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from-memphis-with-love · 2 months ago

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A Little More Action Please

woah it's been a while. I won't pretend this is anything more than simple smutty fic - it's not the same universe, but not dissimilar to my suspicious minds one-shots - stand alone p without plot one-shots.

Here's a 1969-70 Elvis fic about the opening night parties for Nancy Sinatra's shows - either occasion can be imagined here but I've placed it within the '69 party. OC reader - 'you' x Elvis in an established relationship.

warnings: afab reader x elvis, p in v sex, fingering, slightly cringy arguments.

wc: 4103

I've used my last taglist from the last fic I posted, but since that was literally months (a year???) ago it may be way outdated now! - I deleted any that seemed to be deactivated - idk how much I'll be posting but if you desperately want to be tagged whenever I upload lmk.

Las Vegas 1969

Elvis’ been stressed lately. It didn’t come out at you, so much as it seemed to just come out all the damn time, and it was made worse by the fact he wouldn’t share what it was that was so displeasing him; hurried talks with his father and the Colonel that didn’t ever seem to be shared. He’d had a lot on his plate, the rehearsals for his own show, the last minute concerns about how his serious film would be received. Yet despite the rough edge to him he’d been more like how you remember him being described before you knew him - self-confident and assured. He was worried about how the film or show would be received - sure, but not how he would be. Totally unlike the nerves that have been festering in the background of the past few years. Even though tonight has literally nothing to do with him he’s somehow made it feel like a celebration; a culmination of the week, of the month, of the reintroduction of Elvis at his most confident. His own performances have been a glorious success, those first few audiences lapping up the palpable relief in the atmosphere, a giddying sort of joy found in everyone - and most of all, him.

You watch him working the room, effortlessly it seems, and you wonder how he does it; he’s so good at it, naturally too - there’s nothing false or forced about it. He laughs just the right amount, even when it’s clear the joke isn’t funny, knows exactly when to interject, when to move on. It spins your head watching him and you’re envious of his ease. It’s not as easy for you - it’s still a fairly new environment; you’d barely been out of Tennessee before this month and with it comes all the nerves and anxiety of the first time. It reminds you of the first time you’d been invited into Graceland, being so very unsure of what to do - what the protocol was, and yet thrust in - excitement fluttering in your stomach dancing with the nerves. The last few nights had been fun, he’d barely left your side and it had all felt so romantic, so exciting, as he took you to the other shows, showing you Vegas, showing you off to what felt like the whole world.

You glance over at him again across the room, where his palm still rests on her back, her delicate laughter echoing across to you. She looks like a fairy in white, bright blonde hair dazzling in the light. His thumb moves on her back, and you can feel it as if he’s touched you himself. You blink, considering the situation. Perhaps you can blame the alcohol, you don’t normally drink this much. Maybe there’s no need to blame anything. Maybe it’s just understandable that with your boyfriend ignoring you you’d take the opportunity to talk to interesting people without him hovering over you. Yet as you loudly laugh again at her father, drink spilling out of your champagne flute, you feel the slightest tendril of guilt take hold around your chest.

Elvis turns, as if sensing you, with that look of mild distaste that you’ve grown accustomed to making your stomach twist even though it’s not normally aimed at you. Eyes narrowing even as the smile remains on his face. Your giggles subside, and you regretfully remove your hand from where it was daintily resting on Frank’s elbow. You act as if you didn’t notice or feel his glare, smoothing the soft cling of your dress down and politely excusing yourself.

The bathroom, as always at these kinds of events, is not the place of solitude you would like it to be, girls patting their already poreless pale faces with more pale powder, and gossiping to one another, lips sticky from touch-ups pressing kisses onto coupe glasses. Yet, eventually, they file out and with a pointed look and nod from you, and a tiny bit of cash, the bathroom attendant follows - shutting the door behind herself. You lock the door.

You look at yourself in the mirror, heavy makeup under strangely bright lights for a powder room making you look like a child that had stolen their mother’s make-up. It was all far, far more than you’d usually apply. Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you tremble, biting your lip - desperate not to cry and ruin it more than the sweat already has. You don’t even know why you’re so stressed - nothing had been said, you’d not made a fool of yourself but it was like all the days and nights out of your comfort zone were catching up at once as you stood there.

