddamned production assistant. I run the logistics for the show and tour. You run the recording studio logistics. If one of your people needs arrangements, you make them your fucking self."

"Then find me a secretary."

"Go ask Bob yourself. I ain't your servant."

Don marches into Bob's office and bellows, "Bob, what good is Jensen if she won't do my clerical work?"

"Excuse me?" Bob asks, irritated at Don's gross display of disrespect for his production assistant.

"Isn't Jensen our secretary?"

Bob's voice steadily lowers at Kirshner's blatant disregard for Mona's position, "Our secretary? She's no one's secretary. She's my associate producer and assistant tour manager. And she's Stu's co-arranger for background and segway music. But secretary, she's not. And don't you fucking forget it! Capiche?"

"Then, I need a secretary. I need her to type up a contract for one of my producers."

"Then hire one your damn self with your budget. And until that time, type up your own goddamn contracts."

Don storms back into his office and picks up the phone to his secretary in New York.

"Hello, Mary. It's me, Don. I need you to type up a contract for Snuff Garrett and have it sent here overnight express."

"The usual terms, sir?"

"Yes, plus ten percent. Then call him with the details."

"I'll get right on it, Mr. Kirshner."

"Thanks, doll." Don hangs up the phone and thinks to himself, Why can't it be that easy here in California?

Monday morning's production meeting includes an unusual attendee, Don Kirshner. He usually prefers to hold his meetings separately from the production meetings, but Bob thinks that's a stupid waste of valuable production time. From now on, Donnie's agenda is just another section of the production schedule.

"Well boys, I have a surprise for you!" Don announces like a father rewarding his children.

"What's that?" Micky asks excitedly.

"Tonight at seven, you boys are going into the recording studio for the first time."

"Tonight?" questions Davy, "But we haven't rehearsed today. We're not ready yet."

"Hey now, hold your newt there for just a sec!" exclaims Mike, "We've rehearsed a few of my songs. We could do 'Some of Shelly's Blues' or 'You Just May Be The One.'

Peter pipes in, "Yeah. We could sing those. I think we're ready to record them."

Don narrows his eyes and breathes deeply before replying, "Sorry, boys. We won't be needing those songs tonight. You'll be doing a great song by one of my favorite New York songwriting teams, Gerry Goffin and Carole King. I think it's called 'Giant Step.'"

All four boys look at Don with disappointed faces. He may as well have cancelled Christmas.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, boys. Maybe you can record those other songs some other time. Oh and by the way, my good friend Snuff Garrett will be producing you."

"What about Boyce and Hart?" Peter asks.

"What about them? They're still here. For now."

Bob motions that the meeting's over, and everyone files out of the room. Mike corners Don and asks him point-blank, "What about me producing?"

"You?" Don asks, almost hissing the word.

"Yeah, me."

"Well, if all goes well with Snuffy, then we won't need you. But if Snuffy bails, I'll give you a shot."

"Thanks." Mike runs out of the room with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. Don smiles a wry smile and slithers into his office. He has no intention of giving the arrogant young Texan a shot at anything.

Micky sees Mike coming out of the meeting room and pulls him aside. He whispers into the Texan's ear, "Meet me in my dressing room."

"Okay," Mike whispers back.

Mike casually walks to Micky's dressing room and knocks on the door. Davy carefully opens the door and pulls Mike inside. Mike's barely through the threshold when Micky slips through at the same time. Mona laughs at the spectacle.

Micky stage whispers, "Guys and gal, I have a brilliant plan for tonight."

"We don't show up?" asks Davy.

"No, that's not it," replies Micky.

"Then what is it?"

"We act like fools."

"That's not a plan," criticizes Mike.

"Yeah, that's a normal day," adds Peter, who then smiles at his own half-joke.

"Micky's right," declares Mona, "Look, I overheard this Snuffy guy tell Donnie that if this session goes south, then he'll split. All you guys have to do is make Snuffy's job impossible, and then he'll be off the project."

"Will we get our own session?" Mike asks.

Mona answers, "It's no guarantee. From what I've gathered so far, Donnie talks out of both sides of his mouth. There's no telling what promises he'll make or break. But all I know is, this Snuffy guy doesn't sound like a good fit."

"Have you recorded with him before?" asks Peter, hopeful that she had.

"Yeah, once. It wasn't fun. He loves ordering people around. If he likes you, he'll joke around with you. If he doesn't, he'll order you around like a drill sergeant. But that's not all. Snuff isn't thrilled about doing this thing in the first place. Don's cajoled him into doing it. He's going into this with reticence and a bad attitude."

"Then this should be a piece of cake," suggests Micky.

"With any luck, then yes."

They all leave Micky's dressing room at staggered intervals, so as not to arouse any suspicion.

The recording session starts out on the wrong foot. Mike and Micky arrive late because they decided that a detour to Mike's frodis dealer was a wise decision to make. And of course, they sampled some of their stash on their way to the studio. The boys come through the recording room door and get confronted by a cranky Texan with crossed arms and a stern look on his face.

"Y'all must be Michael and Micky."

"We are," they both answer in unison.

"Great. I'm Snuff Garrett and I'm your new record producer. Next time, don't be late."

"See... we...uh...," Micky stammers.

"We...uh... had an errand to run." Mike laughs and then continues, "We had to pick something up... from a friend..."

"I don't give a shit what you had to do. Y'all are on my time now."

Mike and Micky back away from Snuff and walk over to Davy and Peter.

"Alright, y'all. You're singin' a tune called 'Take A Giant Step.'"

All four line up side-by-side with their arms around each other and take a giant step forward. Snuff shakes his head in dismay.

"No, boys. I didn't say to take a giant step. That's the name of the song."

"Aww, Snuffy. Can't you take a joke?" Micky asks in a kid voice.

"Look, I'm not here to screw around. I'm here to make a record. Okay you, the smart alec with the curly hair, stand here." Snuff points to a microphone in the middle of the recording room. Micky walks over to it. Snuff continues, "Okay, I want the tall one to stand here." Snuff points to the microphone across from Micky. "I want the little one next to the curly haired one and the blond one next to the tall one." He hands the boys copies of the lead sheet for "Take A Giant Step."

The boys start making funny faces at each other and Mike laughs like a hyena. Snuff looks up at the ceiling and prays to himself, Lord, please don't make me kill these brats. He heads to the control room. Once there, he announces over the PA system, "We're going to take this from the top. Shotgun, you sing lead first. The others sing backing."

"Who me?" asks Mike.

"Yes, you."

"Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Oh, boy!" Mike claps and cheers.

"'Giant Step' Take 1. Rolling."

Mike starts singing. He barely gets through the first verse when Snuff comes over the PA and cuts him off, "Cut. That sounds horrible! I can't continue. You're too nasal. You sound like a drunken cowboy with a head cold. Blondie, your turn! 'Giant Step' Take 2. Rolling." Mike balls his fists and fire flashes in his eyes.

Peter sings lead and doesn't get as far as Mike did. Snuff cuts him off, "Cut! That's even worse than the tall one. Blondie, you're okay on backing but tone-deaf when singing lead. Curly, you're next. 'Giant Step' Take 3. Rolling." Peter's eyes well up, but he manages to keep his composure.

Micky and the boys do a decent job, but Snuff's still not happy. "Boys, that was fair to middlin', but maybe you'll do better next time. This time, I want Shorty to sing lead and the rest to sing backing. 'Giant Step' Take 4. Rolling."

Davy sings lead and Snuffy manages to crack a smile for the first time that session. "Shorty, you have a great set of pipes."

"Thanks, but me name's David."

"Okay, whatever. You're the lead singer now."

"Me? No way, mate! Surely there's some other test. Micky's a much better singer than I am. Didn't you see my interview? I make a terrible sound!"

Peter and Mike pipe up, "Yeah! We want another shot!"

Micky adds, "Man, I was just getting warmed up. Let's go again. Surely, you can't pick the lead singer that fast."

"Wanna bet?" asks Snuffy, irritated at the boys' insubordination. He continues, "Okay, I'll play your game. We'll do a little sing-off. Y'all will each sing through 'Giant Step' without interruption. I'll pick the best one. Okay?"

Mike argues, "Hey, now wait a minute, why don't we try one of the new songs we've been rehearsin'? Surely, we'd sound better singin' somethin' we know."

"Yeah!" the other three chime in.

"No can do, Shotgun. Mr. Kirshner wants this song here, and no others. Besides, he warned me that you'd try to weasel your way to sing one of your songs. Now let's try 'Giant Step' again. Shotgun, you go first again. This time, try not to sound so nasal. Open your throat a bit more when you sing. 'Giant Step' Take 5. Rolling."

Mike sings again, incorporating Snuff's advice. Unfortunately, Snuff still doesn't like it. "Shotgun, that was better, but it still sounds too nasal. Next, I want Blondie to sing. 'Giant Step' Take 6. Rolling."

Peter sings. It takes every ounce of self control for Snuff to let Peter finish the song. His second take is worse than the first. "Blondie, I hate to break it to you, but that take stank more than the first one. You sound like a constipated bullfrog struggling to take a dump. You're out on lead."

Peter barely whispers, "Yes, sir." He swallows back tears.

"Okay, Curly. You're up next. 'Giant Step' Take 7. Rolling."

Micky belts out this take and gives it his all. Snuff's quite impressed. "Curly, that was much better than your first take. You're giving Shorty here a run for his money. Shorty, you're up. 'Giant Step' Take 8."

Davy sings his take. This one's not much different from his previous attempt, but Snuff really likes it. "Shorty, that was great. You're solid and consistent. My choice stands firm. You're the new lead singer. Besides, the girls go after the guy out front."

"Right. The girls..." Davy mumbles to himself.

Pandemonium breaks out. The guys start venting their frustrations all at once. Peter keeps stating his desire to work with Boyce and Hart. Mike keeps muttering about how no one's ever said he sounded nasal until Donnie came on the scene, and how it's not fair that they're being judged based on a song they've never sung before. Davy keeps raging about singing lead, and Micky just keeps wondering what was wrong with his takes. After a few minutes, cooler heads prevail. Mike gathers the guys in a circle. "Hey, guys! We gotta let this cat know he's made the wrong decision."

"How will we do that?" asks Peter.

"Yeah, Snide. How will we do that? He's pretty hung-up on me singing lead," Davy states.

"We're all pretty pissed off right now. I think it's best if Mick tells Snuff how we all feel."

"Me‽ Why me?" Micky protests.

"Because you're the diplomatic one, mate," Davy reasons.

Micky sighs. "Okay, guys. I'll do it. I'll just tell Snuff that it isn't working out. I'm sure he'll understand."

The other three pat Micky on the shoulders. He heads towards the control room and knocks on the door.

"Come in."

"Hey, Snuff."

"Yes, Curly."

"Hey, my name's Micky."

"Okay, Micky. What do you want?"

"I just came to tell you that me and the guys don't think this'll work out. We'd rather work with Boyce and Hart."

"Y'all don't think this'll work out? What the hell do you mean by that? I have a contract that says that this will work out. And y'all don't have any say in that."

"Right. A contract. Well, sorry to bother you." Micky turns and walks back into the recording room.

Mike asks Micky, "So, how'd it go?"

"How'd what go? He just said something about a contract. Look, I'm sorry I let you guys down. But Mona was right. None of us like this guy. Unless he's hiding his true intentions from us, I think we're stuck with him."

"Hey, y'all meet me at my house. I have a plan, but we can't discuss it here."

"Now?" the three other guys ask in unison.

"Yes, now."

"Okay," the three answer back.

All four guys casually depart the recording room and head over to Mike's house for a meeting.

"I know there's something very strange happenin' to my brain..." The doorbell rings, rousing Mona from her bedroom. She grabs her silk bathrobe and mutters to herself, "Who the hell is at my door at this hour?" She opens the front door. "Micky, Peter, Davy. Where's Michael?"

"I'm right behind."

"What the hell are y'all doing here this late?"

"Well, I live here."

"Besides you." Mona kisses Mike on the neck.

"I invited the guys over for an emergency meeting."

"Emergency meeting‽"

"Yeah. The recording session was a disaster."

"Did y'all's plan work?"

Micky answers, "That's the problem. We don't know."

"Y'all don't know?"

"See, Snuff didn't storm out or tell us he was finished working with us. He just declared Midget the lead singer and basically told the rest of us that we suck at singing."

"He declared you lead?" Mona asks Davy.

"Yes. And he was an arse to Snide and Petah."

"He was an asshole? How so?"

Mike states, "He told me I was 'too nasal' and I sounded like a drunken cowboy. Not even my high school choir teacher ever said anything like that to me before."

"Too nasal? What the hell was he even talking about?"

"Beats the heck out of me."

"What did he say about Peter?"

Peter states, "He told me that I'm 'tone-deaf' and sounded like a bullfrog."

"Oh, Peter. I'm sorry to hear that." Mona gives Peter a reassuring hug.

"What else did he say or do?"

"He gave me backhanded compliments," states Micky, "And he told me that he was under contract. That's why we don't know if our plan worked."

"Contract... Ah, yes. I remember Donnie demanding that I type him up a contract for Snuff to sign. Sneaky bastard."

"So, are we screwed?"

"I don't know. Like I said before, I've only worked with the guy once and I overheard Donnie's conversation when he was trying to set this thing up. Donnie's the type who will promise anything just to get his way. Who knows how solid this contract really is? I'm sure I'll have ten people at my desk telling me all about tonight's session and how I need to smooth everything over and appease the aggrieved parties. You know, a typical Tuesday."

"So Michael, what's your plan?" Peter asks.

"My plan was to come here and talk about what happened with my wife. I don't have anything else." Everyone glares at Mike. He smiles nervously.

Mona interjects, "Seriously guys, there's nothing else you can do. The ball's in Snuff's court. It's up to him to decide whether or not he'll continue producing y'all."

Snuff Garrett storms into Don Kirshner's office, fuming about last night's failed recording session.

"Don, I can't deal with these kids."

"Sit down and tell me what happened, Snuffy."

Snuff takes a seat in front of Don's desk.

"Look, I tried my hardest but they wouldn't cooperate."

"What do you mean by that?"

"They wouldn't accept my suggestions, and then they went beserko when I told them that the little one was going to sing lead."

"Well, I'll have to have a little chat with them."

"You better do something because frankly, I don't give a shit what they want. I'm in charge and that's that."

"Let's go see Bob. Maybe he can help us reason with the boys."

Snuff and Don walk into Bob's office, where he and Mona were just discussing the previous night's events.

Bob starts, "Don, Snuffy, so nice for you two to join us. Jensen and I were just discussing the boys' recording session. So Snuffy, how did it go?"

"Rafelson, I don't know how you get those boys to work, but that was the last thing they wanted to do for me."

"It was that bad, huh?"

"They can't sing. I'm sure they can't play, either. I really don't care if they can act. As far as I'm concerned, they're just a bunch of talentless kids." Snuff's words hit Mona like a quiver of arrows.

She manages to spit out, "Look Snuffy, I'm sure what you saw was just an 'off night.' I've heard them sing and play, and they're quite good."

Bob suggests, "Yeah, Snuff. I bet it was a one-off thing. You, Don, and Jensen can go work something out." At that, Mona rises from her chair, and the others, sans Bob, follow her into her office.

Snuff cuts to the chase, "Look Ms. Jensen, I don't know what you can offer me that Donnie hasn't already tried to offer. I've made up my mind. I didn't even want this stupid project in the first place. I have many talented bands who appreciate my services. I don't have time to waste on no-talent hacks pretendin' to be rock stars. You can cut me a check or rip up the contract. I don't give a shit which you choose."

"Mr. Garrett, I can't cut you a check or rip up your contract. That's up to Mr. Moelis, the record label's general counsel, and Mr. Kirshner."

"Then, why am I here?"

"Because it's my job to settle disputes between the warring factions around here."

"So if I stay on, then the boys will have to do whatever I tell them to do. It states in my contract that I have full control over their musical output."

"There's your problem, right there."

"What do you mean?"

"You're going about this the wrong way."

"How so?"

"You're acting like a dictator or a drill sergeant. You won't get anywhere with these boys if you act that way towards them. When you push them like that, they'll push back harder."

Snuff just looks at Mona, dumbfounded.

Mona continues, "Remember when you asked Bob how he got the boys to work?"

"Yeah."

"The answer is simple: You give them a bit of freedom to be themselves. They're silly. They're comedians. Let them joke around a bit. Joke with them. Above all, get to know them both as individuals and as a group. You can't go in there like you're an invading general. Otherwise, they'll defend their fortress. They'll band together and fight against you."

"But I'm the one who's in charge."

"They know that. They're not stupid. My hus... Er... Michael has produced and cut records before. He did it before he was a Monkee. David also cut a record before he became a Monkee. Micky may have also cut a single or two prior to the show. My point is that they'll respect you, if you respect them. You don't have to give into their every demand, but you have to give them a bit of wiggle room."

"Look Ms. Jensen, I appreciate the advice, but I think it's best for all of us to just cut ties and be done."

"As you wish. Don, you and Mr. Moelis should see to it that Mr. Garrett is compensated for his time."

"Yes, of course. Snuffy, I'll meet you in my office." Snuff and Don walk into Don's office.

Don picks up the phone and dials Herb Moelis's office. He places the phone on speaker. Moelis's secretary picks up.

"Herb Moelis, please. It's urgent."

"Who may I say is calling?"

"Don Kirshner."

"Yes. Mr. Kirshner, I'll connect you right away." The secretary connects Kirshner with Moelis.

"Herb, this is Don."

"Yes, Don. What do you need?"

"We need to settle a contract with Mr. Snuff Garrett."

"For how much?"

"Seventy-five."

"I'll cut a check and deliver it myself."

"Thank you." Kirshner hangs up the phone. "Well Snuffy, you're seventy-five thousand dollars richer today."

"Not bad for one day of work." Both men laugh.

A few hours later, the guys walk into Mona's office. She checks the intercom buttons to make sure no one can hear anything said.

"Well guys, I have some good news for ya."

"What's that?" they all ask in unison.

"I don't think y'all will ever work with Snuff Garrett again. He and Donnie severed their contract."

The guys erupt in cheers.

"Shhh! Keep it down. These walls ain't made of lead."

"So who's gonna produce us now?" Mike inquires.

"Let's all head into Bob's office. He's got the details." Mona rises from her desk and they all bundle into Bob's office.

"Hey Bob, do you want to share the news or do you want me to do it?"

"I'll give you the honor, Jensen. I think you deserve it."

"Okay, so to answer the producer question: Boyce and Hart will produce all of your tracks, except Michael's. Michael, you get to produce your own tracks. Unfortunately, Donnie's bullshit terms still apply. You still can't play on the tracks you produce."

"But, Bob!" Michael protests.

"Hey Snide, I had to wheel and deal just to get that. Unless we get rid of Donnie, the rule stays. I know it's bullshit, but that's the price we must pay."

"How about we just get rid of Donnie?"

"Yeah!" the others shout.

"Sorry kids, no can do. That's not my decision to make. Look, I know he's difficult, but right now we need his services and his connections. You guys are too busy working on the show to also produce the amount of music that we need. Until we can cut down production time, we still need him. Capiche?"

Mike nods his head and replies, "Understood."

"Oh by the way Michael, you have a session tonight. You're working on backing tracks to "The Kind Of Girl I Could Love," "I Don't Think You Know Me," and "All The King's Horses."

"Groovy!"

"All right guys, that's a wrap. Back to work."

The guys and Mona leave Bob's office.

"Hey Jensen, come here for a minute, will ya?"

"Yes, Bob."

"Thank you. You did a great job handling the Snuff Garrett snafu."

"You're welcome. I know my boys and I know Snuffy's an ass. I knew this was going to blow up as soon as I heard Snuffy's name."

"Don't tell me you've played for him too."

"Yep."

"Who haven't you played with?"

Mona laughs. "You know, my husband asks me that very same question." Mona exits Bob's office.

Mona has just sat down at her desk when Mike storms in angrily.

"This is BS," he growls.

Startled, Mona cries out "Whoa! What's BS?"

"The 'music.' And that session. And Donnie's stupid embargo."

"Oh. That. What else happened at that session with Snuff?" she asks curiously.

Mike ignores her question and paces back and forth while exclaiming, "It's all dishonest. It's not us playin'. It's barely us singin', an' we...uh... can't even sing our own damn songs."

"Well, that's a bummer. I thought they were going to use your songs."

"So, did I. At least that's what... uh... Bob told me when I first signed onto this thing."

"Did you get that in writing?"

"No. I didn't think of it at the time. I figgered a man's word was enough."

Incredulous, Mona asks, "In this town?"

Disappointed with himself, Mike's voice trails off, "Yeah… Well, apparently not…"

"That was a naïve move on your part, but it's a little late now."

"Yeah, no shit."

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

"I dunno yet, but I'll think of somethin'. I got that session tonight."

"Don't do anything crazy," Mona warns Mike.

He snaps back, "What's that s'posed to mean?"

"I know you, and I don't want either of us to lose this gig."

"Look, I don't either." Mike takes a deep breath and his voice cracks as he swallows back tears, "But do you know how... uh... demoralizin’ it is to a musician when you... uh... tell him that he can't play on his own goddamn song? The system is fucked up. An' I'm not goin’ to compromise my...uh... integrity for anyone. I didn't sell my soul when I signed on that dotted line. Uh, at least I don't think I did…"

"I dig that. Do the other guys know you're this upset?"

"Yeah."

"And what do they think?"

"Pete agrees with me."

"I figured that. Like you, he's a musician first. What about the others?"

"Mick an' David just told me that's show business an’ to suck it up."

"Well, they are actors first. They've seen the shadier side of this business."

Mike furrows his brow and demands accusingly, "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Hey, I'm not the enemy here." Mona places her arms around Mike's thin frame and pulls him close. His face softens as she looks up into his deep brown eyes, swiping his black hair out of his face, and reassures him, "Babe, I'm on your side. I can see where they're coming from is all I meant. From your reaction, I can see that their comments went over like a lead balloon."

A slight grin creeps across Mike's lips, "Your powers of perception continue to impress me, you Evil Witchy Woman, you." He kisses her on the forehead.

"Aww…" Mona looks up into Mike's face and smiles at him. He smiles back at her. Mona whispers into Mike's ear, "Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I don't like that Kirshner guy much, either. That smarmy SOB treats me like I'm his damn slave. But I stand up to that asshole. So does Bob. Bob may be a slavedriver, but he won't let anyone treat me like I'm their servant. Nevermind that when Kirshner first introduced himself, he started making demands. I thought he was going to start measuring the blinds."

Mike chuckles a bit and then asks, "He invaded your castle an' acted like he was there to take your job?"

Mona points her finger into Mike's chest, "Bingo." Mona kisses him on the lips.

"Do ya want me to pound him for ya?" Mike asks, half sarcastically.

"No. That won't solve anything. If anyone has to hit him, it'd have to be me. If you hit him, he'd just think that I couldn't fight my own battles. But violence isn't the answer...yet..."

Mike nods his head and kisses Mona. He exits Mona's office and heads to the recording studio.

The moment has arrived for Michael to prove to Donnie that he can produce a record that's every bit as good as anything produced by Kirshner's pets. Tonight's lineup includes many of the guys who Mona played with back when she was an active session player - LA's so-called "Wrecking Crew." In fact, Mike recognizes two of them right off the bat - Glen Campbell and Al Casey. Glen's a good friend of Mona and has known her since her very first studio session. And Mona bought most of her instruments from Al Casey's music store, including Michael's second-most prized instrument - his Fender pedal steel guitar.

Michael walks over and introduces himself to the Wrecking Crew, "Hello, I'm Mike Nesmith and I'll be at the controls tonight."

Glen speaks first, "Hi, Mike! Name's Glen. Nice to meet you." Glen firmly shakes Mike's hand. Glen continues, "Hey, you look familiar."

"Well, I'm on TV every Monday night," Mike sheepishly replies.

"Besides that. I think I've seen you around town. Don't mind me askin', but does your wife have red hair?"

"Uh, yeah. Her name's Mona."

"Mona Jensen?"

"Yep. That's her!" Mike beams.

"The Mona Jensen? The Fastest Fingers In The West?"

Mike nods his head.

"I ain't seen her in a while. How's she been? Tell her she ought to come by sometime. You're welcome to come along too."

"She's been busier than a hive of bees. Will do, thanks."

Mike walks over to Al Casey. They know each other from Al's store. Mona's not the only member of the Nesmith household who shops there.

"Hey, Al!"

"Mike, baby! How's it hangin'?"

"Fine, fine. Hey listen, would ya mind playin' regular guitar tonight?"

"Why? I was goin' to play steel."

"Well, I was wonderin' if I could give it a shot. I have this outtasite steel lick for one of my songs."

"Sure. It's groovy, man."

"Thanks, babe."

After the meet-and-greet, all of the musicians settle in. Michael is in his element and handles the session with patience and professionalism. He plays pedal steel on "The Kind Of Girl I Could Love," which is also the first time he has ever played pedal steel outside of his house. He sounds like he's been playing it for years rather than for just a few months. Afterwards, Michael and the rest of the Monkees stay behind for a debrief.

"Guys, please don't tell Donnie that I played tonight."

Micky reassures Mike, "Naw man, we won't tell your dirty secret, will we guys?"

"My lips are sealed," declares Peter.

"Midget?" Micky asks the Brit.

All three stare at the Mancunian. "Quit lookin' at me like that. No, I'm not goin' to say anythin' to Donnie."

Mike enters Don's office clutching the master tape from the previous night's recording session.

"What do you have there, kid?" Don asks the Texan.

"It's the master tape from last night's session."

"Why do you have it?"

"Because I want you to listen to the songs we recorded."

Don sighs, "Alright." He places the tape onto the reel-to-reel tape player and presses the play button. Mike watches at him intently, trying desperately to read his expression. Don stops the tape as soon as the last chord plays on "All The King's Horses." He removes the tape and hands it back to Mike as if it's a hot potato.

Mike eagerly asks Don, "So, what do ya think?"

"They're not the sound I'm looking for."

"Not the sound you're looking for? What do ya mean by that?"

"They're too country. Teenyboppers won't go for these songs. You're not a pop singer."

"Well, I coulda told ya that."

"Told me what?"

"That I'm not a pop singer."

"You know what I think you are?"

Mike swallows hard before asking, "What do you think I am?"

"I think you're a two-bit protest singer who can't write a hit song. You're all ego and no substance. You're just a cocky young kid who thinks he's a rock star because he plays one on TV. Well, I have news for you, kid. Me and my stable of hit makers will make you stars. You'll be nothing without me. So, just sit back and collect the checks and the rewards, and leave the music to the professionals."

Mike can't contain his anger. He shouts back, "Soon, I'll be famous in my own right and for my own music, you'll see. Mark my words, one day soon, you'll just be a bad memory, like your buddy Snuffy. We won't need you and your plastic song factory."

With that said, Michael storms out of Kirshner's office.

Chapter Text

"RRRR-III-NNN-GGG!"

"I'll git it!" yells Mike in a thick Texas drawl. He picks up the phone, "Hello?"

"Hi. Who's this?" replies the voice on the other end.

"It's your brother…" The voice interrupts the Texan.

"Where's Toppy? I need to speak with Toppy."

"Toppy?" asks Mike, confused.

"Yes. Toppy. Don't play dumb with me. You married her. You ought to KNOW that her name's Toppy."

"She goes by 'Mona' 'round here."

"Alright, whatever. Just put my sister on the line, will ya?"

Mike places his hand over the receiver in an attempt to muffle the microphone and yells out for Mona.

"Who is it?" asks Mona.

"It's that rude young'un."

"I ain't rude," retorts Lizzie, but no one hears her.

"Lizzie? What's she want?"

"Beats me. She wouldn't tell me nuthin'."

Mona grabs the receiver, "Hello?"

"Hi!" replies Lizzie. "I have a favor to ask you."

"What, no 'how are you?'"

"Fine. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking. Now, what sort of favor are you asking for?"

"Do you still have contacts through your hamburger job?"

"Yes… Why do you ask?"

"I want to meet either The Monkees or The Beatles."

"Well, the Fabs are out of the question. However, I know some people who know some other people who might be able to score a meet-and-greet with The Monkees." Mike waves his arms in protest, but Mona ignores him.

"Twitchin'!"

"But it will cost you…"

"ANYTHING!"

"You'll have to come out and visit sooner rather than later. Rumor has it that they'll be touring soon, and that will make a visit more difficult."

A few weeks later, Mona's younger sister Lizzie comes to visit her, Mike, and Susie in LA. Mona still has not told anyone in her family, including her parents, that "Mike The Monkee" and "Mona's Husband Mike" are the same person. Mike and Mona pick up Lizzie from Los Angeles International Airport (LAX). Lizzie immediately recognizes Mike from television, but wonders why he's with her sister. She tries hard to keep her mouth shut throughout the car ride, but eventually her curiosity gets the best of her. As soon as Mike gets close to the apartment complex, Lizzie starts quizzing him about the show.

"Hey Mike, aren't you the same Mike from TV?" she asks.

Mike looks at Mona like a deer caught in headlights and answers, "I have no idea what you're talkin' about."

Lizzie continues, "You know… That new TV show. The one where there's four cute guys in a band who live together…"

"Nope. Still no idea."

"Sure you do. They live in a beach house and go on crazy adventures together..."

"I still dunno what yer talkin' 'bout."

"Aw, come on. You're puttin' me on."

"Notta chance, Shotgun."

"Well, you look like the one tall guy who wears the green hat."

"Really?" Mike asks, trying hard not to sound like he's feigning surprise.

"Yeah, really. In fact, you look WAY more like TV Mike than you do that goofy looking dude my sister married."

It takes Mike every ounce of self-control not to cry out, "Hey, now hold your newt still for just a minute!" but he keeps his cool.

Sensing Mike's hurt and frustration, Mona flashes Lizzie a look. Just as Lizzie is about to continue her inquisition, "Last Train To Clarksville" comes on the radio. Mike and Mona start singing the words, "Take the last train to Clarksville and I'll meet you at the station…" Right after the song ends, they pull into the parking lot of their apartment complex.

"Aren't you going to stay for dinner, babe?" Mona asks Mike as they all clamor into the apartment.

"I was goin' to go jam with the guys. I have a groovy new tune I wanna show them."

"Okay. Cool beans," Mona replies and kisses Mike on the lips.

Lizzie reacts in disgust, "Gross. You two go get a room."

"Deal with it," retorts Mona. She kisses Mike more passionately this time.

Mike pulls away, kisses Mona on the forehead, and tells her, "I love you. I'll be by in the morning. Be ready by ten."

"I love you too, babe. We'll be ready by ten." Mona waves good-bye and lets Mike out the door.

Whenever Mona or Mike has guests over, and Susie isn't with her on-again-off-again boyfriend Johnny Ware, they give up their bedroom for their guests. Mike stays with Micky or Peter, and Mona shares a bedroom with Susie. This time, however, Susie and Ware are on their umpteenth "break," so Susie and Davy get back together. Mona gives Lizzie her and Mike's room, and Mona takes the living room futon. That morning, Lizzie gets up early and watches TV in the living room. Mona goes into her bedroom to catch a few more winks. Davy, forgetting there's a kid in the house, comes out butt naked and goes through the living room. Lizzie freaks out and shouts, "TOPPY! There's a short naked dude in the house!" Mona runs out of the bedroom to find Lizzie arguing with a naked Davy.

Davy remarks, "What's the matter, kid? Y'ain't seen a naked man before? And who the fuck is Toppy?"

Lizzie snidely replies, "That's my sister Ramona, dip-stick."

"Who's fuckin' Ramona?"

Lizzie hisses, "You mean my sister didn't tell you? Her real name is Ramona and our dad nicknamed her Toppy because of her flaming red hair."

To which Mona replies, "David, is that how you treat all girls?"

Agitated, Davy snorts, "Bloody hell, Mona... Don't be a bleedin' drag. I was just joking 'round."

Mona lowers her eyes at the naked Englishman and snarls, "Get out. NOW!"

"But what 'bout me clothes?"

"Fine. Get your clothes and get out of my house."

"Fine." Davy grabs his clothes, slams all of the doors, and storms out. In his rush to get out the door before Mona starts chasing him with a broom, Davy runs into Mike and warns him, "Don't go in there."

"Why not?" asks Mike, suspiciously.

"It's a fuckin' hornet nest in there."

Mike nods his head, unsure whether or not it's safe to enter his own home. Then he asks the Brit, "Uh, Davy, why aren't you wearin' any clothes?"

"Don't ask."

"Okay. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough."

"I'm sure you will," Davy squeaks. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get into me car and put some clothes on."

"By all means, do that. Don't let me stop you." Mike chuckles softly to himself and shakes his head at the absurdity of the situation. Davy peels out of the parking lot as soon as he finishes dressing.

Meanwhile, back inside the apartment Susie comes out of the bedroom and asks, "What the fuck was that all about and where's Davy?"

Mona replies, "I kicked that creep out of the house because he freaked out Lizzie."

"Well, damn..."

"You better keep him away from this house until Lizzie goes back home."

"Okay. But what about you and Mike?"

"SSHHH! Lizzie doesn't know about that..."

"I don't know about what?" Lizzie asks.

"NOTH-ING. You know about NOTH-ING."

"Your sister's balling Mike from the Monkees," Susie interjects, angrily.

Mona shoots Susie an icy stare.

"Hey, she found out about me and Davy, so it's only fair that she knows about you and Mike."

"She wouldn't have found out about you and Davy had he not come out of your room butt ass naked..."

"True, but I guess the cat's out of the bag now."

"EEWW! Mona, you went all the way with TV Mike?" accuses Lizzie. "Isn't he married too?"

Mona sighs, "Yes, he is. To me..."

"To you? Your goofy husband is the same dude who plays 'Mike The Monkee?'"

"Yes. He's the same guy."

"AHA! I knew it! I knew you two were lying. But why have you kept this a secret?"

"I kept the 'Monkee' part secret because of my own job on the show. This is why you must continue to keep our marriage a secret."

"What's your job got to do with it? I thought you were still flipping burgers while on skates."

"I'm an associate producer, which makes me an over-glorified ringmaster. However, the fewer people who know I'm married to a Monkee, the easier it is for me to command a little respect. Don't be a fink, okay?"

"Okay. Besides, no one at school would believe me, anyway."

"Now that that's taken care of, let's get going so we'll be ready to go when Mike gets here." No sooner than Mona utters those words, there's a knock at the door. Mona answers it.

"Mike! What are you doing here so early? You weren't supposed to be here until ten."

"Naw, I said for y'all to be ready by ten. Not that I'd be here at ten." He starts scrounging around the kitchen, looking for some breakfast.

Mona sees him spelunking and states the obvious, "I haven't even made breakfast yet."

Mike retorts, "Well, I can see that."

Mona flashes him a sarcastic look.

Mike continues, "Here, y'all get ready an' I'll whip us up some grub." He kisses Mona.

She replies, "Deal."

After breakfast, Mike, Mona, Susie, and Lizzie all pile into Mona's Buick and head to the studio. Today they're filming the episode "Monkee vs Machine." The guys aren't needed on set until noon, so Bob let Mona come in late. Mike and Susie report to Make-Up and Mona takes Lizzie into Bob's office.

"Hello, Bob! Meet my sister, Lizzie. Lizzie, this is my boss, Bob Rafelson."

"Hello, Mr. Rafelson."

"Hello, kid. Call me Bob."

"Okay, Bob." The way Lizzie says, "Okay, Bob" sounds just like Mona.

"So, Jensen..."

"Her name's Ramona..." Mona smacks her hand over Lizzie's mouth and smiles awkwardly at Bob.

"Sorry, Bob. She's a bit feisty this morning. Aren't you, Lizzie?"

A muffled "yes" comes out.

Mona screams, "OUCH! You bit me!"

"You were suffocating me!"

Bob interrupts Mona and Lizzie's sibling spat, "You two quit it. Jensen, what are you going to do with the kid?"

"I'd like to tie her up, but she may end up as a prop if I do."

"No, seriously. She can't be on the soundstage if she can't be quiet."

"I know, Bob. I was going to have her meet the guys before things get started."

"Fine. They're in make-up. We're having a meeting in an hour to discuss today's shoot. Don't be late."

"Okay, Bob."

Mona and Lizzie head over to the Make-Up Department where Susie's applying Peter's eyeliner.

Lizzie turns to Mona, "Eeww! They're wearing eye make-up?"

"Yes. Otherwise they'd look washed out on TV. The lights make everything brighter. Now come with me if you want to meet the rest of The Monkees."

"Will that Davy guy be here?"

"Uh, yeah. He's a Monkee too."

"Gross. He'd better have clothes on this time."

"I promise you, he will."

"Good."

Susie stops applying Peter's eyeliner and he greets Mona, "Hey, Mona!"

"Hey, Pete! I'd like you to meet my sister Lizzie. She's here from Connecticut."

"Groovy. Hi, Lizzie. I'm Peter and I'm also from Connecticut."

"Hi, Peter. I thought you were from Washington, DC."

"Well, I was born there but I grew up in Connecticut and that's where my family lives."

"Twitchin'."

Lizzie walks over to Micky. "Hi, I'm Lizzie, Ramona's sister." Lizzie holds out her hand. Micky shakes it.

"Hi! I'm Micky Dolenz."

"Uh, do you sing?"

"Yeah. We all do."

"Is that you on 'Last Train to Clarksville?'"

"Yes, that's me."

"AHA! Katie owes me ten bucks when I get home."

"You gamble too? I think I like you already."

Lizzie blushes. "Sometimes I do. See, I made a bet with my best friend that you sang 'Last Train.' See, she thinks it's my goofy brother-in-law... Er... Mike... who sings it."

Micky laughs. "Nope, it's not Mike. Tell her he sings 'Sweet Young Thing' and 'Papa Gene's Blues.'"

"He sings those songs?"

"Yes, indeed he does."

"Aww, shit... I just realized something. We're even now."

"Even?"

"Yeah. She bet me 10 bucks that Mona's married to 'Mike The Monkee.'"

Micky asks in a doubtful tone, "You didn't know that?"

"Nope. Not until yesterday," Lizzie continues rambling, "See, there's a wedding pic of them two near our TV and Katie recognized Mike. I thought she was crazy. I mean, if you've ever seen the pic, it don't look like the same dude at all. She's kinda hung-up for Mike. That's so weird to me."

Micky offers, "I've seen their wedding picture. He doesn't look goofy. He just looks young, that's all."

Just then, Mike stands up, looks at his watch, and then interrupts Micky and Lizzie, "Hey, I hate to bust up this party, but it's go-time."

Chapter Text

At Peter’s soirée, the night buzzes with neon lights, laughter, and the low hum of a live band—a backdrop promising both magic and mischief. The air crackles with energy, and the scent of frodis drifts lazily from a corner of the room.

Nurit Wilde moves with deliberate grace. Petite, blonde, and striking in her own unconventional way, she wields her camera like a weapon. But tonight, her focus narrows onto one subject: Mike Nesmith.

Mike stands near the bar, all Texan charm and lazy confidence. His easy drawl and towering frame draw attention, but none more intensely than from Nurit. With the determination of someone who always gets what she wants, she glides toward him.

“Michael,” she purrs, voice low, “a great photo captures more than a moment—it reveals truth. And I’d love to see yours through my lens.”

Mike’s smile remains polite but guarded. “That right? You got a way with words. But I’m a little preoccupied tonight.” His eyes flick briefly toward Mona, who is locked in a jam session with Peter and Chris Hillman.

Nurit edges closer, brushing her fingers against his arm. “Just you, me, and a camera. Doesn’t that sound more interesting than another jam session?”

Mike’s expression flickers—amused but cautious. “Tempting pitch, but I’m good where I am.”

Unfazed, Nurit raises her camera. Click. “Art doesn’t wait for convenience, Michael. Neither do I.”

Across the room, Mona’s laughter rings clear. Yet, her gaze drifts toward the bar, narrowing as she catches Nurit's proximity to Mike.

Minutes later, as Mike steps outside for air, Nurit seizes her chance. The patio glows under string lights, and Peter’s pool shimmers invitingly. With a glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching too closely, she catches Mike’s eye and lets a slow smile curl at her lips.

With deliberate slowness, Nurit begins unbuttoning her dress, each button undone with theatrical precision. Her gaze remains fixed on Mike, daring him to look away. The fabric slips from her shoulders and pools at her feet. She stands there a moment—silent, letting the air thicken with anticipation—before gliding into the water with a graceful dive.

The pool ripples as she emerges, water clinging to her skin, hair slicked back. She props her elbows on the pool's edge, chin resting on her hand, gaze smoldering.

“Oh, Michael,” she calls, voice teasing with an edge. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Care to join me?”

Mike stops short, brows lifting. His expression shifts between surprise and exasperation, but he doesn’t step forward.

“Seriously?” he asks, voice flat, though his posture tenses. Nurit's slow movements and lingering gaze challenge him in a way that’s hard to ignore.

“Come on.” Nurit’s smile deepens, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Just a little fun. No Mona. No cameras. Just you and me, here, under the stars.” She drags her fingers lazily along the water’s surface. "Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little temptation."

Mike exhales, shifting his weight, unreadable eyes flicking toward the house. Before he can respond, the patio door creaks open.

Mona’s silhouette appears at the doorway. Arms crossed, eyes sharp as glass. Her gaze moves from Mike to Nurit in the pool—and lingers there. The tension spikes.

“Michael? You comin’ back in?” Mona’s voice is calm but edged with steel. There’s no mistaking the challenge in her tone.

Nurit lifts her chin, water glistening against her skin. “Didn’t realize you’d be interrupting, Mona. We were just getting comfortable.”

Mike glances between them—Nurit’s languid pose in the water and Mona’s steady, piercing stare. His jaw tightens.

“No thanks,” Mike says after a beat, voice steady but low. “Pool’s not my scene tonight.”

Nurit’s smile falters, but only for a second. She leans back with a sigh, masking frustration with a smirk. So close. But her gaze lingers on Mona—calculating, unyielding. The game wasn’t over yet.

Inside Peter’s house, the door clicks shut with a finality that echoes the tension inside. Mona stands rigid, arms crossed, gaze blazing.

“Care to explain why you let that happen?” Her voice is low, each word clipped and cold, but there’s a tremble underneath—hurt masked by fury.

Mike exhales. “Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Mona steps forward, slow and deliberate. “She stripped down in front of you, Michael. And you just stood there.”

“She didn’t have a chance. You know that.”

Mona’s eyes flash. “Do I? Because from where I stood, it sure looked like you didn’t mind the attention.”

Mike closes the distance between them, voice tightening. “Watch it, New England.”

“Oh, I’m watchin’. Watching you not shut it down. Watching her think she had a shot.”

Her voice cracks for a split second, but she recovers fast, pressing a finger against his chest. “You let her think it. And I don’t appreciate cleaning up your mess.”

Mike grabs her wrist, not rough but firm. “There’s no mess, except the one you’re makin’ now.”

“Am I?” Mona breathes, face inches from his. Her voice dips into a whisper. “Maybe I should let her believe she’s got a chance. See how you handle that.”

Mike’s jaw tenses. “Careful, Mona.”

Mona lifts her chin defiantly. “You don’t own me.”

“I don’t have to. You always come back.”

The air between them crackles, sharp glances giving way to a deeper pull. Mike’s smirk returns—dangerous and slow.

“Jealous, darlin’?”

“I should be.” Mona’s voice drops to a whisper. “But I don’t share.”

Mike leans in, breath brushing her lips. “Prove it.”

A moment of stillness—charged, electric—before Mona grabs the front of his shirt and pushes him back against the wall. The thud is low, reverberating. Her eyes burn with defiance and desire.

“You want a show?” she murmurs, her voice low and daring. “Let’s give her one.”

Mike’s smirk deepens as Mona pushes him back against the wall again, harder this time, making sure the sound echoes. “Don’t hold back now, darlin’.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Mona breathes, her fingers trailing down his chest before gripping his shirt and pulling him close. Their lips meet in a kiss that’s far from tender—hot, unrelenting, the kind of kiss that made promises and kept threats. Mike’s hands slide to her waist, pulling her flush against him, fingers gripping with equal parts desire and defiance.

Mona’s hand tangles in his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl against her mouth. “Think she’s watchin’?” she whispers, teeth grazing his lower lip.

“Let her watch,” Mike growls back, voice rough. “Ain’t nothin’ she’s got that could touch this.”

Mona shoves him down onto the couch with a teasing laugh. “Good. I want her to see exactly what she can’t have.” She climbs onto his lap, straddling him with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that makes his breath hitch. Their mouths crash together again—wild, claiming, possessive.

Hands roam with purpose, fingers curling into fabric and tugging it loose. Mona’s dress slips off one shoulder; Mike’s shirt is half-untucked. The heat between them scorches hotter with every movement, every brush of skin. They break apart only long enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, eyes blazing.

“Still jealous, New England?” Mike rasps, voice dark and full of heat.

“Not even a little,” Mona smirks, trailing her lips along his jaw. “But I hope she’s burning.”

Laughter follows—breathless, wild. Hands roam, fingers curl into fabric, lips clash with reckless abandon. The fire between them, always burning, blazes brightest after a storm.

From her hidden vantage point outside the door, Nurit freezes. She had followed them, camera in hand, expecting shouts—maybe tears. But now? The sharp words had dissolved into something else entirely.

There were no accusations now—only the sounds of breathless laughter, low murmurs, and the distinct thud of bodies pressed too close. Nurit's pulse quickens. She creeps closer, the lens of her camera glinting as she tries to capture any flicker of movement through the crack in the door.

Mona's voice drifts through—smooth, commanding. “You want a show? Let’s give her one.”

A muffled growl from Mike follows, and then the unmistakable sounds of lips meeting with fierce determination. Nurit inhales sharply. She presses the shutter button. Click. Click. Click.

This is gold.

She imagines the headlines: Behind Closed Doors: The Truth About Mike Nesmith and His Mysterious Flame.

The sounds from inside grow more fevered—fabric rustling, a low moan muffled quickly, laughter that borders on wild. Nurit bites her lip, stunned. They’re putting on a performance. For me.

But the longer she listens, the more the performance blurs with something real, something primal. She shifts uncomfortably. Was it an act? Or had she stumbled onto something far more intimate than she was prepared for?

So that’s what this was about?

Nurit backs away slowly, heartbeat hammering in her ears. She turns, the night air cool against her flushed skin. Convinced she has uncovered the perfect scandal, she disappears into the shadows, missing the truth entirely.

When Mike and Mona reappear, they’re slightly disheveled—his collar askew, her hair tousled. Their expressions? Completely unbothered. Mona catches Nurit’s stare this time. With a slow, deliberate smirk, she brushes her fingers along Mike’s arm—possessive, final, daring.

Nurit’s grip on the camera tightens. The perfect story’s still waiting. And I’m going to write it.

But Nurit isn’t done. Later, as the crowd thins, she spots her final opportunity. Mike lingers alone near the patio, gazing out at the night. Nurit slips beside him, close enough that their arms almost touch.

“Michael,” she murmurs, voice soft, intimate. “Funny, you always seem to slip away when things get interesting.”

Mike glances at her, brow raised. “Didn’t realize I was part of the entertainment.”

Nurit smiles slowly. “You could be. If you wanted.”

She steps closer—too close—her fingers grazing his wrist as she leans in. “Just a moment,” she whispers. “No cameras. No Mona.”

Her face hovers inches from his, lips parting slightly. For a breathless second, it seems like the moment might tip in her favor.

But before anything can happen, a cool voice cuts through the air.

“Michael?”

Mona’s voice is calm, but the warning is unmistakable. She appears from the shadows, gaze locked on Nurit. In two confident strides, she’s at Mike’s side, sliding an arm through his with effortless possession.

“Am I interrupting something?” Mona asks, smile sharp.

Nurit steps back, smile faltering. “We were just talking.”

“Looked like more than talking.” Mona’s gaze doesn’t waver. “But you know how stories get twisted.”

Mike, ever calm, smirks. “Nothin’ worth twistin’ here.”

Mona leans in close, brushing her lips against Mike’s cheek—slow, deliberate. “Good. Because I don’t share.”

Nurit watches, jaw tight, as Mike and Mona disappear back into the house—laughing, close, untouchable.

So close. But once again, not close enough.

Chapter Text

The heat rises early. The klieg lights burn over the boys’ heads, and chaos hums beneath the studio floorboards. Cables snake across the soundstage like lazy copper vipers, and two grips are already cussing over a busted dolly wheel before the morning call sheet finishes curling on Mona Jensen Nesmith’s clipboard. She moves through the mess with a cigarette hanging from her lips and a stack of rewrites pressed to her chest. The turquoise trim of her Western shirt flashes every time she rounds a corner, shouting for someone or signs something else. She keeps walking when she sees Ann Moses step onto the lot.

Ann tugs the strap of her bag higher and keeps pace, notebook at the ready. “Morning, Mona.”

Mona tips her chin in acknowledgment. “You’re late. They already started the walk-through.”

Ann picks up speed. “I’m looking for Mike.”

“You and half the Western Hemisphere.”

That’s the only answer she gives before she vanishes into the rigging discussion over Set C.

Mike is already on the opposite side of Stage 7, arms crossed, scowling at the latest sight gag. He has his guitar slung across his shoulder, not because the script calls for it, but because he likes the weight of it there when he’s aggravated, and he often is. Ann finds him by the snack cart, answering something Peter says with a flat grunt.

“Hi, Mike. Got a minute?”

His gaze drags across her like an insult. “Doubt it.”

Undeterred, Ann opens her notebook. “I just have a couple of questions. Favorite food, favorite color, stuff like that. What the fans want to know.”

Mike shifts his weight. “You’re gonna start with that kinda bullshit? Those are the most blatantly stupid questions I’ve ever heard!”

Peter winces and excuses himself.

Ann stays planted. “You’re famous. It’s exactly the kind of thing they want to know.”

“I like the kind my wife bakes when y’all leave me the hell alone.”

Mona, halfway across the floor, doesn’t look up but her eyes narrow.

Ann presses on. “Okay. What about music? Who were your influences growing up?”

Mike scratches his jaw. “My wife.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

He glances toward the director, then back at her. “You don’t either.”

This time, Mona’s voice rings out from the soundboard. “Michael.”

Mike doesn’t turn. “What, Evil Witchy Woman?”

She flicks ash into a tray and glares from behind the smog of her own smoke. “I’m not the one who signed a contract with Tiger Beat.”

“I didn’t, either.”

She exhales. “You wanna tell that to Bert and Bob, or should I?”

Ann watches the exchange like a volleyball game. She follows him again after lunch, catching him between setups. He tries to disappear into the wings, but she keeps after him, trailing his footsteps down the hallway toward The Dungeon.

“I’m your journalist, not your lackey,” she mutters as he unlocks the door.

“No, but you’re the one with the notebook.”

He stops with his hand on the knob, looks her up and down like he’s sizing up a busted pickup. Then he swings the door open. “You want the real story?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Fine.” He leans against the frame. “I’m twenty-five. I got a wife and a crowded apartment full of musicians and a cat. I don’t have time for your teenybopper shit. But I tell you what. If you fuck me, I’ll do the interview.”

She neither slaps him nor cries. She turns and walks back to the set, heels clicking like hammers. Mona intercepts her halfway to wardrobe. “He said it, didn’t he?”

Ann’s face is red. “He’s disgusting.”

Mona doesn’t blink. “I told you he bites.”

Ann searches her eyes, some mix of fury and disbelief. “How can you let him get away with it?”

Mona lifts her clipboard again. “Bert and Bob knew what kind of asshole he was when they interviewed him.”

“I don’t get it. You put up with this every day?”

Mona shrugs. “I married him because he’s a bastard.”

Ann stands frozen. Mona steps around her, heels digging hard into the soundstage boards.

Mona slams the door behind her, rattling the foil-lined walls. The Christmas lights blink once, as if startled. Mike hasn’t even taken off his guitar.

“Strip,” she says.

Mike blinks. “Mona...”

“I said, strip. You think you can pull that shit in front of a reporter?”

His jaw tightens. He shrugs the guitar off first, then starts on the buttons of his shirt.

“Slower.”

He obeys. Each button comes loose under her glare, until he’s standing bare-chested, breathing heavier now. She crosses the room in three steps and pushes him into the chair.

“You’re gonna sit there and think about what it means to represent this show, this band, and me.”

“I wasn’t representin’ anybody. I was tellin’ the truth.”

“You offered to screw a reporter in exchange for not doing your job.”

He smirks. “Thought she might take the deal.”

She slaps him across the cheek. It lands sharp and controlled, a clean snap that knocks the smirk clean off. He doesn't move or speak. His jaw locks, his eyes stay on hers. She steps in, crowding him until he can’t look anywhere else. Her mouth stays set. Mona crouches in front of him, green eyes sharp. “You want to be a bastard? Be one with me. But you don’t pull that crap on people who can ruin us.”

His voice is quieter now, “You mad?”

She reaches for his belt. “Oh, I’m furious. And you’re gonna remember it every time you sit down today.”

She doesn’t give him time to speak or herself time to cool down. She grabs him by the collar and kisses him hard enough to bruise. It tastes like smoke. Her hand moves below his waistband, and he gasps.

“Eyes on me,” she says.

She rides him hard in the chair, one hand braced on his chest, the other gripping the armrest.

“Don’t move,” she says.

He tries to obey. The metal legs scrape once against the floor when he bucks too fast.

“Slow down.” Her hand slides from his chest to his throat. She stops short of squeezing it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes.

She tightens her hold on the chair and grinds down on him. The rhythm breaks once. She resets it.

“I said slow.”

“I’m tryin’, Mona.”

The room smells like smoke and sweat by the time he lets go. His fingers dig into the edge of the seat.

“Say it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For bein’ a bastard.”

She leans in and bites his shoulder. “And?”

His voice cracks. “And for runnin’ my mouth.”

She rides it through until he grits her name, low and hoarse, and holds it in his throat like penance. His shirt is wrinkled beyond saving. His mouth stays open, but he can’t make a sound.

She buttons her blouse one hole too high and reapplies her lipstick in the mirror. He’s still in the chair, head tilted back, watching her like she’s the only god he’s ever believed in.

“Get back to set,” she tells him.

He nods once and stays silent. He stands and fastens his belt with trembling fingers. Then he opens the door and slips out without a word. She counts fifteen seconds, and then follows. They don't speak again until the next set break. She finds him by the prop lockers, out of the way. His belt’s still crooked.

“You done makin’ me look like a goddamn sadist?” she asks.

Mike rubs the back of his neck. “She passed.”

Mona crosses her arms. “Passed what?”

“I was testin’ her. She’s been tryin’ to crack me since day one.”

“She’s a reporter. That’s her job.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t run cryin’. Didn’t tattle to Bob.”

Mona gives him a long look. “You want a medal or somethin’?”

He shakes his head. “Just sayin’. You were right. She’s tougher than she looks.”

An hour later, Mike slinks back to the main set, guitar still over his shoulder and head bowed now. His hair is mussed, his mouth is tight, and the faintest trace of red still creeps up his neck. He doesn’t look at Mona when he returns, and he certainly doesn’t look at Ann. Ann waits.

"Alright," he says at last. "Go ahead."

She flips her notebook open. "Favorite food?"

"My wife."

She doesn’t look up. “Favorite color?”

“Whatever she’s wearin’.”

“Favorite instrument?”

Mike shrugs. “Whichever one she screams loudest on.”

Ann frowns. “Mike, seriously…”

“I am. That’s what y’all wanted, right? Real answers.”

“Your wife is not a food group.”

“She is to me.”

Ann flips the page. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

Mike leans forward. “Make her forget what day it is.”

“That’s not appropriate.”

He nods. “Nope.”

“Favorite animal?”

“Depends what noise she makes.”

Mona turns her back to the interview and keeps directing camera placement, but her cigarette burns faster now. Her lipstick is slightly smeared. Her blouse is buttoned one hole too high.

Ann flips to the last page of her notes, hoping for neutral ground. "Can you tell me about the future chicken coop?"

Mike grins. "Sure. That’s where she’ll make me beg."

Mona exhales sharply through her nose but doesn’t turn around.

Ann drags her pencil down the margin. "Do you ever answer these seriously?"

"I am. Dead serious. That coop’s gonna see more action than our bed."

Ann sighs again, presses her pencil to her temple, and writes it down anyway. After all, that’s the story, isn’t it? The bastard who insults her, the wife who warns her, and the damn chicken coop she still doesn't understand.

“Dream vacation?”

“Anywhere she can scream and not get the cops called.”

“Favorite city you’ve visited so far?”

“Whichever one she made me late leavin’.”

“Favorite Beatles song?”

Mike smirks. “She likes ‘Drive My Car,’ so I guess I do too.”

“Favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Whatever melts on her skin.”

“Secret getaway spot?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.” He winks.

“Favorite make of car?”

“Anything with a back seat.”

Ann pinches the bridge of her nose. “Future plans?”

He finally shrugs. “Stick with her until she kills me.”

Ann jots that down, then glances over the top of her notebook. “Why do you think she hasn’t?”

Mike meets her gaze. “Too much paperwork.”

Ann watches him a moment longer. “Don’t you ever get tired of the act?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “What act?”

“The smart-ass routine. The deflection. You’re not that hard to read, Mike.”

“I ain’t tryna be hard to read. I just don’t feel like bein’ read.”

She flips to a fresh page. “Then give me something real. One thing. Anything.”

He shifts, scratches behind his ear. “Well… I… I overthink everything. That’s why I run my mouth. If I keep talkin’, I, uh, don’t gotta listen to the rest.”

She glances up. “To what?”

He shrugs. “To the part where I, uh, ain’t as smart as I think I am.”

Ann waits, pencil hovering. “Go on.”

He looks down at the floor, then back at her. “It ain’t just that. I, uh… I run my mouth ‘cause it buys me time. If I’m talkin’, I don’t gotta feel anything I don’t want to.”

“Like what?”

“Like bein’ wrong… or scared… or not good enough.”

Ann nods slowly, then sets the pencil down. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all day.”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t get used to it.”

Ann leans forward, pencil still in hand. “Do you really believe that? That you’re not good enough?”

He shrugs again, but it’s slower this time. “Sometimes. I don’t know. I get in my head, and then I get mad I’m in my head, and then I say somethin’ stupid before anyone else can.”

“Anyone else like who?”

He doesn’t answer at first. “Her. The guys. You.”

Ann studies him. “So, the bastard act is a shield?”

“It’s a spotlight. I figure if y’all are lookin’ at the worst parts, you won’t go diggin’ for the rest.”

Ann doesn't interrupt.

Mike shifts again. “Truth is, I been a bastard most of my life. Even when I was a little kid. Ask anybody who knew me back in Texas—they’ll tell you. Mouthy, mean, always actin’ like I had somethin’ to prove.”

Ann’s pencil moves slowly now.

“I didn’t know how else to be. Still don’t, most days.”

He looks down, scratches his temple. “I got lucky, though. Found a woman who puts up with it. Hell, sometimes she even finds it kinda hot.”

Ann perks up. “So, that explains a lot about your relationship with your wife.”

Mike huffs. “Yeah, well. She’s the only one who’s ever looked at the bastard side and said, ‘I’ll take it.’ Didn’t try to change it. Just… figured out how to live with it. Call me out when I need it. Laugh when I deserve it.”

Ann tilts her head. “That doesn’t sound easy.”

“It ain’t. But it’s real. And she’s real. That’s why it works.”

Ann presses her pencil to her lip. “She must be a saint at home.”

Mike scoffs, but there’s no bite in it. “Saint’s one word for it. Depends on the day.”

Ann raises an eyebrow.

He shifts his weight again, but doesn’t look away. “She don’t coddle me, if that’s what you’re imaginin’. She’ll go twelve rounds in a fight and still hand me coffee the next mornin’. She gets loud, I get mean, we both get sorry…then we get better.”

Ann’s pencil stills. “That sounds… intense.”

Mike lifts one shoulder. “So’s bein’ married to me.”

Ann flips a few pages back. “So, what’s it like working with her?”

Mike rubs the back of his neck. “Intimidatin’ sometimes. She knows what she’s doin’—more’n most of the guys in charge. Don’t matter if we’re fightin’ or flirtin’, she still gets the job done. Makes me look like I’m worth a damn, even when I’m not.”

Ann smiles faintly. “So, she keeps you in line?”

Mike grins. “Trys to. Fails half the time. But she’s the only one I’ll let try.”

Ann clicks her pen. “What do you think about being called ‘the difficult Monkee’?”

Mike smirks. “Ain’t wrong.” He scratches his chin, then exhales. “Look, I know I ain’t the easiest. I don’t play nice, I don’t sugarcoat, and I sure as hell don’t smile for the cameras if I don’t feel like it.”

Ann waits, watching him closely.

He shrugs. “But I show up. I write, I play, I fight like hell to make it good. If that makes me difficult, fine. Better that than a wind-up toy who don’t know his own mind.”

Ann clicks her pen again, slowly this time. “Where do you think that comes from? The part that needs to fight for everything?”

Mike doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works once. Then he sighs through his nose. “Probably comes from growin’ up poor, bein’ the weird kid, gettin’ kicked around for thinkin’ different. Had to learn early how to throw elbows just to stay upright.”

Ann’s voice softens. “So now you’re still throwing elbows?”

He nods. “Yeah. Only now it’s at people with cameras and contracts.”

She taps her pencil against the pad. “Does Mona ever get tired of it?”

Mike’s smile curls slowly and sharply. “She gets tired of me—but she’d miss the elbows.”

Ann studies his face. “Does she ever slap you?”

Mike snorts. “Only when I ask nice.”

Ann’s eyes go wide.

He tilts his head, smirking now. “You think she just yells at me? Nah. Mona’s got… methods.”

Ann lifts her eyebrows. “Methods, huh? It sounds like you enjoy her ‘methods.’”

Mike gets that dangerously playful look across his face, the one that never leads anywhere safe. His smirk deepens. “Let’s just say, I ain’t complainin’.”

Ann blinks. She has no idea where Mike is about to push this conversation.

He leans forward, voice low and thick. “You asked my favorite food earlier. Mona, fresh outta the shower, still wearin’ nothin’ but attitude and steam? That’s a full-course meal.”

Ann’s face turns red. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

Mike grins wider. “Oh, I know. But you asked. ‘Favorite place to unwind’? Her lap, if she’ll let me. 'Cause when she wraps her legs ‘round me and pulls my hair, I forget what planet I’m on.”

Ann flips a page, stammering. “I…I meant a vacation spot, not…”

“Yeah, yeah. That too. We go away sometimes. But her legs around my neck? That’s a getaway.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. “Do you… do you even care that this’ll go to print?”

He shrugs. “You’re still writin’, ain’t ya?”

She hesitates. “So that’s the trick? You just keep goin’ until someone backs down?”

Mike’s eyes glint. “Darlin’, I ain’t ever backed down from a challenge. You wanted honest? This is it. Welcome to the trap.”

Ann knows if she gives up, he still wins. So, she holds her ground. She tries to redirect. “Alright, then. Tell me about the Clarksville train trip. Word is some fans figured out you and Mona were a couple. They went feral.”

Mike laughs, a short, filthy sound. “Yeah, they lost their fuckin’ minds. One girl tried to rip my shirt open. Another screamed she was gonna kill Mona. Said if she couldn’t have me, no one could.”

Ann raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

Mike grins. “It was chaos. Mona had to haul one girl off me by the ponytail. I thought we were gonna get arrested. She kept sayin’ she was gonna fuck the Monkee outta me.”

Ann blinks. “Excuse me?”

“She screamed it, right there in the depot.”

Ann coughs into her pencil. “Did Mona slap her?”

Mike’s smirk deepens. “No, but she made damn sure the girl saw her kiss me after. Long and filthy. I couldn’t walk straight after.”

Ann eyes him warily. “Are you sure that was just from her kissing you?”

Mike chuckles shamelessly. “Hell no. She, uh, hauled me straight into the wardrobe trailer. Locked the damn door. We didn’t just kiss…we wrecked the place. Knocked over a rack of coats, sent buttons flyin’. I, uh, damn near split the seam of my pants. We were late to the fuckin’ shindig they threw before the train ride back to L.A. ‘Cause she wanted to remind me I was hers. Loudly.”

Ann scribbles that down, then remarks under her breath, “Mona sounds… possessive.”

Mike’s expression shifts. The smirk disappears. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says, Texas slow. "I call it loyalty. She calls it fun."

Ann blinks. "Fun?"

Mike leans back in his chair, the glint returning to his eyes. “Yeah, fun. I mean, she gets off on remindin’ me I’m hers. I get off on lettin’ her. We got our own rules, our own fire. Most folks couldn’t handle it, but she stokes it like she was born for it.”

Ann lifts her pencil again. "Rules?"

Mike chuckles. “Yeah. Rules like… I don’t get to lie to her. She don’t get to pretend I’m anyone but who I am. And if one of us breaks the rules, the other gets to make it hurt—how and when we want. We don’t do pretty. We do permanent.”

Ann nods and replies, "That sounds...painful."

Mike smirks, that dangerous glint still in his eye. “The pain’s the best part. Half the fun of bein’ an asshole is the punishment after I get caught. Hell, I’ll tattle on myself just to see Mona’s reaction. She’s so pretty when she’s pissed.”

Ann blinks twice, then rises slowly. “I’m, uh… gonna powder my nose.”

Mike pouts in mock disappointment. “Aw, just when we were gettin’ to the good part.”

Ann walks fast. She finds Mona near the costume racks, clipboard in hand. “He told me everything. If you want me to spin it, I will. I’ll burn the damn notebook if you want.”

Mona exhales through her nose. “Spin it. Then torch what’s left.”

Ann nods and walks off. She doesn’t get three steps before Mike sidles up to Mona with that shit-eating grin like a kid about to spill his Halloween stash.

“Well,” he says. “Guessin’ she had fun?”

Mona wheels around, fury already lit. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He flinches but grins harder. “I dunno. Just...thought I’d give her somethin’ memorable.”

“You practically humped the column B answers into her goddamn notebook.”

Mike shrugs. “She kept askin’. I figured, give the lady what she wants.”

Mona glares. “You think this is cute?”

He leans in, whispering. “She passed, remember? I was testin’ her.”

Mona narrows her eyes. “You’re cruisin’, Michael. Real slow. For a bruise.”

His grin only widens. That look—the one he gets when he’s full of testosterone and filth—spreads across his face like a dare. “Might be worth it,” he drawls. “Ain’t every day I get to rile both of ya.”

Mona growls under her breath. “You really want me to embarrass you in front of the grips?”

Mike winks. “You already did. Now I’m just enjoyin’ the aftershocks.”

Mona steps closer, lips barely parted, her glare sharp enough to cut through denim. “You’re playin’ with fire.”

Mike’s voice lowers, thick with bravado. “Maybe I like the burn.”

“You keep it up, you’re gonna find out just how much it scorches.”

He cocks his head, voice dripping with challenge. “Yeah? You gonna drag me back to The Dungeon again?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll do it in front of the whole damn crew.”

Mike chuckles. “Promise?”

Mona scoffs, shoving her clipboard hard against his chest. “Wipe that look off your face before I decide to show Ann exactly what those punishments look like.”

He catches the clipboard, biting back a laugh. “Now that’d make one hell of a centerfold.”

Mike’s grin doesn’t fade. He sidesteps just enough to crowd her space again, lowering his voice until only she can hear it, “You ain’t gonna do it in front of the crew,” he says. “You’ll wait till we’re alone. You’ll shut that door, lock it, and make me say every damn word back to you. On my knees.”

Mona’s eyes narrow, but her pulse kicks. “You think you know how this ends?”

He shifts the clipboard under one arm, just enough to let his fingers brush her waist. “I know how you like to finish it. Slow and mean, with me beggin’ you to stop and beggin’ you not to at the same time.”

She catches his wrist and twists just enough to make him hiss. “You are one sick son of a bitch.”

He doesn’t flinch. He leans closer, mouth nearly at her ear. “Yeah. But I’m yours.”

“You wanna test me?”

He grins. “Kinda hopin’ you’ll fail.”

She shoves his hand away and straightens the clipboard. “Five minutes. You’re gonna wish you never opened your mouth.”

Mike licks his bottom lip and steps back, deliberately loud. “Better make it three, darlin’. I’m already hard.”

She whirls on him, voice tight. “You so much as unzip anything before we’re in that dressing room, I’ll leave you hangin’ for a week.”

He moans theatrically. “Promises, promises.”

“Michael.”

He drops the act just long enough to murmur, “I live for it, Mona. Every glare, every threat. You punish like a goddamn artist.”

She closes the distance and smiles sweetly. “Then get your ass backstage before I start workin’ on my next masterpiece.”

He salutes with two fingers and spins on his heel, swagger sharp enough to slice through concrete. She counts fifteen seconds and then follows.

Once they’re in the Dungeon, his cockiness spikes. He closes the door behind her with the lazy finality of a man locking himself into his favorite game. His back hits the foil-lined door, arms crossed, smirk already set.

“Well,” he drawls, voice syrup slow. “What’s the verdict, Evil Witchy Woman? You gonna make me beg again?”

Mona advances without hesitation. She unclips the pen from her blouse and presses it flat against his chest.

“You get three minutes. No talking. No hands. If you so much as twitch before I say you can…”

“I’m dead meat. Got it,” he practically pants. “But can I watch?”

She cocks her head. “Not unless you earn it.”

“I’ll earn it. I’ll do anything. Just… just tell me what you want.”

She smiles sharply. “I want you silent. I want you sweating. And I want you to remember who you belong to every time you sit down today.”

His voice barely escapes. “Jesus.”

“Not even close.”

She drops to her knees.

She doesn’t move further—not yet. She hooks her fingers under his waistband, then pulls back. His breath catches and stays caught.

“Chair. Now.”

He doesn't speak, he moves. He drops into the chair as if it might detonate beneath him, legs spread, arms gripping the rests, jaw clenched.

She circles once. Her boot finds the space between his thighs and presses.

He groans, low and tight.

“You play dirty,” he says, voice strained.

She leans close. “You’d know.”

She unfastens his belt with a snap. She doesn’t tease. She takes. She straddles him like a sentence, mouth against his jawline, hand closing around the edge of the chair.

“You make a sound,” she whispers, “and I’ll edge you for a week.”

His body jerks once. He clamps his jaw shut. She starts slow, forceful, grinding down like she’s driving him into the floor. His head knocks back against the chair once. He gasps. Her mouth finds his throat, her nails scrape down his sides. She marks each thrust with purpose. It’s the reckoning he asked for. He holds on. When she finishes, it’s with one hand on his chest and the other still gripping the armrest. She stays just long enough for the tremor to subside in his thighs. Afterward, she stands, fixes her blouse, and brushes the hair from her face. She looks him in the eye. “Three minutes, on the dot.”

He nods, wrecked, his lips parted.

She kisses the corner of his mouth once, fast and without mercy. “Next time you bait a reporter,” she says, “I make it hurt longer.”

He stays still, jaw slack, too wrecked to speak or flinch.

