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from-memphis-with-love · 28 days ago

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Songbird - Chapter 3 - The Morning After

Summary: Despite her better judgment, Valerie and Elvis are fast growing closer. He invites her for a late night dinner, where they share secrets and hamburgers.

Author's notes: This is my last rewritten chapter. Four and beyond are brand new. You'll love them. <3

My eyes snapped open, heart doing the cha-cha against my ribs. Have you ever woken from a dream so real you can still feel it clinging to your skin? That's what this was—except it wasn't a dream. The phantom sensation of his eyes on me, the ghost of almost-kisses, the memory of that voice wrapping around my name like honey dripping from a spoon.

I fumbled for my nightstand, nearly sending last night's untouched water crashing to the floor. There it was. The ticket. Glossy and real and solid proof that I hadn't imagined the whole thing. That I, Valerie Pedretti, professional nobody from Chicago, had somehow caught the eye of the most famous man in America.

"Christ," I said to the empty room. My voice sounded wrong. Everything was wrong. He was married. That was a fact, like death or gravity or the way my hands shook when I reached for the telephone. I groaned into my pillow, but the sound came out more like a strangled cat trying to sing opera. I needed to call Deena before my brain exploded all over these nice hotel sheets.

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

"Trust me, Dee, it is." I took a deep breath, the words crowding in my throat like teenagers at a concert. "I'm not coming home just yet. I've decided to stay here a few more days."

That woke her up. I could practically hear her sitting bolt upright, the bedsprings creaking through the line like an old dog stretching. "Sinatra?"

"No." I pressed my head against the window glass. It was cool. The sun was already fierce in the desert. I chewed my lip, tasting yesterday's lipstick. "I maybe kind of sort of accidentally had a ‘moment’ with a celebrity last night."

Dead silence. The kind of silence that happens right before an atomic bomb goes off. Then—

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"

I yanked the receiver away from my ear, wincing. In Chicago, dogs were probably howling. "Yep. I'm in deep doo-doo, Dee."

"Deep doo-doo?! More like the motherlode! Valerie, you little minx!" Deena's voice climbed higher with each word, like a cat scaling a hot tin roof. "How'd you manage a thing like that? I want every lurid detail. Emphasis on lurid."

I flopped back against the pillows, laughing despite myself. Good old Deena, 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."

I left out 'very married.' Some truths are better swallowed with a chaser of denial.

Deena made a sound like a teakettle having religious experience. "You're killing me! You can't just drop a bombshell like that and not give me a name! Landing a whale like that..." The line went quiet for a second, and I could practically hear the gears turning in her head. "Wait... is it Sinatra? Dean Martin? Joey Bishop?" Another pause. "Oh honey, please don't tell me it's Liberace. You know he doesn't go for—"

"I can't say."

"Since when do we have secrets?"

"Since now." The words came out hard and flat.

"Well hell." Deena laughed. Not a real laugh. "At least tell me if he's worth it."

I thought about his hands. His eyes. The way he moved like there was music in his bones.

"He's worth it."

"You sound sure."

"I'm not sure of anything." That was true. The only thing I was sure of was the ache in my chest when I thought of him. It was like hunger, but worse. "Maybe I'm crazy."

Deena huffed out a sigh that could've stripped paint. "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 burst out laughing. You could always count on Deena to cut straight to the chase with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. "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!"

I closed my eyes and thought about all the other women who’d probably had this same exact conversation with their best friends. The sun through the window was too bright. It suddenly all felt too much. "Maybe I'm just another girl to him."

"You're never just another anything."

We were quiet then. I could hear her breathing through the line. All those states away in Chicago, probably still in bed with her hair a mess and yesterday's makeup smeared under her eyes. She was my best friend. She was wrong about this.

“And even if you were, so what?” It was Deena who broke the quiet. "Look, 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..."

The laughter died in my throat. Because there it was, the ghost we hadn't named yet.

Andy.

Deena's voice softened like butter in the sun. "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."

