#you came to the right place

[artvaris]

Lukanya - King of Autumn The character is from an upcoming series written by Mallory Dunlin. I got to illustrate and design all 4 main masc characters of the series, and this is the last one. One of the main assignments for Lukanya was to make him reaaaally pretty so I did my best ✨

[missmaywemeetagain]

hey darlin’…

*giggles and blushes like a schoolgirl* (both of us)

[rise-my-angel]

Heard talk of my wife Margaery and I have arrived - late yes but... shush 😭✋ - the way she and Jon are in fact my fantasy threesome is no joke 😔👊 if Jon can share reader for one night with Tormund then he can share her for one night with Margaery 😜 that's all I'm gonna say 😏

First of all, if someone told the reader she could have sex with Margaery she might black out. Like, she barley knows much about sex between a man and a woman, she understands how two men have sex at the basic, she has no idea what two women would do or even that two women COULD have sex.

It's like shes a complete virgin all over again in this scenario, honestly.

Jon does not want to do it again, he hates sharing, he hates seeing other people give you pleasure he hates not having you all to himself during an encounter but theres one thing that would twist his arm, it would probably be a stand off between him and Margaery where she's tried every argument under the sun as to why it will be fine, and only one thing convinces him.

"Don't you want to give your darling wife a night of something she's never known she's always been allowed to have?"

Hes mad about it, and he hates it, but he can't see against it. Your married, you have a child together, but you didn't even understand that you had an attraction to women until right now and Jon knows it would be special for you to explore that even for a night as long as he's there to reassure you and touch you when you start to need him.

Margaery is grinning ear to ear and Jon's just standing there ready to sigh into the next universe at what he's just agreed too.

I also feel like in that situation Margaery would be very controlling of how to handle you, knowing how foreign this idea is. You are not even saved here from being between two dominant lovers. Jon is still a soft dom, but he's a little more rough and harsh here in contrast to Margaery who is the gentlest dom taking everything nice and slow.

In this specific scenario they aren't interested in being intimate with each other, it's all about you, but you can bet your ass they argue and banter and sass each other all goddamn night long because it's now a power struggle between who can be the softer dom with you.

Half the night's talk would be a completion of who can be sweeter to you then the other, the other half is them snarking at each other at whose better at being sweeter to you then the other.

[artlover8992]

Agent Elvis

Just started watching Agent Elvis and I'm already at episode six. I love it. I love all the main characters. I love all the little details about Elvis.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass Chapter 11.1 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Thank you so much for your patience as I got this up on different platforms due to unforeseen life crap! 💗 Okay, so Chapter 11 got a bit away from me length wise, so for sanity's sake (and so I can make some more revisions to some much-anticipated sexy times 🤭), I am posting part one of the chapter instead of making y'all wait any longer.

Some major, life-altering things went down in Chapter 10 and this chapter from Lori's perspective deals with a bit of the reality and consequences of that. (You can refresh your memory here if you need to!) We jump back in the next morning. She's got A LOT of feels going on in this chapter leading into some more twists and turns in 11.2, so the ending of this might feel a bit abrupt since it will all be part of the same chapter. Sorry!

Also, please excuse my alterations of some of the recording dates a bit to serve the story!

Anyway, as always. I can't wait to hear what you think! 💋

Loves and kisses, Madi xoxoxoxo 💗

TW: So many angsty feels, the Colonel, pregnancy and related symptoms, fear of miscarriage, Elvis and his endless PDA...smut to come in part 2 🤭

Broken Glass Chapter 11.1

“You’re what?!”

You wince at the way Tom Parker spits the words out, his shock and ire so palpable it feels like a slap to the face. The anxiousness skyrocketing through you, paired with the rapid beat of your heart knocking against your ribs, leaves you unable to look at the man, but you know he’s furious.

“We’re getting married. As soon as possible,” Elvis repeats firmly, grabbing your hand and squeezing. It seems unconscious the way he steps slightly in front of you, as if shielding you from the older man’s anger. You appreciate the gesture. No one, save for your mother, has ever protected you.

Elvis sounds so steadfast and sure about all of it. He’s a better actor than people give him credit for, but this performance is going above and beyond anything you’d assumed he was capable of.

Or maybe he means it.

Your heart flips, just the way it did last night when he asked you to marry him.

The last 24 hours have gone and changed everything so quickly that your head is still spinning. The moment when Elvis kneeled on the bathroom floor with you, wiped away your sick, and offered to fix everything, it felt so very real. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his eyes.  

And despite it being an arrangement born out of necessity and not love, it was nothing like Gianni’s horrific proposal.

Your stomach turns at the memory of that nightmare before Parker’s voice cuts through, bringing you back to the task at hand.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you, boy?” The beady-eyed man glares around Elvis’ broad shoulders at you. You resist the urge to shiver under his accusatory gaze. “Did you threaten to go to the press, young lady? Is this about money?”

“Hey, now, Colonel,” Elvis says, deceptively calm, but his voice is low with warning. “It’s not like that at all. And you best mind your tone.”

Parker’s eyes flicker to Elvis with an edge of surprise, taking in Elvis’ protective stance and words in silence. You get the impression Elvis hasn’t stood up to the man before, not like this, anyhow. The crackle of tension in the air has you all on edge.

The older man’s eyes narrow shrewdly, and you worry you won’t be able to pull this off. You’ve observed enough in the last month to understand the influence he has over Elvis, the slight manipulations he wields, pushing Elvis right where he wants him.

Parker looks at you with scrutiny. He takes you in from head to toe. Your breath catches in your throat and you want nothing more than to disappear and pretend the last day was a dream. But you cannot. Forcing yourself to hold his stare, you remind yourself of everything at stake here.  

There is no doubt in your mind he will throw you to the wolves the moment he senses anything amiss, the moment you threaten the image of his star client. So it has to be crystal clear you are here to stay, even though it makes you sick to lie.

But there are much worse things than white lies waiting for you out in the world. And as heartbroken and shocked as you are about this baby, you already know you’ll do anything to protect it.

You aren’t even conscious of the way your hand splays over your stomach, not until Parker’s eyes freeze there. His eyes snap up to yours and then to Elvis.

“Oh, you didn’t,” Parker groans. “Christ, I picked this one specifically because I thought she was smart enough not to fall into bed with you the minute you two were alone. Turns out she’s smarter than I gave her credit for—she managed to ensnare you and ensure she’d always be tied to Elvis Presley,” he spits.

Your cheeks flame hot with the accusation, and you can’t hold back your gasp at his insinuation, even though it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Elvis squeezes your hand tight and points at Parker, his eyes stormy and livid. “Don’t you dare blame her for this! On the train, you made it clear how she needed to improve her ‘attitude’ towards me and I told ya not to worry. Well, I took care of it,” he shrugs flippantly.

You try not to gape at his blasé attitude, wanting to trust Elvis to do what he needs to make this convincing.

“You damn well know I didn’t mean ‘get her pregnant’!” Parker hisses. “And we had this talk when you were just starting out! I know you know better than to—”

“I’m in love with her,” Elvis interrupts with such conviction your stomach swoops and you need to school your face to look like you aren’t amazed by how truthful his statement sounds. The earnestness on his handsome face takes your breath away.

Tom looks sorry for him. “Oh, son, we both know how easily you fall in love. But I don’t think you understand the gravity or responsibility of starting a family. What it’ll do to your image. Girls want you unattached and available, and they’re the ones buying the records."

From anyone else, it might be imbued with caring and concern, but coming from Parker, it is backhanded and insulting with the way he talks down to Elvis, as though he were still a 19-year-old kid instead of a 25-year-old man. But he does it with the finesse of a snake charmer.

You watch Elvis carefully as he recoils a bit, an innocence flashing over his features you’ve only seen in his most vulnerable moments making a quick appearance. For a second, you are terrified he’ll cave and you’ll have to pack your bags and head West after all. Thankfully, he blinks it away, steeling himself with the stubbornness which usually drives you crazy but just might work in your favor today.

“We’re in love. We’re gettin’ married, and that’s all there is to it.” It comes out as a growl and the sound reaches down to your toes.

Parker shakes his head, grasping at anything to control his client. There’s a carefully veiled desperation in his voice which barely conceals the threat he now lobs at Elvis: “This’ll ruin you, boy! What will your father do when the money is gone, hmm? Your cousins? Your friends? That big house you bought your mother? It’ll all be gone.”

Elvis looks as though he’s been slapped. But not you. Life has made you good at reading people, at seeing through men like this. Perhaps it is the fact you are running on adrenaline or because you have so much to lose, but you find yourself furious at Parker for speaking this way to Elvis.

 “And after everything I’ve done to ensure your success, you’d throw it all away for—”

“How?” You barely register you’ve spoken until Parker’s glare lands on you.

Elvis looks down at you with surprise. It wasn’t part of the plan for you to interject; Elvis thought he could handle Parker on his own.

