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from-memphis-with-love · 2 months

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Songbird - Ch. 3 - Dinner and a Show

Summary: Valerie and Elvis grow closer. Note: Okay, so there is controversy over whether Elvis actually ate peanut butter and bacon on sandwiches. Some people say he ate peanut butter, bacon, and banana sandwiches all the time. Others say it was just peanut butter and banana. And some (Ginger Alden) said he didn't eat them at all. You decide. Nevertheless, I wanted to include him eating peanut butter and bacon on sesame rolls here just as a fun little Elvis tidbit for the story. Suspend your disbelief, everyone! Word count: 7,800 Warnings: Infidelity; subtle references to sex

My eyes snapped open, heart pounding like a jackhammer. Remnants of last night's fever dream clung to my skin—searing touches, smoky whispers, the ghost of a kiss that almost met my lips. Holy mother of God, did that really happen?

I fumbled for my nightstand, nearly knocking over the glass of water I never got around to drinking. There it was. The ticket to his midnight show. Glossy and real and indisputable proof that I, Valerie Pedretti, professional nobody, had somehow captured the attention of the most famous man on the planet.

Equal parts giddy thrill and sheer pants-shitting terror. Good lord, what was I thinking, playing pattycake with Elvis freaking Presley? A very much married Elvis freaking Presley. I groaned into my pillow. I needed to call Deena pronto before having a complete meltdown.

The phone only rang twice before she picked up, voice fuzzy with sleep. "Val, hon, it's ass o'clock in the morning. This better be good—"

"Trust me, Dee, it is.” I took a deep breath, suddenly unsure of where to start. “I’m not coming home just yet. I’ve decided to extend my stay here for a little while.”

That woke her up. I could practically hear her sitting bolt upright in bed, her curiosity piqued. "Oh? You get a callback for that Sinatra gig?"

I hesitated, biting my lip. Fuck it, no use lying now.

“I maybe kind of sort of accidentally seduced a celebrity last night."

Dead. Silence. Then an earth-shattering shriek. "ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"

I winced, holding the receiver at arm's length. "Yep. I'm in deep doo-doo, Dee."

"Deep doo-doo?! More like the motherlode! Valerie, you little minx! How'd you manage a thing like that? I want every lurid detail. Emphasis on lurid."

I laughed, flopping back against the pillows. Leave it to Deena to skip straight to the good stuff. "I can't give you all the details yet. But let's just say he's someone we've both heard of. I'll give you three clues. Very famous, very talented, and very, very handsome."

And very married. I of course neglected that little tidbit. If Deena knew, she’d blow her top. Understandably so.

She made a sound like a teakettle boiling over. "You're killing me! You can't just drop a bombshell like that and not give me a name! Landing a whale like that..." She paused, thinking. "Wait... is it Sinatra? Dean Martin? Joey Bishop? Oh honey, please don’t tell me it’s Liberace. You know he doesn't go for—"

"Sorry, Dee, my lips are sealed," I said, trying for coy and mysterious but probably missing the mark by a country mile. "Loose lips sink ships and all that jazz. And I don’t wanna jinx this. I can’t be too... eager."

Deena huffed out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, keep your secrets, you incorrigible tease. But I'm telling you, Val, when an opportunity like this falls into your lap, you gotta strike while the iron's hot, if you know what I mean."

I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing. "Why Deena Jane Lovelace, are you trying to corrupt me? I feel like I should be clutching my pearls."

"I’m serious Val, you deserve to let loose and have some fun for once in your life. Live a little! Sow some wild oats! Ride that stallion till you break the saddle!"

"Deena!" I mock-gasped, giggling like a loon. "You're terrible!"

"You mean I'm right," she shot back, a smile in her voice. "I know you. You've got a bad habit of getting in your own way when it comes to men. Always overthinking, always holding back. Always tying yourself down to some jerk who isn’t good enough for you..."

I stopped laughing and chewed my lip.

Deena's voice gentled. "Oh honey. Are you worried about that chump again? Because I will fly to Vegas and smack you upside the head myself. That boy is staler than last week's bread and you know it."

Oof. Andy.

In the midst of all the Elvis-induced giddiness, I'd almost forgotten about my on-again-off-again boyfriend. Luckily, right now we happened to be more off-again, which meant I was technically free to do whatever this was that I was doing.