“Get a grip,” You sing-whisper to yourself, “he won’t invite you next time, if you don’t get a goddamn grip,” as you lazily splash cold water onto your wrists. Wondering if you pretended to be nonchalant for long enough that you might actually become it. The doorknob rattles and you pause, still as a statue - like the prey of a predator, as though the intruder could see you through the door unless you stood still enough.

You breathe a sigh of relief when it stops before an insistent knock takes it place. You stay silent, hoping they’d just go away. It wasn’t like there wasn’t another bathroom option just down the hallway. That fails and after another aggressive knock your voice shakes when you shout back that you’ll be right out.

“It’s me.” You feel your eyebrows rise in surprise at him coming to find you, had you really been that long? You struggle to think if he’s ever come to find you if you separated away from the main crowd at a gathering.

“I’ll - I’ll be out in a second.”

“Just let me in - quick, ‘fore someone sees.” The last half of the sentence is muffled, as if Elvis has placed his face to the door, keen not to be overheard. The panic his whisper inspires was enough for you to unthinkingly throw open the door, even though a rational part of your brain was telling you there was no need to stress, and wondering what the issue would be with someone seeing him waiting in a hallway. He saunters in as if he was never worried anyway, peering around like he was curious to see the inside.

“What’re you doin’ all holed up in here?” He frowns, looking at you like you were a child who’d wandered off. You laugh, attempting to mimic her delicate way - like something bouncing off glass, but it falls flat and you internally flinch.

“Noth-nothing, I was just, it was just a bit overwhelming s’all. I needed a break for a minute. I was just on my way out again.” You feel the redness creeping up your chest to your cheeks; you don’t even really understand why you’re so embarrassed but you are. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue, and it annoys you enough that somehow you become brave enough to stutter out the rest of your thoughts, “I don’t much like you lookin’ at me like that though.”

He shuts the door behind him, locking it again, “What’dya mean?” He says in a tone that means he knows exactly what you mean, “I’ve not been in here, why would I be lookin’ at you like anything?”

“You know what you’re doing.” He has the same face that you were just describing, a kind of patronising bemusement. “You’re looking at me, and making me feel like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t.” You repeat yourself when he doesn’t respond,”I haven’t!” He hums ignoring you, and steps forward to examine his own face in the mirror. He shakes out his collar, straightening it back against his neck. “Elvis, I’m serious! You’re not, you’re not being nice - it’s not fair to make me feel like I’m in the wrong!” He sighs, turning to look at you rather than at your reflections, tugging you towards him with a grip on your wrist. He looks down at the counter while his thumb strokes your pulse-point like a little boy scuffing his shoe across the floor.

“Y’were laughing.” You feel like laughing now, it’s all so predictable - that’s what he was glaring about?

“Elvis, that’s…that’s ridiculous. I thought you were way past this - this weird hang up you have with him.” He scoffs,

“What?” You hope he acts better than this in his new film, “I don’t care who! But, jus’, you never laugh with me at the moment.” You roll your eyes at his very obvious lie,

“Oh my lord Elvis, he’s… he’s very charming - you know that! But he’s, he’s, I don’t know, fifty or something!” He pulls you in closer,

“Y’sayin’ you don’t like old men baby? Forgettin’ how old I am?” Elvis rubs both of his hands up your arms, making you sink into the sensation even as you internally laugh at his predictability.

“You’re barely thirty Elvis. Don’t be silly.”

“ ‘m thirty-four baby.” You roll your eyes, used to his over exaggeration of his age.

“Exactly.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re just a young lil thing ain’t ya?” His fingers crawled up your arms, to tickle under your chin, “Just a little bitty baby. Lil’ bitty baby girl.”

You can feel yourself melting into the baby talk, exactly as he intended it, can sense the unlikely but underlying apology. But, he’s riled you up enough that you don’t want to just accept it. You tut, shaking your head away from his hand.

“Well sure, but so’s Nancy. You weren’t wasting time ‘catching up’ with her were you?” He’s stunned for a second, blinking at you, and if you were going to back-track, now is your last chance.