“How exactly will getting married and having a family ‘ruin’ him? Last I checked, you weren’t a young woman. How do you know it won’t help him? His audience is growing up and getting married, so why can’t he?” you say, a fierceness you usually rely on at work slicing through your nervousness.

“Young lady, you best shut your mouth before you get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in,” Parker seethes.

“You don’t talk to her that way!” Elvis yells, stepping in front of her, pointing in the older man’s face.

Parker looks taken aback, and you wonder if Elvis has ever stood up for himself the way he’s standing up for you now.

Your heart beats in double time, but you gently put your hand on Elvis’ arm to bring it down. His eyes are blazing but they catch yours and you breathe in slowly, hoping he follows your lead. Once he doesn’t look like he’s going to launch himself at Parker, you speak.

“I was going to be around for the foreseeable future anyhow, isn’t that right? Perhaps much longer based on what the doctor said,” you say, miraculously keeping the tremble out of your voice. “It is easier—and more proper—to explain a wife being by his side than a long-term girlfriend living in his house, yes?”

Parker scoffs but doesn’t speak.

“And there’s nothing more young ladies like me want more than weddings and babies, even more so when the groom is the most handsome and charismatic man on the planet, one they want the best for. They will look at pictures of us and imagine themselves as me, I’d bet. And the men will be much less threatened by the family man who served his country and might come around, too,” you continue with fervor, surprised at how easy it is to be assertive when it’s Elvis you are fighting for.

“It doesn’t matter if he is married or has a thousand babies, Mr. Parker. As long as Elvis is alive and keeps doing what he was born to do, they will flock to him because he is an incredibly talented, gorgeous, and kind man. My being by his side won’t change that one little bit. In fact, a wedding will be free publicity for his comeback album, I’d imagine.”

A breath wooshes out of you now your speech is finished. Your fists squeeze to hide the tremor in your hands. Silence hangs heavy and you shift uncomfortably on your feet, but you force yourself to hold Parker’s eyes.

At first, he looks at you with something akin to shock, which quickly morphs into a smirk as he throws a cigar in his mouth, considering your words, perhaps. He holds the silence and your gaze much longer than he should, and you know it’s a show of dominance. You’ve seen a similar look on the men in la famiglia when they seek to intimidate.

It equally makes you want to stand your ground and shirk back into the woodwork. You don’t want him to win, but you also know you must play a role here, and a man like him will want any good idea to seem like his own. You lower your eyes in faux deference.

“Well, Elvis, we may be able to salvage this yet,” Parker purrs, gumming the end of the cigar.

Elvis’ eyes haven’t left you since your speech—you know because you feel them boring into you—but it’s not until you look back up at those depthless blues that you see the unabashed way he’s staring.

He looks at you like he’s smitten. Like you are everything he could ever need. And he’s blushing as if bashful about what you said. His movie star gaze pins you to the spot, with his bedroom eyes at half-mast and his full lips falling open like he’s going to say something.

You would love to be able to say it didn’t make your heart flip over and your knees a little weak to be looked at like this by him; in fact, you are going to chalk it up to your hormones because this is all part of the act, you are sure.

It’s almost painful, the way you tear your eyes away from him to look at your shoes. Suddenly you are winded and exhausted.

He’s just a patient. Maybe even a friend after everything you’ve been through together this past month. A better actor than anyone gives him credit for.

Madone, I will not swoon over a man just because he’s good at pretending he loves me.

Elvis may have acted like a spoiled, sullen child the days prior to arriving back at Graceland, but you’d never in your life seen had a man so entirely consumed with your wellbeing once he knew something was wrong with you. No man had ever treated you with such care.

A swell of emotion sits like a lump in your throat when you think about his proposal. What he’s giving up to save you. To save your baby.

And he’s been so earnest it makes it hard to compartmentalize the fact this arrangement is a quid pro quo and not some romantic folly. Your mind knows this, but your heart is having trouble keeping up. It doesn’t help when he is looking at you like you hung the moon. Like you are precious and beautiful. Like you matter.

You clear your throat and look away, feeling the blush spread across your cheeks. Then, a wave of overwhelm threatens to consume you. Everything in your world has been upended in the last 24 hours, and on top of that, you still have a job to do, yet your body is fighting you every step of the way.

Pregnant.

Your stomach lurches, but you swallow the toast you’d managed to eat earlier back down. Now is not a moment to appear weak by losing your breakfast all over the floor.

Parker is sizing up the both of you, chewing on the end of his cigar like a cow chewing on cud. It makes you want to squirm, yet you force yourself to remain still.

Elvis grips your hand reassuringly, sensing your discomfort. “It’s early, so that means we should do this as soon as possible, yeah?” He says it as if asking, as if the two of you hadn’t already decided it. You can’t quite tell if he’s asking for approval or if he’s smart enough to know it will go over better if the old man thinks it’s his decision. Either way, it seems to work.

“Mmm, yes. Though some are already going to assume the reason based on your impatience,” Parker counters, pointing at your belly.

“Let ‘em think what they want. But I want it public. I want everyone to know who I’m spendin’ the rest of my life with,” Elvis says definitively.

Parker looks at him and narrows his eyes. “Are you sure, my boy? It’s quite the gamble.”

“Didn’t get where we are by always playin’ safe, did we, Colonel?” Elvis counters.

“Hmm, I suppose not,” he replies after another long moment of scrutiny, “and I know you like to charge ahead without looking, but if we give them too much at once, they might be too ravenous. And we must control the narrative.”

Parker looks at your hand. “Get her a pretty ring, then go out and about and be seen. Tell your boys, your family, but no one else. Let them start talking.” His mind starts whirring, you can tell by the gleam in his eye. “We’ll sell an exclusive to the highest bidder, with terms to run the story along with the release of the album. We’ll push the release up, but that means you need to get up to Nashville in the next few days and finish cutting the record. With singles, RCA is going to need…” He pauses to do the math. “At least 11 or 12 more songs to have enough. You think you can do that, son? With everything going on?” The challenge is clear, but you are surprised to hear concern in his voice, too. Elvis is an ill man, after all, despite how gallant he is.

Elvis nods. “Yessir, I’ll get it done.” There isn’t a lick of doubt in his words.

You, however, are worried it’ll be too much for him. It’s a lot of pressure for anyone on a good day, but for Elvis, this could be dangerous. He’s already been pushing himself to the limit with his childish behavior in Florida. You want to say as much, but Elvis must know what you are thinking because he shoots you a stern look before you can get the words out of your mouth.

“Well, then, when you get back, we’ll have a small ceremony at Graceland. A church wedding is out of the question. Safety, timing, you understand,” Parker adds, shooting you a look like he’s sorry when you both know he is anything but.

You swallow and nod, but a snake of disappointment runs through you, nevertheless. You’d been raised to expect a Catholic ceremony but realize it wouldn’t be possible anyway. Elvis isn’t Catholic. In fact, you aren’t sure what religion Elvis is. The fact you don’t know sinks in your gut.

There is so much you don’t know about the man you’re about to marry.

But he’s not Gianni, you think. And he’s willing and able to give my baby the life it deserves.

And that is enough. It has got to be. Arranged marriages still happen every day—this is no different. A love match was never in the cards for you anyway. Not with your father and Gianni in the picture.

He may drive you crazy at times, but at least with Elvis, you and the baby will be safe and cared for.

You’ll just have to quell any expectations he will see you as more than his nurse. Or more than one of the many girls just passing through.

I shouldn’t have kissed him last night.

You blush at the memory. It was a moment of weakness, but you’d been so overcome with gratitude, shock and relief, you’d let your emotions get the best of you. It was too revealing, too vulnerable, considering your roller coaster of emotions recently regarding him.

It hadn’t helped he’d kissed you back with such commitment. Like he truly wanted you.

It scared you. But you’d backed away instantly after accepting his proposal, convincing yourself the look in his eyes was nothing more than friendly and then busied yourself with putting your clothes back into his—your—closet. Then you’d used your very real exhaustion as an excuse to go right to bed after that, ignoring the gnawing feeling of want in your heart.

Elvis would never love a woman like you. A woman who’s been chewed up and spit out by horrible men, a far cry from the actress and model beauties he is used to. He is a good man, helping a woman in need out of the kindness of his heart, out of a need of his own self-preservation, but you best keep reminding yourself that pity and helpfulness is not love.  

Lest you get too caught up in the fairytale you are spinning for the world, you remind yourself that once things settle down, arrangements will need to be made for him to get his other needs met.

It wouldn’t be the first or last time a powerful, famous man had dalliances, after all. They would just need to be discreet.

The thought makes your heart ache and tears prick at the back of your eyes, though you instantly try to push away the uncomfortable feeling. You don’t have time or energy to waste on such nonsense.

It takes a moment to realize the men have stopped talking and are looking at you as though waiting for a response.

“I’m sorry, what?” you say, shaking off your thoughts.

“I asked if you had any family or girlfriends that could assist you in preparations? You’ll need to get a dress and have any family travel in to be here after you get back from Nashville,” Parker says with a raised brow.