Unbidden, an image of him popped into my head. Sweet, goofy, going-nowhere-fast Andy. If I squinted, his Arby's visor almost looked like a crown. Almost. Andy was... well, he was Andy. A burger-flipping, belch-ripping goofball who could always make me laugh, even when I wanted to strangle him. He was comfortable, familiar, uncomplicated. As exciting as a lukewarm bath.

She wasn't wrong. Ugh.

But Elvis… Elvis was pure electricity. He made me feel reckless, alive, like I could conquer the world in heels and a push-up bra. When a man like that looks at you like you're the only woman in the room, it does things to a girl. Things that don't involve overthinking or holding back.

Sensing my hesitation, Deena gentled her voice. "Look, I'm not saying you gotta marry the guy. But would it kill you to have a little fling? To let yourself get swept off your feet, even if it's just for a little while?"

I bit my lip, considering. Maybe Deena was right. Maybe it was time to stop being so buttoned-up and boring. To take a chance on something wild and wonderful, consequences be damned. I mean, when a choice between an Andy and an Elvis falls into your lap, you'd be six kinds of stupid not to go for the Elvis, right?

"Okay, okay, you've twisted my arm," I said at last, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. "Operation Ride That Stallion is a go. But if I end up with saddle sores, I'm blaming you."

Deena's cackle was loud and wicked. "Atta girl! You just remember every gory detail so you can replay the highlight reel for me later. And Val?"

"Yeah, Dee?"

"Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do."

“But you’d do everything…”

“That’s my point!”

After promising to give her a full debriefing later, I hung up and started tearing through my suitcase. I needed to put together an outfit that wouldn't get me laughed out of the VIP section. What does Elvis like? I wondered as I pulled out everything I owned, frowning at my decidedly lacking duds. I'd have to go full Cinderella somehow—find some fairy godmother to zap me a gown, pronto.

But before I could do that, I had to at least shower. I spent the next few hours getting dolled up like my life depended on it. Which, considering who my "date" was with, it kinda did. I took my sweet time shaving, lotioning, spritzing myself with my best perfume. Just as I was about to return to the matter of what to wear, the doorbell rung.

I opened the door—only to pratfall over a fancy box from Suzy Creamcheese, the hottest boutique in town. What in the...

I snatched it up. There was a card taped to the top, my name scrawled across it in scratchy, masculine handwriting. My eyes widened as I scanned the short, devastating message.

"Songbird, let's make beautiful music together. Wear this tonight. I'll be the one in black. Yours, Jon Burrows"

Jon Burrows. The alias he'd used last night. Hoo boy. Hands shaking, I lifted the lid off the box and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Inside was a dress that probably cost more than my entire life savings. Glimmering, body-skimming, hotter than a fresh sin. Draped in hand beading and fashioned of the finest silk imaginable. The kind of outfit that would've given Deena an aneurysm if she knew who sent it. In all honesty, Elvis had probably bought a million dresses just like it for a million and one little chippies. Suddenly, my stomach hurt.

But I couldn’t help but notice, nestled right next to the dress, a pair of matching stilettos, the slim spike heels flashing like a dare.

Eh, maybe I could take a Tums.

The dress slid over my curves like liquid sin, the slinky fabric doing favors for my figure I didn't even know were possible.

I twirled in front of the mirror, admiring the way the hem flirted with my thighs. With my chestnut curls artfully tousled and my eyes rimmed in black, I hardly recognized the minx staring back at me. If Elvis's jaw didn't hit the floor when he saw me in this getup, I'd eat my hat.

Still, a niggle of guilt squirmed in my gut as I dabbed on a pat of lip gloss. I couldn't quite shake the feeling that I was pulling a fast one on Deena. She'd blow her top if she knew who I was really running off to see. Not because of the fame, of course, but because of the ring on his finger.

But then again, maybe it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Especially when permission involved a certain married megastar. What Deena didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right?

Right. Confidence bolstered, I sashayed out the door.

With a little more than an hour to kill before the show, I tottered down to the casino floor, the click-clack of my stilettos drawing more than a few appraising glances.

Suddenly feeling lucky, I made a pit stop at the blackjack table. Nothing like a good old fashioned game of chance to settle the nerves. I was just doubling down when I noticed a guy giving me the hairy eyeball.

He looked to be in his fifties, paunchy and balding, with a pinky ring the size of a doorknob. A real high-roller type. And he was staring straight at me, a lewd grin stretching his thin lips.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing all by her lonesome?"