“Now hold on a moment,” He shakes his head, tone hardening, “It is her party, baby. I gotta be pol-”

“I mean, the whole time you’re there with Nancy - I’m there with Frank, being polite. It’s a double standard El!” He leans back,

“No, no, no, because she invite-“

“You oughta be thanking me! Keeping him distracted from having to watch you sniffing around her! And God, fuckin’ Tina too! and who knows who else!” He steps back, dropping your arms completely.

“You gonna talk to me like that?”

“If the goddamn shoe fits Elvis.”

“I’m just doin’ what I gotta do, and you have no right,” He’s talking through gritted teeth, hissing it at you, “No fuckin’ right to tell me what I can or can’t do. I knew you couldn’t handle it - knew this would all be too much for you out here. But you insisted! You promised you’d come out here and behave for me.” He shakes his head, “I swear - I’ll fuckin’ send you back home to Memphis,” You roll your eyes and he jabs a finger at you, “I swear to god you needta stop being so, so - fucking naive.” He’s really getting going now, “I swear, you’re just -” You cut him off before he can say anything else, muttering,

“Yeah well - maybe I want to go.”

“If you’re gonna talk like that to me, you can at least be brave ‘nough to make sure I can hear you -“

“I said! Maybe it ain’t a threat if I wanna go.” He sucks a breath through his teeth, “Maybe I’m sick and tired of you gettin’ all the fucking fun” He flinches - hates it when you swear, “Tired of watching you gettin’ to fool around and now I want my turn? You ever consider that?” You think about stopping for a brief second, sensing his quiet wasn’t because he was calming down, but now that you’re having it out you really can’t help wanting to push that tiny bit further now. “Maybe I was flirting with Frank fucking Sinatra. Maybe! Maybe I was doing it to make someone else jealous - you ever consider that El?” He opens his mouth and you speed up talking, the rest of the words tumbling out of your mouth at record speed before he can interrupt you, “That maybe that wasn’t even you. Maybe there was someone other than you lookin’ at me.”

You jump as his fist makes contact with the countertop. You manage to gain enough control of yourself despite your jackhammering heartbeat to watch impassively as his fingers rapidly begin to swell up from the dense tile. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Goddamn, look what I’ve done?” He’s roaring at you, and you wince at the finger jabbing into your chest. “You- you stand there, humiliatin’ me, lookin’ like that and I swear to god above baby, I’ll kill whoever was lookin’ at you I swear to god, we go out there and you point ‘em out to me, and I’ll fuckin’ kill them.” You don’t point out the irony that he had dressed you for this evening, he’s rubbing his swelling fingers as seems to lose steam “And, and - I’ll, I swear - you thinkin’ about leavin’ me?” You think about keeping it up a little longer, and really you know you should be considering it more seriously, but you also don’t want to leave him.

“No.” He nods, self-satisfied, fingers still caressing his bruised knuckles. He takes a breath in.

“See - exactly. You’re just tryin’ get a rise outta me. ‘S not nice. That’s not - nice girls don’t do that baby, they don’t do that.” You hum,

“Maybe I’m not nice.” He snorts,

“Nah, you’re not bad jus’, jus’ all riled up,” He turns you with a grip on your upper arm to be leaning against the counter, pushing you to the edge until you get the message and hop up onto it. His hands knead your legs, and the metal of the bands around his fingers brushes you, his sleeve tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Getting me all riled up, s’not nice.” He huffs it as he leans into you, gripping the back of your neck to pull your lips onto his. It’s intense and hungry, and you can’t remember the last time you felt desperation like this, craving more of him. Your hands come up to finger into his hair, clutching at the slippery-soft strands as he takes total and absolute control of the kiss, of your mind and body. Your head falls back when he pulls away, breathless.

He’s grinning at you when he leans back - that smug little smile on his face that makes you want to storm off or smack him, but instead you give in to your other urge. Gripping the pointy edge of his collar in one hand, your other comes up to clutch at him, freshly trimmed sideburns tickling your palm.