Andy. Just thinking his name was like stepping into a time machine - back to high school dances and drive-in movies and dreams small enough to fit in a burger joint uniform pocket. Sweet, goofy, going-nowhere-fast Andy. The kind of guy who thought putting on a tie meant wearing his good Arby's visor.

If I squinted hard enough, Andy's Arby's visor almost looked like a crown. Almost. He 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 as an old shoe, familiar as my own reflection. About as exciting as watching paint dry in February.

But Elvis... Elvis was pure electricity in a black leather jacket. He made me feel like I could set the world on fire with just a smile. 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 or remembering why you shouldn't.

Deena, bless her heart, could read my silence like a book. "Val, 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 gnawed my lip, considering. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to stop being a good girl, always doing the safe thing, the smart thing. Maybe it was time to take a chance on something wild and wonderful, consequences be damned.

That's the thing about consequences, though. They have a way of showing up to the party whether you invited them or not.

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

Deena's cackle could've scared crows off a cornfield. "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 I hung up, I stood looking at my reflection in the mirror. Same face as always. Same brown eyes, same olive skin, same mouth that was a little too wide, same nose with the strong profile (Mom always called it “distinguished.” I called it “rhinoplasty-ready.”). But something was different. Something in the eyes maybe. Or maybe it was just that I was looking at myself the way he had looked at me.

Looking back, I should've seen it as a sign–me trying to dress up enough to belong in Elvis's world. Like putting a paint job on a Plymouth and calling it a Cadillac. But hindsight's always twenty-twenty, isn't it?

I was midway through my third wardrobe panic when the doorbell rang. Standing there in my slip, hair wild as a tumbleweed, I yanked open the door—and promptly tripped over a box on the floor. Big. Expensive-looking. The kind of box that makes promises. Its label read “Suzy Creamcheese,” and I just knew it was the one of those boutiques where they probably charged you just for breathing their air.

My hands shook as I picked it up. There was a card. The handwriting was messy, like he'd been in a hurry. Or maybe like he wasn't used to writing his own notes. When I read the message inside, I forgot how breathing worked.

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

Jon Burrows. His alias. Like we were spies. Like we were lovers. Like we were anything but what we were, a married man and a girl who should know better.

Inside the box was the kind of dress that would've made the Pope need confession. It shimmered like sin and promised trouble, the fabric probably worth more than my entire life savings.

My first thought was that he'd probably bought a million dresses just like it for a million other girls. My second thought was that I didn't care.

But that's the funny thing about falling for someone like Elvis. You know going in that you're not the first, probably won't be the last. But somehow he makes you feel like you're the only one who matters. At least for now.

In any case, the dress slid over my curves like water, like destiny, like everything I'd ever wanted but been too afraid to reach for. In the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me. She looked dangerous. She looked ready. She looked like someone who could make Elvis Presley forget his own name.

I just hoped she knew what she was doing better than I did.

With an hour to kill before the show, I clicked my way down to the casino. The dress moved like smoke around my legs. The shoes he'd sent pinched my feet but made me feel tall. Strong. People looked at me different. Or maybe I was walking different. Maybe that's what confidence feels like. Like armor made of silk.

I sat down at the blackjack table. The cards were good to me, they kept coming up hearts. That should have been a warning, but I wasn't reading signs right then. I was too busy feeling lucky.

That's when I felt it. Eyes on my back. Not the good kind of eyes.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing all alone?"

He was old. Fat. His ring could have anchored a yacht. The kind of man who thinks money makes him God's gift to women.

"Playing cards," I said. I didn't look at him. The dealer hit me with a queen. Twenty-one.

“You here for the show?”

“Mm hmm,” I kept my eye on the cards.

"Ah. One of those Elvis girls." He said it like he was diagnosing a disease. "Fresh meat."

The words hit hard. True words usually do. I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with his fresh meat when a hand landed on my shoulder. It was warm and steady.