Your heart sinks. “Oh, no. There’s no one,” you say, trying not to sound as full of regret as you feel. The few friends from nursing school you had weren’t close enough to stand with you, and while you’d love to have your brothers come, there is no way to do so without alerting your father. And you feel absolutely sick at the idea of him being anywhere near you or Elvis.

Elvis looks at you with surprise. You hadn’t told him directly about the issues with Pop, but you assume he at least expected you to have friends. It’s pathetic, to be sure, but this was the reason you’d agreed to work for him in the first place. You are alone in the world.

Swallowing thickly, you hold your head high, even so.

Elvis, thankfully, takes your cue. “I’m sure Patsy would love to help,” he says with a gentle smile, pulling you into his side, his hand resting high on your waist. His double first cousin had been kind to you in the interactions you’ve had, so you suppose she will do.

You nod in response, hyperaware of the warmth of his hand radiating through your dress. It steadies you, tingling the skin beneath, and his closeness is a welcome anchor in this uncharted territory.

“Well, then, by this time next week, you’ll be newlyweds. I trust you’ll be able to continue to take care of Elvis despite your condition, Miss Cannava?” Parker asks under a veil of concern, but the accusation is palpable.

“I have no intention of shirking my duties, Mr. Parker. I want Elvis to be as healthy as possible.”

“Please, call me Colonel,” he says, an edge in his tone that lets you know your refusal to call him Colonel annoys him. But as much as you want to rub it in, you know you need him on your side.

“Of course, Colonel,” you respond, forcing a smile on your face. “And know I’ll continue to do whatever it takes to help Elvis keep doing what he wants to do.”

“I hope that’s true, young lady,” Parker says, “for everyone’s sake.”

You swallow down the threat, adding to your already churning stomach.

*

April 3rd, 1960

Nashville, TN

“Ready, Elvis?” the engineer up in the booth buzzes in over the com.

“Yeah,” he replies, shooting you a cheeky smile and a waggle of his eyebrows as he steps up to the mic.

You roll your eyes back at him, trying not to show just how much you are appreciating his presence. The secrets you two now share have matured him. You can’t help but worry about the dark circles rimming his eyes, though it is a bit unfair how it somehow only enhances his handsomeness.

Even so, he has been remarkably steadied and attentive these past few days, considering everything going on.

It is a godsend for you. Your nerves are fraying at the edges and more than ever, you want a cigarette, but you know Elvis won’t have it. Considering what he’s doing for you and this baby, you are happy to oblige him on this, despite your cravings.

With everything you’ve gone through in your life, you pride yourself on moving through adversity—for surviving as best you can—without falling apart. But since you returned from Florida, all bets have been off.

Along with putting on the performance of a lifetime in hiding your pregnancy, you’ve also needed to play the gleeful fiancée—a role that hardly feels natural for you, even if your relationship wasn’t a farce. A thousand other girls would be beside themselves to take your place, but for you it’s different. It’s like the ground is constantly moving underneath your feet and you are holding on for dear life, trying to stay upright.

It doesn’t help that your feelings for Elvis are rapidly slipping out of your control. While his poor behavior in Florida tempered them by the time you arrived back in Tennessee, his gallant actions since then, coupled with your exhaustion, have blurred the lines completely. Every touch, every knowing glance, every concerned look sends a cascade of tingles through your body.

You want to blame the pregnancy, you really do, but you aren’t sure you can at this point. Each sliver of attention and affection from him is peeling away the armor you’ve got around your heart, and you don’t have the mental or physical energy to keep rebuilding it.

It’s a recipe for getting your heart broken.

Your fingers twist nervously, still unused to the engagement ring now on your left hand. After telling him about Gianni’s gaudy monstrosity, you’d begged Elvis to keep it simple; he’d reminded you he has a standard to uphold. The compromise was a stunning ring with three large, round stones—a diamond in the middle, with blue sapphires on either side, surrounded by smaller baguette and single cut diamonds in a white gold setting.

You wanted to hate it, solely for its extravagance, but when he had shown you the piece ahead of the “surprise” proposal you both had planned for after dinner last night, you couldn’t drudge up an ounce of dislike. He’d looked so concerned about pleasing you, telling you over and over he could take it back if you didn’t like it, but frankly, it was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry you’d ever laid eyes on. It was elegant and sparkling, and the uniqueness of the sapphires set it apart. It didn’t take much acting to “ooh” and “ahh” when he’d gently placed it on your finger in front of his friends and family, cementing the reality of this strange situation. A flock of butterflies had erupted in your stomach as though he really had proposed, like the proud but blushing smile on his face was really because of his love for you and not an act.

Your ring catches your eye for the millionth time today and the sapphires suddenly remind you of Elvis’ eyes. How deep and endless they seem. There is no stopping the flipping of your heart.

Oh, Madone, it’s just a ring, you chide yourself. But it doesn’t stop you from twisting it around your finger again and again like a touchstone.

After a bit of back and forth, a heavy bass line and rhythmic snapping starts, jerking your attention to Elvis. The stripped-down jazzy sound is immediately recognizable—a Peggy Lee hit from a few years ago. Your brow quirks in surprise.

The slow grin spreading across Elvis’ face is sinful as he sinks into the music.

He wanted you in the studio from the start this time around, citing you as his “good luck charm.” Part of you balked at that. The other part was flattered. After the last two times you’d watched him come alive while performing, something deep inside you awakens right alongside the beat, scaring you in its intensity.

Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care…

He starts singing. It’s quiet and deceptively relaxed, but you know him well enough now to understand he’s a live wire under it all. And that makes it even more enticing when he locks his eyes on yours, singing the words directly to you.

You give me fever…

His voice skitters across your skin, lighting fires as it goes. After the beat drops, his limbs shiver with the drums and the movement feels directly connected to the shiver running down your spine.

And he’s just warming up.

Every line, coupled with the sultry timbre of his voice, drowns you further into the depths of his eyes. They don’t let you go for the entirety of the first take. Your face is flaming, your hands gripping the edge of your seat because it feels like he’s about to eat you alive.

Madre di Dio…you’d let him. Willingly.

He wakes out of the spell he’s seemingly cast partway through the second take. You watch him whistle and blink a few times, coming back to himself. He’s slightly more unsure through the third, but regains his original focus by the fourth, sliding into the take like he’s been singing the song his whole life.

You can’t help but feel this is an intimate moment you shouldn’t be privy to, when he homes in on you once again. You are barely breathing the entire last take, a throbbing pulse consuming your heart along with your belly, something liquid and warm heating the core of you.

When he grits out: When her daddy tried to kill him, she said ‘Daddy, oh don’t you dare’, you hold back a gasp, wanting desperately to squirm in your seat to relieve some of the pressure in your body you don’t have any idea what to do with.

Perhaps it is because the line hits so close to your own experience, but it is as if he’s channeling you. Or channeling into you. You aren’t sure anymore, other that you are combusting from the inside out by the end of the song.

What a lovely way to burn… he repeats again and again, and trails off, finally.

Indeed.

He comes out of his near-trancelike state, bringing you with him and you are suddenly not at all sure you’ll make it through the next few days of recording.

How did you forget what happened last time you were in this room with him? With everything that had happened since, you suppose it’s not that outlandish, but those feelings of want, of need, seep back into your bloodstream just like the last time he sang to you in Miami, and here in this very room just a few weeks ago.

Seems like a lifetime ago…

Forcing yourself to breathe, you think maybe you’ll have a reprieve with the next song, but the bluesy Like a Baby is so sultry it does absolutely nothing to quell the fire in your veins. It doesn’t help he looks positively proud of himself every time he drinks you in, gauging your reaction, with every word he sings to you.

The seductive quality of it all is so overwhelming you need to excuse yourself to the restroom the moment the final take is cut. You clutch your trembling hands, splashing cool water across your rosy cheeks.

Get it together, Lori. He’s just doing his job.

Letting out a shuddering breath, you feel an unusual slickness between your thighs that sends your heartrate skyrocketing.

Oh, God—the baby.

Frantically, you hoist your skirt, pull down your stockings, and examine your underwear for any sign of blood. Panic slices through you until you discover you aren’t bleeding or miscarrying—it’s only a clear, slick discharge you’ve not had before. Something hormonal, no doubt, due to the changes in your body.

Then you realize you are relieved.

Your heart stutters.

You’re not sure you should be relieved. If this pregnancy ended naturally, it would save all of you a heap of trouble. It would mean you might be able to put the memory of Gianni’s cruelty behind you. It would mean Elvis wouldn’t have to settle for you. You could break off the engagement easily enough at this point.

But the thought of losing the baby, of losing Elvis, makes your heart ache so much tears spring to your eyes.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

You can’t want to actually marry Elvis. You barely know him. God knows you don’t feel ready to start a family, especially out of such horrid circumstances.

Then why does the idea of losing it all break your heart?

Sniffling, you look in the mirror and hold back the tears starting to well in your eyes.

It’s just hormones. Your body is just protecting itself and the baby, nothing more, you say in your calm and collected nurse voice. Nothing more.