I shifted uncomfortably, wishing I'd worn a tent instead of a curve-hugging sheath. "Just playing a little cards before the big show," I muttered, looking everywhere but his face.

"Ah, you must be one of those Elvis girls," he said, nodding knowingly. "Fresh meat. Figures."

My stomach lurched. I was just opening my mouth to tell him where he could stick his fresh meat when a firm hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"Darlin', there you are! Been lookin' all over for you."

I whipped around to find a tall, gangly older man in a ten-gallon hat grinning down at me. He had a kind, pleasantly weathered face, the type of face you instantly trusted.

"Play along, sugar," he whispered, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Looked like you could use a white knight."

I almost collapsed with relief. "Oh! Yes, of course. So sorry, I got a little turned around..." I let him steer me away from the blackjack table, offering a silent prayer of thanks for chivalrous cowboys.

"Chick, at your service," he said once we were out of earshot, doffing an imaginary cap. "I’m with the International. And unless I miss my guess, you must be Miss Valerie?"

My eyes widened. "How did you...?"

Chick chuckled, shaking his head. "Let's just say, ah, Mr. Burrows ain't exactly subtle when he's sweet on a girl. I was instructed to find you and bring you to his dressing room before the show. Reckon that dress is gonna give him the vapors but good."

A pleased flush crept up my neck. Elvis had specifically summoned for me? Maybe this was more than a passing fancy to him. Maybe I wasn't just the flavor of the week...

No. Stop that. Don't go getting attached, you ninny. He's married, remember?

Chick must've noticed my wilting expression, because he gave my elbow a fatherly pat.

"Chin up, darlin'. I know this whole thing has you tied up in knots, but trust me—that boy thinks the sun rises and sets on your pretty little head. I ain't never seen him so gaga."

I managed a wobbly smile, even as my heart squeezed. Chick was sweet to say so, but he didn't know the half of it. Falling for Elvis was a one-way ticket to heartache city.

We snaked through a labyrinth of hallways and then reached the dressing room door. Chick gave a jaunty salute. "This is where I leave you. You take a deep breath and remember—if he’s foolish enough to let you slip through his fingers, I'll be waitin' in the wings to snatch you up my own self."

I giggled in spite of myself, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for the rescue, Chick."

"Anytime, darlin'." With a last wink, he disappeared into the bowels of the theater, leaving me to find my seat on shaky legs.

I took a deep breath, smoothed my dress, and knocked on the door, my heart hammering in my throat. This was it. The moment of truth.

The door swung open, and there he was. Elvis, looking surprisingly human in a plain white collared shirt and black slacks. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at me, a genuine, almost shy thing that made my insides flutter. He looked oddly nervous, a far cry from the swaggering sex god I'd expected. It was strangely endearing.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite good luck charm!" he said, ushering me inside with a flourish. "Get in here, darlin', before someone sees you and starts a scandal. I can see the headlines now: 'Elvis Presley Corrupts Young Songstress, Film at Eleven.'"

I laughed, feeling some of my nervousness melt away in the face of his playful warmth. "I think you're overestimating my ability to cause a scandal," I said, plopping down on the couch. "The most exciting thing that's ever happened to me was winning a pie-eating contest when I was twelve."

Elvis clutched his heart, staggering back in mock-amazement. "Be still my beating heart! A pie-eating champion in my very dressing room? I'm not worthy!"

He dropped to his knees in front of me, clasping my hands in his. "Tell me, o great and powerful pie queen, what's your secret? Inquiring minds want to know!"

His antics were so unexpected, so at odds with his slick public persona, that I found myself relaxing in spite of the surreality of the situation. This was just Elvis. Just a man. A ridiculously handsome, heart-stoppingly talented man, but a man nonetheless.

We plopped down on the couch, close but not quite touching. Elvis ran a hand through his hair, tousling it even further. I giggled, swatting at him. "Stop it, you goof! You're going to make me ruin my mascara from laughing too hard."

Elvis grinned, unrepentant. "Can't have that, can we? I need you looking your absolute best out there tonight. Gotta show all those other fellas what they're missing." His appraising gaze was warm an appreciative as it swept over me. “And you do look beautiful, by the way. That dress is a knockout on you.”

I ducked my head, feeling a pleased flush creep up my neck. "You shouldn’t have, Elvis. I’m not used to such nice things.” I looked down, tapping my feet in the maroon stilettos he gifted me. Suddenly, I found myself saying things out loud I didn’t want to admit. “When I put it on, I was hoping you’d like me in it."