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

I spun around to find myself face to face with a tall drink of water in a ten-gallon hat. He had one of those faces that time had worked on like a wood carver, all weathered planes and honest angles. The kind of face that made you want to trust it right off the bat.

"Play along," he whispered. "Looked like you could use a rescue."

Relief washed over me like cool water in August. "Oh! Yes, of course. So sorry, I got a little turned around..."

He steered me away from Mr. Pinky Ring and his grabby eyes, waiting until we were safely out of earshot before introducing himself properly.

"Chick, at your service," he said, tipping an imaginary cap with an old-world sort of charm. "I'm with the International. And unless I miss my guess, you must be Miss Valerie?"

My eyes went wider than poker chips. "How did you...?"

His laugh was warm as Texas sunshine. "Let's just say Mr. Burrows ain't subtle when he's sweet on a girl. I'm supposed to take you to his dressing room."

He looked at my dress. Nodded approval. "That'll give him the vapors but good."

Something warm bloomed in my chest. Elvis had sent someone to find me. Had asked for me specifically. Maybe this wasn't just another notch on his belt. Maybe...

But I shut that thought down hard. Hope was dangerous. Hope got you hurt.

But Chick must've caught my expression falling like a bad soufflé, because he patted my elbow with fatherly affection.

"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 did a two-step against my ribs. Chick was sweet to say so, but he didn't know the half of it. Falling for Elvis was like trying to catch a comet with your bare hands–bound to end in flames.

Chick led me through the back halls of the hotel. They all looked the same. Like a maze. Like a dream where you keep trying to find a door that moves. The carpet was thick and red and swallowed our footsteps.

"Been with Elvis long?" I asked.

"Long enough to know trouble when I see it." He looked at me sideways. Not unkind. Just knowing. "And honey, you're trouble."

"I don't mean to be."

"Nobody ever does."

We stopped at a door like all the other doors. Chick tipped his hat. "This is where I leave you. Remember something though - if he's fool enough to let you slip away, I'll be waiting in the wings."

He winked and was gone, boots silent on the thick carpet. I stood there. The door looked bigger now that I was alone. Everything looked bigger.

I took a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to steady my nerves, smoothed down the dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home, and knocked. The sound seemed to echo like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

The door swung open, and there was Elvis. Not the Elvis from television or magazines. Just Elvis. White shirt. Gray wool pants. Hair a little messy like he'd been running his hands through it. When he smiled it wasn't his stage smile. It was something else. Something that made my insides go soft.

"Well if it isn't my good luck charm." He pulled me inside. Fast. Like he was afraid someone might see. "Get in here before we start a scandal. I can see the headlines now - 'Elvis Presley Corrupts Young Songstress.'"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. The nervousness went out of me like air from a balloon.. "I think you're overestimating my ability to cause a scandal," I said, settling onto his couch like I belonged there. "The most exciting thing that's ever happened to me was winning a pie-eating contest when I was twelve."

His face lit up. He clutched his chest and staggered backward. Ham acting. Good ham acting. "A pie-eating champion? In my dressing room? I'm not worthy!"

Then he was on his knees in front of me. His hands were warm on mine. Big hands. Strong hands. Guitar player's hands. His blue eyes danced with mischief. "Tell me your secrets, o great pie queen. The people need to know."

Just like that, he wasn't Elvis Presley anymore. He was just a man with laugh lines around his eyes and a smile that could melt steel. That made him more dangerous. Not because he was famous, but because he was real.

We talked. Easy talk. Good talk. The kind where you forget to watch what you're saying. He sprawled on the couch while I sat in a chair. The distance felt important. Safe. But then he looked at me. Really looked at me.

"I'm scared about tonight." His voice was different. Quiet. Raw. "Scared as hell."

I blinked at him like he'd started speaking in tongues. "You get stage fright?"

"That ain’t even the half of it," his laugh had more edges than a broken mirror. "Honey, I'm about ready to shake out of my skin. Haven't played a venue this big in years." His leg bounced. His fingers drummed against his thigh. Nervous tells. Real ones. "Keep thinking I'll get out there and forget everything. The words. The moves. My own damn name."