Because anything more means perhaps your feelings for Elvis have truly gone beyond what you can handle right now.

Scrunching your eyes shut, you pray to understand the purpose of any of this. Why Elvis feels more like home than anywhere else, despite his sometimes infuriating nature. Why he has to be so alluring and charismatic.

Why the thought of being without him is untenable at this point, and not just because of Gianni or the baby.

It’s just a crush—a silly little crush.

No.

He’s all I have, you realize.

Of course, you feel connected to him. Right now, he is consuming your life and drawing out a safe future for the both of you. He is the only one truly in your corner. You may not know him completely, but he has not deserted you or thrown you back to your father. He is deep in this with you.

He could’ve easily fired and discarded you and been right to do so.

But for some reason, he did not.

A shuttering breath makes your chest heave. You can’t bring yourself to examine why that might be and you push away the thing you are most loathe to admit. The thing that makes pretending with him so very difficult, yet so sweet at the same time.

Shaking your head, you wipe your eyes, and straighten your spine. You powder your nose and reapply your lipstick. You put yourself back together, locking up the feelings you are trying so hard to fight.

Looking in the mirror, you see a young woman ready to do what she needs to do to survive.

Ignoring the headache brewing behind your eyes, you paste on a cordial smile and venture back to the studio. The light is on because they are recording, so you sit outside until it flashes off. You stand, brush off your skirt, and reach for the doorknob but it whips open before you can grasp it.

Gasping, your heart leaps in surprise as Elvis fills the doorway, looking a tad frantic.

“Little Bird, are you okay?” he asks, brow furrowed. He grasps your shoulders gently, taking you in as though you might be hurt. He thumbs your chin and looks into your eyes. “You disappeared on me.”

You bite your lip, concealing the smile wanting to appear at the fact he noticed you were gone.

“I was feeling a bit queasy,” you murmur. It’s not a lie, but not the whole truth, either.

The pad of his thumb brushes over your cheek. Your heart thumps and you look down to avoid the intensity of his gaze, lest he see more than you want him to.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel then, darlin’.”

“I’m fine,” you brush him off, “And I won’t leave you. You look tired. How are you feeling?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re tryin’ to change the subject, little one,” he muses. His hands find your waist, burning through your dress. “I am tired. Let’s call it quits for the night.”

Your mouth pops open and your eyes narrow with suspicion. “Has hell frozen over? Elvis, you’ve hardly cut three songs, and the Colonel said—”

“I heard the Colonel, but I’m tellin’ ya it’s time to go.” There’s an edge to his voice, warning you his mood is shifting. “And I’m doin’ what I promised by knowin’ my limits.”

“Okay, I’m just surprised is all. I’m used to you fighting me like a stubborn goat,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. You can’t discern if he’s doing this for your sake or his, however. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if it gets the job done.

His cheeks are flushed, so you feel his forehead with the back of your hand. “I suppose you do feel a bit warm,” you concede. “Alright, let’s go get some rest, then.”

He nips at your hand playfully as you bring it down, pulling you closer. The flirtation has you blushing and you resist the urge to giggle, rolling your eyes instead. You can’t help but notice there is no one to perform for but remind yourself he’s just an overly affectionate guy. It means nothing.

“Hey, EP, you comin’?” Charlie yells from inside the room.

“Naw, we’re heading out. I’m tired,” Elvis says, giving you a wink.

Charlie sputters but recovers quickly, gathering the group as Elvis entwines his fingers with yours and heads out to the car.

He doesn’t let you go until you arrive back at the hotel, safe in the room you share.

Something is building between you two. You can feel it in the care of his touch, in the warmth filling your chest and your belly with each beat of your heart. It’s in his eyes as he sits on the edge of the bed, releasing the mask he wears for the rest of the world as you check his vitals.

He is tired and a little feverish. You are proud of him for following through on taking better care of himself, even if you think it is because he is looking out for you and not himself. You give him a quick little smile before turning to put away the blood pressure cuff.

“I wish you’d do that more.”

“Do what?” you ask.

“Smile. I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are when you do it,” he says, low and quiet.

It rumbles through you like thunder, your heart skipping a beat. You pay special attention to clasping your bag closed, unable to look at him but feeling the weight of his gaze.

“Elvis—” you whisper.

“I want you to be happy,” he interrupts.

You sigh with the weight of your circumstances pressing on your shoulders, still unable to meet his eyes.

“But I understand why that’s hard right now. I jus’…I-I w-want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier on ya. Because you deserve to have more of those pretty smiles.”

The clasp of your bag becomes blurry and your throat tight. You clench the leather and force a deep breath. Tilting your head up to blink back the tears, you clear your throat before you can attempt to look at him.

Why does he have to say things like that? It makes it harder to resist the pull you feel towards him. You are teetering on the very edge of being professional and he seems keen to push you over, whether he knows it or not.

“Thank you,” you finally manage out, though so many words linger unsaid on the tip of your tongue. You meet his eyes and fireworks erupt over your skin at the way he looks up at you so openly. The air is sucked out of the room, deathly still, like before a summer thunderstorm. It leaves you buzzing and dizzy.

He stands, slowly, as if not to startle you, and steps forward. With each inch closer he gets, the air shifts, beginning to crackle with electricity. Your heart gallops faster. If he touches you, you are done for, you just know it. The lightning burning bright inside of him has the power to wreak irrevocable havoc on you. And you cannot afford to let your feelings get in the way of your survival because when he breaks your heart, which you know he will, you will have nowhere to go.

You have the baby to think of now. It is easier to sit in the discomfort of your complicated feelings than in the pain of the inevitable heartbreak that will come when he realizes you’re just like any of his other women—you’re replaceable, at least romantically. And God knows you’ve had too much pain in your life related to the whims of men to add more.  

The air sizzles as he reaches for you, tempting you to burn with his touch. Part of you wants to burn—the deep heat swirling unbidden low in your belly dares you to let him—but you jump back out of instinct.

“I-I should get ready for bed,” you stutter, racing to your suitcase to grab your nightgown before hightailing it to the bathroom and slamming the door harder than you intended. You think you hear him chuckle as you lean back on the door to catch your breath.

Your body shakes but not out of fear of him. No, it’s like you’ve refused it something vital and it quakes with the need of release. Like the crack of lightning in him would bring the relief of rain, cutting the heat between you.

It doesn’t make sense. You’ve never felt this before, but you know it is dangerous. Lightning is beautiful but deadly, after all.

As you stumble your way through your bedtime routine, you realize in a few short days, the storm of a man out there will be your husband. And one more boundary between you you’ve relied on to keep you on solid ground will be gone.

And one look in the mirror at the exhaustion lining your features, you wonder if it is too late; perhaps the coming storm is inevitable and will tear you to pieces no matter what you do.

There are worse ways to perish than in the arms of Elvis Presley.

*

The swell of electricity doesn’t go away. It abates some, at times, but your body is hellbent and hyperaware of Elvis’ every move, of every breath he takes.

You desperately want to blame your job—you’re supposed to be observant of him, after all—or the changes in your body because of the baby, but the waves of rolling thunder build under your skin despite the physical space he is trying to give you.

The marathon of a session on Monday does not make things better. You’d hoped it would be a distraction. He needs to be completely focused to bang out at least nine more songs to finish the album. There will be no time for anything but music.

Except you somehow forget music fuels him and makes him glow from the inside out. Instead of dissipating, the storm just builds and builds, like wild thunderheads in the sky. He lives each song so completely, expertly maneuvering through mournful ballads and bouncing pop and raunchy blues like he was born to do. It’s mind-bending and alluring, and every time he draws you in, it feels like he’s singing directly to you, about you.

He's enjoying himself, despite the long hours. Completely in his element. And electricity zings though your body during the playful moans at the end of Such a Night. By the Thrill of Your Love, you think you might combust.

And he knows it, by the sparkle in his eyes and the pull of his defiant but tempting upper lip. He wasn’t offended by the boundary you set last night in the slightest, giving you the physical space you desperately needed unless needed to keep up the ruse of your engagement. But everything he does, every lyric he sings, every twitch of his body, makes you feel as though you are swirling out of control. The more he respects your need for physical space, the more you want him to box you in.

He's doing just that, just not with his body.

You are completely on edge when not absorbed in his performance and technique. God, what an idiot you were to think he wasn’t talented. His stint in Germany only served to strengthen his craft. The world isn’t ready for this new and improved Elvis. Girls will be beside themselves.

You just never thought you’d be one of them.

By the time he gets to the last song, he can’t stave off how tired he’s getting. The marathon session has taken all night and into the dawn. He lets everyone know he’s not entirely convinced he should even sing this Are You Lonesome Tonight? but the Colonel, along with Steve, the RCA rep, press him.

Worry for Elvis’ wellbeing has you voicing your concern, but the men look at you as if you are a silly little girl and not a professional. It takes a moment to remember the only one who really knows your role here is Parker, and despite nearly being asleep on your feet, you are ready to go toe to toe with him. Elvis concedes to his manager, however, before shooting you a look and running his hands down your arms to placate you. The long touch of him distracts you enough to lessen your annoyance for the moment.

