#Kathy westmoreland

[hooked-on-elvis]

"ELVIS ON TOUR" (1972)

GIFS — OPENING AND ENDING SCENES

[presleygarden]

“Our reunion was as if there never was an argument, and as if our parting had only been a few hours instead of weeks.

He wanted me to stay in his penthouse suite that night and of course I did.

Forgotten were all the resolutions, the hours of agony and recriminations, the determination to get out of the hopeless situation I was in.

Instead there was only the thought of being with him again, sitting in bed read­ing and exchanging ideas.

The lovemaking that made me forget tomorrow’s, yesterday’s and his marital status.

It made me forget that a married man never shares holidays, the lonely times, the sad times, and the times of crisis.

Elvis just wiped all the pain from my heart and mind with one touch, one smile and one of his kisses could make me forget there was such a thing as the future.

I just enjoyed the time I had with him and expected no more.”

-kathy westmoreland

side note: and within a month, their intimate relationship ended & would never rekindle. same pattern. same cycle. same story.

he got so carried away in the early parts of his relationships by these overpowering emotions & dreams of finding a mirror soul.

it easily led to these delusions of closeness. no matter how right he was about feeling energetic or spiritual pulls towards his partners, he still needed to ease up and find patience.

to wait until light was shed on a persons real self. because once he spent enough time with that person & the hypersensitivity wore off, he would start to see true colors & realities.

in this case, kathy was uncomfortable with who he truly was as a man. she wasn't down with his way of life. once that as he did with literal etres isle barrer he said ever had in his entire life.

like kathy wrote in her book-

she lost her mind at him and told him she wasn’t okay with their relationship one time & afterwards, she watched as he started withdrawing from her in less then 24 hours.

he didn't fight for his relationships.

especially ones he felt were a lost cause.

he hardly put in the effort to keep anyone around. if that pattern was broken, so much would have changed for him.

love isn't easy.

you have to fight for the things you love. let that sink in.

[doll-elvis]

“I think the only real love affair Elvis had was with his fans. He had the special ability in his delivery of a song to make almost every person believe that he was singing directly to them and them alone”

(excerpt from “Elvis and Kathy” by Kathy Westmoreland)

[iloveelvisss]

"Oh, don't stop on our account."

Prompt writing!! I found a prompt list on Pinterest, and I wanted to try one of them. Lmk if you like it and want more prompts, oh and give me prompts if you want!! Xoxo, your author <3

Arguing. That's what you and Elvis were doing, and the best part? You had both forgotten that you had company, and said company just so happened to be the author doing a book on your marriage.

"I oughtta wring yer neck, woman! Stop accusin' me of shit that ain't true! It ain't an affair if ya knew the whole time!"

"Oh?! Is that right?! Ya think that I was just happy as can be that my husband was fuckin' his backup singer?! I only knew 'cause she thought I wanted to leave ya!" You were far beyond shouting, so it was more properly full on fighting— not just arguing.

The author looked back and forth between the couple in front of her, eagerly listening to everything that spouted from your mouths. The King and his sweet lil' Queen weren't as perfect as the press made it seem.

All she had asked was what your thoughts were on all the traveling Elvis had to do for his career, and she unknowingly sparked a dorment flame within you. Memories of the phone call that you accidentally answered that day— Kathy Westmoreland's innocent voice telling you thank you for letting her experience Elvis' love too. Poor woman had no clue you were in the dark— she was in the dark too. And when you confronted the man himself, he said he forgot to mention he was seeing someone like every other time.

"Baby, I didn't plan on keepin' it from ya like that! And it ain't my fault she made her own assumptions! I never told her we weren't happy, she just thought we weren't!" Elvis tries, and fails, to grab your flailing hand. You yank it away and smack his hand away from you.

You run your hand through your hair, messing it up. "The fact that ya let her assume that is just as bad! I would've let ya pursue her if ya had just asked! I would've happily told her how I felt if ya had just let me know ya had another gal! I ain't one to judge ya for yer adventures, Elvis, ya know that! But being lied to hurt me!"

"And I said I was sorry, Satnin! That should be the end of it!"

Your eyes snap up to his immediately, the anger absolutely radiating off of you in waves that could rival the ocean. "End of it, huh?! I couldn't'a said it better! I'll serve ya the papers as soon as I can!"

You turn and get three steps to the arched threshold of the living room before you're yanked back. Your face flies into his chest before he grabs it and holds you steady.

"Now you listen here, woman, and listen good. I. Am. Sorry. But, so help me, if ya ever threaten me like that again, ya won't walk for weeks. I'll tan yer hide somethin' nasty, y'hear?" He lowers his head so that he's eye level with you, and his voice evens out to an almost scary calm.

And then it seems to hit both of you, your heads slowly turning to the one-woman audience. The look on her face makes you think all she needs is a coke and a popcorn, and she'd be all set.

You go to apologize or say literally anything to save you and your husband from the hole you've so obviously dug for yourselves, but she raises a hand and stops you. Her response shocks you, "Oh, please, don't stop on my account."

And the smirk that accompanies her statement is simultaneously friendly and wicked.

You can't help but feel as though the book that is due to come out in a year will have a chapter documenting this... interesting insight into the lives of the world's power couple. It makes you wince in premeditated embarrassment. And yet Elvis just laughs— a hearty laugh, and it only enables you, and soon all three of you are giggling like children.

I know it’s super short, sorry! But I liked it, and wanted to get it out before I started hating it. Please either comment or leave requests in my inbox if you want!! I’d like to do more prompts or even just requests for regular fics. Love all of you, my lovies!!

[elvisvideos]

From Kathy Westmoreland's book, "Elvis and Kathy". On page 61 and 62 she describes what making love to Elvis was like:

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 1 - The International

Summary: The year is 1969. The place, The International Hotel. Aspiring young singer Valerie Pedretti has a chance encounter with Elvis Presley in an elevator that will changer life forever, for both good and bad. Author's Notes: You guys, I am incorrigible. I know. Constantly going back to old fics to reread and retool them. I think I finally got it right this time. If you will indulge, please read from chapter 1 again. I think you'll like it.

To me, 1967-1971 EP is kind of peak Elvis, and so I wanted to write a fic with him smack dab in that time period. In the 1969-1970 period, especially, Elvis was probably the most handsome and alluring man in the galaxy.

Lots of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies in this one, but just roll with it because it's fun! For example: Elvis in real life did not eat seafood but in a later chapter, we find out not only does he eat it but he has an allergy to it. It's for the narrative, I promise. :-)

I based Valerie, in a sense, off of a mixture of Kathy Westmoreland - who I find immensely dry and boring IRL but who had a cool meeting story with Elvis, as well as Joyce Bova and Linda Thompson. Kathy met the real Elvis for the first time in an elevator, and that really inspired this work. Priscilla exists in this universe but she and Elvis get a divorce far earlier than in real life. Theirs, in some ways like real life, is a marriage of convenience and an "arrangement." Lisa Marie does not exist in this universe.

Vegas hit me like a slap in the face with a rhinestone glove. The kind of place that promises you the moon and delivers green cheese, but damn if you don't want to believe in it anyway. My cab rolled down the strip toward the International Hotel, and I pressed my forehead against the window like a kid at a candy store, watching the greatest show on earth scroll by in technicolor.

It was July 1969, just days after Neil Armstrong had bounced around on the moon, and the whole world still felt drunk on the idea that anything was possible. We cruised down the Strip, past Caesar's Palace with its Roman statues standing sentinel in the desert heat, past the Flamingo where Bugsy Siegel’s ghost still lingered, straight toward the International Hotel where my own small shot at glory waited.