She leaves him there, pulse wrecked and belt half-fastened, eyes glazed with worship and fear. He fastens his belt and fixes himself with trembling hands. Then she opens the door and he counts fifteen seconds before following.

The sun dips just low enough to cast a burnt gold halo along the soundstage walls. The grips start to pack it in. Call sheets scatter like autumn leaves across the cement. Somewhere near the catering table, Peter juggles three donuts and drops two. Micky cackles. Davy complains about makeup smudges and lighting cues.

Mike steps into the fading light looking like he’s just walked off a battlefield. His shirt clings damp to his skin. His hair’s flattened on one side and windblown on the other. He adjusts his belt with precise movements and shields his eyes, scanning for Mona.

She’s at the edge of the lot, clipboard under one arm, cigarette between her lips. She doesn’t turn when he approaches, but she exhales smoke in his direction like a warning shot.

He comes up behind her and rests his chin on her shoulder. “You left bruises.”

She flicks ash onto the pavement. “I’ll sign ‘em later.”

He hums. “You always know just how much to leave.”

“That’s ‘cause I know how much you can take.”

He nuzzles her temple. “You know what scares me?”

Mona doesn’t flinch. “Nothing.”

He smiles against her skin. “Exactly.”

She finally turns her head. “You gonna behave?”

“Hell no.”

Her eyes flick to his belt, then back to his face. “Then you better start runnin’, ‘cause next time I’m bringin’ the clamps.”

He groans, half in fear, half in awe. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not today. You still owe me a rewrite.”

He steps back, hands raised in surrender. “That I can do.”

She doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften. “Good. Now go wash your damn face. You look like you lost a bar fight.”

Mike ambles off toward the trailers. Mona lights another cigarette and watches the sun dip further, already planning tomorrow’s schedule and what fresh hell he might bring with it. It’s going to be a long season, and she loves every scorched second of it.

Chapter Text

The Buckingham Suite Ballroom buzzes with excitement as the four Monkees take their seats at the long, polished table. Mona stays in the background, blending into the shadows behind them, her hands folded together as she watches carefully. This isn’t her moment—today is about them, about the guys.

The reporters, seated in front of them, have their pens poised and cameras ready. A sense of anticipation hangs in the air, mingling with the thick haze of cigarette smoke curling through the room. The sharp scent of burning tobacco lingers, clinging to the heavy drapes and polished wood. After all, these are the Monkees, and everyone is eager for the latest gossip, the newest tidbits of their private lives.

Mona is content to let them take the spotlight. She has her role to play, managing the chaos, but right now, it’s about maintaining the image. She keeps her eyes on the room, aware of every shift, every subtle change in posture. Wisps of smoke swirl around the overhead chandeliers, catching the light in eerie ribbons. She is the one who keeps everything running smoothly, and nothing is going to slip through the cracks today.

“Gentlemen,” a reporter begins, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he gives a nod to the group, “it’s been a while since we’ve seen you all together like this. So, what’s next for the Monkees? What’s the next big step for the group?”

The questions begin flowing easily. Davy, ever the showman, is quick to jump in with his usual charm. “Well, I think our next big step is world domination,” he says, a twinkle in his eye. “You know, take over the world with our music, and maybe open a restaurant chain or two. We’ve got a lot of plans—mainly, to make sure Micky doesn’t buy a tank this time.”

Micky, sitting next to him, laughs. “Yeah, I thought I could use one for parking. But apparently, tanks don’t fit into most parking spots in LA. So, that plan’s on hold.”

Peter chimes in with his usual earnestness. “I think we should do more educational shows. Maybe teach kids about the wonders of music... and how to make spaghetti. We could make a Monkees cookbook.”

The room chuckles at Peter’s suggestion, and the interviewer, clearly amused, presses on.

“What about your personal lives? Any big developments? Love interests?” The question is thrown out with a knowing grin, but the Monkees seem unfazed by it.

Mike, who has been leaning back in his chair with a relaxed, almost nonchalant air, waves a hand through the smoky haze. “Oh, you know, there’s always something happening in the personal life department. I’ve been considering taking up knitting, but that’s a personal project. Gotta keep some things under wraps.”

Davy immediately jumps in. “Knitting, huh? I thought you were into wood carving. What happened to that, Mike?”

Mike shrugs, his Texas accent curling with amusement. “Well, I didn’t want to overcomplicate things, you know? Knitting’s simpler, more straightforward. Carving’s for when you need to make a chair or somethin’.”

Micky, catching the joke, grins. “Yeah, a chair that you can wear to a Monkees concert. That’d be a new fashion trend!”

The reporter laughs, but doesn’t give up on trying to dig deeper. He flicks ash into an already full tray before continuing. “You’ve all been living in the public eye for so long—how do you manage to keep your private lives private?”

Peter looks thoughtful for a moment, his hands clasped in front of him as if preparing for a deep philosophical response. “We’ve got a lot of... what do you call it? ‘Non-disclosure agreements.’ Yeah, that’s it. We’ve got all our secret lives under wraps. Very hush-hush. I can't even talk about my secret love of sock puppets.”

The reporters laugh, and Mike, in his typical fashion, picks up on Peter’s playful vibe. “We just stay busy. Real busy. You know, with rehearsals, interviews, avoiding the press when we can... it’s a full-time job. But sometimes we get lucky, and they forget we’re actually just regular guys.”

Mona, still in the background, watches with a bemused smile, the smoke drifting in lazy tendrils above the Monkees’ heads. The Monkees, though often known for their humor, are like a well-oiled machine when it comes to keeping their lives light and free of serious personal revelations. It’s all jokes and evasions—until, of course, the reporter decides to dig a little deeper.

The next question comes, this time with a tone that almost seems too knowing: “So, is it true that some of your music has been inspired by... uh, more experimental experiences?”

There’s a noticeable shift in the air, but the Monkees are ready for it. Davy smiles innocently, his eyes wide. “Experimental experiences? Oh, we’ve done some... ‘research’ on sound, sure. You know, microphones, tape recorders, trying to see how different instruments sound in the back of a van. Nothing too crazy, though.”

Mike jumps in, deadpan. “Yeah, I’ve tried to experiment with the sound of silence. Works pretty well. Real peaceful.”

Peter adds, “You know, we just like to keep it fresh. I tried once to write a song about the shape of clouds, but it didn’t really go anywhere. So now I just sing about trees and rocks. It’s easier.”

The reporter, sensing the evasion but enjoying the banter, laughs and moves on. “Fair enough, fair enough. So, how about the upcoming tour? Anything exciting planned?”

Micky leans in, his eyes gleaming. “We’re thinking of doing a surprise set where we all come out dressed as different animals. You know, make it wild. Like, a kangaroo, a giraffe, maybe an elephant. Keep it in line with the Monkee spirit.”

The reporters are laughing at this point, the smoke thickening with every exhale, and the room feels lighter, the tension fading as they all enjoy the playful energy the Monkees bring.

But just as the mood settles in, the same reporter who had earlier asked about personal lives decides to press again, with a smile on his face: “So, any Monkee weddings in the works?”

Davy grins widely. “Maybe a Monkee marriage. But no promises. We’ll see what the fans think.”

Mona, still in the background, can’t help but chuckle at the clever evasions. The Monkees are nothing if not masters of misdirection, keeping everything light and fun.

It’s in this moment—just as the laughter begins to settle—that the atmosphere shifts again. The next question, however, will hit a nerve.

The reporter leans forward, almost too eagerly, and Mona can already sense what’s coming.

And just like that, the press conference takes a turn.

A thin haze of cigarette smoke swirls around the room, the acrid odor thick in the air. The reporters smoke freely, their cigarette tips glowing faintly as they wait for the next big moment. The Monkees, however, remain untouched by the haze, seated in a clear pocket of space amidst the thickening fog.

Before Mona can react, the reporter shoves a magazine article in Mike’s face. The grainy, poorly lit photos show him with a woman—none of them have a clue who Mona is—accompanied by the headline, “Monkee Mike Caught With Another Woman.”

Mona feels a wave of frustration rise in her chest as the reporter, smirking, watches for a reaction. Mike’s expression remains unchanged. He throws the guy his usual warning glare—sharp, unwavering—but Mona can see it in his eyes. He isn’t going to react. He refuses to give them the satisfaction.

And that’s when Mona knows it’s her turn.

She steps forward, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she strides toward the reporter. The room falls silent. The reporters hold their breath, the tendrils of smoke curling lazily around their heads.

Mona snatches the magazine from his hands, her voice cutting through the room like a knife.

“You better get over here and explain yourself,” she snaps, her eyes flashing with fury.

The reporter stammers, clearly not expecting the direct challenge.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mona continues, her tone sharp as she faces him down. “You’re going to print this kind of garbage without even knowing who you’re talking about? You want to make a story out of someone’s personal life? Well, guess what? You’re not getting away with it.”

The air in the ballroom turns electric. The other reporters sit frozen, unsure of whether to step in or watch the spectacle unfold. Cigarette smoke thickens around them, making the tension feel even heavier.

The reporter swallows hard but tries to maintain his composure. “It’s public interest,” he argues weakly.

Mona takes another step closer, lowering her voice to a cold, measured tone. “Oh, really? Public interest? You don’t even know who you’re writing about. You’re pushing a fabricated headline based on blurry photos, and you think that passes as journalism?”

She glares at him, her presence dominating the room. “You better retract this trash immediately, or I’ll make sure you regret it. If you don’t pull this, I will personally ensure that you lose more than just your press credentials. You’ll lose your job. And if that’s not enough, I’ll have your ass in court before you can print your next lie.”

The reporter hesitates, his confidence cracking.

Mona doesn’t wait for a response.

“You’re done here,” she says firmly, motioning to security.

Two hotel staff members step forward. The reporter sputters a weak protest, but it’s too late. His press pass is taken, and he’s ushered out of the room.

The silence lingers long after he’s gone, the smoke hanging thick in the air.

As the tension settles, Bill Chadwick is already on the move. He makes his way toward the front desk, his face set in hard determination.

Mona watches as the concierge hands Bill the Telex copy from Legal. He quickly scans the document, nodding in understanding before stepping toward a quieter area.

The ballroom is thick with cigarette smoke, swirling in languid spirals around the chandeliers.  Reporters flick ashes into overfilled trays, their cigarettes glowing faintly in the dim light.

Without hesitation, Bill pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter as he dials the legal department. “Yeah, it’s me. We’ve got a situation.”

He listens for a moment, then continues, his tone even but serious. “One of our reporters just crossed a line. He tried to push a fabricated story about Nesmith and his wife. The photos are misleading, and the headline is complete fiction.”

A pause.

Bill exhales a slow stream of smoke. “Yeah, I’ve already revoked his credentials. Security just escorted him out. But we need to move fast. He’s not going to let this go quietly.”

Mona stands nearby, arms crossed, waiting for Bill to finish handling the legal mess. She knows this is just the beginning—the press isn’t going to back down easily. The air is thick with tension, the swirling haze only making it feel heavier.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a cigarette of her own, lighting it quickly before taking a steadying drag. The first drag steadies her, the nicotine settling into her system as she exhales in a slow stream. She’s dealt with worse, but this one feels different. It feels personal.

Bill listens to the legal team’s response, nodding as they lay out their next steps. “We need to issue an immediate press release clarifying the inaccuracies. And if they refuse to retract, we escalate. We’re not letting them spin the story their way.”

Another pause.

Bill smirks slightly. “Oh, trust me. Mona already took care of making him regret it.”

Mona arches a brow, but her lips twitch into a smirk as she takes another drag from her cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light.

Bill finishes his call and turns back to her. "Legal’s handling the fallout now. They’ll draft the official statement, but we need to get ahead of this before any more garbage gets printed."

Mona exhales sharply, watching the smoke drift upward in twisting tendrils. "Do you think they’ll actually believe the statement?"

Bill’s expression softens, but his voice remains steady. "It depends on how we present it. The story’s weak, and we have the truth on our side. But it’s still going to be a media mess for a while."

Mona watches the smoke swirl around her fingers, then glances toward Mike, who remains seated, calm, composed, watching her with something between amusement and admiration.

"Alright, Bill. Let’s get it over with."

Bill nods. "I’ll get the ball rolling with Legal. We’ll issue the official statement first and ensure nothing else gets printed." He gives her a knowing look. "Just keep your head cool until we’re in the clear."

Mona smirks, flicking the ash from her cigarette. "You’ve got it. Let me know what else I can do."

Bill takes one last drag before stubbing his cigarette out in the nearest ashtray, then turns toward the door, moving swiftly to take charge of the next steps.

Mona watches him go, taking another steadying inhale before she steels herself for what’s to come.

The smoky room is quieter now. The reporters, still in shock, exchange glances but don’t push for more. They know better.

Mona finally exhales, allowing herself to ease—just a little.

Mike, still seated, watches her with quiet amusement.

She turns to him, her frustration still lingering. “Do you think I handled that okay?” she asks, her voice lower, more uncertain than before.

Mike’s lips twitch into a knowing grin. “Nah, you’re perfect. Just the right amount of fire, my Evil Witchy Woman. You know how to make 'em sweat.”

Mona rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at her lips. “Well, if you like the way I handle things...”

Mike chuckles softly, leaning forward, his voice lower, full of something playful and affectionate. “Can’t imagine anyone else I’d want by my side in moments like this.”

Mona meets his gaze, and for the first time since the disaster began, she finally feels something close to calm.

The newspaper’s offices are just as Mona expects—cluttered desks, the faint smell of stale coffee, and an air of self-importance. The receptionist barely has time to announce them before Mona storms into the editor’s office, Mike and Chadwick close behind.

The man behind the desk—Nigel Wainwright, as the byline had read—looks up from his papers, blinking in surprise. “Well, this is unexpected.”

Mona drops the crumpled copy of the tabloid onto his desk. “Explain this.”

Wainwright leans back, unfazed. “Miss—er, Mrs. Nesmith, I presume? You must understand, the public has an insatiable appetite for—”

“For garbage?” Mona cuts in, her voice sharp. “Because that’s what this is—complete and utter garbage.”

Wainwright lets out a slow breath, lacing his fingers together. “Now, now, let’s not be dramatic.”

Mike steps forward, his easygoing demeanor replaced with something colder. “Dramatic? You printed a story without facts. You didn’t even know who Mona was, and yet you ran with it.”

Wainwright gives a small, smug smile. “Public interest, Mr. Nesmith.”

Mona’s fists clench. “You smeared my name and my marriage for public interest?”

Chadwick clears his throat, clearly trying to de-escalate. “We’re here to discuss a retraction.”

The editor leans back in his chair. “That’s simply not how this works.”

Mike gives a low chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Alright, then. Let’s talk about how this is gonna work. You either print a full correction, or we take this up with your advertisers. I bet they’d love to know they’re sponsoring outright lies.”

Wainwright’s smirk falters. “That won’t be necessary.”

Mona steps closer, voice calm but steely. “Then you’ll retract it?”

The editor hesitates, but after a moment, he exhales sharply. “We’ll run a clarification.”

Mona narrows her eyes. “A clarification?”

Chadwick places a hand on her arm, murmuring, “It’s the best we’ll get.”

Mona glares at Wainwright but finally nods. “Fine. But if you ever pull something like this again, I will make sure your career is the next thing on the front page.”

Wainwright swallows hard, nodding as they turn to leave.

Aftermath: Mike & Mona’s Private Moment

Later that night, Mona stands on the balcony of their hotel room, staring out over the London skyline. The confrontation had been a win—but it still doesn’t erase the frustration gnawing at her.

The sliding door opens behind her, and she feels Mike’s arms wrap around her waist. “Feelin’ better?” he murmurs against her ear.

Mona sighs, leaning back into him. “A little. But I hate that we even had to do that.”

Mike presses a kiss to her temple. “Yeah, but you did it. And you scared the hell outta that guy. I think you might’ve actually made ‘im sweat.”

Mona huffs out a soft laugh. “Well, at least that’s something.”

Mike turns her around, tilting her chin up. “You were incredible today, y’know. Standin’ up to that guy like that? That’s why you’re my Evil Witchy Woman.”

Mona rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at her lips. “I thought I was just the right amount of fire.”

Mike smirks. “That too.” He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips.

For the first time that day, Mona lets herself relax. The fight is over. For now.

The morning after the confrontation, the Monkees and their team board the Monkee Express, their DC-6 tour plane (tail number N90739). The fuselage is adorned with the Monkees’ logo and a large red guitar, a flying testament to their success. Inside, the plane is decked out with lounge seating in the back—a space that Peter and Micky have turned into what Mike can only describe as a flying brothel, much to his dismay.

As the engines roar to life, Mona settles into one of the cushioned seats, watching out the window as London fades into the distance. Mike drops into the seat beside her, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Well, that was one hell of a trip.”

Mona smirks. “And we haven’t even landed yet.”

Across the aisle, Peter and Micky are already entertaining a group of eager flight attendants, laughing loudly. Mike groans, rubbing his temples. “I swear, those two are gonna get this plane banned from every airport in the country.”

Mona chuckles. “At least they’re consistent.”

Mike glances at her, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “You ready to deal with whatever mess is waitin’ for us back home?”

Mona exhales. “Not really. But we’ll handle it.”

Mike nudges her playfully. “That’s my Evil Witchy Woman.”

As the plane soars over the Atlantic, Mona leans back in her seat, closing her eyes for a moment. The UK chapter is closed. But what waits for them in the States? That’s a problem for another day.

Chapter Text

As soon as the Monkees step off the Monkee Express, they are immediately pulled into a meeting at the studio. Bob Rafelson paces in frustration, a cigarette hanging from his lip as he rubs his temples, while Herb Moelis, the studio’s lawyer, flips through a stack of legal papers.

Bob glares at Mona. "Jensen, do you have any idea what kind of mess you just walked us into?"

Mona, standing tall, crosses her arms. “You mean the mess *they* created when they printed lies?”

Moelis clears his throat. "Not the first time Nesmith has thrown us into chaos. First, he nearly decked me at the Beverly Hotel, then he pulled that stunt with Kirshner. Now this. Look, we’ve managed to contain most of it, but the network isn’t happy. They’re getting pressure from advertisers, and some are threatening to pull sponsorships if we don’t smooth this over.”

Mike scoffs. "So we’re just supposed to smile and let ‘em print whatever they want about us?”

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Always a crusade with you, huh, Snide?"

Mike folds his arms. "Standing up for myself, for my band, for my wife—if that makes me some kind of crusader, then yeah, I guess I am. Somebody’s gotta do it. If I didn’t push back, we’d still be singing whatever Kirshner picked out for us, and I’d be smiling on cue for the cameras while they walked all over us."

Bob sighs. "That’s not the point, Mike. The point is damage control. The Monkees aren’t just a band. You’re a business, a TV show, a brand. And brands don’t get into fights with the press.”

Mona leans forward. “So what? We let them win? Let them spread whatever garbage they want?”

Moelis exhales, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before speaking, his Brooklyn accent thick with exasperation. "What we do is tread carefully. A lawsuit is an option, but that could drag this out longer and make things worse. And let's be honest, Nesmith—you've got a history of making things harder than they need to be. You didn’t exactly make friends when you punched the wall at the Beverly Hotel, and you sure as hell didn’t when you smashed Kirshner’s hold over you. An' now? Here we are again."

Mona blinks, taken aback. "Wait—so this is all on Michael now? I was the one who went after that reporter at the presser. I was the one who marched into that editor’s office. If you want someone to yell at, yell at me." She gestures toward Mike. "But if the press had come after you the way they came after me, would you have just let it slide?"

Mike shakes his head. "You mean when I nearly punched you, Moelis?  Yeah, because you were trying to back me into a corner. Just like Kirshner did. An' just like those hacks in the press tried to do to Mona. I don’t take kindly to bein' controlled, an' I don’t let the people I care about get railroaded, either. If I hadn’t fought back, we’d still be stuck under Kirshner’s thumb, an' you know it. An' now? I’m not about to let some two-bit hack with a typewriter run us into the ground, not without a fight. That editor needs to feel the heat.”

Bob groans. “Well, congratulations, Snide. You’re on your way to doing just that.”

Mona and Mike exchange a look. The fight isn’t over yet.

Bob rubs his temples, exhaling sharply, a thin stream of cigarette smoke curling from his lips. "Look, we’re not getting anywhere like this. Let’s meet again when everyone’s had a chance to cool down and think clearly. Until then, keep your heads down and try not to stir the pot any more than you already have. Capiche?"

Bob and Moelis remain seated as Mike and Mona exit the office, retreating to Mona’s office down the hall. As soon as Mike shuts the door, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Well, that could’ve gone worse."

Mona shakes her head, dropping into her chair, reaching for a cigarette and lighting it with a flick of her lighter. "I don’t like how they kept shifting the blame onto you. I was the one who went after that editor, not you."

Mike smirks slightly, leaning against her desk. "Yeah, well, I think Bob just enjoys yellin’ at me."

Mona offers a small, careful smile, choosing her words with precision. "Michael, you know I’ve got your back, but smoothing things over is part of my job. I have to keep the peace while making sure you don’t get steamrolled. That doesn’t mean I think you’re wrong—it just means I have to play this from all angles."

Mike gives her a look but holds back whatever comment is on the tip of his tongue when he hears the faint crackle of the intercom.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Bob’s intercom button is still engaged, transmitting his and Herb’s conversation directly into Mona’s office.

"They’re a damn headache, Herb," Bob mutters. "Especially Nesmith. You can’t control him, and you sure as hell can’t predict what he’ll do next."

*Moelis sighs, his words carrying the unmistakable edge of his Brooklyn drawl. "That’s the problem, Bob. He’s got a point about Kirshner, and he’s got a point about the press, but he doesn’t know when to stop swingin'. He’s goin' to dig in his heels no matter what, and we both know Jensen's just as stubborn."*

Mike stiffens, his jaw tightening as he listens. "Unbelievable!" he mutters, his voice low but heated. "They act like I'm the damn problem when all I did was stand up for us."

Mona places a hand on his arm, her touch firm but calming. "Michael, getting mad right now isn’t going to help. We need to think."

Mike exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Think about what? How to let them keep walkin’ all over us?"

Mona shakes her head. "No. How to turn this to our advantage. If they think they can box us in, we need to show them we’re not backing down."

Before Mike can respond, the door swings open and Micky saunters in, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. "Hey, lovebirds. Why do you two look like you’re plotting a revolution?"

Mike groans, rubbing his temples. "Not now, Mick."

Micky plops onto Mona’s couch, grinning. "Oh, c’mon. If you two are cooking up something wild, I want in on it too."

Mona glances at Mike, then back at Micky. "Actually, Mick, you might be exactly who we need right now. You're the Diplomat. If anyone can keep this from blowing up in our faces, it's you."

Mike exhales, nodding slightly. "She’s right. We could use a buffer."

Micky smirks, clearly pleased. "Finally, some recognition." He leans back with a dramatic sigh. "Alright, lay it on me. What’s the scheme?"

Before they can hatch a plan, the intercom crackles again.

Bob exhales sharply. “I just got a message from the press—" He glances at a paper, then curses under his breath. "They’re printing a follow-up. And it’s worse.”

Mona straightens, Mike’s expression darkens, and Micky’s grin fades slightly as he looks between them. "Wait, you guys are actually in trouble, aren’t you?" He leans forward, his usual playfulness dimming. "Alright. Now I’m invested. What are we dealing with?"

Mona exhales and rubs her temples. "They’re doubling down on the infidelity angle. And now, somehow, both Michael and I are being painted as swingers."

Mike scoffs, his hands gripping the back of Mona’s chair. "Unbelievable! They’re takin’ Micky an’ Peter’s extracurricular activities an’ lumpin’ *me* in with ‘em."

Micky winces. "Oof. Yeah, that’s... not great. But hey, at least they don’t know who the real culprits are?"

Mona gives him a dry look. "Not helping."

Mike starts pacing, his frustration bubbling up again. "This is exactly what I was talkin’ about! They don’t care about facts, they just want a scandal. An’ now we’re stuck cleanin’ up their mess."

Mona stands, stepping into his path. "Michael, I know you’re mad, but we have to handle this carefully. We can’t just charge in swinging."

Micky raises a hand. "Yeah, that’s usually my job, except in, you know, a metaphorical sense."

Mike sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. So what do we do?"

Before Mona can answer, the phone on her desk rings. She picks it up, her expression sharpening as she listens. "It's him," she says, eyes narrowing. "The editor."

Mike folds his arms. "Put him on speaker."

Mona presses the button, and the editor’s smug voice fills the room. "Miss Jensen, I must say, you and your Monkee are making quite the splash. The story’s got legs, and my readers can’t get enough."

Mike’s jaw tightens. "Yeah? Well, your readers are eatin’ up garbage."

The editor chuckles. "Oh, come now. You and your lady friend should be *thanking* me. Scandals like this only make you more interesting."

Mona’s voice is ice. "You’re printing outright lies."

"Lies? Or a compelling narrative? The public doesn’t care about truth, Miss Jensen. They care about entertainment. And right now, you and Nesmith are the hottest act in town."

Before Mona can fire back, the office door slams open. Bob marches in, face red with anger. "Jensen, we have a situation. One of our biggest sponsors just pulled their ads."

Mona grits her teeth. "Of course they did."

Bob’s eyes land on the phone. "Who the hell is that?"

Micky crosses his arms. "The guy who started this mess."

Bob’s scowl deepens. "Great. Just what we need."

Before they can continue, the intercom crackles, and Bob’s secretary’s voice comes through. "Bob, the network’s on the line. They want a meeting. Now."

Bob mutters a curse. "Of course they do." He gestures to Mona. "Wrap this up. Pronto."

The tension in the conference room is thick when Mike, Mona, and Micky step inside. Bob Rafelson stands near the window, a cigarette dangling from his lip, arms crossed, while Herb Moelis shuffles through a folder of legal documents, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. Seated at the far end of the table are two network executives—Leonard Feldman and Richard Harris, both of whom have the severe, impatient expressions of men who would rather be anywhere else. Both have cigarettes in hand, thin trails of smoke rising lazily toward the ceiling.

Bob wastes no time. "Sit."

Mike and Mona take seats across from the execs, while Micky remains standing, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room.

Feldman clears his throat. "We’re going to make this quick. The network is under fire. Sponsors are panicking. This new article? It’s gasoline on an already burning fire."

Harris leans forward, placing his hands flat on the table. "We need an immediate response—preferably on television. A statement refuting the allegations, clarifying any misunderstandings, and ensuring that the Monkees remain a *family-friendly* brand."

Mike scoffs, leaning back with an incredulous smirk. "Let me get this straight. You want us to stare into a camera and say, ‘No, really, folks, we ain’t swingers'—like that’s not gonna make it worse?"

Harris doesn’t blink. "Yes."

Mona exhales sharply, taking a slow drag from her cigarette before flicking the ash into the tray beside her. "Absolutely not. We are not legitimizing this nonsense by addressing it like it’s a real scandal."

Bob runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his posture. He exhales sharply, staring out the window for a beat before turning back. "Jensen, this is the kind of garbage that happens when the suits get nervous. They don't care about the show—just their bottom line. We don’t have a choice. If we don’t get ahead of this, the network could start making decisions for us. And trust me, you’re not gonna like what that looks like."

Micky, finally speaking, lifts a hand. "Okay, okay—let’s all take a deep breath. I mean, sure, we could do a public statement, but if we handle this wrong, it’ll just fan the flames. What if instead of denying anything, we make the press look ridiculous? Mock the whole idea?"

Moelis adjusts his glasses. "Ya suggestin' satire? 'Cause that ain't the worst idea I've heard. But it ain't risk-free either. If it don’t land right, it could blow up in our faces—make us look like we *are* tryin' to cover somethin' up, or worse, make the sponsors nervous enough to pull out."

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose. "Risk or not, it’s better than the network’s alternative. They’re not looking at this from a creative angle—they’ll slap together some dry, soulless PR statement and call it a day. And if that tanks, guess who takes the fall?"

Micky shrugs. "Worked for us before. If we make a joke out of it, the audience will laugh with us, not at us."

Mike rubs his chin, considering. "Turn their nonsense into a punchline. Make ‘em look like fools for even printing it."

Mona grins. "That's a brilliant idea, Mick!"

Micky replies, semi-seriously, "I know. I thought of it."

Mona looks between them, then at the executives. "It’s a smarter move than looking defensive. The Monkees thrive on humor—if we play this right, we could flip the narrative in our favor."

Feldman exhales through his nose. "Fine. But if this backfires, we’ll be having a very different conversation—one about consequences. Sponsors pulling out, the network reevaluating the show, maybe even changes to the lineup. None of it good." He glances at Bob. "Get it done."

Bob nods, already deep in thought. "Jensen, Nesmith, Dolenz—you’ve got until tomorrow morning to make this work. If you don’t, the network will step in, and you’re not gonna like their solution."

Moelis leans back with a sigh, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray as he speaks, his Brooklyn accent thick with exasperation. "Guess I better start preppin’ for damage control, just in case."

The meeting adjourns, but as the three exit, Mike shakes his head. "Well, this’ll be a hell of a trick to pull off.

Micky grins. "Lucky for you, I specialize in tricks."

Mona sighs. "Let’s just hope this one doesn’t blow up in our faces."

That evening, the Monkees gather at Mike’s house, the safest place to talk without the risk of eavesdroppers. Mona paces near the window, arms crossed, while Mike leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded. Micky, Peter, and Davy lounge at the kitchen table waiting for someone to start.

Davy smirks. "So, Snide, what's the master plan? Or are we just wingin’ it as usual?"

Mike exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We need a way to flip this thing on its head."

Micky sits up eagerly, blowing out a lazy stream of frodis smoke before taking another quick drag. His eyes spark with excitement. "We go all in! No cutting corners, no playing it safe. If we’re gonna do this, we make it big!" He twirls the joint between his fingers, grinning as he gestures with it. "We go big. Full-blown parody. Maybe a fake documentary about ‘The Secret Swinger Lives of the Monkees.’ We get costumes, dramatic music..."

Mike sighs. "Yeah, because nothin' says 'not swingers' like dressin' up and actin' out some bizarre exposé."

Undeterred, Micky snaps his fingers. "Okay, fine. What about a musical number? We write a song about how not scandalous we are. Something like, 'We’re Boring, We Swear!' Or 'The Only Swingin’ We Do Is in 4/4 Time!'"

Peter laughs, but Mona shakes her head. "Mick, the network is already breathing down our necks. The last thing we need is to be singing about the controversy."

Micky throws his hands up. "Fine! Then let’s take it really outside the box—we do a live press conference, but we show up in disguise. We could be, I don’t know, astronauts? Knights? Librarians? We answer every question like we’re in character. Just go totally surreal."

Davy blinks. "You must be joking. You’ve lost your bloody mind. That’s just a normal Tuesday for us!"

Mike rubs his temples. "Mick, you're tryin’ to out-weird the weird, but if we make it too crazy, we’ll just look unhinged. We gotta be sharp, not bonkers. Ya dig? We need to make ‘em laugh with us, not at us."

Micky snaps his fingers. "We do a skit. A Monkees sketch. Make it look like a segment straight from the show. Play up how absurd the whole thing is."

Mona holds up a hand. "Micky, you do remember what happened the last time we went full chaotic on the network, right? Half of NBC refused to air the show."

Micky pouts. "That was different. This time, it’s genius."

"It’s also too risky." Mike shoots him a look. "We need to be smart. We can’t alienate the audience—or the sponsors."

Peter, who’s been quietly thinking, finally speaks up. "What if we take the satire idea, but... tone it down? Keep it funny, but make the press look ridiculous instead of making us the joke."

Mona nods. "Now that has potential. We mock the scandal itself, not our reputations."

Mike thinks for a moment, then nods. "Alright. That just might work."

Davy raises an eyebrow. "And what’s my role in all this? I hope it’s somethin’ better than ‘guy who gets stuck in an argument with Snide.’"

Micky grins. "Oh, we’ll find something for you, Midget."

Davy glares at Micky.

Micky grins. "Lucky for you, I dabble in screenwriting."

Mona sighs. "Let’s just hope this one doesn’t come apart at the seams." She straightens up and declares, "Alright, let’s get serious. We don’t have much time. If we’re doing this, it has to be airtight."

They all settle in and start hammering out the details. At first, as they bounce ideas around, Mike and Mona’s bickering feels playful, the kind of banter that could pass for a well-rehearsed comedy routine.

Mike leans against the counter, arms crossed, as the scent of frodis drifts lazily through the air. Mona, seated at the table, lights another cigarette, exhaling as she watches the conversation unfold. He takes a slow drag from his joint, letting the smoke roll from his lips before passing it along. True to form, he rolls the best joints, each one perfectly packed and even.  "No, Mick, putting the whole thing on a giant trampoline isn’t going to make it funnier."

Mona, seated at the table with her notes spread in front of her, raises an eyebrow. "Sure it would. Everything’s funnier on a trampoline."

Mike shoots her a deadpan look. "That’s not even the point. The point is, we’re trying to make the press look ridiculous, not like we belong in a circus."

Micky grins at their back-and-forth, leaning in. "Ooooh, nice one, Mike! Who knew the Monkees were so sarcastic?"

Davy leans back on the kitchen chair, watching like it’s a prime-time special, lazily twirling a frodis joint between his fingers before bringing it to his lips for a slow, contented inhale. "Yeah, this is better than TV."

Peter absently plucks a few notes on his banjo, nodding along to the rhythm of the conversation, a half-smoked frodis joint resting between his fingers—one of Mike’s, expertly rolled, of course. He takes another relaxed drag before passing it along. He takes a slow puff, exhaling toward the ceiling before speaking. He chimes in, more seriously now, "What if we just mock the scandal itself, instead of looking ridiculous?"

Mona gives Peter a nod. "Now *that* has potential. We mock the scandal itself, not our reputations."

Micky snaps his fingers. "Exactly! We make fun of them—not us."

Mike, still standing by the counter, rubs his chin, eyeing Micky. "That's it! That's where it's at! But, we need balance. We push back, but we don’t push ourselves off a cliff."

Mona nods, slightly more serious now. "I’m not saying we shouldn’t push back, but we can’t go overboard. We need to be careful, play it smart."

Micky leans forward, looking between them with a grin. "Alright, so maybe we do the parody, but we make it fun—make them look foolish, not us. A satire they’ll actually laugh with us about."

Mike shoots him a skeptical look. "Fine line, Mick. If we go too far, they’re laughin’ at us, not with us."

Micky pouts for a second but then raises his hands dramatically. "I know, I know—fine line. I’ll just go wild then, huh? Full Monty Python-style absurdity!"

Mike, trying to bring it back, responds with a raised eyebrow. "Not too wild, Mick. We’re not that far gone."

Mona offers a dry smile. "Sometimes, Micky, I think we’ve all gone a bit too wild." She looks at Mike. "And that’s not even the half of it."

Then, somewhere along the way, the teasing shifts. The laughter lingers a little less, the pauses stretch a little longer, and the words carry just a bit more weight. Mike pushes back a little harder, Mona rolls her eyes a little slower, and the comedic timing stutters. The barbs land with more weight. Peter’s strumming falters, Davy’s smirk fades a bit, and Micky, ever the showman, doesn’t realize the act is over until the room shifts into something heavier.

Mike dismisses one of Mona’s concerns with an exasperated sigh, and she responds with a sharp look. The easy rhythm of their banter breaks, the words slipping from playful to pointed.

"Michael, we cannot go full-blown satire on this," Mona insists. "You heard the network. We have to be strategic."

"Strategic?" Mike scoffs. "That’s just a fancy way of sayin’ we should water it down until it don’t mean nothin’."

Mona crosses her arms. "It means we don’t torpedo our careers just to prove a point."

Mike shakes his head, frustration creeping into his voice. "Oh, so now I’m the one ‘bout to ruin everythin’? You think I don’t know what’s at stake here?"

Davy, ever eager to stir the pot, smirks. "Well, Snide, you do have a habit of pushin’ things a little too far."

Mike turns his glare on Davy. "Oh, shut it, Midget."

Peter sighs. "Guys, maybe we should focus…"

Mona, ignoring the interruption, leans forward. "This isn’t just about you, Michael. Some of us have to think beyond just fighting every battle that comes along."

"Right. Because I never think ahead," Mike snaps, his accent thickening. "’Cause all I do is charge in like some reckless idiot, right? I'm the proverbial bull in the china shop."

Mona exhales sharply, taking a slow drag from her cigarette before flicking the ash into the tray beside her. She doesn’t touch the frodis—never has, never will—but the nicotine steadies her nerves just fine. She leans back, letting the smoke curl from her lips as she taps the filter against the edge. "I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to."

Micky, sensing the shift in tone, quickly interjects. "Hey, hey—maybe we should take a break? Come back to this with fresh eyes?"

But Mike and Mona are locked in now, tension thick in the air. The argument has moved beyond satire and PR strategies. It’s no longer just about what they say to the public—it’s about how they see each other.

Mona’s voice drops, her frustration laced with something more raw—fear, exhaustion, and the quiet, gnawing weight of responsibility. "Michael, I need to be careful. I don’t have the luxury of taking a stand without consequences."

Mike scoffs, looking away for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "An’ what? Ya think I do? Ya think I don’t know what it’s like to have the weight of this whole damn thing on my shoulders?"

Silence stretches between them, the rest of the group shifting uncomfortably.

Finally, Mona exhales, pushing back from the table. "We’ll finish this later."

Without another word, she turns and heads upstairs toward the bedroom. Mike follows a second later, jaw tight, his boots heavy against the floor.

The remaining three Monkees exchange glances.

"Well," Micky finally says, "that was… intense."

Peter frowns. "Do you think they’re okay?"

Davy snickers. "Depends on what you mean by ‘okay.’"

Micky tilts his head, listening toward the closed bedroom door. "Only one way to find out."

Quietly, the three of them inch up the stairs, pausing just outside the door. The muffled sound of voices drifts through, still tense but softer now. And then...

Micky’s eyebrows lift. "Yep. They’re fine."

Peter blushes and quickly retreats, muttering something about making tea. Davy smirks, shaking his head. "Lucky bastard."

Micky grins. "Well, at least we know they’re back on the same page."

The atmosphere at the studio is thick with tension. Bob Rafelson paces the floor of his office, a cigarette dangling from his lips, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. Across from him, Herb Moelis sits with his arms crossed, tapping ash from his cigarette into an overflowing tray, his expression a mix of exasperation and calculation.

"This is a mess, Herb," Bob mutters, shaking his head. "We have enough trouble keeping the press on our side as it is. Now we've got headlines painting our publicist as some kind of..."

"Distraction," Herb finished dryly. "An’ one we gotta deal with before NBC starts breathin’ down your neck."

Bob exhales sharply, a thin stream of smoke escaping his lips as his fingers press into his temples, as if he could physically push away the problem. His pulse pounds in his ears, frustration mounting with every second wasted. "The network’s already antsy about how unpredictable these guys can be. Now Jensen’s in the mix, and that UK piece makes it look like she’s out here making her own headlines instead of preventing them."

Moelis leans forward, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before speaking. "So, how hard we push back on this, huh? Jensen’s good at her job. You and I both know that. But the brass upstairs is gonna wonder if she's become a liability."

Bob throws himself into his chair with a frustrated grunt, the legs scraping against the floor in protest. His knee bounces restlessly, barely contained agitation radiating from him. "She’s *not* a liability," he insists. "She’s one of the few people who can keep those guys from setting the place on fire. I *need* her."

Moelis lifts a skeptical brow. "NBC ain’t gonna see it that way, no sir. And it’s not just them. Sponsors read these headlines too. They might start wonderin' if this whole ‘cool, rebellious’ thing is tippin' into ‘irresponsible circus.’"

Bob lets out a short, humorless laugh, his jaw tightening as he grips the armrest. "It’s been an irresponsible circus from day one. That’s the charm, Herb. But I get it. We need damage control."

There is a knock at the door before it swings open without waiting for permission. Bill Chadwick steps inside, shaking out a cigarette from his pack before holding up a crumpled sheet of paper. "Got the full copy from Nigel Wainwright, the UK editor," he says, waving it. "Telex just came in."

Bob holds out his hand, and Bill hands it over. As he scans the page, his scowl deepens. "Unbelievable. We bust our asses keeping things under control, and one sleazy editor tries to burn it all down. This guy took every single quote and twisted it. Made it look like Jensen was out there throwing herself at Nesmith instead of doing her job."

Moelis reaches for the paper. "Look, we got one thing workin’ for us."

"What's that?" inquires Bob.

Moelis nods. "English defamation law’s on our side. It puts the burden of proof on the defendant, and does not require the plaintiff to prove falsehood. Their libel laws allow actions in the High Court for published statements alleged to defame an identifiable individual, causing reputational or professional damage. Justification, honest opinion, and privilege are the only defenses. So, a case would be easier to bring there than here, but we need to tread carefully."

Bob nods grimly, his fingers drumming a restless beat against the desk. "Which means we need a different approach. Maybe we hit him where it hurts—legally." He taps a finger on the desk. "Jensen wants to confront the editor, doesn’t she? "

Bill sighs. "Yeah. And honestly, I told her not to, but I can’t blame her."

Bob exchanges a look with Moelis, who merely shrugs. "Could end up workin’ in our favor," Moelis muses. "She should also remind him that his falsehoods might sell papers in the UK, but they’re threatenin' her job here in the States. If he realizes the professional consequences, he might think twice. If she handles it right, she might turn the narrative around."

Bob exhales, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a vice, every solution feeling more like a gamble. "Herb, make sure Jensen knows exactly how to confront the editor without risking a counter lawsuit. If she reminds him of English defamation law the way you instruct her, that might be enough to make him sweat. But I want Nesmith kept in check. He’s unpredictable when he’s mad, and the last thing we need is him making this worse."

Bill lets out a short laugh. "Yeah, good luck with that. You ever tried telling a tornado to sit still?"

Bob tosses the paper onto his desk, the edges crumpling under the force. "I swear, if this spirals any further, we’ll be scraping the pieces off the studio lot. We are running out of options, and fast. We need to handle this before it blows up even worse." 

Bill nods, already heading back toward the door. "Got it. I’ll keep ‘em both from setting the place on fire."

"And Bill," Bob adds, "Let’s make sure we give Nesmith a reason not to lose his temper. Keep him busy. Keep him thinking. And for God’s sake, make sure Jensen knows she’s walking a tightrope."

As the door clicks shut behind him, Bob slumps back in his chair. "This job is going to be the death of me."

Moelis smirks. "Then at least make sure they spell ya name right in the obit."

Chapter Text

Herb Moelis sits across from Mona in her office, his expression serious, almost unnervingly so. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, thin wisps of smoke curling toward the ceiling. A stack of papers sits between them, legal jargon scrawled across every page. He taps the top sheet with a precise finger.

"Awright, listen up," he begins. "Ya goin' in there to make Wainwright sweat, not to pick a fight. The last thing we need is him turnin' this around and draggin' you or the network into an even bigger mess."

Mona nods, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Her arms tighten around her as if bracing for impact. "I get it. No outbursts, no threats. Just the facts."

"Exactly. Ya keep it cool, keep it smart." Moelis leans forward. "English defamation law’s on our side, but that don’t mean we wanna end up in court. You remind him of that—calmly. Their laws assume a defamatory statement is false unless he can prove otherwise. That’s powerful leverage. Use it."

Mona exhales, steadying herself, reaching for her pack of cigarettes. She taps one out and lights it, taking a slow drag as she gathers her thoughts. The weight of the situation lingers, but she pushes past it, straightening with purpose. "So, I let him know that if we wanted to, we could bring a case against him?"

"Yeah, but don’t go makin’ it sound like a threat. Lay it out like it’s just the way things are." Moelis smirks slightly. "Make him feel like he’s already backed himself into a corner. You’re simply pointin' out the walls."

Mona cracks a small smile at that, but it fades quickly. "And if he tries to weasel out of it?"

Moelis shrugs. "Then you remind Wainwright, with just the right amount of sympathy, that while his twisted version of events might sell papers in the UK, over here? It’s damagin' your professional reputation, your ability to do your job. You make him understand—gently, but firmly—that he's jeopardizing your livelihood, your credibility. Appeal to his sense of reason, maybe even his ego. Make him want to do the right thing. That should rattle him."

Mona considers that, her fingers tapping with measured intent, sharpening her focus. She looks up at Moelis.  "Are you coming with me to the meeting?"

Moelis exhales a slow stream of smoke, leaning back and tapping ash into the tray beside him. "No, this has to come from you. If I’m there, it turns into a legal matter right away, and that changes everythin'. We’re tryin' to keep this from escalatin'."

Mona hesitates, then asks, "What about Mike? Can he be there?"

Moelis considers for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Look, Jensen, I get why you’d want him there, but his presence could shift the tone—make it personal instead of professional. This needs to be you steerin' the conversation, no distractions."

Mona exhales, her tone firm. "Understood. And if Wainwright still won’t budge?"

"Then we’ll figure out the next move. But for now, let ‘im see the consequences and let his own nerves do the heavy liftin’."

Mona nods, the nervous energy dissolving into something sharper. A slow, knowing smile creeps onto her lips as she rolls her shoulders back, shedding any lingering hesitation. She leans back slightly, confidence settling over her like a second skin. "Got it. I’ll make him sweat." She smirks. "And I won’t even have to raise my voice."

Moelis exhales, rubbing his temple. "Listen, kid, this ain't just some two-bit reporter we're talkin' about here. This Nigel Wainwright has been in this racket a long time, knows how to twist a story ‘til it don’t even resemble the truth. He’s got friends in high places, the kinda guys who don’t mind gettin’ their hands dirty if it means protectin’ their own. If he digs in his heels, he has plenty of people who’d love to see this spin into somethin' worse. And trust me, Jensen—he’s buried reputations before."

Mona leans back slightly, absorbing that. Her fingers drum once against the desk, then still. "Good thing I’m not so easy to bury." Her voice is even, but there’s a hint of steel beneath it.

Moelis studies her for a moment, as if assessing whether she truly believes it. The air between them is heavy, charged with the weight of everything left unsaid. Then, finally, Mona exhales, her resolve solidifying. She casts a knowing glance at the phone on her desk, then back at Moelis. "I should probably call Mike, let him know what’s going on."

Moelis sighs, shaking his head. "I ain't gonna sugarcoat it, Jensen. This guy's trouble. Just… keep your wits about you, alright? Wainwright’s slippery, and if he smells blood, he’ll go in for the kill."

She smirks, tilting her head just slightly. "Oh, come on, Herb. You knew the second you said no that I'd find a workaround."

She picks up the receiver and dials, leaning back in her chair, cigarette balanced between her fingers as she waits for Mike to pick up. The line clicks.

"Hey, darlin’," his familiar drawl comes through. "Everythin' alright?"

"Yeah, just got my marching orders from Moelis," she says, glancing at the lawyer. "Looks like I’m going in alone. Officially."

There’s a pause. Then, Mike’s voice lowers slightly, edged with something protective. "Officially?" A beat of silence. "Mona, what are you up to?"

Mona tilts her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Let’s just say Kirshner’s old office still has some… quirks."

Mike chuckles. "So I’ll be listenin’ in. Good. Wouldn’t want ya tanglin’ with that snake by yourself."

"Piece of cake," Mona says, her voice steady, a hint of mischief laced through her words, the kind of confidence that belongs to someone who’s played this game before. She assures him, "Just be ready."

"Always," Mike replies. Then, after a beat, his voice softens. "Try not to enjoy yourself too much, sugar."

Moelis leaves Mona's office as Mike slips into Kirshner’s old office, the door clicking softly behind him. He leans against the desk, arms folded, watching Mona through the adjoining doorway with a knowing smirk. "Y’ready for this, my Evil Witchy Woman?"

Mona looks up from the phone, her lips curving into something sly. "More than ready. You going to listen in and keep me honest?"

Mike steps closer, reaching out to brush his knuckles against her jawline, a light, reassuring touch. "Nah, darlin’. I know you don’t need me for that. But I’ll be listenin’ just the same—makin’ sure that snake don’t try to slither outta this."

Mona exhales a slow breath, letting the warmth of his presence settle over her. "Good. I like knowing you’re there."

Mike’s smirk softens into something more sincere. He tilts his head, eyes scanning her face like he’s memorizing her in this moment. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he bends down and presses a brief kiss to her forehead. "Go get him."

Mona’s fingers curl around the receiver as he turns to leave. "Oh, I will."

Mike shoots her one last glance before slipping into the adjoining room, the door left just slightly ajar.

Mona dials the number Moelis provided. The international call clicks through, and after two rings, Nigel Wainwright answers. His voice is clipped, smug, laced with the satisfaction of a man who thinks he holds all the cards.

"Wainwright speaking."

Mona crosses her legs, her voice smooth, almost purring. "Mr. Wainwright. Mona Jensen here. I believe we have some things to discuss."

A pause. Then, the smirk is nearly audible in his voice. "Ah, Miss Jensen. I was wondering when you’d come crawling. You lot always do, sooner or later."

Mona lets the silence stretch just long enough to unnerve him before speaking. "Crawling? Oh, darling, that’s adorable. You really do think you have the upper hand, don’t you?"

Wainwright hums in amusement. "I know I do. The damage is done, my dear. The story is out, the public is talking, and there’s no erasing it now. The truth doesn’t matter once the ink dries."

Mona leans back in her chair, twirling a pen between her fingers. "Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it? Because as it stands, your little piece was quite the work of fiction. And unfortunately for you, UK defamation law doesn’t take kindly to such creative liberties."

The line is quiet for a beat. Then, Wainwright chuckles, but there’s an edge to it now. "Miss Jensen, are you threatening me?"

Mona smiles, slow and predatory. "Oh, not at all. I much prefer… persuasion. Now, let’s talk about how you’re going to fix this."

Wainwright exhales, still confident but beginning to shift. "Fix this? My dear, I don’t believe there’s anything to fix. The public enjoys a bit of scandal, and your name just so happened to be at the center of it."

Mona chuckles, low and knowing. "That’s the problem, isn’t it? You see, Mr. Wainwright, when you manufacture a scandal instead of reporting one, you open yourself up to… complications. I imagine your publisher doesn’t like complications."

His tone shifts again, the humor dimming just a fraction. "I report what sells, Miss Jensen. And, well, you and your friend Mr. Nesmith sell quite nicely."

Mona hums in mock understanding. "Oh, I see. So you’ve decided to turn my life into a commodity? A nice little package to peddle for headlines? That’s cute, really. But you see, Mr. Wainwright, I don’t take kindly to being turned into a product."

He chuckles again, but it’s brittle. "That’s the nature of the business, I’m afraid."

Mona’s voice drops, silk wrapping around steel. "And that’s the nature of defamation law. Your little article—so full of… inaccuracies—paints quite the damaging picture of me. And in the UK, the burden of proof is on you, not me. That means it’s up to you to prove every single word you printed is true."

Silence. Then, Wainwright clears his throat. "You’re bluffing."

Mona tilts her head, knowing he can hear the smile in her voice. "Try me."

Another beat of silence, longer this time.

Wainwright inhales sharply. "You’re a sharp one, Miss Jensen. I’ll give you that."

"Oh, Mr. Wainwright, I’m far more than sharp." She leans forward, voice dipping to a whisper, lethal and sweet. "I’m patient. I’m strategic. And I never, ever, lose."

Wainwright exhales through his nose, his amusement waning. "You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. But persistence alone doesn’t win battles."

Mona tilts her head, her voice dropping to a silky whisper. "No, Mr. Wainwright. Strategy wins battles. And I always strategize three moves ahead." She lets the words settle, a calculated pause stretching between them. "You see, I already know how this ends. The question is—how much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice before we get there?"

Wainwright shifts, the pause on the line just a fraction too long. He knows he’s caught, tangled in her web, but he’s not ready to surrender. "You think you have me cornered?"

Mona’s smile is slow, deliberate, dripping with amusement. "Darling, I don’t think. I know. And I know something else too—you’re sweating."

Wainwright exhales sharply through his nose. "You certainly enjoy playing the villain, don’t you?"

Mona laughs, rich and velvety. "Oh, no, Mr. Wainwright. I enjoy winning. You’re mistaking cruelty for confidence, and that’s going to be your downfall. You see, I don’t need to play the villain. You’ve already written yourself into that role. I’m just here to deliver the consequences."

A silence, thick with the weight of her words.

Then, finally, Wainwright exhales. "What exactly do you want?"

Mona’s smile widens. "Oh, now we’re getting somewhere. I want you to print a retraction, a clear, undeniable correction. I want you to admit—without spin—that you took liberties with the truth. And I want it on the front page."

Wainwright lets out a choked laugh. "That’s absurd. I’d be humiliated."

Mona sighs, almost pitying. "You already are, Mr. Wainwright. You just haven’t realized it yet. What’s more humiliating? A retraction or a full-scale legal battle where every fabricated word you’ve ever published gets dragged into the light? Where sources start mysteriously contradicting your past work? Where editors begin distancing themselves? I wonder how long your precious career would last under that kind of scrutiny."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Then, a strained exhale. "I… I may be able to print a correction. Something subtle."

Mona clicks her tongue. "No, no, no. Subtle won’t do. You’re going to fix this properly. And you’re going to do it quickly. I’d hate for this to escalate beyond your control."

Wainwright swallows audibly. "Fine. I’ll… I’ll see what I can do."

Mona’s smile is triumphant. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? You have twenty-four hours. Don’t disappoint me."

The line clicks dead before he can respond.

A short while later, Mike steps back into Mona’s office, hands in his pockets, studying her with a bemused expression. "Y’look mighty pleased with yourself."

Mona leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head. "That’s because I am. Wainwright’s going to print a retraction."

Mike raises a skeptical brow. "Just like that?"

Mona smirks. "Well, not without some coaxing. But by the time I was done with him, he was practically shaking."

Mike pulls up a chair and leans forward, resting his arms on her desk. "So, how bad did ya spook ‘im?"

Mona’s smirk deepens. "Let’s just say he wasn’t as chatty toward the end."

Before Mike can respond, the door swings open and Herb Moelis strides in, followed closely by Bob Rafelson. Moelis glances between the two of them, eyes narrowing. "Well?"

Mona simply folds her hands on her desk. "Handled."

Bob exhales sharply, a thin curl of cigarette smoke escaping his lips as he shakes his head. "Handled? Just like that? You’re telling me that snake of a journalist backed down?"

Mona tilts her head. "He didn’t have much of a choice."

Moelis sits on the edge of the desk, rubbing his chin, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers. "How solid is this? Can he weasel out?"

"Not unless he wants to be buried in litigation for the next decade," Mona replies smoothly.

Before anyone can say another word, Bill Chadwick rushes in, a Telex sheet in hand. "You’re not gonna believe this."

He slaps the paper down onto Mona’s desk. Everyone crowds around as she scans the page, her lips curling in satisfaction.

"It’s already written," she muses. "He had this prepared before we even spoke. He was just seeing how long he could get away with not publishing it."

Mike huffs a laugh. "Guess he found out."

Moelis snatches the sheet off the desk, shaking his head as he skims it. "Son of a—unbelievable. The guy knew the whole time."

Bob scrubs a hand down his face. "Well, at least it’s done."

Mona leans back, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. It’s done. But let’s keep our guard up. I don’t trust a man like Wainwright to stay quiet forever."

She glances at Bob. "So, does the network still want the satire episode now that we have this?"

Bob exhales, rubbing his temple. "That’s the million-dollar question. They were all gung-ho about it when this mess was fresh. Now? They might not have the stomach for it."

Moelis waves the Telex, tapping the ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray. "We’ve got proof the story was bunk. If they want to play it safe, they’ll shelve it. If they want to make a statement, they’ll air it."

Mona nods slowly. "Guess we’ll see how brave they are."

Later that afternoon, Bob and Moelis sit across from Bert Schneider and David Feldman in a conference room, the Telex resting on the table between them. Schneider scans the page, exhaling sharply as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. "So Wainwright caved."

Moelis nods. "Faster than I expected. Which means he knew he’d screwed up."

Feldman steeples his fingers. "The question now is, do we move forward with the satire episode?"

Bob leans back, rubbing his chin. "The network’s gonna panic either way. But if we air it, we control the narrative. If we pull it, we look scared."

Schneider exhales, tapping the Telex with his fingers. "If we go forward, Standards and Practices will scrutinize every frame of it. If we cut it, the press will read it as an admission of guilt, even with the retraction."

Feldman shifts in his chair, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray before him. "So we’re damned either way."

Moelis folds his arms. "Not necessarily. The retraction helps, but we have to play it right. If we position the episode as a response to bad journalism rather than a personal grudge, we shift the focus away from Jensen and Nesmith and onto media ethics."

Bob nods slowly. "That could work. We let the network think it’s their decision, but we guide them toward seeing it as a stand for journalistic integrity."

Schneider rubs his temple. "And what if they refuse? What if they decide to kill it outright?"

Moelis shrugs. "Then we make sure everyone knows why. You think the press won’t eat up a story about a network caving to pressure? The Monkees being silenced? That sells just as well as controversy."

A beat of silence. Then Feldman sighs, leaning back. "It’s a gamble. But if we’re going to take the hit either way, we might as well make it count."

Schneider meets Bob’s gaze. "You really think the guys are up for this?"

Bob smirks. "I think they’d enjoy it a little too much."

Schneider exhales, nodding. "Alright. Let’s push forward and see where they stand. But we better be ready for a fight."

Bert and Bob gather the Monkees and Mona in the writers’ room, where Peter eagerly lays out a stack of papers. "Alright, fellas, this is the satire episode. I wrote most of it with the help of the writing staff," Peter says, his eyes bright with excitement. "It’s sharp, it’s funny, and it really takes a swing at media manipulation."

Davy groans, slumping back in his chair. "I already ‘ate it."

Peter frowns. "You haven’t even read it yet!"

"I don’t ‘ave to! It sounds preachy and annoying."

Micky flips through a few pages, his expression unreadable. Mona crosses her arms and leans forward slightly. "Do we even know if anyone outside this room knows about the episode yet? If the scandal dies with the retraction, does the response even matter?"

Micky nods at Mona. "That’s a good point. We don’t even know if the public cares. Are we making noise just for the sake of it? The whole thing made more sense when it felt like we were under attack. Now with the retraction, do we really need to do this?"

Mike crosses his arms, flipping his pages over without looking. "But, Bob!" he whines, dragging it out. "This whole thing just feels unnecessary now. We got what we wanted. Ain’t no point in pokin’ the bear."

Bob levels him with a look. 

Mike exhales sharply, rubbing his forehead. "Look, I get that it’d be fun to rub their noses in it, but what’s the upside? We already won."

Peter shakes his head. "No, we just didn’t lose. There’s a difference. The episode isn’t just about what happened to you and Mona. It’s about how the media twists everything, how the truth gets buried under headlines. This isn’t about us anymore—it’s about speaking truth to power."

Davy rolls his eyes. "Oh, great. So now we’re the Teenybopper Protestor Brigade. Just what the world needs."

Micky sighs, setting the script down. "I think we need to be sure about this. If we do this, we do it knowing it might blow up in our faces."

Bob leans back, considering, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before tapping the ash into an overflowing tray. "Maybe we shoot it and keep it in the can. If the story blows over, we don’t air it. No harm, no foul. But if things flare up again, we’ll have it ready. The network hasn’t made the final call yet. But if we fight for this, we have to be united. No half-measures."

Mike leans back, rubbing his chin. "Well, Midget, you got an opinion?"

Davy glares at him. "Yeah. Me opinion is this is a waste of time."

Peter folds his arms. "Well, I think it’s important."

Bob sighs, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as he weighs the decision. "Alright, then. We let the network decide. But be ready. If they go through with this, we all need to be singin’ from the same song sheet."

Bert and Bob step into Bob’s office, the weight of the meeting still hanging over them. Bob drops into his chair, rubbing his temple, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he exhales a slow stream of smoke. Bert perches on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms, flicking ash into a half-filled tray.

"Well, that was about what I expected," Bob mutters. "Micky’s on the fence, Snide’s fighting it just to be contrary, Davy’s being Davy, and Peter’s ready to charge ahead like he’s taking on the establishment himself."

Bert exhales, a thin curl of smoke escaping his lips as he shakes his head. "And Jensen?"

"She’s with Micky and Snide on this one—doesn’t see the point if no one outside the studio even knows about the episode yet. She’s practical. Figures if the public isn’t clamoring for an answer, we don’t need to give ‘em one."

Bert drums his fingers on the desk. "And she might be right. But if this thing does get out, if the press stirs the pot again, we’ll look reactionary instead of proactive."

Bob reaches for the phone, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray before picking up the receiver. "Let’s loop in Feldman. He needs to know that the ball’s in the network’s court now. The guys aren’t going to push one way or the other."

He dials, and after a few rings, David Feldman’s voice crackles on the line. "Yeah?"

Bob leans back in his chair. "We just met with the guys. They’re leaving the decision in the network’s hands. No one’s dead set against it, but no one’s going to the mat for it, either."

Feldman lets out a long sigh, taking a drag from his own cigarette on the other end of the line. "So, we’re just sitting on it? Because that’s not exactly a decisive move. The network’s going to ask what we’re trying to accomplish here—are we making a statement, or are we backing down?"

Bert shrugs. "For now. Bob had a decent idea—we shoot it and keep it in the can. If the network decides they want it later, we’re ready. If not, it never sees the light of day. No blood, no foul."

Feldman is quiet for a moment. "Alright, I see the logic. If we hold onto it, we’re not giving anyone ammunition, but we’re also not giving the network a chance to fumble it. The problem is, if we wait too long and suddenly decide to air it, it could look calculated in the worst way. Keeps everyone from looking weak, but doesn’t throw us into the fire if we don’t need to be there."

Bob smirks. "That’s the idea. We’re not waving a red flag in front of the bull unless we have to."

Feldman exhales. "Alright. I’ll take it up the chain, but you know how these guys are. If there’s even a whiff of controversy left, they’ll want to bury it. If they think they can ride the publicity wave safely, they’ll act like this was their idea all along. We’ll see what the brass wants to do."

Bert nods. "Just let us know where we stand."

"Will do."

Bob hangs up, glancing at Bert. "Now we wait."

Bert sighs, stubbing out his cigarette before pushing off the desk. "Yeah. And hope the network doesn’t get cold feet."

Two days later, the decision comes down. The network greenlights the episode—but with conditions. It’ll be filmed as planned, but there’s no commitment to air it. The brass is covering their bases, keeping the option open while avoiding immediate backlash.

Bob calls the Monkees and Mona into a production meeting to break the news. Peter flips through the latest script revisions, eyes scanning the pages with excitement. "This is great! It means we’ll get to make it!"

Davy throws up his hands, frustration clear in his voice. "Oh, brilliant. So we’re goin’ through all this trouble for somethin’ that might never see the light of day? I ‘ate this."

Micky, slumped in his chair, glances at Mona, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "I mean… it makes sense, right? We don’t lose anything by filming it. But it still feels weird."

Mike sighs, rubbing his face. "But, Bob! This is startin’ to feel like busy work. We already won. What’s the point?"

Bob just gives him a look.

Mike exhales sharply. "I’m serious, man. This whole thing is draggin’ on longer than it needs to."

Mona, arms crossed, nods. "Mike’s got a point there. The public doesn’t even know about this episode. If we were making this to counter a narrative, fine. But right now, there isn’t one. The scandal died with the retraction. If we don’t need to air a response, why are we making one?"

Bob shrugs. "Because now we have it in our back pocket. If things flare up again, we’re not scrambling. And if they don’t, then it stays on a shelf. No harm done."

Peter frowns. "But isn’t that worse? Holding onto something like this in case we need it later? That sounds manipulative."

Davy snorts. "Oh, welcome to Hollywood, Petah."

Micky sighs. "Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get it over with."

Bob leans back in his chair, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before tapping the ash into an overfilled tray. "Look, I know some of you aren’t thrilled, but this is the best option we’ve got. The network’s playing it safe, and so are we. Just do the job, and we’ll see where things land."

Chapter Text

Later that day, Mona meets with Moelis to check in. A haze of cigarette smoke lingers in the office, the sharp scent clinging to the air. As soon as she walks into his office, he holds up a newspaper. "We’ve got a problem."

Mona takes the paper, scanning the headline. It’s a gossip column piece hinting that the Monkees are working on a "secret episode" targeting the press. The details are vague, but the fact that it’s out there at all is a red flag.

Mona lowers the paper, jaw tightening. "This isn’t random. Someone in the studio leaked this."

Moelis nods. "Yeah. And if Wainwright’s out of the picture, that means we’ve got a mole."

Mona exhales slowly, already thinking three steps ahead. She sets the paper down on Moelis’s desk and leans forward, tapping her fingers against the headline. "This kind of leak doesn’t happen by accident. Someone fed them just enough to pique interest, but not enough to be useful. That means they want us paranoid."

Moelis leans back, arms crossed, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette as he considers Mona’s plan. After a moment, he nods.  "So what’s your move? And don’t tell me you’re just going to sit back and wait. You’re already three moves ahead, aren’t you?"

Mona smirks. "Naturally. But first, we bait the trap. We need to plant something juicy—something that’ll get the mole talking but won’t actually hurt us if it gets out. Like, say, a rumor that the Monkees are on pace to outsell both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. That ought to get someone’s attention.”

Moelis raises an eyebrow. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

Mona leans back in her chair, tapping her chin. "We leak it ourselves—just a whisper, just enough for someone to think they’ve got an inside scoop. Then we watch where it lands. If someone leaks that, we’ll know exactly who’s talking—and who they’re talking to. If we’re lucky, we flush them out fast. If not… we tighten the circle until only one person could’ve leaked it."

"Alright, Jensen. It’s risky, but I like it. We control the narrative, and we flush out the mole in one move. You’ve got my greenlight."

The next morning, Mona sets the stage carefully. She places herself in key areas—by the makeup trailer, near the production offices, in the commissary—casually dropping the rumor into conversations like a coin into a jukebox. She keeps it light, offhanded, making sure it sounds like an insider tidbit rather than a planted story.

At the makeup trailer, she leans against the doorway, chatting with one of the stylists. "Crazy thing I heard this morning—someone at RCA says the Monkees are on track to outsell both the Beatles and the Stones. Wild, huh?"

The stylist’s eyes widen. "No kidding?"

Mona shrugs. "Who knows? But if it’s true, that’s gonna shake up a lot of people."

Later, at the production offices, she tosses the line into a conversation with a couple of junior execs. "You wouldn’t believe what’s floating around—some industry folks think the Monkees might outsell even the biggest names. Numbers don’t lie."

By lunchtime, the rumor mill is abuzz. She catches snippets here and there—people repeating her exact phrasing, others stretching the claim into something even grander. The rumor takes on a life of its own, twisting as it spreads.

By midday, the first signs emerge. A production assistant mentions it offhandedly while fetching coffee, repeating Mona’s words almost verbatim. By the afternoon, one of the junior executives is heard talking about it in the lot, embellishing the claim with numbers and projected sales figures Mona never provided.

Mona watches the information travel through the grapevine, filtering through the studio like wildfire. She and Moelis reconvene that evening, comparing notes.

"We’ve got our spread," Moelis says, tossing a notepad onto his desk. "It’s moving fast. Faster than I expected."

Mona scans the notes, her expression stonefaced. "Which means our mole is eager. Desperate, even. They didn’t just pass it along—they ran with it. That’s sloppy."

Moelis leans forward, tapping ash from his cigarette into an overfilled tray. "Who do you like for it?"

Mona exhales a stream of cigarette smoke, narrowing her gaze. "I need to let it cook a little longer. But I’ve got a few names in mind."

Moelis smirks, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "So what’s next?""

Mona folds her arms. "Now? We give them something bigger to chew on. If they took the bait this easily, let’s see how far they’re willing to go."

Moelis frowns, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Hold on, Jensen. You’ve got ‘em talking already. If you push too hard, too fast, they might realize they’re being put-on. We don’t want the mole spooked—we want them comfortable."

Mona takes a slow drag from her cigarette, considering this, lips pressing into a thin line. "So you’re saying wait."

"I’m saying let’s see how this one shakes out before you go dropping another bomb. Give them time to act before you give them more to work with."

Mona exhales a thin plume of smoke through her nose. She doesn’t like sitting still, but she knows Moelis has a point. "Fine. But the moment I see an opening, I’m taking it."

Mona sits at her desk, cigarette dangling between her fingers, eyes narrowed as she stares at her notepad.

She has a list. A short list.

Somebody has been feeding details to the press—somebody inside their circle.

She’s ruled out the obvious. Bob? No way—he values control too much. Herb? Too careful. The guys? If one of them was dumb enough to run his mouth, it would be—

Mona stops.

Micky.

And who does Micky love to mess with?

Her jaw tightens.

Lizzie.

Mona picks up the phone and dials. The Connecticut line crackles for a few rings before a familiar voice answers, cheerful as ever.

"Hartford Exchange, Jackson 8-1894!"

"Cut the switchboard act, Lizzie," Mona says, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "We need to talk."

"Ooooh, am I in trouble?" Lizzie’s voice perks up. "Do I need a lawyer?"

Mona doesn’t smile. "Maybe."

Lizzie gasps. "Am I being sued?! Because that would really boost my street cred at Tiger Beat—"

"Lizzie."

Mona’s voice drops into that no-nonsense tone—the same one she uses when wrangling Bob, four Monkees, and an entire production crew.

Lizzie goes quiet for half a second.

"...Okay, what did I allegedly do?"

Mona takes a slow drag from her cigarette, exhales, and leans into the receiver.

"You wouldn’t happen to know anything about certain… rumors about Mike and me winding up in the press, would you?"

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

"ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF BEING A MOLE?!"

Mona rubs her temple. "Should I be?"

Lizzie gasps, deeply offended. "WOW. WOW. I sit here minding my own business, writing very important fluff pieces for Tiger Beat, and this is what I get?! You think I would sell you out? ME?!"

"I think you like attention," Mona says coolly.

"HOW DARE YOU."

"I think you like gossip."

"Okay, well, true, but still rude!"

Mona leans forward, cigarette balanced between her fingers. "And I think you run your mouth without thinking."

"EXCUSE ME," Lizzie huffs, "but I have journalistic integrity."

Mona scoffs. "You write for Tiger Beat, Lizzie."

"Yeah, and they edit out the best parts!" Lizzie throws her arms up—Mona can hear it through the phone. "If I was a mole, do you think the press would only be printing boring stuff like ‘Mike likes country music’? PLEASE. If I was gonna leak something, I’d make it entertaining."

Mona frowns. "So you admit you’ve got stuff you could leak?"

Lizzie’s jaw drops. "I DIDN’T SAY THAT!"

"You didn’t deny it."

"Unbelievable!" Lizzie groans.

Mona taps her cigarette against the ashtray. "You’ve never repeated something you heard on set?"

Lizzie hesitates. "...Okay, maybe once."

Mona’s eyes narrow. "Lizzie—"

"BUT IT WASN’T TO THE PRESS!" Lizzie throws her hands up so hard, Mona can hear the receiver shake. "I may occasionally talk a lot, but I’m not a rat!"

Mona exhales. "Then who did you talk to?"