He lets you kiss him, pressing kisses onto his chin, his cheek, his lips. You can’t seem to get close enough to satisfy yourself, and your legs wrap around his waist, the skirt of your dress rising up. Elvis’ fingers press into your thighs as he holds you down onto the counter, and you squirm as the heat builds. He huffs a little laugh even as he leads the kiss again, biting down on the edge of too hard on your bottom lip. You slide back with the force of it until you’re leaning, head against the mirror, and he leans against you while he unbuttons his jacket - roughly throwing it open as much as possible, and you try to lean forward, to shove it down his arms - get it off now. But you’re distracted by the way it pulls his already unbuttoned shirt lower down, and by him moving to rapidly finger open another several buttons, his chest unveiling itself. He’s tan and lean, and you can’t do anything but stare for a second. There’s a thin layer of hair leading lower and you find your hands moving of their own accord. They explore his chest and you feel it move with each inhale and exhale of breath he takes, feel how his intake stutters for a second when you twist his nipple.

Your hands get in the way of him taking anything off further, and he has to shove you off of him to hastily unbuckle his belt and untuck his silky shirt. He doesn’t bother to take it off - leaving it hanging off of him. Elvis leans back, bitten lips slightly puffy, lipstick smudged across his cheeks and you can’t imagine what your own face looks like or how he’ll go back to the party, but most of the red seems to smear across your own skin as he brings his head back down to your chest, sucking a bruise that you already know your thin halter dress, that’s currently been so carelessly pushed to one side, won’t cover.

Elvis’ hands roam over you, long fingers of one hand gripping your neck to hold you steady, the other shifting to brush against your skin until his fingertips are dancing over your breast. He sinks down further, light kisses pressing onto you - past his own hand to your lower sternum, before leaning back for a moment. You gasp as he suddenly tugs you to be barely balanced on the edge of the counter, his hands holding you up as much as they hold you down. Your own hands have to fly back to support yourself to be upright enough to watch him, resting on your elbows. He bends down and you can’t help the whine coming from your mouth at his fingertips inching closer to your inner thigh, how he shoves your dress even further up and out of the way. Elvis moves lower, crouching further down until he’s eye level with your spread legs.

“Gotta be quiet, honey,” He mutters it against your thigh, his breath tickling as he mouths at your sensitive skin there, “Keep quiet baby, you can do it, that’s it, that’s right -” You can feel him grinning at you, at the way your leg twitches and your attempts at stifling the noises coming out of your mouth,

“That -oh fuck, Jesus - that tickles - god Elvis,” He shakes his head, knocking against your knees,

“Gotta watch that mouth, honey, … haveta wash it out if you keep that up.” You can feel him grinning against you and you groan, swearing again, “The mouth on you baby,” You roll your eyes at the irony considering where his was currently nibbling at the crease of your inner thigh, cheek against the lace of your underwear. He leans back for a brief second and you find the words to respond,

“The mouth - El - the mouth on me?” He chuckles, and he moves forward, head disappearing between your thighs and you tense as you anticipate his lips, his tongue, his breath, anything, on you. You tremble, relaxing and tensing again in quick succession, hips moving at the damp feeling of his hot breath against the fabric, waiting for him to touch. But it never comes. “Elvis!” He moves his hand further up to nestle in the fold of your hip as he stands himself upright again.

“Don’t have time for that, honey, not right now, gotta - we gotta get a move on,” You nod, resigned, about to stand up yourself, “Where d’ya think you’re going?” You blink, a little dazed and confused - heart pounding.

“Y-you said we hadta -”

“I can’t go out there like this,” He gestures down at himself, his shirt undone, belt unbuckled, and his trousers straining to hold the bulk of him. He makes it sound so obvious, and then delicately, like a tease, “But we can’t stay here all night -“ You shake your head, playing along;

“So - So, what should we do?” Elvis doesn’t respond with words, but he moves closer again, spreading your legs further apart to accommodate the bulk of him between them.

Finally, finally, his fingers slip up to the apex of your thighs. He presses against the damp fabric of your underwear, pressing the sticky lace against you, there’s a slight irritation as it catches on your hair and you squirm at the sensation. At the feeling of the slide and the stickiness.

“Fuck baby, you’re… fuck, s’that what…thats what he’s done to you?” You shake your head, even as his eyes twinkle at you,

“No, no, it’s, god - it’s you El, Elvis, it’s - I’ve never felt like this for anyone else.”