This last song is the only time he kicks you out of the room, along with everyone except the musicians, but you manage to sneak into the booth to listen. You can’t see anything through the window because he’s ordered all the lights be turned off, but the result has goosebumps rising all over your body with the emotionally eerie but gentle lilt of his performance.

By the end, tears are streaming unbidden down your cheeks, though you aren’t entirely sure why. You race to wipe your cheeks before the lights pop back on, but he catches your eye through the window and swell of emotion rises again.

You know you are careening quickly towards something beyond your control. The pregnancy is one thing pushing you towards the edge, but this new arrangement with Elvis, the intimacy involved, has your heart racing with both curiosity and fear. It is all so far out of your experience but there is no real choice. It is whatever this new normal is or running for your life.

Being off kilter and filled with feelings you don’t understand is uncomfortable, but you’ll take it versus the alternative, though you can’t help the fear you’ve put Elvis in terrible danger crawling at the edges of your mind.

It’s this that keeps you alert as you all board the bus to head back to Memphis after a quick diner breakfast. Elvis is dying on the vine, the energy of performing all night taking its toll. The darkness around his eyes and the pallor of his skin tells you everything you need to know, but his limbs twitch restlessly all the way home, even when he doses, curled up into you with his head on your shoulder. It’s as if he can’t shut it off even when he is completely drained.

It’s too much for him. Your anxiety builds and builds in the hours it takes to return to Graceland. You are worrying your lips raw between your concern for him and the position you’ve put him in. Guilt swirls in your stomach, making your carsickness worse.

On top of it, your body is desperate to be close to him, as though his presence is a balm to your burdens, but those feelings just bring more confusion. You relish the tickle of his long, soft hair against your jaw and the way his fingers interweave with yours, even in sleep. Despite how ready you were to leave mere days ago, you aren’t quite sure you could do so now without damaging a part of yourself you didn’t know existed.

It frightens you, but the tingle that zings down your arms and into your palm lets you know it is exhilarating, too.

The bus is quiet of its usual boisterousness when it pulls through the gates of Graceland in the early afternoon. It is hard to believe how much everything has changed in a few short days, since the last time you arrived like this.

“Elvis,” you whisper, but he barely stirs. His eyes are closed, and his full lips are open slightly, giving him an air of innocence that tugs at your heart. “Elvis, sweetheart, we’re home.”

Sweetheart? Madone, where did that come from? You blush at your use of the endearment, not having used it since your brothers were little boys and certainly never with a man.

Elvis sputters and his long eyelashes flutter open as he stretches his long arms. “Mmm, ‘sweetheart,’ huh?” he murmurs, his lips turning up in a small, sleepy smile.

“I—you must have dreamed that,” you reply, flustered, but you know your pink cheeks and the way you twist your ring give you away.

He just grins. “You can call me sweetheart all day, Little Bird.” Then, he pulls you down for a sweet, chaste kiss, which surprises you. He tastes of sleep and coffee and chewing gum. The kiss is quick but sends a tremble through you all the same, especially since the bus is nearly empty.

When he pulls back and takes a look at you, his eyes fill with concern. He runs his thumb under your eye, as though he could wipe away the darkness you know is there. “Did you sleep at all, baby?”

You shake your head no, trying to brush him off by getting up to walk away, but he stands and grabs your arm. Pulling you back gently, he wraps his arms around your middle. You give up trying to wiggle away—he’s stronger than you. You’re surprised to find you don’t mind it. If it were any other man, you’d be panicking at the closeness, but it seems you’ve grown used to Elvis’ near constant displays of physical affection.

“I’m fine, Elvis. Let’s go inside.”

“Little one, the doc said you need sleep…”

His vacillation through pet names and endearments should annoy you, but they don’t. Not anymore. You sigh.

“…and you’re gettin’ married tomorrow. You need ta look your best for your husband,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Rolling your eyes at his silliness, you try and mask the surprising buzz of excitement running through your limbs at the reality that in a day you will be married to this exasperatingly handsome and talented mess of a man. It’s overwhelming and a little exhilarating, but you can feel exhaustion pulling at you, knowing you’ll be knee deep in preparations in a few short hours.

You resist the urge to lay your head on his shoulder, but he senses your resignation in the way your body deflates. It’s hard, you realize, to let anyone else take care of you.

“How ���bout I rest with you? Will you at least try to take a nap then?” If he’s conceding to more rest, you know you must look worse for the wear. But it does the trick.

“Alright, fine. I will rest if you do, too,” you concede.

Being back at Graceland—back home—helps you relax more. No one can get to you or Elvis here. You fear you won’t be able to sleep, but once your head hits the pillow, Elvis safe and resting inches away, you slide into the dreamless dark.

*

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[akanemnon]

That's two jailbreaks in one day!

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[welcometogrouchland]

I have a LOTT of sketches I could post rn but these 2 are recent and I'm fond of them <3 Steph costume ideas and Tim/Damian cringe bickering inspired by Batman: Brave and the Bold #18!

[missmaywemeetagain]

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving 💗🧣🦃

A very happy Thanksgiving weekend to those who celebrate! ❤️

This blurb came out of nowhere, in a fit of Thanksgiving inspiration (and a special thanks to Norah for inadvertently nudging me towards a Thanksgiving prompt)! Because of this, it is not overly edited or revised. I will say, I'm not sure yet just how canon I want this to be in terms of the PS Universe, but I figure it came out of me for a reason, so I decided to go with it for now. 

I think my current moody headspace influenced the vibe for this--for us fans, it's a slightly indulgent "what could have been" scenario. But that's PS in a nutshell, isn't it?  🥹

Anyhoo, I hope this hits you in the feels! And I hope you know just how much you matter to me, even though I've been a bit MIA recently. 

Much love xoxoxox, Madi 💗

TW: It's 1977, so...medical issues/trauma/strife. Panic attack. Thanksgiving stress. A little hint of sexy at the end bc I couldn't leave you on a melancholy note! 💋

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving 1977

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. P, but the oven is out. Lamar took a peek, but the thing is as cold as ice and don’t look like it’s gonna be warm any time soon,” Mary says, looking as distraught as you feel. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch it sooner.”

The naked, trussed, and cold turkey on the counter mocks you.

“No, no, it’s not your fault, Mary. We’ll…figure something out,” you try and reassure her, but it feels like a weight has just been placed on your chest. You pinch the bridge of your nose to stave off the massive headache that began early this morning when Nicky barged into your room at the crack of dawn sobbing because he’d had a nightmare that Mr. Gobble Gobble, a monster turkey, had eaten Daddy instead of the other way around.

This was one of many nightmares that your poor little boy had suffered since August, but certainly the first starring a murderous Thanksgiving turkey. He’d barely been consolable and neither of you had gotten back to sleep.

You take a deep breath, holding back the tears that threaten your vision.

Today needs to be perfect. It was supposed to be perfect.

But you should have known. After all, this year has been far from perfect.

You force yourself away from the wave of despair trying to overcome you. No, we’ve been lucky, you think. It could be so much worse.

Unfortunately, your nerves are shot, which makes sense considering the last few months you’ve had. You’ve kept it together so well. You’ve had to. For Nicky. For Elvis. But that tried resolve begins to crumble with the pressure of it all, as though everything that has happened is hitting you all at once.

Now you have a house full of hungry people, Elvis will be home any minute, and your usual quick-footed problem-solving skills have flown out the window. Your hands begin to tremble.

The panic swells as the kitchen swarms with people looking to you for direction, and in that moment, Nicky runs through the adults, chased by one of the other kids. It happens so fast—you barely have time to register the commotion before disaster strikes.

You watch in horror as the kids fly into the sideboard, knocking the precious side dishes and desserts onto the floor with a resounding crash.

The collective gasp of the adults in the room sends your panic into overdrive.

Thanksgiving is officially ruined.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you shout. The entire room goes silent. It’s not everyday Elvis Presley’s calm and collected wife loses her shit. No, that is something usually reserved for the man himself.

“Well, that’s not quite the welcome home I was expecting,” a familiar baritone chuckles from behind you.

You whip around, your bottom lip quivering. “Elvis?” you whisper.

He’s standing right here—standing! On his own!—leaning on his cane for support, a twinkle in his eye that you haven’t seen in ages. One you weren’t sure you’d ever see again. And the sight of him finally being home again after so many months in the hospital is more than you can bear. After standing tall and strong for him for so long, you crumble into a thousand pieces. An uncontrollable sob chokes out of you, your tears overflowing.

“Aw, honey,” he says quietly, slowly making his way to you, waving everyone else out of the room with the commanding flick of his hand. They exit in a flash with their concerned and pitied looks. Not that you care, because the second you can, you are falling into your husband’s open arms.