I didn't know it yet, but I was about to have what my mother would call A Significant Moment. The kind that divides your life into Before and After, like a vinyl record with its A and B sides. But right then, all I knew was that I was tired, my clothes were a disaster, and I was woefully unprepared for tomorrow's audition.

The audition. Good lord, let's not even go there yet.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching sequined showgirls and sailors on shore leave blur past in a kaleidoscope of color. The radio was playing "In the Year 2525," and somewhere in the city, Frank Sinatra was preparing for another show. The same Frank Sinatra I'd be auditioning for tomorrow, assuming I didn't die of nerves first.

The cabbie jerked to the curb in front of the International. "That'll be four-fifty, miss." I handed him a wrinkled five and stepped out into air so hot it felt like opening an oven door. The scene that greeted me stopped me dead in my tracks.

The place was absolute bedlam. Not your usual Vegas chaos either – this was something else entirely. The International Hotel lobby looked like Elvis Presley had exploded all over it. You know those old Bible pictures of saints with the beams of light shooting out of them? Picture that, but with pompadours and rhinestones. His face was everywhere - posters, cardboard cutouts, even pins that said "I ❤️ ELVIS" in letters that could probably be seen from space.

Crowds of women with hair teased higher than their hopes pressed against velvet ropes, many of them clutching signs that said things like "Elvis We Love You" and "Marry Me EP!" Some were crying. Actually crying, their mascara running in black rivers down their cheeks. Security guards with arms like Christmas hams tried to maintain order, while vendors worked the crowd selling everything from buttons to teddy bears to – I kid you not – little vials of water supposedly blessed by the man himself. 

That's when it hit me. This wasn't just any weekend at the International. This was the kickoff of Elvis Presley's big comeback residency. Ground zero for Elvis-mania.

"Well, shit," I muttered, suddenly feeling like the universe's favorite cosmic joke. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I had to walk into the one where the King was holding court.

The lobby was even worse. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and Aqua Net, and somewhere a speaker was playing "Love Me Tender" like it was heavenly muzak. I'd never quite understood the hysteria around Elvis. Sure, he was handsome in his own way, but what was it about him that made grown women act like teenagers?

I caught my reflection in one of the many mirrors and winced. My dark curls had gone feral in the desert heat, my mascara was smudged, and the coffee stain on my blouse looked even worse under the chandelier lights. I looked exactly like what I was – a girl who'd spent six hours trapped on a delayed flight from Chicago, stress-eating Oreos and reading the same magazine until the pages wore thin.

The blonde behind the check-in desk was reading Variety when I approached. Her name tag said BRENDA but her expression said DON'T BOTHER ME.

"Checking in?" she asked without looking up. "Name?"

"Reservation should be under Deena Lovelace."

That got her attention. Her penciled eyebrows shot up as she gave me a head-to-toe assessment that left frost on her glasses. "You're Deena? The one auditioning for Sinatra tomorrow? We spoke on the phone, remember?"

I gritted my teeth into what I hoped passed for a smile. "No, actually. I'm Valerie. Deena's friend. She's sick, so I'm filling in."

Brenda's look could have frozen hell over, but she handed me a key. "Room 2806. If you need anything, ask for Hector."

A bellhop materialized – Hector himself, I assumed – reaching for my bags. I waved him off with what turned out to be misplaced confidence. "I can manage."

The thing about the International Hotel was that it had been designed by someone who believed strongly in giving guests the full maze experience. Every corridor looked identical, with the same gold-flecked mirrors and deep crimson carpet. The crowds thinned out as I wandered deeper into the building's heart, the sounds of Elvis-mania fading to a distant hum.

My feet were screaming bloody murder in my go-go boots. My arms ached from dragging my overpacked suitcases. And my chances of actually finding room 2806 seemed about as likely as Elvis himself appearing to give me directions.

I ended up in a quiet hallway that felt different from the others. The carpet was thicker here, the lighting softer, the wood paneling probably worth more than my car. Even the air felt expensive. I should have realized I'd wandered into restricted territory, but by then my dogs were barking so loud I couldn't think straight.

The elevator, when I found it, was elegant in an understated way – all dark wood and soft lighting. No bright brass or mirrors like the tourist elevators. I was too tired to question my good fortune. I kicked off my boots, letting my screaming feet sink into that plush carpet, and started humming without thinking. It was an old lullaby my mother used to sing, the kind that lives in your bones and comes out when your guard is down.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding. I dragged my bags inside and slumped against the wall, already dreaming of a hot bath and a soft bed. The doors started to close and I was finally alone. Or I thought I was. Then a hand shot out—a big hand with rings that could double as brass knuckles—and stopped the doors.

Remember what I said about Significant Moments? This was mine, walking into that elevator in a black suit that probably cost more than my yearly salary, with a pink silk scarf at his throat and eyes bluer than a Minnesota winter behind tinted glasses. They looked at me and saw everything.

Elvis Presley. The King himself.

Time seemed to slow down, the way it does in dreams or car crashes. The man who stepped into that elevator made the air change – made everything change. You know how people talk about electricity crackling between two people? I'd always thought that was just romance novel nonsense. I was wrong.

He wasn't alone—a redheaded man built like a brick wall stood beside him, hand resting on what I was pretty sure was a gun. But it was Elvis who filled that elevator like smoke from a Tennessee cigarette, making everything else fade into background noise.

You know how sometimes you think you understand something, but then you realize you didn't understand it at all? That's how it was with Elvis's fame. I'd never been one of those screaming fans, never understood what all the fuss was about. But standing there in that elevator, watching him smile at me like he had all the secrets to the universe tucked behind those perfect teeth, I got it. Boy, did I get it.

"You've had a long day, honey.” His voice was pure Memphis nightclub, smooth as whiskey and twice as intoxicating. It seemed to bypass my ears entirely and go straight to parts of my anatomy that had no business responding to a stranger's voice that way.

I said yes and no and then yes again. My heart was doing double time, and I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. Every nerve ending seemed suddenly, acutely aware of his presence.

He smiled then, and it was like watching the sun come up. My knees actually wobbled. I finally understood why they put velvet ropes between Elvis and his fans. That man was a lethal weapon.

"The beds here are good," he said. Even the way he leaned against the elevator wall was poetry, all controlled power and casual grace.

I looked at the ceiling because I could not look at him. My stomach moved in ways it should not move. The elevator felt smaller somehow, the air between us alive with possibility.

"Pardon my manners," he said, and even that slight motion sent another wave of his cologne my way. "I'm Elvis, and this here's my pal Red. Who might you be?"

"Valerie," I managed, my voice barely more than a whisper. I was achingly conscious of how close he was, how the silk of his suit caught the light when he moved.

"Val-e-rie." He drew out each syllable like he was tasting them, turning my plain-Jane name into something rich and strange. The way his mouth shaped the sounds made my stomach flip. "A pretty name for a pretty little songbird."

The pet name caught me off guard until I remembered – the humming. He'd heard me humming while I waited for the elevator. Heat crept up my neck. His eyes hadn't left my face, and I could feel that gaze like a physical touch.

"I got ears like a well-tuned radar dish," he said, as if reading my mind. Each word seemed to hover in the air between us. "In town for a show?"

"An audition," I admitted, trying to ignore how my skin tingled every time he shifted position. "For Sinatra's show. I'm... I'm filling in for a friend."

Something flickered in his expression. "That right?" His gaze swept over me again, slower this time, more deliberate. It felt like being touched by velvet. "And what will you be singing for Ol' Blue Eyes?"

I gave him my prepared answer about standards and medleys, trying not to let on that I barely knew the material. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but made my stomach drop like I'd missed a step going downstairs.