“That right, huh,” He’s slimmer than one, or two years ago, and it’s weird that you can feel the difference in his fingers, but he’s sure of himself oh so sure of himself as he uses a single finger to stroke down the centre of your labia. He presses his finger against your folds, his thumb rapidly moving higher up and your hips jerk with it, grounding circles though you can’t move far with his grip on your thigh and you whine as he shoves your underwear to the side, undoubtedly stretching them beyond repair and slides his pointer and middle finger in to you, bending them just so.

He pulls away and you pant, but at last he’s unbuttoning his trousers, the last button holding his body from yours, and there’s nothing delicate about it anymore as Elvis slams into you. Your eyes close in anticipation as you expect to bump your head on the mirror, the force of him pushing you to slip across the smooth tile of the counter, but his hands pull you back to him, rocking you back and forth onto him. You’re embarrassingly close, and a swipe of his fingers, along with a slight change of angle is enough to make you shudder satisfactorily if not overwhelmingly.

He’s evidently close too as he jack-hammers into you, and your hands, now knowing you don’t need to support yourself, clutch at his shoulders, watching the dim lighting bounce across his glistening bronzed chest and face - mouth open as he finishes. He stays curled over you for a moment as he catches his breath.

Elvis pulls away, grabbing the hand towel from the side and wiping himself off. He does it so matter of factly that it’s almost humiliating, making your tummy flip.

He rinses his hands, shaking them out before buttoning and buckling himself back up.

“Yer being foolish out there. Makin’ a scene.” He gathers himself further, slicking his hand with a little running water and pushing back his edges. Other than his bitten lips and hint of red high on his cheekbones he looks astonishingly put together again but you’re still in a daze on the counter, your legs spread next to him, panties aside. He looks over at you.

“I’m goin’ back out.” You nod shakily,

“I’ll, I’ll be out in a minute.”

Elvis’ face hardens, lips pressed tightly together again. He shakes his head, “You’re going to bed.” You’re outraged, legs slamming shut as you sit upright.

“Well yes sir,” you salute sarcastically, “You can’t just declare that I have to do something and I have to jump to d -” He smirks, eyebrow raising and you can feel the heat rising again up your face in annoyance at his patronising expression, “I’m not a child - you can’t send me to my room like a child Elvis.” You make it a statement as if that will stop him from debating it further. His whole facial expression changes, clearly no longer finding your dissidence amusing.

“I fuckin’ can. You ain’t goin’ back out there lookin’ like that - so you can either go to bed, or you can go straighta the airport.” He roughly pulls you off the counter, turning you to stare in the mirror and you have to take in the image of yourself, bruises bitten onto the skin above your neckline, skirt hitched and thighs marked, your eyeliner running, lipstick smeared.

“I’ll..I’ll go to bed.” He nods satisfied, slapping your ass,

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls you into his arms, “I’ll be up soon, you just hang tight till then right?” You nod back at him, and he takes a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at your cheeks. “Just, just gotta - there. Try not to be seen?” You nod in agreement again, having seen yourself you had no interest in a photo being taken of your current state even if you dread him going back out there alone, the inevitable photos of him laughing, looking at someone else.

taglist: @lookingforrainbows @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @elvisabutler @eliseinmemphis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1 @amydarcimarie @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @i-r-i-n-a-a @saintomie @missmaywemeetagain @ooihcnoiwlerh @from-memphis-with-love @dkayfixates

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from-memphis-with-love · 2 months ago

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Repost so I can read this on my lunch break!!

The Cactus Tree TOST One-Shot Snippet

I've been writing this on and off for months, among about five other wip chapters ficlets etc....I am setting a goal for myself to finish it this week because I want to return to this world and dive back into Elvis and Midge and explore different times from my fic The Only Sure Thing.

This is a snippet of a TOST one-shot I'm writing set in 1968. Midge has been on her own working in TV for the last couple of years, and after a rough up and down journey is trying to claw back her career. One Friday night she finds herself stuck in Palm Springs when a blast from her past rides out of the desert and back into her life....

Warnings: Nothing...yet.

Let me know if you want to be tagged or tagged - I copied an old taglist from my last TOST posting..... thanks to my friend whositmcwhatsit for alpha-ing this post from the afterlife outside tumblr and to @vintageshanny for cheering me on in my writing when I doubt myself.... To all my friends here in elvis fic world I am grateful to connect with you through him

9:34 p.m. Friday, December 11 1968

Starlite Diner, Palm Springs

I was looking out at the desert as I whined to Rona. I caught my scowl staring back at me in the mirror above the payphone and frowned deeper.