Elvis Presley, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Who'd have thought?

"But you've played hundreds of shows for thousands of people. You're a pro!"

"That was before." The words came out bitter. "Been doing movies for too long. I haven’t exactly done much live performing lately. Feels like starting over."

Looking back, I should've seen it then–the cracks in the armor, the way fame sat on him like a crown made of thorns. But I was too busy falling to notice the warning signs.

He looked at me. His eyes were very blue. Very young. "Truth is, I keep thinking I'll make a fool of myself. In front of everyone." He paused. "In front of you."

Something squeezed in my chest, soft and fierce all at once. "Hey," I said, covering his restless hand with mine. "You are not going to make a fool of yourself. Know how I know?"

His fingers curled around mine like a lifeline. "How?"

"Because I've seen you dance. Even if you forget every word, just do that hip thing. Nobody will give a goddamn what comes out of your mouth."

For a moment, Elvis just stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Then he threw his head back and laughed–not his polite laugh or his stage laugh, but something rich and real and unrestrained.

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

I grinned, pleased as punch at making him laugh like that. "I'm serious! Those things are lethal weapons."

"You're a mess." But his eyes were warm. Soft. "An absolute mess."

"And you'll be fine," I said. I squeezed his knee. The muscle was solid under my hand. "The second you see all those faces out there - all those people who love you - it'll click. You'll remember who you are. Why you do this."

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

"I know it." And I did. The way you know some things without knowing how you know them. "You're gonna kill it tonight. And I'll be right there 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? 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 moment before I drowned in those eyes.

It worked. He threw back his head and laughed again. The sound wrapped around me like a blanket. "Baby, you're too much!" His grin was pure boy. Pure trouble. "Stick with me, kid. I'll show you a thing or two about rocking more than just shoes."

The promise in his words sent heat crawling up my neck. Amazing how he could make something so innocent sound like sin with chocolate sauce on top.

"I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Presley."

"You better."

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 should have asked whose heart he meant to break first. But I didn't. I never did ask the right questions.

He stood and pulled me up with him. "Walk me to the stage door?" His voice got that vulnerable edge again. "Would mean a lot to have you there."

My heart said yes. My head knew better. "There'll be photographers."

"Yeah." He sighed. The sound hurt something in my chest. "You're right. Smart girl."

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."

He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. It felt like a brand. Like a promise. Like a lie. "You're my guiding light tonight, honey. My lucky star."

Standing there in his dressing room, drowning in those blue eyes, I felt like I could happily spend the rest of my life mapping the planes and angles of his face. Must've been temporary insanity that made me reach up and straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger on the warm skin of his neck.

Elvis growled—actually growled—low and rough in his throat. His hands found my hips, tugging me closer until I could feel the heat of him, smell the spicy-sweet scent of his cologne. "Y'know, I've half a mind to cancel this show and..."

Someone knocked. Sharp. Loud. I jumped like I'd been shot. Elvis muttered something that would've made a sailor blush.

"Thirty minutes, boss!" A voice called through the door.

He let out a hard breath, his fingers flexing on my hips. "Guess that's my cue," he said ruefully. His eyes never left mine. "To be continued. Bank on it."

Then, with one last scorching look that turned my insides to melted butter, 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, and holy shit, did that crowd go wild. The kind of wild that makes you wonder if they've been saving their screams up special, just for this moment. Shrieks and whistles drowned out the opening bars as a single spotlight pierced the dark.

And there he was.

Elvis prowled onstage in a black gi-style jumpsuit that probably had its own insurance policy, his hair gleaming like polished onyx under the lights. The audience lost what was left of their minds, but Elvis? Elvis’s eyes searched only for me. He caught my gaze and grinned, a private, knee-weakening thing that set every nerve ending aflame. I clutched my glass so hard I thought it would shatter.