Silence.

Then, Lizzie mutters, "...Micky."

Mona freezes.

Then, she slams her head onto her desk.

"You HAVE to be kidding me."

"Look, he asked!" Lizzie insists. "I figured since he’s in the band, it was, like, allowed gossip!"

Mona groans. "Unbelievable."

"I mean, don’t get me wrong—he was laughing the whole time—but he never told me not to say anything!"

Mona pinches the bridge of her nose. "Oh my stars, I am surrounded by morons."

Lizzie scoffs. "Hey! I am not a moron!"

"You willingly give classified information to Micky Dolenz," Mona deadpans. "What do you think he does with that information, Lizzie?"

Silence.

Lizzie blinks.

Lizzie thinks.

Lizzie realizes.

"...Oh no."

Mona smirks. "That’s right."

Lizzie gasps. "I fed the biggest loudmouth in this entire operation."

Mona takes another slow drag, nodding. "Mmmhmm."

Lizzie groans loudly into the receiver. "Oh my GOSH! You don’t think he actually told anyone, do you?!"

Mona lets the silence drag out just long enough for Lizzie to squirm.

Lizzie yelps. "I HAVE TO—UGH, NEVERMIND, HE’S TOO FAR AWAY FOR ME TO KILL!"

Mona snickers. "Tragic, really."

"I hate this," Lizzie grumbles.

"No, you don’t."

Lizzie sighs dramatically. "This is so unfair."

Mona exhales. "So, you didn’t leak to the press. But you are responsible for giving Micky Dolenz ammunition. And frankly, I don't know which is worse."

Lizzie frowns. "...Toppy?"

"What?"

"If I send him a really strongly worded letter, do you think that’ll scare him?"

Mona snorts. "No, but if you ask really nicely, I bet Tiger Beat will publish it."

Lizzie gasps. "That’s genius!"

"Absolutely not," Mona says immediately.

"But—"

"No!"

Lizzie groans. "Fine. I won't expose Micky in the press."

"Good girl."

"But I will make his life miserable the next time I visit."

Mona smirks. "Now that I can support."

Lizzie sighs. "I gotta go. I suddenly have so many regrets."

"Welcome to my world," Mona says dryly.

Lizzie hangs up.

Mona stays still for a moment, staring at the phone. Then, she exhales, reaching for her notepad. Absentmindedly, she taps her cigarette against the ashtray before scribbling a quick note: Keep an eye on Lizzie’s chatter with Micky. If it reaches the press, reassess.

She stares at the note for a moment, then underlines it before flipping the page. For now, Lizzie is still on the list—but not at the top. Not yet.

Mona leans back in her chair, cigarette between her fingers, and smirks.

Some days, she doesn’t have to lift a finger to cause chaos.

Some days, Lizzie and Micky do it for her.

Meanwhile, on set, Mike strolls over to grab a cup of coffee between takes. As he reaches for the pot, a voice behind him coos, "Rough morning?"

He turns to see Nurit Wilde, the studio photographer, adjusting her camera strap, her eyes lingering on him a beat too long. He offers a polite smirk. "Mornin’, Nurit. What’s the good word?"

She leans against the snack table, tilting her head. "Just snapping some candids. You know, for the archives. You boys sure are making history these days."

Mike snorts. "Yeah, somethin’ like that."

Nurit smiles, but there’s an edge to it. "I heard a little something interesting this morning. Word is, you’re outselling the Beatles and the Stones. That true?"

Mike stiffens just slightly, careful to keep his expression neutral. "You don’t believe everything you hear, do ya?"

She shrugs. "Depends on the source. But you have to admit, it’s an exciting thought. You, the biggest name in music. Quite the accomplishment."

Mike eyes her for a moment, then chuckles. "Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait an’ see, huh?"

Nurit studies him, as if searching for confirmation. "You don’t seem all that excited about it."

Mike grabs his coffee, taking a slow sip. "I don’t much like countin’ my chickens before they hatch."

Nurit hums in acknowledgment. "Smart man. Still, it’s a hell of a rumor. Bet Mona’s got her hands full keepin’ up with all this press."

Mike’s grip on his cup tightens fractionally. "Mona handles herself just fine."

Nurit’s smile twitches. "Oh, I’m sure she does. But with everything going on, I’d imagine it’s a lot of pressure. Must be tough, juggling all this attention."

Mike levels her with a steady gaze. "We’re all used to it by now."

A flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—crosses her face before she lifts her camera. "Smile for me? Just one shot."

Mike exhales through his nose, forcing a lazy grin as she snaps the picture. "There. Now you got somethin’ for the archives."

She lowers the camera, her expression unreadable. "Thanks, Mike. Always a pleasure."

As she walks off, Mike watches her go, a slight furrow in his brow. Something about that conversation didn’t sit right. But with cameras rolling again, he pushes the thought aside and heads back to set.

Mona doesn’t have to wait long.

That afternoon, Ann Moses from Tiger Beat pulls her aside outside the studio gates. The journalist looks both intrigued and skeptical, her notepad already in hand. "Mona, I’ve been hearing something interesting. Twice. Once inside the studio, once from an industry contact. Both times, the same story: the Monkees are outselling the Beatles and the Stones. What’s going on?"

Mona schools her features into something neutral, but inside, her stomach flips. The leak had officially left the studio. If Ann was hearing it from both inside and outside the lot, it meant the information was being deliberately spread. This wasn’t an accidental slip—it was a controlled detonation.

"Twice, you said?" Mona tilts her head. "Who told you?"

Ann chuckles, clicking her pen. "Come on, Mona. You know I don’t reveal sources. But I will say this—if it’s getting out this fast, you might want to get ahead of it. This kind of buzz doesn’t stay a rumor for long. And if I’m hearing it, so is everyone else."

Mona smiles tightly. "Duly noted."

She walks away with steady, measured steps, but inside, her mind is racing. If the mole was running with the information this quickly, it meant they either had an agenda or were being pressured to produce results. Either way, it was time to escalate.

Before Mona can put a plan into action, Bob Rafelson storms into her office, slamming the door behind him so hard that the walls shake. "What the hell is this?" He waves a memo so violently that the pages crinkle in his grip. "The network’s breathing down my neck, asking if we’re trying to start some kind of pissing contest with The Beatles!"

Herb Moelis, seated in the corner, doesn’t even flinch. He casually crosses his arms. "Relax, Bob. I approved this."

Bob whirls on him, his face darkening. "You what?"

Moelis shrugs, lighting up a cigarette of his own. "Jensen needed a way to flush out the mole. This was the bait. It was a calculated risk."

Bob rakes a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the office, then pulls out his own cigarette and lights it with sharp, irritated movements. He takes a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling before speaking again. "A risk? That’s one way to put it. This little stunt has network execs panicking, the PR team working overtime, and now I’ve got to convince the suits that we’re not about to declare war on the entire British Invasion!"

Mona exhales, keeping her voice even. "We didn’t expect it to hit the press this soon. That means whoever’s leaking isn’t just talking—they’re running. And fast."

Bob stops pacing and glares at her, smoke curling around his face. "And what’s your plan to fix this before it blows up in our faces?"

Mona folds her arms. "We narrow the suspects and catch them in the act. We’re already closing in."

Bob huffs, taking another hard drag off his cigarette, but he knows there’s no undoing what’s been done. He points a finger at her. "You’d better hope this works, Jensen. Because if this spirals any further, I’m not the only one you’re going to have to answer to."

He storms out, slamming the door again for good measure, leaving the air in the room thick with tension and cigarette smoke. Mona releases a slow breath as Moelis leans back in his chair, smirking. "I think that went well."

Mona shoots him a glare. "You’re not the one he wants to strangle."

Later that night, as Mona is getting ready to leave, she barely takes a step outside the office before a firm hand grips her wrist and pulls her into the nearest dressing room. She doesn’t need to look to know whose it is.

Mike shuts the door behind them, the familiar dim glow of clear Christmas lights reflecting off the aluminum-covered walls of his sanctuary—the infamous "Dungeon." It’s cluttered, a mess of his own making, but it’s also where Mona does some of her best thinking. Her cigarette packs, pinned to the wall with safety pins, rustle slightly as the door clicks shut.

He crosses his arms. "Mona, what the hell’s goin’ on?"

She raises a brow. "Nice to see you, too."

Mike isn’t in the mood for games. "Nurit was askin’ me about that Beatles-Stones rumor. The whole conversation felt off."

Mona stills. "Off how?"

Mike rubs his jaw, looking at the floor like he’s still piecing it together. "She wasn’t just curious. She was diggin’. And not in the usual way. Somethin’ about it felt… I dunno, calculated. Like she wanted me to confirm somethin’ she already knew."

Mona’s pulse quickens. She hadn’t put Nurit on her radar, but if Mike was picking up on something, she couldn’t ignore it. His intuition was razor-sharp when he wasn’t clouded by his own stubbornness.

"You think she’s up to something?" Mona asks carefully.

Mike exhales, his fingers drumming against the wall. "I don’t know. But I think you need to start lookin’ in her direction."

Mona leans against the wall, her arms crossing over her chest as she processes this new piece of the puzzle. If Nurit was pressing Mike, that meant she wasn’t just a passive conduit—she was actively fishing for more. The question was, why?

Mike watches her expression shift and narrows his eyes. "You knew somethin’ was up before I told you. Didn’t ya?"

Mona doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a cigarette, tapping it against her palm. "Let’s just say you’re not the only one noticing patterns."

Mike takes a step closer. "Mona. How much do you already know?"

She lights her cigarette, exhaling smoke between them before finally meeting his gaze. "Enough to know that this isn’t just some loose-lipped gossip. We’ve got a problem, and it’s bigger than I thought."

Mike doesn’t look away, and for a long moment, neither of them speak. Then, finally, he mutters, "Well, hell."

The next morning, Mona meets with Moelis in his office. She leans against the desk, arms crossed, her nails tapping against the wood in a slow, methodical rhythm. "Mike says Nurit’s been sniffing around."

Moelis nods slowly, taking his time lighting a cigarette, the flick of the lighter filling the silence between them. "I had a feeling it’d be someone with access to the band. If she’s asking questions, she’s not just passing along gossip—she’s working an angle."

Mona exhales a stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. "Then we set a trap. I’ll plant another story and see where it lands."

Moelis shakes his head. "Not yet. We already rattled the cage once. If we push too hard, too soon, she might catch on. Let’s see if she acts on what she already thinks she knows."

Mona presses her lips together, frustration simmering beneath the surface. She hates waiting. Hates feeling like she’s a step behind. But she nods, forcing herself to stay patient. "Fine. But I’m keeping an eye on her."

By lunchtime, trouble starts brewing.

A fresh blind item appears in a gossip column, dripping with barely veiled malice: *“A certain musician’s girlfriend seems to think she’s part of the band. But the real question is—how much longer before the boys get tired of her pulling the strings?”*

Mona skims the piece, her jaw tightening, her grip on the paper just shy of crumpling it. This wasn’t vague speculation anymore. It was targeted.

When she walks onto the set, she spots Nurit lingering near the cameras, casually chatting with a crew member. Too casual. Nurit’s body language is loose, almost lazy, but her eyes dart around the set with sharp, observant flicks. She’s watching for something. Or someone.

A few minutes later, as if on cue, Nurit strolls up to her, concern written all over her face like a mask. "Mona, have you seen this?" She holds up a copy of the column, her brows knit together in faux sympathy. "You know how these rag writers are. They’ll twist anything."

Mona takes the paper, careful to keep her expression neutral. "Yeah. Real shame. Wonder where they get this stuff."

Nurit shrugs, brushing her hair over her shoulder, her tone deceptively light. "People talk. You know how it is." She gives Mona a look, all wide eyes and false innocence. "Being so close to the band, it was bound to happen sooner or later."

Mona holds her gaze, watching for any flicker of guilt, any crack in the performance. Nurit doesn’t flinch, but there—just for a fraction of a second—Mona catches it. A sliver of something. Satisfaction?

"I’m not worried," Mona says smoothly. "If there’s nothing to the story, there’s nothing to talk about."

Nurit nods, her expression neutral, but Mona sees it this time. The corners of her lips twitch, like she’s suppressing a smirk. Then she turns away, disappearing into the maze of the set.

Mona lets out a slow breath. If she had any lingering doubts before, they were gone now.

Later that afternoon, another article drops—this time from a bigger outlet, the language sharper, the insinuations nastier.

*“Tension is brewing among the Monkees, and sources say it has everything to do with one woman. With the group already struggling to be taken seriously, is it wise to let an outsider play puppeteer?”*

Davy, sitting in the dressing room with his feet kicked up, reads it aloud, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, brilliant. So now we’re all at each other’s throats ‘cause Mona exists? Right."

Peter frowns, glancing over at Mona. "Is this serious? Should we be worried?"

Micky, slouched in his chair, flips through the article with a lazy flick of his wrist. "It’s garbage, but garbage spreads."

Mike doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches Mona, studying her expression as she reads. Finally, he mutters, "This ain’t random. Someone’s pushin’ this."

Mona exhales through her nose. "I know."

Davy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So what do we do? Let it blow over? Or do we fight back?"

Peter shakes his head. "Ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. These kinds of stories—people eat them up. Even if it’s nonsense, it sticks."

Micky sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "Great. So what? We make a statement? Do an interview? What’s the move here?"

Mike finally speaks, his voice low and even. "The move is we don’t panic. If we start jumpin’ at shadows, we’ll look guilty of somethin’."

Mona nods. "Mike’s right. But we also can’t pretend this isn’t coordinated. Someone’s feeding them this narrative, and we need to figure out who."

That evening, Moelis walks into Mona’s office and tosses a newspaper onto her desk with a thud. "This isn’t just idle gossip. Someone’s got it out for you."

Mona picks it up, scanning the article, her lips pressing into a thin line. The headline reads: *'Trouble in Monkee Land? Insiders Say a Certain Woman is Calling the Shots—But Not Everyone’s Happy About It.'* The text is ruthless, painting her as a meddling figure pulling strings behind the scenes, creating discord among the band. It cites 'anonymous sources' claiming that tensions have been rising ever since her involvement became 'more than professional.'

Mona's grip tightens. The wording is too deliberate, too precise. This wasn’t just rumor-mill churn. This was manufactured.

Moelis leans against her desk, arms crossed. "This ain’t just some loose-lipped assistant talking out of turn. This is targeted."

Mona nods slowly, tapping a finger against the paper. "Then it’s time we start playing offense."

Moelis takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thick stream of smoke. "And how exactly do you plan to do that, Jensen?"

Mona smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "We make them think they’ve already won. We let them feel comfortable. The moment they get sloppy, that’s when we move."

Moelis tilts his head. "So you’re gonna let ‘em keep digging their own grave?"

She leans back in her chair, her fingers still drumming against the desk. "For now. But when the time comes, I want to be the one holding the shovel."

Her pulse thrums in her ears. Someone wasn’t just feeding gossip—they were engineering a takedown. And she was about to find out exactly who was pulling the strings.

Chapter Text

Later that day, Mona meets with Moelis to check in. A haze of cigarette smoke lingers in the office, the sharp scent clinging to the air. As soon as she walks into his office, he holds up a newspaper. "We’ve got a problem."

Mona takes the paper, scanning the headline. It’s a gossip column piece hinting that the Monkees are working on a "secret episode" targeting the press. The details are vague, but the fact that it’s out there at all is a red flag.

Mona lowers the paper, jaw tightening. "This isn’t random. Someone in the studio leaked this."

Moelis nods. "Yeah. And if Wainwright’s out of the picture, that means we’ve got a mole."

Mona exhales slowly, already thinking three steps ahead. She sets the paper down on Moelis’s desk and leans forward, tapping her fingers against the headline. "This kind of leak doesn’t happen by accident. Someone fed them just enough to pique interest, but not enough to be useful. That means they want us paranoid."

Moelis leans back, arms crossed, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette as he considers Mona’s plan. After a moment, he nods.  "So what’s your move? And don’t tell me you’re just going to sit back and wait. You’re already three moves ahead, aren’t you?"

Mona smirks. "Naturally. But first, we bait the trap. We need to plant something juicy—something that’ll get the mole talking but won’t actually hurt us if it gets out. Like, say, a rumor that the Monkees are on pace to outsell both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. That ought to get someone’s attention.”

Moelis raises an eyebrow. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

Mona leans back in her chair, tapping her chin. "We leak it ourselves—just a whisper, just enough for someone to think they’ve got an inside scoop. Then we watch where it lands. If someone leaks that, we’ll know exactly who’s talking—and who they’re talking to. If we’re lucky, we flush them out fast. If not… we tighten the circle until only one person could’ve leaked it."

"Alright, Jensen. It’s risky, but I like it. We control the narrative, and we flush out the mole in one move. You’ve got my greenlight."

The next morning, Mona sets the stage carefully. She places herself in key areas—by the makeup trailer, near the production offices, in the commissary—casually dropping the rumor into conversations like a coin into a jukebox. She keeps it light, offhanded, making sure it sounds like an insider tidbit rather than a planted story.

At the makeup trailer, she leans against the doorway, chatting with one of the stylists. "Crazy thing I heard this morning—someone at RCA says the Monkees are on track to outsell both the Beatles and the Stones. Wild, huh?"

The stylist’s eyes widen. "No kidding?"

Mona shrugs. "Who knows? But if it’s true, that’s gonna shake up a lot of people."

Later, at the production offices, she tosses the line into a conversation with a couple of junior execs. "You wouldn’t believe what’s floating around—some industry folks think the Monkees might outsell even the biggest names. Numbers don’t lie."

By lunchtime, the rumor mill is abuzz. She catches snippets here and there—people repeating her exact phrasing, others stretching the claim into something even grander. The rumor takes on a life of its own, twisting as it spreads.

By midday, the first signs emerge. A production assistant mentions it offhandedly while fetching coffee, repeating Mona’s words almost verbatim. By the afternoon, one of the junior executives is heard talking about it in the lot, embellishing the claim with numbers and projected sales figures Mona never provided.

Mona watches the information travel through the grapevine, filtering through the studio like wildfire. She and Moelis reconvene that evening, comparing notes.

"We’ve got our spread," Moelis says, tossing a notepad onto his desk. "It’s moving fast. Faster than I expected."

Mona scans the notes, her expression stonefaced. "Which means our mole is eager. Desperate, even. They didn’t just pass it along—they ran with it. That’s sloppy."

Moelis leans forward, tapping ash from his cigarette into an overfilled tray. "Who do you like for it?"

Mona exhales a stream of cigarette smoke, narrowing her gaze. "I need to let it cook a little longer. But I’ve got a few names in mind."

Moelis smirks, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "So what’s next?""

Mona folds her arms. "Now? We give them something bigger to chew on. If they took the bait this easily, let’s see how far they’re willing to go."

Moelis frowns, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Hold on, Jensen. You’ve got ‘em talking already. If you push too hard, too fast, they might realize they’re being put-on. We don’t want the mole spooked—we want them comfortable."

Mona takes a slow drag from her cigarette, considering this, lips pressing into a thin line. "So you’re saying wait."

"I’m saying let’s see how this one shakes out before you go dropping another bomb. Give them time to act before you give them more to work with."

Mona exhales a thin plume of smoke through her nose. She doesn’t like sitting still, but she knows Moelis has a point. "Fine. But the moment I see an opening, I’m taking it."

Meanwhile, on set, Mike strolls over to grab a cup of coffee between takes. As he reaches for the pot, a voice behind him coos, "Rough morning?"

He turns to see Nurit Wilde, the studio photographer, adjusting her camera strap, her eyes lingering on him a beat too long. He offers a polite smirk. "Mornin’, Nurit. What’s the good word?"

She leans against the snack table, tilting her head. "Just snapping some candids. You know, for the archives. You boys sure are making history these days."

Mike snorts. "Yeah, somethin’ like that."

Nurit smiles, but there’s an edge to it. "I heard a little something interesting this morning. Word is, you’re outselling the Beatles and the Stones. That true?"

Mike stiffens just slightly, careful to keep his expression neutral. "You don’t believe everything you hear, do ya?"

She shrugs. "Depends on the source. But you have to admit, it’s an exciting thought. You, the biggest name in music. Quite the accomplishment."

Mike eyes her for a moment, then chuckles. "Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait an’ see, huh?"

Nurit studies him, as if searching for confirmation. "You don’t seem all that excited about it."

Mike grabs his coffee, taking a slow sip. "I don’t much like countin’ my chickens before they hatch."

Nurit hums in acknowledgment. "Smart man. Still, it’s a hell of a rumor. Bet Mona’s got her hands full keepin’ up with all this press."

Mike’s grip on his cup tightens fractionally. "Mona handles herself just fine."

Nurit’s smile twitches. "Oh, I’m sure she does. But with everything going on, I’d imagine it’s a lot of pressure. Must be tough, juggling all this attention."

Mike levels her with a steady gaze. "We’re all used to it by now."

A flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—crosses her face before she lifts her camera. "Smile for me? Just one shot."

Mike exhales through his nose, forcing a lazy grin as she snaps the picture. "There. Now you got somethin’ for the archives."

She lowers the camera, her expression unreadable. "Thanks, Mike. Always a pleasure."

As she walks off, Mike watches her go, a slight furrow in his brow. Something about that conversation didn’t sit right. But with cameras rolling again, he pushes the thought aside and heads back to set.

Mona doesn’t have to wait long.

That afternoon, Ann Moses from *Tiger Beat* pulls her aside outside the studio gates. The journalist looks both intrigued and skeptical, her notepad already in hand. "Mona, I’ve been hearing something interesting. Twice. Once inside the studio, once from an industry contact. Both times, the same story: the Monkees are outselling the Beatles and the Stones. What’s going on?"

Mona schools her features into something neutral, but inside, her stomach flips. The leak had officially left the studio. If Ann was hearing it from both inside and outside the lot, it meant the information was being deliberately spread. This wasn’t an accidental slip—it was a controlled detonation.

"Twice, you said?" Mona tilts her head. "Who told you?"

Ann chuckles, clicking her pen. "Come on, Mona. You know I don’t reveal sources. But I will say this—if it’s getting out this fast, you might want to get ahead of it. This kind of buzz doesn’t stay a rumor for long. And if I’m hearing it, so is everyone else."

Mona smiles tightly. "Duly noted."

She walks away with steady, measured steps, but inside, her mind is racing. If the mole was running with the information this quickly, it meant they either had an agenda or were being pressured to produce results. Either way, it was time to escalate.

Before Mona can put a plan into action, Bob Rafelson storms into her office, slamming the door behind him so hard that the walls shake. "What the hell is this?" He waves a memo so violently that the pages crinkle in his grip. "The network’s breathing down my neck, asking if we’re trying to start some kind of pissing contest with The Beatles!"

Herb Moelis, seated in the corner, doesn’t even flinch. He casually crosses his arms. "Relax, Bob. I approved this."

Bob whirls on him, his face darkening. "You what?"

Moelis shrugs, lighting up a cigarette of his own. "Jensen needed a way to flush out the mole. This was the bait. It was a calculated risk."

Bob rakes a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the office, then pulls out his own cigarette and lights it with sharp, irritated movements. He takes a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling before speaking again. "A risk? That’s one way to put it. This little stunt has network execs panicking, the PR team working overtime, and now I’ve got to convince the suits that we’re not about to declare war on the entire British Invasion!"

Mona exhales, keeping her voice even. "We didn’t expect it to hit the press this soon. That means whoever’s leaking isn’t just talking—they’re running. And fast."

Bob stops pacing and glares at her, smoke curling around his face. "And what’s your plan to fix this before it blows up in our faces?"

Mona folds her arms. "We narrow the suspects and catch them in the act. We’re already closing in."

Bob huffs, taking another hard drag off his cigarette, but he knows there’s no undoing what’s been done. He points a finger at her. "You’d better hope this works, Jensen. Because if this spirals any further, I’m not the only one you’re going to have to answer to."

He storms out, slamming the door again for good measure, leaving the air in the room thick with tension and cigarette smoke. Mona releases a slow breath as Moelis leans back in his chair, smirking. "I think that went well."

Mona shoots him a glare. "You’re not the one he wants to strangle."

Later that night, as Mona is getting ready to leave, she barely takes a step outside the office before a firm hand grips her wrist and pulls her into the nearest dressing room. She doesn’t need to look to know whose it is.

Mike shuts the door behind them, the familiar dim glow of clear Christmas lights reflecting off the aluminum-covered walls of his sanctuary—the infamous "Dungeon." It’s cluttered, a mess of his own making, but it’s also where Mona does some of her best thinking. Her cigarette packs, pinned to the wall with safety pins, rustle slightly as the door clicks shut.

He crosses his arms. "Mona, what the hell’s goin’ on?"

She raises a brow. "Nice to see you, too."

Mike isn’t in the mood for games. "Nurit was askin’ me about that Beatles-Stones rumor. The whole conversation felt off."

Mona stills. "Off how?"

Mike rubs his jaw, looking at the floor like he’s still piecing it together. "She wasn’t just curious. She was diggin’. And not in the usual way. Somethin’ about it felt… I dunno, calculated. Like she wanted me to confirm somethin’ she already knew."

Mona’s pulse quickens. She hadn’t put Nurit on her radar, but if Mike was picking up on something, she couldn’t ignore it. His intuition was razor-sharp when he wasn’t clouded by his own stubbornness.

"You think she’s up to something?" Mona asks carefully.

Mike exhales, his fingers drumming against the wall. "I don’t know. But I think you need to start lookin’ in her direction."

Mona leans against the wall, her arms crossing over her chest as she processes this new piece of the puzzle. If Nurit was pressing Mike, that meant she wasn’t just a passive conduit—she was actively fishing for more. The question was, why?

Mike watches her expression shift and narrows his eyes. "You knew somethin’ was up before I told you. Didn’t ya?"

Mona doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a cigarette, tapping it against her palm. "Let’s just say you’re not the only one noticing patterns."

Mike takes a step closer. "Mona. How much do you already know?"

She lights her cigarette, exhaling smoke between them before finally meeting his gaze. "Enough to know that this isn’t just some loose-lipped gossip. We’ve got a problem, and it’s bigger than I thought."

Mike doesn’t look away, and for a long moment, neither of them speak. Then, finally, he mutters, "Well, hell."

The next morning, Mona meets with Moelis in his office. She leans against the desk, arms crossed, her nails tapping against the wood in a slow, methodical rhythm. "Mike says Nurit’s been sniffing around."

Moelis nods slowly, taking his time lighting a cigarette, the flick of the lighter filling the silence between them. "I had a feeling it’d be someone with access to the band. If she’s asking questions, she’s not just passing along gossip—she’s working an angle."

Mona exhales a stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. "Then we set a trap. I’ll plant another story and see where it lands."

Moelis shakes his head. "Not yet. We already rattled the cage once. If we push too hard, too soon, she might catch on. Let’s see if she acts on what she already thinks she knows."

Mona presses her lips together, frustration simmering beneath the surface. She hates waiting. Hates feeling like she’s a step behind. But she nods, forcing herself to stay patient. "Fine. But I’m keeping an eye on her."

By lunchtime, trouble starts brewing.

A fresh blind item appears in a gossip column, dripping with barely veiled malice: *“A certain musician’s girlfriend seems to think she’s part of the band. But the real question is—how much longer before the boys get tired of her pulling the strings?”*

Mona skims the piece, her jaw tightening, her grip on the paper just shy of crumpling it. This wasn’t vague speculation anymore. It was targeted.

When she walks onto the set, she spots Nurit lingering near the cameras, casually chatting with a crew member. Too casual. Nurit’s body language is loose, almost lazy, but her eyes dart around the set with sharp, observant flicks. She’s watching for something. Or someone.

A few minutes later, as if on cue, Nurit strolls up to her, concern written all over her face like a mask. "Mona, have you seen this?" She holds up a copy of the column, her brows knit together in faux sympathy. "You know how these rag writers are. They’ll twist anything."

Mona takes the paper, careful to keep her expression neutral. "Yeah. Real shame. Wonder where they get this stuff."

Nurit shrugs, brushing her hair over her shoulder, her tone deceptively light. "People talk. You know how it is." She gives Mona a look, all wide eyes and false innocence. "Being so close to the band, it was bound to happen sooner or later."

Mona holds her gaze, watching for any flicker of guilt, any crack in the performance. Nurit doesn’t flinch, but there—just for a fraction of a second—Mona catches it. A sliver of something. Satisfaction?

"I’m not worried," Mona says smoothly. "If there’s nothing to the story, there’s nothing to talk about."

Nurit nods, her expression neutral, but Mona sees it this time. The corners of her lips twitch, like she’s suppressing a smirk. Then she turns away, disappearing into the maze of the set.

Mona lets out a slow breath. If she had any lingering doubts before, they were gone now.

Later that afternoon, another article drops—this time from a bigger outlet, the language sharper, the insinuations nastier.

*“Tension is brewing among the Monkees, and sources say it has everything to do with one woman. With the group already struggling to be taken seriously, is it wise to let an outsider play puppeteer?”*

Davy, sitting in the dressing room with his feet kicked up, reads it aloud, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, brilliant. So now we’re all at each other’s throats ‘cause Mona exists? Right."

Peter frowns, glancing over at Mona. "Is this serious? Should we be worried?"

Micky, slouched in his chair, flips through the article with a lazy flick of his wrist. "It’s garbage, but garbage spreads."

Mike doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches Mona, studying her expression as she reads. Finally, he mutters, "This ain’t random. Someone’s pushin’ this."

Mona exhales through her nose. "I know."

Davy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So what do we do? Let it blow over? Or do we fight back?"

Peter shakes his head. "Ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. These kinds of stories—people eat them up. Even if it’s nonsense, it sticks."

Micky sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "Great. So what? We make a statement? Do an interview? What’s the move here?"

Mike finally speaks, his voice low and even. "The move is we don’t panic. If we start jumpin’ at shadows, we’ll look guilty of somethin’."

Mona nods. "Mike’s right. But we also can’t pretend this isn’t coordinated. Someone’s feeding them this narrative, and we need to figure out who."

That evening, Moelis walks into Mona’s office and tosses a newspaper onto her desk with a thud. "This isn’t just idle gossip. Someone’s got it out for you."

Mona picks it up, scanning the article, her lips pressing into a thin line. The headline reads: *'Trouble in Monkee Land? Insiders Say a Certain Woman is Calling the Shots—But Not Everyone’s Happy About It.'* The text is ruthless, painting her as a meddling figure pulling strings behind the scenes, creating discord among the band. It cites 'anonymous sources' claiming that tensions have been rising ever since her involvement became 'more than professional.'

Mona's grip tightens. The wording is too deliberate, too precise. This wasn’t just rumor-mill churn. This was manufactured.

Moelis leans against her desk, arms crossed. "This ain’t just some loose-lipped assistant talking out of turn. This is targeted."

Mona nods slowly, tapping a finger against the paper. "Then it’s time we start playing offense."

Moelis takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thick stream of smoke. "And how exactly do you plan to do that, Jensen?"

Mona smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "We make them think they’ve already won. We let them feel comfortable. The moment they get sloppy, that’s when we move."

Moelis tilts his head. "So you’re gonna let ‘em keep digging their own grave?"

She leans back in her chair, her fingers still drumming against the desk. "For now. But when the time comes, I want to be the one holding the shovel."

Her pulse thrums in her ears. Someone wasn’t just feeding gossip—they were engineering a takedown. And she was about to find out exactly who was pulling the strings.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Mona walks onto the lot with purpose, her heels clicking against the pavement. She had spent the night thinking, turning over every angle, every possible player in this game of sabotage. Now, it was time to start playing offense.

She finds Moelis already in his office, his ashtray overflowing, the stale scent of smoke thick in the air. He doesn’t even look up as she steps inside. "You’ve got that look, Jensen. What’s the play?"

Mona leans against the desk, arms crossed. "We set the bait."

Moelis exhales a slow drag from his cigarette. "I’m listenin'. But ya know, Jensen, this kinda thing? It ain't like fixin’ a busted faucet. Ya turn the wrong screw, and the whole damn thing floods."

She lays it out. "I let it slip that I’m considering doing an exclusive interview—setting the record straight about my role with the Monkees, clearing up any so-called ‘tension.’ We let the right people hear it, let it get around. If our mole is who we think they are, they won’t be able to resist running to the press."

Moelis smirks. "That’s good. But you know this could backfire, right? If the network catches wind of it…"

"They won’t," Mona interjects. "Not before we have proof of who’s leaking. And once we do, I’ll shut it down before anything gets printed."

Moelis stubs out his cigarette with a sharp flick. "Alright, Jensen. Let’s see how good ya poker face is. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya when this thing goes sideways."

By midday, Mona starts planting the seeds.

She makes an offhand comment in the production office, just loud enough for the right people to hear. "I don’t know," she muses to a passing assistant. "Maybe it’s time I actually talk to the press instead of letting them write whatever they want."

Then, she makes her way to the makeup department, where Susie Lyndell is fixing up one of the background actors. As Susie sets down her powder brush, Mona leans against the counter and sighs dramatically. "You know, Susie, maybe it’s time I actually talk to the press instead of letting them write whatever they want. If I don’t, someone else will just make up the story for me.

Susie gives her a knowing look through the mirror, raising an eyebrow. "That’s risky business, Mona. You sure you want to stir the pot?"

Mona shrugs, playing it casual. "I don’t know. But I’m tired of letting other people do it for me."

Nearby, Nurit adjusts her camera strap, her posture subtly shifting as she pretends not to be listening.

An hour later, she lets a similar remark slip while chatting with a publicist near the soundstage. "If I do sit down for an interview, it’d have to be with someone who’ll let me tell the truth, not spin some headline about ‘tension in the Monkees.’"

She watches carefully. Every time she speaks, Nurit is within earshot.

By late afternoon, Mona’s patience pays off.

During a break in filming, she spots Nurit near the craft services table, whispering to one of the set decorators. Mona slows her steps, adjusting the script pages in her hand as if she isn’t paying attention. But her focus is razor-sharp, watching the way Nurit leans in, the way her eyes flicker with satisfaction as she speaks. It isn’t just casual gossip—there’s intent behind it. Nurit isn't just passing on a rumor; she's savoring the delivery. Mona doesn’t hear the full exchange, but she doesn’t need to. The smug tilt of Nurit’s mouth tells her everything. The information is out, and Nurit thinks she’s gotten away with it. Mona forces herself to keep walking, to keep her expression neutral, but inside, she knows—this is it. 

The trap is set.

The next morning, the press bites.

An industry gossip column runs a piece: *“Exclusive Interview in the Works? Sources Say Mona Jensen is Ready to Set the Record Straight.”*

The article is full of speculation, but the phrasing is telling. It claims that Mona is "gearing up to expose the truth about her role behind the scenes" and that she plans to "address the internal struggles within the Monkees." Mona clenches her teeth as she reads. The way it’s spun makes it sound like a scandalous exposé, something she never even implied.

She folds the paper and tosses it onto Moelis’s desk. "Well, there’s our answer."

Moelis picks up the paper, scanning it with a bemused smirk, then reaches for another cigarette, tapping it against the pack before lighting it with slow precision. "You see this? This ain't just some schmuck tryna stir the pot. Somebody wants ya six feet under—career-wise, at least."

Mona exhales a slow stream of smoke, arms crossed, as Moelis does the same. The air between them thickens, the silent exchange saying more than words. "And now we know exactly where they went with it. It’s Nurit."

Moelis nods, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Yeah, but we need more than just suspicion. What d’you wanna do? March up to her an’ say, ‘Hey, sweetheart, mind tellin’ us why ya runnin’ yer mouth to the press?’ Nah. We need her dead to rights. We need somethin' concrete."

Mona’s eyes narrow. "Then we push her one more time."

Meanwhile, back on set, the Monkees are not happy.

Davy slams a copy of the article onto the makeup counter, hard enough that a few makeup brushes rattle in their holders. "Oh, *brilliant*. Now it’s a tell-all? What the hell is this? First, we’re outselling The Beatles, and now we’re supposed to be at each other’s throats because of Mona? Are they tryin’ to make us look like a bloody soap opera?"

Susie snorts, barely glancing up from her work. "Looks like your girlfriend’s makin’ waves, Snide. You keepin’ up or just treading water?" She tosses a powder brush into her kit and smirks at Davy. "What’s next, Midget? Are they gonna say you’ve been secretly dating *Petah*?"

Mike shoots her a look but doesn’t take the bait. "Not the time, Susie."

Peter, looking disheartened, shakes his head. "This makes it sound like Mona’s airing dirty laundry. That’s not what she’d do."

Micky sighs, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, but perception’s reality. You know how this business works."

Susie snorts, rolling her eyes. "Perception’s been Mona’s problem from day one. This is what happens when you let people think you’re something you’re not."

Mike stays quiet for a beat, then turns to Mona, his expression unreadable. "Tell me this was part of the plan."

Mona meets his gaze evenly. "It was. But not like this."

Mike exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "This could backfire, darlin’."

Mona nods. "I know. But we’ve got her now. Nurit ran straight to the press, just like we expected."

Mike crosses his arms. "Alright. So what’s next?"

Mona smirks. "Now? We give her one more story to chase. And this time, we catch her in the act."

Mona and Moelis sit in his office, the tension thick between them, the air dense with cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. The desk lamp casts a hazy glow over the stacks of papers, but neither of them looks at the mess. Their eyes are locked on each other, a silent understanding crackling between them like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Moelis flicks his ash into the tray, his Brooklyn drawl slow and measured. "Alright, Jensen. What’s the next move? And don’t gimme some half-baked answer. We need to put this to bed."

Mona lifts her cigarette to her lips, takes a slow, indulgent drag, then exhales through her nose like a dragon weighing its next target. "We make it bigger. We feed her something even more irresistible."

Moelis raises a skeptical brow, leaning back in his chair. "What, you tell her the Monkees are actually Martians? Maybe say Michael's got an antenna hidden under his hat?"

Mona smirks, the flicker of amusement gone just as quickly as it arrives. "Almost as ridiculous. We let it slip that the band is on the verge of breaking up. Internal struggles, creative differences, solo projects—everything the press wants to hear. A feeding frenzy. And Nurit won’t be able to resist."

Moelis lets out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face. "That’s a hell of a bomb to drop. You sure you wanna play it that big? If this gets out, it ain’t gonna be some cute little tabloid blurb. You’re talkin’ headlines, headlines that’ll make the network sweat."

Mona leans forward, tapping her manicured nails against the desk. "If Nurit’s as desperate as we think, she won’t be able to resist. She’ll run straight to the press, thinking she’s got the inside track of the year. And when she does… we’ll be waiting."

Moelis takes a long drag, his expression unreadable. He exhales, the smoke curling between them like a silent agreement before he stubs out the cigarette with finality. "Alright, Jensen. Let’s set the fire and see who runs toward it."

Mona plants the story carefully, laying her trap with precision. She starts at lunch, sliding into a booth near a group of junior executives in the commissary, tilting her voice just enough so the right ears catch it. "The band’s been tense lately. Word is, they might not last much longer. The wrong move and—poof. Gone."

One of the execs glances over, pretending not to listen. Good.

Later, she takes a stroll through wardrobe, running her fingers over a rack of costume jackets as she chats with an assistant. "I keep hearing about disagreements in the studio. It’s starting to feel like something bigger’s coming. Not sure how much longer they can keep it together."

The assistant doesn’t respond right away, but Mona sees it—the slight stiffening of their shoulders, the way they swallow before casually moving a hanger aside. Another breadcrumb dropped.

Finally, she makes her way to the darkroom, where Nurit is developing photos. The scent of chemicals clings to the air, sharp and sterile, the red glow making everything feel like a crime scene. Perfect.

Mona leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as an image slowly emerges in the developing tray. "Hell of a time to be taking pictures. Might not have a band left to shoot soon."

Nurit tenses, her hand pausing just slightly before she continues moving the photo through the solution. "What do you mean?"

Mona steps inside, slow and deliberate, letting the tension stretch between them. "You didn’t hear? It’s all anyone’s talking about. The Monkees might be calling it quits. Too many egos in one room. Too much money at stake. Something’s gotta give."

Nurit lets out a breathy chuckle, feigning disinterest, but Mona sees it—the flash of hunger behind her eyes, the telltale sign of someone who just got the tip of the century. "Huh. Hadn’t heard that. Guess I’ll have to keep my ears open."

Mona smirks, stepping back into the doorway, her silhouette casting long shadows over the room. "Yeah. You do that."

Less than twenty-four hours later, another gossip column hits the stands: “Monkees Cracking Under Pressure? Sources Say Split May Be Imminent!”

The article isn’t just rumor—it’s a spectacle, a narrative crafted to stir hysteria. Bold proclamations claim tensions have reached a breaking point, that arguments behind the scenes have gotten so heated that fists nearly flew. Solo projects are allegedly in the works, with secret meetings taking place about individual record deals. The Monkees, it warns ominously, might not even finish their tour.

Mona strides into Moelis’s office, the newspaper folded crisply in her grip. With a flick of her wrist, she drops it onto his desk, landing it right in front of him. "There it is."

Moelis picks it up, scanning the article, his lips twitching in an amused shake of his head. "Jensen, you are a damn menace. The kinda menace that makes headlines burn brighter."

She exhales a steady stream of smoke, watching him through the curling tendrils. "And now we have her."

Moelis takes another look at the article, this time slower, more deliberate. He exhales, leaning back. "Yeah, but it ain’t enough to just know. We need the link. We need her caught red-handed. Somethin’ undeniable."

Mona tilts her head, her smirk widening, an expression that signals a storm brewing. "Oh, don’t worry. That’s coming next. And when it does, she won’t even see it coming."

Mona finds Nurit in the darkroom again, this time alone. The smell of chemicals lingers in the air as negatives hang in neat rows above the sink. Mona steps inside, closing the door behind her.

Nurit barely glances up. "Something I can do for you, Mona?"

Mona folds her arms, tilting her head slightly. "You’ve been busy."

Nurit sets a photo into the developing tray, her tone light. "Always am."

Mona steps closer, her movements deliberate, a slow, predatory glide. The red glow of the darkroom casts sharp shadows over her face, making her smirk look even sharper. Her voice is velvet-wrapped steel, dripping with amusement and danger. "You know, it’s funny. Rumors keep popping up at the exact moments you happen to be around. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"

Nurit finally looks up, meeting Mona’s gaze with a smirk. "Paranoid much?"

Mona lets out a low, indulgent laugh, the kind that says she’s already won, that she’s simply enjoying the spectacle of watching Nurit squirm. "Maybe. Or maybe I don’t like when someone plays in my sandbox without permission."

Nurit shrugs, her nonchalance just a little too forced. "If you’re trying to accuse me of something, you better come with proof."

Mona prowls forward, her heels clicking against the floor, a slow, taunting rhythm. She leans in just enough for her voice to drop into something soft and lethal, the kind of tone that makes people instinctively hold their breath. "Oh, I will. And when I do, let’s just say… you’ll be the story." She leans in just enough to make Nurit shift uncomfortably. "Hope you like seeing your name in print, darling. Because soon enough, everyone will be talking about you."

Nurit swallows, her smirk faltering for the first time.

Mona straightens, taking her time, letting the silence stretch unbearably long before she flashes a slow, knowing smile. She taps a manicured nail against the edge of the developing table as if considering just how she’ll dismantle Nurit’s world before finally turning toward the door. "See you around, Nurit."

As she walks away, she knows—Nurit just realized she’s been caught. And the real fun is just beginning.

Moelis leans back in his chair, rolling his cigarette between his fingers, his gaze locked on Mona. The air between them is thick with the slow burn of strategy, the kind of tension that only comes when two people know they’re about to ruin someone. "Alright, Jensen. We got her. But knowing ain't the same as proving. We need a direct link."

Mona taps her fingers against the desk, her expression unreadable. "Then let’s give her one last shot to prove herself. She thinks she’s untouchable? Let’s see how bold she gets."

Moelis nods, flicking his lighter open with a sharp click. "So what’s the play? We let her step on the noose herself, or we tighten it for her?"

Mona exhales a slow stream of smoke, her lips curving into something predatory. She takes her time, savoring the moment. "She thinks she’s playing chess, Moelis. Let’s show her she’s been a pawn this whole time. We let her think she’s won. And then we make sure she falls harder than she ever thought possible.

It doesn’t take long. Moelis has his feelers in the press, and with a few well-placed calls, he gets exactly what he needs. He doesn’t start big—no, he plays it like he’s just checkin’ in, catchin’ up with old friends. He leans back, cigarette hanging from his lips, and dials his first contact.

"Frankie, talk to me. Who’s been runnin’ their mouth about the Monkees?"

"Moelis, you know I don’t give names—"

"C’mon, don’t make me play 20 questions. I already know who it is. I just need confirmation."

There’s a pause. A sigh. "Studio insider. Same one who fed the last few exclusives. They’re gettin’ comfortable, Herb. They think they’re untouchable."

Moelis smirks, flicking his ash into the tray. "That so? Guess it’s time we make ‘em a little nervous." He doesn’t rush—this isn’t the kind of thing you force. It’s the kind of thing you let unravel, piece by piece, until the whole picture comes into view.

He dials another number, his tone casual, friendly even. "Johnny, talk to me. Who’s feedin’ you this Monkees breakup story?"

"Moelis, you know I don’t burn sources."

Moelis lets out a dry chuckle. "C’mon, Johnny. I ain’t askin’ you to set ‘em on fire, just warm ‘em up a little. Same name as last time, huh?"

There’s a pause. A knowing silence. Then: "Yeah. Same studio rat who’s been drippin’ this kinda stuff for weeks. They came straight to me, swore it was real."

Moelis leans back, exhaling slow. "They think they’re untouchable."

"Seems like it. You want me to keep ‘em talkin’?"

"Nah. Just let ‘em think they already won. We’ll handle the rest."

He hangs up, and lets out a slow whistle, shaking his head. "She ain’t just spillin’ tea, she’s buildin’ a whole damn pipeline," Moelis mutters, rolling his cigarette between his fingers before taking a long drag. He exhales slowly, like he’s savoring the stupidity of it all. Then he dials another number. He inhales through his nose, shaking his head like he's watching a rookie make the same stupid mistake over and over again. "She thinks she’s real slick, huh? Takin’ what ain’t hers and sellin’ it like she owns the joint. We got our girl."

Mona takes the information in stride, barely reacting. She taps her cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, watching the embers fall like little burning pieces of Nurit’s soon-to-be-ruined reputation. "She thinks she’s untouchable," she murmurs, more to herself than to Moelis. "That’s cute. Now," Mona exhales, her smirk widening as smoke curls around her, "we let her pick out the shovel."

Mona and Moelis had planned this down to the last detail. Every move, every word, every opportunity was calculated. Mona wasn’t improvising—she was following a script they had refined over late-night strategy sessions, anticipating five different scenarios for every turn of events.

The next day, she executes their plan. She doesn’t just speak—she performs. Every line, every calculated pause, every well-timed glance is designed to sink into the grapevine like a drop of poison in the water supply.

Near the commissary, she stirs her coffee lazily, her tone light, almost amused. "There’s something big happening behind the scenes. Bigger than the breakup rumors. A shake-up that’ll change everything."

She doesn’t say what. She doesn’t need to. The studio assistants at the next table shift slightly, pretending not to listen. Pretending too hard.

Later, near wardrobe, she sighs to a crew member as she examines a Monkees stage costume on the rack, running her fingers over the stitching like she’s already envisioning it being packed away for good. "If this goes through, it won’t just be the band that’s affected. It’ll shake up the whole industry."

The crew member freezes for a split second before nodding stiffly, eyes darting away. Good. Run and tell someone.

And finally, she makes her way to the darkroom, where she knows Nurit is. The air is thick with chemical fumes, the dim red light distorting every shadow. Mona leans against the doorframe, flipping through a script, her voice dropping into something almost intimate as she murmurs to no one in particular, "If this leaks, it’ll be the biggest bombshell yet."

She already knows it’s Nurit. Moelis’s contacts confirmed her as the leak days ago. The faint shuffle of movement, the deliberate pause before Nurit pretends not to care, tells her everything she needs to know.

Mona’s smirk is slow, indulgent, curling through her like smoke. She tilts her head slightly, the embodiment of a Bond villain savoring the inevitable downfall of her enemy. She thinks she’s untouchable. Let’s see how she feels when she realizes the walls are closing in.

Mike has had enough. He doesn’t play these kinds of games—never had the patience for them—but this? This is different. This isn’t just a bad press cycle. This is someone messin’ with his business. His life. His marriage. And he ain’t gonna stand for it.

He finds Nurit loitering near the soundstage, her camera slung around her neck like a badge of innocence. Too casual. Too convenient. Like she just happened to be there, like she wasn’t waiting for something—or someone.

He strides up, looming over her. "Alright, Nurit," he drawls, arms crossed, his voice smooth but edged with something sharp. "Wanna tell me why you been sniffin’ ‘round me like a bloodhound lately?"

Nurit’s lips part in a perfect performance of innocence, her eyes going wide like she’s just been accused of murder. "Mike, what are you talking about? I’m just doing my job." She presses a hand to her chest like the accusation alone is enough to wound her.

Mike scoffs, tilting his head, his jaw tight. "Your job includes askin’ me about every damn rumor that pops up? ‘Cause far as I can tell, you ain’t just takin’ pictures, you’re takin’ notes. What’re you doin’, writin’ a book?"

Nurit lets out a forced chuckle, shaking her head like he’s the one being absurd. "Mike, don’t be ridiculous. I like knowing what’s going on, that’s all. It’s not my fault people like to talk around me." She shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but he doesn’t miss the way she grips her camera a little tighter.

Mike takes a step closer, his voice dropping low. "Yeah? Well, let me tell you somethin’. You keep talkin’, you might just find yourself part of the next headline. And I guarantee ya, you won’t like what it says." His words are slow, deliberate, like he’s making sure they sink in deep.

Nurit’s face tightens just a fraction—just enough for Mike to see the mask slip, to see the real fear flicker behind her eyes before she smooths it over. He struck a nerve. A big one.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He gives her one last, lingering stare, like he’s memorizing the moment, like he’s watching her house of cards sway in the wind. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off.

Nurit swallows, gripping her camera tighter, her fingers ghosting over the lens like it might save her. She’s running out of room to hide. And she knows it.

Mona strolls back into Moelis’s office, sliding into the chair across from him. "She took the bait."

Moelis flicks open his lighter, inhaling deep before exhaling through his nose. "No kiddin’. We got confirmation?"

Mona tosses a folded-up note onto his desk, the movement lazy, indulgent. "A contact over at the Chronicle says they’ve been approached about an ‘exclusive’ confirming the shake-up at the studio. Nurit just ran the story like it was gospel." She taps her cigarette against the ashtray, watching the embers fall like a countdown clock.

Moelis grins around his cigarette, exhaling smoke as he taps the receiver before hanging up, stretching like a man who already knows the fight is won. Before he can say anything, the phone rings again. He picks it up, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. "Moelis."

There's a pause on the other end, then a familiar voice, low and amused. "You know, Herb, I was going through my notes, and somethin’ funny came up."

Moelis raises a brow. "Yeah? What’s funny?"

The journalist chuckles. "That ‘studio insider’ of yours? Seems like they weren’t actin’ alone. Couple of times, I got tipped off about the Monkees from a guy with an English accent. Figured it was just some publicist tryna be fancy, but now? Now I’m thinkin’ maybe not."

Moelis goes still for just a second before taking a slow drag. "An English accent, huh? You got a name to go with that?"

The journalist snorts. "Nah, but I know a snake when I hear one. He always called himself ‘a concerned friend of the band.’ Real smooth talker. Sounded like he thought he was doin’ me a favor."

Moelis hums, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. "Yeah, that’s real interestin’. You let me know if ‘Mr. Concerned Friend’ calls you again, yeah?"

"Oh, I will. Something tells me he’s gonna regret makin’ those calls."

Moelis hangs up, exhaling smoke through his nose. He flicks the ashes off his cigarette, letting the silence stretch just a little too long—long enough for the journalist on the other end to realize just how bad this is for Wainwright. Only then does he set the receiver down with a deliberate slowness, turning toward Mona, who’s been listening the whole time, her smirk slow and knowing.

"So, Wainwright’s in on this," she murmurs, more amused than surprised. "That makes things *very* interesting."

"Yeah, but it ain’t enough to just *know*. We need the link. We need her caught red-handed. Somethin’ undeniable. Somethin’ that’ll make ‘em all shut up real fast."

Mona smirks, reclining slightly. "Now, we turn the press against her."

Moelis lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head as he stubs out his cigarette. "Jensen, you ever think about goin’ into politics? ‘Cause you’d scare the hell outta half the Senate."

She exhales another slow drag of smoke, her eyes gleaming. "Nah. I like playin’ my games out in the open."

The trap is set. But before they pull the trigger, Mona wants to savor the moment. Nurit isn’t just going to wake up to her world crumbling—she’s going to feel it slipping away piece by piece.

The next morning, Mona makes sure she’s seen. Not in a showy way, but in that effortless, *I know something you don’t* kind of way that makes people uneasy. She’s calm, collected, and worst of all—smirking. She watches Nurit out of the corner of her eye, watches the way her shoulders stay stiff, the way she lingers around the usual circles but doesn’t say as much as she normally would. She knows something is off. She just doesn’t know what.

In the afternoon, Moelis places one last call, a carefully timed whisper to an industry friend with just enough of a nudge. By the time Nurit hears *that* rumor, it won’t be about the Monkees—it’ll be about her.

By the evening, the walls are closing in. Nurit senses it now. She doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but she *feels* it—the way the energy around her has shifted, the way people glance at her and then look away just as quickly. Like they know something she doesn’t. She tries to act normal, but Mona sees the cracks—sees the way Nurit *doesn’t meet her eyes* in the hallway, sees the way she clutches her camera a little too tightly, as if it can shield her. She’s nervous. Good.

Mona leans against the wall outside the darkroom again, watching as Nurit hesitates before stepping inside. Just before the door swings shut, Mona speaks—soft, smooth, and deadly. "Careful in there, Nurit. Darkrooms have a way of exposing things you’d rather keep hidden." She’s spooked. She should be. Mona watches the way Nurit stiffens, how her fingers tighten around the edge of the doorframe for just a second too long. *Good. Let her wonder.

Tomorrow, the press will print their next big story. And this time, Nurit Wilde won’t be the one feeding it.

Chapter Text

Nurit feels the shift before she understands it. The whispers don’t stop when she walks into a room—they change. They become hushed, clipped, urgent. Not the idle gossip she’s used to, but something else—something calculated. Something about her. Eyes don’t meet hers. Conversations dry up the moment she approaches.

She grips her camera tighter, pushing through the uneasy feeling crawling up her spine. Something isn’t right. Something is off.

By midday, the paranoia wins. She ducks into an empty office and fishes out her notebook, flipping through her press contacts. She needs to get ahead of this. Needs to know what people are saying. Needs control back.

She calls her most trusted reporter first, forcing a breezy tone, but the sweat slicking her palms betrays her. She wipes them against her skirt, but it doesn’t help. Her fingers tremble as she grips the receiver tighter, pressing it so hard against her ear that it aches. "Hey, it’s me. Listen, I’ve got something big. Real big. You’re gonna want to hear this."

A pause. Too long.

"Can’t talk now, Nurit. Busy day."

Click.

Her stomach knots. She dials another.

"Hey, it’s Nurit. Got a second?"

"Not really."

Click.

A third. A fourth. Every call is the same. Doors shutting. Phones hanging up. Walls closing in.

By the fifth call, she’s gripping the receiver too tightly, her breath shallow. "Come on, Jerry. I’ve got a counter-story. This breakup nonsense? I can tell you who started it. We can flip the narrative."

There’s a sigh on the other end, then a slow, measured response. "Nurit… I think you should lay low for a while."

A chill slides down her spine. "What does that mean?"

"It means people are talking. And not about the Monkees."

Her fingers tighten around the phone. Hope flickers—just for a second. "Talking about what? Because if people are spreading lies—"

A pause. Then, quietly—almost pitying: "They're talking about you."

The line goes dead.

Nurit sways slightly, gripping the wall, her mind racing. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to control the story, not be the story. She was supposed to be untouchable.

For the first time, she realizes she isn’t just in a story.

She is the story.

She’ll be the headline. And if Mona Jensen has her way? It won’t be a flattering one.

She’s been outplayed. Set up. And the worst part? She never even saw it coming.

Then, just as she turns the corner, she spots a familiar face—a reporter she used to work with. Relief crashes into her, desperate and sharp. Finally, someone she can fix this with.

She quickens her pace, opening her mouth—

And then she sees it—an open newspaper on a desk in the production office. The journalist she used to call a friend stands over it, their eyes flicking up at her before, in one swift motion, they fold the paper shut and walk away without a word.

Nurit doesn’t move. Her pulse roars in her ears. Her throat goes dry. Her hands twitch at her sides, fingers curling into fists before releasing. The room feels smaller, the air thinner. Her vision tunnels slightly, the edges blurring as dread coils tighter in her stomach. The room feels smaller, the air thinner. She doesn’t have to step closer to know what it says.

She doesn’t have to read it to know—it’s over.

Her name was on that page.

But Nurit isn’t ready to go down without a fight.

She grips her camera like a lifeline and storms through the studio, scanning for the one person who might be able to stop this before it’s too late. Mona.

She finds her near the production office, speaking to a few crew members like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Like she isn’t the one orchestrating Nurit’s ruin.

Nurit steels herself and marches forward, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. She just needs to get ahead of this. Fix it. Spin it. Control it. But even as she moves, a gnawing doubt creeps in—what if it's too late? What if she’s already lost? This is it. Stop this before it gets worse. She yanks her camera strap tighter around her shoulder like armor, her hands clammy with desperation. "Mona. I need to talk. Now."

Mona doesn’t look surprised. If anything, she looks amused. Slowly, deliberately, she turns to face Nurit, one brow arched in lazy curiosity. "Nurit. My, my. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Nurit lowers her voice, hissing through clenched teeth. "Cut the act. I know you’re behind this. The way people are looking at me—the way the calls keep dropping? That’s not coincidence. That’s you. Whatever game you’re playing, end it. Now." Her voice wavers slightly at the end, betraying the fear she’s trying to swallow down.

Mona tilts her head, feigning concern, but her smirk is razor-sharp. She takes a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling deliberately, letting the smoke curl between them like a barrier Nurit will never cross. She runs a finger along the cuff of her sleeve, adjusting it with lazy precision, as if the conversation is nothing more than a mild distraction. Her eyes, however, never leave Nurit’s. "Calls dropping? People looking at you? Gosh, Nurit, that is a problem. It’s almost as if…" She pauses just long enough to make Nurit’s stomach drop. "People don’t trust you anymore."

Nurit’s nails dig into the strap of her camera, her breath coming faster now. "You think this is funny? You think you can just—just ruin me? You don’t get to do that, Mona. You don’t get to decide—"

"Oh, I don’t think," Mona interrupts, voice syrupy sweet. "I know. And if I were you? I’d stop making a scene. You wouldn’t want to add fuel to whatever people are already saying about you, would you?"

Nurit falters. Her breath quickens. She knows. Mona knows.

Mona steps closer, taking another leisurely drag from her cigarette, the ember flaring briefly in the dim light. Her perfume is light but suffocating, mixing with the lingering smoke between them. Her voice drops into something dangerously soft, something only for Nurit to hear. "Oh, honey. It was over the second you thought you could outplay me." She leans in, just enough for the hairs on Nurit's neck to rise. "But by all means—keep scrambling. You make the most delightful entertainment."

Nurit’s face burns, but it’s nothing compared to the ice settling in her veins. She opens her mouth, but the words won’t come. Because what could she say? Mona knows. And worse—she’s enjoying this.

Mona lets the moment stretch just a beat longer, then winks, her smile slow and knowing, like a cat toying with a dying mouse. She flicks the ash from her cigarette onto the ground, deliberate and dismissive, as if Nurit isn't even worth the effort of finishing it. Nurit flinches, her fingers tightening around her camera strap as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her breath catches, a sharp, shallow inhale, and for the first time, her confidence shatters completely. Mona doesn’t have to say another word. The silence between them does the job well enough. Her perfume lingers between them, cloying, suffocating, inescapable. A parting gift. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and strides away, leaving Nurit standing there, shaking, breathless in her own downfall.

This isn’t just a game.

But then—a flicker of hope.

She spots a familiar producer near the studio exit, one she’s worked with before, someone who’s always taken her seriously. He’s on the phone, flipping through a notepad, looking important. Looking like someone who still has influence.

Her pulse leaps. If she can just talk to him—just explain—maybe there’s still a way out. Maybe not everything is lost.

She rushes toward him, smoothing her hair, forcing her breath to steady. "Hey! Hey, Bill—got a second? I need to talk to you."

He looks up. His eyes land on her. And then—

Nothing.

No acknowledgment. No recognition. No sympathy.

Just a long, blank stare before he turns back to his notepad, shifting the bulky receiver between his shoulder and ear as he jots something down. The cord stretches taut as he turns slightly, muttering into the mouthpiece. Then, without another glance, he walks away, the phone’s static hum lingering in the air.

Nurit stands frozen in place, her stomach plummeting so fast she feels like she might be sick. That was it. That was her last shot. And it didn’t just miss—it never even existed in the first place.

The realization crashes down in full force.

She is done.

She’s already lost.

The next morning, the headlines are everywhere.

‘MONKEES SCANDAL: INDUSTRY INSIDER EXPOSED AS SOURCE OF FAKE STORIES’‘WHO IS NURIT WILDE? THE WOMAN BEHIND THE MONKEES MEDIA STORM’‘PHOTOGRAPHER OR OPPORTUNIST? HOW A FAILED POWER PLAY BACKFIRED’

She stares at the words, her vision blurring, but no matter how many times she blinks, they don’t change. Her stomach twists violently. She grips the newspaper too tightly, the edges crumpling in her trembling hands. A buzzing fills her ears, drowning out the sounds around her. Her breathing turns shallow, ragged, like she’s trying to inhale through smoke. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. But the ink is there, permanent and unyielding, and the headlines keep screaming her name. Her name. In print. On every front page. She isn’t behind the camera anymore—she’s the story.

Her hands shake as she fumbles for the phone, but she already knows how this will go. She calls an old contact, a journalist she once fed exclusives to. It rings. And rings. And then—

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

She tries another. And another. Same result. No one is picking up.

Nurit stumbles back, her breath coming in short gasps. The walls aren’t just closing in. They’re already shut.

By midday, she learns that her name has been quietly removed from upcoming projects. A studio assistant she’s known for years avoids eye contact as she rushes past. A producer she once flirted with spots her in the hallway and immediately turns the other way.

By afternoon, she’s officially been erased. But she isn’t fired. No, that would be too easy. The realization sinks into her gut like a stone—she still has to come in. She still has to walk these halls, see the people who used to greet her with easy smiles, now turning away as if she’s invisible. Her hands tremble at her sides, itching to grab her camera, to do something that will make her feel like she still belongs here. But deep down, she knows the truth—she doesn’t. Not anymore.

Instead, she’s trapped.

The network doesn’t cut her loose—not yet. Instead, they let her linger, knowing she has nowhere else to go. No one will hire her. No one will take her calls. And yet, she still has to show up, still has to work in the same spaces where people once welcomed her, where whispers now follow her like a curse.

She walks onto the lot, and conversations die. The silence is worse than whispers, worse than open hostility—it’s indifference. The kind of quiet reserved for people who don’t matter anymore. People glance, then look away. Some smirk. Others pretend she doesn’t exist at all. She becomes a ghost before her own eyes, condemned to haunt the only place that will still have her—because it has to. No one meets her gaze. No one asks her how she’s holding up. The ones who once clung to her every word now pass her by like she’s part of the scenery, a relic of a past scandal everyone has already moved on from.

Her name isn’t just poison outside these walls. It’s poison inside them too.

And Mona?

Nurit doesn’t see her, but she feels her presence everywhere. In the way people whisper Mona’s name just loud enough for her to hear, in the knowing smirks exchanged when she walks by. Someone snickers under their breath—she doesn’t catch the words, but she knows. They’re talking about her. About what she’s done. About what Mona did to her. In the way people look at her, in the way doors shut just before she reaches them. Mona didn’t just win—she erased her.

Even the Monkees react in their own ways. Mike doesn’t acknowledge her at all—won’t even look in her direction. He used to be polite, indifferent at worst. Now, it’s like she doesn’t exist.

And Susie? Susie doesn’t ignore her. No, she makes a point of being late to every photoshoot Nurit is assigned to, of brushing past her without a glance, of talking about her in the third person even when she’s standing right there. "Oh, her? She still works here? Thought she slithered off somewhere."

Nurit clenches her jaw and keeps walking, but the truth gnaws at her. They know. Everyone knows. And no one will let her forget it.

Mona is nowhere to be seen. She doesn’t need to be.

Nurit knows exactly who orchestrated this. And if she walked into Mona’s office now, if she begged, if she screamed, if she tried to claw her way back—Mona wouldn’t even have to say a word.

She would just smile. And exhale a slow curl of cigarette smoke.

Mona and Moelis sit among the network executives in the thick, smoke-filled conference room, Mona tapping ash from her Chesterfield cigarette as Moelis leans back, watching the suits squirm.

A conference room deep inside NBC’s executive offices is thick with cigarette smoke as the network brass scan the latest press fallout. Headlines are stacked across the table, bold and damning.

"So. This is what we’re dealing with," one of them mutters, tossing a newspaper down.

"We should have fired her outright," another grumbles. "Cut her loose before this mess got worse."

"And let her take her sob story somewhere else? No," a senior executive cuts in. "We keep her here. We keep her where we can see her. The last thing we need is another rogue freelancer trying to stir up a redemption arc for herself."

A dry chuckle. "‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ Right, Bob?"

Bob Rafelson takes a drag from his cigarette, exhaling toward the ceiling. "Something like that. But let's not pretend it was just the network cleaning this up." He flicks his eyes toward Mona and Moelis. "They did the heavy lifting."

A junior executive frowns, flipping through his notes. "And what about her assignments? She’s poison now. We can’t have her on anything high-profile."

"We won’t," Bob replies simply. "Let her rot in the background. Give her the jobs no one else wants. Keep her on a short leash. If she steps out of line again, then we cut her loose. And by that time, no one will care enough to listen."

Moelis smirks, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. "We can play babysitter if you want, but she ain't got a move left."

Mona exhales slowly, flicking ash into the tray. "And if she does? She’ll regret it."

The table falls quiet again, all in silent agreement.

The guys aren’t exactly mourning her downfall.

Davy flips through the paper in the dressing room, feet kicked up, unimpressed. "‘Photographer or Opportunist?’ Bit generous, don’t you think?"

Micky scoffs. "Hey, at least it ain’t one of us on the chopping block for once. That’s refreshing."

Peter, arms crossed, frowns slightly. "I don’t know. It’s a little sad, isn’t it? Watching someone lose everything?"

Davy scoffs, tossing the newspaper onto the counter. "She lost everything ‘cause she got greedy. Ya mess with the bull, ya get the horns."

Mike, who has been silent up to this point, exhales sharply. "She didn’t lose it, Pete. She ran straight into a meat grinder. That’s her own mess to clean up." He shakes his head, adjusting his hat. "Besides, she was never one of us. Just someone circlin’ like a vulture, waitin’ for a piece of somethin’ she didn’t earn."

And that’s all he says. Nurit doesn’t exist to him anymore. He doesn’t talk about her, doesn’t acknowledge her when she’s in the room. He treats her the way he treats all women who overstep their bounds—he avoids her like the plague.

And Susie? Susie doesn’t ignore her. She makes a point of being late to every photoshoot Nurit is assigned to, brushing past her without a glance, talking about her in the third person even when she’s standing right there. If she even acknowledges her existence, it’s with the kind of cold disdain that makes it clear Nurit is nothing more than a lingering bad smell.

"Oh, her? She still works here? Thought she slithered off somewhere."

Peter sighs, shaking his head. "That’s enough, Susie."

"No, it’s not," she shoots back. "I’m just getting started."

Nurit clenches her jaw and keeps walking, but the truth gnaws at her. They know. Everyone knows. And no one will let her forget it. Even worse? No one cares. She’s not worth the anger. She’s just... nothing.

Bob Rafelson leans back in his chair, cigarette smoldering between his fingers as he watches Mona and Moelis settle in across from him. The network meeting was over, but this—this was the real conversation.

"Alright," Bob starts, exhaling toward the ceiling. "NBC is keeping Nurit on a leash, but that doesn’t mean we can get comfortable. If something like this happens again, we need to make sure we’re the ones controlling the conversation before it even starts."

Mona smirks, tapping ash from her Chesterfield. "Already ahead of you. We need someone on the inside, someone who can steer the narrative before the press runs off the rails."

Moelis raises an eyebrow. "And lemme guess—you got just the person."

Mona leans forward, the corner of her mouth curling. "Lizzie."

Bob lets out a groan, rubbing his temple. "Your kid sister? In Tiger Beat?"

Moelis chuckles, shaking his head. "Jensen, you’re a damn menace."

Mona exhales, flicking her cigarette into the tray. "She already has a column. The teen mags love her. She’s got their attention. Why not make it official? Give her just enough of an inside track to keep things in check, without tipping our entire hand."

Bob narrows his eyes. "And you think she can handle that?"

Mona smirks. "She’s been handling it already. Half the stories coming out of Tiger Beat are dancing around things she hasn’t written—because she’s smart enough to let them think they’re figuring it out themselves. This just gives her more influence."

Moelis takes a slow drag from his cigarette, considering it. "Hell, Bob, she’s already got the teenyboppers hangin’ on every word she writes. Might as well make sure she’s writing what we want ‘em to hear."

Bob exhales sharply, but the fight is already lost. "Fine. Make it happen. But if this turns into a three-ring disaster, that’s your headache. Capiche?"

Mona smirks, leaning back. "Relax, Bob. Lizzie knows the stakes."

Bob mutters something under his breath, taking another drag before waving them off. "Get outta here."

Mona and Moelis exchange a glance, both satisfied.

The next move was already in motion.

With school out for the summer, Lizzie makes her annual trip to California, but this time, she’s got a mission. She had to sweet-talk their parents into letting her stay longer than usual—an extended visit under the guise of helping Mona and spending time with her brother-in-law. In reality, she was stepping into something bigger.

She settles into Mike and Mona’s house, her typewriter set up on the coffee table, the sound of keys clacking as she works from the living room. Mona exhales a slow curl of cigarette smoke while Lizzie flips through a fresh issue of Tiger Beat, wrinkling her nose slightly at the haze hanging in the air.

"Do you ever put those things down?" she mutters, waving a hand in front of her face.

Mona smirks, taking another drag. "Not when there’s work to do."

Lizzie rolls her eyes but doesn’t press the issue—she’s used to it by now. She sprawls out on the couch, circling passages in her column with red ink, her notepad balanced on one knee. This wasn’t just a visit—this was business.

"So this is official now?" Lizzie asks, leaning back in her chair, tapping her pen against the notepad.

