Going to the bar that night had been a mistake. Even though he once had been quite the party animal, Micky was not enjoying himself one bit and he even felt like he might be sick. He tried to engage in conversation with Peter and his friends, but every time he tried, a lump formed in his throat and he found he couldn't speak.

It was when an obviously drunk woman with dark chestnut hair and an hourglass figure offered him a lap dance that Micky finally decided he had had enough.

"Hey Pete? I'm leaving, man."

Peter looked up. He was already drunk and currently snorting a questionable looking substance, smiling widely at him. "'kay man," he slurred, "see you later."

Micky instantly felt guilty. He wanted to leave, but he couldn't leave Peter in such a state. So he informed the blond that he'd changed his mind and was simply stepping outside for some fresh air before scurrying away.

Micky exited the bar and sat against the wall, leaning his head back against the brick. He wanted to throw up, but his mouth and throat felt dryer than the Sahara desert. He was miserable, not to mention completely sober. He drew his knees up to his chin and buried his face in his arms.

"Havin' fun?"

Micky gasped and looked up, instantly smacking the back of his head against the brick building. He instantly saw stars and groaned, rubbing the back of his head.

There was a man looming over him, looking down at him curiously. He was wearing skin-tight dark pants, a dark shirt (Micky couldn't tell if it was black or dark blue), boots, and, on top of his head, a dark cowboy hat.

Micky realized the stranger was still waiting for an answer so he swallowed hard and shook his head. "Um, no," he admitted. "Not really."

To his surprise, the man sat down in front of him, crossing his legs Indian style. "Tell me about it," he said.

"Um...well, I just moved here and I'm, uh...I'm just not having a good time, that's all."

"Where'd you move from?"

The stranger was staring at Micky with ebony eyes so intense, he found it impossible not to answer. "California," he blurted out.

"Oh? What on Earth are you doing in Belmoor?"

"I just..." Micky looked down and picked at his fingernails. "I needed a change. I have a friend that moved here after high school and I contacted him..."

"You live with him?"

"No," Micky said. For reasons he couldn't explain, he was blushing. "He helped me find my own place."

"I see."

The stranger was staring at him with those eyes again. Eyes so dark and intense that Micky visibly squirmed underneath his gaze. Was he getting closer?

Yes. The stranger was so close now that his soft, warm breath fanned out onto Micky's face.

"What's your name?" the stranger asked, still staring at him with those intense eyes.

"Um...M-Micky Dolenz."

The stranger merely smirked and nodded. Micky swallowed hard.

"What about you?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"What's your name?"

The smirk returned to the stranger's lips.

"Michael Nesmith. Pleased to make your acquaintance."