"A classic set list. You'll do great, honey."

The elevator slowed to a stop. Elvis moved past me toward the door, so close that the fabric of his suit jacket brushed my arm. That brief contact sent electricity skating across my skin. His cologne – something spicy and smoky – wrapped around me like an embrace. He paused in the doorway to look back at me and his eyes were dark and full of something I did not understand but wanted to.

"Knock ‘em dead, songbird."

Then he was gone, leaving nothing but that spicy scent and the memory of blue eyes that seemed to see right through me. I sagged against the elevator wall, my knees finally giving up the fight against gravity.

Now I understood. God help me, did I understand. All those screaming girls, all those tears and Elvis-induced hysteria – it made perfect sense. The real thing, in person, was like staring into the sun. No wonder women fainted.

I made it to my room on autopilot, barely registering the route. Inside, I face-planted onto the bed, my mind spinning like a 45 on a turntable. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him – the way he'd looked at me, the curve of his smile, the way he'd said my name like he was savoring it. The memory of his cologne lingered in my nose, and my arm still tingled where his jacket had brushed it.

I'd come to Vegas to audition for Sinatra. I'd come to maybe, finally, make something of myself. I hadn't come to get turned inside out by Elvis Presley in an elevator.

That night, I lay on the bed and thought about his eyes and his voice and the way he moved. I did not want to think about these things but they came anyway.

I knew then that Vegas would be different than I had planned. The elevator had changed everything. But that is how it is with elevators and beautiful men who wear rings and pink silk. They change things. And you can only ride up or down and see where they take you. Taglist: @whositmcwhatsit  @ellie-24  @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain  @be-my-ally  @vintageshanny  @prompted-wordsmith @precious-little-scoundrel @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @austinbutlersgirl67@lala1267 @thatbanditqueen @dontcrydaddy @lovingdilfs @elvispresleygf @plasticfantasticl0ver @ab4eva @presleysweetheart @chasingwildflowers @elvispresleywife @uh-all-shook-up @xxquinnxx @edgeofrealitys-blog@velvetprvsley @woundmetender @avengen @richardslady121 @presleyhearted @kendralavon7 @18lkpeters@lookingforrainbows @elvisalltheway101 @sissylittlefeather @eliseinmemphis@tacozebra051 @thetaoofzoe @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @crash-and-cure @ccab @i-r-i-n-a-a @devilsflowerr@dirtyelvisfant4sy @elvislittleone @foreverdolly @getyourpresleyfix@gayforelvis @headfullofpresley @h0unds-of-h3ll @hipshakingkingcreole @p0lksaladannie @doll-elvis @tacozebra051 @richardslady121 @jaqueline19997 @myradiaz@livelaughelvis @deke-rivers-1957 @jhoneybees @atleastpleasetelephone @eapep @elvispresleywife @that-hotdog @landlockedmermaid77 @sissylittlefeather @kawaiiwitchy

[eptodaytommorowforever]

Rare live candid ep fans photo of Elvis Presley Introducing The little girl with the high voice is soprano backing singer Kathy Westmoreland as Elvis Presley always introduced her here on the 14th Of December on the Hilton stage in Vegas NV In 1975.

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

You Ain’t Woman Enough [To Take My Man]

Fandom: Elvis Presley, American Musician

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Reader

Characters: Elvis Presley, Reader, Original Female Character, Can be Kathy Westmoreland if you want

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 4106

Summary: You’ve come to tell me something, you say I ought to know.

Tags/Warnings: Established Relationship, Reader Has A Name, Marriage, Cheating, Adultery, Affairs, Serial Cheating, Kissing, Nudity, Shower Stuff, Guilt, Angst, Hell Hath No Fury etc etc, Song Fic, You Ain’t Woman Enough [To Take My Man] // Loretta Lynn

Notes: Ive decided to use actual names instead of YN in these reader Fics x

ELVIS MASTERLIST // SONG LINK // HALLOWEEN MASTERLIST

The suite was quiet as you entered, almost perfectly still just as your husband had left it. The curtains were closed though you doubted they’d even been opened today and the air conditioning was on making the room a crisp sixty-eight degrees. It made you shiver. After all, you had spent weeks back at home alone getting used to being in rooms that didn’t feel like a meat locker. Still, as the goosebumps formed on your flesh and the scent of his cologne hit your nostrils you were happy to be there. As you moved through the room you noticed your suitcase had already made it upstairs and though you knew you only had a small amount of time to get downstairs before Elvis went back on for his second show you didn’t find yourself rushing. No, even though you were happy to be reunited after weeks apart you wanted to at least look presentable so you heaved your suitcase up onto the bed so that you could rifle through it. However you had only managed to pull a couple of items out when you heard the door open and expecting it to be one of the boys you turned around ready to tell them you’d not be long. Yet when you looked around you found it wasn’t one of the boys at all, it was another woman, one you didn’t recognise.

She crept in, straightening up once she turned around and found you watching her, a blush on her sun-kissed cheeks.

‘Oh sorry,’ she mumbled, ‘I didn’t know anyone was in here.’

‘It’s fine. Can I help you?’ you replied.

‘No, it’s um nothing,’ she said dropping her gaze to the floor as she ran a hand through her blown-out brunette locks, ‘it’s fine I was just-’

‘Looking for Elvis?’ you asked which finally made her bright blue eyes snap up to meet yours, guilt swimming through them as they stared back at you.

‘No, uh,’ she said no doubt scrambling for an excuse yet you were quicker, having been down this road before you had learned to distinguish between the two types of women who circulated around your husband. Those who could be trusted and those who couldn’t. And those who couldn’t all seemed to harbour the same actions whenever you were around, watching you with wide-eyed guilt, dropping their gazes, or feigning stupidity or ignorance. Whether it was for your benefit or theirs you weren’t sure but sometimes, when Elvis wasn’t around, you grew tired of it. You grew tired of pretending not to know why a woman would be sneaking into your husband's private suite, not when you knew that there was no way your husband would’ve allowed her to come anywhere near his room tonight. No, he would’ve orchestrated it so that your paths never crossed which meant that her presence here was of her own choosing and so you decided to do away with pretences.

‘So what are you doing in his suite then? You’re aware it’s private, right?’ you challenged which appeared to make something change inside her, whatever coyness she had been going to attempt disappearing, an attitude in its place. Ah, you realised. She’s one of them. As you had become an expert in fishing out the woman who couldn’t be trusted you had also started to put them into categories. There were the innocent ones, the ones who fell for his charm and charisma like you had many moons ago and even though they knew it was wrong they succumbed all the same, guilt coursing through them at the mere thought of you. There were bold ones, ones who weren’t really expecting whatever they had to go anywhere but were making the most of it whilst they still had his attention. They too had guilt but it was different, rationalised that at the end of the day, he still chose you. And then there were ambitious ones, ones that had fallen for him too but now sought to lay claim. Ones that didn’t feel guilty because in their eyes you were the other woman, the one keeping them from what they wanted. These were the worst of the bunch, mostly because they almost always sought to make it sure that you were aware of their presence. Hence why she was standing in front of you. Indisputable proof.

‘If you must know he asked to see me,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest. You eyed her for a minute, musing over the fact you’d probably seen more fabric on one of your daughter's dolls than she was had on right now though she’d probably spent hours agonising over just what to wear. For both yours and Elvis’s attention presumably. As you finally caught her eye you found she was watching you exasperatedly, no doubt wondering why you hadn't torn into her. Wondering how you could remain calm when both of you knew what was going on. Sometimes you wondered how you could do it yourself but to see how your lack of reaction was getting under her skin you continued, the only words that you offered were, ‘Oh sure.’

‘He did,’ she said snappily making you smile.