“Midge? You still there?”

Rona’s voice echoed over the phone line.

I balanced the phone on my shoulder and wiped off the liner and mascara under my eyes, doing my best to smooth the flyaways jumping off the sides of my french twist.

“Sorry, Ro. Lost my train of thought - what was I saying? Oh yeah, no, so then she just took the script and told me - no, ordered me - to come back tomorrow morning. She must know I drove out here from the studio. What does she think I’m going to do for the next 14 hours?”

Rona’s voice purred back at me, warm and reassuring like a cup of coffee on a cold day.

“Oh pussycat, you know how this game works. Lucy can do whatever she wants. Besides, I thought you told Helen you’d do whatever it took to - ”

“I know,” I sighed, thinking of my desperate promises. Promises I had made when I got out of The Farm and was back in LA, made begging my old boss for a second chance. “I just - I didn’t think she’d stick me with Bobbi. That woman has it out for me. You should have seen her jump at the chance to send me here.”

“Stop sulking, Midge, it will give you wrinkles. You’re in one of the most exclusive resorts in the world. Why not take the opportunity and spend the weekend out there.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the lifeless main street on the other side of the diner and sighed.

“I’d consider it, but it’s emptier than Macy’s after a sale. I'm at the edge of civilization out here, I can’t figure why people make such a fuss about getting away to Palm Springs. Who would want to spend time here?”

Rona coughed. Pointedly. “Ahem. Well, me, for one.”

“Oh yeah.” I gulped, remembering why I’d called. “So, can I crash at your pad?”

“You know I would almost be insulted, Miriam, if I weren’t used to your meshugas.”

I could hear Rona rolling her eyes.

“I know I know,I’m a thoughtless jerk always sticking my foot in my mouth.”

“Enough with the half-assed apologies already. Of course you can stay at my place, Midge. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and try to enjoy it. Because getting away from civilization is the whole point.”

“I guess I just don’t get the appeal.”

“Peter Lawford has the house next to mine. If you see him, you should ask him why he'd want to hide out from his wife or the studios and their morality clauses, and spend the weekend suffering by the pool with his harem of mistresses. Behind all those tall hedges. In our gated community.”

“Hmm, so you’re saying Palm Springs is for sex. Of course. But wait, you can’t tell me Lucy is coming out here to have secret orgies.”

I heard a dish rattle, and turned to see the diner’s lone waitress filling my coffee cup back at the counter. I wondered if she had heard me and smiled awkwardly at her as I listened to Rona.

“You might be surprised.”

“Rona. Not everything is about sex.”

“Ok, so, it’s also privacy. Status. And relaxation. You should try it. Maybe you’ll hit it off with Peter.”

“Ha, no thanks. I’m done with men for a while.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. A good schtupping is just what you need, it’s been what, a few months?”

I caught myself frowning again and twirled the pay phone, clearing my throat.

“It’s been - a - look. I’m just starting to get things back together, I don’t want any distractions.”

Rona tutted at me.

“Who said anything about a distraction? You’re overthinking this. Unless, what, is this some sort of AA thing or something?”

“No, not really. It’s more of a me rule.”

“OK, but wait, what if Peter doesn’t stick it in all the way, just an inch-”

“Rona!”

“That doesn’t break your rule, right?”

“That might work for the Kennedys, Ro, but not for me.”

I had to cover my mouth after another curious look from the waitress followed our burst of giggles.

A small potted cactus sat next to the cash register at the front of the diner and I stood there, studying it, as the waitress drew me a map to Rona’s place.

I nodded at the plant.

“Isn’t it hard enough trying to avoid these things outside without bringing them inside as pets?”

The waitress paused and looked up at me. Her face was framed by her long blonde hair hanging down around her face unstyled. Upon closer inspection, I realized that she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Or a bra.

“My heart is full and free like the cactus tree.” She hummed lightly. “I think she’s beautiful -”

“- she?” I mused.

“Oh yeah, she’s definitely a girl. She told me so when I liberated her.”

“Liberated, huh?”

“Mmmm. From the sun. Takes a lot for cacti to survive in the desert. Can’t blame them for trying to protect themselves, and I think it makes her all the more beautiful.”