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

The show was something else entirely - all hip-swiveling, high-energy dancing, and enough eye contact to melt the sun. Elvis shimmied and crooned and thrusted like his life depended on it, but every so often, his gaze would find mine across the crowd, dark with promises that made my toes curl in my fancy new shoes.

During "Love Me Tender," he changed one of the lyrics ever so slightly, singing "for my songbird" instead of "for my darling." If you weren't listening for it, you might've missed it. But I heard it. And when he winked at me right after, I nearly spontaneously combusted right there in my seat.

That's the thing about falling for Elvis. Every little thing feels like a secret message. Even when your brain knows better, your heart keeps right on believing.

I spent the whole show strung between pure joy and pure terror. My skin felt electric every time he looked my way. He was marking me as his. And God help me, I wanted to be marked.

That little voice of reason - the one that sounded suspiciously like Deena - tried to pipe up. I was sure that if she knew the whole truth, she’d hate me. "He does this with all the girls, dummy. You aren't special. He's MARRIED, remember?"

I told that voice to stuff it where the sun don't shine. For one night, I just wanted to pretend this was real, that Elvis's heated promises were mine and mine alone. That maybe, just maybe, he actually did feel something genuine for the nobody from Chicago.

By the time he got to "Can't Help Falling in Love," I was gone. Lost. My skin felt too tight for my body. Elvis took his bows like a king receiving tribute. Blew kisses. Reached for grabbing hands. My own hands stung from clapping. My face ached from smiling.

He'd done it. He'd absolutely killed it. The nerves, the self-doubt - all of it had vanished the moment he hit that stage. And something in me knew that if he asked, I was going to go all the way. No holding back, no second thoughts. Just full steam ahead off this cliff we were dancing on.

I barely noticed Joe until he materialized at my elbow, grinning like he had all the secrets of the universe tucked in his back pocket.

“This way, Miss Pedretti.”

Riding high on adrenaline and something that felt dangerously like hope, I let myself be herded to Elvis's suite by security guards built like brick walls with legs. The place was already jumping - a whirlwind of backslapping and champagne popping and enough cigarette smoke to give cancer to a small country.

I recognized some faces from before - Red and Sonny and the rest of the Memphis Mafia playing court jesters to Elvis's king, Colonel Parker looking like a cat who'd found the canary, hotel bigwigs in suits worth more than my car. But there were new faces too - starlets with magazine-cover smiles, hangers-on hoping for their big break, and a surprising number of blue-haired ladies clutching Elvis albums like holy relics.

For a second, panic grabbed me by the throat. I was a minnow in a shark tank. But then Jerry caught my eye across the room and waved me over with a friendly wink.

"There she is!" he crowed, throwing an arm around my shoulders like we were old war buddies. "Didn't our boy knock 'em dead tonight?"

I grinned up at him, letting his easy friendship settle my nerves like a warm shot of bourbon. "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, snatching champagne off a passing tray like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. "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!"

The Memphis Mafia folded me into their ranks like I'd always been there, trading stories and jokes that made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself. It was intoxicating, being on the inside looking out instead of the other way around.

Speaking of intoxicating... Elvis was holding court across the room, surrounded by suits and sparkly dresses like a king with his courtiers. He caught my eye over their shoulders and winked, his grin electric even from thirty feet away. That one look hit me like a lightning bolt straight to the gut.

That's when I felt it. The warning tingle. Like in those old movies when the hero knows trouble's coming. But I was already too far gone to listen.

I was debating the merits of "accidentally" bumping into him when a gnarled hand clamped onto my wrist. I turned to find myself nose-to-nose with a little old lady in a pink pillbox hat that probably remembered World War II firsthand. Her eyes, magnified by glasses thick as Coca-Cola bottles, peered up at me with the intensity of a prosecutor at a murder trial.

"Priscilla, dear, is that you?" Her voice shook like autumn leaves. "Oh, I just have to tell you how much I admire you! Standing by your man all these years. Through thick and thin. You're an inspiration!"