"Well, mission accomplished." Elvis's smile turned rueful. "Can I let you in on a little secret, Valerie?" he said, glancing at me sidelong. At my nod, he blew out a breath. "I'm nervous as all get-out about this show tonight. Like, shakin' in my boots nervous."

“You get stage fright?”

"That isn’t even the half of it," Elvis barked out a laugh, but there was an undercurrent of tension in it. "Honey, I'm about ready to shake out of my skin. I haven't played a venue this big in years, and I keep thinking I'm going to get out there and just... forget everything. Forget how to sing, forget how to move, forget my own damn name."

My heart squeezed at the very real fear in his voice. I scooted closer. "You? Nervous? But you've played hundreds of shows for thousands of people. You're a pro!"

He chuckled, but it sounded a little forced. "Yeah, well, that was before. Haven't exactly been doing a lotta live performing lately. Feels like I'm starting from scratch."

His knee started bouncing, fingers drumming a restless beat on his thigh. "Truth is, I keep thinkin' I'm gonna get out there and just... blank. Disappoint everyone. Forget all the words, miss all my cues. Make a damn fool of myself in front of everyone." His gaze cut to me, suddenly vulnerable. "In front of you."

Oh. Oh, Elvis.

"Hey," I said softly, daring to lay my hand over his. "You are not going to make a fool of yourself. You know how I know?"

His fingers curled around mine, warm and strong. "How?"

“Because I’ve seen you dance. Even if you forget the words, just do that little hips-swivel thing and no one will care what's coming out of your mouth."

Elvis stared at me for a beat, his brow furrowed, mouth hanging open. Then, like a dam bursting, he threw his head back and guffawed, the sound rich and unrestrained.

"Lordy, woman!" he managed between wheezing breaths, clutching his stomach. "You really are somethin' else, you know that?"

I grinned, inordinately pleased with myself for cracking him up. "I’m serious! Those things are lethal weapons."

He snorted, shaking his head. "You're a mess, girl. An absolute mess." But his eyes were soft, affectionate.

“No, for real. You’ll do great,” I said, giving his knee a squeeze. "The second you step out there and see all those adoring faces, all those people who love you... it's gonna click. You're gonna remember exactly who you are and why you do this."

Elvis stared at me for a long moment, something raw and vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "You really believe that, don't you?" he said quietly. "You really think I've still got it."

"I know you've still got it," I said firmly. "You're going to go out there and give the performance of a lifetime, and I'm going to be right there in the front row, cheering you on."

Elvis's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes suspiciously bright. "What did I ever do to deserve a gal like you in my corner?" he wondered, shaking his head. "I must've been a saint in a past life."

"Well, I don't know about sainthood, but you definitely rocked a mean pair of blue suede shoes," I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

It worked. Elvis threw his head back and laughed, the rich, honeyed sound wrapping around me like an embrace.

"Aw, baby, you're just too much!" He grinned at me, wide and boyish and utterly charming. "Stick with me, kid, and I'll show you a thing or two about rocking more than just shoes."

I felt my cheeks heat at the implicit promise in his words. "I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Presley."

"You better, Miss Pedretti."

Elvis glanced at the clock and sighed, some of the laughter fading from his eyes. "Guess I better start getting into my glad rags. Show's about to start, and I've got a whole lot of hearts to break."

I elbowed him playfully. He stood, hauling me up with him. "Walk me to the stage door?" he asked, a hint of vulnerability creeping back into his voice. "It'd mean a lot to have you there, sending me off."

I wanted to. With every fiber of my being, naturally. But good sense won out. “I don’t think it’s the best idea, Elvis. I’m sure there’ll be photographers and—”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Elvis sighed. “Good looking out.” There was a genuine sadness in his voice.

I squeezed his hand, holding his gaze. "I'll be with you every step of the way," I promised. "In spirit, if not in body."

Elvis lifted my hand to his mouth, grazing my knuckles with a kiss that sent sparks shooting up my arm. "Knowing that's going to make all the difference, honey. You'll be my guiding light out there."

I felt like I could happily drown in those bottomless blue eyes, spend the rest of my days mapping the planes and angles of that impossibly handsome face. Emboldened, I reached up to straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger on the warm, taut skin of his neck. Elvis growled, a low, throaty sound that reverberated through my bones. He tugged me closer, until I could feel the heat of him, smell the spicy, expensive scent of his cologne. "Y’know, I've half a mind to cancel this show and..."