‘Honey my husband is many things but he isn't stupid,’ you said moving back to your suitcase so that you could continue unpacking. To come here and goad you was one thing, to distract you from the task at hand was another.

‘What's that supposed to mean?’ she asked.

‘It means that he asked me to come to Vegas today. Do you really think he’d risk having another woman in his room?’ you said, turning around as you folded a dress over your arm. Her face went cold then, any trace of guilt wiped from it confirming your suspicions she had chosen to do this off her own back, ‘no. My bet is you thought now was a good time to come and tell me the truth right?’

You waited, looking at her expectantly as you continued to unpack. When she didn’t say anything, you sighed and said, ‘Well go on then. I haven’t got all day to wait around for whatever you’re gonna say.’

‘Elvis and I are dating,’ she said proudly, a smile tugging at her lips.

‘Is that right?’ you asked, finally stopping in your movements to look at her.

‘Yeah it is,’ she said, ‘have been for a while.’

‘Wow,’ you said sarcastically, ‘and uh, let me guess he loves you? Promised you the world you and you're just here to let me know before it all gets outta hand?’

‘It’s the right thing to do,’ she said.

‘And is dropping your panties for a married man also the right thing to do?’ you asked. You refused to show your irritation outwardly but it didn’t half stick in your craw whenever they laid on the martyr act. The girls-girl only looking out for your best interests, like they had been thinking of you and your family when they’d let him talk his way into their beds.

‘Look I didn’t have to come here. I didn’t have to tell you,’ she started making your irritation crash like a wave inside you, finally seeping out into your tone.

‘Oh but you wanted to right?’ you challenged, ‘that’s why you came looking for me when you knew I’d be here alone. Let me guess you’re just letting me know so I can plan ahead. Bow out gracefully, right?’

‘It’s better than being dumped,’ she scoffed.

‘True,’ you said, ‘but then again that would mean me allowing someone to take what's mine. And I can tell you now that'll happen over my dead body.’

‘He doesn’t love you anymore,’ she snapped.

‘Is that right?’ you mused, genuinely trying not to laugh. You knew it wasn’t funny, the idea of your husband lying beside this twenty-something and filling her head with the idea they had a future yet you couldn’t help but laugh. Because they fell for it every time.

You knew how of course. It was that same silver tongue that had gotten you into his bed, the ring on your finger, the marriage that you had. He had wormed his way into your life the way he did to theirs but there were differences because for all the promises he gave them, he gave you twenty more. For all the times he told them he loved them he made sure you were loved in every way possible. It wasn’t exactly painless, the idea that he could flout your marriage vows so easily would always hurt, but you had learned to deal with it because you knew that they didn’t mean anything, not really. Because time and time again you were the one he chose. Maybe you were a fool to let him. To turn a blind eye to it all. But when it was over, when he’d had his fill of whatever contact or affection he needed he always came back, more the man you married than before.

‘He told me he just wants out,’ she sneered, ‘he just doesn’t want to pay you your money.’

‘Honey,’ you said knowing full well your tone was fully laced with condescension but unable to care, ‘if you believe that you’re dumber than a box of rocks.’

She scoffed at that, her mouth falling into a tight scowl that made it look foreign against her pretty features. You sighed before you said, ‘you think I’m lying? More to the point do you really think you’re the first?’

At that her face flicked with uncertainty, your words calling into question whatever she had assumed to be fact, casting doubt she hadn't anticipated. It was cruel really and if she hadn't been so cocky, so determined to ruin your life, you might’ve even taken pity on her. After all, she was just a kid, one whose head had been filled with nonsense that she was too naïve to see couldn’t possibly be the truth.

‘Do you really think that if he wanted to go he wouldn’t just leave? That if he was so unhappy with me I’d force him to stay? He knows that if he doesn’t want to be in this marriage I sure as hell wont force him to be. And I'm sure whatever money he has to pay for our family he could earn back in a minute,’ you said. Again you watched as pain flicked across her features, guilt finally settling with her at the mention of your kids. Yet you didn’t let up. You refused to, ‘he has no intention of leaving me and whatever yarn he spins to get you into bed is between you and him. Hell darlin’, he’s probably as surprised as I am that it actually works.’

At that you offered a small laugh one that made her brows knit together as she tried to hold back whatever emotions she was feeling in front of you. It almost made you feel sorry for her. Almost. Yet you still needed to make sure she got the picture.

‘Elvis loves me and why his head may get turned every now and then he always comes crawling back, promising it won’t happen again until the next young thing in a tight skirt walks by,’ you said, ‘now a weaker woman would probably give up on him but I’m not weak and I sure as hell ain't gonna step aside and watch you ruin my marriage you hear me?’

She stayed quiet, that scowl still on her face though it looked as though it was holding back whatever she was scared to let burst out of her in front of you. Whether that anger or tears you weren’t sure. If anything you didn’t really care, you had said your piece. Though for whatever reason you felt the tiniest amount of compassion swill in you. After all, you were a seasoned veteran in the game of loving Elvis Presley, didn’t it fall to you to show her the ropes?

‘I will however offer you some advice,’ you said finally turning away from her and continuing with what you were doing before she came in, a slight act of mercy that allowed her to release the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. You heard it come out, shaky and pathetic, before her voice cut it off, her words coming out snarky as she replied, ‘Oh yeah, what's that?’

‘Don’t tell him you came here tonight,’ you said and as you pulled out a stunning blue dress, deciding that would be what you would wear at tomorrow night's show you heard her scoff.

‘Why afraid it’ll make him kick you to the kerb?’ she said, the scowl she had perfected back in full force as you turned around. You didn’t bother moving towards her, instead, you moved to the closet, sliding the door back until your husband’s vast wardrobe was on show, your dress slotting in perfectly next to his clothes, an action that made her eye twitch with irritation.

‘Oh honey,’ you said with a condescending smile, ‘it’s not me I’m scared for.’

And with that final remark she stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard behind her that the sliding door of the closet rattled in its tracks. You however couldn’t bring yourself to offer more than an eyeroll, her actions reminding you of your daughter who had a tendency to pitch a similar style of fit whenever she didn’t get her own way though of course she had the excuse of being three years old. You knew you should probably let it bother you. That the idea of another woman coming to tell you your husband didn’t want you any more should shake you to your core but it didn’t. You refused to let it because if you did it now you'd have to let it every damn time he conceded to be weak. And you refused to be weak too.

After that you busied yourself with unpacking and though you did head downstairs you made sure it was when Elvis was on stage, after all, there were things more interesting to you tonight than your husband's performance. Like finding out just who the girl was. That was how you’d come to find him on stage with her, laughing and joking as if nothing had even happened. And in an instant any thought you’d had about playing nice left your body because you had meant what you said. You weren’t going to stand aside and let her take him but now you were actively going to ensure she didn’t have the chance.

That thought came to you again later that night as you heard him call your name, the bathroom door opening as he said, ‘Lor, ya in here?’

‘In here,’ you called listening as he moved into the bathroom, clothes dropping to the floor as he went before you finally heard the glass door click open and then shut as his naked body slid in behind you, his arms ensnaring your waist.

‘Hi there,’ he mumbled as his lip met your neck.

‘Hi,’ you breathed sinking into him as he peppered kisses along your shoulder before you felt his hand snake down your slippery skin cupping your sex which caused you to shriek, ‘Elvis!’

‘I missed ya,’ he said as if it was your own fault not to have expected it.

‘I can see,’ you giggled wiggling your ass against his cock that was already growing rigid against you.

‘Joe told me you got here in between shows,’ he said his arousal not yet pressing enough that he felt the need to forgo chit-chat, ‘how come ya didn’t come down?