Mona smirks. "Looks like it. Bob gave the green light. You keep doin’ what you’re doin’, only now, you’ve got a direct line to me."

Lizzie leans back, crossing her arms. "And what exactly do I do with this ‘direct line’?"

Mona exhales a slow curl of cigarette smoke. "You steer the ship. You hear a rumor before it spreads? You make sure it lands the way we want it to. If the story’s getting away from us, you reel it back in. And if some half-wit at a magazine decides to stir the pot? You pour the water before it boils."

Lizzie grins. "Basically, I get to keep running my mouth, only now with a purpose."

Mona winks. "Exactly."

It doesn’t take long for the press to start sniffing around again. The scandal with Nurit might’ve shaken things up, but it didn’t stop the gossip machine. If anything, it made the Monkees even hotter.

Lizzie gets wind of the first major rumor before it hits print. She looks up from her notepad, glancing at Mona across the room: Mike’s got one foot out the door.

It starts as whispers in the industry. A Billboard writer hears it from a session musician, who supposedly heard it from someone at the studio. "Michael Nesmith’s gettin’ tired of the teenybopper racket. Might not be long before he goes solo."

Lizzie turns to Mona the second she catches wind of it.

"So, do we squash it?" Lizzie asks, drumming her fingers on the arm of the couch.

Mona hums thoughtfully. "Not completely. Let it breathe just enough to keep people interested. But steer it away from making Mike look like a defector. We want ‘serious artist,’ not ‘traitor.’ You think you can handle that?"

Lizzie grins, already scribbling in her notepad, feet tucked under her on the couch like she’s been doing this her whole life. She’s been feeding stories through Tiger Beat for months now—subtly nudging rumors, reshaping narratives before they could spiral. But this? This was different. This was strategy. "Watch me."

Within a week, Lizzie’s influence is already paying off. Instead of ‘Mike’s Leaving the Monkees,’ the headlines read:

‘MIKE NESMITH: MORE THAN JUST A TEEN IDOL’‘MONKEES SHOCK INDUSTRY WITH MUSICAL GROWTH’‘CAN A TV BAND BE A REAL BAND? THE MONKEES ARE READY TO PROVE IT’

Mona flips through the latest issue of Tiger Beat, smirking as she sees Lizzie’s column addressing the rumors. It’s exactly what she wanted—turning speculation into intrigue without losing control of the narrative.

She takes a slow drag from her cigarette and exhales.

This was just the beginning.

Mona taps her cigarette into the tray and glances at Lizzie. "Think Katie’s ready for a bigger role?"

Lizzie smirks. "She was born ready."

It doesn’t take much to get Tiger Beat on board—Katie’s already a regular fixture in Lizzie’s column, her over-the-top fangirling about Mike practically its own feature. Making it official just makes sense.

Mona flips through the latest issue and smirks at the headline above one of Katie’s latest blurbs:

‘WHO’S THE DREAMIEST MONKEE? WHY IT’S GOTTA BE MIKE!’

She exhales a slow curl of smoke. Let the teenyboppers eat it up.

Chapter Text

Now that the furor over the disastrous UK press conference has died down, Bob has had enough of Mike and Mona's secrecy bullshit surrounding their relationship.

"JENSEN!" Bob bellows into the intercom, "My office, pronto!"

Mona drops her papers onto her desk and flies into Bob's office. When Bob says, "pronto," he's in no mood for snark or sass.

"Yes, Bob…" Mona whispers.

Bob takes a long drag off his cigarette. "I'm sick of you and Snide's pussyfootin' around."

"Yes, Bob." Mona knows exactly what Bob means by that.

"You two need to come clean with the cast, crew, press, and especially the fans. I've seen the articles. That press conference was a clusterfuck, to say the least. Upstairs is concerned with what the press is saying. Even the record label is getting nervous."

"Yes, Bob."

"Look, you know that I personally could give two shits about your personal life. I didn't hire either of you based on who you do or don't fuck or whose bed you share. It ain't my business. However, when it grabs the attention of Upstairs or others beyond this lot, then it becomes my business. Ya dig?"

"Yeah, I dig. So, how do you want me to fix this?"

"I want either you or Snide, or both of you, to sit down with Ann Moses for an interview."

"An interview?!"

"Did I just stutter?"

"No. It's just that you know how much Mike and I hate talking to the press about our personal lives."

"I know you do. And so does everyone else. You have a week for something to appear in print. Preliminary copy is due on my desk in three days. Capiche?"

"Capiche."

Mona anxiously exits Bob's office and searches for Ann. Mike sees Mona and runs up to greet her, "Hey, babe!"

Mona answers back in a low, sad voice, "Hey!"

"What's up? You look worried 'bout somethin'."

"Bob just gave me an assignment…"

"You... uh... usually like projects. What did he give ya to do?"

Mona sighs, "I have to give an interview…"

"An interview?" Mike interrupts, "With who?"

"Ann Moses. And it's about US."

"You and Ann?"

"No. YOU and I. And our marriage. And our life together. And all of the rumors that surround us because we're just trying to not live in a goddamn fishbowl," Mona bursts into tears.

Mike embraces her in a bear hug and wipes away her tears with his sleeve. He reassures her, "Babe, it'll be okay. I promise. Ann's a decent interviewer. She'll be respectful. And, uh, she has integrity. She'll print the truth in the best possible light."

Mona sniffles, "I know. I'm just worried. I don't like putting our life out there like that."

"I know, babe. Would ya like me to come with ya?"

"Sure, if you want to. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. But it would be nice if you were there with me. Besides, it'll look better if we're both there."

"Okay. When's this thing s'posed to happen?"

"I don't know. I haven't asked Ann yet. Have you seen her?"

"Try Davy's dressing room. You know that's where most of the teenybopper press hangs out," Mike laughs and Mona manages to laugh a little too.

Later that day, Mona catches up with Ann Moses and asks her for an interview.

"So, you've finally changed your mind about giving interviews?" asks Ann. It's more of a statement than a question.

"Not really," retorts Mona, "I'm doing this one against my will."

"Against your will?" questions Ann.

"Yes. Bob's making Mike and I do a 'coming clean' interview after the UK press conference disaster and the non-sense that some of the press has been printing regarding Mike and his supposed 'infidelity.' Apparently, no one in the press can properly identify who I am."

"I don't mean to pry, but can you blame them? You've threatened just about every reporter who has ever dared to ask a clarification question regarding you and Michael. Have you considered that some of your current predicament is of your own doing?"

"What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying that we deserve this?"

"No."

"Good. So, when do you want to do this interview?"

"Whenever you're available."

"Give me twenty minutes. I'll go grab Mike."

"I'll grab my tape recorder. Where do you want to meet?"

"My office."

"Which one?"

"My actual office."

"Okay."

Twenty minutes later, Mike comes bundling into Mona's office with Ann's suit case-sized reel-to-reel tape recorder. Mona double-checks to make sure the intercom button is not stuck. Ann comes in with a notepad, pen, and a stack of blank tapes. Mona gestures for everyone to take a seat. Mike pulls up a chair next to Mona, and Ann sits across from them. The tape recorder sits in the middle of Mona's desk.

"Are y'all ready?" asks Mona.

"As ready as we'll ever be," replies Mike.

Ann takes the reins, "We can start at any time. I'll give a little introduction at the beginning, and then Mona, I'll have you tell a little about yourself, and then you can begin your story."

"Okay."

Ann presses the record button on the tape recorder and the reels start turning.

Ann Moses: Every month more and more rumors fly about my friends, The Monkees. This month there are several rumors going around about Mike Nesmith and his wife Mona. Here today to set the record straight are Mike and Mona Nesmith.

Mike Nesmith: Hello, Ann.

AM: Hello, Mike.

Mona Jensen: Hello, Ann.

AM: Hi, Mona. So, tell me a bit about you and how you met Mike.

MJ: I'm Ramona Jensen Nesmith, but professionally, I'm known as Mona Jensen. I was born on December 10, 1941 in East Hartford, Connecticut. I grew up on my grandparents' farm because my parents didn't buy their own house until 1950. After graduating high school in 1960, my best friend Susie and I left Connecticut and came to LA to seek our fortunes. We ended up working as roller-waitresses at Stan's Hamburger Shack. [Laughs]

AM: What was that like?

MJ: Well, Stan's is how I ended up finding work as a session musician. Mr. Huffmann, the owner of Stan's, helped make Susie and I minor celebrities.

AM: How so?

MJ: Well, back in 1958, I entered a contest to win a spot on Jack Paar's TV show. I won the contest and did my skating routine on national television. Well, Stan saw my performance, and he recognized me when I came to apply for the roller-waitress job. Needless to say, he hired me and Susie on the spot. He also asked us to help him advertise the Shack.

AM: What did he have you and Susie do for him?

MJ: We posed for publicity photos. We did a TV commercial. One of the photos ended up on some billboards. Stan also acted as my manager. He set up some other television appearances, including Ed Sullivan in February of '64, but I'm jumping ahead of myself.

AM: Were you on Ed Sullivan with the Fab Four?

MJ: Yes. And Davy too.

AM: You met Davy Jones then?

MJ: Yes.

AM: And what was that like?

MJ: Well… Um… Do you want the real version or the sanitized version? I don't think your readers would like the real version.

AM: And why wouldn't they?

MJ: Because Davy was a bit of a…brat…

AM: A brat? How so?

MJ: He made a rude comment to me and I almost decked him.

AM: Ahh… Well, what's the 'sanitized' version?

MJ: That I met Davy Jones on the set of the Ed Sullivan Show on the same night that the Beatles performed. No further details needed.

AM: Fair enough.

MJ: Okay. Back to the story. One day during the summer of 1961, a beat-up Rambler station wagon pulls up to the Shack. Its driver side door was so dented up, the food tray would barely stay on the door.

MN: Yup, that car was a piece of junk. So, I greet her like this, 'Hi, there!' [Waves]

MJ: And instead of just saying, 'hello' back, I tell him that his timing belts are worn out and need replaced.

MN: I... uh... thank her for the tip.

MJ: Then he questions my customer service.

MN: I mean, was that any way to greet a customer?

MJ: No, it wasn't. But I apologized.

AM: And then what did you do?

MJ: And then I asked for a do-over. [Laughs]

MN: And then I tell her my name and that hers reminds me of the Mona Lisa.

Mona looks over at Mike with a smile on her face and stars in her eyes.

AM: Aww! That's cute!

MN: Then I ask her if she... uh... knows of any places to hear some good folk music. She tells me about the Troubadour club.

MJ: Then he tells me I'm cute. After he and his friend finish their meal, he drives off. Later that night, he comes back with his friend, right as my crew and I are closing up. I inform him that we're closed. He says he didn't come for food. He pulls me close and kisses me. I ask him if he and his friend have a place to stay. He says they don't and so I offer for them to crash at my place. That was the beginning of our relationship.

AM: That's a cute story. So, when did you two get married?

MJ: June 21, 1963.

AM: Tell me that story.

MJ: In the summer of 1963, Susie and I go out to San Antonio to visit Mike. We were only planning on staying a week and then returning to LA. We end up staying three weeks and returning to LA with Mike and the rest of his band. While in San Antonio, Mike pops the question to me.

AM: That was fast!

MJ: We had written back and forth and visited with each other before. It wasn't like I had just suddenly shown up and he professed his undying love for me. Well… almost… [Laughs]

MN: I did propose to you in a song.

MJ: Yes! You did! And it was the sweetest thing.

AM: What song is it? Would any of our readers know it?

MN: It's an old song I wrote around that time called 'I've Been Searchin'.' I doubt any of your readers outside of Texas or LA would know it. [Starts singing the first few lines]

AM: Maybe someone will recognize it.

MJ: Maybe. So, now that Mike and I are engaged we decide to cut straight to the wedding. I call my parents and he calls his. By the end of that week, we're husband and wife and our parents are still wondering what the hell just happened.

AM: What did your parents think of all of this?

MJ: My mom was surprised because she had no idea that I was dating anyone. My dad was not happy that I was marrying a musician, but that quickly faded when he met Mike in-person. My sister was beside herself with laughter.

AM: Why was your sister laughing?

MJ: Because my sister…

MN: Because Lizzie thinks I'm 'goofy looking.'

AM: Really?

MJ: When my sister Lizzie came to visit this past summer, she didn't believe that 'Monkee Mike' and 'Mr. Mona Jensen' were the same person.

AM: [Laughs] I'm sorry, but that's sort of funny. Mike, how did your parents react?

MN: Both my ma an' step-pa thought Mona was from a ranchin' family an' were... uh... disappointed when they found out she was from a family of small dairy an' tobacco farmers.

MJ: I think she was more disappointed about the tobacco part than anything else.

MN: Yeah, sure...

MJ: So, after our shotgun wedding, we return to LA with the rest of Mike's band. By this time, I have joined them on banjo.

MN: Once we get to LA, me an' our bass player John London go back to Texas for a three-week tour of public schools that the cousin of our other guitarist, Bill Chadwick, had set up prior to Mona comin' out to visit.

AM: So much for a honeymoon.

MJ: What's a honeymoon? I think those only exist in movies.

AM: So, what happened while Mike was gone?

MJ: Disaster, that's what. The girl who had set up this ill-fated tour had embezzled all of the tour money, so not only were Mike and John broke on the road, we were all broke back home.

AM: What about you and Susie? You had jobs.

MJ: Well, we were supporting eight people. The money only stretched so far. By the time the rest of the band had found jobs, they didn't get their first paychecks until after Mike and John returned. I had to ask my mom for an emergency loan so Mike would have enough money to get back home to LA and we'd have food on the table.

AM: Did she loan him the money?

MJ: Yes.

AM: That sounds rough.

MJ: It was.

MN: Mona was furious when I walked through that door.

MJ: I don't know how many times I went from yelling to sobbing and back again.

MN: I deserved it, though. I shoulda realized earlier that the money wasn't goin' where it was s'posed to go. John an' I shoulda packed it up an' returned to LA.

MJ: Well, that's the past. We survived and now we have a story to tell!

AM: So, take me to the present. How did you get a job with The Monkees?

MJ: Like Mike, I answered an ad in Variety.

AM: Was this before or after Mike?

MJ: Before. I think it was about a month or so before.

AM: What specific job was the ad for?

MJ: Production Assistant

AM: Had you ever done that kind of work before?

MJ: No, but the ad said that no experience was necessary.

AM: Did the ad mention anything about The Monkees?

MJ: No. It was just as vague as the cattle call ad that Mike answered.

AM: Cattle call ad?

MJ: That's industry-speak for an open audition. I learned that term from Micky. [Laughs]

AM: Oh, okay. Did you ever see the ad that Mike answered? Did you know about it?

MJ: I knew there was going to be a cattle call. Part of my job was setting up and running the check-in process. I didn't write the ad. I had nothing to do with that part. I set up the sign-in tables in the Lobby, processed intake sheets, and led the auditioners to their interviews.

AM: Were you in charge of anything at this point?

MJ: If you mean like I am now, then no. I guess you could say that I led the Lobby crew. All of the production assistants were at the beck and call of Bob and those directly under him. We went where we were supposed to go, when we were supposed to be there, and did what we were supposed to do when we were supposed to do it. Bob and I hadn't developed our... unique rapport... yet.

AM: How did you find out that the ad was for the same production that you were hired for?

MJ: When Mike comes strolling in and comes directly to my table to sign-in.

AM: How did you react? Were you surprised?

MJ: Yes. When Mike came in, I was surprised, but I hid it. I played it cool because even at that point I didn't want to let on that I knew anyone. I had seen many people I knew from the club scene, and session players too. I treated them all with a bit of professional indifference. I'd smile at them to show them that I knew them, but I didn't give them any type of preferential treatment. However, soon after Mike came in, I was called away into Bob's office and still had Mike's paperwork in my hand. Bob snatched it from me and called Mike back. I scurried away to complete Bob's task and he interviewed Mike. Bob closed that phase of the process soon afterwards.

AM: Do you feel as though you had had a hand in that?

MJ: No, but I did give Bob my opinion about some of the applicants. I'd make gestures such as slitting my throat if I felt a candidate wasn't worth Bob's time. However, I was poker faced about Mike.

AM: What was Bob's reaction when he found out that Mike was your husband?

MJ: He told me he wished I had told him sooner.

AM: Why?

MJ: Because then he wouldn't have had to hold a cattle call in the first place.

AM: What do you mean by that?

MJ: Let's just say that Michael was the only Monkee who was actually picked from the cattle call process.

AM: Interesting. So, would you say that the reason why you kept your marriage secret was to avoid accusations of favoritism?

MJ: Yes, that's a big part of it. At that time, I had no idea about how the press would accuse the guys of not playing their instruments or that they were fake or any of that BS. But I knew my husband well enough that I knew he valued (and still does) accomplishing things based on his own merit. Meaning, that if I had helped him get the part, that would have diminished its value to him. Not that he'd be ungrateful, but that he'd feel it was unearned.

AM: That's a wonderful insight into Michael's character. Why else have you kept your marriage secret?

MJ: [Agitated] Well, for one thing, I don't think it's anyone's goddamned business who the fuck I'm married to.

Mike touches Mona's leg and gives her a reassuring look. He mouths, "It'll be okay."

MJ: [Sighs] Sorry for that momentary outburst. The fishbowl gets to me sometimes.

AM: Take your time.

MJ: Like I've told my sister Lizzie, it also makes my job easier. Well, it did in the beginning.

AM: How so?

MJ: If people on set don't know that I'm married to a Monkee, they'll respect my authority more. I wear a lot of hats and I relay a lot of messages from those higher up the food chain than me. I'm also the unofficial mediator of most people's disputes, including people who have disputes with Michael.

AM: That must put you in a difficult position.

MJ: Sometimes.

AM: So how does not knowing you're Mike's wife help those who may have a dispute with him or involving him?

MJ: They're more likely to come to me with their issue. They're happier with the outcome and less likely to accuse me of either taking his side or being too 'soft' on him because he's my husband.

AM: Do you think people who already know you and your ways of resolving conflicts would change their minds about you once they found out you're married to Michael?

MJ: Yes.

AM: What if I told you that that's not the case, and I have proof?

MJ: What proof do you have?

AM: Have you noticed anyone treating you differently lately?

MJ: No. Should I?

AM: You do realize that the press conference removed any doubt that anyone around here may have had that Mike's your husband? Besides, about 95% of the cast and crew has been to your house at least once or twice. Your ruse evaporated about six months ago.

MJ: So, what's the point of all of this?

AM: So everyone can hear it from your own mouths and not the rumor mill. Besides, the fans aren't as well-informed about the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Nesmith as the cast and crew are.

MJ: I just hope everyone doesn't laugh at me.

MN: I'll pound every last one of them if they do. [Mike winks and chuckles]

AM: Let's go a little deeper into this press conference. What happened?

MJ: So when we were in the UK last month, this guy from one of the British music rags shoves an article in Mike's face that had some dark and grainy photos of him and I at various venues and the headline screamed, "Monkee Mike Caught With Another Woman." Keep in mind that none of these jokers has any clue what I look like or who I am.

AM: So what happened next?

MJ: Mike just throws the guy his typical angry glare and I take over and ream the guy a new asshole, which pretty much stops the presser cold. I then motion for the guy to come over to me and I threaten him with legal action if he doesn't retract his article. He refuses to retract it and I revoke his press credentials right then and there. I then have security escort the guy out of the hotel. I pass the guy's creds onto Chadwick and he gets on the horn with Legal back here. Next thing I know, I'm in a whole lot of hot water, and not just from the tears streaming down my face.

AM: Michael, what did you think about all of this?

MN: At first, I was... uh... stunned. I think everyone, including Mona, expected me to... uh... explode on the guy, but she... uh... beat me to it. [Laughs] I certainly wanted to.

AM: Michael, you showed incredible restraint in the face of a volatile situation.

MN: Naw. Mona just... uh... took the wind out of my sails is all. If she hadn't intervened, I probably would've clobbered the guy.

AM: So, just for the record, the 'other woman' in those photos was you, Mona. Correct?

MJ: Yes. All of those pictures were of me. I recognized each of the outfits in the photos.

MN: There is no 'other woman!' One's enough for me! [Mike winks at Mona]

AM: Well, now that that's cleared up, that's all I have. Do you two have anything else that you'd like to add?

MJ: No.

MN: No, ma'am.

AM: Well, thank you Mike and Mona Nesmith for taking the time to give us this interview.

Ann pauses for a few seconds and then announces, "Interview over." She stops the tape recorder.

Mike, Mona, and Ann all get up and Mike and Mona each shake Ann's hand and thank her for giving the interview. Ann carefully removes the tape and places it back in its box. After he finishes winding up the cord, Mike picks up the tape recorder. He exits out the door. As Ann leaves out the door, she informs Mona, "I'll type up the transcript tonight and put it on Bob's desk first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, Ann. I appreciate all of this."

"You're welcome."

Chapter Text

Mike awakens with a throat like sandpaper and a crushing weight on his chest. Every swallow is agony, his breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, and his head throbs with each pulse of pain. He groans and turns toward Mona, who is already watching him with concern, her brow deeply furrowed.

"Michael, you sound awful," she murmurs, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. Her touch is cool, but his skin burns fever-hot beneath it. "You're burning up."

He grunts and shifts away. "Just a bug. It'll pass."

Mona isn’t buying it. She has seen him power through colds before, stubborn to a fault, but this is different. His face is too pale, his breathing too labored, and when he swallows, he winces so visibly it makes her chest tighten with worry. Without hesitation, she grabs the phone and calls Dr. Mann.

"Yeah, sure. We’ll just slap a band-aid on this and call it a day." But her fingers tighten around the phone. She exhales sharply, glancing at Mike one more time as she dials. She already knows what Dr. Mann will say, but she needs to hear it confirmed. Beneath the sarcasm, she’s terrified.

By the time Mike realizes what she is doing, it is too late. His body feels sluggish, drained of the energy he would normally use to protest. He can only watch helplessly as she speaks.

"He’s stubborn as a mule, and I’ve had mules who were more cooperative than him," she informs the doctor, shooting Mike a warning glance.

As soon as she hangs up, she reaches for the phone again. This time, she calls Bob Rafelson.

"Bob, it’s Mona. Listen, Mike won’t be in today. Probably not for a while."

"What’s wrong?" Bob asks, concern replacing his usual bruskness.

"His throat’s a mess. Dr. Mann’s on his way, but I think it’s bad."

Bob sighs heavily... "That stubborn son of a..." he mutters, stopping himself. "Alright. Tell him he better not fight this, or I’ll come drag him to the hospital myself."

Mona smirks. "Line up and take a number."

Dr. Mann arrives within the hour, his expression grim as he examines Mike. Mona stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes locked on the doctor as if waiting for him to confirm what she already knows. The room is quiet except for the steady hum of the bedside lamp and Mike’s labored breathing. "Tonsillitis, and a bad case of it. You need to get to the hospital."

Mike shakes his head, his voice hoarse. "No hospital." His protest is weak, barely audible. He knows he doesn’t have the strength to argue, but a lifetime of stubbornness refuses to let him surrender outright.

Mona folds her arms. "You can barely breathe, Michael. We’re going. End of discussion." She glances at Dr. Mann, who gives her a knowing nod. They both recognize the futility of arguing with Mike, but this time, she isn’t giving him a choice. Mona knows Mike better than anyone. She’s seen his stubbornness before—hell, she’s been the one to push him when no one else could. But this time feels different. She’s fearful that if she doesn’t intervene, he’ll wait too long to get the treatment he needs.

Even in his fevered state, Mike knows that tone means he has no choice.

The ride to the hospital is a blur. Mike drifts in and out of awareness, the fever warping time into something slow and dreamlike. He registers Mona’s tight grip on the wheel, the occasional sigh of frustration, the way the streetlights streak past in his periphery like falling stars. Mike slumps in the backseat, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion pulling him under. He hears Mona muttering under her breath, but he’s too drained to catch the words.

When they arrive, she practically hauls him out of the Buick, her determination unwavering. He tries to protest, but his voice is barely a rasp. His legs wobble, and she catches him before he can hit the ground. A nurse rushes forward with a wheelchair, and before he can resist, he's being wheeled to the front desk.

The admitting nurse takes one look at him and waves them ahead. "Let’s get him into a room. He’s burning up."

Suddenly, orderlies whisk him down the hallway, fluorescent lights blurring above him. Someone presses a cool cloth to his forehead. Questions fly past him—How long has he been sick? Trouble breathing? Allergies?—but answering takes too much effort.

The hospital is miserable. The check-in process crawls, despite the urgency of his condition. Nurses speak in hushed voices, doctors come and go, and at some point, he is hooked up to an IV. The sharp sting of the needle makes him wince as they insert it, and the smell of antiseptic clings to the air, making his stomach turn. The constant beeping of monitors fills the room, an incessant reminder that he is stuck here. He fades in and out, catching fragments of conversation. By the time he is fully aware of his surroundings, the haze lifts slightly, and he realizes just how slow everything is moving. The medicine dulls the fire in his throat, but not the frustration in his chest.

He hates this. Hates the helplessness. He isn’t used to being weak. Always the one pushing through, getting things done, and now he can barely lift his head without the room spinning.

The pain, the burning heat in his body, the sheer exhaustion... none of it compares to the frustration of being stuck, unable to move or do anything productive. He hates feeling useless. Mona stays by his side, making sure he listens to the doctor, but he remains restless. He has never been one to sit idle, and being confined to a hospital bed is its own kind of torture.

Days pass in a blur of antibiotics, IV drips, and restless sleep. By the fourth day, Mike starts feeling the slightest improvement. He still can’t get out of bed, but the pain has dulled, and the fever has finally started to break. On the fifth day, he wakes to the sound of hushed voices outside his door. Distant laughter drifts from the hallway, and a shadow pauses under the door. A soft knock breaks the silence.

Danny lingers, eyes flicking to the side, almost as if unsure whether he should be there. After a moment, he steps forward, offering a quiet, "Hi."

Mike turns his head. The kid, maybe ten years old, stands in the doorway, an IV pole at his side. His eyes are bright, curious, but there is something frail about him, something too small in the way he carries himself.

"Hey there," Mike says, forcing a smile.

"You’re the guy from TV, right?" The boy shuffles closer. "My sister watches your show. I like the funny parts."

Mike chuckles despite himself. "Glad to hear it. What’s your name?"

"Danny."

"Well, Danny, I gotta say, you’re the first visitor I’ve had who didn’t immediately nag me about resting."

Danny grins. "Doctors nag me all the time too. It’s a drag."

Mike smirks. "Tell me about it."

At first, Danny’s visits feel like a distraction. But as the days pass, Mike realizes that Danny isn’t just passing the time—he is living each moment, no matter how tough it gets. In that way, he teaches Mike more about resilience than anyone else could. Mike starts to watch for Danny’s visits, looking forward to the knock at the door. From that day on, Danny stops by every afternoon, sometimes alone, sometimes with other kids from the ward. They swap stories, crack jokes, and for the first time since arriving, Mike finds himself grateful to be there. These kids—many battling serious illnesses—are resilient, more so than he’s ever realized. They laugh, they find joy in the smallest things, and they keep going.

That evening, as Mona helps him to the common area, she watches him interact with the kids, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. After a while, she leans in and murmurs, "You're good with them, you know. Not bad for a guy who thinks kids are just shorter versions of stubborn adults."

Mike glances at her, surprised, but says nothing. A tiny smirk creeps across his face, just visible, but Mona catches it anyway. Maybe she’s right. The thought lingers for a second before he turns back to the eager faces around him, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with fever.

He dives into another story, exaggerating his adventures with every telling. "So there I was, stranded in the middle of the desert with nothing but a guitar and a can of soda. The sun was beating down, vultures were circling, and I knew I had to make a move. So I did the only logical thing—I wrote a song so good that even the vultures stopped to listen!" The kids erupt into laughter, their joy infectious. It is a kind of healing he hadn’t anticipated.

By the time Mike is well enough to leave, he looks at his own recovery differently. He reflects on Danny and the other kids, realizing that for some, this place is the only world they’ve ever known. It’s not a temporary stop—it’s home, maybe forever. The thought settles heavy in his chest. He gets to walk out of here, but they may never leave. The unfairness of it sits heavy in his chest, an ache deeper than any illness. It isn’t just an inconvenience anymore. He is lucky. He will get better. Not everyone in that hospital has that guarantee.

As Mona helps him out the door, he turns back for one last glance at the ward, where Danny is waving at him from down the hall.

Mike lifts a hand in return, throat tightening with something that has nothing to do with illness.

"Alright," he says quietly. This time, the word carries more weight. He isn’t just leaving the hospital—he’s taking something with him. A lesson. A reminder. A responsibility.

Chapter Text

Stella Carmichael palms the metal master key with more confidence than she feels. Her older sister Lucille hadn’t even blinked handing it over. Don’t get caught," she’d warned, in the same tone she uses to remind Stella to hang up her wet towels. That was ten minutes ago. Now Stella stands outside the double doors of the Nesmith suite, heart galloping under her thrift store minidress, breath shallow, brain pounding out the same mantra on a loop: He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not here.

She slips inside. The room is quiet. The bed is made. An ashtray sits half-emptied on the table. A pale gold silk scarf lies abandoned on the floor. She freezes only once, at the sight of Mona’s Nudie suit jacket slung across the arm of the couch, but then keeps moving. She heads straight for the bedroom.

Stella’s hands tremble as she opens the closet. She knows what she’s looking for. Not the hat—that’s studio only. Not his stage gear, it's too stiff and would be too obvious. She bypasses the velvet and paisley. He finds it: a soft denim shirt, threadbare at the elbows, scented faintly of Lucky Strikes and lavender. The one Mona always steals. The one he wears when he thinks no one’s paying attention.

She strips fast. She strips off her skirt and blouse completely before she slides the shirt on; she leaves it open halfway. She’s not wearing a bra. She climbs into the bed, lies on her side, hikes one knee up just enough. The sheets still smell like both of them. Now she waits.

The elevator dings. Mike Nesmith exhales hard through his nose and checks his watch for the third time. If they hadn’t switched wallets again—his in her purse, hers under the room service cloche—he wouldn’t be here. He could be finishing his toast. He could be teasing Mona about her inability to eat soft-boiled eggs without swearing.

He slides the metal key into the lock, turns it with a practiced twist, and pushes the door open. The room is still. For a moment, he thinks nothing’s wrong. Then he sees her, lying in his bed, wearing *that* shirt. For one long, motionless second, all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears. His belt buckle feels heavy. His spine goes hot, and then it hits him all at once.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

She freezes.

Her face is younger than he thought. Baby fat still clings to her cheeks. Her eyes go wide.

He steps inside and lets the door swing shut behind him. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

“I...” She tries to sit up. The shirt shifts. Her legs don’t move. “I thought this was your room.”

He doesn’t blink. “It is.”

“I mean...I thought you were downstairs.”

“I was.”

“Oh.” She hesitates. “I didn’t know you were married.”

He glances down at his pinky. The ring glints in the morning sun. “Bullshit.”

Her lips twitch into something that’s supposed to be coy. “She’s not here, is she?”

Mike’s mouth tightens. He takes one step closer. “You wanna say that again?”

“She doesn’t have to know.”

He tilts his head. “And what exactly don’t I need to tell my wife?”

“That we had a good time,” she says, lifting her chin. “That you couldn’t help yourself.”

He laughs once, low and mean. “You think *I’m* the one who won’t be able to help myself?”

She tries to smile. “You came back alone.”

“And you thought that meant you’d get lucky?” He crosses his arms and lets his voice drop, smooth as sin. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s test that theory.”

She falters. “Wh...What?”

“You wanna play grown-up?” he says, stepping closer, reaching for his collar. “You snuck in. You laid the trap. Let’s see how far you’re willin’ to go.”

His fingers move with purpose. One button, then another. He shrugs the shirt off in one smooth motion. His chest catches the morning light, collarbones sharp, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband. He doesn’t break eye contact.

Stella swallows hard.

“Still think I won’t tell her?” he asks.

She tries to speak but nothing comes out.

Mike leans down, resting one knee on the edge of the bed. “You really think I do anything without her knowin’?”

Her breath hitches.

He drops his voice to a whisper. “You think I don’t *like* gettin’ caught?”

Stella’s face turns scarlet.

He leans back again, smile wicked. “Go on, baby doll. You wanted the real thing. Let’s see it.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She scrambles back, pulling the covers around her. “I...I didn’t mean...”

“Didn’t mean what?” he asks, reaching for his belt. “Didn’t mean to be in my bed, in my shirt, waitin’ for a married man?”

She shakes her head.

He smirks, voice still low and sharp as a blade. “Too late for that, sugar.”

The door swings open. Mona steps inside with her purse still slung over one shoulder, her eyes calm, her mouth unsmiling. “Well, well,” she says, shutting the door behind her. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Stella shrinks into the mattress.

Mike doesn’t flinch. “Hey, baby. Look what I found.”

Mona nods once, unamused. “I see her.”

He picks up his shirt from the floor. “She’s been real entertainin’. Thought I’d warm her up for you.”

Mona arches one brow. “How thoughtful.”

Stella whimpers. “I’m sorry...”

“You will be.” Mona tosses her purse onto the couch, strides to the bed, and yanks the sheet off in one smooth motion. “Get your clothes on. Now.”

Stella scrambles to get dressed.

Mona points to the phone. “You’re going to march yourself to the front desk, and you’re going to call your mother. You’re going to tell her you were caught in the bed of a married man, trying to seduce said married man, and got caught by that married man’s wife. Then you’re going to wait for the first Greyhound bus out of San Francisco, and you’re going to pray she lets you come home.”

Mona grabs Stella by the arm and hauls her out the door without another word. Mike leans back on the bed, grinning to himself as he hears Mona’s heels storm down the hallway.

In the lobby, Mona marches Stella straight to the front desk as heads turn, but she keeps her pace and her posture unshaken. “This one needs to use the house phone,” she tells the concierge, her tone flat and dangerous. “She’s got a call to make to her mother.”

The concierge glances between them. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

“There is now,” Mona snaps. “She used a master key to get into our suite.”

The man blanches. “How...how did she get a master key?”

“You tell me.”

Stella stares at the floor.

Mona presses. “Well?”

The concierge clears his throat. “We have a staff member named Lucille Carmichael. Maid rotation. If this girl’s telling the truth, that’s her sister.”

Mona’s eyes narrow. “Then I want Lucille in this lobby right now. And I want her supervisor. And I want a goddamn explanation.”

“But...”

“No buts,” Mona snaps. She rounds on the concierge with fire in her eyes. “You let a sixteen-year-old girl into a private suite. Do you know what could’ve happened?”

“I...I didn’t know,” he stammers. “Lucille’s been here a long time. She’s never...”

“You’d better hope that’s true,” Mona cuts in. “Because the next time something like this happens, I won’t be askin’ for your supervisor. I’ll be callin’ the press.”

She turns back to Stella, still trembling by the phone. “Your sister just lost her job, by the way.”

Stella stares. “What?”

“You think this is the first time Lucille’s broken a rule?” Mona says, her voice sharp. “Handin’ out a master key? That’s not a slap on the wrist. That’s breach of contract, grounds for immediate dismissal, and a liability nightmare.”

The concierge nods. “Her employment will be terminated. She’s violated multiple clauses of her service agreement—guest security, privacy, and access violations.”

“She’s lucky I’m not pressin’ charges,” Mona mutters. “You can tell her that when you get home. Dial the number. I’m not leavin’ this desk till I hear you say every word.”

Stella dials. The concierge tries to say something again, but Mona silences him with a glare. The girl speaks into the receiver with a halting voice, repeating every humiliating detail just as instructed.

“I got caught,” she whispers. “In a married man’s bed. I tried to seduce him. His wife walked in. She’s the one makin’ me call.”

Mona folds her arms, expression flat. “Louder.”

Stella swallows. “I tried to sleep with someone’s husband. I got caught.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, then Stella winces. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

Mona doesn’t say another word. She turns on her heel and walks away, forcing Stella to follow. Every step across the lobby echoes. Eyes follow them, but Mona doesn’t stop until they reach the elevator. She jabs the button with one crimson-tipped finger and waits. When the doors open, she steps inside, still silent. Stella hesitates. Mona jerks her chin. “You’re not waitin’ for a handwritten invitation.”

Stella steps in. The ride up is quiet. At the suite door, Mona unlocks it, shoves it open, and gestures inside. “Get your things. You’ve got five minutes before I call the front desk and have security remove you.”

Stella scrambles to obey, grabbing her purse and scooping up her shoes. She mutters something that sounds like another apology, then runs barefoot from the room, clutching her shoes in one hand, tears streaking her cheeks.

Mona shuts the door behind her and turns to face Mike. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He grins. “You’re not?”

Mona steps forward, fists curled, eyes narrow. “You’re mine, Michael.”

“I know it.”

“You ever pull that stunt without warning me...”

He cuts her off with a kiss, mouth hot, hands already finding their way to her hips.

She growls against his lips. “This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

He presses his forehead to hers. “Then punish me, Evil Witchy Woman.”

She grabs him by the belt and backs him against the nearest wall, mouth pressed to his, furious and hungry. She shoves his shirt open again, fingers raking down his chest hard enough to leave lines. He grunts, hands caught between wanting to take control and knowing better. She doesn’t give him the choice.

“You don’t get to play games with me in the middle of a tour,” she snarls, teeth dragging his lower lip. “Not with some little brat in my bed.”

“She never made it past the first act,” he murmurs, still smirking.

She answers with a slap, hard and open-palmed across his shoulder, out of possessiveness, not anger.

“You wanted me pissed off?” she growls. “You got it.”

He surges forward again, mouth on hers, hand dragging up her thigh beneath her skirt. She jerks his belt open. He gasps when she bites his neck.

“You better not have gotten off on her lookin’ at you,” she hisses.

“I got off on picturin’ you seein’ her look at me.”

Mona growls again, then flips him onto the bed without warning. “Stay."

Mike doesn’t move, not with her flushed and furious, curls tumbling over her shoulders, hands already at his waistband. She yanks the belt the rest of the way free and tosses it across the room, where it clatters against the wall and lands forgotten. She crawls over him, one knee planted between his. Her face is stoic and her eyes don’t waver. She looks down at him, calculating.

“You think you’re clever,” she says, her voice low.

“I know I am,” he replies, his breath quickening.

“Keep talkin’, Texas. See what happens.”

He starts to speak, but her nails rake down his stomach, halting just before the button of his trousers. He gasps.

“You invited that little girl into my bed,” she says.

“I invited her out of it,” he shoots back, grinning.

“You made her think she had a chance.”

He watches her without blinking, eyes dark with heat. “I made her wish she’d stayed in high school.”

Mona leans down until their noses brush. “She’s gonna remember this day every time she hears your voice on the radio.”

“She already did,” he murmurs. “You’re the one she won’t forget.”

She slides her hand to his waistband and makes him wait. She slides one hand between them, unfastens the button, and drags the zipper down. Her hand stays there, hovering, poised. Mike’s hips twitch. She presses her free hand flat against his chest, pinning him to the mattress.

“You made me work for this one,” she says.

“You love it,” he breathes.

“I hate it.”

“You’re smilin’.”

Her mouth curves slightly, sharp and deliberate. She says nothing. Her hand slips beneath his waistband. She grabs him hard. He groans.

“Christ, Mona.”

“That’s Mrs. Nesmith to you.” She tightens her grip. “Say it.”

“Mrs. Nesmith.”

She kisses him with force, then pulls back, her voice a whisper against his lips. “Good. Now shut up.”

She gives him no opportunity to do otherwise. Mike tries to reach for her again, but she catches both his wrists and slams them over his head. Her grip is small but unyielding. He lets her restrain him, lets her lean in close enough for him to feel her breath—warm with Lucky Strikes and spite.

“You think I’m gonna let you off easy?” she mutters. “You think you earned that?”

He doesn’t answer.

She leans in closer, presses her mouth to his jaw without kissing. “You turned that girl inside out just to rile me.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he says, throat tight.

She releases one wrist and digs her fingers into his hair, yanking his head back just enough to make him hiss.

“You like it when I lose my temper,” she says. “That it?”

“Love it.”

“You like that I came in ready to kill you?”

His voice dips again. “Love that, too.”

“You wanna see how far I’ll go?”

“I’m countin’ on it.”

She straddles him fully, skirt hitched high, her thighs pressed firm against his sides. She doesn't ease into it. She drags the rest of his clothing down with one hand, nails scraping skin on purpose. He winces and laughs at the same time.

“You’re a real sick bastard,” she mutters.

“And you married me.”

She reaches down and strokes him once, slow at first, then with a ruthless flick of her wrist that makes his eyes flutter shut. “You wanna come for me, Michael? You better earn it.”

He gasps. “I always do.”

“Not today.”

He blinks up at her. “No?”

“Today,” she says, rolling her hips just once, “you beg.”

He doesn’t try to hide the whimper. She watches him with all the satisfaction of a woman who’s been wronged, then vindicated, then handed the means of vengeance. She lifts herself just enough to make him ache, then stops.

“You wanna test me again?” she asks.

“No, ma’am.”

“You gonna think twice next time a kid in a minidress bats her lashes at you?”

“Was already thinkin’ about what you’d do to me.”

She smirks. “Good.”

She lowers herself onto him and rolls her hips again, unrelenting now, one hand still twisted in his hair as the other digs into his shoulder. His gasp gives way to a rough, choked groan.

“Say it again,” she whispers.

“Mrs. Nesmith,” he breathes.

She grinds harder. “Louder.”

“Mrs. Nesmith,” he moans, voice cracking.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You,” he pants. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right you are.”

She takes him to the brink and holds him there, controlling each movement with calculated fury. His whole body trembles. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, Mona. I’ll do anything.”

She watches him fall apart beneath her, expression unreadable. “Anything?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he pants.

“Then stay right there.”

He moans her name, hoarse and broken. “Mona, please,” he chokes out, “I can’t...please.”

She leans down, voice steady. “Come for me.”

His breath catches as she clamps down around him, that final, devastating twist of her hips coaxing a guttural cry from deep in his chest. His whole body locks, pelvis snapping upward once, twice, before she feels the hard, hot pulse of him spend itself inside her. His hands claw the sheets, head thrown back, eyes wild. He chokes on her name, part plea, part surrender. She rides it out with him, slow and merciless, until his legs give, his breath falters, and he drops flat beneath her, skin flushed and shivering, every nerve blown wide open. He twitches once more, hips jerking weakly as the last of it leaves him. Then he goes boneless, arms limp, mouth parted, eyelids fluttering shut in silent defeat.

Mona stays on top of him, her breath still shallow, her hands braced on his chest. She watches his lashes tremble and his lips part again, trying for words and failing. She lets the silence linger.

“You done causin’ trouble?” she asks at last.

His voice is little more than a rasp. “For today.”

She leans down and kisses him, slow this time. “Good. Because next time, you’re the one makin’ the apology calls.”

He groans. “Even if I’m naked?”

“Especially if you’re naked.”

Chapter Text

Bob lights a cigarette the moment Herb Moelis steps through the door. He lights it with practiced indifference, fully aware that Mona disapproves and choosing to do it anyway. He exhales toward the ceiling, not out of courtesy, but as a calculated display of dominance. Mike stands near the window with his hands in his pockets. He stares out at the lemon tree in the side yard. His expression remains unreadable. Mona sits on the sofa with her legs crossed and her elbows resting on her knees. A lit cigarette burns in her left hand. She watches Bob without blinking.

Herb clears his throat. “Thanks for having us here,” he says, addressing her directly.

Mona nods once. “What’s this about?”

Bob grins. “Nothin’ dramatic. Just greasin’ the hinges a little so the whole thing keeps movin’.”

Mona narrows her eyes. “Be specific, Bob. What exactly did you change?”

Herb glances toward Mike. Mike stays still, his back straight and his gaze locked on the lemon tree. Bob answers before the silence settles. “We shifted the setup. Chip’s got more say. Mike too. You’ve been carryin’ a hell of a lot. We figured this eases the load.”

Mona holds her position, eyes fixed on Bob. “You worked something out?”

Mike turns. “It ain’t what you think.”

She ignores him. “You worked something out behind my back?”

Bob cuts in, “He’s been takin’ on everything—studio, show, travel. We gave him more room to move.”

Mona speaks evenly. “You mean you stripped authority from me and handed it to someone else.”

“Nobody’s takin’ anything from you,” Bob says. “We’re just lettin’ more voices in the room.”

Herb folds his hands in front of him and watches Mona closely. He watches her with the focus of a man anticipating impact. She ashes the cigarette, stands, and walks to the bar. She pours bourbon without invitation, offering no explanation or gesture. The others reach for their glasses without hesitation. Herb raises his and nods politely. Bob taps his glass against the edge of the bar, then takes a long sip without breaking eye contact with Mona. Mike drinks last.

The silence drags. Mona lets it hang. She leans against the bar and waits.

Bob sets his glass down first. “Hell of a place you’ve got here,” he says. “Good bones. Great acoustics.”

Mona finishes her drink and eyes him in silence.

Herb clears his throat again, more tentative this time. “We do appreciate the hospitality. We figured this’d land easier here than on a lot or in an office.”

Mona straightens, stiffening at the implication. Her eyes harden. *They’ve invaded my house, rearranged my life, and called it "easier".* She flicks ash into the tray and sets the bottle down with a thud.

Mike finally speaks again. “Didn’t mean to shut you out. Thought I could keep it from blowin’ up.”

Bob exhales a quiet laugh. “And yet here we are.”

Mona keeps her eyes on the bar. “Anything else?” she asks.

Herb clears his throat. “No. That’s the shape of it.”

She walks to the door ahead of them. She sees him to the door with rigid formality, offering Herb a curt nod at his thanks while keeping her expression unreadable. She watches Bob flick ash near the threshold and keeps silent, then offers Herb a curt nod at his thanks. Mike follows them out without looking back. She hurls her glass at the fireplace the moment the door clicks shut. Then she lights another cigarette, stays seated, and tracks Mike with her eyes as he crosses the room, each step heavier than the last.

The door shuts like the quiet of a loaded gun. Mike enters with his jaw set. Mona stands in the middle of the living room, arms rigid, the air around her electric. “You planned it with Bob.”

Mike sets his keys on the console and walks toward the hall. “Let’s not...”

“Say it out loud.” Her voice cuts sharp. “Say you planned it behind my back. Say you cut me out.”

He turns slowly with his hands in his pockets. “It was a decision that had to be made. I made it.”

“You made it.” She laughs without joy. “In my house, *on* my project, you made it. Like I’m some goddamn secretary who takes dictation from the menfolk.”

“You’re blowin’ it up.”

“No.” She steps forward. “*You* blew it up. You don’t get to gut my authority and call it a favor.”

Mike keeps his voice steady. “It’s not about you.”

She grabs his boots from under the bench and hurls them at his chest. He catches one. The other hits the wall. “The fuck it isn’t.”

“You were stretched thin. Bob and I…”

“Don’t you fucking say my name like we’re still in this together.”

Mike moves toward the hallway. She blocks him. “Don’t walk away.”

“I’m not doin’ this at top volume.”

“You’re damn right you’re not.” She throws his hat. It bounces off his shoulder. “Because you’re not talkin’. You’re lyin’. You’re sneakin’. You’re takin’ everything we bled for and handin’ it to someone who earned none of it.”

Mike walks past her toward the bedroom. She follows, berating him. “Where are you goin’? You packin’? Good. Makes it easier.”

He yanks a duffel from the closet. “You think I want to leave? You think I like this? You’re screamin’ like I put a fuckin’ knife in your back.”

“You did.” She slams the drawer shut before he can reach for it. “You stabbed me in the spine with a smile on your face.”

“Step aside, Mona. I ain’t askin’ twice.”

“Make me.”

His jaw clenches. “Mona...”

She shoves him and he stumbles back a half step.

“Go on,” she snaps. “Put me against that wall. Show me who the big man is.”

He steps close. “I won’t hit you. That ain’t who I am.”

“‘Cause you know I’d hit back harder.”

“You think I’ve got it in me now, huh?” He rubs his shoulder. “You wanna draw blood? Wanna see if I crack before you do?”

She raises her hand. He grabs her wrist. He shoves her back, fast and hard, against the hallway wall. The plaster groans. His forearm presses across her collarbone.

“Don’t,” he growls.

She glares up at him, eyes wide, teeth bared. “Get your fuckin’ hands off me.”

He drops his arm and steps back. His breath comes hard and shallow.

“This what you wanted?” he says. “You want the neighbors to hear? Want somethin’ broken so we can both look down and go, yeah, that’s what we are now?”

“You can’t fuck your way outta this one, Michael.”

He laughs without humor and presses her back into the wall again. “I ain’t tryin’ to,” he mutters, jaw tight, eyes darting between her lips and the fury in her eyes. “But you do look real pretty when you’re mad.”

He brushes her cheek with the back of his fingers. He leans in.

She twists away. “You think you get to kiss me after *that*?”

“I think it’s the only thing that might keep us from burnin’ the rest down.”

She slaps him. His face snaps to the side from the blow. He holds his stance, says nothing, and stares forward.

“You son of a bitch,” she spits. “You gut my authority, sell me out, and you think a fuckin’ mercy lay is your fix?”

His head turns back slowly. “You think that’s what this is? You think I’ve been fuckin’ you all these years just to smooth over my guilt?”

“I think you’ve been fuckin’ me to keep me quiet, and when that didn’t work, you sold me out.”

“Go on. Say the ugliest thing you got. You ain’t bled me dry yet.”

“You started bleedin’ the day you went on tour with London and left me to hold everything together.”

“I came back.”

“And you never changed.”

“You liked me mean. You still do.”

“Not like this.”

Mike kicks over a chair. Mona throws a picture frame. It smashes on the wall. A neighbor yells something through the window. They keep going.

“You always think you’re the victim,” Mona hisses, voice raw.

“You always think you’re the only one who’s hurt,” Mike fires back.

They slam into each other again, boiling over.

Mona drives her palms into his chest. "You gutless son of a bitch!"

Mike stumbles back, hits the wall hard, snarls, and grabs her arms. "You wanna play rough?"

He shoves her away. The lamp crashes to the floor.

"You think I won't leave you with nothin' but a goddamn echo?" he snaps.

She screams and snatches a boot off the floor. "Then take this with you!"

She hurls it at his head. He ducks. The boot smashes the curtain rod. The brackets pop free. She flings the front door wide open. "Go ahead! Walk! You walk like you always do!"

He laughs, mean and loud, full of teeth. "You think I’d chase you?"

She lunges. "Coward!"

She grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks. The fabric tears open down the middle. Threads pop like firecrackers.

“Tyrant!” Mike yells.

“Keep it down in there!” a neighbor yells through the window.

Glass explodes from the other room. A crash rattles the air, loud enough to shake the walls, but neither of them flinches. They stay locked in place, fury anchoring them.

She shoves Mike again. He plants his boots and doesn’t budge. “Try that again. I dare you.”

They stare each other down, breath shallow and ragged. The floor tilts under their fury. The house trembles with rage, each heartbeat hammering through the walls.

Mike wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He grabs the bag and shoulders it.

“You break it, you carry the weight,” he says, voice low and final.

He walks out as the screen door slams behind him. Mona stands frozen in the hallway, chest heaving as the silence settles. The house holds its breath.

Mona kneels on the carpet, dustpan in hand, half-filled with glass shards that catch the dim light. Her hair hangs limp over her face. Her knees throb. She reaches for a jagged sliver and places it carefully in the pan. She lifts another shard and drops it in the pan. Then another. Her hand trembles as she pinches the next sliver between her fingers and places it with care. She sets the dustpan aside and grabs the edge of the coffee table for balance as a sob bursts from her throat, harsh and guttural, tearing its way up from her chest. She folds forward over her knees, her face pressed to the carpet where Mike’s boot left a faint scuff.

The room stays still. Not even the wind moves. Tears run hot down her face. Her breath comes in ragged bursts. She stays folded, gripping the carpet, her voice locked behind clenched teeth. She stays that way until Phyllis’s voice calls through the screen door, “Don’t get up. We brought wine.”

Mike swings the door open at London’s place with a duffel bag over one shoulder and his gun case in the other hand.

London doesn’t even blink. “How bad?”

Mike drops the bag in the corner and sets the gun case down with care. “I walked.”

“Jesus.” London nods once. “You hungry?”

“No.”

Phyllis walks in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She clocks the look on Mike’s face, then the bag, then the case.

“Oh, honey.” She steps forward and wraps her arms around his stiff frame. He doesn’t hug her back.

“I didn’t touch her,” he mutters.

“We know,” London says.

“She shoved me. I shoved back. She threw half the house at me.”

“She slap you?”

Mike nods.

Phyllis exhales. “You probably deserved it.”

“I did.”

London takes the cue and heads for the phone. “We’ll go shootin’ in the mornin’. Call the boys.”

Phyllis beats him to it. She’s already dialing. “I’m gettin’ the girls together for Mona.”

Phyllis lifts the receiver off the wall phone and slides her finger into the rotary dial. The numbers click back one by one as she turns the dial. She waits for the connection to catch, then presses the handset to her ear.

"Peter? It’s me."

"Hey, Phyllis. What's goin’ on?"

She hesitates. "It’s bad. Mike and Mona had a blowout. He walked. Took his guns with him."

Peter sighs audibly through the line. "Jesus. Are they okay?"

"No one’s hurt. But I’m callin’ the girls. I thought maybe..."

"I appreciate you callin’, Phyllis, but I’m not comin’. I love them both too much to get dragged into this."

"You think I don’t?"

"I know you do. But I can’t fix it."

Phyllis exhales and hangs up.

She dials again.

“Val? Grab your keys. And bring Jan. No questions, just come. Villa Antelo. Now.”

She hangs up and dials again.

“Susie? It’s bad. We’re headin’ over to Mona’s. Bring comfort and gossip.”

London watches from the hallway, then moves to the hallway phone. He waits until the line is clear before lifting the receiver and dialing.

“Ware? Get the truck ready. We’re shootin’ today.”

He listens for the dial tone, then carefully rotates the dial again, each number clicking back as he calls the next.

“Bill? Don’t make plans. We’re takin’ Mike out this morning. Range day.”

London dials again. "Micky? It’s London. You busy this weekend? Bring earplugs and a steady hand. We’re takin’ Mike out to shoot and blow off steam."

"How bad is it?" Micky asks.

"Bad enough he brought his guns."

"I’ll be there," Micky says.

London dials one more time. "Hey man, it's London. Yeah, Mike’s here. It’s bad. No, we didn’t invite Jones. We're pullin’ a weekend out at the range. You in?"

Peter pauses on the other end.

“I don’t want to get dragged in the middle,” he says. “I’ve known them both too long.”

London nods. “Yeah. Thought you’d say that.”

He hangs up.

Later that morning, John Ware shows up first. Then Bill Chadwick. Micky swings in last, pulling up in his convertible, hair a mess, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

“Where’s Jones?” Chadwick asks, climbing into the bed of the truck.

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?” London replies.

Everyone nods.

“Peter?” Ware asks.

“He’s Switzerland,” Mike mutters.

London loads the gear into the back of the truck. Mike jumps in the passenger side, a thermos of black coffee clenched in his hand. By late morning, they’re on the road, windows down and the bed of the truck rattling with cases.

They rotate through the line, guns loaded and hands steady. Mike plants his feet like he’s preparing to cross-examine a witness. His stance stays locked. His arms extend without a quiver. He fires with the cold rhythm of someone laying out an argument he already knows how to win. Every round lands tight.

Ware steps up next. His motion flows smoothly, nearly elegant. No twitch, no waste. He fires three times, clean and low, then shifts to the side without comment.

Chadwick grabs his rifle with a grin and starts shooting like he’s banging chords on a battered Gibson. He fires in quick bursts, each shot lands off-center, rough but steady. The rhythm stays messy, the aim just barely serviceable.

Micky doesn’t crack jokes. He lines up like a man who’s done this before. One eye shut, both shoulders loose. His shots hit dead center more often than not.

London goes last. His breathing slows before each pull. His sightline stays level. Three measured shots, all deliberate. He steps back and tips his hat at no one in particular.

By the time Mike’s halfway through his second box of ammo, London whistles low.

“Hell of a way to burn through your temper,”

Mike lifts the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t hold. “Beats sayin’ the wrong thing and regrettin’ it for the rest of my damn life.”

The third box of ammo disappears fast, chased by two warm beers. The words take longer.

Mike mutters into his third beer, “I fucked up. Real bad.”

London cracks a fresh beer and waits, elbows on his knees, eyes on the ground.

“I didn’t tell her,” Mike continues. “Made a deal with Bob,” Mike says. “Didn’t tell her. Thought I was protectin’ the music. Ended up actin’ like the whole damn thing was mine to rearrange.”

London doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You pulled a bastard move, man.”

“Yeah.” Mike stares at the splintered wood downrange. “I was wrong.”

By the time the fourth box of shells comes out, they’re all talking again.

Ware nods toward the range. “Your grouping’s tight, Nez. Still compensating for that shitstorm you stirred up?”

Chadwick grins. “Man’s tryin’ to punch penance into plywood.”

Mike reloads without looking up. “If I aim long enough, maybe I won’t have to think.”

Micky smirks. “You? Not thinkin’? That’s new.”

London tosses him a strip of jerky. “Shut it, Dolenz. Let the man shoot.”

They pass the beer again. Ware fires three shots in clean succession and shakes his head. “You’re lucky she didn’t toss you off the goddamn cliff.”

“I told him,” London mutters. “Told him he was bein’ a dumb bastard.”

Mike exhales through his nose. “Y’all think I don’t know that?”

Ware hears the rundown and shakes his head. “She’s the best damn thing that ever happened to you. Anyone else would’ve dropped your sorry ass back in ’65.”

Mike doesn’t argue. “I know.” He looks out past the targets, jaw tight. “She should’ve left me back in ’63. Right after the Texas public school tour fell apart. I nearly wrecked everything. She stuck around anyway.”

“You gonna fix it?” London asks.

Mike nods once, jaw locked. “It’ll take a long damn time. But she stuck through worse. I’ll fix it. Or I don’t get to have her.”

Phyllis brings the wine, naturally. She walks in with two bottles and a grin that says she’s ready for war. Jan trails behind her with clinking glassware, and Val comes last, balancing a bag of cheese and crackers like provisions for a long campaign.

Susie arrives last and walks straight in. No knock, no call. She knows where Mona is—and that she won’t be leaving.

They take over the living room with a practiced choreography. Phyllis drops onto the sectional and swings her bare feet up onto the table. Jan sets the glasses on the bar and heads into the kitchen to rummage for the corkscrew. Val hits the switch beside the bookshelf. The curtains hum shut, sealing the room in amber light.

Mona stays silent through it all.

She sits stiff-backed on the floor, pressed to the fireplace, arms cinched across her chest. Her green eyes hold nothing. Her banjo still leans on the porch where she left it. It hasn’t moved since the morning after Mike walked out.

Phyllis pours generously.

“I say we toast to freedom,” she declares, handing Mona the fullest glass.

Mona doesn’t smile. She drinks. It burns faster than expected; she hasn’t eaten all day.

Susie sits across from her, cross-legged, eyes locked. “So,” she starts, too casually. “Is Texas comin’ back, or are we startin’ fresh?”

Mona doesn’t answer right away. She drinks again.

“Jesus,” Phyllis says, slumping down into the shag carpet beside her. “He showed up at my place with a bag and a face like thunder. Told me you’d had a fight.”

Val raises an eyebrow. “How long’s he been there?”

“Since this morning,” Mona replies, without looking up.

Jan winces. “That’s... deliberate.”

“He’s with my husband,” Phyllis says. “He’s been on our couch since this morning.”

Susie tilts her head. “And he told you what happened?”

“He said they fought,” Phyllis replies. “Didn’t give details. Just showed up with that look on his face and asked if we had beer.”

Mona glares, but the wine keeps her from snapping.

Phyllis leans in, chin on her knees. “You want to tell us what happened?”

Mona presses her glass to her lips again. The pause stretches.

“He went behind my back,” she finally says. “Made a deal with Bob to give Chip more power...more say over the sessions. Said it was about trust. But he didn’t trust me enough to tell me first.”

Phyllis mutters, “Goddammit, Michael.”

“Didn’t tell me,” Mona adds. “Let Bob tell me. Sat there and let him say it.”

Val straightens. “That’s low.”

Jan sits down beside Mona and takes her hand. “He did it for control?”

Mona nods. “Said he wanted to wait until it worked before telling me.”

Susie’s voice sharpens. “Worked for who?”

Mona doesn’t answer.

“I’ve been telling you for years,” Susie continues, tone too steady. “He’s always looking out for himself. You’ve been runnin’ interference since ’61.”

Mona pulls in a breath through her nose. “That’s a cheap shot.”

“Is it?” Susie asks, tilting her head. “Who picked up the slack when that cousin ran off with the tour money? Who fed everyone? Who held the line every time he caused a mess and expected you to clean it up?”

“That was years ago.”

“Yeah, and it keeps happenin’.”

Mona shifts, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

Phyllis nods in agreement. “He’s selfish, Mona. Brilliant, sure. But impossible. You’ve made excuses for him since I met you.”

Val, quieter than the rest, still speaks up. “I always wondered how you did it. The way he talks to you sometimes...like you’re just part of the machine.”

“He loves me,” Mona mutters, voice tight.

Jan keeps hold of her hand. “That doesn’t mean he’s good for you.”

Silence settles like a fog. Mona stares into her wine. Jan leans forward with a smirk. “Y’all remember that singer from the Sonny & Cher set? The one with the fringe jacket and all the teeth?”

Phyllis groans. “Which one?”

“The one who passed out in Sonny Bono’s hot tub. Naked. With a harmonica stuck to his thigh.”

The room erupts.

Val lifts her glass. “Okay, that’s disgusting. But you wanna hear worse?”

Mona arches a brow.

Val grins. “Girl from the Baked Potato says Barry McGuire’s been living behind the club in a van with no windows. Claims he’s waitin’ for the rapture.”

More laughter. Susie cuts in, “Oh! This one girl...backup singer for Chad and Jeremy...swears Davy went down on her behind the amps during soundcheck. Said he had a mouth like a Hoover and took requests.”

Mona snorts but covers it fast with her glass.

Phyllis eyes her sideways. “Is Mike still wearin’ that ridiculous poncho from Ash Grove?”

Mona’s lips press tight. She shrugs. “Last I saw, yeah.”

The girls fall into more stories. Jan shakes her head. “Mama Cass threw a drink at Michelle again. At Martoni’s this time. It was crème de menthe.”

Val howls. “Was Michelle wearin’ white?”

“Of course.”

Susie leans back and slips into a raspy stoner drawl. “Then Micky gets on stage at The Factory, just barges up during Love’s set, starts playing tambourine like it’s Monterey Pop all over again.”

They howl with laughter. Jan nearly spills her drink. Then it happens, Phyllis raises her eyebrows. “Mike still doin’ that martyr act? Puttin’ on that whole world-on-his-shoulders schtick?”

Mona glares at her and refills her glass.

By the third bottle, things get rowdier. Phyllis kicks Jan’s foot. “I dare you to flash Mulholland. Right now. From the porch.”

Jan perks up. “You serious?”

“I’ll give you five bucks.”

Jan glances toward the door and starts to move.

Mona’s voice slices through the room. “Don’t even think about it.”

Jan freezes. “What? C’mon...”

Mona glares. “We got kids on both sides and across the street. And Mrs. Marsh from the HOA watches this place like J. Edgar with a clipboard.”

Phyllis laughs. “You’d think she had a telescope.”

“She does,” Mona mutters, refilling her glass.

Jan raises her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll keep my top on.”

Val gasps, nearly choking on her wine. “Okay, okay, listen to this one.”

She clears her throat and sings, off-key: “There once was a bloke named Chad Stuart, Who fancied a girl in a skort. She strummed out of time, Couldn’t finish a rhyme, So he left her mid-verse with a snort.”

Jan howls. Susie claps. Phyllis falls off the arm of the couch.

Startled, Mona lets out a sharp laugh and immediately reaches for her glass.

Val fans her face. “God, I needed that.”

Susie again, “So how long you gonna let him get away with treating you like a side act?”

Mona closes her eyes and lets out a slow breath through her nose. She sets her glass down on the floor beside her and squares her shoulders. She exhales slowly and blinks hard. She’s stopped pretending she’s not listening.

Phyllis leans back and mutters, “Every time he disappears, you’re the one left to pick up the slack.”

Val adds, “He knows what he’s doin’. He plays dumb, but he cuts you out on purpose.”

Susie nods slowly. “That man’s a genius with a scalpel for a tongue. Leaves you gutted and thanks you for holdin’ still.”

Mona sets her glass down and says nothing.

Jan watches her closely. “You’re not sayin’ anything this time.”

Mona doesn’t lift her eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

“That we’re wrong,” Jan says. “Like always.”

Mona exhales, jaw tight. “I can’t.”

She downs the next glass. It settles in her gut like a dare she can't ignore.

Susie watches her closely. “You’re thinkin’ it,” she says softly. “So just say it.”

Mona finishes the wine and pours another. The next glass bites harder. It settles in her stomach like a dare she cannot answer.

Jan shifts uncomfortably. “I used to think he was... I don’t know. Magnetic.”

Val nods. “Me too. For a while. You saw how he played. How he looked at you. Like you were the only one in the room.”

Jan’s voice softens. “But if he can treat you like this, after everything, then maybe all he knows is how to use people, not love ’em.”

Val frowns. “I used to think I could see myself in him. Maybe that was the problem. I wasn’t seein’ him...I was seein’ what I wanted.”

Susie scoffs and downs the rest of her glass. “He’s a cactus in cowboy boots. Hard to get close to, and sharp when you do. And I don’t care how big his dick is; a man’s useless if he’s an even bigger dick.”

Phyllis snorts into her wine. “You want me to stitch that on somethin’? I’ll have it framed by Tuesday.”

Jan lets go of Mona’s hand and reaches for the wine. “I keep thinking, if this is how he treats you, Mona, after everything you’ve been through, then what chance would anyone else have?”

Val nods slowly. “You’re the one he says he loves. And he still sliced you outta the deal like it was a business write-off.”

Mona’s grip tightens around the glass. She keeps her eyes on the rug. Then she hurls the wine glass into the fireplace. The glass hits the grate, bounces once, rolls sideways, and lands crooked in the ash without breaking.  

"You think I don’t know what he is? You think I haven’t lived it every day since ’61? I’m the one who takes the hits. I’m the one who walks into the fire every time he lights the match. And you..." she jabs a finger toward Susie, then Phyllis, "...you sit there drinkin’ my wine and talkin’ like you’ve carried any of it. Like you know what it costs to love him."

Her breath shakes, but she doesn’t stop.

"He betrayed me. I know that. But don’t talk about him like he’s some monster who never cared. Don’t talk like I’m some fool who didn’t see it comin’. I saw it. I see it. And I stayed anyway. Because sometimes love ain’t clean. Sometimes it’s jagged and sharp and too goddamn big to carry. But I carried it. Because I chose him."

They all stare at her, dumbstruck. Mona bends down, picks up the glass from the ash, and sets it firmly on the hearth. She pours another drink without ceremony, then sits back down and crosses her arms again, daring any of them to speak.

Susie, somewhere between brave and stupid, meets Mona’s stare. “Is it worth it?” she asks. “All of it...the fights, the work, the bruises nobody sees. Is that love really worth carryin’ if it keeps cuttin’ into you?”

Mona's voice snaps, sharp and incredulous, “You think Michael’s throwin’ fists around like some hopped-up stranger?”

Susie doesn’t flinch. “I’m sayin’ you both show up with bruises. And I’m the one who covers ’em up half the time. I know what I see. You give as good as you get, and maybe that’s why you think it doesn’t count. But it counts, Mona. It always has.”

Mona shoots up from the floor, eyes flashing. “You think I need you to tell me what counts? You think I don’t know the difference between a fight and abuse?”

“I think you’ve convinced yourself it’s different because you win just as often,” Susie fires back. “But that doesn’t mean it ain’t eatin’ you alive.”

Mona steps forward, close enough to crowd her. “He doesn’t scare me.”

Susie stares right back. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Mona snarls, “He’s scared of *me*, Susie. That’s why it works. That’s why it’s lasted. You think I’d tie myself to a man who couldn’t handle me? He can’t break me, and he knows it.”

Susie narrows her eyes. “Then why does it look like you’re the one comin’ apart?”

Mona throws back the rest of her wine. “Because I like it rough, Susie. You’ve known that since we were sixteen. I like the bruises. I like it when he gets mean, when it’s earned. When it’s ours. What I don’t like is when he makes decisions that cut me out. That’s the difference.”

Susie doesn’t blink. “So, you’re sayin’ you can take the pain as long as you get to control the story?”

Mona leans in. “I’m sayin’ we wrote the story together. He just forgot which chapters had my name on ’em.”

Susie pushes off the couch, standing now too. “Then write a new chapter, Mona. One where you stop lettin’ him burn through you every time he wants control.”

Mona steps in closer. “You think you’re helpin’? You think pushin’ me like this is some kind of rescue?”

“I think you’re pissed,” Susie snaps. “And I think if I don’t give you someone to swing at, you’ll turn all that on yourself like you always do.”

Mona shoves her, two hands to the shoulders. She plants both hands on Susie’s shoulders and shoves her back a step—hard enough to provoke, sharp enough to test resolve.

Susie doesn’t step back. She grins, tight and teeth-bared. “There she is.”

“You want a fight, Suzanne?” Mona spits the name like a challenge. “You really wanna see what it looks like when I stop holdin’ back?”

“I wanna see you stop lying to yourself,” Susie snaps. “Go ahead. Swing. I’ll take the hit. But you better mean it.”

The air in the room thickens. Jan stiffens. Val shifts, but stays planted. Phyllis sips her wine and says nothing. No one gets between Mona and Susie, not even God.

Mona’s fists clench. Her shoulders lift, ready to strike. But she stops. The fire pulls inward and compacts, dangerous in its containment. Her hands drop to her sides. She steps back. “I’m tired, Susie,” she says, voice low. “I’m tired of explainin’ myself. I’m tired of fightin’ the people who say they love me.”

Susie holds Mona’s stare like it’s a mirror. “Then stop fightin’ me,” she says. “Start tellin’ the truth.”

Mona looks away for the first time. Her jaw flexes, but her voice holds steady. “I’ve never thought about life without him,” she says. “Not really. Not divorce. Not what it’d be like to wake up and have him *gone*...really gone. I don’t look at other men. I never have. I’ve never wanted anyone else the way I want him.”

She lifts her chin again, eyes wet but unblinking. “I’d die a spinster before I let another man in. He’s mine. And I’m his. If I start imaginin’ a world without him in it, then maybe it’ll happen. And I wouldn’t survive that.”

Reluctantly, Jan reaches for Mona’s hand again. “No one’s askin’ you to stop lovin’ him,” she says. “We’re just tryin’ to help you carry it.”

Val clears her throat. “You don’t have to prove anything to us, Mona. But you don’t have to carry all of it alone either.”