My stomach dropped. Fast. Hard. She thought I was his wife. His real wife. His married wife.

"Oh, no, I'm not—" I stammered, heat climbing my neck. But she was already barreling ahead like a runaway train, clutching my hand in her paper-dry grip.

"Albert and I made it fifty-three years," she said. Still had my hand. "But you and Elvis - the army, those awful Hollywood girls, all that time apart. It's a wonder you've managed so well!"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What could I say? Sorry, ma'am. I'm not his wife. I'm just the latest girl he's trying to bed while his real wife sits at home. Looking in those rheumy eyes, bright with admiration, I couldn't do it.

So I just smiled and patted her hand, mumbling something about the power of commitment. She beamed at me like I'd just handed her the secret to eternal life and tottered off to spread her marital wisdom elsewhere.

I sagged against the wall, guilt sitting in my gut like a bad burger. What kind of person was I, playing at being Elvis's devoted wife when the real Mrs. Presley was probably at home wondering where her husband was and who he was with? And why wasn't she here on opening night, anyway?

The room suddenly felt too hot, too close, like all the air had been sucked out and replaced with cigarette smoke and accusations. I needed space. I needed air. I needed—

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

Elvis materialized in front of me, like the devil when you say his name. His jacket was gone. Shirt half open. Hair damp with sweat from the show. He looked good enough to eat. And he knew it.

I plastered on a smile, trying to shake off my guilt. This was supposed to be a magical night, wasn't it? My one chance to live like a star, to be Elvis's girl, even if only in the shadows.

"Hey," I managed, praying my voice didn't betray the tornado in my head. "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 like good aged whiskey, and took my hand. My pulse jumped at the casual touch. "Careful with those compliments, honey. My head won't fit through the door."

"I'm not worried." The banter felt good. Safe. "If your head gets too big, I'll just deflate it. I'm handy that way."

"A real Jill of all trades, aren't ya?" he drawled, tugging me closer until I stumbled, caught off guard by his nearness. His hands found my hips, steadying me, and I swear each finger burned through the silk like a brand.

His eyes held trouble. Heat. "Stick around. Maybe you'll show me just how handy you can be."

Christ. The implications in those words could've set fire to a wet paper bag.

Before I could string together a coherent response, he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear like a whisper. “The boys are gonna clear out these folks. Stay a while. Keep me company."

My throat went desert-dry. I stammered, cursing my suddenly uncooperative tongue. "If you're sure I won't be imposing..."

He pulled back just far enough to meet my eyes, and something in his gaze softened like butter in the sun. "Valerie, trust me. There is nowhere else I'd rather be than right here with you."

How did he do that? Make every word sound like a promise written in stars?

The next hour passed in a blur of goodbyes and meaningful looks across the room. The crowd thinned out gradually, some folks leaving under their own steam, others getting gentle but firm assistance from security. Soon it was just Elvis, his core crew, and me.

I perched on the arm of a velvet sofa, trying to blend into the scenery while the guys swapped tour stories and inside jokes. Elvis sprawled in a chair nearby, nursing a coke, sneaking me these molten looks that made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

Finally, Red stretched and heaved himself up like a bear coming out of hibernation. "Welp, I'm about ready to hit the hay. These old bones ain't what they used to be." He shot Elvis a look heavy with meaning. "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."

The silence that followed was loaded as a gun on New Year's Eve. Then, with a chorus of goodnights and knowing winks that made my cheeks burn, the Memphis Mafia filed out.

And then there were two.

Elvis finished his drink and set it aside with deliberate care. Then he unfolded from his chair with the kind of grace that should've been illegal in at least forty-eight states. My heart started doing the cha-cha against my ribs as he approached, all leashed power and barely contained heat.

He stopped close. Very close. I could smell his cologne mixing with stage smoke and sweat. Could have touched him. Wanted to touch him.

"C'mon, darlin'." He held out one ring-laden hand, his eyes molten in the low light. "Let's go somewhere a little more private."