‘Oh I did but you know how it is when you haven’t seen folks in a while. I ended up bumping into people and we just got chatting,’ you said. That wasn’t untrue. You had spoken to some people, using carefully selected questions to get the information you craved without alerting them to what you were up to. You see you hadn’t been lying when you had told her to be careful. After all, you had done this dance a hundred times before and you knew all the steps. You knew if you challenged Elvis about his behaviour it would only get ugly. No, you needed to be smart. To orchestrate the situation so you got what you wanted but he was the one who felt like he had made the decision. And that was a skill you’d become an expert at.

‘Are they more important than me?’ he said and for a moment you were glad you were facing away from him, your expression liable to give you away as you thought about how he prioritised people in his life.

‘Of course not,’ you said, ‘but I knew I’d have you all to myself soon so I figured I’d play nice. Let them have you while they can.’

‘Ever the diplomat,’ he mused, his lips moving back to your neck for a moment. You knew now was the time to broach it, with him happy and pliant coming off the buzz of the show and the excitement of having you back. Yet you needed to do it carefully and so as he kissed you, you picked at your nails, removing the non-existent dirt from under them as you said, ‘but it wasn’t all bad. Actually, I got talking to one of your band members.’

‘Yeah?’ he asked, stopping his actions and resting his chin on your shoulder as he watched you carefully.

‘Yeah I don’t think we’ve met before though,’ you said, ‘they must be new.’

‘Yeah, there’s a couple of new faces around. We lucked onto some good talent for this season,’ he agreed.

‘Mmm, pretty too,’ you said, and though your words were casual you felt him stiffen, ‘I think her name is Kathy?’

‘Oh?’ he asked airily and though you could feel the heat of his blue eyes watching you you kept your face casual.

‘We had a nice chat,’ you said, ‘she told me you’ve really made this gig special.’

‘That right?’ he asked flatly.

‘Mmmhmm,’ you said.

‘Lori,’ he said ruefully.

‘I just think it’s a shame,’ you said continuing as though he hadn't spoken.

‘A shame?’ he asked confused.

‘Yeah well I know I said I didn’t manage to see the show before I came back up here but I caught some of it and well to think of her stuck being backing vocals when she could be great on her own is just a shame. Don’t you think?’ you asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said quietly, ‘yeah you’re right.’

‘I sure think so,’ you agreed. You could feel him hesitate behind you, no doubt trying to figure out exactly what you knew or whether to let it go but after a minute he pulled back and you turned to look at him for the first time since he had gotten in.

‘Everything alright?’ you asked with a frown that forced him to fake a smile and nod.

‘Yeah, I’m gonna get out okay?’ he said.

‘Okay,’ you said, placing a wet hand on his chest that he grabbed, taking it to his lips so he could kiss your fingertips. A feat that brought a genuine smile to your face.

‘Do you want food?’ he asked.

‘Yes please,’ you said.

‘Okay,’ he said leaning in to kiss you properly before he said, ‘take your time. I’ll order for us both.’

‘Okay,’ you smiled.

And then he was gone, moving from the room at lightning speed only just managing to throw a towel around his waist as he headed to the phone, yanking the receiver from its cradle before he punched in the number he wanted rather harshly. It didn’t take long for the line to connect, a sweet young voice saying, ‘hello?’

‘You told my wife?’ he asked in an angry whisper, listening to Kathy as she scrambled to sit up.

‘It wasn’t like that-’ she protested.

‘What the hell did you say to her?’ he snapped.

‘Not much I promise,’ she exclaimed.

‘How could you go behind my back like that?’ he said angrily.

‘But I thought-’

‘What that if you meddled in my business I’d just fall into line? That I’d just up and leave my wife because you’d decided you’d had enough-’

‘No of course not!’ she cried.

‘Because that’s not how this shit works you hear me? And if you don’t get that then maybe I was wrong about you,’ he spat.

‘Elvis,’ she whispered but he was on a roll. Too angry to bother listening.

‘You know what? We’re done,’ he snapped.

‘Elvis-’ he heard her whimper but he had already slammed the phone back onto the hook anger bubbling through him until he heard you say, ‘was that room service?’

‘What?’ he asked turning to find you standing in the bathroom doorway, unaware as to how much you had heard though on the off chance it might have been nothing he said, ‘uh no… the uh line was busy.’

‘Shoot,’ you frowned.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll call down in a minute.’

You smiled and nodded, padding into the room and climbing into bed dressed in the nightie you had donned in the time since he had left the bathroom. Elvis watched you, wondering how you could be so calm when he was sure that you knew if not all at least some of it. As you offered him a sweet smile he felt his heart tug, the guilt creeping in as it did every time. He moved to throw his towel on a chair in the corner, changing into the pyjamas you’d lovingly laid out for him like the good wife you were. As he slipped in beside you, allowing you to cuddle into him for the first time in weeks, that thought consumed him.

He didn’t know why he did it. How his head could get turned time and time again when you were all he could’ve ever asked for. You were the perfect wife, the perfect mother, a friend, a lover and yet he never felt satisfied. Time and time again he’d think that the grass was greener only to find that they weren’t you. And so he’d come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. At least he used to, now it was this complicated dance the two of you did. The one where you pretended not to know what he had been doing so long as he nipped it in the bud when you asked. It was a flawed system but it was one that seemed to hurt you less. And if he couldn’t stop himself from hurting you, he’d at least try and make it somewhat better. He knew he was weak but he could give you that much. Which is why when you looked at him with knowing eyes and words that hovered around accusation but never landed he knew it was time to move on.

‘You know I’ve been thinkin’,’ he said clearing his throat which made you look up towards him, ‘about what you said.'

‘About what baby?’ you said laughing to yourself how you made fun of his floozies for feigning innocence when you were better at it than any of them.

‘Ka-’ he said stumbling over her name and instead opting for, ‘my backing singer.’

‘Oh?’ you asked, your fingers playing with his chest hair as you waited for him to tell you what you knew was coming.

‘Yeah, you’re right. She’s talented…maybe she’d be better tryin’ to get her own solo thing goin’,’ he said.

‘Oh no doubt,’ you agreed.

‘Maybe I’ll give one of the talent scouts in LA a call tomorrow,’ he said hesitantly, ‘help her out ya know.’

‘Why aren’t you sweet,’ you mused, your nervous heart finally settling as everything clicked into place. You knew it was harsh. You knew that you should’ve just been satisfied with him breaking up with her but as you pictured her smug face, the one that had expected you to roll over you couldn’t help but smile.

‘I just wanna help,’ Elvis said.

‘Well I’m sure it will. Sometimes people just need a helping hand you know,’ you said.

‘Yeah, I know.’

Women like you they're a dime a dozen you can buy 'em anywhere,

For you to get to him I'd have to move over and I'm gonna stand right here,

It'll be over my dead body so get out while you can,

Cause you ain't woman enough to take my man.

ELVIS TAGS

@girlblogger2002 @sania562 @caitlin1996 @literally-just-elvis-fics @notstefaniepresley @artlesson8892 @18lkpeters @velvetelvis @jaqueline19997 @elvispresleyxoxo @amydarcimarie @presleyenterprise @everythingelvispresley @elvispresleywife @lillypink @richardslady121 @lettersfromvenus @louisejoy86 @ccab

[missmaywemeetagain]

you mentioned you love june and i'm curious how you feel about the other women in elvis' life? do you like priscilla and the relationship she had with him? and anita? linda? sheila? ginger?