“I’m so sorry…your homecoming…it’s all ruined,” you sob into his chest, being mindful of the long scar down the center. Feeling the warmth of him engulfing you is overwhelming. His scent, untainted by antiseptic and hospital smells for the first time in a long time, swirls around you, caressing your senses.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. Let it all out, Satnin,” he coos, stroking your hair with his free hand. “Hers has been so strong for hims, but hims is home now.”

The tenderness of his baby talk in your ear sends a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, staining the silk of his blue dress shirt. He’s dressed up, you think absently, knowing this is a huge thing. Even before that fateful August morning, he’d been mostly wearing his tracksuits when he wasn’t performing. He’d been so uncomfortable and in pain, you’d understood why.

You bury your head into his neck, pent up emotions violently shuddering through your body as you let your tears fall freely for the first time in months. You can barely breathe with how you wedge yourself into him, with how he holds you tight. He’s so much slimmer now that the edema is gone and his colon has been tended to, you realize, but he’s still soft in all the right places. You still fit against him perfectly, and his grip on you makes you realize he understands just how raw you are.

You cry more, thinking about how the last time he was here was when you’d found him unresponsive on the bathroom floor. How you’d never been so scared in your entire life, not even when you yourself had brushes with death.

It's a miracle he’s here at all. None of you, doctors included, were sure if he’d ever step through the doors of Graceland again. Not after the heart attack, or the coma, or the complications from his various surgeries. It had been one blow after another, for weeks, months. But somehow, in true stubborn Elvis fashion, he��d pulled through.

He’d gritted his way through healing, through physical therapy, through weaning off so many of the meds he’d been on before and during his hospital stay, and he hated every second of it. He’d been livid about the colostomy, but you’d had no care for his vanity when you’d had to make the decision to save his life. You didn’t care if he hated you because at least he’d be alive to tell you so. He’d gotten past it, mostly, especially once he was feeling better.

The entire ordeal had terrified him. Something had changed in him in those weeks he’d lingered between life and death, something he wasn’t ready to talk about just yet, but even with all the setbacks, his determination to come home was intensely motivating.

Which is why you’d wanted it to be special, and why it being Thanksgiving had so much meaning. Elvis was finally coming home. Then everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.

“I wanted everything to be perfect for you. You deserve it,” you say quietly, sniffling, holding him as tight as you dare without wanting to hurt him.

“Darlin’, just bein’ back home with you and Nicky is more than I ever dreamed of. I don’t need no big fancy dinner or welcome home committee. I jus’ need you.”

You pull back then, your heart about ready to burst, and look at him. He looks downright debonair with his silvery hair (which you’d convinced him not to dye back after it had grown out during his illness), freshly cut and shorter than it had been in years, fluffy but brushed back off his face in a style reminiscent to when he was younger. His apple cheeks are full and have more color than they’ve had in months.

“What?” he asks looking down at you, almost bashful under your gaze.

You reach up and cup his freshly shaven cheek, smooth and soft under your palm. Those deep ocean blue eyes of his threaten to swallow you whole. Staring into their depths, you don’t want to imagine a world without him in it anymore.

“I just love you,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out without choking up again. “So much.”

Eyes shining, Elvis pulls you up and into him. His lips are as sweet and as soft as you remember when they press into yours. The kiss is full of yearning, of love, and of everything you two have been through the past twenty years. It’s truly like coming home.

The kiss turns hungry then, more so than you expect. It’s been so very long since you’ve had each other in this way and it surprises you how readily your body remembers, despite all the pain and trauma you both have experienced. You open for him, and he moans when his tongue brushes against yours. A fiery wave of heat blisters through you then, hastily banishing away your tears.

Despite all the challenges you’ve faced over the years, you’ve always felt the pull of him in your soul. You’ve always wanted him, neededhim, even when you convinced yourself to forget because you thought you couldn’t have him. And now, after almost losing him for good, you can think of nothing else but him. The warmth of his body pressed against yours causes you to melt. The way his lips and hands roam over the curves of your body sends you soaring.

You thought you’d never have this again. It had almost broken you.

“I’m here, baby. I’m home, I promise,” he mutters into your skin, as if reading your mind.

You kiss him deeply, yanking him into you by his pretty shirt, taking his breath away.

He pulls away and presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel him sway on his feet, a little unbalanced.

“Good news—looks like Little Elvis is back in working order,” he says breathlessly, pressing his thickening erection into your belly. He seems pleasantly surprised.

Honestly, with everything dire that happened, it hadn’t even crossed your mind as a concern, but it makes sense that it could be an issue. You grin up at him with the knowledge that it isn’t, then roll your hips against him.

He groans. “Bad news—not sure I have the energy to do all the things I wanna to ya, and we got a house full of people.” Doesn’t stop him from grabbing a handful of your bottom, however.

“Oh, that’s never stopped us before, now has it?” you muse, walking your fingers gently down his chest and over his belly to palm his length.

“Lord have mercy, woman,” he moans, his eyes fluttering closed. You notice him lean more heavily on his cane and instantly ease up. One blue eye opens with a quirked brow. “Hey now, I din’t say stop.”

You laugh. “Well, it seems dinner is ruined anyhow,” you say, surveying the disaster of broken dishes and scattered food all over the floor, and the cold, raw turkey on the counter. “Maybe we better get you upstairs to rest.”

Rest is, of course, the furthest thing from your mind now, which you let him know with a little squeeze to his butt.

“Mmhmm, yes, I definitely need to lie down,” he mumbles as he peppers you with kisses. Suddenly, he freezes against you. “But, honey, I-I-I’m not sure how much I can do,” he whispers, a wave of uncertainty washing over him.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll take it slow. Real slow. One step at a time, like fumbling teenagers,” you say lightly, cupping his face and looking up into his eyes. “Or we can just kiss and hold each other. I’m just happy you’re here, baby.”

He nods, seemingly reassured by this. “I know I don’t say it as much as I should, but I thank God every day for you and for what we have together, Satnin,” he says quietly, brushing your hair behind your ear, kissing you gently. “I love you.”

Your heart and body ache for him. “We better get you upstairs to “rest”before I start crying again,” you snuffle, laughing, slowly walking with him toward the stairs.

“Well, tears aren’t entirely off the table…I can think of a couple good ways I can make you cry,” he teases, nibbling at your ear.

“Elvis Aaron, you did not just…” you gasp.

“What??” he says innocently. “Am I wrong?”

A shiver runs down your spine and settles in the heat of your belly.

You’ve missed him. Terribly.

But you do have so much to be thankful for this year, namely for the infuriatingly talented, generous, and stubborn man you married and are gingerly leading up the stairs for the first time in months.

In fact, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

*

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[missmaywemeetagain]

🫦

Scene from Jailhouse Rock (1957)

[missmaywemeetagain]

Y'all wished for it. 💫

Y'all begged for it. 🙏🏼

And it's coming...😏

Red Scarf 🔥🧣🔥, a Scarf Universe one-shot exclusive is out TOMORROW...

(and boy, is it filthy! 😈)

Are you ready?? 💋

Don't miss out--join HERE for exclusive access!! 🎉

“Gonna be my good baby and take all I’m givin’ ya?”

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Eeee! I can't believe it's finally DONE! At nearly a whopping 14k, I truly hope this makes up for me not updating this story since September! 🎉 Many thanks to my darling @ab4eva for finally helping me knock this loose and reminding me I could indeed still write! 💗💋💗

If I'm honest, Broken Glass is one of my favorite stories I've worked on. I know it's quite the slow burn and not nearly as smutty as my other works (...yet), but it really does make my creative heart sing and I'm so in love with these two and their stark vulnerabilities. 🥹

I highly recommend rereading Chapter 8 to refresh your memory, but the TL;DR is we left a jealous, ailing Elvis having just found out Lori's big secret from Sinatra and Sinatra calling Elvis out on feelings he hasn't quite been able to admit to himself until now. 😬

This chapter puts us firmly back in Lori's (rather confused) perspective. Elvis is acting weird, and she is feeling the fear of her past nipping at her heels. She's trying to manage her own emotions and health while chasing after Elvis' moody ass, which is going just as well as you'd expect LOL. And of course we have Welcome Home Elvis with Frank Sinatra! You might want to watch the Elvis portions on the show to fully get in the mood--I hope I did them justice! 🥰

Things will really kick into high gear after this chapter, so this setup is pretty important to what's coming. I really hope you enjoy! You can catch up here using the Broken Glass Masterlist ❤️‍🩹

I can't wait to hear what you think!! 💗

Much Love, 

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

TW: references to SA/threats/abuse, Gianni, dissociation, emotional upheaval, nightmares/violence/blood, period-related misogyny, health issues (fainting, constipation, vomiting, etc.), Elvis being an asshole, Elvis being a damn snack, sooties 😏

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

“Just hang on, Elvis. Come on, open your eyes for me,” you say, patting his sallow cheek, the concrete biting at your knees where you’ve fallen ungracefully to the ground with him.

Your half a cigarette lies smoking and abandoned a foot away—a bad habit you picked up after needing an excuse to get outside after long, stressful shifts at the hospital. You haven’t smoked much since you left New York, not having much need for it when your current job is almost ornamental most days, except in those private, hidden moments away from the bustle of Elvis’ strange life.

