Chapter Text
PINK SCARF - PART 1
You can’t take your eyes off him. They keep drifting to him like the pull of a magnet. You want to stop, you really do. You catch yourself and force your gaze back down to the drink you’ve been nursing for the better part of an hour.
Elvis Presley is a supernova. Every bit of him is lit up, shaking hands, telling jokes, drawing people into his radiance. You’ve never quite seen him this way, not like this. He is absolutely glowing after his performance, and you know why. You finally get it after seeing him live tonight.
It scares you a little, how captivated you are. He’d been so alluring, his voice smooth like butter but a little gritty around the edges, strong, deep, supported. You’ve heard him sing a million times, but with that band and the fuel of the crowd, it shook you to you core. Every word resonated with you, his dynamics and skill showing what a master he is of his craft.
Not many people could pull off a white jumpsuit, but he looked incredible—trim, tan, fit—doing his karate stretches on stage. Between that and his crooning, deep baritone, not one woman (and some of the men, to be sure) in that audience stood a chance. Even when the sweat began pouring down his face, you found yourself feeling things you didn’t want to feel.
You’d watched as prim and proper ladies fell apart at his feet. Part of it was hysterically funny to you, but another part understood that deep, biological need to be in his presence.
You’d always known that, no matter how much you’d pushed those feelings away.
You swirl your drink again, watching the last bits of ice melt, taking a small sip.
You knew how nervous Elvis had been about tonight, beneath all the bravado and jokes. You’d sensed it in his opening moments, his legs vibrating so quickly he could’ve taken off in flight, but the roar of the crowd had given him back what he needed most, that deep confidence of performing that had been buried under terrible, low budget movies for the last decade. It had been magical to watch.
Despite yourself, your gaze finds him again in the crowd. His breathy, musical laugh echoes across the room. It’s a beautiful sound, especially after years of his more moody, depressed state as he was being drained dry creatively. But tonight, his 1,000-megawatt smile lights up the room.
And, god help you, that tailored black suit with the high collar, with no shirt underneath, just a silky black and pink scarf over his bronze chest has you shifting in your seat a little to try and quell the warmth low in your belly.
Jesus, get a grip.
He just looks so fucking amazing, and with that natural charisma of his oozing out of his pores, even you aren’t immune to it. It is frustrating, in more ways than one.
Elvis suddenly looks at you, catching your stare. Those dreamy deep blue eyes sparkle and lock on you, but you look away quickly, blushing despite yourself, turning back to your watered-down cocktail. Your heart flips in your chest, which pisses you off. You’re an adult woman, for god’s sake, not a teenager. An adult married woman, for that matter.
You scoff bitterly at that thought. You wouldn’t really call what you were living with a true marriage. Marriage required two people to actually be in the same room, to actually communicate. Marriage seemed like a make-believe fairytale to you now, after all this time. You barely remember what it was like to feel happy around Jack.
Speaking of, you are alone at the bar, Jack nowhere to be found. Your husband has been part of Elvis’ inner circle forever, one of his early friends who remembered the days before he was a superstar. An integral part of the Memphis Mafia, helping keep the strange life of the world’s first superstar on track and less lonely.
You knew of the rumors, about the girls that frequented the house in Los Angeles. You tried not to dwell on it, but part of you hated Elvis a little for it. If not for him, you might have a normal, fulfilled marriage. Instead, you have a husband who is around a fraction of the time and when he is around, he’s either intoxicated with some substance or bending to EP’s every little whim. Not to mention the lipstick marks left on his clothes and the way he barely even hides the fact that he’s screwing around anymore.
Sometimes you cursed the day you met Elvis Presley.
Good, you think. The anger is tempering the swell of unwanted feelings you’re having for the man. And Elvis is just a man, after all, you remind yourself.
You’d been amazed by him in those early days, meeting the great Elvis Presley and being brought into his inner circle. It was like a dream. And he was every bit as magical as he appeared to be, though also surprisingly down to earth and generous. The gifts—jewelry, cars, the housing at Graceland—were unbelievable. And the man was insanely charming, friendly, and smart, making you feel like a part of the family. He’d even been in your wedding, for god’s sake.
But after that, the shine had worn off, and the partying lifestyle that was fun at first became a strain on your relationships. Years of living in the Elvis bubble took a toll. Days of the week no longer had meaning—you were staying up all night and sleeping during the day, which made it hard to have a job or friends outside the group or to see family. And then it became clear that there was no place for the wives on the road.
There was a cost to being EP’s friend, a deep, lonely one.
It didn’t help that Elvis sometimes played a bit of a cat and mouse game with you, his flirtations varying from light and fun to the occasional serious come-on after a long night or deep conversation. You had always rebuked him, laughing him off, which, considering who he was, was not always easy.