I slid my hand into his, letting him pull me to my feet and into the circle of his arms. Had to tip my head back to meet his gaze, my hands coming to rest against the solid wall of his chest.

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

His grin flashed quick and sharp as a knife in the dark. He laced his fingers through mine and led me through a door I hadn't even noticed, into a hallway lined with identical mahogany doors.

We stopped at one. Elvis produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it, gesturing for me to go first. I stepped inside and froze, blinking in the sudden brightness. It was a suite that would've made Midas jealous - all plush carpets and gleaming wood and what looked suspiciously like actual gold leaf on the ceiling.

But what caught my eye was the table in the center of the room. It was set for two, with crisp white linens and gleaming silver, bottles sweating gently in a golden bucket. Candles waited unlit, promising romance and secrets and things we probably shouldn't do.

My heart did a funny little skip. He'd planned this. Planned a private, romantic dinner just for us.

I turned to him, words stumbling over themselves like drunks at closing time. "Elvis, this is... you didn't have to..."

He shrugged. For a second I saw that country boy under all the flash. "Wasn't any trouble. Just thought it'd be nice. Just us. No crowds. No eyes." His mouth quirked. "Plus figured you'd be hungry. I know I am."

Right on cue, my stomach let out a growl that would've made a lion proud. We both looked down at it, then at each other, and 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 that would've done a French waiter proud. I sank into it, half-expecting him to ring for room service or summon some harried assistant with silver platters.

Instead, Elvis disappeared into the adjoining kitchenette and returned with... a greasy paper sack?

My eyebrows must've hit my hairline because he grinned like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "What, did you think it'd be all caviar and champagne? Nah, that ain't my style."

He dumped the bag over our fine china. Burgers and fries spilled out. The smell hit like a fist. Grease and salt and cheese and everything right about late night food.

"Sent Sonny for these," Elvis explained, sliding into his seat with more grace than any man had a right to possess. "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?"

There it was again. Songbird. That name that made me feel owned and scared all at once.

"You figured right," I said, snagging a fry that was probably worth more on that china than it had been in the paper bag. "Nothing better than burgers after midnight. Although..." I squinted at the foil peeking out from under a sesame seed bun. "Is that... peanut butter?"

The guilty grin came back. Made him look sixteen. "Caught me. Peanut butter and bacon. Picked it up in the army. Sounds crazy but trust me - it's heaven."

We dove into our burgers like we hadn't eaten in days, the silence broken only by appreciative moans and the rustle of foil. And damn if he wasn't right about that peanut butter and bacon combination. Not that I'd ever tell him that - his ego was healthy enough as it was.

"So," I said, dabbing at a spot of ketchup on my chin, "you were in the army?"

He stopped mid-bite. Those blue eyes went wide. He swallowed. Put down his burger. "You really didn't know?"

"Well," I said carefully, studying my fries like they held the secrets of the universe, "I, uh… I never really followed you that closely. I mean, of course I know your music and all. But the details of your life? Nah."

He stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his features. It was like sunrise breaking.

"What's so funny?"

"Just thinking I found the only girl in America who doesn't know my whole life story."

Heat crept up my neck. "What do you mean?"

He leaned back. Watched me. The look made my skin prickle. "You're the first girl in a long time who hasn't tried to impress me. Who doesn't hang on every word. Who doesn't agree with everything I say just to please me."

"That's sad," I said.

"Sad?"

I waved a fry in the air. Trying to find the right words. "You're a person. Real flesh and blood. With thoughts and feelings beyond what magazines print. It's sad people don't want to know that side. The real you." I paused. Wondered if I'd stepped on a landmine. "Must be strange. Meeting new people who think they already know everything about you."

"Well. What they think they know." His face went soft. Something warm and raw that made my heart flip. "You mean that, don't you? You really wanna get to know me. Not Elvis the star. Just Elvis."

"'Course I do," I said softly, surprised by how much I meant it. "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, trying to lighten the moment before it got too heavy.