But he’d pushed you to that Lucky Strike, what with his aloof behavior since Nashville and then his ridiculous jealousy over Frank Sinatra having the audacity to speak to you and you having the gall to laugh with him.

“You are. You’re jealous. Why? I’m not your girl, so why—”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Galloping in your chest, your heart betrays your tangled feelings about the way he’d acted, the way he’d said those words as if he thought for a moment you really were his girl. And before, how he’d kissed you so passionately…

The memory is interrupted by Elvis’ low groan, his long eyelashes fluttering open to reveal glassy but stormy ocean eyes, thrusting you back into the present emergency. You don’t particularly like the way he’s clutching his midsection or how wheezy and warm he is, but you can’t do much here, especially when people are starting to gather.

He starts, as if coming back into himself, and surprisingly tries to roll up and off you. “I’m fine,” he gasps, shrugging your hand off his shoulder in an uncharacteristic act of defiance.

You might be more annoyed if you weren’t so worried, but your feelings are beside the point right now. Treat him like any other patient, a voice in your head reminds you.

“You are not fine, and we’re going back to the hotel so I can get a look at you,” you whisper firmly in his ear.

He shoots you a petulant look.

“Unless you want to go to the hospital instead?” you throw at him, with a raised brow. That does the trick. His glare softens a bit and his eyes dart away as though he’s been scolded.

It doesn’t take more than a pointed look from you for Lamar and Joe to haul Elvis carefully to his feet. You may only be Elvis’ girlfriend in their eyes, but they do know you are a nurse with some expertise in these situations. And you can’t help but see concern on their faces.

Elvis clutches his midsection again with a gasping wince. The guys lead him to a bench outside the building.

“Joe, tell someone in charge Elvis isn’t feeling well. Lamar, go get the car, please. We’re leaving.”

Your tone leaves no room for questions, but the three men look at you with surprise. In truth, you are a little surprised yourself. Perhaps it’s your lack of outward panic, the calm surety of many a night on the emergency ward.

You can’t say the same for them, seeing the panic brewing in the eyes of Elvis’ friends. Along with that, none of them are used to taking orders from women, and certainly you haven’t shown much vocal backbone in these last few weeks, yet with hardly a pause, Lamar and Joe scurry off, leaving you with Elvis.

He doesn’t speak to you or try to joke his way out of the pain, which is unusual. Instead, he stares blankly at anywhere but you. A sliver of unease winds its way through your stomach, and while you don’t push him, it’s almost involuntary the way your hand falls on top of his.

There is no reaction at first. Is he trying to ignore you? Could he possibly still be mad about the Sinatra thing? Confusion washes over you at the slight, but then his eyes squint in pain and his hand finally grips yours.

You hold back the breath of relief at the response, and before you can spiral too much more into what ifs, Lamar pulls up with the car. With his help, you get Elvis into the backseat.

The drive to the hotel is mostly silent. Joe tries to crack a joke or two from the front seat, but Elvis’ lack of response beyond painful grimaces quiets the short man with the annoying laugh. Elvis continues to shut you out, his hands clasped around his middle now instead of your hand.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

He’s just distracted by his pain, you reassure yourself.

You spend the ride pushing away questions about his behavior towards you and try to focus on diagnosis and treatment checklists, going through in your head what you have to do once you two are alone. It grounds you.

Once you all arrive, the boys help him out, but he stubbornly pushes them away once they reach the lobby.

“I can get to the elevator by my damn self!” Elvis grumbles, his eyes darting around the open space with concern. He’s nervous, you think, about being mobbed in this condition. You’ve gleaned enough in the past few weeks to understand he always attracts attention and it’s almost impossible for him to say no to his fans, even when he’s in so much pain he can barely stand upright. You are continually amazed by his generosity and selflessness in this regard. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

Luckily, the lobby isn’t busy, and you make it to the privacy of the elevator avoiding interruption from outsiders. The humid air in the small space feels stifling and heavy with concern, but no one speaks as the elevator lurches upwards.

The relief is palpable when the doors open to the penthouse, and without ceremony you help deposit Elvis on the king-sized bed in the suite.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe whispers to you as you try to shut him out of the room. The look in his eyes shows real worry for his friend.

“No,” you snap back, wanting to avoid any doctors not already familiar with the complexity of the situation. Joe is taken aback, so you continue more gently, “Not yet, at least. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”

You can’t close the door fast enough, finally able to rush to Elvis’ aid in earnest, grabbing your medical bag out of the closet.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, preparing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

Elvis doesn’t respond, looking sullen. You can’t tell if it’s stubbornness or pain that’s keeping him this way though. But the dull hurt of your near-constant headache coupled with his strange mood has your temper feeling short.

“You smoke,” he says with distaste, avoiding your question.

“What?” Distracted, you count the seconds of his pulse using your watch.

“Girls of mine don’t smoke. I don’t like it,” he adds with a petulant glare.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Okay, Elvis, I’ll stop smoking,” you placate, “but you need to tell me what’s going on with your body or I cannot help you.” The command is clear.

He looks up at you then, his eyes churning with pain and something else you don’t have time to piece through right now.

“I feel hot an’ short of breath,” he says quietly, almost clinically. “And…” He hesitates, looking down with embarrassment.

You urge him on with a nod as you squeeze the cuff. “And? What’s going on with your belly?”

He clears his throat with a grimace. “It hurts something fierce. It’s, uh, been awhile since…you know.”

You sigh. Logically, you understand how anyone—any man, especially one in his position—might feel embarrassed talking about their bodily functions with a young woman, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating that he hides these issues from you when it’s your job to know.

“How long?” you ask.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, his face going flush.

“Alright, then, lay back,” you sigh, popping a thermometer in his mouth. Thankfully, he obeys without a fuss, and you pull his shirt up. It doesn’t take much gentle prodding on his lower belly to determine the issue. In fact, you can see the distention on his normally lean frame. That coupled with his pained whimpers and wincing makes it clear that his chronic constipation is rearing its ugly head.

For a normal and otherwise heathy person, it might not cause the severity of issues you have to contend with now. But Elvis is neither normal nor healthy. His pressure and temp are too high, his asthma is acting up, either from the pain or exertion of singing, and you know he’s not going to like the solution. But if he wants to stay out of the hospital and out of the press, he’ll just have to deal with it.

Despite your headache and frustration with him for not communicating readily with you about anything he should, be it his feelings or his health, you urge him to the bathroom as gently as possible, gathering the materials needed from your bag. The caretaker in you pushes everything else away as you prepare the solution and guide him through the process of what must be done.

He goes from furious to ashamed to resigned rather quickly. You are a little surprised at how readily he becomes vulnerable to you, considering the circumstances. The treatment momentarily strips away whatever inexplicable ire he was holding onto. It feels so intimate the way you both quiet and with how carefully you tend to him, massaging his belly and rubbing his back as the treatment works its magic. And after the relief comes, you run a bath, washing him gently, watching as his handsome face finally relaxes. Never has a man looked so innocent yet so beautifully dangerous. He leans into your comfort, too, and as clinical as your brain wants to make this whole experience, you are a little frightened by the realization of your heart aching not just with him, but for him.

He falls asleep in the warmth of the tub. You don’t wake him, knowing how sleep comes for him so irregularly and infrequently, but you are loathe to leave him alone when he could easily slip under the water. Elvis Presley will not drown in a tub on your watch.

Or at least this is what you tell yourself as you take a moment to catalogue such peaceful and unencumbered beauty, knowing very few get to see him like this.

Your mind finally wanders then, back to the moment in Nashville you’ve tried desperately not to think about, when he sang directly to you in so intimate a way you thought you’d combust from the inside out with feelings and urges you barely understood. Fire and shivers cascade down your spine all at once at the memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and molten, as he sang to you about just how right it would feel to be in his arms. It was so seductive, so real, it felt like he put a spell on you. There were no secrets between you in that tiny studio—only want and need.

In those few minutes, he wanted everything from you, and you had wanted to give it to him.

That is his wonderful talent, though, isn’t it? you think. To make others believe in the words of a song. Perhaps he believed them too, in the moment. It sure felt like it.

But he became so incredibly distant after Nashville, just when you thought you’d gotten closer. It was confusing and exasperating, like he pulled the rug of logic and sense right out from under you. It hurt more than it should have to be shut out by him. He hadn’t been unkind, per say, just aloof and detached.

You purse your fingers over the bridge of your nose, wishing it would ease the dull throbbing in your head. Lack of sleep and routine has done a number on you these past few weeks, though you know it’s keeping up with the façade of a relationship challenging you the most. You’ve slowly been getting better at playing the part of the doting girlfriend, to be sure, but the switching from fake girlfriend to nursemaid and back again is altogether exhausting.

And no matter how much better you get, you aren’t an actress. You aren’t used to pretending to feel something but not actually feeling it. It’s getting harder and harder to decern if these complicated feelings you are starting to have for Elvis are just part of your new job or if they are…real.