Phyllis exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. “You’re not crazy for wantin’ him. And you’re not weak for stayin’. But you don’t have to bleed for it every time he screws up.”

Susie stays standing. Her voice drops, “I push because I know you can take it. Because I know how hard you love. I just hate seein’ that love used like a weapon, especially when you’re the one takin’ the hit.”

Mona nods. “I don’t doubt that he loves me, Susie. I’ve never doubted that. He’s a bastard, always has been. That’s part of why I love him. I just wish I were immune to the worst parts of it. But I’m not. And that’s what cuts deepest.”

She swirls the wine in her glass and stares into it like it holds the rest of the sentence. “I’ll admit it. I’d rather he save his worst bastard moves for someone else. That’s the ugly truth. I know it’s selfish. I know it’s unrealistic. But that’s what I want. I can take the hits, but I hate that I’m not immune. I hate that sometimes I’m the one who gets hit hardest.”

London, Mike, and the rest of the guys roll back into the driveway with the last of the sun bleeding across the hills. The truck doors creak. No one hurries to get out.

Inside, Phyllis has left a roast in the oven and a note on the counter: Feed yourselves. You know where everything is.

The house smells like garlic, pepper, and baked potatoes. Micky goes straight for the stereo, dropping the needle on Booker T. & the MG’s. London pulls down plates. Chadwick grabs four cold bottles of Olympia from the back of the fridge.

They eat at the kitchen island, shoulder to shoulder, the kind of quiet that only comes after a full day of noise. Ware tears into his roast like it insulted his mother. Chadwick licks mustard from his thumb and says, “Still think she’s gonna forgive you?”

Mike doesn’t look up. “She won’t forgive. Not for this. That ain’t what she does.”

Ware chews and nods. “She’ll make you earn it.”

“Damn skippy!” Micky says. “You’re gonna be payin’ off that tab until your hair turns white.”

London sets down his fork. “Just don’t expect her to lay out a roadmap. She’s not gonna hand you a manual.”

“She’s never handed me anything,” Mike says. “I’m the one who kept takin’. She just made it look like she was offerin’.”

They fall quiet again. The record flips to side B. Steam clouds the kitchen window.

Mike looks at each of them in turn. “Thanks for lettin’ me blow the top off.”

Ware raises his beer. “That’s what friends are for. Gunpowder and bad decisions.”

Chadwick grins. “And roast.”

Mona presses her palms against her knees and rises slowly. She walks to the bar and refills her glass without a word. When she sits again, her eyes have lost none of their edge, but the storm inside them has dulled.

Phyllis catches it. She eyes the clock, then glances around at the half-finished drinks and sour expressions. Without fanfare, she stands and brushes her jeans. “Alright,” she says. “If I can’t fix your marriage, I’m fixin’ your supper.”

She heads to the kitchen. Jan follows her in. Within minutes, the sound of chopping and the clatter of cast iron fills the house. Butter hisses in the skillet. Garlic and onion join it. The kitchen swells with warmth and steam.

“Whatcha makin’?” Jan calls.

“Roast chicken. With biscuits,” Phyllis answers. “And green beans. Fresh from the garden—if Mona’ll let me steal a handful from the basket.”

Susie leans back and hollers, “If I see margarine in that skillet, I’m walkin’ out. I came here for the real thing.”

Val and Jan are already pulling dishes from the cabinets by the time Mona walks in. Mona pauses at the doorway, taking it all in: Val slicing pickles, Jan grating cheese, and Phyllis humming at the stove while she bastes the bird.

Mona takes a breath, steps forward, and reaches for the stack of plates.

“Uh-uh,” Phyllis says. “Sit down. You’re off-duty tonight.”

Mona pulls out the nearest chair and lowers herself slowly. The food smells incredible. Rich and comforting in a way her body feels too tired to articulate. She doesn’t say thank you, but the look she gives Phyllis says more than words ever could.

Mike opens the front door and steps into still air. His guitar case hangs heavy on one shoulder. The house smells like lemon oil and dish soap. Each room holds order. No broken glass glints underfoot. No dishes are stacked in the sink. The wreckage is gone, scrubbed away with bleach and steel wool.

From the back porch, banjo strings cut through the silence.

He stops in the hallway and listens. It’s her Appalachian lead to "Part 3". She wrote it in ’65 and bolted it onto “Dueling Banjos” so he’d have a voice in it. Peter had joined once, but that third part belonged to Mike.

He walks out and finds her hunched over the banjo, her fingers racing. He sits beside her, guitar across his knees, and tunes by ear. She keeps her eyes on the strings.

When the tuning locks, he plays.

Their notes meet and settle. Their rhythm finds the pocket. The music pulls them into memory: Fort Worth. Stinson Beach. The first time he said he loved her. They land the final note with precision.

She lowers the banjo and looks into the garden. “If you ever do that to me again,” she says, “don’t come back.”

Mike nods. “Understood.”

She ashes her cigarette. Her fingers tap against the banjo head while the tension simmers between them.

She shifts and eyes him sidelong. “Gimme a cigarette.”

He opens the pack and lights one for her. She inhales deep and blows smoke to the side. Her lips part and shine.

Climbing onto his lap, she presses down hard, her hands already tangled in his collar.

“You gonna say something?” she mutters.

“Thought I just did.”

“That wasn’t talking. That was agreeing to terms.”

His mouth brushes her jaw. “That’s all I can do tonight.”

She exhales through her nose. “Then quit flappin’ your gums and do what you’re good at.”

The guitar slides from his knees. He grips her hips and drags her forward. She gasps, then tears at his shirt. Her teeth scrape his neck.

“You wanna hit something,” he growls, “I’m right here.”

She pulls his hair back hard. “Not yet.”

He yanks her top up and off. She flings it behind her.

“Jesus, Mona,” he breathes. “You do this just to wreck me?”

“Every time.”

She bites his lip and grabs his belt. He fumbles with hers. “Goddammit,” she growls, wriggling out of her jeans, and rakes her nails down his chest. 

He lifts her and lays her back on the porch. The boards groan. He drives into her. She cries out and claws at the floor. Her legs wrap tight around him. He pins her wrists beside her head.

“Say it,” he pants.

Her eyes flash. “Harder.”

He slams into her. Her voice rips from her throat. Her body locks around him.

She arches, gasping, nails buried in his back. “Don’t stop... I swear to God...”

“Say it.”

“You think I don’t love you, Michael?” she snaps. “I’d kill for you.”

“Fuck...” he gasps, and comes inside her, his face buried in her neck.

She exhales hard and grips his hair, holding him there until her chest stops heaving.

Coffee is already brewing. Mona walks into the kitchen barefoot, in Mike’s shirt, and nothing else. She scratches her thigh absently.

“You drink all of it, I’ll kill you,” she mutters.

Mike sits at the table, tuning the Martin. “I left you half a cup.”

“You got a weird definition of ‘half.’”

“Next time I’ll just pour it in your boots.”

She grumbles, pours what’s left, and slouches against the counter.

They clear the counter and finish their coffee in silence. Mona traces the ring his mug left behind while Mike rinses the pot and wipes out the filter. Neither one mentions the night before. Mike pushes the chairs back into place. Mona wipes down the counter and rinses out her mug.

They drink slowly, hands curled around the mugs, pausing between sips. Mike pours another cup. Mona opens the window. Morning hums through the trees. The storm has passed, but nothing is forgotten. They keep breathing anyway.

Chapter Text

Suddenly the sound of "Sweet Young Thing" cuts through the silence. Mike glances up at the CCTV monitor and sees his friend at the door. He hurries down the stairs to the front door and lets the man inside.

"Boomer! How the hell are ya?" Mike greets his friend with a big hug. Boomer and Michael go way back to their days in Texas - before Mona and before California dreams became reality. Mike had not seen Boomer much since joining The Monkees. Boomer had been busy with his own musical endeavors.

"Fine, fine. Nice house y'all got here," compliments Boomer in a Texas drawl rivaling Mike's.

"Thanks. Mona an' I think it's a groovy pad. Come on in." Michael beckons the other Texan into the house. "Make yourself to home. Wait a minute! What am I thinkin'? Let me show ya 'round." Michael gives his friend the grand tour of Chez Nesmith. Once the two men reach the music room, Boomer pulls out a folded paper from his jacket pocket and unfolds it.

"Hey Mike, I've somethin' I'd like to show ya."

"What is it, man?"

"Me an' Murph came up with this tune the other day an' I thought of you as soon as he played it for me."

Mike replies, "Y'all thought of me?"

"Yeah. This one has a country feel, like some of your other tunes."

Mike thought of what to say for a moment and then says, "Thanks, Boomer. That means a lot to me. Now let's hear that tune!"

"Great!" Boomer walks over to the stand where Blondie, Mike's beloved blonde Gretsch 12-string guitar, sits. As soon as he reaches out to pick her up, Mike taps his hand and scolds him, "Don't do that."

Boomer jumps back and apologizes, "Sorry, man. I didn't know..."

Mike cuts him off, "It's okay, man. I'm... uh... touchy about who touches my baby."

"I dig."

"Hey, how 'bout you try Sunny, the orange sunburst Gretsch. She's Mona's 12-string."

"Ya sure Mona won't mind?"

"Mona's... Mona's not as... uh... possessive... as I am." Mike chuckles softly. "Just don't touch her banjo."

"Okay, if you say so." Boomer places the unfolded paper on a Hamilton music stand. He then picks up the sunburst Gretsch and starts strumming the opening chords to his new song.

"Hey Boomer, you forgot this..." Mike hands his friend the plug to his Vox Super-Beatle cabinet amp. Boomer takes the plug and carefully inserts it into Mona's Gretsch. Even at volume level one, the Super-Beatle cab is loud. Boomer stands in front of a microphone and starts the song again. Mike stands there, dumbfounded. It's the grooviest tune he's heard in quite a while.

"Unbelievable! That's it! That's where it's at!"

"You like it?"

"Man, that riff is outtasite." Mike walks over to Blondie and picks her up. "You gotta teach me that, man!"

"That was my intention, Shotgun."

Mike smiles to himself. It's rare for someone else to refer to him as "Shotgun," even his other fellow Texans. Boomer and Mike sit down knees-to-knees, and Boomer teaches Mike the chords to his song.

"So, Boomer, ya still haven't told me the name of this new tune."

"Sorry, man. I stone forgot. It's called 'Loudmouth Yankee.'"

With a puzzled look on his face, Mike mouths the words "Loudmouth Yankee" back to Boomer. "Hey, now wait a minute! Where have I heard that term before?"

Just then, Mona comes through the front door and starts calling Mike's name. Once she reaches the music room, Mike has an epiphany.

"That's it!" he exclaims.

"What's it?" Mona and Boomer ask in unison.

"Well, hello there, my Loudmouth Yankee," greets Mike, dramatically.

"Hello to you too..." Mona replies. "What's gotten into you, babe? And who's your friend?"

"Merciful heavens!" Mike exclaims in an exaggerated Texas grandma voice (which sounds suspiciously like Princess Gwen). He continues the act, "How rude of me." Mike turns to Boomer and introduces him to Mona, using the same voice, "Boomer, this is my beautiful wife, Mona. Mona, this is my old friend Boomer Castleman."

Mona laughs at the spectacle. "Nice to meet you, Boomer. So, what were y'all two cowboys working on?"

Mike's voice returns to normal, "Boomer brought me over this bitchin' new tune."

"Really? Let's hear it!"

"Okay."

Mike starts playing the riff and Boomer sings the words. Mona starts bobbing her head and tapping her foot to the music. Once the final chord fades away, Mona gets up and gives Mike a big hug.

"Babe, that was incredible! That riff... You're a genius!"

"Thanks, but I can't take credit for that riff."

"Oh, really?" Mona asks in shock.

"Believe it or not, sometimes others teach me stuff too. This one's on Boomer."

"Well, you both made a really happenin' song."

Ever since Boomer taught Mike "Loudmouth Yankee," Mike can't stop trying to make it "his own." He's spent every moment of his limited free time tweaking it, yet he's still not satisfied. After yet another wasted hour, he throws down his headphones and storms out of the music room. Mike's heavy footsteps echo throughout the open areas of the rambler. Mona can hear him stomping from the living room. Mike plops onto the couch next to her and lets out a long sigh.

"What's wrong, babe?" Mona asks, her voice full of concern.

"It's that dang song."

"What about it? You beating a dead horse again?"

"Somethin' like that. I can't help but think it's missin' somethin'?"

"What? I thought it was perfect as-is."

"I did too, until I started messin' with it."

Mona thinks to herself, Maybe that's what the problem is. You can't leave well enough alone. "Babe, let me hear whatcha got so far."

Mike pauses and then answers, "Alright."

Mike and Mona both get up and head towards the music room. Mona grabs her banjo and Mike straps on Blondie. They sit knees-to-knees and Mike starts strumming his latest version of "Loudmouth Yankee." Mona listens intently to Mike's riff and starts humming along to it. Without thinking, she starts strumming her banjo along to Mike's melody.

Mike abruptly stops playing and exclaims, "Shit! That's it! That's the missing piece!"

"What is?" asks Mona, confused.

"Play your banjo riff again."

"What, this?" Mona plays her passage again.

"Yes!" Mike's eyes light up. Mona hadn't seen him this elated in months.

The last few months had been rough on both Mona and Michael. The fate of the show had become increasingly precarious because no one could agree on what the third season should look like. The network wanted more of the same, but Bob and the guys wanted to change it up a bit because they were getting bored with the current format. Bob was increasingly less hopeful that he and Upstairs could reach some sort of compromise that the guys would accept. On the music front, Mike was becoming increasingly disillusioned with its direction and he could no longer hide his frustration behind his sense of humor. This in turn started affecting his relationship with the guys, the crew, and most disturbingly - his wife. Mike and Mona have always bickered like an old married couple. It's part of their charm. They trade barbs like a pair of stand-up comics; however, their bickering rarely leads to a full-blown argument. And when it does, there isn't anything that some good lovin' can't fix. Lately however, even that couldn't cut the tension.

Mona takes off her banjo and places it back on its stand. She kisses Mike on the cheek and runs her hand through his sideburn. He smiles at her.

"That banjo riff is boss. Will ya write that down for me so I can show it to Pete?"

"Sure thing, babe. I'll notate it for ya." Mona turns around and grabs a stray staff notebook and a pen. "Hey, babe..."

"Yeah?"

"Will you record me playing this so I can notate it easier?"

"Yeah. I can do that for ya."

Unlike Mike and Peter, Mona has a difficult time remembering the licks she creates on her own. Sadly, her memorization ability has faded ever since she stopped playing sessions regularly. Mike has noticed this, but he doesn't bring it up for fear of embarrassing her or killing her already fragile desire to make music.

Mike walks over to the reel-to-reel and sets it up for recording. While he's doing that, Mona puts her banjo back on and stands by the microphone. She turns to Mike and he gives her a thumbs-up, signaling that the tape's rolling. Mona begins to play her banjo lick. Once she finishes, Mike rolls back the tape, so that Mona can listen to it again. He walks over to her, hands her a pair of headphones, and kisses her forehead. He turns to walk out, but stops to tell her, "I'll leave you alone, so you can work in peace."

"You don't have to. I don't mind if you're in here."

"Ya sure 'bout that?"

"Yes, babe."

"Oh well, if you insist." He flashes her a flirty grin and takes a seat across the room so he can watch her compose without disturbing her.

Mike enjoys watching Mona work as much as she enjoys him watching her. If only the feeling were mutual, she thinks to herself. Mike doesn't like anyone watching him create, including Mona. The perfectionist in him fears anyone seeing him make a mistake. Mona is grateful for those times when Mike asks her for her opinion or her assistance, like right now. It's rare that Mike will share a song before he's perfected it or at least has it in "demo quality" as he calls it.

"Hey, Pete!" calls out Mike.

"Hey, Michael!" Peter replies to his friend.

"Hey, I got this new song that I want you to hear."

"Really?"

"Yeah. My buddy Boomer wrote it an' he told me I could use it."

"What's it called?"

"'Loudmouth Yankee.'"

"'Loudmouth Yankee,' huh?"

"Yeah."

"Does Mona know that?"

"Yeah. She don't care. She likes, no, loves the song. In fact, she composed the banjo part."

"Banjo part?"

"Yeah. It's outtasite. It really makes the song."

"Well, let's hear it. I'm interested to hear her banjo part." Peter is quite impressed with Mona's banjo picking skills, despite feeling inferior compared to her.

Mike and Peter walk into the nearest recording room and enter the booth. Mike carefully pulls out the tape from the box he was carrying and delicately places it onto the playback. He and Peter then don some cans and listen to the tape. From the looks Peter makes while listening, Mike senses that Peter approves.

Once the song ends, Peter exclaims, "That's incredible, Michael. We gotta record that."

Mike hands Peter Mona's composition. "Here's Mona's banjo part for ya."

An awestruck Peter looks up at Mike and replies, "Thank you, Michael. I'll start rehearsing it right now."

With the precious sheet music in hand, Peter quickly exits the booth, grabs his banjo from its case and starts practicing Mona's composition. Mike already likes what he hears. After a few minutes, an idea pops in Peter's head and he abruptly stops strumming. He blurts out, "Hey, Michael! I have an idea."

"What is it, Pete?"

"Why don't you name the song 'What Am I Doin' Hangin' 'Round'? It's in the refrain and it sounds nicer than 'Loudmouth Yankee,' even if Mona approves."

Mike thinks for a few moments before responding, "Ya know what, Pete? Yer right. I like that title better. We'll call it that."

"Thanks, Michael."

"No, man. Thank you!"

As soon as Mike opens the front door to his house, he hears banjo music playing. He stops and while listening intently, he thinks to himself, That's not Mona pickin’. Curious, he searches all over the house, but can't find anyone. Suddenly, Mona emerges from the bedroom, towel drying her hair and wearing her short emerald green Japanese silk bathrobe that Mike gave her for their last anniversary.

"Merciful heavens!" he cries, "You damn near gave me a heart attack, woman!"

"Sorry, babe." She kisses him. "I was in the shower and didn't hear you come in."

"I see that. Hey, who's pickin' banjo?"

"Oh, the music? That's Doug Dillard. I put on an old Dillards record that I hadn't heard in a while. You like it?"

"Yeah, it's real groovy. Hey, do you know if this Dillard cat lives in the area?"

"Last I heard; he still does. He was a session player around the same time I was."

"Who wasn't a session player when you were? You seem to know every musician in this rotten town."

Mona sashays over to Mike and pulls him close to her. "Well, most guys got their start as session players. There were more sessions than players. If you struggled to get live gigs, you always had session work to fall back on."

"So that was the secret. Man, had I known that back then..." Mona interrupts him with a kiss on his lips.

"Babe, if you want to find Dill, check the recording studio."

"'Dill'?"

"Yeah, he goes by 'Dill.'"

"I'll go by there and see if I can find him." He kisses Mona on the forehead.

Now Mike has a dilemma on his hands: Which banjo player will he ask to play on this song? He thinks long and hard about this. He likes Peter's playing quite a bit. He's a solid player with nimble dexterity. However, his playing seems to lack heart. Mona, on the other hand, sounds like she's making love to the fretboard. She has equal technical skill and dexterity to Peter. She also picks in the Scruggs style, which is an adaptation of Appalachian mountain picking. It's this picking that she has adapted to her guitar playing, which gives her a unique sound - usually too unique for most record producers. Doug Dillard also has his own unique picking style. To Mike's ears, he's the perfect combination of Mona and Peter.

Simply picking Dill would be the easiest solution. However, it isn't the fairest solution. While both Peter and Mona would understand if Mike chose Dill outright; it's Mike's decision to make, after all, but it would also be a slap in the face to both of them - especially Mona. She's the one who so lovingly composed the banjo part. Peter's his bandmate, so he rightfully should be the one to play on their band's record. The perfectionist in Mike wants to ask Dill, consequences be damned. For once, his sense of fairness wins over his perfectionism. He needs to do the only fair thing - hold a blind audition.

Later that day, Mike and the guys are finishing up in the recording studio. Mike calls them over for a little meeting.

"Hey, fellas! Come here a moment, will ya? I need your help with somethin'."

Davy sneers back, "You need our help? Since when does Michael fuckin' Nesmith need anyone's help, 'specially from his lowly bandmates?" Michael ignores him. He's too excited to let Davy suck him into an argument.

"Cool it, Davy," snaps Micky.

Peter interjects, "Yeah, Davy. Calm down and let the man speak."

Davy shoots an annoyed look at Peter and Micky, but backs down.

"I've been working on a new song, but I have a dilemma."

"What sort of dilemma?" Peter asks.

"Well, Pete... It kinda involves you."

"How so, Michael?"

"Well, I... uh..."

"Well, get on with it!" snaps Davy, annoyed at the stuttering Texan.

Michael continues to ignore the agitated Brit. "I... uh... I need to choose a banjo player."

Dejected, Peter stammers, "I... I... I get it..." Peter looks as if he's about to cry.

Michael sees Peter's eyes well up and he puts his arm around him. "Look, Pete. It ain’t like that. Uh, ya see, I can't choose because... uh... y'all are so good. I like all of you an' I can't pick one. You're my bandmate and... uh... you're really good on banjo. My wife's great too an' she wrote the part. An' then she introduced me to this guy named Dill Dillard..."

Peter pipes up, "Mona knows Dill Dillard? The Dill Dillard of The Dillards?"

"Sorta. She played one of their records an' I heard it an' I really liked the pickin'. She used to pick with him when she was a session player."

Peter's face brightens up a bit more. "Well, in that case, I can see your dilemma. So, what's your plan?"

"I need to hold a blind audition of you, Mona, an' Dill." He turns toward the two percussionists, "But I need Mick an' Davy's help."

"A blind audition. That sounds fair," states Micky.

"That's the stupidest idea I've evah heard," hisses Davy.

"You have any better suggestions, Shotgun? 'Cause if you do..."

Peter interrupts Mike, "Yeah, Davy. Do you have a better solution? I think it's fair, and I'm the one auditioning."

"Can't argue with that logic, now can you, Davy?" asks Micky.

Davy just crosses his arms and flashes snide looks at the other three.

Mike declares, "Then it's settled. Mick, I'll need you to come into the booth with me."

"Now?"

"No, not now. At the audition."

"Oh. When's the audition?"

"Tomorrow, if I can get Dill."

"An' what do you want me to do?" asks Davy, still annoyed.

"I'll need you to bring each one into the studio and say their number into the mic. I need a different voice, so I won't be able to tell who is playing."

Davy finally agrees, "Alright, Snide. I'll help you."

"Thanks, guys."

"So, when will we get to hear this new song?" asks Micky, excitedly.

"At the audition," states Mike.

At that, the guys all file out of the recording room. Mike's the last to leave, and he turns off the lights. Instead of heading to the parking lot, he decides to check the other rooms to see if anyone was holding a late-night session. Mike thinks to himself, Maybe I'll catch Dill here. While walking down the hallway, lost in his own thoughts and giddy with excitement, Mike smacks into another man who also isn't paying attention to where he is going.

Mike apologizes, "Excuse me, sir. I do apologize for bumping into you."

"I'm sorry too. Name's Dillard, but you can call me Dill."

Mike stares at the man, dumbfounded. Has his luck finally turned around? Mike can barely spit out his words, "You mean... yer... the Dill Dillard? The banjo player?"

"Yes, son. I am. And you are?"

"Nesmith. Michael Nesmith." Mike starts rambling nervously, "You can call me Mike or Nez or Nesmith..."

"Nice to meet you, Mike."

"And you as well."

"I've heard of you. You're a record producer, aren't you?"

"Yeah, sometimes. I'm also a musician. Hey, I know we just met an' all, but I have a favor to ask of you."

"What is it, Mike?"

Mike starts talking a mile a minute, "See, my friend wrote this song for me an' my wife wrote this banjo part, but the problem is that my bandmate also plays banjo, but I've heard yer records an' I want you to audition with them." Mike hands Dill a copy of Mona's banjo composition.

Dill accepts the sheet and asks, "You said that your wife wrote the banjo part?"

"Yeah. She's an incredible banjo player. Her name's Mona."

"Mona... Jensen?"

"Yes!" Mike exclaims. "You know her?"

"I haven't seen her in ages. We played a few sessions together. She plays a whole lot of instruments. She's quite a talent."

"Thanks. I'll tell her you said that."

"When is this audition?"

"Tomorrow at 7pm."

"Okay. I'll be there."

"Thanks!"

The two men part ways. Mike can barely contain his exhilaration. Life seems to be looking up for the ornery Texan.

Seven o’clock. arrives sooner than anyone had expected. By some miracle, everyone arrives at the recording studio early or on-time. Micky and Mike occupy the control booth, while Davy explains the audition process to Peter, Dill, and Mona.

"Hey Mona, did you wear your Nudie hat today?" asks Davy.

"Shit, I think I left it in the recording room."

"I'll retrieve it. Hold just a sec." Davy goes into the room to retrieve Mona's white cowboy hat with the pink stars and rhinestones that Nudie Cohn designed for her back in 1964. He brings back the hat and flings it onto Mona's head. She takes it off and deposits three numbered slips of paper. Mona instructs the other two contestants to pick their numbers. "Okay, Dill. Go ahead and pick your number." Dill chooses a number. He picks the number two.

"Okay, Peter. Your turn." Peter picks the number one. "Well, that leaves number three for me."

Now that everyone has picked their numbers, Davy leads the three contestants to the very back of the room, just out of sight of the two Monkees in the control room. He strolls over to the microphone in the middle of the room and gives a thumbs-up signal to Micky. Micky comes over the speaker and declares that he's not ready yet. Davy flashes him an impatient "what the fuck" gesture.

Unbeknownst to Davy, inside the control booth Micky has a devil of a time trying to keep Mike from turning around. Micky comes up with a "brilliant idea" to keep the Texan from seeing.

"If you won't stay turned around, then I'm going to blindfold you," Micky threatens Mike.

"Blindfold me? That's stupid, Mick. I won't be able see the start and stop buttons."

"I guess you're right."

After the failed attempt at blindfolding Mike, Micky just tells him to turn around and face the wall. However, Mike keeps turning his head because Micky won't stop talking to him. Mike tries desperately to keep his cool. Finally, everyone settles into their proper places.

Micky announces, "Welcome to Michael Nesmith's banjo audition. I'm Micky Dolenz and out in the recording studio is my handsome, debonair assistant, David Jones." Mike slaps his forehead and tries not to sigh audibly.

Micky continues, "Would the first contestant please silently step up to the microphone. Mr. Jones, please tell us the contestant number." Peter steps up to the microphone.

"One," states Davy.

"Thank you. Contestant Number One, please begin playing." Mike hits the record button.

When Peter finishes recording, Micky comes over the speaker again, "Thank you, Contestant Number One."

This process continues for the other two contestants. At the conclusion, Micky continues his game show host act. "Thank you, gentlemen and lady. This concludes Michael Nesmith's banjo audition. I'm Micky Dolenz reminding you to save the Texas Prairie Chicken and don't forget to tip your waiter. Have a good evening. Good night."

Mike hits the stop button. Although he was annoyed at first, Mike is grateful that Micky provided some much-needed levity to the evening.

"Mick, thank you. You did a terrific job emceeing." Mike pats Micky on the shoulder.

"Aww, Mike. It was nothin'. I had fun."

Mike comes over the speaker and thanks everyone in the recording room, then he enters the room itself and thanks everyone personally. "If y'all want to stick around for another fifteen or twenty minutes, I'll let ya know who won the 'contest.'

"Sure," they all declare in unison. Mike kicks Micky out of the control booth so he can listen to each audition alone and without any distractions. After twenty minutes, he emerges from the control booth so he can personally inform the winner. "First, I want to say that all three of y'all gave impressive performances. Unfortunately, I can only choose one. After careful consideration, I choose Contestant Number Two."

"Oh, my stars! Dill, that's you!" exclaims Mona. Mona gives Dill a congratulatory hug.

Mike shakes Dill's hand and adds, "Congratulations, Dill."

"Yeah, Congratulations, Dill," Peter chimes in.

Dill gushes, "Thanks to all of you, especially to you, Mike."

"No, Dill. Thank you. I want to record this thing as soon as possible. Are you free next week?"

"I think so. Just call me." Dill hands Mike his business card. Mike takes it from him and puts it in his wallet.

Everyone starts filing out of the recording room, with Mike and Davy trailing behind. Mike places a hand on Davy's shoulder and the smaller man turns around.

"Thanks, Midget. I appreciate your help tonight."

"You're welcome, Snide. I hate to say it, but I actually had fun tonight."

"I'm glad ya did."

The two men walk out together, each one a little less frustrated at the other one. All is well in the universe.

"Hey, Mick! Where's Peter?"

"Aww man, Mike. I thought he talked to you. He said he's not coming tonight."

"Well, why not?"

Davy interjects, "'Cause you bloody hurt his feelins, Snide."

"Wait, what?! Hurt his feelins? Why? I thought he was cool with everything."

Micky explains, "Well, he was at first. He told me to tell you that once he thought it over, he felt hurt. I'm sorry, Mike. I thought he'd talked to you."

"That's not like Pete to not tell me what's botherin' him." All eyes turn to Davy.

"Hey, man! Don't look at me like that! I didn't say shit to him." Mike glares at the Mancunian in disbelief.

Mike gathers himself together and clears his throat. "Alright. We'll just have to record this one without him. Mick, Midget, y'all two sing backing vox. Chip, you can join too, if ya want. I'll sing lead and play 12-string. Tonight, we got Fast Eddie on drums, and of course, the man himself, Dill Dillard on banjo."

Dill pipes up, "Hey, Mike, I hope you don't mind that I brought something special tonight."

"Somethin' special? Whatcha bring, Dill?" Mike asks, trying to hide his trepidation. After Peter's sudden absence, Mike's in no mood for any more surprises.

"I brought my electric banjo."

"Electric... banjo?" Mike asks, now intrigued.

"Yeah. I thought that it would be less likely to get lost in the jangle of your Gretsch. I hope you don't mind."

"Naw, man. I don't mind a bit. It's just that I didn't know that such a thing existed. That's a great idea, though. Thanks."

"No problem. Hey, where can I plug her in at?"

Mike points to the Super-Beatle amp closest to Dill. "You can plug in there."

"Thanks." Dill plugs in his banjo.

Chip announces from the control room, "Hey, you guys ready to begin?"

Mike turns to the other guys and they all nod their heads. "Yeah, Chip. We're ready to roll."

"Okay. Mike, what's the name of this track?"

"'What Am I Doin' Hangin' 'Round?' You can call it 'Loudmouth Yankee,' if that's easier. But... uh... 'Hangin' 'Round' is the official name."

"Fine. I'll call it 'Hangin' 'Round' while we're recording."

"Fine. We're ready to roll."

"'Hangin' 'Round' Take 1A. Rolling."

The guys record the song. This first take is just a rehearsal take. After a few more of these, the guys record their individual instrumental parts. When Chip records his bass line, Mike takes over the control booth. The studio had just recently replaced its 4-track equipment with the latest recording innovation, 8-track. Now, Mike and Chip don't need to stop and mix down the instrumental tracks to make room for the vocals. After Mike, Micky, Davy, and Chip record their vocals, the guys call it a night.

"Hey, Chip?"

"Yeah, Mike."

"Hey, I'd like to take that tape home tonight. There's a certain someone who needs to hear it first."

"Sure, Mike. Here it is." Chip hands Mike the master tape of that night's session. Mike takes the tape and holds onto it as if it's a precious jewel. He can't wait to show it to Mona.

Mike flies through the front door, over the moon with excitement. He announces his entrance, "Mona, babe! I'm home!"

Mona wakes from the couch and mumbles sleepily, "Huh…? What...? What time is it?"

"It's time for you to listen to this!" Mike dangles the master tape box in front of Mona's face. She snatches it and can barely read the chicken scratches on the label.

"What's this?"

"It's the master tape from tonight's session."

"Why do you have it?"

Slightly hurt and taken aback by Mona's indifference, Mike pleads, "Because I wanted you to hear it first. It's your song." Mike sits down next to her.

"My song?" Just then, Mona's brain kicks into gear and she remembers, "Oh?! The banjo song Boomer gave you."'

"Yeah, that's it! And you wrote the banjo part, remember?"

"Yeah. Wow, I must have been sound asleep when you came in because I hadn't the foggiest idea what you were carrying on about." She catches a glimpse of Mike's face softening and senses Mike's hurt. "Babe, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to let you down." She kisses him and he wraps his arms around her. "Let's hear that tape, babe!"

Once they unwind from their embrace, Mike and Mona head to the music room to listen to Mike's master tape. Both Mona and Mike don headphones and sit down to listen. Mike watches Mona's reactions intently. As soon as she hears the banjo, she starts moving her hands as if she's playing it herself. She's beside herself with delight. Once the song ends, she takes off her headphones and kisses Mike on the forehead.

"Babe, that's incredible! What kind of banjo did Dill play? You can hear him quite well."

"Uh, he used an electric banjo."

"An electric banjo? I didn't know they made such an animal."

"Neither did I until he told me that's what he brought. I was just as shocked as you."

"Well, that banjo sounds sublime."

"I think so too."

"Babe, I'm glad you chose Dill. I wouldn't have been able to top that. I don't have an electric and either you or Chip would have had to employ some fancy mixing tricks or doubletracking to keep your Gretsch from burying my banjo."

Mike sighs, "Thanks. You're right about the advantage of the electric. I just hope Peter feels the same after he hears this tape."

"What's this about Peter? Was he upset tonight?"

"Accordin’ to the other guys, yes. But he wasn't there tonight. He never told me he was upset. I had no idea anythin’ was amiss until he failed to show up."

"Michael," Mona begins, "You need to talk to him. Show him that tape."

"I was going to do that tomorrow at the studio."

"No. You need to do it when y'all are alone. Just you and him."

"Now?"

"Would he be up at this ungodly hour?"

"Maybe."

"Well, go call him."

"Yes, ma'am."

And with his marching orders, Mike finds the closest phone and gives Peter a call. Mike picks up the phone and dials Peter's number. Mike thinks to himself, Please let the answering service pick up. Please let the answering service pick up. No such luck. Peter picks up and sounds wide awake for this time of night. Mike hopes that he hasn't interrupted any of Peter's "extracurricular activities."

"Hello?"

"Hey, Pete! This is Mike."

"Michael, why are you calling me so late?" Peter asks, a bit irritated.

"Hey, sorry, man. Is this a bad time?"

"No..."

"Am I... uh... interrupting anything?"

Peter pauses for a few seconds and tells a fib, "No. Not really."

"Good. Look, we missed you at tonight's session. Mick and Davy told me that you're upset..."

Peter interrupts Mike, "I'm sorry, man. I flaked out because I was hurt about not getting picked, but I'm over it now."

"It's okay, man. Are you sure you're cool now?"

"Yeah, Michael. We're cool."

"Great! Hey, Pete... Would ya like to hear the master tape from tonight's session?"

"Yes, but can we do it some other time? I'm kinda busy right now."

"Hey, I thought you said..."

"Well, you know how girls are. They only have so much patience..."

"I dig, Pete. I'll let you get back to whatever it is that you're doing."

"Thanks, Michael." With that, Peter hangs up.

Mona walks over to Mike and kisses his neck. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her close to him. "Mmmm... I love it when you do that."

 She looks up at him and flashes a seductive smile."So... How did it go?"

"Pete's cool now."

"Are you going to show him the tape?"

"No need."

Mona resists the urge to pry further. Instead, she enjoys Mike's loving embrace. "Let's continue this in the bedroom," she suggests.

"I love the way you think, Witchy Woman."

Mona smiles and Mike releases her from his arms. The two lovers head to the bedroom.

Mona doesn’t wait for him to close the door. She unties her robe and lets it cascade to the floor, her voluptuous curves on full display. Mike slams the door with his heel. He looks her up and down, and then whistles.

She taunts, “You gonna just stand there and gawk, or what?”

“I’ll never get tired of watchin’ you do that,” he mutters, voice thick with desire.

“You better not,” she purrs. She fists the front of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss. “I married you, didn’t I?”

He answers by grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her in, kissing her hard enough to knock the breath out of both of them.

"You're always so rough," she gasps between kisses, "when you’re aroused."

"You love it," he mutters, crushing her mouth again. His tongue pushes deep, staking his claim.

One of his hands claws down her spine and palms her ass. He squeezes hard, dragging her up against the thick ridge straining through his jeans.

She moans into his mouth, “There he is.”

He groans, “Keep talkin’. See what happens.”

Her breath catches as his hips twitch forward.

“You that desperate already?” she teases.

Their mouths crash again, their teeth barely grazing each other. She grabs two fistfuls of his shirt and yanks him in, grinding hard.

He grunts and nearly loses his footing.

“Easy, cowboy,” she laughs into his mouth.

“Then quit buckin’,” he snaps, biting her lip.

She clamps her thighs around his hips. “Make me.”

He hauls her up, and she wraps around him in one fluid motion, arms locked behind his neck, legs cinched tightly around his waist. She latches onto his mouth, kissing him deeply, nipping at his lower lip when he shifts too fast. Her thighs tighten around his waist, heel pressing into his back like a dare. “If you drop me, I swear to God…”

He grunts, catching his footing and hitching her higher.

“Keep squirmin’, and I might. You tryin’ to test me, darlin’?”

“Nope. You bumped the bed,” she murmurs when his shin hits the edge.

“I noticed,” he growls, laying her down hard.

He follows her down and tears his belt loose with one hand. Her nails drag stinging lines across his chest as he kicks off his boots and strips the rest.

She stays flat on her back, arms behind her head, watching him like a cat in the sun. “You undress real pretty when you’re in a hurry.”

He growls low in his throat and climbs over her, catching her wrist and pinning it beside her head.

“Don’t start somethin’ you ain’t prepared to finish,” he warns.

“Finish me, then.”

He grabs her ass and drags her flush against him. She reaches down, finds his manhood, and strokes once.

“Jesus, Mona.”

She lines him up and lifts her hips. He slides in with a groan.

The stretch draws a gasp from her. She grips his shoulders and rolls her hips under his. “That’s it. Right there.”

He settles into a rhythm—shallow at first, then deeper, each stroke coaxing her higher. She bucks under him, her nails digging into his back. Her mouth’s on his neck now, kissing and nipping. She wraps a leg higher around his waist.

“You were made for me,” he mutters, panting against her cheek.

“We’ll see if you still think that when I scream your name.”

“You better.”

She twists with a wicked grin and flips them in one practiced motion, settling on top with her knees spread wide and her palms flat on his chest. "You want it fast, or mean?"

“Mean,” he grits, already bracing.

She rides him hard. Every bounce slaps her down onto him, her breath ragged, her hair swinging with the rhythm. He digs his hands into her hips, thrusting up into her so deep it knocks a whimper loose from her throat.

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasps. “Keep goin’.”

She braces against his chest, bouncing harder. Her breath hitches—she’s close.

“Say it,” he urges.

“I love you, Michael.”

“Again.”

She yells, "I LOVE YOU, MICHAEL!" her voice cracking under the force of it.

"Say my name again," he growls.

"MICHAEL!" she screams, louder this time.

"That’s it. Let go. Come for me."

Her body jolts and locks up hard—hips snapping, back bowing like she’s been hit with a live wire. She throws her head back and screams again, so loud it echoes.

“C’mon, darlin’. Show me how bad you want it.”

“Michael...!” Her voice snaps. She throws her head back again, legs tightening. “Fuck...Michael!”

He grips her harder. “Don’t hold back, baby. Let me hear how good it feels.”

“God, I’m gonna...” Her words break off into a sob.

“That’s right. Don’t stop. Say it again when you break.”

Mona bites down on her lip and stares him dead in the eye. Her voice shakes, “You want it that bad?”

“I want it loud,” he growls. “Come on, Witchy Woman.”

Mona throws her head back and laughs. It bursts out of her like a dare, breath catching on the edge of a moan. She bares her teeth. "You like stirrin’ up trouble, Texas?"

“Only when it ends with you screamin’.”

Mona grabs a fistful of his hair, yanks his head back, and bites his neck. “Then earn it.”

He snarls and slams into her, hard enough to knock another cry from her throat.

“OH FUCK, MICHAEL!” she screams, her head snapping back and her heels digging into his back.

“Louder, Mona. Let the whole damn street know who’s fuckin’ you.”

Her thighs clamp around his waist, and she drenches him with each pulsing contraction.

“Michael!” she sobs, thrashing beneath him. “Don’t stop...don’t you dare stop!”

“That's my girl,” he growls. “Fuckin’ soak me.”

She thrashes beneath him, moaning through the wave that tears out of her.

“That’s it, Witchy Woman. Don’t hold a drop back.”

Her arousal runs down her thighs and coats his skin in hot, sweet proof of what he’s done to her. She digs her nails into his chest and sobs his name as it overtakes her, gasping and shaking.

“Jesus, Mona,” he breathes. “You feel too damn good.”

He grabs her hips and follows, his hips jolting as he spills deep inside her. His moan breaks loose with her name on his lips, "Mona..."

She collapses over him. He holds her there, hands skating up and down her back. She moans faintly. The room smells like sex and the faint trace of sweat cooling between them.

“Still mad?” he murmurs.

“Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

He chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“No, that *good.”*

His hand cups her cheek. He kisses her slowly, his thumb tracing her jaw. “I’m glad you wrote that part.”

She smiles against his mouth. “I’m glad you let me.”

They stay tangled. She’s still throbbing around him, slow and shallow, her breath catching every time he shifts. One of his hands slides down to her hip and holds her there, as the other brushes damp hair off her temple.

“You tryin’ to kill me, New England?”

“Eventually,” she whispers.

He kisses her like he’s staking his claim all over again. His mouth lingers until her breath hitches.

She slides her leg up higher around his waist and tightens her grip.

He growls in her ear, “You startin’ somethin’, or you just like teasin’ me?”

She slides her hand down his back and pulls him deeper. She presses her heel into the back of his thigh and holds him right where she wants him.

He exhales against her cheek. “You tryin’ to make sure I never walk again?”

She hums, “Maybe....”

His breath hitches when she flexes around him. “Jesus, woman.”

She smiles without opening her eyes. He tucks his face into the crook of her neck. She reaches up and runs her fingers through his hair until his breathing slows. His weight settles heavily against her. She brushes her fingers across his back and lets the silence settle in like a blanket. His chest rises and falls in time with hers. Their legs stay wrapped. Her hand drifts down and rests at the small of his back, where she always keeps him. She shifts once, just enough to make him sigh against her neck. He settles in, his arm heavy across her waist. The rhythm of his breath slows. She breathes with him, her hand still right where it belongs.

A few weeks later, the guys film the "Monkees In Mexico" episode on the Columbia Ranch lot. It's an unusually hot day. Bob and the guys are sweaty and miserable. Today, they're filming the instrumental scenes, which feature Mike's new song, "What Am I Doin' Hangin' 'Round." These scenes are supposed to feature close-ups of Peter playing the banjo. Problem is, Peter usually doesn't even pretend to actually play any of their songs. Since he's supposed to be one of the silly ones, he just messes around. That, and like Mike, he doesn't like having to fake playing, so as his own personal "fuck you" to the system, he just parodies it instead.

"Hey Peter," Bob calls out, "let's film those close up shots of you playing banjo."

"I can't, Bob."

"You 'can't?' What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You're an actor."

"Well, I'm a musician first..."

"Don't go giving me Snide's routine. I can't deal with two Snides. One's too much as it is."

Peter pleads to Mike, "Michael, you tell him."

"Tell me what?" Bob demands.

"Uh, Bob, Peter doesn't know how to play this song."

"So, what! All he needs to do is strum. He can play 'Cripple Creek' for all I care. It's not like the audience will know any different."

"But... I will..." sniffs Peter.

"What the fuck is going on here? Will someone please explain it to me? Time's money and we're wasting both."

Just then, Mona appears with her banjo slung on her shoulder and dressed in Peter's blue eight-button shirt, grey pants, black sideways hipster belt, and black boots. She's even wearing a blonde bob wig. Underneath her shirt, she wears a bandeau to flatten her ample chest. From afar, she looks like Peter's doppelganger.

"JENSEN! Where the hell are you?"

"I'm right here, Bob."

"Where?"

Mona raises her hand, and she and the boys all shout in unison, "Here!"

"What the fuck?" Bob asks, confused and agitated.

"Peter asked me to play banjo during the close-ups because I wrote the part and I can play it. Susie and Phyllis dressed me like Peter. They even made my boobs disappear." Mike gives a sullen look. Mona smiles a bit.

Bob lets out a big sigh, "Alright, whatever's clever. I don't care. Let's shoot this fucking thing before I change my mind and scrap it all."

Chapter Text

The headline spans the full width of the spread, brash and unforgiving:

MIKE NESMITH: “I WON’T SETTLE FOR JUST ONE WOMAN!”

The caption beneath the lead photograph softens none of it. Mona leans into her husband’s chest on the back patio at Villa Antelo, both mid-laugh, both radiant. The caption reads:

“Mike and his lovely wife Mona—who says she doesn’t mind sharing him with the world.”

The second image occupies nearly half a page. Mike and Jan Freeman sit side by side in one of the set’s cramped makeup chairs, pressed shoulder to shoulder. They both face off-camera, mid-laugh, Jan’s hand visible on Mike’s thigh. The caption reads:

“Mike’s wife doesn’t mind—but should she?”

The article opens with the usual bait.

“Sure, I’m married,” Mike says, laughing. “But that don’t mean I gotta stop bein’ curious about other people. I think folks oughta be free to love who they want. That’s what love is, ain’t it?”

Asked whether his wife shares that philosophy, he reportedly shrugs. “You’d have to ask her. But she knows I ain’t the type to live by somebody else’s rules.”

Then comes London’s quote:

“They’re real close,” he says, “but it ain’t the jealous kind of close. You ever seen two people scream at each other backstage and then start makin’ out before the next take? That’s them. Mona’s cool. She lets Mike do his thing.”

When asked point-blank if there’s a special someone on set, Mike allegedly winks and replies: “Maybe. Depends who’s askin’.”

The phone rings at 6:15 a.m., the first few lines of *Don't Call On Me* warble through the house speaker, *"Don't call on me when you're feelin' footloose and fancy free..."*

Mona lights her cigarette from the half-burned stub resting in the kitchen ashtray. She exhales through her nose, closes her eyes, and lifts the receiver. “Villa Antelo.”

Susie does not bother with preamble. “DON’T YOU KILL HIM YET. I WANNA WATCH.”

Mona hangs up the phone without a word. She heads to her closet and changes into her green Western shirt dress with the pearl snaps. She cinches the belt tight and yanks on her white cowgirl boots while walking. Her hair is still wild from sleep. She makes no move to tame it.

In the kitchen, Lizzie and Katie freeze. The open *Movie Mirror* magazine lies flat between their breakfast bowls, the glossy pages reflecting sunlight through the curtained window. Katie inches the magazine toward her lap. Lizzie stops her with one finger and speaks without looking up. “Too late.”

Mona grabs the car keys off the hook and slams the front door behind her.

Lizzie winces. “Well, now we’re gonna have to call Mrs. Moelis.”

Katie groans. “Do you think she’ll still give us a ride to tutoring?”

“She will if we promise not to mention the lamp.”

Mona bursts into the Dungeon and hurls the magazine against the wall. It hits the foil and drops to the floor, the cover curling upward like scorched paper.

Mike looks up from his guitar. His expression shifts the moment he registers the look on her face. “Well,” he says carefully, “new issue’s out?”

She storms forward. Her voice cuts the air with surgical precision. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

He sets the guitar down gently, eyes locked on her.

“You said I don’t mind sharing you?” She yanks the magazine from the floor and slams it against his chest. “You told Movie Mirror I don’t mind sharing you?”

Mike holds the magazine without opening it. His brow furrows. “I didn’t say that.”

“They printed it with a picture of you and Jan Freeman sittin’ in the same goddamn chair.”

“That was a candid shot. We were goofin’ off between takes.”

“They ran it with a quote from London about me lettin’ you do your thing. You know what that sounds like, Michael?”

He exhales through his nose. “Yeah, I know what it sounds like.”

Her voice rises, “It sounds like I’m passin’ you around the studio like a goddamn hors d'oeuvre!”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. You gave them the knife and let London twist it!”

Mike sets the magazine down on the counter and looks at her. “You’re overreactin’.”

Her voice drops to a growl. “Don’t you dare tell me how to react.”

“I meant the spirit of free love,” he says, “not open marriage.”

“Oh, did you tell Lyon that? Or were you too busy winkin’ at him?”

Mike folds his arms. “You built this press cage. You wanted me to stay out of it. I do one interview, and now you’re throwin’ boots.”

She steps in until there is no space left between them. “I’m not throwin’ boots. Yet. I’m demandin’ a retraction. I want Lyon blacklisted from the lot. I want London in my office, sign-in sheet or not, with a statement in his hand and a pen in the other.”

Mike smirks. “Yankin’ his card-carryin’ privileges, too?”

“I’m yankin’ his balls if he doesn’t show by eight.”

The door cracks open behind her. Davy pokes his head in, eyes wide. “Should I...?”

She turns without looking. “OUT.”

The door slams shut.

Mike lowers his voice. “You really think this is worth that kinda fire?”

Her cigarette burns close to the filter as she exhales over his shoulder and says, “I think I’m the one who has to clean it up, so yeah, it’s worth it.”

She turns on her heel and stalks out the door.

He bends to retrieve the magazine and flips back to the spread. The photo of him and Mona still beams from the top left corner. The caption reads: Mike’s a lucky man—but how long will his luck hold out?

He shakes his head once. “Not long.”

Outside the door, Susie’s voice carries through the hallway, “That’s what happens when you let Snide run his mouth, dumbass.”

Mona’s voice cuts in behind it. “Where the hell is London?”

A crash follows and the hallway table lamp hits the floor. Susie yells, "HEY, THAT WAS MINE!" but Mona’s voice barrels over her like a freight train.

“LONDON!”

The door to wardrobe slams. The hallway is empty, save for Susie’s cigarette smoke and the sound of something else hitting the wall. Lizzie and Katie are at tutoring, thank God.

In the Dungeon, Mike sits back down, magazine still in his hands. The fluorescent ceiling light hits the photo of him with Jan at a sharp angle. He shuts the magazine and tosses it aside.

Another crash. This time, definitely a chair.

“She’s gonna kill ’im,” Micky mutters from behind the Dungeon door.

“Not before I do,” Mike says flatly.

A third crash. Then a scream. Then silence.

Peter tiptoes past with two mugs of coffee and a peace offering on a napkin: a powdered jelly doughnut. He does not make it two feet into the hallway. The doughnut explodes against the far wall as Mona comes tearing back out of wardrobe, murder in her step.

“You better be ready,” she shouts down the hall. “Because if I find him before Bob does, there won’t be a statement. There’ll just be remains!”

Davy peeks out again. “I take it this ain’t the week to ask for a raise.”

Mike slumps back in his chair. “Nope.”

Bob’s voice cuts through the hallway before he’s in view. “What the hell happened?”

Mona rounds on him at once. “Lyon ran it.”

Bob clocks the debris, then Mike’s face, then the dented wall. “Jesus Christ, Jensen.”

“You told me you’d kill it.”

“I did kill it. Told Lyon it was dead copy. He must’ve sold it to *Movie Mirror* behind my back.”

“He twisted every quote. Ran two photos we didn’t clear.”

“Where’s London?”

“Hidin’.”

Bob nods once. “Then drag his ass out. Get his name off it.”

“No. He’s signin’ a statement.”

“We don’t have time for that. I’ll run the PR fix through Tiger Beat. Let Lizzie spin it.”

“She’s thirteen.”

“She’s a weapon, and you know it.”

Mona exhales and fights to steady her hands.

Mike calls from the Dungeon. “Lyon’s gettin’ blackballed, right?”

“Oh, he’s done,” Bob says. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Peter reappears with a second doughnut. This time, he gets it to her.

“Here,” he says. “You looked like you needed this more than the wall did.”

She takes it and says nothing.

Bob checks his watch. “Forty-five minutes before we lose the morning light.”

Mona turns to Peter. “Find London. Tell him if I’m done with this doughnut and he’s not here, I’m comin’ after him with a staple gun and a legal pad.”

Peter grins. “Yes, ma’am.”

Susie passes back through the hallway. “Still think you can’t top last week’s meltdown?”

Mona bites the doughnut. Powdered sugar hits her boots. “Let’s find out.”

Back in the Dungeon, Mike sits up straighter. He sets the magazine aside for good, rests his elbows on his knees, and presses his knuckles to his mouth. He isn’t exactly smiling, but the corners of his lips twitch just enough to betray him. He knows he’s not out of the woods, not even close. And the thing is—he doesn’t want to be.

He hears her boots echo down the corridor, steady and sharp, each step drawing closer to his door. He shifts once in the chair, then stops himself and waits.

She flings the door open without warning.

“Dungeon privileges revoked.”

He blinks once. “That so?”

“You don’t get to sit in here smirkin’ while I clean up your mess.”

He stands and takes one slow step toward her. “I ain’t smirkin’. I’m waitin’ on my punishment.”

Mona folds her arms. “You think this is foreplay?”

“I think you know it is.”

She doesn’t blink. “Studio. Forty minutes.”

He tips his head. “That my sentence?”

“No. That’s your warning. Sentence comes later.”

She turns before he can answer and slams the door shut behind her.

He grins into the dark. “That’s where it’s at.”

Peter returns dragging London by the elbow. The man looks like he’s been hit by a car and hasn’t yet figured out which way it went. Mona doesn’t wait for him to get his bearings.

“You think this is funny?” she barks. “You think *Movie Mirror* was a good look for your career?”

London fumbles. “I didn’t know he was gonna twist it like that…”

“You gave them the quote, Johnny. You opened your damn mouth and served my marriage up like it was part of the craft table.”

He opens his mouth again. Mona cuts him off with a sharp hand gesture.

“You’re signin’ the statement. You’re writin’ a follow-up. You’re takin’ the hit for this. No questions, no notes, no bullshit.”

London glances to Bob, who doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. Then Phyllis walks in, eyes blazing. She points a perfectly manicured nail right at him. “*You’re* the reason I spent the last half hour pulling makeup girls off Jan Freeman! Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to detangle four women from a dressing room brawl before 9 a.m.?”

London stammers, “I didn’t...”

“You never think. That’s the problem. First you get quoted in some two-bit gossip rag, now you’ve got Jan crying in wardrobe and Mona threatening to staple you to the floor.”

He turns to Mona. “You wouldn’t actually...”

“Try me.”

Bob finally looks up. “Sign the statement, London. Or Jensen staples you to the floor and files a formal grievance with Musicians Local 47.”

London grabs the pen.

Peter, still holding the doughnut box, leans into Micky. “Is it too early to start drinking?”

Micky shakes his head. “Not for them, it ain’t.”

As the room settles, Mona pulls Jan aside near the wardrobe racks. Her tone softens, but her posture stays tight. “This ain’t on you,” she says. “That photo was taken a year ago, durin’ the shoot for ‘The Chaperone.’ We both know that. Whoever leaked it had no permission.”

Jan nods once, still blinking hard. “I didn’t say a word to them, I swear.”

“I know you didn’t. You got caught in the blast radius, that’s all.”

Mona squeezes her arm and lets her go. She turns back toward Bob, already pulling her cigarette case from her belt. “I want to know who leaked that photo.”

Bob’s head snaps up. “You got a lead?”

“Nurit had the negatives. She was on set that day. Far as I know, nobody else held onto copies.”

Bob flips a page on his clipboard. “That ain’t proof.”

“It’s a start. Pull the call sheets, check the contact sheets, and find out who had access. If it’s her, I want her name on the blacklist by sundown.”

Bob nods once. “Consider it under review.”

Mona exhales smoke through her nose. “Make it fast.”

Nurit Wilde doesn’t look up when Bob Rafelson enters. She’s hunched over a contact sheet, marking crop lines with grease pencil. The red safelight casts long shadows behind her.

“I thought I made myself clear,” Bob says.

Nurit sets the pencil down slowly. “You’ll have to be more specific, Bob.”

“About dead copy. About off-limits photos. About keeping your goddamn head down.”

She lifts her chin. “I didn’t hand them anything.”

Bob crosses the room in two steps. “Then explain to me how *Movie Mirror* got a print from a shoot only *you* catalogued.”

“I didn’t send it.”

“Then who did?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

Bob slams a hand on the table. “Try again.”

Nurit’s voice tightens. “I don’t *know.* I didn’t leak it.”

Bob stares her down for a long moment. “You better pray someone else turns up with access. Because if Jensen proves it was you...”

“She won’t.”

He leans in. “If she does, you’ll wish I fired you.”

The door creaks open behind him. Mona’s boots cross the threshold without pause.

Nurit straightens, but not fast enough.

“I hope you got more than grease pencil in your hand,” Mona says coldly, “because I’ve got a whole magazine full of reasons to knock your teeth in.”

Nurit raises her chin. “You think I leaked that?”

“I think you were the only one with access. I think you knew damn well Lyon would pay for a good headline. And I think the only reason you haven’t packed your things is because Bob still thinks you’re worth salvagin’.”

Bob holds up a hand. “We don’t have a confirmation yet.”

Mona steps in anyway. “Then get one. Because if I find proof, I won’t be stoppin’ at termination. I’ll bury your name so deep in this town, you won’t get hired to take passport photos.”

Nurit’s face hardens. “I didn’t leak it.”

“Then prove it,” Mona says. “Because right now, you’re the only one left with your fingerprints on the roll.”

Mike reaches for another pretzel rod from the craft table, only to freeze when Nurit appears beside him with a paper cup of coffee and a question poised like a dagger.

“Trouble in paradise?”

He doesn’t look at her. “You got somethin’ to say, say it.”

Nurit’s voice is smooth, calculated. “Just wondering how it feels to be the centerfold in a scandal. That quote of yours—real poetic.”

He chews once. “Not my quote. Not my scandal.”

She leans closer. “Sure about that? You didn’t exactly deny it.”

Mike turns, eyes locked on hers. “You seem awfully invested for someone with clean hands.”

Nurit smiles tightly. “Just taking an interest in my coworkers. Isn’t that what open love’s all about?”

He doesn’t blink. “Funny way of takin’ an interest.”

Nurit steps back with a shrug and vanishes behind a light stand before he can call her on it.

Mike tosses the pretzel back onto the tray.

Mike steps out quietly, scanning the hallway until he spots the familiar shape of Mona pacing near the lighting rig, clipboard in hand, lips pressed tight around a cigarette.

He approaches, careful not to alert her until he’s close enough to speak low.

“She just cornered me by craft,” he says.

Mona doesn’t look up. “Nurit?”

He nods. “Asked how it felt bein’ the centerfold in a scandal.”

Now she lifts her eyes. “She say that exact line?”

“‘Trouble in paradise.’”

Mona draws slow on her cigarette. “She’s smilin’ like a cat yet?”

“She knew damn well what she was implyin’. Slipped it in too easy.”

Mona taps ash to the floor, expression unreadable. “Then we’ve got her. We just need the proof.”

“I’ll keep her talkin’ next time,” Mike offers.

“No,” she says flatly. “Let me.”

Bob spreads the contact sheets across Mona’s desk while she paces behind him.

“I’ve got three people who handled prints after that shoot,” he says. “Nurit, Donny, and Gil.”

“Gil didn’t have camera access,” Mona snaps. “He was still carryin’ sandbags.”

Bob nods. “Then that narrows it. Donny swears he just delivered the envelopes. Nurit was the last to log them.”

Mona stops pacing. “Pull the call logs. See if any outgoing calls match Lyon’s office.”

“Already in motion.”

“Check the darkroom access sheet. I want initials, times, everything.”

Bob raises an eyebrow. “You expect her to sign her own break-in?”

“I expect her to think she’s smarter than us. That’s when people slip.”

Bob checks his notes again. “She didn’t print anything herself. Sent the whole roll out to Fotomat for backup dubs.”

Mona scoffs. “That’s her cover. She’s been in the darkroom nearly every day this week.”

“I’ve got her logged twice last Thursday. Late night.”

“Find out who she called after.”

He tears a page off his pad. “Already flagged one outgoing to a Sunset Boulevard payphone. Matches a number Lyon’s assistant used to confirm meetings last year.”

Mona stops pacing. “Then we’ve got our trail.”

Bob nods. “But it won’t hold unless we get voice confirmation or physical delivery.”

“Leave that to me.”

Mona waits until the hallway empties, her boots echoing across the concrete as she moves past the closed office door and into the darkroom annex. She checks the lock, tests the latch, and lifts the development log from the clipboard outside.

Initials, dates, times—Nurit’s name appears twice last Thursday, both entries after regular hours.

She flips to the entry sheet. The darkroom light switched on at 8:47 p.m. and again at 10:12 p.m., both sign-ins marked under the ID code NW. The outgoing materials tag lists a single sleeve sent to an offsite processor, the usual method for backup negatives.

Mona turns the sheet over. Someone scratched out the original routing code and wrote “FM Lab 3” in its place, a lazy attempt at misdirection. She folds the sheet and slips it into her clipboard.

She hands the sheet to Bob without a word.

He scans it and exhales. “She tried to cover her tracks.”

“Didn’t do it well.”

Bob pulls a number from his Rolodex. “If the processor kept the drop log, we’ll have our delivery source.”

“Then we’ll have our leak.”

Bob sets the phone receiver in its cradle and nods. “Confirmed. Drop log from FM Lab 3 shows a courier delivery logged under the name N. Wilde. Signed with her initials.”

Mona flicks her ash into the tray. “That’s it, then. Full chain.”

“She used her real name.”

“She thinks she’s untouchable.”

Bob reaches for the incident folder. “You want me to call security?”

“No,” Mona says. “You’ll tip your hand. She’ll claim harassment.”

“So, what’s your play?”

“I want her to know I know. But I want her to hang herself first.”

Bob raises a brow. “That mean you’re lettin’ her stay on set?”

“Only long enough to take the rope.”

Nurit leans against the prop cart, arms crossed, camera slung over one shoulder. She’s halfway through adjusting a light filter when Mona walks up behind her and plants both hands on the cart.

“Afternoon, Wilde.”

Nurit turns slowly. “Something I can help you with?”

“Just wanted to offer my personal thanks.”

“For what?”

Mona smiles thinly. “For makin’ sure we were all reminded why you’re not on the main crew.”

Nurit tilts her head. “If you’ve got somethin’ to say, say it like a professional.”

“You just made Bob Rafelson work past lunch. That’s damn near a capital offense on this lot.”

Nurit scoffs, “I didn’t leak the photo.”

Mona doesn’t break eye contact. “Funny. Nobody mentioned which photo.”

Nurit’s smile falters. 

Mona lets the pause stretch. Her voice lowers to a cutting whisper, “You wanna play games, play ’em somewhere else. You so much as graze my name or his name again in print without clearance, I’ll have your press card, your camera, and your reputation smelted down for scrap.”

Nurit steadies her voice. “I already told Bob...I didn’t send that photo.”

“And I already told Bob I don’t give a damn what you told him. I care what we can prove.” Mona leans in, the tip of her boot pressing lightly into the wheel of the prop cart. “And right now, the proof’s got your initials in two places and your name on the courier log.”

Nurit’s throat tightens, but she holds her posture. “Coincidence.”

“No such thing,” Mona says. “Not with a closed roll from a private shoot and a call to a Sunset payphone traced to Lyon’s assistant.”

Nurit narrows her eyes. “You’ve been busy.”

“I clean up fast. And when I find dirt, I don’t stop scrubbin’ ’til it’s raw.”

Nurit straightens. “Then maybe you should ask Donny what he does with offsite envelopes after hours.”

“I already did,” Mona says. “He doesn’t make routing decisions. He stamps what he’s given. You signed the manifest. You logged the room. You called the number.”

“You’re twisting this.”

“No,” Mona says. “I’m documenting it. Next comes the blacklist.”

Bob’s voice calls from across the stage. “Jensen! Studio needs the filter rig cleared!”

Mona doesn’t look away from Nurit. “Clock’s tickin’. You want to stay on this lot, you better pray someone else comes forward.”

Nurit folds her arms again. “If this is a shakedown, it’s thin.”

Mona turns on her heel. “Then you’d better shore it up. Because next time, I’m bringin’ witnesses.”

She heads toward the studio bay, her voice already raised to direct the lighting crew. Behind her, Nurit exhales through clenched teeth and glares down at the grease pencil still in her hand.

In the distance, Bob shouts again, “You got the shot or not?”

Nurit slams her camera bag shut without answering.

Mona heads toward the Dungeon with a thick coil of coax slung over one shoulder and her clipboard still under one arm. The minute she rounds the corner, she sees Mike pacing outside the door, hand half-raised to knock. His eyes meet hers, and he drops the hand quickly, playing casual.

She narrows her gaze. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t waitin’ there like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office.”

He raises his palms. “I wasn’t knockin’.”

“You were stallin’.”

He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then closes it again.

Mona walks past him and unlocks the door. “Inside.”

He follows her and stays silent.

She tosses the coil onto the chair and swings the door shut behind them.

Mike doesn’t sit. He hovers near the corner of the dressing table, picking up a stray guitar pick, setting it down again. “So. That went about like I figured.”

“No. It went worse.” She closes her notebook and places it neatly on the countertop. “And I’m still not through with you.”

He tilts his head. “You get what you needed from Nurit?”

“I got the reaction. I’m workin’ on the nail.”

He nods once. “She played it coy with me too.”

“She’s sloppy,” Mona says. “She thinks if she makes it look like flirtin’, she can play both sides.”

Mike leans against the wall. “She said I was poetic.”

Mona shoots him a glare. “You are poetic. That’s the problem.”

He lets the comment hang. “You gonna kill me for real this time?”

“Not ’til after wrap.” She exhales slowly, glancing toward the mirror. “But you’re stayin’ outta interviews. Permanently. You so much as breathe near another Movie Mirror contributor, I’ll start handin’ out copies of your teenage poetry notebooks.”

Mike winces. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, Texas. You don’t know what I’d do.”

He tries not to smile but fails. “You really that mad?”

She turns toward him, crossing her arms. “You embarrassed me.”

He nods once. “I did.”

“You made me look like a fool.”

Another nod. “I know.”

“And you enjoyed every second of it.”

He raises a brow. “Enjoyin’ this a little too.”

She steps forward and jabs a finger into his chest. “Don’t think you’re talkin’ your way outta this with charm. I already let you off easy for that 'centerfold' comment.”

He grabs her hand and holds it flat against his shirt. “What if I let you tear me apart later?”

Her eyes flick down, then back up. “That’s already scheduled.”

“Any chance I get a say in the manner?”

“No.”

He kisses her palm anyway.

She sighs, long-suffering. “Get outta here, Michael. Before I forget we’re on payroll.”

He steps back and salutes her. “Yes, ma’am.”

She watches him go and lets her lips twitch once as the door clicks shut behind him.

Susie stands at the vending machine, nursing a lukewarm Fresca and muttering under her breath when she sees London tiptoe past with his guitar case. She doesn’t hesitate. She intercepts him with a sharp step forward and a flat voice.

“You got a death wish, or are you just stupid?”

London halts, face already pale. “She still mad?”

Susie rolls her eyes. “You’re the reason I had to bribe Jan Freeman with a compact and two pairs of false lashes just to stop her crying. What do you think?”

“I didn’t think they’d run it like that,” he mumbles.

She narrows her eyes. “You didn’t think. Period. And now you’re on Mona’s list. Which, if you had half a brain, you’d know is where careers go to die.”

London swallows hard. “What should I do?”

Susie doesn’t miss a beat. “Grovel. And pray she doesn’t find out about the second quote.”

His voice cracks. “What second quote?”

Susie tilts her head and smiles smugly. “Exactly.”

She spins on her heel and walks away, the hiss of the soda machine barely covering her parting shot. “Better start writin’ that apology, dumbass.”

Nurit fiddles with the aperture ring on her backup camera, pretending to check the lens for dust as she eyes the studio floor from a distance. Her fingers twitch against the plastic casing, knuckles tense beneath the strap. From the shadows of the gaffer rig, Mike’s silhouette passes across frame left and she steps into view as if by accident, bumping his arm with the edge of her clipboard.

“Oops,” she says lightly.

Mike doesn’t blink. “You followin’ me now?”

She tilts her head. “You just have a way of bein’ where the story is.”

He doesn’t move. “Story’s over.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Not from where I’m standin’.”

He looks her up and down once. “Funny. Looks like desperation from over here.”

Nurit’s smile twitches. “Awfully defensive for someone with nothin’ to hide.”

Mike leans forward just slightly, his voice pitched low. “You oughta stop pokin’ the hornet’s nest, Wilde.”

“Why?” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Afraid your wife might sting?”

He chuckles, “She don’t sting. She kills.”

Before she can respond, a sharp whistle cuts across the stage. Mona calls from a lighting platform above. “Michael. Now.”

Mike turns without a word and walks off.

Nurit watches him go, her expression guarded. She reaches into her vest pocket, pulls out a roll of undeveloped film, and studies the handwritten label: Set C - July 66 - Jan + Mike. She frowns, then slips it back into her pocket and walks away.

Bob Rafelson closes the file on Nurit Wilde and drops it onto the middle of Mona’s desk. The tab reads: Access Log Discrepancies - Wilde, N.

He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Lyon’s been blacklisted. London’s statement cleared. That just leaves cleanup.”

Mona doesn't lift her head from the layout boards she’s reviewing. “Then blacklist her.”

“You want it quiet or scorched earth?”

“Scorched.” She flicks her eyes toward him. “But not public.”

Bob nods slowly. “I’ll tell Jan to start circulating the whisper.”

“She’ll believe it faster if it comes from you.”

“I’ll use both.”

Mona sets down her pencil. “Make sure Susie hears it by morning.”

Bob studies her for a moment. “You sure you’re not still mad at Mike?”

She lights a cigarette without answering.

Bob grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “You can take it however you want.”

Bob shakes his head and moves toward the door. “You really are the most dangerous woman on this lot.”

She smirks. “Took you long enough to notice.”

He closes the door behind him.

Mona remains at her desk, flipping through a contact sheet for an upcoming shoot, red grease pencil in one hand, cigarette in the other. The page keeps slipping because her fingers are too tight.

Mike reappears in the doorway. This time, he knocks.

She glances up. “You get lost, Texas?”

He crosses the threshold. “Just wanted to check. You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He nods once, then approaches slowly. “You sure?”

She sets the grease pencil down and leans back in the chair. “I got a trail, a motive, and a signed log. What I don’t got yet is her confession.”

“You’ll get it.”

“I will. But I want it delivered.”

He smirks faintly. “You want her to hand it over herself.”

She doesn’t deny it. “I want her to admit it out loud. I want her to squirm.”

Mike slips his hands into his pockets. “You want me to bait her again?”

“No. I want her scared enough to slip. Keep to yourself. She already thinks you’re a fool.”

He shrugs. “I am a fool. I just pick who I act foolish for.”

Mona exhales. “Don’t get cute.”

“Too late.”

She softens just slightly. “You wanna help? Be boring. Be uninteresting. Let her get complacent.”