“Well, that’s a first. If being prickly makes you beautiful, I must be a knockout.”

“Huh?” The waitress looked up at me, eyes squinting, as if I’d just grown a third eye.

I looked at her, like really looked at her, for the first time that night. We were probably about the same age, I bet she was 25 or 26, but she spoke to me like I was some 100 years old. I wanted to pick up her liberated cactus plant and use it to pop her free spirit. Instead, I smiled sweetly and took my map.

“Well. She doesn't seem very free to me, all caged up in here just for you to admire.”

The waitress started to say something, but I didn’t hear it. I was suddenly distracted by a large cloud forming in the desert behind her.

“Say, is that some sort of nighttime sandstorm?”

She looked over her shoulder where I pointed.

“Ugh, it’s those bums - just a bunch of rich teens from Las Palmas racing the sand dunes.”

“You’d think it would be illegal after dark.”

“It is.” The waitress shrugged. “But those pricks don’t think the rules apply to them, and I guess the cops agree. No one ever comes after them. They've done it every weekend this month.”

The sand clouds grew until they were not more than fifty yards off, and then an army of ants drove out from under the dust, growing larger as they swerved haphazardly toward us.

“Well, I guess if you can’t find the nightlife you have to make it yourself.”

The waitress folded her arms and directed her disdain towards the fleet of buggies zooming over the sand. “Oh yeah, they think our parking lot is just here to be a turning point in their relay race.”

“Teenage boys are idiots. How did our species ever evolve?”

She nodded halfheartedly, quiet as we watched the buggies jump the top of the concrete wall that divided the desert from this part of town.

“Gosh, I thought for sure he was gonna eat it.”

“Nah, they make it alright. ” She turned, nonchalantly, to finish my map. “S’like Dylan said, the rich man drives his Lincoln past the red light with a grin.”

“Ain’t it the truth.”

The sounds of teen boys hooting with delight followed me to my car, and I smiled at their youthful exuberance, trying to think of the last time I’d done anything reckless. Probably the last time I’d seen Elvis.

And then, as if my memories were coming alive, one of the racing karts crossed my path and I was staring into a face I knew all too well.

I blinked, frozen in my tracks. Was I hallucinating? This was no teenage boy. No. It was Alan. One of the guys in Elvis’ entourage. One of the guys I’d known almost all my life.

Alan had watched from the sidelines living, like I was, in Elvis' LA homes as I’d gone through all the cliche stages of first love in the arms of an insecure movie star incapable of fidelity: smitten idiot, playmate, devoted lover and scorned lunatic. And Elvis had played his roles impeccably, hitting all the marks of besotted loverboy, impulsive child, jealous partner and spiteful cad.

One of the good things to come out of all those sessions at The Farm was understanding that I had done this to myself. And working with Shirley, my AA sponsor, I’d been able to let go of all the resentment I had carried around toward him like a bucket of mud I’d been carrying around on my head. When I was honest with myself, I knew that I had been with Elvis, as always, the architect of my own demise.

I had known from the moment I first smiled at Elvis that the spark I’d felt in my belly was dangerous. That to pursue him was a bad idea. Before we even kissed. He’d been dating Anita then, along with every co-star and a cadre of fairweather girls from Los Angeles to Memphis. Facts I had known well, courtesy of my brother, Artie, who, like Alan, was in Elvis’ entourage. Yes, even at 17 I had known all the way to my core that getting involved with Elvis was a no good, very bad absolutely train wreck of an idea.

But I hadn’t been able to help myself.

And it had been the mistake that kept on giving. Even after I had stopped living with him, even after I had sworn to never see him again, something would happen. I’d run into him, or Charlie would call me out of the blue, and suddenly I forgot all the pain and heartache and ran right back to him like a ship purposefully charting course for a hurricane. Until she destroyed herself.

I wasn’t that girl anymore though. I had left her and all her other bad decisions in New York when I went to The Farm a year ago. I was smart. I knew better. And I knew how to act like it too now.