As our appetites gave way to pleasant fullness, we talked about everything and nothing - favorite movies (his: "The Way of All Flesh," mine: anything with cowboys), 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 his nose), best practical jokes played on unsuspecting bandmates (turned out we both had a gift for the strategic placement of whoopee cushions).

But as the laughter died down and the food dwindled to crumbs, a tension crept into the air between us. That elephant in the room we'd been dancing around all night, getting bigger and harder to ignore with every passing minute.

You know in horror movies, when you want to yell at the girl not to open that door? This felt like that. But like every girl in every horror movie, I opened it anyway.

"Elvis." I took a breath. Steadied myself. "Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but... what about your wife?"

He stiffened as if I'd jabbed him with a cattle prod, his jaw going tight as piano wire. For a moment, I thought he might shut down completely, retreat behind that million-dollar smile and leave me out in the cold.

But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping like Atlas getting tired of holding up the world. "It's complicated."

My stomach knotted like sailor's rope. "You still love her?"

Silence stretched between us, long as a California highway. Then, soft: "I'll always care for my wife. She's been in my life a long time. But love?" He shook his head. His eyes looked far away. "No. Not anymore."

My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. "What happened?"

He rubbed his face, suddenly looked all of his thirty-four years. Maybe more. "We grew apart. Wanted different things. Been living separate lives a while now. Barely talk except when we have to." He stopped. "Think we both know it's done. Has been for a long time."

Looking back now, I see it clear. The practiced pauses. The perfect timing. The way he probably told that same sad marriage story to a hundred girls in a hundred hotel rooms. But that's the thing about hindsight - it's got 20/20 vision and a mean streak a mile wide.

The night wore on, and I felt my eyelids getting heavy. A glance at the clock told me it was just before six in the morning, though time felt different in Elvis's orbit, like we existed in our own little bubble where normal rules didn't apply.

"I hate to say it," I said, stifling a yawn, "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 doing that thing - that soul-searching, make-you-feel-like-the-only-girl-in-the-world thing that probably took years to perfect. "Will you come back again? I feel like we've barely scratched the surface. There's so much more I want to talk to you about."

Hook.

I smiled, my heart fluttering like a teenage girl's diary entry. "I'd love to."

"Great. How about—"

Line.

I held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Why don't you call me and invite me? Properly, I mean." Playing hard to get while already caught - how's that for irony?

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

And sinker.

"I'll be waiting."

"Lamar," Elvis called out, smooth as silk. "Would you be so kind as to walk Miss Pedretti back to her room?"

With a final squeeze of my hand and a promise to call, Elvis bid me goodnight. And there I was, floating on air like I'd just starred in my own personal fairy tale, trying to convince myself I wasn’t just the latest in an assembly line of wide-eyed dreamers who thought they were special.

The next day crawled by slower than molasses in January. I couldn't bring myself to leave my room, terrified I might miss his call. By the time five-thirty rolled around, my nerves were wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.

When the phone finally rang, I waited two rings before picking up - didn't want to seem too eager, after all. As if I hadn't spent the whole time pacing a groove in the carpet.

"Hello?" I answered, trying to sound like I hadn't been staring at the phone for the past hour.

"Could I please speak with Valerie?" That voice, smooth as Tennessee whiskey, made my knees go weak even over the phone line.

I couldn't resist playing coy, like we were reading from a script he'd written just for us. "Who’s calling?"

"Elvis."

"Elvis who?"

There was a beat of silence, followed by a low chuckle that probably melted panties coast to coast. "You're a bonehead."

The playful exchange was just what my ego needed–more fuel for the fantasy that I was somehow different, somehow special. Elvis proceeded to explain the arrangements he'd made—he’d have his people call to arrange another late night dinner tomorrow. 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.

If only I'd known then what I know now... but that's the thing about falling. By the time you realize you're in trouble, you're already halfway to the ground.

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#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fans #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis presley fanfic #elvis fic #elvis x oc #songbird 1969

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from-memphis-with-love · 8 months ago

Text

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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