My pulse kicked into overdrive, desire threading through me in hot, urgent pulses. It would be so easy to let him do just that, to surrender myself to the dark promise in his eyes, propriety and common sense be damned...

A sharp knock at the door shattered the charged silence, making me jump like a scared cat. Elvis muttered a curse, his fingers flexing on my hips.

"Thirty minutes to curtain, boss," a voice called through the door.

Elvis blew out a harsh breath, his eyes never leaving mine. "Guess that's my cue," he said ruefully. He leaned in, his lips grazing my ear. "To be continued. You can bet on that."

Then, with one last scorching look, he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving me weak-kneed and panting in his wake.

The house lights dimmed and the band struck up a familiar chord, and the audience went nuts. Shrieks and whistles drowned out the opening bars as a lone spotlight pierced the dark.

And there he was.

Elvis swaggered onstage in a black gi-style jumpsuit, his raven hair gleaming under the lights, guitar slung low around his chest. The crowd surged to its feet, but Elvis only had eyes for me. He caught my gaze and grinned, a private, knee-weakening thing that set every nerve ending aflame.

Sweet mercy. Maybe Chick hadn't been exaggerating after all.

The show was a dizzying carousel of hip-swiveling, high energy dancing, and electrifying eye contact. Elvis shimmied and crooned and thrust like his life depended on it, but every so often, he'd throw a smoldering glance my way, those bedroom eyes promising wicked, unspeakable things. The same eyes that looked over every inch of my body in his dressing room.

During "Love Me Tender," he changed one of the lyrics ever so slightly, singing "for my songbird" instead of "for my darling." It was so subtle, I almost thought I'd imagined it. But then he caught my eye and winked, and I nearly combusted on the spot.

I spent the whole show riding a knife's edge of exhilaration and anxiety, every cell in my body attuned to Elvis's sly overtures. He was flirting with me, signaling me, making it clear I was his girl of the moment. And Lord help me, I ate it up like a starving dog.

In the back of my mind, a niggling voice of reason piped up, sounding suspiciously like Deena. "He does this with all the girls, dummy. You aren’t special. He's MARRIED, remember?"

I told the voice to can it. For one night, I just wanted to pretend this was real, that Elvis's heated promises were mine and mine alone. That maybe he really did in fact like my company. Was that so wrong?

By the time Elvis launched into “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” I was thoroughly hot and bothered, my skin humming with anticipation. Elvis took his bows, blowing kisses and reaching out to the sea of grasping hands. My own hands were stinging from clapping so hard, my face aching from grinning like a fool. He'd done it. He'd absolutely slayed. This was it. If he asked me to, I was going to go all the way. I was so keyed up, I barely noticed Joe until he materialized at my elbow, grinning like a fox in the henhouse.

Giddy and practically vibrating out of my skin, I let myself be ushered to Elvis’ suite by a cadre of burly security guards. It was already packed to the gills, a whirlwind of chatter and clinking glasses and backslapping laughter.

I recognized some of the faces from my earlier introduction to Elvis's inner circle—Red and Sonny and all the others from the Memphis Mafia, Colonel Parker looking like the cat who ate the canary, a gaggle of International execs in expensive suits. But there were plenty of new players too—starlets and hangers-on and a surprising number of little old ladies in their Sunday best, clutching Elvis albums to their heaving bosoms.

I felt a moment of panic, a minnow swimming with sharks, but then Jerry caught my eye across the room and waved me over with a wink.

"There she is!" he crowed, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "Didn't our boy knock 'em dead tonight?"

I grinned up at him, letting his easy camaraderie settle my nerves. "He sure did. I've never seen anything like it. I thought that one gal in the front row was gonna faint when he smiled at her."

"Aw, that ain't nothing!" Red chimed in, swiping a flute of champagne off a passing tray. "Back in '56, we had girls dropping like flies every time he so much as moved a finger. Quite a time to be alive, let me tell you!"

We laughed and joked and traded Elvis stories, the boys folding me into their ranks like I'd always been there. It was a heady feeling, being on the inside of something so exclusive, so legendary. Even if it was just for one night.

Speaking of the man himself, Elvis was holding court on the other side of the room, surrounded by a gaggle of suits and coiffed heads. He caught my eye over their shoulders and shot me a wink, his grin electric even from a distance.

