Chapter Text
Las Vegas - August 1970
The door to your apartment slams and you cringe. Damn. You were hoping to be ready and gone before your roommate, Jane, got home. You sigh a little and continue applying your mascara carefully.
“Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” You hear her call out before answering with a “Yoo-hoo, in here!” of your own, steeling yourself for the inevitable barrage. She peeks around your door, her face bright and open, before observing your actions. Her face darkens a smidge but she keeps her tone light, “Where ya goin?” You hesitate a moment before answering, momentarily disappointed that you hadn’t come up with a better excuse, just in case.
“Just out,” you say, cursing yourself for sounding cagey. You are, and she knows it. She latches onto your tentative, vague answer and crosses her arms, looking surprisingly like your mother in this moment.
“Out,” she says pointedly, a statement.
“Mm hmm,” you hum, unwilling to take the bait. You don’t feel up for a fight, not tonight. You’re exhausted, it’s your one day off and you just want to live your life in peace, her distaste in your decisions be damned.
“Tell me again just why you think it’s a good idea to see Elvis tonight? Or any night?” She throws her hands up and the tone in her voice is one of disappointment and slight desperation. This argument is an old one, and you’re both tiring of it. You sigh, catching her eye in the mirror and put down the mascara wand in your hand.
“Jane,” you say pleadingly, “please. Please don’t start. I can’t do this tonight. I know how you feel about him, and I respect that. But…” you trail off, unable or unwilling to explain your reasons to her, again. Something in your face must stop the words that had been forming in her mouth, because she doesn’t say what you think she will. What she always says when you have this fight. She holds up her hands in surrender.
“OK. OK. I just….I just care about you, babe. And I…” she trails off.
“Don’t want to see me hurt,” you finish for her, your eyes still locked with hers in your bedroom mirror. “I know. Thank you,” you whisper. She sighs and shakes her head before turning and walking away, muttering to herself. You appreciate her concern, really you do. And if it was any other man she didn’t approve of, you might consider her words. But it isn’t any other man. It’s Elvis Presley. And his hold on you is so strong, so finite, you think even God himself couldn’t pull you away.
-
A black sedan is waiting outside your apartment building, right on schedule. The sweltering, late summer Las Vegas heat hits you full blast as you make your way to the car, and you’re thankful you wore one of your skimpiest dresses as sweat starts to collect on your skin during the short walk from door to car. Elvis always likes this dress on you. Not that he’s ever said as much. No, he isn’t really one for compliments. Or observations. Not with you, anyway. But you’ve seen the way his eyes grow a little wider whenever he looks you up and down in this dress, the way his jaw clenches taking in your long tan legs and bare arms, the small piece of silky fabric that barely covers your torso and not much else. You know when you’ve excited a man, and Elvis is always excited to see you in this dress. Besides, you want to look nice for him tonight. You haven’t seen him in a couple of months, not since he flew you out to Los Angeles just because he was a little lonely. Your stomach turns at the memory, that trip hadn’t gone as you’d expected. But you push those thoughts, and hurt that goes along with them, down. You don’t want to focus on that right now. You get to see Elvis again, and that’s the most important thing. The closer you get to the International Hotel the more the butterflies in your stomach start to flutter. You try and tamp down your expectations but you can’t, your excitement gets the better of you.
Elvis always invites you to the opening night of any Las Vegas engagement he does and it gives you a certain thrill to see him onstage, in his element, doing what he does best. Sure, you could attend more performances if you wanted, he’d arrange it in a heartbeat. But as it is your showgirl schedule at the Stardust keeps you busy, and when you’re not working, you’re with Elvis. And you’d rather be with him than watch him from afar. So it makes tonight a little special that you get to be in the audience, to take in the whole truth of him, to see him as he is meant to be seen. As the sedan rolls smoothly up to the entrance of the hotel, a valet hands you out of the car and onto the waiting arm of a member of the Memphis Mafia. This one is rather new, you’ve met him a couple of times but still don’t know him well. He’s young and kind of cute when he smiles at you, tucking your hand into the crook of his arm securely as he leads you into the hotel.
“Ready for the show, ma’am?” he drawls in an unmistakable southern accent, his hand moving to your back chastely as he guides you through the madness of the crowd. You swallow a giggle at being called ma’am and smile up at him, the excitement apparent on your face.
“Been looking forward to it all summer,” you say a little breathlessly. “I heard he’s added some new songs to the set?”
“Oh yes ma’am, you’re in for a treat tonight. The boss is fired up and ready to go.” You arrive at your designated seat, somewhere in the middle with a good view, and he holds onto your hand as you settle into the booth. “Do you have everything you need? I’ll be back after the show to take you upstairs.”