Over the years, it had become a bit of a teasing repartee between the two of you. It would be stupid to try and deny there weren’t a couple of times you’d when you’d gone to bed and let your thoughts drift towards the decidedly inappropriate in regard to Elvis, but you were only human. But you had loved Jack, and so did Elvis, so it was never truly an issue.
Plus, there was a “code” with the men—Elvis didn’t mess with their ladies, and they didn’t mess with his, though you weren’t sure how strictly that code was followed. Nevertheless, Elvis had never pressured you into anything more. You wondered if he enjoyed the fact that you were off-limits, though you had a hard time believing he thought about you much at all considering the throngs of pretty young things that threw themselves at him on a regular basis.
At that, you down the last of your drink, the slight burn tempered by the melted ice. I’m just tired, and honestly, it’s been too long since I’ve been laid, you think with chagrin, blaming all this uncharacteristic thinking on the hour. It’s been a long night.
You are about ready to call it quits when that deep Southern drawl rumbles from behind you, right into your ear, making you jump in your seat.
“Those pretty little eyes of yours have been burning holes into me all night, lil’ mama,” Elvis says quietly, the tickle of his breath sending a wave of heat over your entire body.
You stiffen and don’t dare turn towards him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff, but your face feels like it’s on fire.
“Mm hmm,” he hums in your ear, obviously amused by catching you. That in itself sends a shock of feeling into your belly that mortifies you.
His presence behind you looms large, and he is so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He does not touch you but his essence, his powerful energy, surrounds you nonetheless. You don’t need to see his face to know he is still riding high from his performance, feeling particularly bold.
Elvis spins the barstool around, forcing you to face him, to look up at him. You steel yourself, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, despite your flushed cheeks. You roll your eyes up at him slowly, as if bored by his playfulness.
“Is there something you need, Elvis?” you ask dryly. The unique scent of him surrounds you and you try your best to not be distracted by the tufts of dark hair on his tan, bare chest, which is currently at your eye level.
“Is there something you want to give me?” he smiles down at you, eyes sparkling with mischievousness. Closing the space between you, his lean body traps you against the bar.
The blatant innuendo is not lost on you, and you can’t seem to help the way it tingles down your spine. But tonight you want to wipe that smirk right off his pretty face more than you want to humor him.
So, you stand, slowly, refusing to step back, boldly holding his blue-eyed gaze with your own. This causes you to practically roll up his lean body, so close you are almost, but not quite, touching. His bedroom eyes change from playful to surprise to something a little more dangerous as you continue to stare at each other.
“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say, tilting your head, meeting his challenge. Your heart thunders in your ears, but you make no indication of it. The tension between you sits, heavy for a beat and it might be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear he leans forward the slightest bit.
This prompts you grab your clutch off the bar and sidestep him, leaving him hanging there, as you stride towards the exit, the heels of your shoes striking the floor confidently. You smile to yourself, at the fortitude of your will to repel the advances of the most desired man on the planet. It doesn’t even matter to you that those advances were more in jest than anything. At least you had the upper hand in the end.
Or so you think.
(In actuality, your ability to reject him is exactly what piques his interest.)
Then you’re out into the cool lobby, a refreshing change after the humid room full of people you’d been in for the last few hours. It wakes you up a little, clears your head a bit. You’re almost to the elevator, reaching for the call button, when suddenly Elvis is there, cutting you off. You didn’t even hear him approach.
“Jesus!” you cry in surprise, jumping back despite yourself. Your heel catches, and you begin to tumble backwards.
He’s there in an instant, one arm grabbing you by the waist, the other steadying you on your back. You grip his firm bicep, gasping. He pulls you up into him.
His touch burns through your dress, and you suddenly realize that all these years, you’ve often avoided touching him beyond a casual arm graze or shoulder grab.
And now you’re intimately confronted with the reason why.
It’s electric between you, positively buzzing, lighting your nerves on fire. Being this close, too close, your body actually pressed into his is completely unraveling to your senses. The deliciously spicy smell of his cologne mingled with his sweat surrounds you to a nearly dizzyingly degree.
“Not Jesus, y/n honey, just me,” he jokes, but it’s practically a whisper, a dreamy lullaby. He grips your waist.
Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up, you warn yourself, but you cannot help it, it’s like you are under a spell. It’s like you are seeing him, experiencing him, for the first time again tonight.
His skin is glowing with the lightest sheen of sweat and his jet-black hair is somehow perfectly mussed. His lips are luscious and soft, the lower one perfectly pouty. Dark stubble covers his angled jaw and upper lip in a shadow (he must have to shave every day to keep it at bay, considering the insane state of those sideburns, you think absently). But it’s his eyes that nearly destroy you.
Still slightly rimmed with dark makeup, those blue eyes pop and burn as they drift down you face. His lashes are dark and impossibly long, batting closed then open again as he looks back into your eyes. It completely takes your breath away. His preternatural handsomeness overwhelms you.