I felt that zip of connection like a physical touch, and had to duck my head to hide my flush. Good grief, the man could spark a fire in my belly from clear across a crowded room. I was in trouble.

As if drawn by some invisible thread, I drifted towards him, skirting the edges of his adoring throng. I didn't want to interrupt, but I couldn't quite keep away either.

I was just debating the merits of "accidentally" bumping into him when I felt a gnarled hand clamp onto my wrist. I turned to find myself nose to nose with a diminutive old woman in a pink pillbox hat, her rheumy eyes squinting up at me.

"Priscilla, dear, is that you?" she cooed, her voice warbling with age. "Oh, honey, I just have to tell you how much I admire you! The way you've stood by your man all these years, through thick and thin... it's an inspiration to us all!"

My stomach plummeted. She thought I was Elvis's wife. His very real, very married wife.

"Oh, no, I'm not—" I stammered, my face heating. But she was already barreling on, clutching my hand in her paper-dry grip.

"You know, my Albert and I have been married for 53 years, and I like to think we've weathered our share of storms. But you and Elvis, bless your hearts, you've been through the wringer and back! The army, those awful Hollywood starlets, all those months on the road... it's a wonder you've made it work as well as you have!"

I opened my mouth, desperate to correct her, to distance myself from the comparison. But something in her earnest, careworn face stopped me. Who was I to shatter her illusions? What harm was there in letting her believe, just for a moment, that I was his dutiful wife?

So I simply smiled and patted her hand, murmuring something about the power of commitment. She beamed at me, misty-eyed, and tottered off to accost someone else with her marital wisdom.

I sagged against the wall, feeling vaguely guilty. Borrowing Priscilla's halo, even for a few minutes, left a sour taste in my mouth. What kind of person was I, playacting at being Elvis's devoted wife when the real deal was at home, probably wondering where her husband was and who he was with? And why wasn’t she here on opening night, anyway?

Suddenly, the dressing room felt too hot, too close. I needed air. I needed space. I needed...

"There you are! I've been looking all over for you, Valley cat."

I turned to find Elvis striding towards me, his face alight with post-show elation. His jacket was gone, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair damp with sweat. He looked utterly edible.

I pasted on a smile, trying to shake off my guilt like a dog shedding water. This was supposed to be a magical night, remember? My one chance to live like a star, to be Elvis's girl, if only in the shadows.

"Hey," I said, hoping my voice didn't betray my inner turmoil. "If it isn't the man of the hour himself. I'd ask how it feels to kill it, but something tells me you already know."

He laughed, low and throaty, and caught my hand in his. My pulse leapt at the casual intimacy of the gesture. "Careful with the compliments, hon, or my head won't fit through the door. Then where would we be?"

"Oh, I'm not worried," I shot back, finding my footing again. "If your head gets too big, I'll just deflate it with a few choice pinpricks. I'm handy like that."

"A real Jill of all trades, aren't ya?" he drawled, tugging me closer. I stumbled a bit, thrown by his nearness, the play of muscle beneath his shirt as he steadied me with hands on my hips.

His eyes danced with mischief and something hotter, headier. "Stick around long enough and maybe you'll get to show me just how handy you can be."

Oh. Oh my. Was he implying...

Before I could parse his words, he leaned in close, his lips a hairsbreadth from my ear. "The fellas are gonna clear out the stragglers. Why don't you hang back a while, keep me company?"

My pulse thudded heavy in my throat. "O-okay," I murmured, cursing my stammer. "If you're sure I won't be imposing..."

He pulled back just far enough to meet my eyes, something softening in his gaze. "Valerie, trust me. There is nowhere else I'd rather be than right here with you. Okay?"

I nodded shakily, thunderstruck by his sincerity.

The next hour passed in a whirlwind of farewells and a few more furtive winks from Elvis as he played gracious host. The stragglers trickled out in twos and threes, some of the drunker ones being gently but firmly escorted by bulky security guards. Soon, it was just Elvis, the core crew, and me.

I perched on the arm of a velvet sofa, trying to blend into the scenery as the guys swapped tour stories and ribbed each other mercilessly. Elvis, sprawled in an adjacent chair with a tumbler of something amber and expensive, kept sneaking me these scorching sidelong glances that made me feel like I was the only girl in the room. Maybe the only girl in the world.