Mike tilts his head. “So I should just… act normal?”

“Exactly.”

He leans on the desk. “And if she tries to pull somethin’ again?”

“Redirect her. Be dull. Then tell me.”

He nods. “Got it.”

She returns to the contact sheet. “Go on. Before I remember I’m still mad at you.”

He backs out slowly, grinning. “That’s where it’s at.”

Outside the office, Susie leans against the wall, arms folded, cigarette tucked behind one ear. She watches Mike retreat down the hall and calls after him, “She still mad?”

Mike doesn’t slow his pace. “I’ll let you know if she stabs me.”

Susie snorts. “You’d probably like it.”

He rounds the corner without answering.

Susie steps into Mona’s doorway, eyes flicking across the desk. “So what’s the next play, Witchy Woman?”

Mona doesn’t look up. “If I told you, I’d have to bury you behind the studio chicken coop.”

“Promises, promises,” Susie mutters. She drops into the chair opposite the desk. “You know she’s not done.”

Mona flicks ash into the tray. “Good. I’m not either.”

“Think she’s got a backup plan?”

“Only if she’s smarter than she looks.”

Susie leans back and kicks one heel up onto the edge of the desk. “You think Lyon’s gonna try to come back around because he’s desperate?”

“He won’t get the chance. If he so much as breathes near this set, he’ll find himself banished from the whole damn network.”

“You think Bob’s got the teeth to make it stick?”

Mona exhales smoke slowly. “He will if I bite first.”

Susie’s grin stretches. “God, I love when you get like this.”

Mona finally looks up, expression dry. “Remind me to fire you later.”

“After lunch, or before?”

“Depends how many more idiots stick their foot in it before wrap.”

“Fair.” Susie rises from the chair and starts to leave, then pauses. “Oh, by the way, Phyllis says if you don’t get this cleared up by tomorrow, she’s worried Jan’s gonna have a full-on breakdown.”

Mona doesn’t look up. “Jan’s not the enemy.”

“Of course not. But she’s been cryin’ in the makeup chair all morning.”

Mona’s tone stays even. “Because she thinks I’m gonna turn on her.”

“Only because she’s stuck in the middle. That picture was taken on set, with your approval. None of this is on her.”

“She knows that. But she also knows how fast this place turns.”

“She ain’t wrong. Lyon wrote a hatchet job, and Nurit fed him the photo, because Jan’s presence in that shot was on-set and sanctioned—taken during a shoot you approved yourself.”

“Jan’s guilty of sittin’ in a chair next to my husband—on a set I approved, durin’ a shoot I scheduled. That’s it. And if anyone’s got a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”

“Exactly. And Phyllis is just tryin’ to keep her steady.”

Mona stubs out her cigarette. “Good. Because the next person who blames this on Jan is gettin’ reassigned to chicken coop duty.”

Susie nods once. “Fair warning.”

Mona leans back. “You see Nurit today?”

“Not yet. But when I do, I’ll smile real pretty.”

“Good. Make her wonder.”

Susie grins, then walks out.

Mona doesn’t smile. She takes a slow drag, eyes flicking to the door.

She knows the next move is coming, and she’s ready.

Nurit returns late to the studio floor, camera in hand, her usual saunter sharper than before. She clocks Mona near the loading bay, standing alone with a cigarette in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Her eyes shift to the gaffer rig where she planted the envelope, which remains undisturbed, viable bait.

She approaches with cautious confidence. “No assistant today?”

Mona does not look up. “Didn’t need one.”

Nurit tilts her head. “You usually have Bob circling by now. Or Susie. Or both.”

“They’re workin’. Unlike some people.”

Nurit scoffs. “You know, for someone so keen on image control, you sure let Lyon spin a mess.”

Now Mona looks at her. Not fast. Not sharp. Just enough to catch the change. “Funny. I thought I buried Lyon already.”

“He’s a roach. You know how they are.”

“Yeah,” Mona says evenly. “They scatter when the lights come on.”

Nurit blinks. The pause stretches long enough to make the air feel tighter. “You got a confession to pull, Jensen?”

Mona exhales slowly. “I don’t need one.”

Nurit laughs once. “Then why keep following me?”

Mona smiles, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Because you’re doin’ all the work for me.”

Nurit crosses her arms. “You think you’ve got something.”

“I know I do.”

She takes one slow step forward. “You planted that envelope.”

“I watched you walk it in.”

Nurit freezes.

Mona doesn’t blink. “You left a shadow on the silver bounce. You really oughta study your reflections more closely.”

Nurit’s jaw tightens. “That was private delivery.”

“No such thing on a union lot.”

Bob rounds the corner, a contact sheet in one hand, clipboard in the other. “Courier’s on his way to Lyon’s office. Picked up the drop.”

Nurit turns, voice sharp. “That wasn’t mine.”

Mona’s tone doesn’t shift. “It had your handwriting.”

“I didn’t sign anything.”

“You signed the last one.”

Bob taps the clipboard. “And we’ve got the routing to prove it.”

Nurit’s voice rises. “You can’t blacklist me on circumstantial—”

“We already did,” Mona says. “The blacklist’s just the paperwork.”

Nurit swallows hard. “I’ll go public.”

“Do it,” Mona says. “But I’d ask Jan Freeman first how well that goes.

Bob raises an eyebrow. “You want to walk out or be walked?”

Nurit glares. “You don’t get to decide.”

Mona drops the cigarette and steps on it. “I already did.”

Bob tips his head toward the stage exit. “Let’s go.”

Nurit glares at them both, then turns on her heel and storms out.

Mona doesn’t move. She waits until the echo of her boots fades down the corridor.

Bob mutters, “Guess she took the rope.”

Mona exhales. “And built the gallows herself.”

She turns, lighting another cigarette, already walking.

Bob trails after her. “You gonna tell Mike?”

She keeps walking. “He already knows.”

London skips the typist pool. He drags a legal pad into the soundproof booth behind the Foley room, slams the door, and writes. By the third page, the sweat stains have overtaken his armpits. By the fourth, his penmanship is illegible. He rips the top sheets off and starts again.

The final version reads like a confession and a eulogy all at once.

I did not have permission to speak to Lyon. I misspoke about Mona and Michael’s marriage. I exaggerated. I speculated. I disrespected their privacy and professionalism. I understand that this created harm not just for them, but for Jan Freeman, and for the entire crew. I formally apologize to Mona Jensen Nesmith for undermining her authority. I apologize to Michael Nesmith for jeopardizing his reputation.

He signs it, date-stamps it, and slips it beneath the door to Bob’s office. Then he walks out to the back lot, lights two cigarettes, and stares at the sky.

Inside the Dungeon, Mona flips the page of the intake log and jots down a note. Mike stands in front of the vanity, holding his green hat in one hand and the apology note in the other.

“You get the original?” she asks.

He nods. “Bob’s got the copy. This one’s yours.”

Mona doesn’t glance up. “You read it?”

“Mm.” He presses the corner of the paper flat. “It’s not great. But he did write it.”

She stands, taking the page from his hand. “Good.”

Mike doesn’t move. He watches her fold it into quarters and slip it into the drawer beneath her ashtray.

She meets his eyes. “Lock the door.”

He turns the bolt.

She nods to the chair in front of the mirror. “Sit.”

He sits.

She steps in front of him, lifts his chin with one finger, and studies his face. Her voice stays steady and flat, the kind of tone he knows better than to challenge. “You embarrassed me.”

“I know.”

“You made it sound like I was passin’ you around.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

She taps the corner of his mouth. “You grinned when you said it. You know how that reads?”

He swallows. “Bad.”

“Worse than bad.” She sets her hands on the arms of the chair. “You made me look like a fool.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

She leans in, close enough to smell the guilt on his skin. “Intent doesn’t matter, Michael. Not with press.”

“I’ll fix it.”

“You won’t speak to press again.”

He nods. “Alright.”

She circles behind him. “You let Lyon bait you. You let London drag you further down. And you didn’t think once about what that might do to me. So Michael, what did you do? Did you get drunk with London on the porch and then invite Lyon over to shoot the shit? Or did he call the house and y'all agreed because you were feelin' frisky?”

He grips the edge of the seat. “I did think about it.”

She walks around front again; eyes blazing. “Don’t you pick and choose which questions to answer. I want the whole damn truth.”

“Alright,” he mutters.

He shifts in the chair, his voice clearer this time. “London called. Said Lyon wanted to talk. I didn’t say no.”

She crosses her arms.

“I figured it was just another puff piece,” he continues. “Yeah, we were out on the porch. Weren’t drunk, just shootin’ the breeze. Lyon turned up after, and I figured it wasn’t a big deal.”

“It's always a big deal,” she snaps. “And you know that.”

He nods once. “I do now.”

She sets her palm on the back of his neck. “I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget again.”

He nods again.

“Say it, loud.”

He clears his throat. “You’re gonna make sure I don’t forget again.”

She presses harder. “Damn right.”

He exhales through his nose, tension tightening through his jaw and down his spine.

She walks to the drawer, pulls it open, and takes out the pad of forms they use to document disciplinary incidents on set. She doesn’t speak until he’s signed. When he does, she folds it in half and files it away. Then she stands in front of him again.

“You gonna keep talkin’ to reporters without a leash?”

He shakes his head.

“You gonna let London open his damn mouth on your behalf?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. You embarrassed me, Michael. That’s gonna take a little longer to fix.”

He looks up. “What do I do?”

“You play it straight.”

“I always do.”

“You do when it’s your music. Now you’re gonna do it for me.”

He nods once, serious now.

She watches him for a long moment, then she steps forward and yanks him back by the belt.

"Where d’you think you’re goin’? You don’t get to walk outta here grinnin’ like the cat that got the cream."

He swallows hard, lips already twitching.

She reaches for his fly, undoes his belt, and lets it hang. "You thought I was done with you?"

“No, ma’am.”

She shoves him back into the chair. “You think you’re cute when you grin through an apology? You think I don’t know what that smug little smirk means?”

He stays quiet and keeps his expression neutral, knowing full well what silence earns him in moments like this.

She straddles him, hikes her skirt, and shifts until he groans. Her voice stays dry. “I want you right there. So close, you could beg me. So close, it hurts.”

She rolls her hips until he gasps and then stops, holding perfectly still.

His hands twitch against the arms of the chair. “Toppy…”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not your word today, Bobby.”

His throat bobs. “Ma’am.”

“That’s better.”

She shifts again, rocking just enough to keep him right at the edge. “You’ll sit there and take it. You’ll stay hard and aching ‘til I say otherwise.”

He whimpers once. She smiles. Then she climbs off, smooths her skirt, and walks to the door. “You can fix your pants when I get back. Maybe.”

She leaves him there with his cock throbbing under the weight of her punishment. He does not dare reach for release because he knows what she’ll do if he tries.

The Dungeon smells like floor polish and guilt. Mona sits on the stool with her notebook open to a clean page, flipping her pen twice before looking at Mike. He paces in front of the couch, arms crossed, glancing at the copy of *Movie Mirror* folded on the vanity.

“All right,” she says, voice flat. “Start from the beginning. Every word. What did Lyon ask you?”

Mike runs a hand down his face, sighs, and mutters, “He asked if we were married.”

She stares at him.

He lifts his chin and corrects himself. “He said, ‘You’ve got a ring on your pinky. Is that from a girl?’”

“And you said?”

“I said, ‘That’s from *my* girl.’” He shifts his weight, bracing for the next question. “Then he asked if you were my girlfriend.”

Mona doesn’t blink. “And?”

“I said, ‘She’s my wife.’”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He asked how long.”

Mona keeps her pen poised. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Four years. Since before the Monkees.’” He swallows. “Then he asked why I never mentioned it before.”

Her jaw tenses.

“I told him it wasn’t a secret. We just don’t talk about it in interviews.”

She nods once. “Then what?”

“He asked how we keep things strong with both of us workin’. I said, ‘We talk, we work together, we carve out time.’”

Mona sets the pen down slowly. “That’s when it turned?”

Mike’s voice lowers. “He asked what I thought about monogamy. I thought he meant like, in theory.”

“You didn’t ask for clarification?”

“No.”

She leans forward. “What did you say, Michael?”

He looks away. “I said, ‘I don’t think people are made to love just one person. But I got lucky with her. She gets it.’”

Mona’s face goes blank. “You said that?”

He nods.

She picks up the magazine and reads the printed version aloud. “‘Mike Nesmith admits he’s married but claims monogamy isn’t natural. He says his wife “gets it,” implying they enjoy the benefits of an open relationship.’”

“I didn’t say that last part.”

“You gave him the rope,” she says, voice cold, “and he hanged you with it.”

Mike doesn’t argue.

Mona flips to the next page. “‘When asked about his marriage, Nesmith gave a cryptic smile and said, “I’m not the only musician in our house.”’”

Mike shrugs, almost helpless. “He asked how you feel about me bein’ gone on tour. I said you understood because you’re a musician too.”

She tosses the magazine onto the couch. “You sound like a smug jackass.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t mention *why* I understand, or *how*. You didn’t tell him we’ve made sacrifices. That we have rules. That we’ve chosen each other again and again.”

“No, ma’am.”

Mona folds her arms. “And London?”

Mike sighs. “Lyon asked him if the rumors were true. London laughed and said, ‘They do things their own way. I don’t ask questions.’”

She scoffs. “Which printed as, ‘Their marriage has its own rules. I keep my mouth shut.’”

Mike nods.

“You didn’t correct him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t think it’d be in the article.”

Her voice drops. “Then you’re a fool.”

“I know.”

Mona steps to her notebook, writes something, then closes it.

“They took everything out of context,” Mike says, quieter now. “They twisted it.”

She stares at him. “And they couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t given them the pieces.”

He says nothing.

“They didn’t have to fabricate a word,” she continues. “They just arranged them in the worst possible order.”

Mike exhales. “I didn’t know how to stop it.”

“You do now.”

He nods once and stays standing, saying nothing.

Mona doesn’t ask for the magazine back and doesn’t offer comfort. She lets him stand there and stew in the consequences. lets him stand there and stew in the consequences. Only after a long moment does she say, without looking at him, “Get Lyon’s original questions. Write down your actual answers. We’re putting them side-by-side.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you’re gonna take that statement you gave for print and burn it into your memory. You’ll recite it every time a flashbulb goes off.”

Mike swallows. “I understand.”

“No. But you will.”

Mike drags the spare chair toward the vanity and pulls the magazine back open, flattening the page with the heel of his hand. He slides the pad of yellow paper across the surface and uncaps the pen. Mona stands behind him, arms folded, watching him from the stool like a teacher waiting on a slow pupil.

He writes Lyon’s first question and then his answer.

Lyon: "You’ve got a ring on your pinky. Is that from a girl?"

Mike: "That’s from *my* girl."

 

Lyon: "Your girlfriend?"

Mike: "She’s my wife."

 

Lyon: "How long have you two been married?"

Mike: "Four years. Since before the Monkees."

 

Lyon: "Why haven’t you talked about it before?"

Mike: "It wasn’t a secret. We just don’t bring it up in interviews."

 

Lyon: "How do you two keep things strong when you’re both so busy?"

Mike: "We talk. We work together. We carve out time."

 

Lyon: "What’s your take on monogamy?"

Mike: "I don’t think people are made to love just one person. But I got lucky with her. She gets it."

 

Lyon: "Does she travel with you?"

Mike: "Not always. She works too. She’s a musician."

 

Lyon: "How does she feel about you being gone so much?"

Mike: "She understands. She’s a musician too."

Mike swallows and presses the pen harder to the page. His handwriting tightens as he writes out the article excerpts side-by-side, matching each quote from the printed spread exactly as it appeared:

Printed Quote: “Sure, I’m married,” Mike says, laughing. “But that don’t mean I gotta stop bein’ curious about other people. I think folks oughta be free to love who they want. That’s what love is, ain’t it?”

Clarification: He asked if I believed in monogamy, and I gave a general answer. I said I don’t think people are made to love just one person. I didn’t mean it about us specifically. Then I said I got lucky with Mona, because she understands me. That was about how she supports me, not about anything open.

 

Printed Quote: Asked whether his wife shares that philosophy, he reportedly shrugs. “You’d have to ask her. But she knows I ain’t the type to live by somebody else’s rules.”

Clarification: I didn’t shrug. I said you’d have to ask her because I wasn’t about to speak for her. The rest of it was about how we’ve built our life our way. I wasn’t talkin’ about sleepin’ around.

 

Printed Quote: “Mike Nesmith admits he’s married but claims monogamy isn’t natural. He says his wife ‘gets it,’ implying they enjoy the benefits of an open relationship.”

Clarification: I never said anything about an open relationship. I said I don’t think people are made to love just one person. Then I said I got lucky. I meant Mona understands me better than anyone ever has. That’s all.

 

Printed Quote: “When asked about his marriage, Nesmith gave a cryptic smile and said, ‘I’m not the only musician in our house.’”

Clarification: He asked how she handles me being gone. I said she understands because she’s a musician too. I didn’t smile. I didn’t say it cryptically. I said it plain.

 

Mona steps forward. She scans both columns in silence, then reaches over and turns the page to the next quote.

Printed Quote (London): “Their marriage has its own rules. I keep my mouth shut.”

Mike exhales hard and adds the final comparison:

Lyon: "What do you think about Mike and Mona’s marriage?"

London: "They do things their own way. I don’t ask questions."

 

Clarification: London was laughin’. He was bein’ flippant. It wasn’t a real answer. He didn’t mean it to sound like that.

Mona nods toward the bottom margin. “Underline the sentence that tanked you.”

Mike draws a line under: “I don’t think people are made to love just one person. But I got lucky with her. She gets it.”

“Now write the version you’ll use from now on.”

He hesitates.

She leans in. “Come on, Texas. Rewrite it so a reporter can’t twist it.”

Mike thinks for a second, then scribbles:

“I’ve been with my wife since long before all this. I chose her, and I keep choosing her. We make it work because we both want to.”

Mona reads it, then taps the page. “That’s what you’ll say from now on. Word for word.”

Mike nods once and tears the sheet free.

She takes the page, folds it in half, and sticks it into the back of her notebook.

“Now,” she says, turning toward the door, “we’re gonna make Lyon eat it in print.”

Mike stands up. “How?”

“We give him no wiggle room. We give him your words. The real ones.”

Mike exhales. “All right.”

“You’ll memorize every line of that statement. You’ll learn to say it in your sleep. And the next time you run your mouth without me there to stop you, you’ll recite it so clean they could print it on a cereal box.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She opens the door, then stops. “And Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“From now on, if a reporter asks if we’re open, you look them dead in the eye and say, ‘We’re closed for business.’ Got it?”

Mike’s grin twitches. “Got it.”

“Good. Now go write your apology for the press kit. And make it better than London’s.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She walks off. He grabs a fresh pad.

Two days later, Lyon prints a follow-up in *Movie Mirror*. London's apology runs in full, word for word, in the center column beneath the headline. The layout includes no editorializing, no commentary—just a reprint of the statement, typed on the same legal pad, with London’s signature and date visible beneath the final line. Underneath, Mike’s own clarification appears in a separate box: “I love my wife. I respect our marriage. I was a fool to suggest otherwise.” His full name follows, written in ink: Robert Michael Nesmith. No title. No footnote. Just the name.

Chapter Text

"Hey Pete, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, Michael. What's up?"

"It's about Mona."

"What about her?" asks Peter, concerned.

"I think she's losing her muse."

"Losing her muse? How so?"

"She's having doubts about her abilities. She no longer remembers the licks she creates. Remember that lick she composed for 'Hangin' 'Round?'"

"Yeah." How could Peter forget? He still feels a twinge of pain whenever anyone brings it up, especially Mike.

"Well, I had to record her playing it so she could notate it out."

"So? What's so unusual about that?"

"Well, she didn't always need that."

"Maybe she just wanted to make sure she got it right."

"Maybe so, but it's not like her."

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"Merciful heavens, no!"

"And why not?"

"I'm afraid it would crush her. She already feels inferior. Me bringing it up would just make her feel incompetent."

"What do you want to do?"

"I have an idea. I want to set up a live gig for her at the Troubadour."

"Wow, Michael. Do you think she'd go for that?"

"I dunno. I think she'd need some convincin'."

"Would you like me to talk to her?"

"Would ya do that for me, man?"

"Sure. She might respond better if she hears it from me."

"That's what I was thinkin' too. Thanks, Pete."

"You're welcome, Michael."

Now Peter has a mission. He needs to convince Mona that she's still a great musician, and that she should share her gifts with the world or at least the audience at the Troubadour.

Peter thinks to himself, This must be serious if Michael felt he had to talk to me about it. He never opens up about Mona to anyone. Hell, until several months ago, he'd rarely acknowledge that she's his wife. Who knows Mona better than Michael?

Peter dashes to the Make-up Department to go find Susie Lyndell, Mona's childhood best friend and confidante. She and Mona came out to California together right after they finished high school. Until Mona and Mike moved to their own place, they all shared an apartment together.

"Hey, Susie!"

"Hey, Peter! How are you?"

"I'm fine. Hey, can I talk to you privately?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"It's about Mona."

"What did Snide do now? I swear, one of these days I'm going to slap the sideburns right off his face. I don't know what she sees in that boy."

"No, it's nothing like that."

"Then, what is it?"

"It's about her music."

"What about it?"

"Snide... er... Michael is concerned that she's losing her muse."

"Losing her muse? What do you mean by that?"

"She's losing her passion for playing music."

"Oh. Yeah, she's mentioned that to me once or twice. Something about feeling inferior to..."

"To whom?"

"Promise not to get mad?"

"Yeah, I promise."

"You and Snide."

Astonished at Susie's reply, Peter asks, "Me and Michael‽"

"Yeah. She no longer feels confident playing around you guys."

"Did she say why?"

"Something about being out of practice because of this damn job. She misses being a session musician. Her sessions with Stu aren't enough for her to maintain her chops. Sometimes she wishes she could just work with Stu full-time and forget the rest of this shit. But she won't give it up because she likes being close to Snide."

"Three Emmys for composing TV scores and she feels inferior..."

"How many gold records do you have?"

"Those don't really count..."

"Not in Mona's mind. To her, they count more than her own awards, if that makes sense."

"So, how can we fix this?"

"Fix what?"

"How can we convince Mona that she's the incredible musician that she truly is?"

"You've got to build her confidence. She also needs a vacation, but that ain't happenin'."

"I think I know what she needs."

"What's that?"

"A jam session."

"A what?"

"She needs to play with Michael and I."

"But you all are the problem."

"See, back when we first started this thing, all of us guys would jam together and sometimes Mona would join us. We had a blast. Those jams inspired Mona to write the third part for 'Dueling Banjoes.' She wrote it so that both Michael and I could join her."

"Really? You know, I think you may be onto something. Mona has mentioned something about a 'cosmic connection' she once had with you and Snide. Do you think she may have lost that connection?"

"You know, I think you're right. Thanks, Susie. By the way, please keep this conversation between us, okay? Michael didn't tell me not to tell anyone, but I don't want to take any chances, ya dig?"

"Peter, your secret is safe with me."

"Thanks, you're the best!"

After his meeting with Susie, Peter runs into Mike.

"Hey, Pete! Have you figured anything out yet?"

"Actually, I'm glad to see you because I think I have an idea."

"Well, spill it!"

"We're going to have do this a bit slowly."

Mike narrows his eyes at the blonde bassist. "What do you mean 'slowly?"

"We're going to have to work up her confidence before we can get her on-stage."

"How do we do that?"

"By jamming with her."

"With our current insane schedules?"

"Michael, it's the only way. We'll just have to make time. Anything worth having is worth making sacrifices."

"Pete, you're right."

"You must have patience. Please, trust me."

"I trust you, Pete. When do you wanna come over and jam?"

"Hmm... I was gonna get together with Steve and his buddies from the Springfield, but I can move that to another night if I need to."

"Tonight should work, if you don't mind."

"I'll let Steve know. He'll understand. I promise I won't go into details. I'll just tell him that a musical emergency came up."

"Thanks, Pete."

"You're welcome, Michael."

The two musicians part ways. Mike can't wait to jam with Mona and Peter like old times. Truth be told, he misses their jam sessions too. Between the stress of the show and Michael's continued frustration with the music side, even he's worried about losing his own muse.

Mike can barely contain his excitement as he stumbles through his front door. He calls out, "Mona! I'm home! Ya up?"

"Yes, babe!" She shouts as she gets up from the living room couch. Mona's long pink satin robe and matching slippers make her look like she's gliding into the foyer. She gives Mike a big hug. "You're home a bit late tonight."

Mike thinks of a quick fib. "I had an... er... errand... to run."

"An errand?"

"Yeah. Hey, Pete's fixin' to come over to jam. Ya interested in joinin' us?"

"Jam? At this hour?"

"Aw, c'mon Mona. Ya know ya wanna. We haven't jammed together in ages."

Mona sighs, "I know. It's been a while. Let me change into something more appropriate for company."

"Ya don't hafta on my account. It's just Pete comin' over."

Mona lets out a soft laugh. "Babe..." Mike pulls her in for a kiss before she can finish her sentence. Mona pulls away and scurries to the bedroom to change her clothes.

Well Nesmith, you've managed to get her to agree to a jam session. Step one, complete, Mike thinks to himself.

"I know there's something very strange that's happenin' to my brain..." Mike answers the door, surprised that one of the guys has actually managed to use the door bell.

"Hey, Pete!"

"Hey, Michael!"

"Hey, Peter!" greets Mona.

"Babe, that was fast!" exclaims Mike, impressed with Mona's speed and apparent enthusiasm.

"It's just a housedress." Mona has changed into a psychedelic green paisley muumuu that Mike had picked out for her during one of their shopping trips. The various shades of green accentuate her green eyes and flaming red hair.

Mike pulls her close and kisses her. He whispers into her ear, "I like it." Mona smiles.

"Where shall we jam?" asks Peter.

"Hey, it's a beautiful night tonight. Why don't we go out onto the porch?" suggests Mona.

"That's a great idea, babe."

Mike and Mona grab their instruments from the music room and head out onto the porch. Mike takes his 12-string Martin acoustic and Mona takes Benji, her prized Ode banjo. Peter follows them. Once they settle there, Mona starts strumming Benji.

"That sounds really grrovy, Mona," Peter compliments her.

She deadpans, "It's just the E-flat major scale with arpeggios." Mona hates playing that scale on clarinet, but loves playing it on banjo.

Peter frowns. His first attempt at boosting Mona's confidence has fallen flat. "Hey, do you wanna play some 'Dueling Banjoes'?" Peter suggests.

"Sure! Let's do fingers for it."

They all hold up the number of fingers for the part they want to play. Mike holds up three fingers, Mona holds up one, and Peter holds up two. Strangely, when it comes to most jam sessions, especially when playing "Dueling Banjoes," the three of them never argue over who plays which part.

Mona starts playing her part and her face lights up. Soon, she's making love to the fretboard. Peter and Mike then find their grooves to complete their "cosmic connection."

When the song ends, Peter tries another compliment, "Hey Mona, you sounded great!"

"Thank you, Peter. So did you and Mike."

"You sounded like you were making love to your fretboard."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you did," adds Mike, "Babe, you play Benji like you're playing me."

Mona blushes and hopes that the darkness hides her embarrassment. Despite their close friendship and knowing him for several years, she's still not used to sharing intimate moments like this with Peter. She may "make love" to her banjo in front of him, but she doesn't usually describe it in those terms, nor does she compare her playing to having sex with her husband.

"Hey babe, let's play your favorite song," Mike suggests.

Mona agrees, "Far out! Peter, do you know how to play 'Long Black Veil?'"

"No, but I think I can follow along."

"Great! Babe, you play and sing lead and then I'll come in and sing backing."

"Babe, why don't you sing lead?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. It's your song."

"Alright, if you insist." Mike starts strumming the intro and then Mona begins singing, "Ten years ago, on a cold dark night..."

Peter finds his groove somewhere between Mona and Mike's chords and he adds his backing vocals to Michael's. When the song ends, Mona thinks to herself, Maybe there's something to this analogy between sex and music. It feels orgasmic... She looks flushed, which is not lost on Mike. Her look of serene satisfaction reminds him of when she basks in the afterglow of her pleasure. He leans over and kisses her neck. He then whispers in her ear, "You're turning me on."

Peter looks over at the two lovebirds and takes the hint. "Hey guys, I'm going to head home now. Mona, Michael I had a really great time."

Michael gives a thumbs-up sign as Mona continues devouring his face. Peter packs up his banjo and lets himself out. Mike and Mona continue their lovemaking session on the porch.

The next morning, Mona wakes up feeling an unfamiliar lightness, as if the music from last night’s jam session had unclogged something deep inside her. She turns over to find Mike is already awake, plucking at his guitar while leaning against the headboard. He looks over and grins.

“Morning, Babe,” he drawls. “Sleep well?”

Mona stretches and nods. “I did. I forgot how much I missed playing like that. Just for the fun of it.”

Mike's eyes twinkle. “Well, I’m glad to hear that ‘cause I got another idea.”

Mona groans. “Oh no, what now?”

He smirks. “How about we take this a step further? What if you play at the Troubadour next weekend?”

The warmth in Mona’s chest quickly turns cold. “Michael, I don’t know about that…”

“You sounded great last night,” he presses. “You felt it too, didn’t ya?”

“That’s different. That was just us, just messing around.”

“Exactly. That’s what this could be. You don’t have to put on some big show. Just you and your banjo, maybe a couple of friends sittin’ in. You’ve played a million times in studio sessions, Mona. This ain't no different.”

She shakes her head. “It is different. A studio is controlled. A crowd is unpredictable. What if I freeze up? What if I sound terrible?”

Mike cups her chin, tilting her face up to look into his eyes. “Then we shake it off and try again. But I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I think the moment you start playin', you’ll remember why you love this.”

Mona hesitates, her heart at war with her self-doubt. Before she can find an excuse, there's a knock on the door. Mike chuckles, “That’s probably Pete.”

Sure enough, Peter sticks his head in with an eager grin. Mona had met Peter years ago while working as a session musician, right before The Monkees project began. He had been one of the first people in the industry to truly appreciate her talent, and over time, they had become close friends. “Hey! Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Mona groans. “Did Mike put you up to this?”

Peter feigns innocence. “What? I just came by to see my friends. And maybe remind one of them that she’s an amazing musician who should get up on stage and blow some minds.”

Mona glares at both of them, but she can’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “You two are relentless.”

Peter grins. “We prefer ‘solid.’”

Mike leans in, his voice gentle. “Just one set, Babe. You pick the songs. If you hate it, I’ll never ask again.”

Mona sighs, staring at her hands. Her fingers itch for the feel of her banjo. She knows that last night had been something special. Can she recapture that on a stage?

Finally, she lets out a breath. “Fine. One set. But if I bomb, I’m blaming you both.”

Peter whoops, and Mike pulls her into a triumphant kiss. The first step had been taken.

Over the next week, Mona practices harder than she has in years. She runs through her setlist with Mike and Peter, smoothing out transitions, making sure her voice holds steady. She spends hours in the music room, playing until her fingers ache. Still, no amount of preparation stops the nerves from creeping in as the Troubadour gig approaches.

She starts doubting herself again. The music industry has always treated her as a session player, not a performer. The Monkees' success has placed her behind the scenes, arranging, assisting, ensuring that others shone while she stays in the background. What if that is where she truly belongs?

The night of the performance, the Troubadour buzzes with familiar faces. The Monkees' crew, their friends from the Laurel Canyon scene, even Roger McGuinn from The Byrds had shown up. Mona takes deep breaths backstage, feeling her stomach twist. Her hands feel clammy against Benji’s neck, her nerves spiking at the thought of stepping into a role she had spent years avoiding.

Mike appears beside her, handing her a glass of water. “You got this, Babe.”

She takes a shaky sip. “What if I don’t?”

Mike smirks. “Then we fake it till we make it.”

Peter peeks in. “Mona, you’re up.”

Her heart pounds as she steps onto the dimly lit stage. The crowd quiets, watching her expectantly. She sits down, gripping Benji tightly. The silence stretches. Then, she takes a deep breath and strums the opening chords of ‘Nine Times Blue.’

As the melody fills the room, something clicks inside her. The music carries her, and for the first time in years, she feels like herself again.

The audience is enraptured, the hush giving way to an appreciative hum as Mona’s confidence grows. Her voice is steady, clear and soulful, weaving through the song like a delicate thread. As she sings, she notices McGuinn watching intently, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

By the time she reaches the end of her set, the room is alive with applause. The energy is palpable, electric, and Mona can feel the thrill of performance in her veins. She glances at Mike and Peter in the audience, both grinning like proud fools.

But she also sees something else—her name now carries weight. Musicians she once admired as peers now look at her differently, seeing her as an artist in her own right.

Feeling emboldened, she leans into the microphone. “I’ve got one more song for you all. But I need some help.” She scans the audience. “Anyone know how to play ‘Dueling Banjos’?”

Laughter ripples through the crowd, but two hands shoot up—Mike and Peter’s. Mona smirks. “What a surprise. Get up here, boys.”

As they take the stage, their instruments conveniently nearby, Mona turns to the audience. “I wrote a third part for this song, so tonight, you’re in for something special.”

As the first notes ring out, the chemistry between the three musicians is undeniable. Their cosmic connection, their years of friendship and musical camaraderie, pour into every note. The crowd claps along, energy soaring. By the time the song ends, the applause is deafening.

Mona stands, breathless, heart racing. She had done it.

Mike leans over, whispering in her ear. “Told ya so.”

As they step off the stage, Mona is overwhelmed by a realization—this changes everything. The industry will see her differently now. Her role with The Monkees, her work behind the scenes, even her marriage to Mike—it’s all about to shift. And for the first time, she’s not sure if that terrifies her or excites her more.

The Troubadour is alive with the sound of clicking glasses, quiet laughter, and the low hum of a room full of musicians who can never truly switch off their ears. The dim, smoky air carries the scent of stale beer and fresh anticipation.

Mona, Mike, and Peter have just stepped off stage after their first set, riding the high of the music. The crowd feels it—every harmony, every lick, every moment where time melts away under the spell of three musicians lost in their own groove.

As Mona wipes the sweat from the back of her neck, she turns to see Roger McGuinn and Chris Hillman approaching, both still buzzing from the set.

“That was damn good,” McGuinn says, pushing his signature wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Seriously, Mona, you tore it up.”

“You should talk,” she shoots back, a smirk tugging at her lips.

McGuinn chuckles. “Listen, we’ve got some gigs coming up—Berkeley and Newport. How would you two feel about sitting in with us? Mona, we want you on banjo, and Mike, we could use your pedal steel.”

Mona’s heart skips—Newport? That’s another level entirely. But she hesitates, side-eyeing Mike, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

Mike takes a slow swig of his Coke, licking a stray drop off his lip before answering. “You know the suits at RCA ain’t gonna like that.”

McGuinn shrugs. “So don’t tell ‘em.”

Mona raises an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Mike.

Hillman grins. “We clear the Berkeley gig with the right people, but Newport? We just show up.”

Mona exhales, fingers tightening around her banjo case.

Mike, still leaning against the bar, runs a thumb over the condensation on his glass, his gaze flicking between McGuinn and Mona as he weighs the risk. “So what you’re sayin’ is… we do it, then deal with the fallout later.”

McGuinn smirks, his gaze flicking toward Hillman. "If we asked permission, we’d never play anywhere."

Mike chuckles, shaking his head. "Sounds risky, but I'm not one to back down from a challenge." He turns to Mona, his brown eyes locking onto hers. “What do you think, babe?”

Mona knows what this means. It isn’t just a gig—it’s validation. The Byrds aren’t just any band; they are the band in the country-rock scene. This is an opportunity she never thought she’d get.

She grins, shifting her banjo strap over her shoulder. “I think I’m in.”

McGuinn slaps her on the back. “That’s what I like to hear.”

As The Byrds move on to mingle, Mona turns to Mike, still processing what has just happened.

“You really think we can get away with this?” she murmurs.

Mike smirks. “We’ve gotten away with worse.”

And just like that, they are back on stage for their second set.

The Troubadour is packed now, the warm stage lights making the room feel even smaller. The second set kicks off with “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere,” the harmonies tight, the crowd swaying along.

Mona is deep in it, fingers flying over the banjo strings, her voice blending effortlessly with Mike and Peter’s.

Then, the shift.

The low murmur at the bar. The sound of someone sliding into a stool like they own the place. A sharp glint of gold embroidery catching the light.

Brian Jones.

Mona clocks him immediately. Shit.

Brian is watching—no, studying them. His lips curl around the edge of his glass, his blue eyes heavy-lidded but sharp.

Mike, oblivious for now, keeps playing, lost in the groove.

But Mona knows what’s coming.

By the time the song ends and the applause dies down, Brian makes his move.

“Well, well.” His voice drips with amusement. “Didn’t think I’d ever see a Monkee in a real club.”

Mike finally looks up.

His expression doesn’t shift, but Mona sees the flicker of recognition.

“Didn’t think I’d see a Stone slummin’ it with the folkies,” Mike drawls back.

Brian chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Didn’t think I’d hear you playin’ real music.”

The tension thickens.

Mona exhales, shifting slightly, already preparing to step in.

Peter, ever the diplomat, smiles. “Music’s music, isn’t it? We all pull from the same well.”

Brian glances at Peter, then back at Mike. “But you… you’re an interestin’ one. Always heard you were the rebel of the lot.”

Mike’s jaw tightens, but his voice is easy. “Rebel? Nah. Just don’t like bein’ told what to do.”

Brian smirks. “Then we might get along, Nesmith.” He glances at Mona, then back at Mike. “Or we might not.”

Mona’s patience snaps. “You got somethin’ to say, Brian, or are you just here to stir shit?”

Brian grins. “Just appreciatin’ the show. Never thought I’d hear a Monkee pick a banjo like that.”

Mike’s smirk is razor-sharp. “Well, if we’re talkin’ surprises, I never thought I’d see a Stone who wasn’t tryna nick somethin’ off American musicians.”

Oh, hell.

The crowd feels that one.

Brian’s smirk falters for just a fraction of a second before he laughs, setting his drink down. “Alright, Nesmith. You know ‘No Expectations’?”

Mike’s fingers flex over his guitar strings.

Brian taps his ring against his glass. “Then let’s see if you can feel it.”

And just like that, the duel begins.

Mike adjusts his guitar strap, settling in as the room quiets in anticipation. He strums a slow, deliberate chord, letting the sound stretch through the space before easing into the opening progression of No Expectations. His playing is smooth, his fingers gliding over the strings with practiced ease, adding a touch of Texas soul to the bluesy ballad.

Brian watches, expression unreadable, before setting his glass down and reaching for the acoustic guitar propped beside him. He takes his time, drawing out the moment before sliding into the song’s signature lick. His touch is different—more fluid, more otherworldly—his slide work dripping with ghostly echoes.

Mona can feel the tension shift from antagonism to something else entirely. A test of musicianship. A battle of interpretation. Mike plays with a steady, unrelenting rhythm, grounding the song in the earthy roots of country blues, while Brian counters with dreamlike flourishes, his slide guitar weeping through the melody.

Peter instinctively falls in, adding quiet harmonies, his voice threading between the two distinct styles. The crowd leans in, hanging on every note.

Mike’s brown eyes flick toward Brian, reading his movements, adjusting his own playing in response. They push each other, not through words, but through the way their guitars speak—Mike’s sharp and structured, Brian’s fluid and ethereal. It’s a conversation, a challenge, and an understanding all at once.

As the last note fades, the Troubadour is silent for a beat, and then the applause erupts. Brian lets out a slow breath, shaking his head with something between respect and reluctant admiration.

"Alright, Nesmith," he murmurs, lifting his glass in a proper toast this time. "Didn’t expect that."

Mike, ever cool, just shrugs. "That’s where it’s at, man."

Brian exhales sharply, drumming his fingers on the bar before cracking a smirk. "Alright, alright. Fair play, Nesmith. You’ve got chops."

Mona watches as Brian tilts his glass back, downing the last of his drink, before setting it down with a decisive clink. The crowd is still buzzing, whispering about what they just witnessed. The moment lingers—thick, charged with the energy of two musicians who have just tested each other and come out the other side with something close to respect.

Brian leans forward slightly, lowering his voice so only Mike and Mona can hear. "You ever get tired of playin’ it clean for the suits, Nesmith, you let me know. There’s more to music than just walkin’ the line."

Mike chuckles, shaking his head. "That so? Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you."

Brian grins, flashing a hint of gold tooth, before straightening up. "We’ll see about that."

With that, he nods at Mona, taps the bar once, and strides off into the night, leaving the echo of his challenge hanging in the air.

Mona turns to Mike, her brow lifting. "Well, that was somethin’."

Mike finally exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Hell of a night."

Mona leans against the bar, glancing at the crowd still buzzing from the duel. "And The Byrds? You think we’re really gonna pull off those gigs without RCA coming down on us?"

Mike lets out a short laugh. "If McGuinn can do it, so can we. I ain't about to let some suits tell me where I can or can’t play."

Mona nods, thoughtful. "It’s not just about the gigs, though. This..." she gestures at the empty space Brian left behind, "this is the kind of thing that changes how people see you. You go toe-to-toe with a Rolling Stone and walk out with their respect? That sticks."

Mike considers this, drumming his fingers on the bar. "Yeah, maybe. But respect don’t pay the bills. We still gotta make it work."

Mona smirks. "Well, I’ll worry about keeping the suits off our backs. You just keep playing like that."

As the crowd begins to settle and the buzz from the duel lingers in the air, a familiar voice calls from the side of the bar. "Hey, Nesmith! Got a minute?"

Mike turns to see Linda Ronstadt, all effortless charm and confidence, making her way toward him. She’s dressed in her typical too-short boho dress that barely covers her bottom, her brown eyes bright with something between admiration and mischief.

"Linda," Mike greets, tipping his hat slightly. "Enjoy the show?"

She grins. "Hell of a set. You and Brian just gave this crowd a night to remember. But I actually came over to talk business."

Mike raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "That so?"

Linda nods. "I wanna record Some of Shelley's Blues."

Mona, who had been sipping her drink, sets her glass down, suddenly interested. Mike straightens, considering the request. Some of Shelley's Blues is personal—one of his finest compositions, one he had been saving, unsure of when or where it truly belonged.

"You got plans for it already?" Linda asks, watching his reaction.

Mike exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hadn't decided yet. It’s sittin’ in my back pocket for the right time."

Linda leans in slightly, her expression earnest. "Well, I think now’s the right time. I can hear it fitting with my next record. I’d do it right, Mike. You know I would."

Mike studies her for a moment before glancing at Mona, who gives a slight nod. They both know Linda has the voice to carry the song the way it was meant to be heard.

"Alright," Mike finally says. "You got my blessing. But you better do it justice."

Linda beams. "Oh, I will. You just wait."

Mona raises an eyebrow as Linda walks away, then leans in toward Mike. "Think she’ll ever find a dress that actually fits?"

Mike huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Now, now. Let the girl wear what she wants. Doesn’t bother me none."

Mona smirks, taking a slow sip of her drink. "I’ll bet it doesn’t."

As she disappears back into the crowd, Mona tilts her head at Mike with an amused grin. "You just made her night."

Mike chuckles. "Yeah, well. Maybe she’ll make mine when I hear how it turns out."

Chapter Text

Berkeley is electric. The lights dim, and a wave of anticipation washes over the crowd as The Byrds take their positions. Mona grips her banjo, her fingers itching with nervous energy. The first notes of "Turn! Turn! Turn!" fill the venue, the familiar chords grounding her. As she picks her way through the arrangement, the audience reacts—a mix of surprise and admiration at her presence on stage.

Hillman steps up to his mic. "Folks, we’ve got a special guest tonight. You saw her tear it up at The Troubadour. Give it up for Mona Jensen!" The audience roars, and Mona flashes a grateful smile before diving into the song’s bridge, her banjo ringing out clear and strong. Mike, positioned at his pedal steel, catches her eye and winks. By the time they finish, she feels the exhilarating rush of belonging. McGuinn shoots her a grin after a particularly intricate banjo run.

By the time they finish, Mona knows this is where she belongs. But Newport? That is the real test.

The Newport Folk Festival is legendary. The air hums with the energy of folk icons and rising stars, the scent of sea salt and festival food mingling under the summer sky. Mona watches from the wings, tuning her banjo as Joni Mitchell finishes her set to thunderous applause.

As The Byrds take the stage, McGuinn steps to the mic. "We’ve got a couple of friends joining us for this one." Mona takes a steadying breath and steps forward, banjo in hand, as Mike settles at his steel guitar.

They launch into "Eight Miles High," the psychedelic-tinged riffs blending effortlessly with Mona’s rapid-fire banjo picking. The crowd, at first hesitant about the new arrangement, begins clapping along. The moment swells, and Mona leans into the music, the sounds fusing into something raw and electric.

Then, as a special encore, they shift into "You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere." Mona harmonizes with McGuinn, her voice steady, her confidence rising with each verse. Dylan himself watches from the sidelines, nodding along in approval.

And for the first time, she realizes she isn’t just playing backup for someone else’s vision—she is helping shape it. She is part of something bigger.

When they finish their final song, the applause is deafening. She glances at Mike, who is watching her with an unreadable expression—part pride, part something else. Maybe worry.

Because they both know what will come next.

Two days later, Mike and Mona sit in a dimly lit office at Screen Gems, facing Herb Moelis, who is trying to keep his cool. He leans forward, hands clasped on the desk, fixing them both with a pointed glare. "Michael and Mona, do you have any idea how much trouble you could be in?"

Mike leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "More or less than when I put my fist through that wall at the Beverly Hotel?"

Moelis exhales sharply. "Don’t push me, Nesmith. You both know what you did was out of line. You were told Berkeley was fine, but Newport? Do you have any idea the firestorm this has caused?"

Mona exchanges a glance with Mike, then folds her arms. "I wasn’t under contract as a performer. I didn’t break anything."

Moelis pinches the bridge of his nose. "Technically, that’s true. But you know damn well Colgems isn’t happy about this. You’re making waves, and they don’t like waves. And Michael, you are under contract, which makes this a serious problem."

Mike shrugs. "What, they gonna chain me to the lot? Last I checked, I play guitar and pedal steel, not sign my life away."

Mona leans forward. "What exactly are they afraid of? That I’ll keep playing? That I’ll stop being their quiet little session musician? That Mike will do what he always does—push back?"

Moelis hesitates, and that is all the answer she needs.

Upstairs isn’t angry because she’s broken rules. They are angry because she’s stepped outside the box they’ve put her in. Because Mike refuses to stay in theirs.

Moelis sighs. "Look, I’m not gonna pretend this didn’t happen. But consider this your only warning."

Mike smirks. "Sure thing, Herb."

Mona stands, smoothing out her dress. "I’ll keep that in mind."

As they walk out, Mona feels lighter. Freer. Mike, hands in his pockets, glances over at her. "You ready for whatever comes next?"

She grins. "I think I finally am." 

Chapter Text

Mike stands barefoot in the hallway, one hand braced on the doorframe of the linen closet, the other gesturing in time with whatever symphony is playing inside his own head. His voice dips low and rises again, words blooming like mushrooms in the wet heat of nonsense.

“The paraboloid whispers to the hummingbird—no, no, not that one, the chromium hummingbird with the anti-gravity spleen—”

Behind him, Mona’s voice cuts clean through the hallway like a well-honed knife.

“Zilch,” she intones, deadpan. “My spleen is a brass instrument.”

He turns his head slowly, already grinning. “You know it’s an alto spleen, right? Tuned in E-flat minor. Wears a tutu and teaches interpretive geometry on Saturdays.”

“Zilch,” she replies, stepping into view with cigarette in hand. “My geometry professor was a platypus.”

He drops his hand to his hip. “Well then, your education was clearly funded by a cartel of amphibious anarchists.”

“Zilch. My anarchist is on sabbatical in Reykjavik.”

“That tracks,” he says, eyes lighting with mischief. “Reykjavik is the number one exporter of unsolicited haikus and repressed woodwinds.”

Mona blows smoke through her nose and flicks ash into a crystal ashtray. “Zilch. My woodwinds only squeal during Mercury retrograde.”

Mike straightens, adopting a falsely authoritative tone. “Mercury retrograde was outlawed by the Council of Flamingos. You should’ve gotten the memo stapled to your soul.”

“Zilch. My soul is on loan to a Danish taxidermist with a duck fetish.”

He points at her. “Ha! I knew it. You’re the one who forged the manifesto of gelatinous intent!”

“Zilch. My intent is under review by the Bureau of Excessive Shenanigans.”

He nods slowly. “That bureau owes me seventeen marshmallows and a thesaurus.”

“Zilch. Your thesaurus escaped last Tuesday. It’s living with my spleen.”

“Then that explains why I’ve been conjugating in ancient Aramaic every time I sneeze!”

Mona drops her cigarette into the tray and says, “Zilch. Gesundheit is a CIA codeword for ‘kiss the chicken and bolt.’”

Mike claps once. “Betty?”

“She’s the liaison.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Then you know what this means.”

She leans in. “Code Red in the laundry basket?”

“No,” he says with mock solemnity. “Worse. The mayonnaise has turned sentient and joined a bowling league.”

Mona blinks once. “Zilch. My bowling shoes only speak Portuguese.”

He exhales like a scholar reaching a divine conclusion. “Then, minha querida, we must infiltrate the deli.”

Mona gives a courtly nod. “Only if we disguise ourselves as pimento loaf.”

Mike lifts one brow. “I’m allergic to pimentos.”

“Then you’ll die a martyr.”

He grins, then steps forward to capture her face in both hands. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She kisses him, then pulls back just enough to whisper, “Zilch. My husband’s full of baloney.”

He chuckles low in his chest. “Only on Tuesdays, baby. The rest of the week I’m strictly mortadella.”

Mona draws back, her cigarette now a vague memory, forgotten somewhere on the hallway table behind her. She folds her arms and tips her chin.

“Zilch. Mortadella is Esperanto for you’re full of it.”

Mike shrugs, tilting his head like he’s listening to invisible jazz. “Better than being full of existential linguini.”

“Zilch. Your linguini gave me a rash.”

“That was rigatoni,” he corrects. “Linguini only speaks in iambic pentameter and carries a grudge against revolving doors.”

She tilts her head in mock sympathy. “Zilch. My revolving door leads directly to Kansas.”

He narrows his eyes. “Toto or no Toto?”

“No Toto. Just Jack Lord and a harmonica made of despair.”

“Well hell,” he says, “that harmonica owes me twenty bucks.”

She clicks her tongue. “Zilch. Your harmonica’s in league with my bicycle.”

Mike crosses his arms and paces three steps, turns like a general. “Your bicycle was last seen smuggling nutmeg across the border disguised as a Cossack.”

Mona raises a finger. “Zilch. My Cossack is unionized.”

His hand shoots out, triumphant. “That explains the picket line in my sock drawer!”

She feigns offense. “Zilch. Your socks are scabs.”

“They wouldn’t be if your left boot hadn’t defected.”

“My left boot has diplomatic immunity,” she retorts.

He stops pacing and leans close again, the air thick with challenge. “Then explain the telegram I found taped to the marmalade.”

Mona gasps. “Zilch. Marmalade is off-limits. That was your doing.”

He clutches his heart. “You wound me.”

She places a finger to his lips. “Zilch. You wound easily. It’s your tragic flaw.”

“I thought my tragic flaw was over-articulating the metaphysical consequences of undercooked toast.”

“No,” she says, dragging the syllable like she’s tuning a banjo string. “That’s your tragic snack. Entirely different category.”

He presses his hands together, monk-like. “Then let us never speak of toast again.”

“Agreed,” she murmurs, solemn.

A long pause settles. Mona studies him.

Mike speaks first, almost reverently. “Zilch. I hereby declare this hallway a sovereign nation.”

“Then I’m your ambassador,” she says, stepping backward and extending her hand as if about to curtsy. “And my first act is to declare war on your nonsense.”

He takes her hand, bows over it gallantly. “My nonsense surrenders unconditionally.”

She lifts one brow. “Zilch. Unconditional surrender requires pudding.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says, already turning on his heel. “To the kitchen, Ambassador.”

“Lead the way, Prime Minister Baloney.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs when he yells back, “That’s President Mortadella to you, baby!”

The sound of bare feet thunders down the stairs. Mike flings open the fridge like it owes him answers.

“Where’s the pudding, Ambassador?” he demands. “Or has it defected to Reykjavik with your soul?”

Mona follows, arms folded, one eyebrow raised. “Zilch. The pudding unionized. It’s on strike until you stop misquoting yourself in the shower.”

“I never misquote myself,” he says, rifling through the shelves with manic precision. “I simply revise history in real time.”

“Zilch. Revisionist pudding is how we lost the custard accords of ‘64.”

He pauses, pulling out a jar of maraschino cherries. “You signed those accords.”

“I was misled by a rogue éclair.”

Mike sets the cherries down reverently. “That éclair was a double agent. I told you. It had cream where its loyalties should’ve been.”

“Zilch. My loyalties are layered like tiramisu.”

He slams the fridge shut with one hip. “Then it’s true. You’ve been consorting with ladyfingers behind my back.”

“I plead the fifth dimension,” she says, reaching past him to grab a spoon.

“Obstruction of dessert justice,” he mutters. “Punishable by summary whipped cream.”

Mona stabs the spoon into a half-melted pint of vanilla and declares, “Zilch. I invoke the Dairy Clause.”

“That clause was abolished by the Ice Cream Syndicate of Santa Barbara,” he snaps. “You’re out of order.”

She takes a bite and shrugs. “Zilch. So’s this freezer.”

He nods grimly, then opens a cupboard, retrieves a mixing bowl, and slaps it onto the counter with righteous ceremony. “Then we settle this the old-fashioned way.”

She licks her spoon. “Diplomatic immunity won’t save you.”

“No immunity,” he says. “Only ingredients.”

She eyes the lineup: cocoa powder, condensed milk, vanilla extract, the cherries.

“Zilch,” she warns, pointing at the cocoa. “One wrong move and this becomes a diplomatic incident.”

Mike holds up the whisk like it’s Excalibur. “Let it be written: all kitchen battles are governed by the Treaty of Spatula Ridge.”

Mona tosses the spoon into the sink. “Then prepare to violate every clause.”

He grins, apron already tied. “Just try me, Madame Ambassador.”

“Zilch,” she whispers, stepping closer, her voice low and treasonous. “My embassy runs on chaos.”

His smile sharpens. “Then you’ve come to the right regime.”

He slams the mixing bowl down again for emphasis, startling the cat off the windowsill.

Mona reaches for the sugar, measured now, calculating. “Zilch. Your regime lacks infrastructure.”

“You’re in my infrastructure,” he shoots back.

“Then build me a cake or forfeit your borders.”

“I’ll build you a revolution in sponge and syrup.”

“I want pistachio,” she says flatly.

Mike stares. “You want what now?”

“Zilch. You heard me.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Well, hell. You drive a harder bargain than Khrushchev.”

She smirks. “He never had to sleep with you.”

Mike leans in, still holding the whisk. “He offered. I declined.”

Mona flicks flour at him. “Zilch. That’s not how I remember it.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I read the transcripts.”

He swipes a finger through the flour on his chest and tastes it. “Forgery. Probably drafted by a disloyal éclair.”

Mona gives an exaggerated sigh. “Zilch. If you say éclair one more time, I’m defecting to Denmark.”

“Take the cat. He’s a double agent.”

“Zilch. He reports directly to my spleen.”

Mike stares at her for a beat too long, then drops the whisk into the bowl and says, “Well, that explains everything.”

He rolls up the sleeves of his worn chambray shirt with the gravity of a man preparing for war. The whisk clangs once against the rim of the bowl as he picks it up again.

“Now then,” he says. “If your spleen’s runnin’ point for the feline resistance, then I got no choice but to call in the marmalade militia.”

Mona snatches the jar of maraschino cherries before he can. “Zilch. Marmalade signed a non-compete. It’s neutral.”

“Not after what it did to the peach preserves,” Mike mutters. “You weren’t at that breakfast.”

She unscrews the lid with a single, triumphant twist. “Zilch. I was the breakfast.”

His eyebrows rise. “Baby, that’s the hottest thing you’ve said all week.”

“Zilch,” she fires back without missing a beat. “My hotness is classified.”

Mike dips a finger into the cocoa tin and swipes a line across her nose. “Not anymore, it ain’t.”

She wipes it off with regal slowness and licks her thumb, eyes narrowed. “Zilch. That was a declaration of culinary warfare.”

“Good,” he says, throwing open the spice rack. “I’m building a bomb outta cinnamon and unresolved daddy issues.”

“Zilch. Your unresolved issues owe me rent.”

“They paid you in nutmeg.”

“I wanted cash!”

Mike points the cinnamon jar at her like a pistol. “You’ll take spice and like it, Ambassador Chaos.”

Mona circles the island counter, lips twitching. “Zilch. This is why the UN revoked your spatula privileges.”

“That hearing was rigged.”

“Zilch. So was your soufflé.”

He spins to face her, scandalized. “You take that back. That soufflé was structurally sound.”

“It imploded like your dignity.”

Mike slaps the whisk into the bowl and begins to stir like a man possessed. “That’s it. I’m invoking Clause Sixty-Nine.”

She deadpans, “Zilch. That clause only applies if both parties are naked and covered in powdered sugar.”

He stops mid-stir and grins. “Then I’d better preheat the oven.”

Mona grabs the cocoa and hugs it to her chest like a hostage. “Zilch. You want clause enforcement? You better bring the brown sugar.”

Mike lunges for the pantry. “I got it filed under ‘comeuppance.’”

She opens the drawer, pulls out a spatula, and twirls it like a baton. “Zilch. My comeuppance comes with sprinkles.”

From the window, the cat leaps back onto the sill, tail flicking with bored contempt. Mike points at it. “There he is! The furry saboteur!”

“Zilch. He’s your informant. Check his collar.”

Mike steps forward. “What’s it say?”

Mona smirks. “Property of the Danish Embassy.”

He lifts the cat, squints at the tag, then laughs and kisses its head. “Well hell. I always knew he looked smug in cable-knit.”

Mona slides next to him and kisses his cheek, slow and deliberate. “Zilch. You just lost the war, Texas.”

He turns and wraps one arm around her waist, pulling her in. “Nah, sugar. I just negotiated an armistice.”

She runs her fingertip down his nose, then flicks the cocoa dust off his upper lip. “Zilch. Your diplomacy’s a mess.”

“So are you,” he says, dipping his head to kiss her, “and I like it that way.”

Mona kisses him once, slow and smug. Then she breaks away, eyes gleaming. “Zilch. My spoon’s in the pudding.”

Mike glances down—she’s stolen the bowl. Again.

He groans, tipping his head back. “Woman, you’re a menace.”

“Zilch,” she calls over her shoulder as she saunters out of the kitchen with the pudding in hand. “I’m your national emergency.”

Mona backs into the dining room with the pudding bowl clutched like a diplomatic dossier. Mike stalks after her, shirt wrinkled, chest rising with mock indignation.

“Zilch,” he calls, voice low and menacing. “You’ve absconded with state secrets.”

Mona perches on the edge of the dining table, spoon dangling between her fingers. “Zilch. I am the state.”

He drops into the nearest chair like he’s being interrogated by the KGB. “Then I demand political asylum in your cleavage.”

She taps the spoon against her lips, slowly and thoughtfully. “Zilch. Cleavage visas require oral exams.”

His grin sharpens. “I brought a pencil and a strong jawline.”

“Zilch,” she replies, stretching her legs across his lap. “You’ll need both. I grade hard.”

He trails his hand along the seam of her skirt. “Good. I fail on purpose.”

She lifts the spoon to her mouth and sucks off the pudding with surgical slowness. “Zilch. Your tuition’s due in full. No scholarships.”

“I’ll pay in tongue and desperation,” he says, voice gone thickly.

She leans back, all teeth and control. “Zilch. I don’t take checks.”

He slides his hand under her skirt, palm coasting up the back of her thigh. “Then I’ll pay in person.”

“Zilch,” she purrs. “You’re under audit.”

He groans. “Don’t say audit, baby. That’s my kink.”

She smacks him with the spoon. “Zilch. No moaning until the hearing’s adjourned.”

He grabs her ankles and yanks her closer so she slides right into his lap, pudding still in hand.

“Well then, Madame Chairman,” he murmurs, pulling her skirt higher, “prepare to enter closed chambers.”

“Zilch. I object.”

“Sustained,” he says, and slides his hand between her thighs. “But not upheld.”

Mona gasps, sharply and unfiltered. “Zilch. You better have brought exhibits.”

He bites her earlobe. “Exhibit A is my face. Exhibit B’s already hard.”

She laughs—one loud, startled bark that turns into giggles as he shifts under her. “Zilch. You better cross-examine.”

“I’m fixin’ to,” he mutters, breath hot on her throat. “But first I’m gonna enter a motion—”

“—To compel?” she whispers.

“Uh-uh.” He grins against her neck. “To make you laugh till you piss yourself.”

She squeals, half laughing, half squirming. “You would, you bastard—”

He tickles her ribs, relentlessly. “You tryin’ to seduce me, woman? You think I can’t do two things at once?”

Mona shrieks and twists, pudding forgotten, legs around his waist now. “Zilch! I’m gonna—Michael—dammit—”

“That’s President Mortadella, thank you,” he says, kissing her hard, hand now squarely between her thighs, grinding firmly against the heel of his palm.

She moans into his mouth, hips twitching. “Zilch. Your foreign policy’s indecent.”

“Good,” he mutters. “I’m annexin’ everything south of your waistband.”

Her laugh breaks in two. She’s losing. “Zilch. I’m gonna pee if you don’t stop—”

“That’s the goal,” he growls, fingers sliding straight in. “Call it a territorial leak.”

“Michael!” she slaps his shoulder, thighs tightening, but it’s helpless now. She’s snorting, breathless, squirming and clutching him like a lifeboat.

He grins wickedly. “Say it, baby. Say the magic words.”

Her eyes water. “Zilch. I—I can’t—oh my god—”

He slides his fingers just right and smirks against her cheek. “Then don’t. Just flood the embassy.”

His hips roll with deep, determined rhythm, a slow grind that echoes the filthy cadence they began in the dining room. Mona claws at his back, her nails digging hard as she fights for breath. Her mouth finds his jaw, his cheek, then his throat—but she doesn’t kiss. She bites.

“Zilch,” she hisses, teeth grazing the underside of his chin. “You move like a goddamn tank.”

He grunts, thrusting again, harder. “You said burn it down.”

“I said it,” she pants. “Didn’t say take the whole damn infrastructure.”

He catches her wrists and pins them above her head, fingers locked through hers. His mouth drags down her neck, slowly and hotly.

“Zilch,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You incited a riot. This is crowd control.”

She squirms beneath him, thighs gripping tightly. “Zilch. You’re gonna start an earthquake.”

“That’s the goal,” he growls, dropping his mouth to her breast.

She lets out a strangled sound and bucks up, nearly throwing him off balance.

“Michael—”

“I know, baby,” he mutters, licking the swell of her chest before dragging his tongue up to her collarbone. “I got you.”

He thrusts again, more roughly. The bed creaks beneath them.

Mona gasps and writhes, her whole body trembling. “Zilch. I’m—I swear to God—”

“You better,” he growls. “Say it in every language you know.”

“Scheisse—fuck—for helvede, Michael—oh God—skridt mig—”

Her wrists strain against his grip. Her thighs quake around his waist. Her cries rise without rhythm or restraint. Then she breaks. She arches hard, mouth open, eyes shut, body locked beneath him. Her legs seize. Her nails dig. Her voice tears down the center on the first syllable of his name. He does not relent.

She sobs out her second climax, breathless and raw, fists tangled in the sheets now that he has released her wrists. He rises on his knees, draws her hips into his lap, and thrusts with relentless rhythm.

She stares up at him, dazed and red-cheeked.

“Zilch,” she rasps. “You better finish what you started.”

He laughs, low and ruined. “Baby, I’m two strokes from a diplomatic collapse.”

“Then collapse,” she orders, yanking him forward. “Zilch. Fall with me.”

He slams into her once more, hard and deep. His body seizes. His jaw clenches. A low groan grinds between his teeth as he spills inside her. He stays buried, arms braced tight, forehead pressed to hers, chest rising heavily from the force of it. He breathes roughly against her cheek, holding steady where her body grips tightly around him.

Eventually, Mike lifts his head just enough to catch her eye. His grin spreads slowly as he presses his mouth to hers, wolfishly deliberate.

“That count as a ceasefire?”

She huffs out a breathless laugh and taps the tip of his nose. “Zilch. That was a nuclear treaty.”

He kisses her again, slowly and sweetly now. “Guess we’re allies.”

“Temporarily,” she murmurs, and wraps her legs around him again.

She arches up again, her breath catching as he thrusts with more intent this time—measured, then sharp. Her eyes spark. Her grin twists into something wickedly eager.

“Zilch,” she pants, tightening her grip on his arms. “I stole your last clean undershirt.”

He groans theatrically into her neck. “Which one?”

“The gray one.”

“Baby, that’s my courtroom shirt.”

“Zilch. It’s a rag now.”

“You better plead insanity.”

She bites his earlobe. “I plead guilty as charged.”

He thrusts harder, arms flexing as he drives into her with renewed force. “Sentence: no parole. Life without the possibility of wearin’ panties.”

“Zilch,” she cries out. “Overturned on appeal. The defense cites irresistible husband behavior.”

He smirks, catching her mouth with his and kissing her deeply, filthily, just to prove her point. When he breaks it, his voice is rough.

“Tell the jury what else you did.”

She meets his eyes, lashes fluttering. “I sharpened your guitar picks down to stubs. Every single one.”

“Goddamn,” he mutters, thrusting again. “That’s sabotage.”

“Zilch. That’s foreplay.”

He laughs, one hard exhale against her cheek, and pins her wrists to the mattress again. “You’re gonna confess everything. Right now. In order. Startin’ with the worst.”

She moans and wraps her legs tighter. “I faked a headache to get outta dinner with your stepdad.”

“Understandable,” he says, grinding against her. “But you’re still guilty.”

“I put sugar in your coffee. Twice.”

His eyes flare. “You knew I was on edge that day.”

“Zilch,” she breathes. “I wanted to see what would happen.”

He drives into her hard enough to knock the breath from her. “What happened, baby, is what’s happenin’ now.”

“Michael,” she gasps.

She sinks her teeth into his shoulder, her legs locking around his waist. Her hips rise to meet every thrust, each movement sharp and unrelenting. Her grip tightens. Her breath comes hard against his ear.

“Zilch,” she pants. “You’re gonna throw my back out.”

“That’s admissible,” he growls, thrusting deeper. “Complainin’ under cross.”

“I’m not complainin’,” she gasps. “I’m testifyin’.”

“Then testify, baby.” He hooks her thigh higher with one hand and drives into her again. “This court’s still in session.”

She laughs, wild and breathless, then moans as he hits deep again. Her fingernails drag down his spine, not to hurt—but to mark him.

“Zilch,” she grits out. “I broke your capo last week.”

He stills for half a second. “The brass one?”

“The good one.”

He growls and slams into her, dragging a yelp from her throat. “You’re diggin’ your own grave, baby.”

“Zilch,” she huffs. “I’ll die smilin’.”

He lowers his mouth to her neck, biting down hard enough to leave a print. “Keep confessin’.”

“I—” she gasps as he thrusts again. “I told Peter you wrote the wrong key on the session chart just to mess with him.”

“You did tell him that,” he mutters. “I had to fix his entire part.”

“Zilch. I was right. You were in the wrong key.”

“Lyin’ under oath,” he says, rutting harder now. “Automatic contempt.”

She arches again, thighs trembling. “Zilch—Michael—if you keep goin’ like that—”

“You’ll do what?” he rasps against her throat.

She shudders beneath him, breath torn from her chest. “I’ll scream. I’ll confess to everything. I’ll even tell you what happened to the scotch.”

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. “You drank it?”

“Zilch,” she whispers, clenching around him. “I shared it with Susie.”

He snarls and flips her onto her stomach in one hard motion, dragging her hips back into his lap. “That’s it. Maximum penalty.”

“Zilch!” she yells, both laughing and writhing. “Cruel and unusual!”

“Damn right,” he mutters, lining up again. “And fully constitutional.”

Then he thrusts into her, sharply and relentlessly, each movement timed with ruthless precision. She cries out and throws her head back, her spine arching as her body strains against his hold.

He grits her name between his teeth and doesn’t stop until her legs shake beneath him and her breath breaks into hoarse, shattered syllables. He wraps his arms around her and holds her firmly, his hips still working, his grip steady, as she gasps his name against the pillow.

She does not move at first. Her breath comes in short, uneven bursts into the pillow. Her arms fall slack. Strands of damp hair cling to her neck. He stays buried deeply, both hands on her hips, holding her firmly as his own breathing slows.

After a moment, she shifts beneath him. “Zilch,” she mutters, her voice rough. “You cracked my back.”

He leans down and kisses the space between her shoulder blades. “You’re the one who started it.”

“You’re the one who finished it.”

“Damn right I did.”

She hums softly, then turns her head just enough to glance at him. “That was excessive force, Counselor.”

“You brought it on yourself, New England.”

She smirks into the sheets. “You weren’t exactly innocent either.”

He pulls out slowly, groaning low as he collapses beside her. The mattress shifts under his weight. Her thigh drapes across his hip. He slides an arm beneath her neck and leaves it there.

“You want to file an appeal?” he mumbles against her temple.

She lets out a breath that could be a laugh. “I might.”

“Good. That gives me somethin’ to fight.”

She nudges his side with her knee. “You already won this round, Michael.”

He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “Ain’t about winnin’. It’s about bein’ right.”

“You were not right about the key.”

He growls and grabs her ribs. She shrieks and contorts beneath him, kicking at the sheet, trying to squirm away. He catches her by the waist, wrestles her back into place, and flips her over in one practiced motion. Her back hits the mattress first, then her shoulders. Her breath escapes in a huff. Her eyes go wide. Her cheeks flush. Her hair tangles beneath her, damp from sweat and splayed in every direction.

“Zilch!” she cries, breathless and indignant. “I call foul.”

“There ain’t no foul in this courtroom,” he says, pinning her with his forearm.

“I demand a mistrial.”

He leans over her with a grin, slow and certain. “Denied.”

He leans over her, one brow cocked. “Admit it.”

She grins up at him, eyes glinting. “Zilch.”

He kisses her again—slowly this time, with nothing to prove. Her arms circle his shoulders and do not let go.

Outside, the sprinklers begin to hiss across the lawn, their rhythm steady and faint through the open window. The scent of wet grass seeps into the room, mingling with the heat of their bodies. From the hallway, the grandfather clock chimes once. He shifts his arm to pull her closer. She lets out a soft breath and rests her cheek against his shoulder, saying nothing. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them sleeps. They just lie there, tangled and still, as the night stretches on around them.