You are only human.
Suddenly, the elevator dings and opens. This jolts you out of the spell, and you push back quickly at the distraction, both grateful for and a little sad at the interruption of whatever strange moment you were having.
He watches you intently, curiously as you fluster, brushing yourself off. You’re looking everywhere but him because if you truly look at him again, you are afraid you’ll never stop. You skirt around him for the second time that night, escaping into the open elevator.
He stops the door closing with his hand, then leans, his long body filling the doorway.
“Where you goin’, honey?” Honey comes out just like it sounds, dripping and viscous. It pours through your veins, warm and sweet. A thousand times he’s used that word, but he’s never said it like this, not to you.
You can barely think, thoroughly discombobulated, but wanting more than anything to not appear that way. You lift your chin, hitting the number for your floor, if nothing more than to give you an excuse not to look at him. You heart rams against your ribcage so hard, you’re afraid he’s able to hear it.
“It’s late, and I’m tired,” you say, trying to keep you voice even, crisp, definitive. You grip your clutch in front of you as if your life depends on it, as if the small thing will create a magic boundary around you that keeps you from whatever hold he’s got on you. From doing something entirely stupid.
Elvis just cocks his head at you, that beautiful lip of his curling up the slightest bit, as if in on a joke you’re not privy to.
That’s when you hear it, the music in the elevator. The hotel has been playing him nonstop because of the opening of the show. It’s one of his most recent hits—Power of My Love—his sexy, gritty voice shooting through the speakers with a heavy blues beat, punctuated by the moans and sighs of women in the background. It’s nearly obscene.
He continues to hold the door, watching you too intently as the music plays through the chorus, each lyric making you blush more than the last:
There’s just no stoppin’ the way I feel for you
‘Cause every minute, every hour you’ll be shaken
By the strength and mighty power of my love.
Yeah, yeah, baby I want you, you’ll never get away.
My love will haunt you, yes, haunt you night and day-ay-ay.
Elvis looks you up and down, eyes smoldering in a way you’ve never seen directed at you, that famous slow, knowing grin of his spreading across his face. It’s like he can sense what all this is doing to you and is pleased by your reaction.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he muses. He stands straight, releasing the door, and begins to step into the elevator with you. The move is confident, presumptuous, dangerous.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, please do not get on this elevator. Shock ripples through you, freezing you to the spot.
If Elvis gets on with you, there is no telling what will happen. You feel completely off the rails, out of control, and are barely holding yourself together because of this man. Which is entirely stupid because you have known him for years and he’s your husband’s friend, your friend, but for some silly reason you are having this crazy physical reaction to him. He’s got a hold on you and the worst part is, he knows it.
Squealing suddenly comes from the lobby, and Elvis is suddenly caught in a wave of female fans, begging for his attention. Distracted, he turns, and the elevator doors begin to close. He’s not quick enough because of the onslaught to catch it again, instead giving you a regretful look before succumbing to the horde.
As the doors shut and the elevator lurches up, you gasp, not realizing you’d been holding your breath. You are shaken that you were so suddenly and intensely caught up in him. It’s ridiculous, especially after all this time, after seeing him in his worst moods and practically living in his house for years.
Maybe it’s because tonight, you are seeing him at his best, and that is why you are so overcome.
His voice comes through the speakers, surrounding you, still crooning about how there’s no way you’ll escape his love. You shiver again, down to your toes, remembering the look on his face as you listened to the song.
Oh, this is bad. This could be very bad.
Or very good, a small voice counters.
You shake your head, then burst out of the elevator and book it for your room.
What has he done to you?
As the door closes behind you, you find yourself fluttering around the room with nervous energy. Why now? Why after all this time are his silly flirtations affecting you like this?
For once, you are relieved that Jack isn’t here, preferring to work through this on your own without having to put on an act. Pulling off your heels, you try and convince yourself you must have been imagining it, that the electricity between you two was most likely the product of your tired and slightly tipsy brain coupled with Elvis’ post-show magnetism. You’d never seen him perform live before, and it was kind of an otherworldly experience.
That must be it. It had to be.
If you could only shake that dangerous, heated look he gave you. The bold innuendos. The burn of his hands through your dress.
Stop it! you chide yourself.
Knowing Elvis, this could go one of two ways, you think:
He could instantly write it all off as a joke, poking and teasing at you now and again, like he’s done for years. You hope this is what he decides on and think since most of it is probably in your head anyway, this is the most likely scenario.
On the other hand, if you aren’t imagining things, it’s possible he could get focused on it. And you know that when Elvis homes in on something he wants, he’s not liable to give up easily. The man could be relentlessly stubborn.
And based on the heat coursing through your body right now, you’re not sure after tonight how long you’d be able to resist him.
Or if you even want to.