Eventually, Red gave a jaw-cracking yawn and hoisted himself up off the couch. "Welp, I'm about ready to hit the hay. These old bones ain't what they used to be." He shot Elvis a significant look. "Reckon y'all got things handled in here?"

Elvis's lips twitched, his eyes never leaving mine. "Yeah, man. I think we're good. Y'all head on to bed now. Me and Valerie here will just... clean up a bit."

There was a loaded pause, a crackle of unspoken communication between them. Then, with a chorus of goodnights and a few winks sent my way, the guys filed out.

And then there were two.

Elvis drained his glass and set it aside, unfolding from his chair like a jungle cat waking from a nap. All coiled grace and barely restrained power. I tracked his approach with my heart in my throat, my skin prickling with anticipation.

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, the warm musk of his skin beneath the sharper tang of sweat. Close enough to touch.

He held out a hand, eyes molten in the low light. "C'mon, darlin'. Let's go somewhere a little more private, hmm?"

I slid my hand into his, letting him tug me to my feet and into the circle of his arms. I had to tip my head back to meet his gaze, my hands braced on the solid wall of his chest.

"Private sounds perfect," I breathed. "Lead the way."

His grin flashed, sharp and white in the dimness. He laced his fingers through mine and led me through a side door I hadn't even noticed, into a wood-paneled hallway lined with identical doors.

We stopped in front of one. Elvis produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it, gesturing for me to precede him. I stepped inside and stopped short, blinking in the sudden brightness. It was a suite, as lushly appointed as any I'd seen—all plush carpets and gleaming dark wood and what looked suspiciously like a gilded ceiling.

In the center of the room, a table had been set with a crisp white cloth, gleaming silver, a bottle of champagne sweating gently in a gilded ice bucket. Two place settings. Candles.

My heart did a funny little flip. He'd planned this. Planned a private, romantic dinner for two. For us.

I turned to him, stunned. "Elvis, this is... I mean, you didn't have to go to all this trouble..."

He shrugged, looking almost bashful. "It wasn't any trouble. I just thought it'd be nice to have some time, just you and me. No screaming crowds, no prying eyes." His mouth quirked. "Plus, I figured you'd probably be starving after all that excitement. I know I am."

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled loudly. We both looked down at it, then at each other, and promptly burst out laughing.

"Well, I reckon that's my answer!" Elvis wheezed, clutching his side. "C'mon, let's feed that beast before it stages a revolt."

Still snickering, he pulled out my chair with a flourish. I sank into it, expecting him to ring for room service, or maybe a harried-looking assistant to come scurrying out with silver platters.

But no. To my shocked delight, Elvis ducked into the adjoining kitchenette and returned with... a greasy paper sack?

At my raised eyebrow, he grinned. "What, did you think it'd be all caviar and champagne? Nah, that ain't my style."

He upended the sack, sending a cascade of foil-wrapped burgers and fries skittering across the fine china. The commingled scents of grease and salt and ketchup wafted up to me, and my mouth instantly watered.

"I sent Sonny out for these," Elvis said, sliding into the seat across from me. "Knew I'd be craving some post-show grease. And I figured, what's better than sharing a little taste of home with my songbird?"

Songbird. Oh. There were those damned butterflies again.

"You figured right," I managed, plucking up a fry. "There's nothing better than burgers after midnight. Although..." I squinted at the foil peeking out from beneath a sesame bun. "Is that... peanut butter?"

He flashed me a guilty grin. "Ah, you caught me. Peanut butter and bacon. A little trick I picked up in the army. It sounds crazy, but trust me, it's a revelation."

We dug into our burgers, the silence broken only by appreciative moans and the rustling of wrappers. I had to admit, the combination of peanut butter and bacon was strangely appealing. Not that I'd ever tell Elvis that. His ego was healthy enough as it was.

"So," I said, dabbing a bit of ketchup from my chin. "You were in the army?"

Elvis paused mid-bite, his eyes widening slightly. He swallowed, setting his burger down. "You really didn’t know?"

“Well,” I said, chewing carefully. “I, uh. How do I say this? I never really followed you that closely. I mean, of course, I know your music and all. But the details of your life? I didn't want to pry.”

He stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

"Hey, what’s so funny?”

“You mean to tell me I found the only girl around who doesn’t already know everything about me?”

I felt my cheeks heat. "What do you mean?"