Chapter Text

It’s hot in Nashville, the kind of sticky heat that makes even the inside of air-conditioned studios feel like a pressure cooker. Mike’s deep in his 1968 Nashville sessions, laying down the early groundwork for The Wichita Train Whistle Sings and a string of tracks that no one quite knows what to do with yet. Mona flies in to join him after finishing up a particularly grueling week back in L.A. with studio and production work. She needs a break. He needs backup.

Mike’s got a gleam in his eye when he suggests they swing by the Sho-Bud pedal steel guitar factory. “C’mon, New England,” he drawls, “I wanna see how they make the magic happen. Might even pick up one for the ranch.”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “You already got three steel guitars and a lap steel sittin’ at home collectin’ dust.”

Mike shrugs. “Yeah, but not a Sho-Bud. That’s where it’s at.”

The factory sits tucked off a quiet stretch of road—modest from the outside, but inside, it’s a candy store of gleaming finishes and polished wood. A showroom lines the front with every kind of steel guitar imaginable. Mona hangs back a little as Mike launches into easy conversation with one of the salesmen, a lanky fellow with a Stetson nearly too big for his head.

“You pick a few?” Mona asks, arms crossed, taking in the rows of instruments.

“Think I might,” Mike answers, then nods toward a sleek double-neck. “Somethin’ like that, maybe.”

The salesman follows his gaze and grins. “Beautiful piece. Though, she’s not for the faint of heart.” Then, with a glance at Mona: “Takes a real touch to get her singin’. You ever play steel, ma’am?”

Mona offers a tight smile. “Here and there.”

The man chuckles. “It ain’t easy. Lotta moving parts. Lotta muscle memory. Most folks can’t even get a clean tone without months of practice.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, but Mona just tilts her head. “You don’t say.”

“You’re welcome to try her out,” the salesman says, already half-turning to Mike. “Or your husband—he looks like he knows his way around a fretboard.”

Mona steps forward and slides onto the bench before Mike can speak. “Mind if I give her a go?”

The man’s smile falters just a bit. “Uh, sure.”

Mike crosses his arms and leans back against the display, watching with a smirk.

Mona adjusts the knee levers and pedals like she’s done it a hundred times—because she has. She tunes her bar with a flick of the wrist and takes a breath. Then she plays.

Not just anything. She slides into the pedal steel interlude of “The Kind of Girl I Could Love”—fluid, soulful, with the subtle, keening pitch bends that make the part so unmistakably theirs.

The notes ring out clean and lonesome, cutting through the factory hum like a hot knife through butter. When she finishes, the room goes quiet. The salesman blinks.

Mike tips his head toward her. “That girl’s been playin’ since she could walk,” he says casually. “Wrote that part herself, in fact.”

The salesman looks between them, stunned. “You wrote that?”

Mona gives a small, amused shrug. “Mike was stuck. I unstuck him.”

Mike chuckles. “She does that.”

The man clears his throat. “Well… you got the touch, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” Mona says sweetly. “Maybe next time don’t assume the fella’s the one with the chops.”

She stands, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. Mike’s still smirking as he takes her hand.

“C’mon, Evil Witchy Woman. Let’s go find you somethin’ to break next.”

Mona grins. “Only thing I’m breakin’ is egos today.”

As they step back out into the Tennessee sun, Mike leans close and whispers, “Damn, baby. That was hot.”

Mona just smiles and slips her sunglasses on. “You’re welcome.”

And somewhere inside, the salesman’s still trying to figure out exactly what just happened.

Back in the car, Mike is still buzzing—he can’t stop glancing over at her as they pull onto the main road. “You really let that guy have it,” he drawls, shaking his head in admiration. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”

Mona stretches out her legs and reaches for the iced coffee Mike picked up earlier. “He had it comin’. Thought I was just some broad taggin’ along to hold your wallet.”

“Mmhm. Poor guy’s ego’s probably sittin’ there in a puddle on the floor.” He grins, eyes fixed on the road but his tone softens. “Ain’t seen you play like that in a while. You been holdin’ out on me, New England?”

She looks out the window, her smile just faint. “Haven’t had much reason to pull out the steel lately. Been too busy makin’ sure your parts come out clean.”

He reaches over, his fingers brushing the back of her hand where it rests on the seat. “You miss it?”

“More than I care to admit.”

They drive in silence for a beat, the hum of the tires the only sound between them. Then Mike says, almost too casually, “That interlude you played back there? I been thinkin’ of layin’ that track down again. Cleaner, slower. Real dreamy-like.”

Mona arches a brow. “Yeah?”

He nods. “But only if you play it.”

She smirks. “I’ll play it if you quit tryin’ to mess with the tempo like last time.”

“I was explorin’ the groove,” he protests with mock seriousness.

“You were draggin’ like a flat tire.”

Mike chuckles, steering them toward the back roads that curve through green hills and wild honeysuckle. “Alright, fine. We’ll do it your way.”

They pull off a quiet lane and into a gravel drive where a small studio waits—just a place one of Mike’s session buddies let them borrow for a few hours. “You brought the reel-to-reel?” Mona asks, already knowing the answer.

“In the trunk.”

“And let me guess, you brought your whole damn pedal steel setup even though we just left a store full of ‘em?”

“You never know when inspiration might strike,” he says with a wink.

Once inside, they set up quickly, the familiar rhythm of cables, tuning, and low conversation slipping into place between them like old times. Mike dials in the levels. Mona takes her seat at the pedal steel and gives a small test run—just enough to make the boards sing.

“You ready, Texas?” she asks.

“Always,” he replies.

They run the song once. Then again. On the third take, something clicks.

Mike’s vocals settle right into the pocket, and Mona’s pedal steel floats through the bridge like honey poured over a slow waltz. It’s that feeling—the one they chase but don’t always catch. It hovers in the room, warm and fleeting, before fading with the final chord.

Mike doesn’t say anything right away. He just leans back, eyes on her, a crooked grin slowly forming. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s where it’s at.”

Mona takes a breath, steadying herself against the rush of it. “You really mean it?”

He nods. “That’s the one we keep.”

A long silence follows—comfortable, electric.

Mike finally stands and stretches, walking over to her with that lazy saunter of his. He leans down, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his voice rough at the edges. “You keep doin’ that to me, I’m gonna forget how to breathe.”

Mona tilts her chin, letting her fingers skim the tuning knobs, playing coy. “Guess you’ll just have to keep showin’ up to breathe then, huh?”

He smirks. “Don’t tempt me.”

She looks up at him, eyes sharp but softened. “We should do more of this.”

“You talkin’ music or makin’ each other sweat?”

She laughs. “Both.”

Mike kisses her then—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carries a promise and a challenge all at once.

When they finally pull apart, Mona whispers against his mouth, “Next time someone underestimates me, I’ll just bring you along to clean up the mess.”

Mike grins, that spark back in his eyes. “Hell no, darlin’. I’m bringin’ you. You’re the one who leaves ‘em stunned.”

And just like that, they pack up, step back into the Tennessee heat, and disappear into the kind of Southern twilight that always feels like the beginning of something new.

Or maybe something undeniably theirs.

Back at the hotel, the sun dips low behind the skyline, casting long shadows across the parking lot as Mike unlocks the room door. Mona kicks off her boots the second they step inside and flops down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders loose for the first time all day.

Mike drops the reel case by the dresser and turns toward her, his eyes still glinting. “Y’know,” he says, tugging off his boots with a grunt, “I don’t think that fella at Sho-Bud’s ever gonna forget you.”

She snorts, reaching back to unpin her hair. “Let’s hope not. Might make him think twice next time a woman walks in wearin’ boots instead of blush.”

Mike crosses the room, leans against the wall, and watches her—her fingers combing through her hair, her banjo-calloused hands unbothered by polish or pretense. “You know what I’m thinkin’ during that take?”

Mona looks up at him, one brow raised. “That the high string was a little sharp ‘til I fixed it?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m thinkin’—this is the sound I wanna bottle. You an’ me, doin’ what we do best. Ain’t no session player in Nashville or LA that can match you when you’re locked in like that.”

She blinks at him, not quite smiling yet. “You gettin’ sentimental on me, Texas?”

He shrugs, voice quieter now. “Maybe. But you’ve been hangin’ back so long I think folks forgot who you are.”

Mona leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I let ’em forget. I started thinkin’ maybe they were right. That maybe I was just good in your shadow.”

Mike steps in close, kneeling down in front of her, his long fingers lacing with hers. “Don’t you ever say that. You ain’t in nobody’s shadow. I don’t care how many lights they point at me, you’re the one who keeps the damn thing runnin’. You always have.”

She lets out a slow breath, her green eyes locked on his. “You mean that?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” His voice stays soft but firm, his accent dipping a little deeper. “Hell, I bragged on you today. Told that fella at Sho-Bud you wrote that steel part. You shoulda seen his face.”

Mona lets out a soft, amused hum. “You bragged?”

“I did. Felt good, too.” He kisses her knuckles. “Maybe next time you’ll let me put your name on the credits proper.”

She smiles then—small, but real. “Maybe.”

A beat passes before she gives him a look. “You’re not gonna turn this into some sappy duet record now, are you?”

Mike grins, leaning in. “Only if I get to name it New England & Texas Ride Again.”

Mona rolls her eyes, laughing as she shoves him back gently. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

She stands, stretching slow, the hem of her shirt rising just enough to distract him. “Well, come on then, cowboy. Let’s make some trouble before the room cools off.”

Mike’s grin widens. “Now that’s music to my ears.”

And as the night settles over Nashville, the reel tape tucked safely away, the hotel walls don’t hear steel guitars—but the rhythm that echoes through them is just as sweet.

Mona tugs her shirt over her head, eyes locked on his, her movements deliberate. The air between them charges instantly—no teasing now, no distractions. Just heat. Mike’s breath hitches as she steps toward him, slow, barefoot, hair falling loose over her shoulders.

“You gonna stand there gawkin’, Texas?” she murmurs, voice like smoke. “Or you gonna do somethin’ about it?”

He moves.

In two strides he’s in front of her, his hands on her hips, mouth crashing into hers. It’s not gentle—he kisses her like he’s still hearing that steel guitar, like the rhythm is still vibrating under his skin. Mona responds with equal urgency, fingers tugging his T-shirt up and off, nails skimming down his chest as she pushes him back toward the bed.

They stumble, laughing between kisses, but the laughter dies the moment she straddles him. She grabs his wrists, pins them above his head, and leans in close, her breath hot against his ear.

“Still think I’m just your backup player?” she whispers.

Mike groans, trying to shift beneath her, but she doesn’t budge.

“Not even close,” he pants. “You run the whole damn band, Evil Witchy Woman.”

Mona smiles darkly, then sinks down against him, rolling her hips with deliberate precision. Mike arches, his head tipping back against the pillow, breath shuddering as she sets the pace—slow and punishing.

“Say it again,” she demands, hands slipping down his arms, nails dragging.

“You run it,” he gasps. “You run everything.”

She leans in and kisses him again—deeper this time, slower. He meets her with a groan, his hands finally freed, gripping her thighs, her back, anything he can hold onto. The heat builds fast, too fast, but neither of them slows down.

She’s all angles and fire above him, and he’s unraveling underneath her, every nerve ending shot through with lightning. When they finally break—together—it’s a crash, a tremble, a held breath shattering.

Mona collapses against his chest, both of them slick with sweat and shaking.

Mike’s still trying to breathe when he mutters, voice hoarse, “You really sold that steel part today.”

Mona laughs, breathless. “Told you I could make it sing.”

He kisses her temple, his voice barely audible now. “So did I.”

They lie there, tangled and spent, the sound of Nashville quiet outside the window. But inside—it’s nothing but aftershocks.

Mona slides her hand down his chest, fingers tracing the damp curve of his ribs, and grins when she feels him twitch under her touch. Mike’s still catching his breath, but she’s not done—not even close.

She shifts her weight, kisses the hollow of his throat, then lower, teeth grazing his collarbone. He groans, low and wrecked, and arches into her, already stirring again beneath her thigh.

“God, woman,” he breathes, voice gone gravel-deep. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

She smirks against his skin. “Don’t tempt me.”

Her hand slips lower, nails dragging down his stomach like a warning, like a dare. He grabs at her hips, tries to flip her beneath him, but she plants a palm flat against his chest and pushes him back, straddling him again with slow, deliberate control.

“No,” she says, her voice silk over steel. “You don’t get to be in charge yet.”

Mike swears under his breath, but he’s grinning, eyes dark and wild with it. “Then ride, baby. I’ll try to survive.”

She rises up and sinks down again, slow and maddening. He grips her hips hard, head dropping back against the pillow with a guttural sound that punches straight through her. Her pace is brutal, teasing—enough to drive him out of his mind, just shy of what he wants.

“Please,” he growls, trying to catch her rhythm, but she leans in close, hair falling around their faces like a curtain.

“You wanna come?” she whispers. “You gotta earn it.”

Mike groans, his grip tightening. “Jesus, New England. You’re evil.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, biting his earlobe. “You love it.”

His whole body shudders when she grinds down again, angling just right. He bucks up into her, chasing the edge she keeps just out of reach. Every breath, every movement, sharp and hungry. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, ragged gasps and bitten-off moans.

He’s begging now—words slurred, voice wrecked.

Mona smiles, wicked and triumphant.

She lets go.

They both fall—hard.

It hits like lightning—white-hot and violent. Mike’s hands claw at her back as he spills into her, and she cries out, riding every aftershock until she’s trembling with it. They collapse together, sweat-slick and gasping, his mouth on her shoulder, her nails dug into his arm.

They don’t speak. They don’t move. Just breathe.

Finally, Mike murmurs into her skin, voice cracked and raw: “You’re somethin’ else, New England.”

Mona grins, still breathless. “You just now figurin’ that out?”

He chuckles, pulling her closer. “No, ma’am. But I don’t mind the reminders.”

Mike’s hands are greedy now—no more teasing, no more holding back. He rolls her onto her back with a low growl, all sinew and sweat and intensity, and she lets him, but only because she wants to see what he’ll do when he thinks he’s back in control.

He looms over her, hair falling across his forehead, lips parted, still breathless. “My turn,” he says, voice rough and thick as molasses. “You better hold on, Evil Witchy Woman.”

Mona barely has time to smirk before he slides into her again—deep, hard, claiming every inch like he’s branding her from the inside out. Her head snaps back with a gasp, fingers clawing at the sheets, and she curses under her breath, already coming apart again.

Mike leans in close, lips brushing her jaw, her neck, her collarbone as he thrusts. His rhythm is relentless now, all that pent-up energy from the studio, from the Sho-Bud factory, from watching her command the room like she owned the place. He’s not just fucking her—he’s worshipping her, with every stroke, every drag of his mouth down her chest.

“You play like a goddamn demon,” he murmurs against her skin. “You feel what you did to me in there? Had me hard halfway through that solo.”

She moans, arching into him, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist. “Good.”

He grins against her breast, bites just hard enough to make her cry out, then pulls back to watch her face as he drives into her again. Her mouth falls open, eyes half-lidded, flushed and undone and his.

“Say it,” he growls, his voice a rasp. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she pants, eyes locking with his. “I’ve always been yours, Michael.”

That does it.

His pace turns punishing, his body trembling above hers as they both climb again, desperate and tangled. Mona digs her nails into his back, gasping his name like a prayer, and Mike—sweat-slick and breathless—murmurs hers like it’s the only word he remembers.

They come together again, shattering all over each other, raw and shaking and gasping. Mike collapses beside her, arm heavy over her stomach, face buried in her neck.

Silence. Breathing. The room still humming with the afterglow.

After a long moment, he mutters, “If I’d known you were gonna play like that today, I’d’ve dragged you straight to the studio bed instead of waitin’.”

Mona snorts, still breathless. “Good thing I was feelin’ generous. Could’ve left you beggin’ in the car.”

Mike chuckles, voice low and lazy now. “You did leave me beggin’. And I loved every second.”

She turns her head, eyes sparkling. “Yeah, well… don’t get used to winnin’.”

Mike leans in, pressing a slow, languid kiss to her shoulder. “With you, baby, losin’ feels real good.”

And just like that, the fire settles into a slow burn—hot under the skin, always ready to ignite again.

Mona shifts beneath the tangled sheets, her skin still slick, pulse still thrumming in her throat. Mike trails his hand along her thigh, slow and possessive, like he’s memorizing her all over again. She stretches, catlike, and turns onto her side to face him.

“You’re not finished,” she says, voice husky, eyes glinting in the dim light. “I can tell.”

Mike smirks, brushing her hair off her cheek. “Neither are you.”

He rolls onto her again, slower this time, more deliberate—like he’s got all night to ruin her and plans to savor every second. His mouth finds the crook of her neck, the underside of her jaw, the curve just beneath her breast. He worships her like he’s writing a song with his lips, and every note pulls a sound from her that no instrument ever could.

She gasps as his tongue flicks over her nipple, his fingers sliding between her legs, slow and slick. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. He knows exactly how she breaks—he’s studied it, lived it, loved it.

“Mmm, you’re already drippin’ for me,” he murmurs against her skin, voice low and full of grit. “Didn’t even touch you proper yet.”

Her hips roll into his hand instinctively, seeking more. “Then touch me proper, Texas.”

That’s all it takes.

He kisses his way down, slow and sinful, settling between her thighs like he belongs there—which he does. He wraps his hands around her hips and devours her—hot, wet, relentless. Mona’s hand flies to the headboard, fingers clutching the worn wood as she cries out, her thighs trembling against his shoulders.

“God, Mike—yes—don’t you dare stop—”

He doesn’t. He pins her there, mouth and tongue working her like she’s a melody only he knows how to play, and he’s not letting the song end until she’s screaming. She comes hard, shuddering under his grip, her back arching clean off the mattress. Mike doesn’t let up until she begs—hands fisted in his hair, thighs quaking around his face.

He rises slowly, lips slick, eyes dark with heat and pride. “Still think I was finished?”

Mona pulls him down and kisses him, tasting herself on his tongue, her breath catching as he pushes into her again—hard, deep, perfect.

This time it’s all friction and sweat and need. No teasing, no playing. Just raw, aching hunger. They move like they’re chasing something they’ll never quite catch, like every second might tear them apart if they don’t hold tighter.

She bites his shoulder. He groans into her mouth. Their rhythm’s desperate now—sharp, fast, wild.

“Come with me,” he pants against her lips.

“I’m right there,” she gasps. “Don’t you stop—don’t you—fuck—”

They fall together, shaking, moaning each other’s names like confessions. Mike collapses against her, both of them gasping, trembling, wrecked.

He rolls to the side, pulling her close, burying his face in her neck with a groan.

“I think you broke me,” he mumbles.

Mona lets out a breathless laugh, still trying to remember how to breathe. “Good. Next time, don’t underestimate me.”

Mike smiles against her skin, his voice a lazy, satisfied rumble. “Wouldn’t dare, New England.”

Mona’s still trembling when he pulls her close, her body slick against his, heartbeat pounding through her chest like the tail end of a freight train. The room’s heavy with heat, the windows fogged, the sheets tangled and useless somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Mike’s hand strokes her back, slow and grounding, but there’s nothing settled about the look in his eyes. Still hungry. Still burning.

“Don’t give me that look,” she murmurs, her voice like worn velvet.

“What look?” he asks, all Texas innocence.

She lifts her head just enough to glare at him. “Like you’re already thinkin’ about round four.”

His grin spreads slow and crooked. “Ain’t my fault you keep settin’ me off like a match.”

“You’re the one who said I was the one who left ‘em stunned.”

“You did,” he says, voice low, mouth brushing the curve of her shoulder. “Still are.”

She shivers under his touch—again. “Michael…”

He shifts, rolling her onto her back with a fluid slide of his hips, his thigh sliding between hers. “Ain’t done praisin’ you yet, darlin’. You wrecked that man at Sho-Bud. You wrecked me in that studio. I oughta make you come again just for bein’ the baddest woman in Nashville.”

She gasps when his fingers find her again, already slick and sensitive. “Mike—god, I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, and kisses her—slow this time, deep, like molasses in August. “You will.”

He watches her unravel beneath his hand, his touch relentless, tender and savage all at once. He draws it out, mouth on her breast, thumb circling slow as she bucks and whimpers beneath him, half-lost in the overstimulation and the ache.

“I can feel you shakin’, baby,” he whispers against her ear, pressing deeper. “C’mon now. Gimme that last one. Let me hear you sing.”

Her whole body tightens, and when she breaks—she shatters.

It’s a sob that rips out of her throat, her limbs locking tight around him as she comes so hard her vision whites out. Mike holds her through it, his name falling from her lips over and over, breathless, hoarse, reverent.

He finally collapses beside her, brushing damp hair off her forehead. She can’t speak yet—she just stares at the ceiling, chest rising in short, staggered breaths.

Mike kisses her temple, then leans in, voice low and amused. “Next time you play a steel solo like that, warn a fella.”

Mona finally turns her head, eyes still glassy. “You… are insatiable.”

He grins, not even pretending to deny it. “With you? Always.”

She groans and buries her face in the crook of his neck. “You’re gonna kill me, Texas.”

He chuckles, wrapping an arm around her. “Nah, baby. Just makin’ sure you remember who your biggest fan is.”

Mona hums against his skin, her voice a sleepy whisper. “You win.”

Mike pulls her tighter, their bodies tangled and humming in the aftermath.

“No,” he murmurs into her hair. “We do.”

They lie tangled for a long moment, skin cooling in the heavy silence, their breath the only sound in the room. Mona’s fingers lazily trace the dip of Mike’s hip, drawing absent shapes, letting the aftershocks roll through her in warm, steady waves.

Mike brushes a kiss into her hair. “I ever tell you what it did to me—hear you play like that? First time?”

She hums, eyes closed. “Maybe. You say a lotta things when you’re half outta breath.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Nah, I mean it. First time I saw you pick up that banjo, I was done for. Knew I’d marry you right then.”

She opens one eye, smirking. “You married me ‘cause of a banjo?”

“Well…” He kisses her jaw, slow and soft. “That, and the boots. And the mouth. And the fact you didn’t fall at my feet like every other girl in L.A.”

Mona snorts. “I almost decked you for kissin’ me the first night.”

He grins against her skin. “And I almost proposed right then and there.”

She shakes her head and shifts on top of him, her bare thigh sliding between his. “You’re full of it.”

“I’m full of you,” he murmurs, dragging his hands down her back. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Her breath catches again, not from what he’s doing, but how he says it. Like it’s the truest thing in the world.

“You tryin’ to get another round outta me?” she whispers, nuzzling his neck.

“I’m always tryin’,” he breathes, flipping her beneath him before she can reply.

He sinks into her again, slow this time, every inch a promise. She arches into him with a whimper, still sore, still aching, and needing it anyway.

They move like they’re drunk on each other—slow and sinfully sweet, nothing rushed, nothing held back. His forehead presses to hers, their breath mingling, eyes locked. Every thrust is measured, deep, intimate.

“I love you,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges.

Mona’s fingers thread into his hair, her voice breaking open. “I love you too, Texas.”

He groans into her mouth as they fall together, slower this time, shaking and whispering things they’ll never repeat outside this room. When the world finally stills, when all that’s left is the echo of skin and sighs and love spoken between gasps, Mike doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside her, the afterglow wrapped around them like smoke, warm and slow. His weight is solid, grounding, and Mona doesn’t want him to move—not yet. Her fingers stroke the damp curls at the nape of his neck, her breath still shallow, skin still tingling.

“Don’t go,” she whispers.

He doesn’t answer—not with words. Just shifts, barely, just enough to deepen the connection, and Mona gasps, her body still sensitive and raw. He kisses her—soft, reverent, nothing like before. It’s not lust now. It’s something far more dangerous.

It’s devotion.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he finally murmurs against her lips. “Not when you’re underneath me like this. Not when you’re lookin’ at me like I’m the only man alive.”

Mona presses her forehead to his. “You are, right now.”

His hands are slow, reverent, roaming the curves of her hips, the line of her thighs, the arch of her ribs like she’s something holy. She shifts under him and feels him start to stir again.

“Michael—”

“I know,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut as he starts to move again, slow and unbearably deep. “But I need it. Just one more.”

She cries out, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, dragging him closer. “Take it.”

He does.

This time, there’s no firestorm—no wild rhythm, no frantic clawing. It’s slow and soul-wrenching. He moves inside her like they’ve got all the time in the world, like he’s memorizing every reaction, every twitch of her body beneath his.

“You know what you do to me?” he breathes. “You ruin me.”

She drags her fingers down his spine. “Then don’t stop. Let’s burn.”

He swears, low and raw, and kisses her—hard, desperate. They rock together, quiet but intense, the kind of rhythm that doesn’t fade when the moment ends. The kind that lingers in bones. In breath. In memory.

And when she falls again, it’s with a sob into his shoulder, her body trembling from the inside out. He follows right after, burying himself in her, groaning her name like it’s the only prayer he knows.

They collapse into each other, all tangled limbs and sweat and breath.

Mona’s voice is a ragged whisper. “If we keep this up, we’re not makin’ it to the studio tomorrow.”

Mike grins against her neck, still catching his breath. “We already made the record that matters.”

She laughs—weak and wrecked. “You gonna write a song about this now?”

He pulls her closer, nuzzles into her hair. “I already did. Just ain’t put it on tape yet.”

And wrapped up in each other, in heat and hush and heartbeats, they let the night carry them away again—not into fire this time, but into something even hotter: forever.

Mona lies against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart as it finally begins to slow. Mike’s fingers trace lazy circles on her back, trailing the curve of her spine like he’s still playing her—still strumming the last few notes of a song only he gets to hear.

She sighs into his skin. “You’re dangerous like this.”

He hums. “Like what?”

“Quiet. Tender. Makes me forget you’re the same man who flooded our kitchen tryin’ to fix a leaky faucet.”

Mike snorts. “Darlin’, I fixed it.”

“You made it worse,” she mumbles, lips brushing over his chest. “You don’t fix things, Texas. You wear ‘em down ‘til they come apart.”

He shifts beneath her, one hand sliding down to cup her bare hip. “Ain’t that what you did to me tonight?”

Mona smirks against his skin. “Fair’s fair.”

A lazy silence settles between them, heavy with satisfaction and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need words. Outside, Nashville hums in the distance—streetlights flickering, cicadas droning—but in the room, it’s just them. Breath. Skin. Fire cooled to embers.

Mike finally breaks the silence. “Y’know what that salesman said, after you walked outta Sho-Bud?”

Mona lifts her head, her hair falling over his chest. “Do tell.”

“He said, ‘I didn’t know women played like that.’” Mike huffs, shaking his head. “Like you were some myth walkin’ in off the street.”

Mona’s eyes narrow, amused. “You tell him I’m real?”

“I told him you were mine.”

She goes still, her gaze locking with his, the burn returning—not lust this time, not the frantic kind. Just deep. Slow. Lasting.

“Say that again,” she whispers.

Mike brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re mine, New England. Always have been.”

Mona kisses him soft—no games, no bite. Just truth. Then she pulls the sheet over both of them and settles against him again, her breath warm on his collarbone.

“You’re mine too,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Even when you’re a damn handful.”

Mike smiles into her hair. “Especially then.”

And there, in the quiet thrum of Nashville night, where steel strings echo in memory and their bodies still hum from fire, they drift. Wrapped in sweat and music, in promise and skin, they fall asleep tangled in love, burnt to the bone, and whole.

The sun is just starting to break through the slats of the blinds when Mona stirs, her skin warm and bare against rumpled sheets, her leg still draped over Mike’s hip. He’s asleep beside her, one arm tucked under his head, the other slung across her waist, anchoring her to him like he’s afraid she might vanish with the dawn.

She doesn’t move—just watches him, the way his lips part with each slow breath, the curve of his lashes against his cheeks, the mess of dark curls still damp with sweat. He looks younger like this. Softer. Like the stubborn, brooding storm she married finally settled into something safe.

Mona lets her fingers trace the curve of his ribcage, slow and quiet, memorizing him all over again. Every inch of him is hers—just like every note he plays has her somewhere in it, hidden between the lines.

Mike stirs under her touch, a low hum rumbling in his throat. His eyes blink open—still heavy, still soft—and he looks at her like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice rough with sleep and last night’s moans.

Mona leans in and brushes her lips against his. “Hey, yourself.”

He stretches, the sheet slipping low on his hips, revealing the long line of muscle down his stomach. She lets her eyes wander, no shame in it. She’s earned the view.

“You sore?” he asks, smirking just a little.

Mona rolls her eyes. “Like you don’t know.”

He laughs, eyes crinkling. “Couldn’t help it. You got me all worked up the second you touched that steel.”

“You’re lucky that salesman underestimated me,” she murmurs, kissing his jaw. “I had somethin’ to prove.”

Mike turns, pinning her beneath him in one slow, easy movement. “Sweetheart,” he drawls, mouth trailing down her neck, “you always got somethin’ to prove. And every time you do, I end up flat on my back wonderin’ how the hell I got so lucky.”

She grins, arching against him. “You talk like that, I’m gonna prove somethin’ else right now.”

He groans into her neck. “Woman, you’re gonna kill me.”

“I warned you,” she says, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

The sheets are still warm when he slides inside her again—slow, deep, all velvet and heat. They move like they’ve done this a thousand times and still can’t get enough. And they haven’t. And they won’t.

Not with hands like his.

Not with lips like hers.

Not with that rhythm between them that starts in their hips and ends somewhere in the soul.

It’s not fire this time.

It’s smoke.

Slick and smooth.

It winds around them, curls in their mouths, hums under their skin.

By the time they fall back against the mattress, boneless and spent, Mona’s tucked into the curve of Mike’s side again, her hand resting over his heart.

“You still wanna go back to Sho-Bud today?” she mumbles.

Mike snorts, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Nope. I got the best damn steel in Nashville right here.”

Mona smiles against his chest. “Damn right you do.”

The morning drapes itself around them like silk—warm light filtering through dusty blinds, the hum of early Nashville traffic a distant backdrop. Mona lies draped over Mike’s chest, her fingers absently trailing through the patch of hair just below his collarbone, drawing lazy circles like she’s etching her signature there. Maybe she is.

Mike’s arm curls around her back, fingers splayed wide, possessive even in rest. Every now and then, he brushes his thumb along her spine, like he’s making sure she’s still real. Still his.

“Y’know,” he says after a long stretch of silence, “we oughta write it down.”

She shifts, chin propped on his chest. “Write what down?”

“That interlude. The way you played it yesterday.” His voice is low, still scratchy from sleep—and sex. “Note for note. Lock it in. That version’s the one.”

Mona raises a brow. “You mean the one that turned you into a growlin’ animal last night?”

His grin is slow, lazy. “That’d be the one.”

She smirks, but her eyes soften. “Alright, cowboy. We’ll write it down. But only if you play it with me.”

He nods, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “Always.”

Mona sighs, burying her face in his chest again, letting herself go soft in the silence. These moments—between the heat and the hustle, between the fire and the fight—were rare. Precious. And hers.

But not quiet for long.

A knock rattles the motel door.

Mike freezes. “You expectin’ anyone?”

Mona lifts her head, groaning. “If it’s someone from RCA wantin’ to talk contracts before I’ve had coffee, I swear to God—”

Another knock, sharper this time.

Mike grabs the sheet and wraps it around his waist, heading to the door barefoot, hair a mess, scratch marks still blooming faint and proud down his back. Mona watches from the bed, not bothering to cover herself, just stretching out like a well-fed cat.

He cracks the door and peers through. “Can I help you?”

A young man in wire-rim glasses stands there with a clipboard and a nervous smile. “Uh, hi—sorry to bother you. Are you Mr. Nesmith? I’m from the label. They said you might be staying here? We’ve got a—um—a studio block reserved for you down on Music Row. You’d asked for it after the Sho-Bud visit?”

Mike blinks once. Twice.

Mona snorts behind him. “You did leave that note with the studio manager yesterday. Said you wanted to get somethin’ on tape.”

“Oh. Right,” Mike mutters. “That.”

The guy peeks past him, and his eyes widen. “Oh! Um—sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt—uh, anything.”

Mona just smirks from where she’s lounging, sheets barely covering her hips. “You’re interruptin’ everything, sugar.”

The poor man turns crimson. “I-I’ll come back—sorry!”

Mike shuts the door gently, locking it behind him. He turns back toward Mona with a sheepish grin. “Well… guess we are goin’ to the studio today.”

Mona lifts an eyebrow. “You better give me fifteen minutes and a pot of coffee.”

Mike leans down and kisses her—deep and dirty and lingering. “Fifteen minutes, huh?”

She pulls him down by the sheet, her mouth brushing his. “Or five, if you don’t mind showin’ up late.”

He growls into her smile. “Studio can wait.”

And Nashville, for the second time that day, has to hold its breath while the music waits its turn.

Mike drops the sheet like it offends him, his mouth crashing back onto hers before the door latch even clicks shut. Mona laughs into the kiss, but it turns to a moan when he grabs her by the hips and drags her back beneath him, all heat and muscle and intent.

“You better make this quick,” she breathes, biting his bottom lip.

He grins against her mouth. “That a challenge, darlin’?”

She arches into him, nails digging into his back. “That’s a warning.”

But Mike’s already sinking into her, slow and deep, and any thought of warning—or being quick—flies right out the window. Her legs wrap around his waist as he sets a rhythm that’s nothing short of filthy, and she gasps against his shoulder, clinging to him like she’s drowning.

“You said five minutes,” he growls in her ear, thrusts deep and punishing, “but I’m gonna take ten.”

Mona’s breath stutters, her whole body locking tight. “Mike—fuck—”

“That’s the idea,” he grits, driving into her again, and again.

She shatters beneath him, legs trembling, voice caught in her throat, and Mike follows close behind, moaning her name like it’s sacred.

They collapse together, sweaty and tangled, gasping like they just ran a marathon.

Mona finally finds her voice. “That was not five minutes.”

Mike, still catching his breath, grins against her shoulder. “I regret nothin’.”

She swats his ass and groans. “Now we really need that coffee.”

He rolls off her, hand trailing down her thigh as he grabs for the sheet. “I’ll start the pot. You shower. Then we write that damn solo down before one of us forgets it.”

Mona sits up, stretching, her body aching in the best ways. “You’re not gonna forget it. You’ll hear it every time you look at me.”

Mike pauses in the doorway to the kitchenette, turning back to grin at her—bare, beautiful, smirking like sin.

“Darlin’,” he drawls, “I already do.”

And with that, he disappears around the corner, whistling low and easy, the tune suspiciously close to “The Kind of Girl I Could Love”.

Steam curls out from the crack in the bathroom door, thick and fragrant with cheap motel soap and shampoo Mona brought from home. She stands under the spray, eyes closed, head tipped back as the hot water runs down her body, rinsing off the last of last night—and this morning.

She barely hears the door open over the hum of the pipes, but she feels him.

Mike steps in behind her, warm skin against damp heat, and wraps his arms around her waist like it’s instinct. She doesn’t flinch. She leans back into him, lets her head fall onto his shoulder.

“You tryin’ to conserve water now?” she murmurs, lips brushing his jaw.

“Tryin’ to keep my hands on you,” he says, voice low, sliding one hand up over her ribs. “You’re slippery without me.”

She laughs, soft and breathy. “You’re ridiculous.”

He starts with her shoulders, lathering slow, kissing the back of her neck between each movement. She moans when his thumbs dig into a knot just beneath her shoulder blade. “Mm. Okay. You get to stay.”

“Real generous of you,” he whispers, then presses a kiss to her ear, trailing his lips down her neck as his hands slide around to soap her breasts. She gasps at the touch—firm but reverent. Worshipful.

“You always this helpful in the morning?” she teases, though her knees are already starting to buckle.

“Only when I’m lookin’ at the eighth wonder of the world.”

He turns her to face him, palms slipping down her sides, lips finding hers through the mist and heat. The kiss is slow at first—unhurried, savoring. But it deepens fast, gets greedy. Mike backs her against the tile, mouth never leaving hers, water pounding against his shoulders.

His hands grip her thighs and lift her effortlessly, and she wraps around him like she was built to fit there.

She breaks the kiss, panting. “We are gonna miss that studio block.”

Mike lines himself up, presses into her slow and hot, making her cry out.

“I told you,” he growls against her mouth, hips starting to move, “the studio can wait.”

They move with the rhythm of the water—rocking, panting, slick with soap and steam. Mona claws at his shoulders, legs tightening around him, teeth dragging across his throat.

He groans, one hand bracing them against the wall, the other gripping her ass to hold her steady as he drives into her, each thrust hitting just right.

“You like that, New England?” he grits out.

She moans, clenching around him. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He doesn’t.

And when she comes, it’s a ripple through every muscle, her voice echoing off the tile. Mike follows with a strangled moan, his body shuddering as he pours himself into her.

They stay like that for a moment—pressed together under the hot spray, hearts pounding, skin flushed and slick.

Eventually, Mona nuzzles against his neck. “Well. That’s one way to start a day.”

Mike laughs, breathless. “Best shower I’ve ever taken.”

“Best one you’ve ever gotten,” she corrects, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

He grins, leaning in to kiss her again. “Fair.”

As the water starts to cool, he finally sets her down, and they wash the rest of the soap off in comfortable silence.

And when they finally step out of the bathroom—toweling off, eyes brighter, limbs loose—they’re not just clean. They’re ready. For music. For tape. For whatever the hell comes next. Because whatever it is… they’re walkin’ into it together.

Mona towels off first, still pink-cheeked and grinning in that dangerous, satisfied way that makes Mike feel like she’s just stolen a piece of his soul and tucked it in her back pocket. She throws him a fresh towel and disappears into the motel room, humming under her breath—something sultry and familiar, like the steel lick she played yesterday that started all this madness.

Mike follows her, toweling off his hair, watching as she rifles through her suitcase for something clean to wear. She’s all legs and curve and confidence, strutting around like she didn’t just wreck him in the shower. Twice.

“You tryin’ to kill me before breakfast?” he mutters, dropping onto the bed with a groan.

She glances over her shoulder with a smirk. “You keep actin’ like I’m not the best damn thing to ever happen to your circulation.”

He laughs, flopping back on the bed, towel barely holding on around his hips. “Baby, I got no complaints. I’m just sayin’—I might need a whole pot of coffee before I can walk straight.”

Mona steps into a fresh pair of panties and one of his shirts—soft and threadbare, the hem brushing just above mid-thigh—and walks over barefoot, wet hair dripping down her back. She leans over him, hands braced on either side of his head.

“Then you better sit up, cowboy,” she says, eyes sparkling. “We got music to make.”

He pulls her down for a quick, searing kiss, hands sliding up the back of her thighs. “Damn right we do.”

They get dressed slow, still exchanging glances and half-smirks between bites of toast and swigs of black coffee from the motel carafe. Mike’s already got his notebook out, scribbling down structure ideas while Mona hums through the phrasing of the steel interlude, running her fingers through the air like she’s plucking invisible strings.

They load up the car, the reel-to-reel safe in the back seat, along with Mike’s Gretsch and Mona’s session case—banjo, steel bar, finger picks, and a stack of manuscript paper she barely needs but always carries. The motel room still smells like heat and skin and shampoo when they close the door behind them.

The sun’s higher now, Nashville buzzing awake as they drive toward the studio, windows down, wind in their hair, the two of them humming a half-finished melody like it already belongs to the world.

Mike glances at her from the driver’s seat. “Y’know,” he says, “they’re all gonna think this new track’s about you.”

Mona smirks, feet on the dash, hair whipping in the wind. “That’s ‘cause it is.”

He grins. “You gonna play that steel solo again when we cut it?”

She turns her head, lips curving into that signature slow-burn smile. “Better. I’m gonna outdo myself.”

Mike whistles low, turning his eyes back to the road. “Lord help whoever’s in the booth.”

And with that, they disappear into the Nashville morning, chasing down another session, another song, another spark.

Together.

Always.

They pull up to the studio just after ten, sun high and unforgiving, the lot already half full with a few beat-up Cadillacs and one polished station wagon Mona immediately clocks as belonging to one of the RCA house engineers. She can feel the hum of it as they step out—the weight of what they’re about to do, the quiet promise of tape reels and tube mics and something real coming to life in the hands of people who know how to listen.

Mike grabs the gear from the back seat while Mona slings her session bag over one shoulder, already mentally tuning the steel. She catches him looking at her—the way her legs move under his shirt, how she walks like she owns every inch of the sidewalk—and she throws him a smirk without even looking his way.

“Eyes on the music, Texas,” she teases.

“Can’t help it,” he mutters. “You’re the best-lookin’ part of this whole record.”

They step inside, the cool air of the studio lobby wrapping around them, the faint scent of dust, vinyl, and cigarette smoke instantly familiar. The receptionist barely glances up—just gestures toward the back with a lacquered nail and mutters, “Studio B’s open. They’re settin’ levels now.”

They don’t need to be told twice.

Inside Studio B, the lights are low and the air is warm. A couple of engineers are adjusting mics near the isolation booth, and the hum of the console fills the space like static electricity. A few of the session players are already here—Bobby Thompson gives Mike a casual wave from where he’s noodling on a Telecaster, and Weldon Myrick grins wide when he sees Mona.

“Well hell,” Weldon drawls. “Ain’t seen you in a while. You finally switchin’ teams?”

Mona chuckles, setting her case down by the pedal steel in the corner. “Just sittin’ in today. Gotta make sure he doesn’t screw up my part.”

Weldon glances at Mike, grinning. “Gutsy, man. Bringin’ your wife into a Nashville session. You sure you’re ready for that?”

Mike just smirks, plugging in his Gretsch. “She already schooled a Sho-Bud salesman yesterday. Figured I’d let her make the rest of y’all cry next.”

Mona shoots him a look. “Behave.”

He winks. “Never.”

Once they’re set up, it moves fast. The house engineer hits the talkback. “We’ll run it once. Warm-up pass.”

Mona settles behind the pedal steel, fingers flexing around the bar. Mike steps into the booth, guitar slung low, headphones slipping into place.

And then the red light clicks on.

The track begins—Mike’s guitar leading with that slow, loping rhythm, like a train pulling out of a station. Then Mona slides in, smooth as smoke, her steel singing through the speakers like heartbreak wrapped in sunlight.

Everyone stops.

Even the engineer in the booth glances up, eyes wide.

They hit the solo, and Mona soars.

It’s that same line from the motel, but cleaner now—sharper, more precise. Like she took the fire from last night and polished it into something diamond-cut. When the final notes fade, there’s silence on the other side of the glass.

Then:

“Hot damn,” someone mutters.

Mike pulls off his headphones, his mouth curled into a grin so slow and proud it practically glows.

He pushes the talkback. “Think we got what we came for.”

Mona leans back from the steel, sweat at her temples, chest rising and falling as the moment settles in.

The door creaks open, and Mike steps through, walking straight to her. No fanfare. No fuss.

Just pride in every step.

He reaches down, takes her hand, kisses the back of it slow. “That right there?” he murmurs. “That’s the sound of us.”

Mona smiles up at him, eyes still glittering with the tail end of the burn. “Told you I’d outdo myself.”

He leans in, forehead resting against hers. “You always do, baby.”

And somewhere, beneath the hum of the board and the whir of the reels, a moment gets etched into tape. Permanent. Pure. The sound of love in four-four time. Set to steel. Played in fire. Wrapped in them.

They stay forehead to forehead for a breath—just long enough for the world to fall away.

Then the room breaks.

Weldon whistles low. Bobby lets out a laugh and mutters something like hell, we might as well all go home, and one of the engineers stumbles out of the booth just to say, “We didn’t even roll the backup. That was it.”

Mona raises a brow, still catching her breath. “Y’all seriously weren’t recording a second track?”

“Didn’t need to,” the engineer says. “There ain’t a cleaner take than what just happened in there. That steel solo—” He shakes his head like he still doesn’t believe what he heard. “Jesus.”

Mike doesn’t say anything. Just pulls up a stool next to her and watches her break down her instrument, coiling cables with those same fingers that wrecked him half a dozen times in twenty-four hours. There’s a pride in his chest he can’t quite name. Like someone finally turned the lights on and the world saw what he already knew.

She’s not just good.

She’s it.

She snaps her case shut and looks up at him, lips parted like she’s about to say something dry and smart. But Mike beats her to it.

“Marry me again.”

Mona blinks. “What?”

“Marry me again,” he says, quieter now, the words pulling all the air from the room. “Not ‘cause we have to. Not secret. Not Vegas. Not Texas. Not for paperwork. Not ‘cause we already did.”

She stares at him.

“Do it for me. Right here. Right now. With the lights on. With the whole damn band watchin’. Let ‘em all know you’re mine.”

Her smirk flickers, lips trembling with something far more dangerous than lust. She sets the case down, walks up to him, and grabs his shirt collar.

“You gonna say all that to me after you made me come four times and steal the show in Studio B?”

He grins. “Seems like the right time.”

She kisses him, hard, pulling a low groan from his throat. The guys erupt into hoots and catcalls, but she ignores it. When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to his.

“You want me again, Texas?”

“Always.”

“Then you better ask me proper,” she whispers, voice thick. “With a ring and a preacher and a goddamn dress this time.”

Mike laughs, chest shaking. “Baby, I’ll give you the whole damn tour bus.”

And Mona—hair wild, face flushed, steel fingers still humming from the take that shut down the studio—just grins.

“You get me a stage, and I’ll say yes twice.”

They kiss again, and behind them the tape still spins, the red light still blinking, the air still thick with everything they just made.

Love.

Music.

Legend.

And when they finally walk out of Studio B, hand in hand, the song is still playing in the heads of everyone who heard it.

Because it wasn’t just a track.

It was them.

The studio door clicks shut behind them, and the heavy air of Studio B gives way to Nashville’s dry summer heat. But they don’t feel it. Not really. Not with their fingers still laced together, not with Mona’s heart still hammering from that solo, from that proposal, from the way Mike looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth writing songs about.

He opens the car door for her like a gentleman—well, his version of one, still shirt untucked, grinning like he just got away with something—and she slides in, flushed and glowing.

They don’t talk at first. He drives slow through the Nashville backstreets, past old brick buildings and neon signs, the sun glinting off the windshield, the smell of hot pavement rising from the road. Mona props her boots on the dash, still barefoot, Mike’s shirt swallowing her whole, her fingers tapping out the steel lick she’d just laid down.

He glances over at her.

That wild red hair. That mouth. Those damn legs.

He’s in trouble. Again.

“You serious about that stage?” she asks finally, not looking at him.

Mike keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other drifting over to rest on her thigh. “Dead serious.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “Good. ‘Cause if you’re gonna marry me again, I want it loud. I want it messy. I want it with music.”

“You want the Troubadour?” he asks, brow raised.

She smirks. “Too small.”

He whistles. “You want a festival?”

“I want a declaration, Michael.”

He looks at her—really looks—and feels it again. That punch in the gut that started the first time she touched a banjo in front of him. The way she broke that Sho-Bud man clean in half with nothing but a steel bar and a smirk.

“You want fire and noise?” he says, leaning over at a red light, brushing his lips over her knee. “You got it. I’ll call the boys. I’ll call everyone. We’ll play ‘til the sun comes up.”

She grins. “I want to wear white fringe and cowgirl boots and sing dirty love songs right before we say ‘I do.’”

He’s laughing now, full and bright. “Hell, I’ll write you one.”

“You better.”

She pulls his hand into her lap, lacing their fingers again.

“Let’s make a record first,” she says softly. “A real one. Just us.”

Mike looks at her, this vision of grit and fire and talent that no one ever saw coming except him, and nods.

“Deal.”

And right then—barefoot in the passenger seat, a motel key still in her back pocket and steel guitar dust on her fingers—Mona Jensen knows:

They’re about to make the most dangerous, the most honest, the most blisteringly hot album the South has ever heard.

And when they do, they’ll play it live—wedding rings on, guitars strapped tight, and every fire they’ve ever lit burning down the house.

They don’t go back to the motel. Not yet.

Mike pulls off the main road, gravel crunching under the tires as he turns onto a long, winding drive framed by trees and nothing else. At the end sits a weathered old barn turned studio that one of their friends had been fixing up—a place musicians go when they don’t want anyone watching. No press. No clock. Just wood, strings, and sweat.

He kills the engine and looks over at her.

“You sure?” he asks.

Mona doesn’t answer. She climbs out barefoot, lets the car door slam behind her, and starts walking toward the barn without looking back. The wind lifts her hair, that shirt still hanging off one shoulder, and Mike groans under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“Lord, have mercy,” he mutters, grabbing the gear from the back.

Inside the barn, it smells like cedar and old amps. There’s a baby grand in the corner, a stool in the middle of the room, a few overhead lights casting a golden glow across the scuffed wood floor. Mona sets down her steel and starts tuning by ear, while Mike plugs in, eyes never leaving her.

They don’t say much.

Don’t have to.

When they start playing, it’s quiet—just a riff, a whisper of something forming. Mike picks out a slow, smoky melody on his twelve-string. Mona slides in behind it, letting the steel sing low and dirty, like a secret passed between lovers under the sheets.

He looks up, and there’s heat in his eyes again. Not the hungry kind. Not just sex. Something deeper. Dangerous.

“You hear that?” he asks.

She nods, slow. “That’s us.”

He stops playing, sets the guitar down, and walks straight to her, the look in his eyes making her insides go molten. He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls her up from the stool, lifts her onto the edge of the piano bench, and parts her legs with his knee.

“You want loud,” he murmurs, lips brushing hers, “you want messy…”

He kisses her.

Hard. Desperate. Like every note he couldn’t play, he’s pouring into her now.

Mona moans, grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him closer until he’s flush against her, her shirt already rucked up around her hips, her breath catching when he presses against her, thick and ready.

“Mike—”

He cuts her off with another kiss, fingers tugging her panties aside, sinking into her with a groan that echoes off the barn walls. She clutches at his shoulders, her head falling back, mouth open, as he starts to move—deep, deliberate, relentless.

“No one’s here,” he pants, teeth grazing her neck. “Scream if you want, baby.”

She does.

The piano shakes under them, her steel case sliding to the floor with a thud, and still he moves, driving her higher with every thrust, every growl against her throat. She digs her heels into the back of his thighs, nails raking down his back as her body coils tight.

“God, yes,” she gasps, trembling. “Right there—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He holds her steady, hips snapping, sweat dripping between them. “C’mon, darlin’. Gimme that fire. Burn with me.”

And she does.

She goes off like a string pulled too tight—loud, violent, beautiful. He follows with a groan so guttural it shakes the walls, his body locking against hers as he pours every ounce of heat into her.

They collapse against the piano, breathless, wrecked, skin slick and trembling. Mona rests her forehead against his, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

“I told you,” she whispers, voice hoarse, “we ain’t makin’ it to the wedding if you keep doin’ that.”

Mike just laughs, low and filthy.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice still shaking, “we ain’t waitin’ for a damn wedding.”

And somewhere outside that barn, the crickets start singing.

But they’re nothing compared to the music the two of them just made.

The piano bench creaks beneath them, one of Mona’s boots topples off with a thud, and Mike’s still inside her—barely moving, just breathing hard against her neck like he’s trying to memorize the shape of every gasp she makes.

She’s flushed, glowing, dazed in the aftermath, her thighs still trembling against his hips. Her hands drift down his back, fingertips feather-light now, tracing the sweat-slick muscles like she’s calming a storm that she started.

Mike finally lifts his head, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, mouth brushing hers in something far softer than the way he just took her. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and thick with reverence.

Mona lets out a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He grins, cocky and smug, but his touch stays gentle. “Then I did it right.”

She kisses him, lazy and deep, their bodies still tangled, still warm. “You’re gonna ruin me for real venues,” she mutters. “I’ll be sittin’ behind that steel at the Troubadour with my knees shakin’ like I’ve been drinkin’.”

Mike noses along her jaw, still not pulling away. “I’ll be sittin’ right there beside you. Playin’ like I ain’t just had the best sex of my life on a piano bench.”

Mona snorts, then moans when he shifts inside her, still hard. Still hungry.

“You’re insatiable, Texas.”

“You started this,” he growls, kissing her collarbone. “Don’t look at me like I broke the levee. You played me into this.”

“I played the damn steel,” she gasps as he rocks his hips again, slow and teasing.

“And every note went straight to my dick.”

“Jesus.”

“No, baby. Just your husband.”

And then he kisses her again, slower this time, deep and dragging, hands sliding under her thighs to lift her just enough to carry her off the bench. She wraps around him instinctively, head pressed to his shoulder, breath caught in her throat.

He carries her across the studio, bare skin against the old wood floors, and lays her down right there on a coil of rugs and cables. The space is filled with the scent of cedar, sweat, and her shampoo. The only light comes from the overhead bulbs and the glow burning hot in his eyes.

He lowers himself over her, slower this time, reverent again. “Let me have you one more time, Evil Witchy Woman,” he whispers, voice rough. “Real slow. Real deep. Make it count.”

She nods, already pulling him closer.

And when he takes her again, it’s like a song he wrote with his hands, his mouth, his hips—one long, aching note that never breaks.

No rush.

No fire.

Just heat.

Just them.

And long after they’ve collapsed again, tangled and wrecked on the studio floor, Mona turns her head, eyes half-lidded, and whispers, “We’re never gonna survive this tour, are we?”

Mike laughs, breathless and proud. “Nope. But the album’s gonna be legendary.”

They lie there on the studio floor, half-covered by the mess they made—cables snaked around limbs, a kicked-over mic stand near Mike’s boot, Mona’s steel bar glinting a few feet away like a dropped weapon from a battle that left no survivors.

Mona’s draped across his chest, one arm tucked under her chin, her breath still shallow. “If anyone walks in here,” she murmurs, voice raspy and wrecked, “we’re gonna be banned from every RCA studio on the map.”

Mike grins, fingers sliding through her damp hair. “Then I guess we better finish the record before they figure that out.”

She shifts, wincing a little. “My thighs are gonna be bruised for a week.”

“I’ll sign ‘em,” he offers, not even pretending to be sorry.

“Of course you will.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to her temple, then brushes her hair back so he can look her in the eye. “Y’know, I meant it. All of it.”

Mona lifts a brow. “Even the part about marryin’ me again?”

He nods, slow and certain. “Especially that part. I want a wedding with a band. I want our music playin’. I want you in fringe, boots, and nothin’ else later that night.”

She laughs, low and wicked. “You really gonna make me wear white?”

“I’m gonna make you wear me.”

She groans, burying her face in his chest. “You’re awful.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” she murmurs. “More than I’ll ever admit to anyone but you.”

Mike’s quiet for a second, his voice soft when he speaks again. “Then let’s do it. For real. Big and loud and honest. Let the whole damn world see who you are—who we are.”

She lifts her head, eyes still heavy, lips curved into something softer now. “You ready for that kind of chaos?”

“I’ve been livin’ in chaos since I met you. But with you? It’s the good kind. The true kind.”

She kisses him again, slow and sure. “Then write the damn song.”

“It’s already written,” he says. “We just lived the first verse.”

And there, in a Nashville studio that now smells like sweat and sin and steel strings, Mike and Mona make one more promise. No lawyers. No secret. No green hat to hide behind.

Just a wedding full of noise, a record soaked in heat, and a love that never learned how to play quiet.

They finally pull themselves off the floor—groaning, laughing, teasing each other every step of the way. Mona grabs her banjo and hooks it into place with the ease of someone who’s worn an instrument longer than she’s worn most shoes. Mike runs a hand through his wild hair, gives it up, and throws his cowboy hat on instead. The second he does, Mona whistles low.

“Well, hello there, Mister Nesmith. You here to corrupt some innocent steel player?”

He grins, stepping close enough to tug her toward him by the strap of her banjo. “She didn’t seem too innocent last I checked.”

She kisses him again—quick and hot—then turns to the board. “Let’s finish this track before someone from the label walks in and smells the sins in this room.”

Mike chuckles, reaching for his twelve-string. “We’ll mix it ourselves. Can’t trust anyone else to get the heat right.”

They go back in—this time dressed, focused, but still carrying that slow burn between them like a secret chord. Mona lays down a harmony line on the banjo, something soft and unexpected under the steel. Mike doubles his vocal, lower, rougher, more intimate. They stack harmonies that feel more like kisses than chords.

When the final playback echoes through the speakers, neither of them says a word. It’s all there—the fire, the ache, the promise.

Mona leans back against the console, eyes closed, letting the last notes ring out. “That,” she says, voice low, “is our story.”

Mike walks over, pulls her close by the hips, and presses his lips to the side of her neck. “Yeah. And I got a title for it.”

“Oh?” She arches a brow, still flushed.

He whispers it right against her ear.

“Played in Fire.”

She stills, then lets out a slow, wicked smile.

“Put it on the damn album.”

He grins. “Already written it in the notebook, baby.”

They pack up slow, bodies aching in all the best ways, that quiet satisfaction humming under their skin. They don’t speak much as they lock up the barn, just exchange the kind of glances that say we did it. That say we’re not done.

As they climb into the car, the sun just starting to dip low across the Nashville skyline, Mona reaches for Mike’s hand.

“You meant what you said?” she asks softly.

He turns toward her, serious now. “About marryin’ you again? About makin’ this record real? Hell yes, I meant it.”

She exhales, nods once, and laces their fingers together.

“Then let’s raise hell, Texas.”

Mike kisses her knuckles, puts the car in drive, and flashes that crooked smile that always gets her.

“Darlin’, we already did.”

They drive in silence for a while, windows down, Nashville air curling warm through the car, smelling like dust and honeysuckle. Mona’s got her feet back on the dash, one of Mike’s old denim shirts buttoned crooked over her tank top, collar popped from where he yanked it off earlier in a heat neither of them’s recovered from.

Mike watches her out of the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel, the other still laced with hers, thumb grazing the back of her hand like he can’t stop touching her—not after the studio, not after that.

She finally speaks, voice low, like the words are coming up from somewhere deep. “Played in Fire,” she repeats. “That really the title?”

He nods. “Ain’t just a song title. It’s us.”

She doesn’t argue. She knows it’s true. They were always too hot, too sharp, too much—but together, the flame didn’t consume. It created. Scorched the edges and left behind something rare and unmistakably theirs.

“You sure the label’ll let you put me all over this record?” she teases, half-smiling. “Not exactly what they were lookin’ for when they signed a Monkee.”

Mike smirks, tongue behind his teeth. “Good. Let it rattle ‘em.”

“You gonna make ‘em call me ‘producer’ on the sleeve?”

“Only if you don’t mind sharin’ the credit with ‘Witchy Woman.’”

Mona snorts, shaking her head. “I’ll take that over ‘Mrs. Wool Hat.’”

He makes a sound like a growl, but it melts into a laugh. “You just love pokin’ the bear.”

“I married the bear, sweetheart.”

They pass the city limits, the landscape opening wide—flat fields, barns with peeling paint, crows sitting on fences like they’re waiting for the next verse. Mike takes a turn off the main road, gravel crunching under the tires again, dust kicking up behind them.

Mona glances around. “Where we goin’?”

“Someplace quiet.”

“Mike…”

He pulls up next to an empty field, grass swaying high in the breeze, wildflowers scattered like a lazy afterthought. Kills the engine. Turns to face her fully.

“You want big and loud for the wedding,” he says. “But I want somethin’ else first.”

She tilts her head, waiting.

“I want a private one. Just us. Just here.” He gestures out the window. “Right now.”

Mona stares at him, stunned.

“No band, no press, no nothin’. Just you and me. You say yes, and this is where it starts. The noise can come after. This—” he nods toward the field, their hands still joined, “this is ours.”

She swallows hard, the steel of her never quite softening, even when her heart’s wide open. “You serious?”

Mike pulls a ring from his front pocket—her original wedding band, thin and worn, glinting faintly in the fading light.

“Found it in the guitar case this mornin’. Figured I’d keep it on me, just in case.”

She stares at it. At him.

Then she reaches out, takes the ring, and slides it on herself. Her fingers tremble just enough to give her away.

“You better kiss me before I cry,” she mutters.

And Mike does—slow, deep, full of every note they’ve ever played, every promise, every fire they’ve ever survived.

There’s no preacher. No audience. No spotlight.

Just a woman in boots and a man in love, standing in a field, holding onto something no one else could name.

And the wind carries the music of them—sweet, sharp, true—back into the world.

Played in fire.

Made to last.

Married again.

This time, loud.

The kiss doesn’t break. Not right away. It deepens with the kind of slow, aching pull that says we’ve already lived through the hard parts, and we’re still here. When they finally part, foreheads pressed together, breath tangled, Mona lets out a shaky laugh.

“Married in a damn hayfield,” she says. “You really are a menace.”

Mike brushes his thumb along her cheek, watching the way the gold catches her lashes. “Only to you, darlin’. And only in the best ways.”

They step out of the car, the field stretching out around them like the world stopped expanding just for this moment. Mona turns slow, boots kicking up dust, wind tugging at her shirt and her hair, and she lets it—all of it. Lets the sky watch. Lets the grass sway around them like they’re dancing already.

Mike watches her with that look again. The one that says she’s still the most dangerous thing he’s ever trusted himself to love.

“No preacher,” she says. “No witnesses.”

“Don’t need one,” Mike says. “I already said it once, and I’m sayin’ it again. Ramona Jensen… I pick you. I’ll always pick you.”

She closes the space between them, her voice low and steady.

“I do, Texas. Again. Still. Always.”

They don’t need rings—though she has hers, the one that lived in a guitar case for years and still fits like it never left. They don’t need a crowd. They’ve never been about spectacle.

But right there, in a field that smells like earth and memory and second chances, they say everything that matters.

When Mike pulls her into him, his hands slide low on her back, and she presses close, melting into the kind of kiss that feels like a vow. Slow. Sacred. Undone.

They don’t say anything for a long while. They just stand there, swaying in silence, bodies molded together under the wide Tennessee sky.

Eventually, Mike murmurs against her temple, “Still want the loud one too.”

Mona smirks. “Oh, we’re havin’ the loud one. With fringe. With boots. With fire. You ain’t gettin’ outta that.”

He kisses her again, grinning into her mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the sun slips low, casting long amber streaks across the field, Mike leads her back to the car, their fingers laced again.

They drive off slow, the world blurring around them, a new record waiting to be finished, a wedding waiting to be raised hell for, and a story already burned into tape and skin and song.

Played in Fire.

Track one: Love.

Track two: Lust.

Track three…

A field in Nashville. No crowd. No noise. Just a boy and a girl, married again, and every note still left to play.

They drive with the windows down, dust trailing behind them like a comet tail, the summer heat finally starting to cool. Mona’s legs are back up on the dash, ring glinting in the dying sun. She’s quiet, but not distant—just settling. Letting the weight of the moment, of them, curl around her ribs like a second skin.

Mike glances at her, one hand steady on the wheel, the other reaching across the seat to rest on her bare thigh. “Still with me, New England?”

She turns her head, eyes soft and sharp all at once. “Every step.”

He smiles at that. Not a grin. Not a smirk. A smile—slow and rare and real. The kind he doesn’t give to the cameras, or the fans, or even the guys. The kind only she gets.

Back at the motel, they don’t bother with the lights. The room is warm and dim, the sheets still half-pulled from the morning’s chaos. Mona drops her case by the dresser and climbs onto the bed without a word, arms behind her head, eyes tracking him as he sets his guitar down in the corner like it’s the only other thing in the world that knows what just happened between them.

Mike doesn’t join her right away. He leans in the doorway, just looking at her.

“You ever think,” he says slowly, “about what might’ve happened if I hadn’t come back to L.A. with you that second time?”

Mona tilts her head, watching him in the near-dark. “Yeah. I’d still be playin’ sessions and makin’ producers cry. But I wouldn’t’ve built this.” She gestures vaguely—studio, music, fire, them. “Would’ve built somethin’, but not this.”

Mike crosses the room and drops to his knees beside the bed, resting his chin on her stomach. “We built somethin’ bigger than we knew how to name.”

“We still don’t know how to name it,” she whispers, running her fingers through his hair. “We just play it.”

He kisses her ribs, her hip, the inside of her thigh—slow, soft, not tryin’ to start anything. Just being there. Just grounding himself in her skin.

Mona threads her fingers under his jaw and lifts his face to hers. “We gonna finish that record tomorrow?”

Mike grins. “We gonna start it. What we did today? That was just the overture.”

She hums in agreement. “Then we better get some rest.”

“Mmhm,” he nods, pulling himself up onto the bed beside her, dragging the sheets over them both, even though the air’s still warm. “Rest,” he repeats, curling his body around hers.

Neither of them moves for a long while. Not until Mona murmurs against his chest, voice thick with sleep, “You really gonna call it Played in Fire?”

He smiles against her hair. “We already lit the match, baby. Might as well name the blaze.”

And in the hush of a Nashville night, with her hand curled against his chest and the scent of steel and sweat still lingering in the air, Mike closes his eyes—dreaming not of fame, not of crowds, but of the fire that never burned him because it made him whole.

Track four: Home.

Morning creeps in slow.

Not dramatic—not like the fire and frenzy of the night before—but soft, golden, earned. Light spills through the curtains in lazy streaks, painting the motel walls in warm amber. Mona stirs first, eyes fluttering open to find Mike already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her like she’s the sunrise.

“You been starin’ at me long?” she murmurs, voice rough from sleep and too much music.

“Long enough to know you make a damn good pillow,” he drawls, his hand tracing idle lines down her arm. “And an even better wife.”

She snorts, stretching beneath the sheet. “You really gonna ride that high all day, huh?”

Mike grins, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth. “I married the same woman twice in less than ten years. If that don’t make me a genius, it sure as hell makes me lucky.”

Mona hums, curling into him. “You’re gonna be impossible in the studio today.”

“You say that like I wasn’t already.”

They lie there for a little longer, warm and tangled and unbothered by the ticking clock. But eventually, Mona rolls out of bed, naked but for his old shirt, and pads barefoot to the sink, splashing cold water on her face.

Mike watches her move—hips swaying, legs still marked up with faint bruises from the piano bench, the field, the floor of the barn. He feels that familiar tug low in his gut, the ache of her still imprinted on his skin.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You hungry?”

Mona dabs her face dry with a towel and smirks at him through the mirror. “Starvin’. But not for food just yet.”

Mike stands, crosses the room, and slides his arms around her from behind, his voice low in her ear. “If we don’t leave this motel soon, we’re never gonna finish the damn record.”

She leans into him, grinding back just enough to make him groan. “We’ll finish it. I just think we oughta record Track Five: Room 214 first.”

He spins her around and kisses her hard, her laughter caught between their mouths.

They don’t leave for another hour.

When they finally do—hair wild, smiles lazy, skin still flushed—they hit the studio like they own it. Because they do.

They walk in as Mona & Mike.

Not Monkee. Not producer. Not backup.

Equals.

Co-creators.

The band behind the blaze.

Chip Douglas is already there, leaning back in the control booth chair, hands behind his head. He watches them stroll in, guitars slung, eyes bright, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Y’all look like you’ve been up to trouble.”

Mona drops her banjo case with a smirk. “We are the trouble.”

Mike tips his hat. “We’re makin’ a record, Chip. One they won’t forget.”

Chip whistles low. “Got a name?”

Mona looks at Mike.

He looks back at her.

Together, they say it in perfect unison: “Played in Fire.”

And the red light over the booth flicks on again.

Just like that.

Back to work.

Back to them.

Track Five?

Coming in hot.

The red light glows like an omen—like it knows what’s about to happen. Chip leans over the console, flicking a switch and speaking into the talkback with that wry little grin he gets when he smells smoke before the fire’s even started.

“You two gonna ease into this or burn the place down?”

Mike adjusts his strap, fingers already sliding over the neck of his twelve-string. “Ain’t never eased into anything in my life.”

Mona sets up her steel, sliding onto the bench like a queen taking her throne. “He’s not kidding. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”

Chip coughs into his sleeve to hide a laugh. “Noted.”

The first track they cut is raw—no overdubs, no smoothing, just rhythm and sweat and truth. Mike’s voice rasps out the verses like he’s testifying. Mona plays under him, her steel crying low and wild, slipping in and out like it’s not backing him up, but talking to him. Like she’s answering every line with a sound he’ll never match in words.

After the final note rings out, silence hangs heavy.

Chip leans into the talkback mic. “That a first take?”

Mike glances over at Mona.

She gives the tiniest nod.

He flips the switch. “First and only.”

They do another. Then another. Every one different, but cut from the same fabric—tight and unfiltered, laced with desire and defiance, heat and harmony. The kind of playing that makes engineers stop checking levels and just listen.

At one point, Peter Tork shows up—hair a little messier than usual, banjo case slung over his shoulder.

“Y’all didn’t think you’d make a fire record and not invite me to the damn blaze, did you?”

Mona lights up. “Well get in here, Sunshine Boy. We need fingers faster than sin.”

Peter jumps right in, the three of them weaving together like they’ve been practicing it for years. Banjo, steel, and that low Nez guitar—tight, wild, dangerous.

By late afternoon, the room smells like sweat and tape and coffee gone cold. Mike leans over the console, headphones around his neck, Mona perched on the edge of a stool next to him, legs crossed, bare foot tapping the tempo that’s still humming in her blood.

Chip cues up playback. They sit still and listen to themselves.

Track after track, it’s unmistakable.

This isn’t just a side project.

This isn’t filler.

This is them.

Built on bruised knees and whispered vows, motel rooms and hayfields, sweat-soaked solos and fingers digging into hips at midnight.

It’s a love story told in twelve tracks and no apologies.

As the final song fades, Mona leans over, rests her head on Mike’s shoulder.

“You think anyone’s ready for this?”

Mike kisses the top of her head. “Nope.”

She smiles, slow and dangerous.

“Good.”

And Chip, already rolling the reels back for one more listen, mutters under his breath with a shake of his head—

“Played in Fire, huh? Hell of a name for a record. Hell of a name for the two of you.”

And it is.

Because this album isn’t a comeback.

It’s not a side note.

It’s a warning.

And by the time the world hears it, it’ll be too late.

Because they won’t just play in fire—

They’ll be it.

The next day, the buzz starts.

Word spreads through the studio like smoke under a door: Nez is cutting a new record, and his wife’s playing steel like she was born in it, and no producers—just fire, sweat, and tape. By noon, people start hanging around the edges of Studio B. Engineers, interns, a couple of label folks who pretend they’re “just passing through,” but keep finding excuses to linger.

Nobody says much. Nobody dares interrupt.

Because every time that red light clicks on, what comes out is something you don’t stop.

Mona’s on her steel with her boot heel tapping a slow burn tempo, hair tied up with one of Mike’s bandanas. Mike’s hunched over his guitar, eyes closed, lips brushing every lyric like it was a secret he didn’t mean to confess. Peter’s in the corner for half the tracks, grinning like a kid on Christmas, harmonizing or laying down banjo parts so fast they blur.

Track after track, it keeps happening: Heat. Harmony. History.

By midweek, Chip’s got a stack of reels and a look on his face like he just watched someone pull lightning out of the air and trap it on magnetic tape.

“You realize,” he says one night, spinning his chair around to face them, “this thing’s already a goddamn classic.”

Mike just tips his head, but Mona lifts a brow. “It’s not even done.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Chip replies. “And still… people are gonna chase this sound for years.”

They don’t bask in it. They don’t celebrate yet.