Hello, dearest Nonnie! What a question! I think it's safe to give a huge disclaimer here that I am jealous of any woman who was loved by Elvis (lol), but for some reason, inexplicable or not, I find some of them delightful while others just rub me the wrong way. I will also say I can only imagine how insanely complicated, wonderful, and frustrating a relationship with that man could be and that all these women probably just did their best in the moment. My personal opinion is just that and is mainly based on my own ✨vibes.✨

And yes, it's no secret June is my favorite! I love her tenacity and spunk, how she didn't take a lot of shit, and while it breaks my heart, I respect the hell outta her for sticking to her values and letting him go when Elvis was being a dick and ignored her for months. Her book is beautifully written and such a great glimpse into a pivotal time in his life.

I also really like Kathy Westmoreland. I think spiritually and musically they connected on a wonderful level, and even though their affair didn't last super long, she was in his life longer than most women as a friend/colleague, and there is something telling and lovely about that. She was loyal to him until the very end and long after.

Shelia seems lovely and gave us some of the juiciest tidbits about him, and I'll always love her for that! 🤭 Their relationship was interesting, especially concerning how he seemed to play her against Linda and she didn't really give a care. I get the impression she just went with the flow, they enjoyed each other's company, and she knew it wasn't going to be long term. I like her.

Now the others...now keep in mind this is just my personal opinion, and I know others feel differently and that is totally fine! I'm not looking to war with anyone LOL.

Linda drives me bonkers as a person. Maybe it's the whole "beauty queen" mentality or her attitude on social media, but the woman is just not for me. Reading her book did give me more insight, and I really do think she and Elvis loved each other and that she was there for him during some really difficult times. But I just don't like her and hate how she seems to capitalize on her relationship with him to this day in a very "me me me!" manner. She's my least fave of them all.

In a similar matter, I find his relationship with Priscilla very complicated and her relationship to his legacy even more so. I don't fall staunchly into either the "hate" or "love" camps for her, but do take everything she says or does related to him with a grain of salt because she seems to drift back and forth in her stories in a way that suits her in the moment. I don't love how she constantly seems to ride the coattails of his legacy. I hate that she was so young when they met and how he seemed to be okay with that (but that's another discussion entirely), and I think her youth plays a huge role in why the relationship played out the way it did. While I think they had love for each other, I feel like that love was based on idealized images of the other and what they wanted them to be vs. who they really were. I'm sure I could wax on and on about them but I'm not going to do that here. I don't love her, and I don't hate her totally, either. But I one hundred percent don't buy the weird Camelot-esque picture Graceland, EPE, and she tries to sell about their relationship a lot of the time.

Now Ginger...poor Ginger gets a bad rap and don't think she deserves it in the least. There is no scenario in my mind where I think she could've "saved" him and I don't feel she was negligent or conspiratorial in any way. However, I do think she was young and in way over her head. She wanted to maintain some semblance of her normal life and Elvis was just not having that, and it caused some major dissonance. He was very much not in a good space and she got swept up in the madness. The stuff with her parents and the money is a bit suspicious, but I don't necessarily think that was on Ginger. I think she loved him (though maybe not quite the way he loved her?) and I absolutely feel devastated for her that she was the one who found him. Talk about traumatic. I also respect the hell out of her for waiting until her children were grown to write her book and that she is a defender of him and Lisa to this day.

I don't know a ton about Anita (I haven't read her book yet), but the vibe of them together just feels weird to me. I feel like he really led her on and get the impression he had a sort of idealized version of this "pretty little Southern Belle wife" that his mama approved of and then mama died and he went into the army and he clung to that image like crazy. Not to say they didn't love each other! But the chemistry doesn't quite hit for me and I think it got pretty toxic. (And I've listened to that recorded call between them too many times and her voice annoys me LOL.) But she put up with a LOT of shit (I mean they all did, tbh...). I'm a bit amazed she stuck it out as long as she did.

Of course, there are so many other women who were in his life and it would be a novel to talk about them all! One thing I always try to remind myself is all of them seemed to really love him and he cared about them, too, and no one can take that away from them. So even if I don't personally like some of them, they were still a fixture in his life and it matters. My opinion, in the scheme of things, means nothing! I also don't love ragging on women, especially when at the end of the day, I know nothing about what truly went on between those two people in their relationship. And god knows that man could be difficult, so I try not to fault any of them for his sometimes very shitty behavior.

Anyway, thank you for the question, Non, and I hope my answer wasn't too rambly! 💋 I do miss doing these asks!

[joons]

i'm sorry, i've just been reading some elvis stories that ~I FIND~ very funny. from kathy westmoreland's book:

Afterwards, just before the second and final show as I was waiting in the wings to go onstage, Elvis surprised me as he jumped loudly to my right. I jumped backwards and just missed hitting a light/curtain control box. He stood in white with his arms stretched wide open, his legs wide apart and a huge grin that was phony on purpose, as if he were making fun of something. "Well ... are you ready to have an affair with a married man?"

he was so sick to death of being married, lmaoooo

[hooked-on-elvis]

Oh... I'm so happy to see this recent picture of Kathy! I had to share it. It was shared on her Facebook Fanpage early this month, September 1, 2024.

I really appreciate Kathy being active on her Facebook fan page. She shares the sweetest memories of El, things she didn't find the opportunity to share in her book, besides it's always amazing to see El's friends doing well. She's 79 y.o. today. ♡

This one memory below made me laugh but at the same time got me frightened... because next year I'm turning 30! (I won't ever judge Elvis again for being sad when he turned 40 bc I feel it now, it's silly but yeah... humans!) 🥹 I won't lie I'm sad to leave my 20s behind soon but we shouldn't complain about aging. It means things are going as they should. That's another reason why this memory of Kathy made my heart sink -- El not being here. :( Anyhow... here.

Kathy was born August 10, 1945.

Introducing "the little girl with the high voice singing", Kathy Westmoreland. 1975.

Elvis with Kathy Westmoreland. On May 31, 1975 (2:30pm and 8.30pm), Elvis performed at the Von Braun Civic Center, in Huntsville, Alabama. This picture is from the afternoon concert.

[presleygarden]

story by kathy westmoreland 💭 august, 1970

“I feel like I can’t get close enough to you.

Even though I feel more aware of you and closer to you than any person I have ever met— I can’t get close enough.

Dammit, Kathy, this love I have for you, it’s just so different! It’s every kind of love I can imagine and I need you. You already belong to me.

You’ll always belong to me.”

He spoke to me in a slightly raised voice.

He watched me for a reaction as he delivered a smirky smile and shook his head, blowing out a huge burst of air from his lips.

I was at a loss for words.

Lord, what was he saying?

What did he just say?

I belong to him?

“You’ll understand it...farther along.” He added.

“The first time I saw you, met you, I couldn’t move.

I just stood there like an idiot, and could hardly speak. I just knew I ‘knew’ you, and I still know that I’ve been waiting for you all of my life.

I don’t understand it.

But you know what I did?

When I got into my dressing room I just thought, ‘Oh, boy! I’m in trouble! I’m in big trouble now. Oh, God! Why didn’t they send me a big ugly soprano?’ “

As he said this, he slapped his forehead so hard that he actually fell backwards.

We both broke out in the loudest laughter at the worst possible moment.

Once we gathered ourselves, he continued.

“I’ve never been so ‘aware’ of anyone before, Kathy.

I don’t know what “we” are about yet or what this means, but I know I love you and I know you understand me. And I know I understand you!”

He then whispered—as if he feared my answer—by hanging his head slightly while looking away before he spoke, “I want you to stay with me tonight.”

I felt an instant sense of discomfort at his request. He could tell I was uncomfortable with the idea of staying the night with a married man.

As if he was trying to put my mind at ease, he reached out to me and pulled me in for a tight hug that lingered as he spoke.