“You’re very kind. Thank you. Tell me your name again? I’m sorry, I’ve already forgotten it.”
“Alex, ma’am,” he says before nodding his head at you and disappearing into the crowd. You almost feel as if he should be tipping a cowboy hat in your direction, so southern and gentlemanly is he. These thoughts are interrupted by the showroom lights starting to dim and the heavy, gold curtain moving slowly upwards, revealing the massive stage. Your stomach drops and your heart beats a quick thrum in your chest. You shouldn’t be this excited to see him onstage again, not after what you and he get up to when you’re alone together, but you feel almost giddy, like a schoolgirl, at the prospect. Almost out of nowhere, Elvis saunters out of the wings and the audience goes absolutely wild. Women are yelling his name, already running past you towards the stage, eager to be as close to him as possible. The opening notes of “That’s All Right” start to thunderous applause and Elvis struts around the stage, a man on fire. He’s in top form tonight - witty, silly, energetic, engaging and sexy as hell. The truth you are unwilling to admit, even to yourself is - this is the Elvis you crave. The one you love. The one you want. But this is not the Elvis you have.
You push these thoughts to the back of your mind, along with every admonition Jane has ever given you. Elvis is back in town for a whole month, and you mean to make the most of your time together. With a little effort, you’re able to lose yourself in the music and the spectacle - laughing with the audience when he makes a joke or mouthing the words to “Viva Las Vegas.” A white hot flash of jealously sears through you when “Love Me Tender” starts, you know what’s about to happen and you feel a little sick at the prospect. Elvis begins making his way through the audience, kissing as many women as humanly possible as he does. You hold your breath as he gets closer and closer to your table. The crowd is a crush around him, reaching for him every step of the way and you put on your most dazzling smile, waiting for the sun to shine on you. Maybe he’ll kiss you this time, maybe he’ll treat you like one of the many nameless, faceless women he kisses every night. But he only glances at you as he passes, mild recognition dawning on his face too late, no love present in his glittering blue eyes. Bitter disappointment stings at your insides and you try and soothe yourself with the fact that you get him all to yourself tonight, in between shows and afterwards. The burning in your heart subsides a little, but a small, dull ache remains, a reminder that no matter how much you love Elvis Presley, he doesn’t - and can’t or won’t - love you back.
You really shouldn’t dwell on such thoughts, you knew what you signed up for. He’s holding up his end of the bargain and you’re trying like hell to hold up yours. You thought you could be one of those girls who just casually slept with someone and didn’t catch feelings. You desperately wanted to be one of those girls. It became apparent about 3.5 seconds after he first held you in his arms that you were a goner, well and truly lost. You should have walked out, right then and there, saved yourself a world of heartache. It must have been a cruel sort of fate that led you to a party at his penthouse one night, tagging along with friends, not expecting much. He’d just lost someone less than a week before. His true love, the love of his life, if whispered accounts by members of the mafia were to be believed. Oh, she wasn’t dead, but she was long gone. Gone from his life like she’d never even been there. Gone and left him a shell of a man, left you to pick up the pieces and put him back together again. You’d done a good job, as good a job as anyone could do when faced with an angry, bitter, devastated creature…not even a man, just a wounded animal lashing out at anyone who got too close.
He needed you, that much you could see in his eyes, plain as day. And if some small part of him needed you, maybe that wasn’t all bad. Maybe something could grow between the two of you - love, or something like it. Tonight all of these feelings come crashing down on your head, and it’s almost too much and you almost leave. But the promise of him holds you fast in your seat - the feel of his hard chest against your own bare one, the way his toned biceps flex and move under your hands, his soft, plush lips he uses anywhere on your body…anywhere except your mouth. It’s too intimate, he’s reasoned to you a dozen times, too painful, is what he really means. Too painful for him to kiss someone who isn’t her in his bed. It’s this thought, combined with the fact that you just saw him kiss two dozen women, all on the lips, that spurs you to order another drink. And another. Soon, you’re feeling very toasty, and more than a little giggly.
When Alex reappears at your side after the show, to take you upstairs, you’re more than a little wobbly on your feet, and he puts his arm around your waist to steady you.
“You ok, ma’am?” You see the concern in his eyes and wave him off.
“I’m fine…just fine. You’re sweet to worry, lost count of my drinks is all. I’m grand.” You giggle as you stumble a little and he catches you. “Take me to the boss man!”