They just keep playing.

And when Track Ten rolls around, it hits different.

It’s a slow one. Real slow. A ballad Mike started in the motel that first night, right after they’d made love against the window with the blinds half open and the moon catching the sweat on her collarbone.

He plays it now with just a soft rhythm guitar, barely strumming, his voice low and exposed. Mona doesn’t play on it—she just sits in the vocal booth with him, legs pulled up on the chair, arms wrapped around her knees, watching him sing it to her.

It’s not about the field. Not about the music. It’s about her—the firestarter, the steel player, the woman who came into his life like a summer storm and never left.

When the last note fades, silence stretches in the booth. Mona’s throat is tight, eyes stinging. Mike doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to.

She leans into the mic, her voice quiet, private.

“You gonna name that one?”

He finally looks at her, eyes soft. “Already did.”

She waits.

“It’s called ‘Ramona’.”

And just like that, the room goes still.

No one dares speak. No one can.

Not even Chip.

Mona closes her eyes, lets it sink in like the weight of a vow.

They don’t say much after that.

Just pack up for the night, hands brushing in the hallway, hearts too full for words.

But as they walk out of Studio B, into the cool hush of night, Mona laces their fingers together and murmurs, “You keep writin’ like that, Texas, and I’ll marry you a third time.”

Mike grins sideways, that slow drawl curling on his tongue.

“Darlin’, I already wrote the next verse.”

They don’t go straight back to the motel that night.

Mike drives with one hand on the wheel, the other curled tight around hers, thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles. Mona doesn’t say much—just stares out the window with that look on her face, the one that means she’s thinking a mile a minute but won’t say a word until it’s all sorted in her chest.

He pulls off the road without asking, onto some empty dirt trail that cuts through the dark like it’s just been waiting for them. The car hums low as he kills the engine. Cicadas buzz in the trees. The world feels too still after what they laid down in Studio B.

Mona finally speaks. “You really callin’ that track Ramona?”

Mike doesn’t look away. “Wasn’t ever gonna be called anything else.”

She chews her lip. “You know how I feel about that name.”

“I know.”

She turns to him, eyes glittering even in the dark. “And you still named it after her.”

He shifts in his seat, voice low but sure. “No, baby. I named it after you. Not the ghost. Not the past. You. The one who stayed. The one who burns.”

Her breath catches, shoulders sinking a little. She leans her head back against the seat and stares at the roof of the car.

“It’s still hard to say out loud,” she admits.

Mike slides closer, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “Then don’t say it. Let the music say it for you.”

Mona turns to face him, her expression unreadable—and then she’s kissing him. Hard. Desperate. Not like before.

This isn’t about sex. This is about naming things. About claiming what’s hers, what’s theirs, without apology.

Mike grabs her hips and pulls her across the seat into his lap, her knees bracketing his thighs, her hands in his hair, his already under her shirt. They kiss like the song’s still playing, like the track hasn’t ended yet and they’re still caught inside it.

She breaks away just enough to whisper, breath shaking, “You’re mine, Texas.”

He nods, forehead pressed to hers. “Always.”

And then she’s pulling him down with her, right there in the back seat, tangled in denim and heat and old country radio static. It's not frantic. It’s not loud. It’s slow and deep and aching, their bodies moving like they’re finishing a song only they can hear.

When it’s over, she stays curled into him, skin to skin, chest to chest.

They lie there under a sky so full of stars it almost hums.

Mike kisses her shoulder, voice thick. “That’s Track Eleven.”

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.

She just nods. “We only got one more left.”

He kisses her temple. “You know what it is?”

Mona smiles, slow and soft. “’The Encore’.”

And out there in the dark, still bare, still burning, they decide:

One more song. One more take. One last kiss before the needle lifts.

Track Twelve.

Encore.

And when it plays, it won’t fade out. It’ll blaze.

They don’t rush home. They fall asleep right there in the backseat, tangled together under a thin cotton blanket Mike keeps in the trunk for emergencies that always end up being exactly this kind of thing.

When morning light filters through the windshield, Mona’s curled against his chest, legs draped over his, skin warm and bare beneath one of his old denim shirts. Mike’s already awake, blinking up at the sun, one hand cradling the back of her head like he never plans to let go.

He doesn’t wake her. He just watches her.

This woman—his storm, his steel player, his best song. The one who made Nashville stop and listen. The one who took every scar and made it sound like salvation.

She stirs eventually, lashes fluttering against his chest. Her voice is gravel and honey when she mumbles, “If you tell me it’s already noon, I’m pushin’ you outta this car.”

“It’s early,” he murmurs. “And I’m stayin’ put.”

She lifts her head, eyes still foggy with sleep, and studies him. “You look like you been thinkin’ too much.”

Mike brushes a thumb across her cheek. “Just realizin’ I’ve never made a record like this before. Never felt one like this.”

Mona yawns, stretches, and settles back against him with a satisfied sigh. “That’s ‘cause this one’s not for the label. Or the fans. Or to prove a point.”

He nods. “It’s for us.”

She looks up, eyes clear now. “Then let’s finish it right.”

Back at the studio, Chip barely glances up when they walk in—hair wild, both in yesterday’s clothes, glowing in that post-midnight-sin way that says everything without a word.

“Bout time,” he mutters, sipping his cold coffee. “You ready to close this thing?”

Mike nods. “Track Twelve.”

Chip raises a brow. “What’s it called?”

Mona grins, sliding behind her steel like she never left. “Encore.”

Chip hits the switch. The red light flicks on for the last time.

Mike starts it solo—soft fingerpicking, just his voice and guitar, quiet and clear. Then Mona joins in, sliding her steel in slow and steady, wrapping around him like smoke.

It’s not a barn-burner. It’s not a power finish. It’s a promise. A slow, sultry, spine-tingling vow that says we’re not done—not by a long shot.

As the final chorus fades, Mike hums a line they didn’t rehearse, didn’t write, didn’t plan:

You lit the match, I fanned the flame,

Now every song just says your name…

Don’t need a stage, don’t need the roar—

You kiss me once and I come back for more.

Mona’s hand trembles on the bar, but she holds it steady ‘til the last note melts into silence.

Chip lets it ring.

No one breathes.

Then he presses the talkback. “That’s it,” he says quietly. “That’s the one you end on.”

Mike looks at Mona.

Mona looks back.

And without a word, they know:

Played in Fire isn’t just an album. It’s a chronicle. Of lust. Of love. Of nights in motel beds and mornings in hayfields. Of solos that turned into vows. Of two people who lit each other up and never burned out.

The reel stops.

The tape holds it all.

And somewhere, just off-mic, Mona whispers: “Encore.”

Mike smiles, slow and sure. “Every damn night.”

There’s a quiet that settles in after the final take, not the empty kind—but the full kind. The sated kind. Like the hush after the final encore, when the crowd’s gone and the house lights are low, but the stage still holds the echo of the last chord.

Chip doesn’t speak. Just leans back in his chair, eyes on the reel spinning to a stop, arms folded like he’s seen something holy. Peter, still perched in the corner, exhales a slow breath and says, “I don’t think we can follow that, man.”

Mike pulls off his headphones, turning toward Mona as she rises from the steel, hands still tingling, heart still pacing a slow rhythm beneath her ribs. She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks to him across the room, no rush, no nerves.

He meets her halfway.

They don’t kiss.

Not yet.

They just look at each other.

Everything that needed saying already burned its way onto the tape.

“You ready to call it?” Mike asks, quiet.

Mona slides her hand into his. “Not yet.”

She nods toward the console. “Play it back.”

Chip cues up Encore, the room falling into shadow as the mix spills out into the space—not loud, not showy. Just honest. The kind of truth that lives under the skin. The kind that never needed words until now.

Mike wraps an arm around Mona from behind, chin resting on her shoulder as they listen. Her hand finds his where it rests at her waist, fingers locking in a quiet rhythm of their own.

Peter doesn’t say a thing. Chip doesn’t blink.

And when the final line plays—You kiss me once and I come back for more—Mona turns in Mike’s arms, eyes shining.

“You know what we did here?” she whispers.

Mike nods. “We didn’t just finish a record. We told the story.”

She kisses him then—not hungry, not hurried. Just home.

When they pull apart, Chip exhales through his nose. “You want a proper master? Final mix?”

Mona looks at Mike.

Mike answers without looking away from her. “Nope. Leave it raw. Let ‘em hear it bleed.”

Peter grins. “That’s the only way to play it.”

They stay at the studio late, not working. Just being. Chip puts the reels away like they’re relics. Peter noodles on a piano, light and low, while Mike and Mona sit cross-legged on the studio floor, sharing the last of the diner coffee, their knees brushing.

“You think the suits are gonna get it?” she asks.

“Nope,” Mike says, grinning. “But the right people will.”

Mona smirks, leans into his shoulder. “Then let’s press it and let it burn.”

Played in Fire drops six weeks later.

No promotion. No tour posters. Just a plain black sleeve, red lettering, and twelve tracks soaked in sin and salvation.

It doesn’t chart right away. But it moves. Slow. Underground. Word of mouth.

And by the time it catches—By the time the first late-night DJ spins Ramona and the second side fades out on Encore—It’s too late. The fire’s already caught. And no one—no one—can put it out.

The calls start coming in fast.

First from the smaller stations—the outlaw country joints, the college radio weirdos who know what gold sounds like when it’s been dragged through the mud and kissed clean. Then the late-night DJs, who spin Track Seven like it’s a secret code, a lovers’ confession too hot for daylight.

Then the writers. The real ones. They don’t ask about The Monkees. They don’t care about TV shows or old fights with producers. They want to know who the hell is this woman playing steel like a threat and singing like she knows what your heart sounds like when it breaks?

They want to know who she is.

And Mike? He lets them ask. Lets the music answer. Because Mona doesn’t need him to explain her. She never did.

Still, the press calls her “Nesmith’s Muse.” Until the Village Voice runs a piece titled:

“Played in Fire: How Mona Jensen Burned Down Nashville and Took the Tape with Her.”

After that, she doesn’t need a footnote.

The record presses a second run. Then a third. Copies vanish from shelves before the boxes cool. DJs play Ramona on repeat. Couples dance slow to Encore at dive bar weddings, holding each other like the world’s about to end. One critic calls it “a love letter written in gasoline.”

And Mike? He keeps writing. Keeps showing up in every photo with a hand on Mona’s waist, eyes locked on her like she’s still the only stage worth standing on.

She does two radio interviews—only two. In both, when asked what the record means, she just smiles that dangerous, knowing smile and says:

“It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

They play a single live show. One night only. No encore. No cameras. Just a packed room full of sweat and expectation. Mona walks onstage in white fringe and high boots. Mike follows with a twelve-string and a grin. Peter’s already sitting at the keys, fingers twitching. They play the whole album top to bottom. No breaks. No banter. Just heat and harmony and truth loud enough to knock the air from every chest in the room.

When “Encore” starts, the crowd goes quiet. Not reverent. Not polite. Stunned. Because it’s real. And raw. And theirs.

When the final note fades, Mona steps to the mic, breathing heavy, voice hoarse from the burn. “This was the fire,” she says. “Thanks for listenin’.”

And they walk offstage, hand in hand, no curtain call. Because the story’s already been told. On tape. On skin. Onstage. And the only thing left to do—is light the next match.

They disappear after the show.

No press line. No afterparty. No backstage access. Just Mona and Mike slipping out the side door of the venue like ghosts, still holding hands, still humming.

They drive west that night—no destination, no headlights behind them, just the road stretched out ahead like a ribbon of freedom. Mona’s boots are off, feet on the dash, her banjo in the backseat. Mike drives one-handed, his other arm resting across the seat, fingertips barely brushing her knee.

“Think we did it?” he asks after a long stretch of silence, voice low, steady.

Mona glances over at him, her face lit soft by the moon through the windshield. “Did what? Burn the world down?”

He smiles. “No. Set it right.”

She leans her head against the window, eyes half-lidded. “We didn’t set it right. We just told the truth loud enough that people heard it.”

Mike nods. “Good enough for me.”

They pull off the road somewhere near the desert, where the air smells like sage and old stars. Park beneath a wide stretch of sky with no city in sight. Mona climbs into the truck bed with a blanket and a thermos of lukewarm coffee, and Mike joins her, guitar slung behind his shoulder.

They don’t say anything for a long time. Just stare up at the sky and breathe.

After a while, Mike plucks out a slow tune—half lullaby, half prayer. Mona curls into his side, voice soft when she sings the harmony, barely louder than the wind.

It’s not a song from the record. It’s new. Untamed. The next one.

He looks down at her. “Wanna make another?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But not for them.”

“Never for them,” he agrees.

“For us.”

“For us.”

They kiss again—lazy, sun-warmed, not a hint of hunger in it. Just heat. The kind that lingers. The kind that lasts. And as they lie there, wrapped in flannel and fading chords, the stars listen in.

Somewhere back in Nashville, someone spins “Encore” on a late-night show.

Somewhere in L.A., a suit is still trying to figure out how the hell they missed this.

But none of that matters.

Because out in the desert, under a sky so wide it can’t be tamed, Mike and Mona smile like they’ve been let in on a secret the world’s only just starting to understand: The fire didn’t burn out. It just changed shape.

And they’re still playing. Still kissing. Still writing. Because some stories don’t end when the record stops. Some stories burn. Forever.

It starts with a knock on the motel door at 7 a.m.

Mike groans, pulling the pillow over his head. Mona, wrapped in a blanket and one of his old T-shirts, stumbles to the door barefoot. When she opens it, Peter’s standing there with a ridiculous grin and a Styrofoam cup carrier.

“Rodeo Queen, huh?” he says, holding up the coffee like an offering. “Time to saddle up, Jensen.”

Mona blinks. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Peter leans in, stage-whisper serious. “Mike called in every favor. Today’s the day.”

She blinks again. “Today?”

And from inside the room, Mike’s muffled voice floats out:

“Surprise, baby!”

By noon, the desert’s buzzing.

They set up on a friend’s private ranch in Topanga—open sky, worn fence posts, and the soft smell of sage in the air. A platform stage has been dragged out into the middle of the field, draped in burlap, wildflowers, and guitar cables.

There’s no chapel. No pews. Just hay bales, a few rickety folding chairs, and every person who ever gave a damn about them.

Peter tunes his banjo under the shade of an old cottonwood tree. Chip’s handling sound like he’s running a stadium tour. Micky’s buzzing around handing out spiked lemonade. Davy’s late, of course, but Susie’s already threatening to tan his hide if he misses the vows.

Mona disappears into the old tack shed with a garment bag and a bottle of tequila. Lizzie and Katie are in there with her, fussing with fringe and lipstick and trying not to cry.

Her dress isn’t white. It’s ivory leather. Fringed down the arms, cinched at the waist, covered in hand-sewn beads and rhinestones that catch the sun like stardust. Nudie Cohn himself would’ve bowed to it. Her boots are scuffed and broken in. Her hat is white and wide-brimmed. And her smile—when she steps out into the afternoon light—is enough to stop the damn wind.

Mike’s waiting at the altar in a navy suit with a turquoise bolo tie, cowboy boots, and that smile—the one that only ever shows up for her.

As she walks across the field, the band starts playing. Not “Here Comes the Bride”. Not some tearjerker. It’s “Sweet Young Thing”, stripped down and slow, with Peter on banjo and Mike’s guitar part carried by Bill Chadwick.

Mona walks like she owns the world.

And in this moment, she does.

Mike can’t take his eyes off her.

“You,” he breathes when she reaches him.

“Me,” she whispers back, taking his hands.

The officiant says a few words—something short and sweet about second chances, about fire and steel and building something with bare hands.

Then Mike speaks.

“I’ve written a hundred songs for you,” he says, voice steady, accent thick. “But this time, I’m just sayin’ it plain. You’re the fire, Mona. And I’d walk through hell barefoot to find you in it.”

Mona smiles, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“I married you once on a dare,” she says. “Once in a field on a whisper. But today, I do it loud. I do it proud. I do it in fringe and boots and all the trouble we’ve ever stirred up—because you’re the only man I’d ever burn this bright with.”

Peter swears under his breath and wipes his eyes.

The kiss that follows is long. And deep. And indecent enough that Lizzie yells, “There are children here!” just to break the spell.

Cheers erupt. Micky throws his hat. Someone lights sparklers even though it’s daylight.

And then Mike picks up his guitar. Mona takes her banjo. And they play. They play their record—Played in Fire—front to back, with the sunset dripping down behind them and their friends dancing barefoot in the dirt.

When “Encore” begins, the crowd goes still.

Mona doesn’t cry. But she plays like she might.

And Mike sings it like it’s a promise he’s still makin’.

As the last note fades, he pulls her close, kisses her one more time—slow, steady, forever.

And under the stars, in a sea of boots and fringe and the smell of bonfire smoke—They dance.

Track Thirteen.

Rodeo Queen.

The Wedding.

No encore needed.

The fire’s still burnin’.

The party doesn’t stop.

Not when the stars come out.

Not when the sound system blows a fuse and Peter has to plug straight into the amp.

Not when Davy finally shows up halfway through Track Six and gets tackled by Susie in front of everyone.

No one’s wearin’ shoes anymore. The hay bales have been dragged into loose half-circles around the fire pit. Someone uncorked the good whiskey. Lizzie and Katie are in the middle of a fierce debate over who cries harder during Ramona, while Chip tries to convince a pair of grizzled Nashville sound engineers that yes, that’s really Mona playing lead on the record.

Mona’s hat is long gone, hair wild, boots kicked off, her dress a little dusty and a lot wrinkled. She’s flushed from dancing, from drink, from all of it. And Mike—Mike’s sittin’ on the edge of the makeshift stage with a half-drunk mason jar in one hand, the other arm slung across her shoulders, like he’s never letting her go again.

And he won’t.

“Y’know,” he says, voice low, lips near her ear, “we could cut a live record outta this night.”

Mona hums, leaning into his chest. “We’d have to bleep out half the commentary.”

“Still worth it.”

She tilts her head up. “You got more in you, Texas?”

He grins, slow and dangerous. “Always.”

They sneak off before midnight—slipping out the side like they always do, quiet and barefoot, her boots slung over her shoulder, his tie stuffed in his back pocket. No fanfare. Just fireflies and the sound of the band still going strong without them.

They walk hand in hand down toward the creek at the edge of the property, where it’s dark and quiet and the world shrinks down to just the sound of water and breath and each other.

Mona stops at the bank, moonlight washing over her, that fringe dress glowing faint in the dark. “So now what?” she asks.

Mike pulls her close, hands on her waist. “Now we make the next one.”

She smirks. “The next record?”

“No,” he says, his voice dropping low. “The next chapter.”

She kisses him before he can say anything else—deep and slow, the kind that curves right into your ribs and stays there.

They end up in the grass, under stars, with crickets for a crowd and the river murmuring just out of reach.

And when they fall asleep tangled up in each other, skin on skin, music still in their heads—It’s not an ending. It never was. It’s the bridge to whatever comes next. Another album. Another fire. Another reason to say I do when the world least expects it. Because Mike and Mona don’t fade out. They play ‘til the tape runs out—and then they hit record again.

Chapter Text

It starts with Peter, as these things often do. He sends out the word that tonight’s jam session is clothing optional, which, in Inner Circle terms, means: come as you are or as little as you want to be, leave judgment at the door, bring instruments and whatever substances make the music flow.

By the time Mona and Mike roll up the dusty drive in the Buick, the sun is kissing the ridge goodbye. Mike's wearing his dark blue problem jeans—no underwear, of course—and a white linen shirt that’s been unbuttoned since they left Bel-Air. The linen flaps open lazily in the canyon breeze, framing his bare chest like a threat. His cowboy boots crunch the gravel as he steps out, matching his white cowboy hat to Mona’s.

And Mona—

Oh, Mona is dressed for trouble.

The translucent white boho dress she lifted from Linda Ronstadt barely covers her ass or her muff, the setting sun turning it downright scandalous. Her silver and turquoise belt slings low over her hips, catching the light as she adjusts her white Nudie cowgirl hat. Tan cowgirl boots with tassels hit just below the knee, and that’s it. No slip. No bra. No panties. Just confidence, heat, and mischief.

Linda, already lounging barefoot near the fire pit in something nearly identical, raises a glass and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Jensen. If you were tryin’ to outshine me in my own dress, congratulations. I concede.”

Mona smirks. “Good. I wasn’t askin’ for permission.”

Peter greets them both with a grin that borders on reverent. “Well, now it’s a party.”

The scene is part canyon commune, part backstage chaos. Micky and Sam are already stoned and tangled in a hammock; Davy’s holding court near the cooler with Linda J., both shirtless and glittering with sweat. Ware’s passing around a jug of something dangerously fruity. Chadwick’s got a bottle of bourbon in one hand and his twelve-string in the other. Joni Mitchell is perched on a woven mat, already lost in a trancey picking pattern. Chris Hillman and Roger McGuinn are trading harmony licks, and Emmylou's laughing with Phyllis and Susie by the fire.

There’s not a man in the canyon wearing a buttoned shirt.

And not a single woman wearing enough to pass inspection.

The instruments are laid out like offerings—banjos, dulcimers, mandolins, a dusty upright piano that Peter had someone drag outside. Frodis smoke curls like incense around the low-hung lights strung through the trees.

Mike leans into Mona’s ear, voice soft and low. “Reckon this is one of them nights, huh?”

She gives him a sideways smirk. “Only if you keep up, Texas.”

The first duel starts innocent enough—Peter challenges Mona to a tempo climb on banjo, grinning like a devil as he flicks his fingers faster with each round. She doesn’t even blink, just matches him note for note until he finally throws up his hands, laughing. “She’s still got the fastest fingers in the West.”

Mike, cool as ever, tilts his hat and drawls, “Told ya she did.” Then he pulls his guitar off the amp stand and steps into the circle. “But y’ain’t won yet, New England.”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “You challenging me, cowboy?”

“You bet your sweet bare ass I am.”

Everyone hollers. Someone (probably Micky) yells “DUEL!” and suddenly it’s on.

Mona vs. Mike. Rhythm vs. Fire.

They trade riffs like secrets, like dares, like foreplay. Their instruments speak louder than their voices, their eye contact sizzling between bars. Chris Hillman joins in on bass, laying down a groove that makes it impossible not to move. The rest of the crowd circles up, clapping, stomping, letting the music swallow the last of the sun.

That’s when Gram Parsons shows up, all swagger and suede, dragging a cloud of Tennessee bourbon and whatever’s left of his ego. He slides up beside Linda Ronstadt and murmurs something in her ear. She doesn’t smile.

Mona’s eyes flick that way. Mike notices.

Peter—because he knows how these things go—suddenly says, “Let’s slow it down,” and slips into a gentle ballad. Mona follows on organ, her translucent dress glowing like moonlight as she leans into the keys.

It’s quiet. Haunting. The kind of music that makes people weep without knowing why.

Until someone else slides in from the shadows.

Nurit Wilde.

She doesn’t say a word. Just perches on the edge of the porch like she’s always belonged, eyes locked on Mike like a hawk circling prey.

Mike doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look. Just plays softer, fingers coaxing something warm from the strings. He leans in close to Mona, voice like a murmur. “Ignore her.”

“I already was.”

The music rolls on.

More bourbon. More smoke. More nudity. More duels.

Sam challenges Micky to a tambourine-off and wins when she smacks him in the face with it mid-spin. Davy tries to keep up with Linda J.’s vocal runs and finally just gives up, pulling her into a kiss instead. Joni and Emmylou harmonize under the stars. Ware passes out in the hammock. Peter vanishes into the dark with a dulcimer and someone’s cousin.

And Mike and Mona?

They slip behind Peter’s barn somewhere after midnight, guitar still slung over Mike’s shoulder, Mona’s hat tipped back just enough to show her wild, wicked grin.

The music never really stops.

And neither do they.

Behind the barn, moonlight filters through the eucalyptus trees, silvering the dusty ground and catching in Mona’s hair like firelight. The barn wall is warm against her back, her boots braced just wide enough to keep her balance as Mike leans in—guitar still strapped, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hat low on his brow.

They’re close. Too close. Not close enough.

Mona smirks. “You gonna keep that guitar on all night, cowboy?”

Mike tilts his head, gaze steady, voice low. “Thinkin’ about it.”

“You’re not plannin’ on serenadin’ me with your pants still on, are you?”

He takes his sweet time answering, one hand already sliding along her hip, over the turquoise belt that’s barely doing its job. “Don’t reckon I am.”

And just like that, the belt hits the dirt. The guitar’s next, propped against the barn wall, strings still humming with residual heat. Mike leans in and finally, finally kisses her—slow and deep, like he’s got nowhere else to be, like the world’s gone quiet except for this.

She fists his open shirt, pulling him closer until her hat falls off, forgotten in the grass. Her dress—if you can call it that—is a whisper, a suggestion. One tug and it flutters to her waist.

Mike exhales hard. “You stole this from Linda?”

“Borrowed,” Mona breathes. “She knows.”

“She sees you in this, she ain’t gettin’ it back.”

“You sayin’ I look better in it?”

“I’m sayin’ you look better out of it.”

He pushes the dress higher, letting it pool at her waist, tan thighs bare under moonlight. His hands skim her skin, reverent, rough. Mona’s eyes flutter shut. “Y’know,” she murmurs, “we’re not exactly bein’ subtle.”

Mike grins, voice thick. “Ain’t nobody sober enough to care.”

Still, she grabs his belt and hauls him tighter, lips brushing his ear. “Then quit talkin’, Texas.”

He obeys. Pants hit the ground with a soft thud. The boots stay on—it’s that kind of night. And when they finally collide, skin to skin, the canyon holds its breath. Somewhere distant, someone strums a chord. Somewhere closer, someone moans against a tree.

But here, it’s just Mike and Mona. Boots and belts and nothing else. The barn wall creaks in protest as they move with slow, hungry rhythm—no rush, just tension drawn taut, building and building until Mona gasps his name against his neck, and he answers with a growl that sounds like worship.

They don’t say much after. They don’t need to.

Mike kisses the sweat from her collarbone and murmurs, “That’s where it’s at.”

Mona, breathless, tangled in her own hair, grins. “Told you not to keep your pants on.”

They pull it together just enough to look semi-respectable before heading back up to the fire—only now, Mike’s shirt is gone, his hat’s crooked, and Mona’s dress is inside-out and missing a button. Nobody blinks. This is Peter’s place. No judgment, no shame. Just heat and harmony.

But trouble, true trouble, walks in not five minutes later.

Gram Parsons is back. And this time, he’s drunk. He’s high. He’s loaded with some cosmic theory about the soul of country music, and he’s lookin’ for a fight.

He’s ranting about “cosmic American music,” waving a joint like a sword, daring someone to disagree. He locks eyes with Mike.

“Oh hell,” Micky mutters, “here we go again.”

Mike doesn’t rise to it. Not at first. Just takes a long drag off a borrowed joint, blows smoke slow. “Cosmic American Music?” he drawls. “That what you’re callin’ it now?”

Gram puffs up. “Damn right it is. You don’t think you made country cool, do you?”

Mike cocks his head. “I know I didn’t. Ain’t tryin’ to.”

Mona’s already tense. She sees it. The drawl’s gettin’ heavier. His boots shift. His fingers twitch. He’s holdin’ the line, but just barely.

Then Gram laughs. “You’re just a TV cowboy. Ain’t nothin’ real about you.”

That does it.

Mike stands slow. Real slow. “You wanna back that up, Parsons?”

Peter and Roger are already moving to de-escalate, but it’s too late. Mona’s behind Mike in a flash, one hand on his arm, not to stop him—just to remind him she’s there.

Gram scoffs. “Come on, man. You really think you can hold your own against me?”

Mike grins, wicked. “Only one way to find out.”

Another duel. This time, it’s guitars at dawn—or close enough to it. The crowd tightens, the night electric. Mike straps his twelve-string back on. Gram grabs a Martin from the pile. And then it’s on.

Slide for slide. Lick for lick. Country blues and cosmic fire.

But Mike’s not just playin’ to win. He’s playin’ to prove a point.

He is country. He is the real thing. He’s got dirt under his nails and fire in his chest and a woman who believes in him standing close enough to feel the beat in his bones.

And Gram?

Well, Gram folds first.

Throws in a sloppy seventh, misses the rhythm, and Mike pounces. Plays a run so filthy, so fast, so furious, it makes Peter cackle and Joni drop her joint in the grass.

When it’s over, Mike just shrugs, fingers still on the strings. “Ain’t nothin’ real about TV, huh?”

Gram mutters something about bourbon and stumbles off into the canyon. Mike exhales, shaking out his hands. Mona’s already at his side, smirking.

“I love you when you get mean,” she murmurs.

“I know,” he says, voice thick. “You wanna show me?”

She grabs his belt loop and pulls him into the shadows again.

And this time?

They don’t keep any clothes on at all.

The canyon’s gone quiet, but not in any peaceful sense—it’s the kind of still that means something wicked just finished and something wilder’s about to start.

Mona’s dress is long gone now—somewhere near the barn, last seen dangling from a fencepost like a surrender flag. Mike’s problem jeans didn’t survive the last round either, kicked into the dust behind the old upright piano when she dragged him behind it and rode him like the world was ending.

They’re flushed and breathless and barefoot, curled up on a tattered blanket near the fire, watching embers float up into the star-choked sky.

Mike’s hat is tipped low over his eyes, one hand lazily tracing Mona’s spine where she lies draped across his chest like she belongs there—and she does.

“Y’alright?” he murmurs, voice thick and scratchy.

Mona hums. “Mmm. Mellow. For now.”

He grins. “For now, huh? You plannin’ more trouble?”

She lifts her head, hair wild and tangled, cheeks flushed. “Always.”

Just then, someone howls in the distance. Could be Davy. Could be Ware. Could be one of Joni’s groupies getting bitten on purpose. No one moves. No one’s sober enough to care.

And then—of course—Micky crashes through the trees like a man possessed, stark naked but for a top hat and a bandolier made entirely of harmonicas. “Who wants to join me for NAKED TAG?”

Peter, who is somehow both asleep and awake, groans from under a pile of woven blankets. “Mick, I swear, if you start another barefoot footrace through the blackberry bushes, I’m gonna throw you in the creek.”

Micky freezes mid-lunge. “That’s a ‘maybe,’ right?”

Mona snorts, reaching for the bourbon bottle beside her. Mike takes it first, tilting it up and passing it to her with a crooked smirk. “You wanna go play naked tag with Micky?”

She lifts the bottle to her lips. “I’d rather run through a cactus patch.”

Mike chuckles, then drops the smirk and leans close. His voice dips, soft and serious. “You good, really?”

She nods, fingertips brushing the inside of his wrist. “Yeah. You?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches her, then finally says, “I needed this. You. Us. Somethin’ that don’t ask nothin’ but truth.”

She brushes a knuckle along his jaw. “You got it, cowboy. Far as I’m concerned, we’re the only real thing in this canyon.”

That’s when Linda Ronstadt shows up, strutting out from the house in a pair of fringed boots and a sheer scarf tied in a very loose approximation of a dress. She clocks Mona’s bare skin, raises an eyebrow, and grins.

“Don’t tell me you two are done already.”

Mona smirks. “Just reloading.”

Linda plops down beside them, flicking ash from a skinny joint she magicked out of nowhere. “Y’know, this might be the first party I’ve been to where Gram caused less drama than Nurit.”

Mike groans, and Mona stiffens. “She’s still here?”

“Left a while ago. Don’t worry, I told her Michael was taken. Again.”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “Did she listen?”

Linda grins, biting her lip. “She said something about art and muses and tantric energy and then tried to photograph Davy’s feet.”

Mike snorts. “Figures.”

Linda leans back on her elbows. “Y’all ever think about leavin’ LA? The noise, the press, the creeps with cameras…”

Mona glances at Mike. “Sometimes.”

Mike shrugs. “Ain’t the city. It’s the people. Long as we keep our circle right…” His arm tightens around Mona’s waist. “We can survive it.”

Linda nods, tapping ash into the dirt. “You got somethin’ real. Don’t let the canyon eat it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mona says softly, eyes locked on Mike’s.

Just then, Susie stumbles over, drunk on something neon and wearing one of Peter’s ponchos and nothing else. “Y’all seen Ware?” she slurs. “I lost him somewhere around the dulcimer pile.”

Mona gestures vaguely. “He was talkin’ about chickens and God last I heard.”

Susie shrugs. “Sounds about right.” She eyes Mike and Mona, then smirks. “Y’all look like sin incarnate.”

Mona stretches like a cat. “We try.”

Susie cackles and flops down beside them. “Love this damn circle. Only place in the world where you can get high, naked, and spiritually fulfilled all in one night.”

Mike chuckles. “Amen to that.”

Somewhere in the trees, a sitar begins to play.

Someone moans.

Someone yells “I’M A TREE!” and then immediately falls off the deck.

Peter sleep-mumbles, “Not again.”

The fire crackles.

And Mona, nestled against Mike, lifts her face to the stars and whispers, “This is home.”

Mike presses a kiss to her temple, and for a second, nothing else exists. Just them. Naked, tangled, slightly feral.

The music picks up again—faster now. Another duel is about to break out. Micky’s got a tambourine and a wild look in his eye. Peter’s fully awake and tuning up. Linda is already on her feet, dragging Mona toward the porch.

Mike watches her go, hips swaying, boots stomping like the troublemaker she is.

He smiles.

The night’s far from over.

The duel starts with a challenge from Micky. He’s high on frodis, shirtless (naturally), and convinced that the tambourine is a legitimate solo instrument. Peter, who’s been half-asleep for the last hour, suddenly springs to life with a pair of bongos and a grin. Linda and Mona square off with their guitars like two cowgirls in a standoff, boots planted, hips cocked, and smirks sharp enough to draw blood.

Mike just watches, perched on a hay bale like some wild west judge, shirtless and smug. His eyes don’t leave Mona.

Peter counts them in—slaps a rhythm, Micky follows like a gremlin possessed, and the women go.

Mona’s fingers fly across her fretboard, notes sharp and twangy with attitude. Linda fires back with a bluesy run, hips swaying. They circle one another like coyotes, harmonizing and daring each other to take it further. Someone in the crowd shouts, “GET IT, GIRLS!” and Ware lets out a rebel yell.

Mike finally can’t help himself. He grabs his twelve-string and steps into the ring.

Now it’s a real showdown.

Three guitars. One tambourine. All fire.

The canyon hums with sound—chords tangled like bodies, rhythms like heartbeats. Frodis smoke swirls through it all, glowing in the firelight. And when Mona and Mike lock eyes, the duel twists into a dance. Their fingers chase each other up the necks of their guitars, and the crowd melts into laughter and howls.

They end on a three-part harmony that leaves the whole circle breathless. Linda throws her hands up in surrender.

“Fine,” she laughs. “Y’all win. But only ‘cause I wanna get in the tub before someone passes out in it.”

Mona pulls her hat off and fans herself. “Tub’s the only thing that might save me from combustin’.”

Susie, now somehow wearing a kimono that doesn’t belong to her, appears out of the dark like a beautiful, chaotic ghost. “I’ve been in the tub three times already. Get in, losers.”

Mike slings an arm around Mona, guitar still hanging from his shoulder. “You heard the woman. Tub time.”

They head up toward the house, winding through scattered bodies and abandoned instruments. The hot tub sits half-sunken into the deck behind the house, steam curling like sirens in the cool canyon air. The lights are soft and golden, strung through the trees, and someone left a tray of drinks on the edge.

Mona strips what little she’s still wearing without hesitation—hat, belt, boots. She slides into the steaming water like a nymph returning to her spring.

Mike follows, tossing his hat onto the deck and stepping in with a hiss. “Hotter’n hell,” he mutters.

“Good,” Mona smirks, stretching her legs across his lap.

Linda shimmies out of her borrowed scarf-dress and sinks in beside Mona, head tilted back. “This is the life.”

Susie slides in last, already holding two drinks she stole from the tray. “I swear to God, if any of y’all fart in this thing, I’m hexin’ you.”

Mike smirks. “You always threaten us with witchcraft when you’re relaxed?”

“I threaten you with witchcraft especially when I’m relaxed.”

Mona laughs, curling against Mike. He slings an arm around her shoulder, fingers lazy on her collarbone, lips ghosting her temple. She hums low, happy and raw from the jam, the duel, and the hours of making love in places they weren’t supposed to.

Linda eyes them with a grin. “You two always like this after a jam?”

Mike doesn’t answer. Just kisses Mona’s hair and murmurs, “Only when she lets me win.”

“You didn’t win, Michael.”

Susie smirks. “That’s debatable. He did end up with you naked in a hot tub.”

Linda clinks her glass against Mona’s. “Touché.”

The hot tub bubbles and hums, the only sounds the distant thrum of music still drifting from the house and the occasional splash as someone stretches or shifts. Mona rests her cheek against Mike’s shoulder. His free hand traces lazy patterns on her thigh beneath the water.

“Y’know,” Susie murmurs, floating on her back now, “this right here? This is the dream. Naked jam sessions, no judgment, no bras…”

“No panties,” Mona adds.

“No expectations,” Linda echoes.

Mike grins. “No peace, either. Y’all are a handful.”

“You love it,” all three women say in unison.

Mike tips his head back and laughs. “Ain’t that the truth.”

The stars overhead burn like distant promises, and for now, everything is easy. Warm. Perfect. No network notes, no press, no deadlines. Just music, moonlight, skin, and laughter.

Mona shifts in the water, sliding onto Mike’s lap. He doesn’t flinch—just holds her steady, both of them sunk in shadow and steam.

Linda sighs contentedly. “I vote we never leave this canyon.”

Mona’s voice is low, wicked. “You say that now, wait till the chickens start crowin’.”

Mike chuckles, pulling Mona in tighter. “I’ll take chickens over cameras any day.”

Susie groans. “Don’t manifest morning yet. I just got comfortable.”

Mona tilts her face up to Mike’s. “Wanna disappear with me, cowboy?”

His grin softens into something deeper. “Already have, darlin’.”

The heat from the hot tub is thick and heady, but the bourbon hits harder. The bubbles churn lazily around them like the air’s gone syrupy, and nobody’s moving—not really. Not with urgency. Just limbs tangled and floating and mouths gone lazy with liquor.

Mona’s straddling Mike now, hips anchored low in his lap, her head tucked under his chin, lips brushing just below his jaw when she mumbles, “If we go inside, I’m gonna fall down.”

Mike hums. “Then we’re not goin’ inside.”

“’S too far,” Susie agrees from her new sprawl along the tub’s edge. Her legs are draped over Linda’s, arms stretched out, hair wet and wild and half stuck to her face. “I can’t feel my legs. That’s your fault, Jensen.”

“Good,” Mona says into Mike’s neck. “Means I win.”

Linda shifts just enough to grab the last drink off the tray and clinks the glass against Mike’s thigh. “Y’all ever think about how feral this would look in daylight?”

Mike’s voice is low, drawling. “Ain’t feral if everyone’s happy.”

Mona lifts her head just enough to smirk. “Speak for yourself, cowboy. I’m still plannin’ to bite someone.”

Susie groans. “Why is it always you two that start the weird shit?”

“You’re in the tub,” Mona points out, lazily grinding her hips just enough to make Mike exhale sharp through his nose. “That makes you an accomplice.”

Linda fans her face with one wet hand. “Remind me why I thought skinny-dipping in a hot tub with a married couple and my favorite chaos demon was a good idea?”

Mona grins. “Because it was.”

And it is.

There’s no guilt here. No shame. Just moonlight, hot water, and a tangle of limbs in varying states of drunkenness and arousal. The canyon hums around them, soft and safe and half-asleep.

Mike’s eyes are heavy-lidded, but he’s still watching Mona like she’s the only thing worth staying conscious for. His voice is almost a whisper now. “You’re beautiful when you’re drunk.”

“I’m always beautiful,” she slurs.

He chuckles, mouth brushing her collarbone. “That you are, darlin’. But you’re less mean when you’re tipsy.”

“I’m delightful,” she says, tipping her face up for a kiss and missing, her mouth landing somewhere on his cheek. “Shut up and pet me.”

Mike runs both hands down her back, slow and reverent. “You’re such a brat.”

“You married this brat,” Mona reminds him.

Linda raises a hand, glass still in it. “To the brat. And the cowboy who encourages her.”

“Cheers,” Susie slurs, barely lifting her head from the deck.

Mona lifts her hand, sloshes water over everyone, and declares, “We are never sobering up.”

“No one’s tryin’ to,” Mike says, kissing her shoulder. “I like you like this.”

They fall into a lull—quiet and drowsy, half-draped over each other. The canyon’s still. The music’s stopped. Somewhere down the hill, Peter’s snoring into a drum. Micky is probably naked in a tree again. And Davy? No one’s seen Davy since he tried to start a conga line with Emmylou and ended up chasing a raccoon he thought was Brian Jones.

The water’s starting to cool, but no one’s ready to move. Mona has her arms wrapped around Mike’s neck, her thighs floating on either side of him. She’s humming under her breath, some lazy gospel tune, off-key and perfect. Linda’s head is resting on Susie’s shoulder. Susie’s got one hand in the water, making small waves like it’s the most important job in the world.

Then Mike speaks, barely above a breath. “Let’s sleep out here.”

Mona lifts her head. “In the tub?”

Mike shrugs. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere else.”

Susie murmurs, “I’m prunin’ like a damn raisin.”

“I’ve been pruned since ‘Round Midnight,’” Linda mutters. “It’s fine. We’re fine. This is fine.”

Mona shifts, settling more firmly in Mike’s lap, her cheek against his chest. “We’ll drain the tub in the mornin’. Fall asleep now. Die pretty.”

“Deal,” Mike says, resting his chin on her head. “We die, we die together.”

“We’re not dyin’,” Susie mumbles. “We’re just severely hydrated from the outside in.”

No one moves. No one cares.

The sun starts to threaten the edge of the hills, but they’re all too tangled, too drunk, and too happy to do anything about it.

And as the canyon swells with the quiet sigh of morning, the four of them drift off in a heap of wet limbs, empty glasses, and steam.

They won’t remember how they got out of the tub.

But they’ll remember this night.

It starts with a subtle shift—Linda moving her legs, Mona stretching a little too deliberately across Mike’s lap. There’s a pause. Then a soft groan from Susie.

“Oh no,” she mutters, eyes still closed. “I know that look. One of you has to pee.”

Linda sighs. “I thought I could make it till sunrise.”

Mona wiggles slightly, then stills. “If I get out, I’m never getting back in. My legs don’t work anymore.”

Mike lifts a hand from the water and lets it drop again. “Y’all act like walkin’ twenty feet’s a death sentence.”

Susie cracks one eye open. “It is when you’ve been drinkin’ since sunset and stewin’ in this cauldron of sin since midnight.”

Linda groans. “We should’ve rationed the bourbon.”

“You said that after every round,” Mona reminds her.

Linda throws an arm across her eyes. “I meant it this time.”

There’s a pause. Then Mike, eyes heavy, voice low and dry, asks, “Y’all seriously about to pee in Peter’s hot tub?”

“No!” all three women say at once—offended, but not… not entirely ruling it out.

Susie lifts her head. “Okay, look. I vote we crawl to the bushes and keep our dignity.”

Mona makes a face. “There’s poison oak in the bushes. I like my muff itch-free, thank you.”

Linda exhales dramatically. “We’re artists, we’re goddesses, we’re wild, free women of the canyon. Surely someone here has peed outdoors before.”

“I live with chickens,” Mona says, deadpan. “I’ve peed behind more coops than I can count.”

Mike hums. “And yet you won’t go in the bushes.”

Mona gestures lazily. “There’s a difference between behind the coop and possibly within view of Peter’s bee boxes.”

Susie mutters, “Bee boxes. Jesus.”

Linda starts giggling uncontrollably, which makes Mona laugh, which sets off Susie, which makes Mike shake his head like he’s surrounded by lunatics—which he is.

Then Mona sits up straighter on Mike’s lap, glancing toward the dark edge of the deck. “What if,” she begins, “we all just… hop out, pee off the side, and get back in before our butts get cold?”

Susie raises an eyebrow. “Classy.”

“Efficient,” Mona counters. “And we’re not leavin’ Mike behind.”

Mike lifts both hands. “Don’t drag me into this.”

“Too late,” Linda singsongs.

Mona pats his cheek. “You married a wild woman, cowboy. This is the cost of entry.”

Mike sighs, tilting his head toward the stars. “I did not sign up for a synchronized moonlight pissin’ session.”

Mona smirks. “Sure you did. ‘For better, for worse, for weirder.’”

There’s a beat. Then all four of them slowly, awkwardly stand up, water sloshing, steam rising, limbs shaky and pruny and still gloriously drunk.

One by one, they make their way to the edge of the deck, like drunk sirens shambling toward some unholy ritual.

Linda’s giggling again. “This is the most intimate thing I’ve ever done with three other people.”

“Wait ‘til you live on a tour bus,” Susie mutters.

Mona braces herself on Mike’s shoulder, peering out into the predawn. “Alright. No lights, no witnesses, no shame.”

She glances at Mike. “You comin’, cowboy?”

Mike, long past the point of protest, mutters, “Might as well.”

And so it happens.

Four naked bodies, crouched or leaning over the edge of Peter Tork’s deck, peeing into the canyon below with the solemnity of drunk monks on a spiritual purge.

Mona’s laughing so hard she nearly falls over. Mike’s muttering something about how he’s never been less dignified in his life. Linda’s reciting poetry about rivers. Susie’s threatening to curse anyone who splashes.

And when it’s over, they shuffle back into the tub, slipping beneath the now-warm-again water like baptized heathens.

Mike pulls Mona back onto his lap and sighs, completely resigned. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

Mona kisses his chin, eyes sparkling. “We’re just purgin’ our sins, Texas.”

Linda lifts her glass. “To bodily functions and emotional honesty.”

Susie groans, eyes closed again. “To hell with it. I’m sleepin’ here. Someone wake me when the sun’s up or when Peter throws us out.”

Mona sinks deeper into Mike’s arms, cheek against his chest. “He’s not throwin’ anyone out. We own the night.”

And they do.

Steamed, drunk, purged, and proud.

The steam clings to their skin like confession. The canyon is turning lavender and gold, the kind of soft hush that almost feels holy. Almost.

Mona’s curled across Mike’s lap again, slick and warm, head on his shoulder, boots long forgotten somewhere near the dulcimer pile. His hat’s gone too. Her translucent dress is hanging like a ghost off a tree branch. Their friends are draped around the tub like sleeping satyrs in a Roman ruin—Linda half-floating, Susie mumbling something about frogs in her sleep.

Mike’s rubbing slow circles against Mona’s thigh, brow knit like he’s still thinking about the absurdity of the last twenty minutes.

“You know,” he drawls, voice thick and raspy, “I ain’t never thought I’d end up butt naked on Peter’s deck at sunrise, peein’ off the side of a hot tub with three women.”

Mona smirks against his collarbone. “You ain’t exactly pure, Texas.”

Mike lifts his eyes toward the rising sun, then down at her, one brow cocked. “Didn’t say I was. Just sayin’… that was a new one.”

She props her chin on his chest, lips curling. “Please. You’ve done dirtier things.”

His mouth quirks. “Like what?”

“Oh, let’s see…” Mona hums, pretending to count off on her fingers. “You’ve used a soundcheck mic as a cock ring prop. You’ve kissed a mannequin in front of a full mall. You’ve smoked frodis outta Bob’s Emmy. You’ve—”

“Hey, that was your idea.”

“—fingered me in the Dungeon while Peter gave an interview ten feet away—”

Mike chokes on a laugh. “You started that one!”

“—and let’s not forget the time you licked whipped cream off my tits in the back of the tour bus while the curtains were open.”

He’s laughing now, low and shameless. “Alright, alright! You made your point.”

Mona leans in closer, voice dropping to a wicked whisper. “So don’t get all shocked about a little moonlight pee circle with your favorite girls.”

“I wasn’t shocked,” he says, grinning. “I was impressed.”

She narrows her eyes, playful. “Funny, considerin’ you didn’t seem so impressed the first time we played in the shower.”

“I was drunk,” Mike mumbles.

“You were hard.”

Linda groans from across the tub. “Oh, here we go.”

Mona’s voice drops, sultry and mean. “You let me do it. Told me I was a good girl. Said it was filthy, but you didn’t stop me.”

Mike exhales through his nose. “I didn’t stop you ‘cause I liked watchin’ you get off on it.”

Susie snorts. “Liked it so much you asked for it again two days later.”

Mike shrugs. “Yeah, well. I ain’t proud.”

Mona kisses his jaw. “You are, though. That’s the fun part. Actin’ like you’re above it until I remind you what a pervert you are.”

He groans. “You wanna remind me right now?”

She grinds in closer, voice soft. “Always.”

Linda rolls over. “If y’all start slappin’ each other again, I’m sleepin’ in the goddamn coop.”

Mona doesn’t look away from Mike. “No one’s slappin’ anybody… unless he asks real nice.”

The water ripples. The canyon holds its breath.

Mike, still naked, still drunk, still half-submerged in a hot tub with his wife and two feral women of the canyon, leans his head back and says with a grin:

“Hell. I’ve done dirtier things.”

The sun rises with no mercy, spilling molten gold over the deck, gilding the hot tub in sinful light. The others drift in and out of sleep—Linda’s one arm dangling over the edge like a goddess with a hangover, Susie floating somewhere between the living and the damned. The water’s gone tepid, but no one dares move.

Mike’s still upright, barely, arms stretched across the rim of the tub like a crucifixion of his own making, eyes closed, lips parted, completely spent and still not safe.

Because Mona?

Mona’s not asleep.

She’s plotting.

She’s curled against him, all curves and wicked smirks, her mouth just below his ear. Her lips barely move when she starts to whisper, but her voice slides in like warm honey poured down a dirty spine.

“Remember that time I tied your wrists with my bra in the back of the van?”

Mike’s breath catches. One eye slits open.

Mona smiles, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “The one I unclasped with my teeth while you were rantin’ about Donnie K? You didn’t even notice until your pants were down.”

Mike shifts in the water. Subtly. Not enough to wake the others. Just enough to betray the twitch beneath the surface.

She doesn’t stop.

“You remember backstage in Dallas? When I got under the makeup table and made you finish your interview while you were inside my mouth?”

A low, helpless sound escapes him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a moan.

“I still have the clip,” she whispers. “You smiled all sweet for the cameras with your hand fisted in my hair.”

His jaw flexes, eyes still closed. “You’re evil,” he rasps.

“You love it.”

She trails her fingers down his chest, slow and featherlight. “You remember when you made me bend over the console in Studio C and said if I could stay quiet, you’d let me cum?”

“I remember,” Mike growls under his breath.

“You said it like a dare, Michael. And I made it almost the whole take. But then you slid in deeper, and I—”

His hand clamps around her thigh under the water, hard.

Mona hums, pleased with herself. “You gonna stop me?”

“You keep goin’, I’m gonna reenact it right here.”

She grins, wicked. “That’s the idea.”

Susie groans in her sleep. “If anyone starts fuckin’ I’m cursing your entire bloodline.”

Mona giggles into Mike’s neck. “Better make it quick, cowboy.”

Mike’s lips brush her temple. “That why you’re whisperin’ like a devil in confession?”

Mona nips his earlobe, voice pure filth wrapped in satin. “I want you to remind me what it felt like to be silenced with your hand over my mouth. To feel you behind me while the reel was rolling, and know I’d get wrecked if I made a sound.”

Mike exhales slow, trembling now, his voice low and strained. “You are gonna kill me.”

She pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. “You gonna let me die unfulfilled?”

And Mike, God help him, grins through his sin. “No, ma’am.”

Mike’s still grinning. That slow, southern, I’m-about-to-do-something-stupid-and-glorious kind of grin. His hand slides up Mona’s thigh under the water, fingers rough with calluses and promise. The others are still out cold or close enough—Susie snoring with her face against the deck, Linda slack-jawed with her hat over her face like a hungover gunslinger. The canyon is still, sun pouring across the horizon like a spotlight aimed straight at their sin.

But Mona?

She leans in close again, breath warm against his ear, voice soft as silk sheets on bare skin.

“You remember the booth at Gold Star,” she whispers, “when I wore nothin’ under my coat and told you I was your reward if the take was clean?”

Mike’s fingers twitch against her skin. She keeps going.

“And it was clean, Michael. Real clean. And you dragged me into that booth and took me so slow I forgot my own name. I damn near blacked out when you bit my shoulder.”

He groans. Quiet. Almost reverent.

“Tell me you remember how I shook when you pulled my leg up on that control panel.”

“I remember every second,” he says, voice gravel rough now.

Mona kisses just below his ear. “Then show me.”

Mike shifts—slow, controlled, like a man who knows how to unwrap dynamite. One hand presses against the small of her back, the other curls around her hip under the water, anchoring her.

“You serious?” he murmurs.

“I am beggin’ you,” she whispers, “to make me keep quiet while they all sleep.”

His eyes open fully now, dark and dangerous. “You know what happens when you beg.”

She bites her lip. “You make me regret it. Gloriously.”

He moves then. Just enough to guide her—float her—into position. Her thighs part easily around his hips, and she sinks down onto him under the water with a hiss that barely breaks the surface. Her nails bite into his shoulders. He muffles his own moan against her neck, and the way she clenches around him makes his eyes roll back.

“Shh,” he growls.

“You first,” she breathes.

He grabs the edge of the tub with one hand to steady them, the other still on her hip, guiding her rhythm. The water ripples just enough to lap against the sides. The steam thickens. Mona bites into his shoulder to keep from crying out, her hips rolling with lazy, practiced control. Mike groans low, like a thunderstorm trying not to wake the town.

“God, you’re filthy,” he whispers.

“You like me filthy,” she hisses.

“I married you filthy.”

Her breath stutters. She clutches his shoulders tighter and buries her face in his neck. He speeds up slightly, just enough to push her to the edge. His teeth graze her ear.

“Don’t make a sound, Evil Witchy Woman,” he whispers, “or I stop.”

She nearly sobs trying not to. Her whole body trembles. She rides the edge until she’s shaking with it, lips parted, eyes wide and unfocused. She doesn’t cry out—but the moan that escapes her throat is the quietest sin Mike’s ever heard.

When she comes, her whole body locks tight around him, silent but wild, and he follows with a stifled grunt, burying it in the hollow of her neck.

For a moment, the world stills. Just steam. Water. Breath.

Then Susie grumbles from the other side of the tub, eyes still closed. “If y’all are done fuckin’, somebody pass me the aspirin.”

Linda, still under her hat, lifts one finger. “And coffee.”

Mona, breathless and blissed out, barely lifts her head from Mike’s shoulder.

“You think they heard?” she whispers.

Mike kisses her temple. “They always hear.”

Mona laughs, low and satisfied. “Good.”

Mona's laugh lingers like smoke, soft and wicked, curling in the air above the slowly re-warming water. She’s still wrapped around Mike, her cheek against his chest, heart finally easing back into a steady rhythm. His arms are around her, possessive and spent, and his expression is one of sleepy triumph.

“Good,” she repeats, quieter this time. “Let ’em hear.”

Mike chuckles, the sound rumbling through her spine. “You want an audience now?”

“I didn’t say that.” Her lips brush his collarbone. “Just want everyone in this canyon to remember who wrecked me first.”

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “they know. They heard it in your fingering.”

From the other end of the tub, Susie groans and flops her arm over her face. “You two cannot keep getting away with this. I was havin’ a dream about Glen Campbell makin’ me breakfast and y’all ruined it.”

Mona doesn’t even look over. “Was he wearin’ clothes in your dream?”

“No, but he was wearin’ an apron, and it was tasteful.”

Mike mutters, “I dunno what’s worse, y’all dreamin’ about Glen Campbell or me havin’ to sit in soup with it.”

Linda lifts her hat off her face and stretches with a satisfied sigh. “Soup’s got good seasoning now. Little bourbon, little sin, little Peter’s bath salts…”

“Little Mona,” Susie adds.

“Little Michael,” Mona corrects.

Mike rolls his eyes and mutters, “Y’all are gonna get me arrested.”

“Oh please,” Linda snorts. “They’d need a search party to find this place. And even then, they’d get distracted by the orgy circle around the fire pit.”

Mona shifts lazily in Mike’s lap, still not letting him go. “Besides, we’re married. It's legal. Just not safe for the tub jets.”

“Speak for yourself,” Susie mumbles. “I almost drowned last time you two got handsy at Micky’s pool party.”

Mike smirks. “I told you to sit in a different float.”

“You were on top of her float.”

Mona grins. “We were tryin’ to be discreet.”

Linda shoots her a look. “Your ass was literally in the air. Discreet, my foot.”

“Y’all are just jealous,” Mona murmurs, kissing Mike’s jaw. “Not everyone’s got a cowboy built for endurance and scandal.”

Mike drawls, “Built for what now?”

Mona sighs dreamily. “Endurance. And scandal. You’re my favorite bad decision.”

“Hey,” he says, mock-offended. “You proposed to me.”

“Exactly.”

Linda laughs so hard she nearly slips under the water. “God, you two are disgusting. No wonder Lizzie and Katie got sent to your house like teenybopper exiles.”

Mona shrugs. “Better they learn about life from us than get corrupted by some greasy drummer from Boston.”

“You married a greasy guitarist from Texas,” Susie reminds her.

“Exactly,” Mona says again, proud. “It builds character.”

Mike stretches his legs, sighing contentedly. “So what’s the plan now?”

Mona blinks, slow and smug. “Stay here. Soak. Let the canyon absorb our sins.”

“I’m already shriveled like a raisin,” Susie grumbles.

Linda lays her head back against the tub edge, arms floating like lily pads. “We should at least eat something. I think I saw a box of Pop-Tarts in Peter’s pantry.”

Mona murmurs, “If someone brings me a strawberry one, I’ll consider getting out.”

Mike snorts. “You sayin’ I gotta bribe you with toaster pastries to get outta my lap?”

“You wanna keep me here, don’t you?”

He smirks. “Fair point.”

Then, from somewhere inside the house, a tambourine crashes to the floor.

Micky’s voice echoes from the hallway: “IS EVERYONE NAKED? DON’T START WITHOUT ME!”

Peter’s sleepy voice follows: “You just woke up. Shut up or go milk the bees.”

Mona sighs against Mike’s chest. “And there goes the peace.”

Mike chuckles. “Did we ever have it?”

“Not with this crew.”

Linda groans. “We’re gonna have to drain this tub, aren’t we?”

“No,” Mona says, eyes closing again. “We live here now.”

Susie mumbles, “I already cursed the pH levels.”

Mike kisses Mona’s forehead. “Home sweet soup.”

The hot tub is approaching critical mass—temperature somewhere between lukewarm regret and moral decay, water level just shy of overflowing thanks to the four bodies still very much refusing to leave. The sun’s well and truly up now, gilding their soaked skin and the half-empty bourbon bottles on the deck in a hazy, golden glow.

Mona is draped like a queen across Mike’s lap, her arms folded across his bare chest, chin resting on his shoulder. Linda’s sprawled across from them, one leg kicked lazily over the tub edge. Susie’s floating somewhere near the filter like an exhausted siren, her fingers idly flicking at a waterlogged cigarette butt that wandered in from the party detritus.

They’re quiet.

Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Which is when Susie opens her eyes and deadpans, “So… which one of you is gonna admit that when Mona came just now, she recalibrated the jets?”

There’s a beat.

Then all three of them burst out laughing—loud, shameless, borderline dangerous laughter.

Mona nearly chokes. Mike snorts bourbon-scented air straight through his nose. Linda doubles over with a wheeze and bangs her knee on the side of the tub.

Mona gasps, “You—witch!”

Mike coughs. “Jesus, Susie—!”

Linda’s pounding her fist on the water. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

But Susie’s not done. She lifts one waterlogged arm, flopping it dramatically over her eyes like Bette Davis in a soap ad and moans, “Doctor, the jets aren’t workin’ again!” Then she points accusingly at Mike. “It’s her fault, Michael! She moaned on the filter!”

And that’s it.

Mona lets out a laugh so sharp she nearly doubles over—and then freezes.

“Oh no,” she whispers.

Linda’s still cackling, but suddenly her expression twists. “Oh no.”

Mike stops laughing mid-breath. “What—what ‘oh no’—?”

Mona whispers, eyes wide, “I’m peein’.”

Mike blinks. “What?”

“I’m peein’.”

There’s a half-second of stunned silence—then Linda shrieks through her laughter, “ME TOO!”

And Mike just stares in horror as it dawns on him.

“NO—”

But it’s too late.

His body betrays him. It’s all over.

“I hate you,” he gasps at Mona, his face contorted in helpless laughter. “You dragged me into this—”

Mona is crying, actually crying, her face buried in his shoulder, unable to breathe. “This is your fault, you married me!”

Linda gasps, “We’ve cursed the soup! This is biblical!”

“I’m gonna have to burn this tub!” Mike wails.

Susie, still the eye of the storm, just floats with her arms out like a beatific martyr. “This tub has seen things. It was never gonna make it to heaven anyway.”

Mona’s wheezing. “Don’t look at me, I warned you I had no intention of gettin’ outta this thing!”

Mike tips his head back and groans like a man who’s just watched his entire legacy reduced to hot tub urine and laughter. “I should’ve known. The second y’all started whisperin’ sins and talkin’ about Pop-Tarts, I should’ve known.”

Susie lifts one finger in mock authority. “I hereby rename this hot tub The Soup of Our Discontent.”

Linda lifts both hands, tears in her eyes. “We bathe in our own shame!”

“We marinate in it,” Mona laughs, slapping water in every direction.

Mike’s already halfway to broken. “This is not what I meant when I said I wanted to be closer to y’all.”

Mona kisses his cheek, completely delighted. “I love you even when we’re fermentin’ in shared bodily chaos.”

“I swear to God,” Mike mutters, “if Peter tries to get in this tub later I’m tellin’ him it’s a wishing well for lost innocence.”

Linda snorts. “The only wish it’s granting now is bladder relief.”

They’re all crying again. Ugly, beautiful, wine-soaked laughter.

Eventually, silence creeps back in—but not the kind from before. This silence is heavy with amusement, with the peace that only comes after you’ve pissed yourself with people who’ve seen you naked in every way that counts.

Susie props herself up on the side and says with profound solemnity, “We have to drain this thing before Peter gets back.”

Mike’s eyes are glassy. “I’m torchin’ it. This tub is dead to me.”

Mona stretches like a cat and sighs. “We’ll just tell him it died honorably. In service to debauchery.”

Linda lifts her arms, grinning. “Ashes to ashes, piss to piss.”

The hot tub is still thick with steam, laughter, and now a shameful, lingering mist of regret and bodily betrayal. Somewhere in the woods, a bird starts chirping. The world has the gall to keep turning.

Mona’s still wrapped around Mike like she owns him—which she does—and he’s leaning back like a man who just watched his last sliver of dignity float away in a warm, yellow wave.

She nuzzles into his neck, lips grazing his ear, breath warm and smug.

“That was hot,” she whispers.

Mike doesn’t move. “What was?”

“You know what.”

He exhales. “You mean us all pissin’ ourselves like feral children in soup?”

She hums. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Darlin’, if you’re tryin’ to turn me on again, I think we need a psych eval.”

But Mona just grins and presses closer, whispering softer now. “I said it was hot, Michael. Made me think of that time on the river in Baja—when I made you laugh so hard you couldn’t stop it.”

He groans. “God, you remember that?”

“You were so embarrassed.”

“I peed on your foot, New England.”

“And then I laughed so hard I went too,” she purrs. “We stood there in that creek, laughin’ like idiots, holdin’ each other, both peein’ and too far gone to care.”

Mike bites back a smile, lips twitching. “You told me I was yours forever right after that.”

“Because you were.”

She brushes her lips against his jaw, softer now. “Still are.”

He sighs, eyes closing, hands sliding lazily over her bare hips under the water. “You are insane, y’know that?”

Mona doesn’t deny it.

“And you’re not done,” he mutters.

“Nope.”

She leans in again, whispering filth in his ear, a low, teasing murmur. “What about that hotel in Fresno? When you were in the shower and I crawled in and sat on you, and you—”

“Mona,” Mike rasps, his grip tightening on her thigh.

“You liked it,” she purrs.

He groans. “I’m gonna get struck by lightning for marryin’ you.”

From across the tub, Susie snorts.

Mike and Mona both freeze.

Then Mona turns her head, slowly. “Oh no.”

Susie lifts her head from the tub edge, chin propped on her folded arms, grinning.

“Oh yes,” she says, eyes sparkling.

Mike groans. “No. Don’t tell me—”

Susie’s grin widens. “You ain’t the only one she’s baptized in laughter, cowboy.”

Linda, still dazed and floating, cracks one eye open. “What the hell are we talking about now?”

Mona’s already laughing again, but it’s a slow, sly kind of laugh. “Just relivin’ our hydrated history.”

Susie giggles. “Remember that motel in San Bernardino? We were tryin’ not to wake that gospel band in the next room—”

“Susie!” Mona gasps, laughing so hard she nearly slips underwater.

Mike is stunned. “You mean y’all… back then?”

Susie smirks, all devil. “Let’s just say... once you’ve cried, laughed, and peed on someone without losin’ your rhythm, it ain’t somethin’ you forget.”

Mona’s face is buried in Mike’s shoulder again, shoulders shaking.

He shakes his head slowly, dazed and delighted. “I married a filthy, magnificent witch.”

“You love it,” Mona murmurs, breath hot against his neck.

“Damn right I do.”

Linda sighs, eyes closed again. “You people are feral. I want toast. And maybe an exorcism.”

Mona giggles, soft and warm against Mike’s skin. “We’ll feed you after the next accidental baptism.”

Susie raises a hand like a toast. “To good friends, good bourbon, and a little splash of shame.”

Mike groans. “We’re never gonna talk about anything normal ever again, are we?”

“Nope,” Mona grins.

“God help us,” Mike murmurs, pulling her tighter.

The sun’s climbing higher now, catching the beads of sweat and water on their flushed skin. The air smells like cedar, smoke, bourbon, and sin. The hot tub has officially crossed the line into something closer to a broth, and none of them have the shame or strength to leave it.

Mike’s got his head tipped back, eyes closed behind his lashes, arms still draped around Mona, who is draped over him, legs lazy and still tangled with his beneath the water. Susie has claimed the filter corner like a queen in exile. Linda’s somewhere between sleep and judgment.

Mona stretches with a soft groan and lets her lips brush Mike’s ear again.

“You know,” she murmurs, her voice a purr drawn from too much pleasure and too little sleep, “it ain’t just accidents we’ve had.”

Mike opens one eye, suspicious. “New England…”

She grins against his neck. “We’ve done it on purpose, too. You started it.”

He groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“I will remind you,” she whispers, amused and wicked. “You were drunk off your ass. Hotel bathtub in Denver. You said you were claimin’ me like a cowboy marks his cattle.”

Mike groans again, this time into her hair. “I was joking.”

“You were not. You were hard.”

Susie, still floating nearby with that smirk she saves for private knowledge, mutters, “Oh, this story.”

Mona snickers. “Susie was on the phone in the next room, tryin’ to book studio time, and you said—”

“I know what I said,” Mike cuts in, eyes shut tight, ears redder than the sunrise.

Linda peeks one eye open. “Should I be here for this?”

“No one should,” Mike grumbles.

“Too late,” Susie singsongs.

Mona grinds in just slightly under the water, like punctuation. “And it wasn’t just Denver.”

“Don’t,” Mike says, already laughing, already lost.

Mona’s voice drops into that husky range that always turns his blood hot. “New Orleans. That rooftop tub. Bourbon and jazz floatin’ through the windows, and you told me I was yours, and

then—"

He cuts her off with a hand over her mouth, but she licks his palm and keeps talking anyway.

“—and then you asked if I trusted you, and I said yes, and you said, don’t scream, and—”

Mike's groan turns into a laugh, deep and unhinged. “You are a menace.”

Mona nuzzles closer, licking a slow stripe along his jaw. “You loved it. You always do. You said it made you feel wild.”

“It made me feel like a feral raccoon,” he mutters.

Susie cackles. “And yet you kept goin’ back to the trash can, cowboy.”

Linda makes a half-hearted attempt to sit up. “I need carbs. You people are disgusting.”

“No,” Mona says sweetly. “We’re free.”

Mike kisses her forehead, shaking his head like a man too far gone to protest. “One day, I’m gonna write a song about you, and it’s just gonna be one long scream.”

“You already did,” she hums. “It’s called Tapioca Tundra.”

Even Mike laughs at that.

Susie lifts her drink like a toast. “To marking your territory.”

“To water that binds,” Mona adds.

“To Jesus, please don’t let Peter get in this tub later,” Mike finishes.

The sun keeps rising.

And the tub?

Hotter than ever.

Mike’s still holding Mona, and she’s still whispering filth in his ear like she’s narrating a bedtime story for the damned. His fingers drum against the rim of the tub like he’s deciding whether to groan, laugh, or sin again. Probably all three.

Linda has managed to haul herself halfway onto the deck, towel wrapped around her like a toga, eyeing them with the resignation of a woman who knows they’re not stopping and wouldn’t want them to anyway. Susie’s still in the soup, grinning like she’s holding court over a kingdom of lunatics.

“I swear to God,” Mike mutters, half to Mona, half to the sky, “y’all are gonna get me smote.”

Mona presses a kiss under his jaw. “Too late, Texas. We been smote. Smited. Smoten? Smoted?”

“Sodomized,” Susie offers helpfully.

Linda snorts. “Different sin.”

“Only barely,” Mona says, stretching like a cat across Mike’s lap, bare as the day she was born and twice as dangerous.

Mike groans, head tipping back against the tub edge. “Y’all keep talkin’, I’m gonna have to bless this tub with another unholy act.”

Mona smirks, teeth grazing his throat. “You mean like that time in Big Sur? With the sleeping bag, the thermos of tequila, and the campsite shower that didn’t have a drain?”

“Oh hell,” Mike huffs.

Susie floats closer. “Wait. Was that the time y’all got caught by that old couple from Sausalito?”

“Yup,” Mona says proudly. “They were delighted. Said we were a ‘beautiful expression of love in the natural world.’”

Linda lifts her head. “That’s one way to describe two naked people peeing on each other behind a redwood.”

Mona sighs like it’s the height of romance. “We were hydrating the forest floor.”

“Hydratin’ my dignity,” Mike mutters, but he’s smiling. His hand’s back on Mona’s thigh, thumb sweeping slow, tender circles, like maybe he doesn’t mind being turned into her personal confessional of depravity.

Mona leans in again, lips brushing his ear. “You remember the shower in Laurel Canyon? When we both got a little too high and decided to see what it felt like if we—”

Mike slaps a hand over her mouth again, laughing into her hair. “Stop. You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re already dead, Michael,” Susie says, arms spread wide like she’s preaching. “You died in sin and you floated here.”

Linda’s sprawled on the deck now, cackling. “This is purgatory. The Monkee-fied hot tub of eternal shame.”

Mona wiggles against Mike, grinning. “You love it here.”

“I do,” he admits, voice low. “God help me, I do.”