“I can’t remember where or when you happened to me, honey. Why don’t I remember not loving you?

It’s as if you have always been apart of me.”

side note: something bout them leo girlies 🌩️🌊🤍🪽

[doll-elvis]

“Elvis just stood there, pointed at me from across the room and proclaimed, “You’ll always belong to me Kathy.” He was looking right through me, “You’ll understand it farther along.” I really had an inexplicable feeling that this was not just a simple jealous statement because in his eyes I saw the look of prophecy. Did he know something I didn’t know? His statement did in fact end up being prophetic because here I am, even ten years later, appearing at his fan club birthday celebrations” - Kathy Westmoreland

catch us in ten years still keeping the elvis tag alive🫡

(excerpt from “Elvis and Kathy)

[suspiciousmindsxo]

⚘️Elvis with the Sweet Inspirations, Kathy Westmoreland, and the Stamps Quartet!

[aliengoth3]

What about him being quoted as saying it's best to get girls when they're young because then you can raise them into how you prefer? And what about him mentioning training a woman to Kathy Westmoreland and Billy Smith?

And what about him having girls who were all 18+?

I'm unsure where that quote is from (please understand that not being from the US makes it hard for me to get books about him)

It doesn't seem to me that he ever trained anyone tho, did he?

He didn't train June, Anita, Dixie, Ginger, Linda just to name a few.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Ch. 1 - The Handsome Stranger

Summary: The year is 1969. The place is the International Hotel. Valerie Pedretti, an aspiring singer, has a chance encounter with one Elvis Presley in an elevator that will change her life forever. Notes: To me, 1967-1971 EP is kind of peak Elvis, and so I wanted to write a fic with him smack dab in that time period. In the 1969-1970 period, especially, Elvis was probably the most handsome and alluring man in the galaxy. Lots of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies in this one, but just roll with it because it's fun! I based Valerie, in a sense, off of a mixture of Kathy Westmoreland, Joyce Bova, and Linda Thompson. Kathy met the real Elvis for the first time in an elevator, and that really inspired this work. Priscilla exists in this universe but she and Elvis get a divorce far earlier than in real life. Theirs, in some ways like real life, is a marriage of convenience and an "arrangement." Lisa Marie does not exist in this universe.

Las Vegas, Nevada, 1969

*

Vegas was shimmering mirage of bad decisions just waiting to snare me—a sucker-punch I never saw coming. The lights, the noise, the impossible promise of it all crashed over me in kaleidoscopic waves as my cab cruised down the strip towards the International Hotel. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching slack-jawed as sequined showgirls and vacationers blurred by in streaks of neon and rhinestone.

The cabbie swerved to the curb with a jolt, snapping me out of my daze. "International Hotel," he barked, his voice an ice bath to my face. I shoved a crumbled wad of bills into his hand and  stumbled out and into a swarm of hairspray and cigar smoke congregating under the hotel's blazing marquee. Blinking in confusion, I took in the frenzied scene unfolding—beefy security shoving their way through the sea of pompadours, vendors hawking glossy headshots, teddy bears and "I 🖤 ELVIS" pins. The realization hit me like a freight train. This wasn't just any weekend at the International. It was the kickoff of Elvis Presley's residency. Ground zero for absolute Elvis mania.

The irritation set in, simmering beneath my skin. "Shit," I muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for forgetting. Of all the rotten luck. Out of all the times to visit Las Vegas, I had unwittingly chosen the kickoff of Elvis's shows—an event drawing crowds I had no desire to mingle with.

I wove through the throng, lugging my cumbersome suitcases behind me. Inside the lobby was even more chaotic—a swirling kaleidoscope of big-haired fans and cigarette smoke lingering over shag carpet. Elvis was everywhere, his angelic face beaming down from posters, gold records, life-sized cardboard cutouts. A veritable religious shrine. Groaning internally, I caught my bedraggled reflection in a mirrored column. Of course I would show up to the Presley Promised Land looking like something the cat dragged in. Normally I'd at least try to pull myself together for check-in, maybe swipe on some lipstick or fluff my chocolate curls into place. After all, I didn't want to look terrible in front of people dressed to the nines. But after the day I'd had, I couldn't muster the effort.

My flight from Chicago had been delayed six excruciating hours due to "mechanical issues," which apparently was airline-speak for "sit tight while we screw you over." By the time we finally took off, I'd already stress-eaten two sleeves of Oreos and read the in-flight magazine three mind-numbing times. To top it off, I'd spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse right before landing. Clearly, some divine power had it out for me today.

Feeling sweaty and vaguely nauseous, I trudged to the front desk. The angular blonde behind the counter, Brenda, barely glanced up from her well-thumbed issue of Variety as I approached.

"Welcome to the International Hotel. Checking in?" She smacked her gum, eyes never leaving her magazine.

"Yes, uh, reservation should be under Deena Lovelace."

That finally got her attention. Her penciled brows shot up as she inspected me, taking in the coffee stains and rumpled slacks. "Wait, you're Deena? The Deena who told me she booked for the Sinatra audition tomorrow?" The doubt was palpable.

I gritted my teeth into a tight smile. "No, actually. I'm her friend Valerie. Deena got sick at the last minute, some kind of exotic flu, so I'm filling in for her."

Suspicion clouded Brenda's face, but after a long beat she shrugged. "Huh. Well, takes all kinds, I guess." She signaled to a bellhop in a red monkey suit and thrust a key into my hand. "Room 2806, elevators are that way. If you need anything, ask for Hector."

Hector the bellhop scurried over and hoisted up my bags with surprising ease for such a slight guy. I made a weak attempt to protest, but he just grinned and ushered me through the cacophonous lobby to the first hallway. The doors slid open and I thanked him, pressing a few crumpled bills into his white-gloved hand.

“I can take it from here, Hector.”

As I walked along, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored wall and exhaled slowly. My nerves buzzed like an exposed wire as I thought about tomorrow's audition. Landing a spot in the Sinatra chorus line seemed about as likely as shooting the moon at this point. I barely knew the song Deena had been rehearsing for weeks, my go-go boots had a broken heel, and my voice was ragged from practicing the whole weekend.

But damn it, this was the first real shot I'd had in ages to claw my way out of the chambermaid grind and actually make something of myself. To prove Ma right for always saying I had stardust in my veins, even when it landed me more trouble than applause growing up. I had to at least try. For all those thankless nights warbling in dim lounges, waiting for my big break. For Deena, who I knew would kill for this chance.

I'd barely begun my little pep talk when someone brushed by me, sloshing their vodka tonic onto my sleeve and snapping me back to the present moment. I weaved through the crowd towards another inner hallway, clearing my throat.

I turned on my heel and started hoofing it towards my room. The hotel's layout was an absolute dizzying mess of twists and turns in every direction. My thudding, ungainly footsteps were muffled by the shag carpet and the dulled roar of fans congregating throughout the hotel.

As I trudged on, the ambiance shifted gradually. The hum of voices faded away, replaced by an overwhelming silence that signaled I was getting farther away from the bustling core. Exhaustion tugged at my bones while I navigated the maze of hallways. My room was somewhere in this labyrinth, but my bed felt worlds away at this point.

My steps sank into the plush carpet as I drifted into a quieter, dimly-lit corridor that seemed less traveled. Finally, I found myself alone in front of a bank of elevator doors. I stabbed the call button and waited impatiently, my arms aching from the weight of my overstuffed suitcases. God, why did I pack so much useless junk?

"Must be close now," I muttered out loud, my voice barely audible.