And so, when I heard his voice there, in the cool desert night, bringing me back from the past and into the moment, I took a deep breath and steeled myself against the pounding of my heart

“Quit scaring the locals, Hog Ears. Damn boy.” The buggie stopped moving and Elvis turned toward me. One arm was snaked around a petite blonde, while the other waved at me and his tone shifted to the aw shucks Southern charm he used on unsuspecting strangers.

“Sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to forgive my friend here - he can’t drive for nothin’ - “

Our eyes met and I blushed when the recognition knocked the words out of his mouth.

His tall, slim body was still only for a beat as he did a double take, and then launched out of the buggie like a rocket to pull me into a tight embrace before I could even say hello.

“Miryum, is it really you? I can’t believe it.”

“Uh-huh-um-yeah.”

His eyes were bright as he looked me over and I pinched my nail into my palm trying to quell the nervous flutter in my chest.

“You out here looking for me, honey?”

His voice was low and sweet, and his hands found my waist with a familiar squeeze. They rolled over my body the way he might run them over an old coat, checking to make sure his wallet was still where he left it.

I wanted to collapse into him, soak up the smell of sweat and cheap cigars and earthy desert air that I found in his chest and stay there forever. The intensity of his fingers grasping my sides tempted me, but then I heard a cough and found a sweet blonde looking back at me over his shoulder with an even sweeter smile.

Elvis stepped back and shook his head as if coming out of a daze, then ran his hand through his hair, but it didn’t do any good. The black shiny mess flopped back out like a mushroom over the sides of his head.

I laughed out at it and he narrowed his eyes at me, licking my shin with the tip of his shoe and then shuffling back and jamming his hands into his back pockets as he glanced at his companion.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, uh, this is “

The blonde smiled bigger as she stuck out her hand and tried to hug me too. She must be a native Californian.

“Susie.”

Elvis rested his arm on her shoulder and pointed at me,

“This is uh Miryum, Artie’s - uh - friend. Sister. From Memphhiss.”

Susie took my hand in hers, warm and kind all the things I was much to try to even try to fake.

“Neato, I love that guy. He’s so fun. You guys here for the weekend?”

Fun. A word I never applied to my brother and his permanent frown. I smiled even bigger and friendlier.

“Oh, no. I’m actually in Palm Springs for work. I didn’t even know you had a place out here.”

His steady gaze faltered, just for a moment, like a candle flickering in the wind.

“I guess it’s been a while, ain’t it.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

The husky, low grain of his voice sent a shiver down my back and I had to look at the ground to escape his eyes as they searched my face.

“Artie was just here last weekend, wasn’t he, El?”

Elvis looked up at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten she was here. Even as his hand hung over her shoulder.

“Huh, what honey? Oh yeah, we should get back. Joe and Richard liable to have eaten all the chow.”

Elvis gave me a kiss on the cheek and murmured how good it was to see me.

“You need anything, you just let me know, ok? Anything, baby. I mean it.”

His breath was warm against my skin and I had to bite my lip to stop the sigh at the back of my throat from coming out. I nodded and mumbled at my feet.

“I know.”

I hit his shoulder, and Susan ambushed me with a big hug and whispered “I hope I see you around.”

Our bonding was cut short by Elvis’ loud stomping back to his buggy and I watched her scurry to catch up. He waved his hand in farewell from the go-cart, and with a final wink, started his engine and descended back into the desert from whence he had emerged like a mirage at an oasis.

I clenched my fists and sighed at the moon; Ready to let gravity take me down to the dirty, rough ground of this empty parking lot, but, instead, I took a deep breath and summoned the strength to force my legs to carry me to my car and contemplate the twisted sense of humour of the universe.

Six months ago, I had returned to LA and I had purposefully been avoiding Elvis since coming back. Of course I would run into him here. Tired, disheveled, hardly able to form complete sentences after a day from hell.

It was almost too absurd to believe.

I began to doubt if this had really happened. Had Elvis been here at all, or was I having a nervous breakdown? Maybe I was still at The Farm, strapped in for another electric shock treatment and, any minute, I would come too, sweaty and naked under a robe, screaming as I convulsed into the lights above my head.

I slapped my cheek.

“You’re crazy, you know that? You need sleep.”

Scott McKenzie was on the radio, and I began to sing along as I put the car in first gear. Then there was a loud slap on the window and I screamed at the top of my lungs as I turned to find Alan standing there, asking me where I was staying.

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