He leaned back in his chair, studying me with a newfound intensity. "I mean, you're the first girl I've met in a long time who hasn't tried to impress me with how much she knows about me. Who hasn't been hanging on my every word, ready to agree with whatever I say just to get in my good graces."

I blinked, taken aback. "Really? That's... that's kind of sad, actually."

"Sad?" He cocked his head, curious. "How so?"

I waved a hand, trying to find the right words. "I just mean... you're a person. A real, flesh and blood man with thoughts and feelings and experiences that go beyond what the magazines print. It's sad that so few people seem to want to get to know that side of you. The real you." I paused, considering whether or not to continue. “It must be really weird meeting new people and feeling like they already know everything about you.”

“Well, what they think they know at least.” His expression softened, something warm and vulnerable stealing into his gaze. "You really mean that, don't you? You actually want to know me. Not Elvis the star, but just... Elvis."

"‘Course I do," I said softly. "You think I’d be eating burgers at 4 am with just anybody I meet? I promise you I am not that kind of girl,” I winked.

As our appetites gave way to pleasant, sleepy fullness, our conversation turned to lighter things—favorite movies (his: The Way of All Flesh, mine: anything historical), craziest fan encounters (had to give it to Elvis on that one, though my tale of a particularly persistent flasher in Boise nearly made him snort soda out of his nose), best practical jokes played on unsuspecting bandmates (we were both particularly proud of our skills with a whoopee cushion).

We grinned at each other, the air between us crackling with something warm and bright. I felt like I could happily drown in those bottomless blue eyes, spend the rest of my days mapping the planes and angles of that impossibly handsome face.

But as the laughter died down and the food dwindled to crumbs, a tension crept into the air between us. An unspoken question, hovering like a ghost at the table.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "Elvis, I... I have to ask. And feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but... what about your wife?"

He stiffened, his jaw tightening. For a moment, I thought he might shut down, might retreat behind the impenetrable wall of his public persona.

But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping as if under a great weight. "Priscilla and I... it's complicated."

I bit my lip, my stomach knotting. "You still love her?"

A long, heavy beat of silence. Then, softly: "I'll always care for Priscilla. She's been a part of my life for a long time. But love?" He shook his head, his eyes distant. "No. I don't think I do. Not anymore."

My breath caught, hope and trepidation warring in my chest. "What happened?"

He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. "We grew apart. Wanted different things. For a while now, we've been living separate lives, barely even speaking except when necessary. I think we both know it's over. That it has been for a long time."

I reached out, covering his hand with my own. "Elvis, I'm so sorry. That must be incredibly painful."

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. "It was, at first. But now? Now it just feels... inevitable. Like we were always meant to end up here, no matter how hard we tried to make it work."

As the night wore on and the conversation lulled, I felt my eyelids growing heavy. A glance at the clock told me it was just before six in the morning. Stifling a yawn, I turned to Elvis. "I hate to say it, but I think I should be heading back to my room. It's been an amazing night."

Elvis reached over and took my hand, his eyes searching mine. "Will you come back tomorrow? I feel like we've barely scratched the surface. There's so much more I want to talk to you about."

I smiled, my heart fluttering at the thought of spending more time with him. "I'd love to."

"Great. How about—"

I held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Why don't you call me and invite me? Properly, I mean."

His lip curled in amusement, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Etiquette, huh? Alright, I'll play by your rules. I'll call you tomorrow night, say, around five-thirty? Room 2806, right?"

I nodded, unable to suppress my grin. "I'll be waiting."

"Lamar," Elvis called out. "Would you be so kind as to walk Valerie back to her room?"

With a final squeeze of my hand and a promise to call, Elvis bid me goodnight.

The next day seemed to drag on forever. I couldn't bring myself to leave my room, afraid I might miss his call if I stepped out even for a moment. As five-thirty approached, my nerves were wound tighter than a coiled spring. When the phone finally rang, I took a deep breath before picking up the receiver.

"Hello?" I answered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Could I please speak with Valerie?" The unmistakable drawl sent my pulse racing.

I couldn't resist playing coy. "Who is this?"

"Elvis."

"Elvis who?"

There was a beat of silence, followed by a low chuckle. "You're a bonehead."

The playful exchange was just what I needed to ease my nerves. Elvis proceeded to explain the arrangements he'd made—a ticket for the late show and another dinner together afterward. I hung up the phone, my heart soaring with anticipation.

Maybe staying in Vegas a little while longer wasn't such a bad idea after all.

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