He eyes you dubiously but helps you to the elevator and up to the penthouse suite, where he deposits you on the couch in Elvis’s room to wait for the man himself. Your head lolls back on the couch and the room is spinning and you really start to regret having so many drinks. You’re so out of it you don’t notice the door opening and closing quietly.
Los Angeles - 3 Months Ago
Elvis had called you in the middle of the night, the shrill ring of the telephone waking you from a dead sleep. It took you a minute to even register who was talking on the other end of the line, so excited and manic was their voice, their speech, talking a mile a minute.
“Elvis?” You’re still half asleep, groggy and unfocused, struggling to sit up in bed. “What’s wrong? Are you ok?” He didn’t usually call you, preferring instead to send telegrams or messages through his emissaries, so your heart was pounding with worry for a moment, before you finally grasped what he was saying.
“I need you…I-I-I need you in LA. Tomorrow. P-p-please darlin. I’m so lonely. I can’t sleep. I’m goin crazy out here…got some stuff I gotta be out here for and I just…I just can’t handle bein’ alone. Will ya come? Please?” He was practically begging you. He needed you.
You said yes, of course. One doesn’t say no to Elvis Presley. It wasn’t easy, arranging time off from work. You had to get several of the other girls to cover for you and in the end could only manage 4 days off. But he was happy enough to have you even for a couple of days, he said. He booked you first class on the first flight out the next morning and didn’t that make you feel special? Some random member of the mafia met you at the airport to pick you up, the first drop of disappointment landing coldly in your stomach despite the balmy California breeze. He had wanted you there so badly, had begged you to come…and he wasn’t even there to greet you? You convinced yourself you understood his reasoning on some level and pushed the feelings down, somewhere deep inside. You were in Los Angeles, you would have Elvis all to yourself for four whole days - nothing but sun and sex and sleep.
You could hardly wait as the car rolled to a stop before you were tugging the handle of the door open, practically flying out of the car and up the steps of Hillcrest House. You barely registered your beautiful surroundings, so excited to see Elvis you could barely stand it. It had only been three months since his last show in Vegas but that was three months too long for you.
“Elvis?” you called out, circling the living room, the kitchen, outside to the pool. It was almost a ghost town, the house so quiet and empty. Where the hell was he? Or any of his friends, at the very least?
“Miss?” someone said behind you and you jumped, turning around to see a kindly maid, holding out a telephone. “Mr. Presley is on the line for you.”
“Elvis? Where are you…I just got here and…” He cut you off, not even waiting for you to finish.
“Listen, honey, I’m sorry, I wanted to be there when you got in but the guys and I started talkin’ this morning and decided we felt like being in the snow today - we took the plane up north but don’t worry, I’ll be back by dinner. Just relax, make yourself at home and I’ll see you tonight, ok honey?”
The growing dread you’d felt ever since stepping off the plane was threatening to overwhelm you. But you swallowed your feelings, your disappointment, your hurt and cheerfully agreed to see him later. After all, isn’t that what he wanted? Isn’t that what you were there for? You’re supposed to be his good little girl who is happy and cheerful and doesn’t let her feelings get in the way. That was the arrangement. Something you had to remind yourself of more and more lately. You should have walked out of his hotel room last year and never looked back.
When dinnertime comes and goes that evening, you try not to worry. When midnight comes and goes, you try not to panic. When the next day comes and goes and you don’t see Elvis and you don’t hear from him and you’re just stuck in this goddamn California mansion alone, you try not to break down. You try and you fail. And when he doesn’t show up at all, you vow you’re done. No one deserves to be treated this way, not even a Las Vegas showgirl who is just one of Elvis’s many women. You’re on your way out the door to the airport, bag in hand, when the phone rings, and the maid answers - of course it’s for you. It’s him. You hesitate just a moment, your hand hovering over the receiver, before picking it up and slamming it right back down again. Damn the arrangement. And damn Elvis Presley. You were through.
Las Vegas - August 1970
The feeling of hands in your hair doesn’t startle you. In fact it has the opposite effect, it only serves to melt you further into the couch. Elvis’s fingers are long and cool and expertly move across your scalp, knowing the spots that make you purr, just like a damn cat. He’s had enough time over the past year to learn your body inside and out, learn what sends you to the moon, learn what breaks you. He takes great pleasure in watching you squirm, listening to you gasp and plead, feeling you tremble underneath his body.
“Someone’s feelin’ a little tipsy, hmm darlin’?” he murmurs. You blink your eyes open and Elvis swims into view above you. Your breath catches in your throat and your face flushes with heat. Turns out you aren’t through with Elvis Presley. Not even close.