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"I Met a Girl Who Sang the Blues - Part 1"
Title: I Met A Girl Who Sang The Blues
Genre/Pairing: Peter/OFC, Micky/OFC, Mike/OFC, Davy/OFCs. Gen/Rom/Com
Rating: PG-R, nothing very graphic happens
Warnings: Mild language, mild violence, suggestive themes, sexual situations
Disclaimer: I do not own the Monkees, or any of the characters from the show. I only own my OCs.
Summary: When two girls move in close to our boys, will the effect cause happiness
for all, or will every thing be torn apart?
Author's Note: This is the first Monkees fiction I wrote. As such, it is not the best thing I’ve ever written, but it remains in a special place in my heart none the less. Some of you may remember this from Monkees Fic on Livejournal.
In Which We Meet Sophie and Myrtle, and The Fun Begins
November came to California in a torrent of rain that was to last for a whole week. To the people involved in our story, this rainy week would prove to be one of the most memorable weeks in their lives.
Peter Tork was stretched out on the couch; his hair still damp from where he had ran out on the beach. He loved to look at the ocean when it was stormy. The waves churning and crashing, almost in a primal and vicious way. The others thought he was crazy.
Two of the others in question were sitting at the table, attempting to play a game of Rummy despite that one of them (the taller one, Micky Dolenz by name) thought they were playing Gin. The other, Davy Jones, laid his cards down on the table.
“Rummy,” he sighed, glaring out the window as he said it.
“What what Rummy?”
“This isn’t Gin?”
“Micky, you don’t know how to play Gin.”
Micky sighed and laid his head down on the table. “That’s what I thought, too.”
Davy got up from the table and was rummaging through the kitchen when the sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the metal staircase. This was Mike Nesmith, who had gone upstairs, presumably to work on the finances that he kept up with in a small green notebook. He usually worked downstairs, but he needed quiet to work and Micky and Davy had been complaining loudly about Peter getting them wet when he came in.
“Well, fellas, I reckon we’ll be doing okay for Thanksgiving, providing we don’t have any emergencies like last year.”
Micky looked around sheepishly. Last year, just before Thanksgiving, he had exploded a chemistry set, landing himself and Peter in the hospital for three days.
“No worries, Micky!” Peter called out, still stretched out on the couch.
Micky just grinned in an embarrassed way.
“Well, anyway, I think we’ll have enough for a pretty decent dinner.”
“You’re not going to cook it, are you Mike?” Davy asked concernedly, and with good reason. Mike had been the primary origin of several small oven fires over the years.
“Actually, I thought it would be cool if we all made something…”
Micky’s hand shot up. “Macaroni!”
Peter soon followed. “Fudge!”
Davy just shrugged. “I guess I could make a pudding…”
“So, for our Thanksgiving dinner, we’ll be having burnt macaroni, half-done fudge, some weird English pudding stuff, and whatever I can conceivably cook without burning down the house.”
Micky shrugged. “Maybe we should go out and eat?”
“Aw, come on man! Thanksgiving should be spent at home with your family and friends, not in a diner with a bunch of strangers….”
It was at this moment that a knock came at the door. Peter, who was closest, finally managed to pull himself off the couch and over to the door. When he swung the door open, it was to see two young women standing outside, both dripping wet with coats held up over their heads.
“Oh thank God! This is the third door we’ve knocked on. Can we come in for a moment, and wait for the rain to slack up?”
The girl who spoke was tall with black hair. Her eyes were a magnificent shade of brown that reminded Peter immediately of milk chocolate. Her eyes also looked angry, as if being caught out in the rain didn’t suit her. The other girl was shorter, with bright red hair and blue eyes and loads of freckles. She didn’t look nearly as put out as the other.
“S-sure. Come in.” Peter stood out of the way as the girls walked in.
“Thank you,” said the first girl again. “We’ve just moved in to the apartment next door, and we accidentally locked ourselves out when it started to rain.” She paused for a moment to look Peter over. “You look like you got caught yourself.”
“No, he went out on his own insanity.” Mike had walked over. “Hi, I’m Mike. This is Peter. That’s Micky and that’s Davy.”
“Um, I’m Myrtle Bowers, and this is Sophie Monroe.” The red-headed girl spoke this time. She had a quieter voice and it faltered a bit, and she looked at the floor when she spoke.
“Well, come in, sit down. Would you like any coffee or tea or…”
“Davy, we don’t have any coffee or tea.”
“We have hot chocolate….”
This whole conversation was between Mike, Micky, and Davy. Peter had sat back down on the staircase, trying not to stare at Sophie. She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. She had taken off the coat, and he could see her whole figure. She was standing straight now, too, and Peter could see she was taller than he thought, at least as tall as he was. She was slender, but not like in a model way. She had a full figure, curves and all, her wet clothes clinging in places that made Peter’s imagination go haywire.
Peter’s head shot up. Everyone was looking at him. He fervently hoped no one had realized where his eyes had been.
“Do you know if we have any pretzels?”
“No, we don’t. We ate them all at the last party.”
“That’s alright guys. We’re really not hungry.” Sophie addressed this to Peter, who she smiled at. ‘She has the loveliest smile,’ Peter thought as she went to sit on the sofa in between Myrtle and Mike. Myrtle was reaching over to the phone to call the landlord so they could get into their apartment as soon as the monsoon stopped.
Small talk proceeded throughout the evening, and Peter was eventually able to sit on the sofa with Sophie after Mike got up to run to the kitchen. Conversation eventually got around to where the girls were working.
“I work at that bookstore a few blocks away,” Myrtle announced, considerably more talkative after an hour, and was currently at the table teaching Micky how to play Gin.
“And Sophie sings at that club, The Whatcha-Ma-Callit.”
“The Gas Lamp, Myrtle.”
“That’s an awfully seedy place,” Mike said, perching on the armrest of the couch.
“I haven’t had any problems yet,” Sophie leaned forward to knock on the wooden table, then went on. “It’s usually a pretty quiet crowd when I’m there.”
“When are you there?”
“Thursday nights. Customer Request Night.”
“We’ve played there before, too, but the crowd wasn’t very kind to us,” Davy called out from his seat on the staircase.
“You’re a group?”
“Yeah, the four of us. We’re the Monkees.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows interestingly at that. “Really? Do you get a lot of gigs?”
Mike shrugged. “Some. But they tend to be few and far between.”
Sophie nodded. “I assume you’re a rock n’ roll band.”
Four yeses came at her from various directions.
“Do you like rock n’ roll, Sophie?” Peter was hesitant to ask, and Davy got to the question first.
“Yeah, I was just wondering how many rock groups feature banjos.” She pointed towards the corner of the room, where all their gear had been packed up, out of the way so they could take it to an audition the next day. Peter had left the banjo out because he was working on a melody and he wasn’t keen on taking it to the audition anyway.
“Oh, that’s Peter’s. Something he plays around with from time to time.” Again, another statement from Davy. Peter turned red as Sophie glanced around at him. Whatever she was about to say was quickly forgotten, however, because the rain slacked off.
“Gotta run, boys. We’ll see you around though!” And just like that, they were gone.
Micky and Davy began congratulating themselves on a triumphant victory at living in the right apartment at the right time. Mike just shook his head and went about his business as usual. It wasn’t too much longer until Peter went quietly to bed, still unable to shake the spell that Sophie had cast on him.