With barely a thought, I slipped out of my heels and bent my toes backwards and forwards, allowing my sore feet to relish the heavenly softness underfoot. It was soft, springy, and absolute relief for my aching soles. Automatically, I began humming a familiar, nameless tune under my breath - just a few sweet, absentminded notes I always turned to for comfort when I needed it. The thought of finally washing this endless day off my face and jumping into a crisp hotel bed was the only thing on my mind as the gilded doors opened with a tinny ding.

*

The cab was empty. Relieved to finally have a moment to myself, I dragged my heavy bags inside and slumped against the mirrored wall. As the doors started to slide closed, a large, ring-adorned hand suddenly shot out, halting them.

I straightened up with a jolt, my exhaustion replaced by a flash of irritation. Great, just what I needed, another overzealous Elvis fan trying to cram into my personal space bubble.

But as the interloper stepped into the elevator, my breath caught in my throat. Standing before me, in all his smoldering, technicolor glory, was the man himself. Elvis fucking Presley. The aura he gave off was undeniable, that much was sure. And I recognized his face immediately, the same one splashed all over the posters and knick knacks in the lobby. There he was, outshining the garishly glitzy elevator cab like a supernova eclipsing neon. And next to him, a well-built redheaded man, his hand resting at something shiny on his hip. Bodyguard, most likely. Quickly, I shoved my feet back into my heels, silently cursing myself for having taken them off in the first place.

I blinked hard, convinced I must be hallucinating from sheer fatigue. But no, he was unquestionably real, from the polished black shoes to the perfectly coiffed onyx hair that shone like quicksilver in the light. His lean, powerful frame was draped in an immaculately tailored black suit, a shock of pink peeking out from the silk scarf knotted at his throat. But it was the penetrating, electric blue gaze behind tinted shades that truly unraveled me.

I'd never considered myself much of an Elvis fan. Sure, I could appreciate a catchy tune like "Don't Be Cruel" or "Teddy Bear," but I'd always been immune to the mass hysteria he incited in his besotted admirers. Yet here, in such close proximity to his cosmic charisma and undeniable sex appeal, I finally understood. This man was a force of nature.

The redhead caught my awestruck stare and chuckled knowingly. "I see you've met my friend Jon Burrows here," he said with a wink.

But this was no "Jon Burrows." I knew who it was, plain as day. And his affect on me was immediate. Was I dreaming? My pulse started racing. Should I say something? And just how the hell did this happen? I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing hard. Play it cool, Valerie.

Any lingering self-consciousness about my frazzled appearance just evaporated in the sheer force of his presence. Though judging by the unmistakably mischievous curl of his lip, my travel-battered state didn't seem to faze him one bit. His perceptive eyes met mine, always accustomed to the spotlight but now studying me with curiosity. He took in my slumped posture and visible fatigue without a hint of judgment.

"You've had yourself a long day, haven't you, honey?" That voice, richer than a Mississippi smokehouse, sliced right through me.

I could only nod dumbly, a lump forming in my throat. "I—uh, yeah. No. I mean... yes, you could say that," I stammered like an idiot. Get it together!

His smile was pure bewitchment. "Well, you'll be tucked in in no time, I reckon. I hear the beds are mighty comfortable here." 

I looked up at the ceiling in silence, tracing the swirling pattern with my mind's eye and trying to give off a vibe of cool indifference. But my stomach was actually rolling.  

To my surprise, he kept talking. "Pardon my manners. My name's Elvis, and this is my pal Red. Who might you be?"

My throat locked tighter than a cowboy's bullwhip. "Valer—?"

"Valerie." He drew the name out, savoring each note and curve as if testing its ring. Each single syllable seemed to undergo some mystical transformation, alchemized to pure liquid amber from his lips. "A pretty name for a pretty little songbird." A ringed hand discreetly adjusted the bejeweled cups shielding his gaze, maybe hoping to make out my sides better.

Elvis was still steadily playing the blue suede shoes off me, from his elegant bent stance to the teasing half-smirk barely shadowing those indolently hungover features—the whole routine daring me to go chasing his bait. But I was far too busy trying not to spontaneously combust. I screwed my eyes tightly shut for a half-moment, desperately grasping to regain some sense of composure with an oxygen-deprived brain. 

How did he know...?

Dumb question, Sherlock. The very notion conjured images of me, sweat-glazed and punchy-tired, mindlessly vocalizing sweet lullabies straight from my Off-Off-Broadway chambermaid days while I waited for the elevator. Of course he would've overhead that.

I cinched my mouth into what I hoped was a blasé half-smile, refusing to come completely uncorked by his pet name. I replayed the embarrassing moment in my head, wishing I could dissolve into the elevator shaft. Every breath I pulled in seemed to crackle with electricity. First I randomly share an elevator with The Elvis Presley, and now he'd overheard my nervous vocalizing and was complimenting me on it?

"Baby." A rich, salt-cured chuckle melted off his tongue, resining deep in my nerve center. "I got ears like a well-tuned radar dish. You in town for a show?"

I shook my head slowly. "Technically yes, but no. Just an audition," I replied, my heart thundering in my ears. I hoped he couldn't hear it pounding.

"Who for, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired with that laser gaze.

I sucked in a steadying breath. Might as well take the bait since I'd already been barb-hooked but good. "I'm here for an audition, actually. Tomorrow. For Sinatra. I'm a singer. I mean, not like you, but hopefully one day..." I paused, unsure of how much backstory was worth burdening Elvis with. "Just got a last minute sub-in for a friend who's under the weather."

Something flickered across Elvis' handsome features before the mask of idle curiosity slid back into place. "Is that right?" His gaze raked over me again, slower this time, more deliberate. "And what will you be singing for Ol' Blue Eyes?"

Shit. Why was he asking me so many questions? My palms started to sweat as I racked my brain for a suitable answer. It wasn't like I could admit that I barely knew the material, that I was flying by the seat of my pants on a far-fetched favor for a friend. So I settled for a half-truth instead.

"Oh, you know. Just a little medley of standards. 'To Keep My Love Alive,' 'I Can Cook, Too,' that kind of thing."

Elvis nodded slowly, a shadow of a smirk still playing on his lips. "A classic set list. I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead, honey."

I started to stammer out a thanks, but Elvis was already moving past me towards the door as the elevator finally shuddered to a stop. He paused, throwing a glance back over his shoulder. There was a new intensity in his eyes when they met mine, a dark promise that made my toes curl involuntarily in my heels.

"I'll be rooting for you, songbird. Break a leg."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me weak-kneed and dizzy in a cloud of his smoky-spicy cologne. I sagged against the wall, trying to collect myself. What in the ever-loving hell had just happened? Had I honestly just been shamelessly eye-fucked by Elvis Presley in an elevator?

More importantly, why had I liked it so much?

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the treacherous thoughts as I finally stumbled out into the harshly lit hallway. It was late, I was tired, and I had an audition to rest up for. The last thing I needed was to dwell on smoldering looks from a celebrity Casanova that I had no business panting over in the first place.

But even as I went through the motions of unlocking my room and sinking face-first into the marshmallowy duvet, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the electric encounter in the elevator. The way Elvis had stared at me, equal parts scorching and inscrutable, as if he was trying to crack some tantalizing code. There was no way I could have imagined that. The effortless command he'd exuded, the sheer magnetism rolling off of him in waves. How ridiculously, unexpectedly good he still looked, hips swiveling in slow-motion in my mind's eye...

I punched a pillow in frustration, annoyed with my traitorous libido. This was so far beyond the scope of anything I'd anticipated when I'd agreed to sub in for Deena's audition. But one thing was certain—my time in Vegas was shaping up to be a hell of a lot more interesting than I'd bargained for. And something told me that a chance run-in on a hotel elevator was only the beginning.