You don’t want them to be. They can’t be. Not only would it be unethical, but it’s perilous to think—to hope—he might see you as more. You’re not the type of girl a man like Elvis Presley falls for. And even if you were, a smart, practical girl like you knows better than to get involved with a womanizer like him.

A smart, practical girl like you knows any man is dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as soon as you’d left the safety of Graceland, you’ve felt the creeping unease Gianni or your father could pop out at any moment to steal you away back to New York. They have to know by now who you are with, and you don’t hold any fantasy of them letting you get on with your life without a fight. No, they’ll come for you at some point, you just don’t know when or how, and the more you’re out in the world, the more exposed you feel. Your hypervigilance has you always on edge, and you make sure to stay by Elvis’ side as much as possible in the hope he and his entourage will protect you.

So, yes, you are exhausted. The litany of masks you’re wearing to stay functional are crushing you with their weight, and it is taking more of a toll on you than you are letting on. Perhaps that is why Elvis’ mercurial attitude towards you feels so barbed and painful because, by some strange twist of fate, he is the only one in this world who knows even a fraction of who you really are.

And with that thought, you try not to berate yourself too much for taking a stolen moment to gawk at the ethereal man, this god-like Apollo, naked and asleep in the tub. You are too tired to fight the searing memory of how he kissed you today in front of Frank, so possessive and visceral as he clutched you to him like he never wanted to let you go. The way his tongue, oh Madone, how his tongue had teased your lips to part and how you’d melted in his arms, unable and unwilling to resist his charms. He held you close and all you had wanted in that moment was to be consumed by him, embarrassingly so.

Maybe that was why you’d reacted fervently to his jealousy. It is whiplash, this pendulum of his attentions (or lack thereof), and it embarrasses you how easily you’d caved to his kiss, and in front of Frank Sinatra of all people. But then when you were alone, Elvis reminded you so clearly with his words that it was all a lie, while his body and actions screamed the opposite.

It all felt like too much, then, when he’d tried to put it on you, as if you were the one playing with his emotions. He is an infuriating, obstinate man, and it’s even more infuriating how everyone in his circle allows him to be so. It certainly isn’t fair he can also be so generous and kind and talented and handsome and vulnerable…God, it would be so much easier if he was always a spoiled brat and you could hate him for it.

But it’s not that easy.

He scares you. Not like your father or Gianni, no. Elvis scares you because he—

“You alright, Little Bird?” he croaks from the bath, eyes slits against the light.

It startles you, and you realize your head has been in your hands in lament as you spiral. You straighten, blinking away your lingering, dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” It is not a lie, and you hope his own exhaustion keeps him from questioning you further.

“Well, we best get you to bed then, darlin’,” he groans, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head. “Hand me that towel?”

“Of course,” you breathe, handing him the fuzzy, white towel, then you quickly turn away. You don’t want to leave because he may be unsteady on his feet, and it’s certainly not as though you haven’t seen him totally bare, but you feel your cheeks heat slightly anyway at his nakedness.

I’m only human.

Towel slung low on his narrow hips, you’re glad to follow him into the bedroom and not the other way around, worried the heat of his gaze might flay you open and reveal everything you are trying to hide from him. You don’t have the energy for masks right now.

It seems neither does he. He is docile and pliant as you help him into his silken pajamas and under the covers. You’ve noticed the pattern of him doing this after his episodes, putting himself completely in your capable hands.

As you head back to the bathroom to change and do your own nightly routine, you wonder if he’s ever been this way with anyone else, or if it’s just a special part of him set aside for you.

Stop thinking like that. I am his nurse and nothing more.

You keep a healthy distance between you and him when you climb into the sheets. It doesn’t take long, however, for your exhaustion to take the reins, and you quickly drift off, trying desperately not to think about the beautiful man—no, my patient—who sleeps so close by.

*

“Dolo-res, oh, Dolo-res!” The slithering sound of Gianni’s voice sing-songing your name in the dark sends your heart racing and your stomach dropping. His dress shoes click ominously on the wooden floor of your father’s house, slowly, taunting you. It’s as though he knows exactly where you are and is just biding his time. Finding pleasure in your fear.

You try to be as quiet as a mouse, but your breathing grows more ragged with each laborious step. The floor is working against you, like you are trying to run through water.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Sinatra sings, the sound slow and distorted. Frank watches you struggle up the stairs, his head tilting and those famous blues giving you a knowing wink from the hallway beneath you.

“You can’t hide from me, Bella,” Gianni purrs from behind you, his footfalls heavy.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Frank continues the song as though your world isn’t collapsing in on itself, as if you weren’t running for your life. The lyrics feel all too threatening under the circumstances.

Clawing your way to the landing, a sob catches in your throat. He’s too close. You can smell his awful cologne. It makes your head pound and your stomach roll.

If you crawl your way to your room…you could lock the door. You could be safe.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Frank croons from below.

Gianni’s hands are frigid when they clamp on your legs and turn you over.

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

“Did you get my gift, Bella?” Gianni smirks, feeling his way up your thighs, up under your skirt.

Looking down at your hand, the engagement ring he gave you shines menacingly, weighing your hand down so much you cannot lift it to defend yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I was made to serenade Dolores,” the song continues, but it’s no longer Frank’s voice from below. No, it’s deeper, and warm, like velvet. And oh, so familiar.

Elvis.

He’s on the landing behind you as he sings. You crane your neck and see him upside down, towering over you, only a few steps away.

“Elvis, please,” you cry. You aren’t sure if it’s a plea for help or one encouraging him to run. He looks down at you, almost absently, like he sees you but cannot be bothered. Perhaps he does not see you at all.

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

Gianni looks up and growls at Elvis, the whites of his eyes disappearing, turning all the way black. Dark, vicious claws form at the ends of his fingers. He looks like a demonic beast, ready to pounce on his prey.

“I would die to be with my Dolores,” Elvis sings, and you know then it’s over. You close your eyes, not wanting to see Gianni tear Elvis apart just for being near you. You feel the heat of Gianni leap over your prone form, feel Elvis being knocked to the ground with a thud. A roar. Screams. The sounds are sickening and the heat of blood spatters over your face.

“NO!” you sob, uncontrollably. Every breath is tainted with your agony.

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

Your chest heaves with the speed of your panicked breathing and you sense Gianni crawling back over you. You open your eyes, even though you don’t want to.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Gianni sings quietly, finishing the song, his face and hands stained crimson with Elvis’ blood. He smiles at you, a terrifying white gash amongst the red.

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

You shudder awake, breathing hard enough to know it is another nightmare that wakes you. The sheen of sweat across your brow, the throbbing at your temples reminds you that you are alive, awake, and when you open your eyes, they meet the darkness of the hotel suite. Your cheeks are damp with tears and your hand flies to your abdomen to make sure Gianni’s claws are not deep inside you.

Much to your shock, there is a hand already there, large and splayed across your belly, but completely unthreatening. No, almost comforting. It knocks away the dream, this hand, as you try to puzzle through why it is there, who it belongs to, and why you aren’t afraid. You hold your breath.

A moment passes. You take stock of the rest of you: the queasiness of your stomach subsiding some, the solid warmth pressed against your back, your legs tucked but feet tangled amongst the sheets and another set of feet.

Elvis.

And you wonder if you are still dreaming because of the way his arms hold you tight. You wait for the panic to come as a result of the embrace, but it never does. Your heart skips then slows, beat by beat as you sink into calm, protected warmth, lulled by his slow breathing against your back.

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

*

Your eyes flutter open. The room is dark, thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Elvis requested, but one look at the clock tells you it’s morning and past time to get up. A shiver rolls through you, which is strange despite the arctic levels he keeps any room he sleeps in because he usually a furnace next to you. But your body already knows what your eyes quickly confirm: Elvis is gone. Not in the bed, or the suite, or in the darkened bathroom.

Puzzled, you sit up and flip on the lamp. Your memory is hazy. Blinking, you vaguely remember a nightmare involving Gianni, but blissfully cannot remember specifics. There is something else you are missing, though, something important, just outside the reach of your memory. A comfort maybe? It doesn’t make any sense. Unease settles over you as you rise, your hand falling unconsciously over your abdomen.

Elvis’ absence bothers you, though you can’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s just the lingering dreams you can’t quite remember that have you anxious.

Or maybe it’s because in less than a month, your entire life has been upended and changed irrevocably.

Could be that.

After a glance at the time, you rise and hasten to get ready, knowing you are running late. Elvis will need to be at rehearsal soon. The rush is a good distraction from your muddled thoughts.

When you exit into the rest of the suite, ready to go, it’s much, much too quiet. Your skin prickles at the absence of Elvis and the usual boisterousness of the group of men you’ve become used to being around all the time and the relative safety they provide.

Something is wrong, and a tendril of fear of being alone and exposed winds up your spine.

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

It’s then that Cliff exits the kitchenette with a cup of coffee and you jump, startled, hand flying to your chest as you suck in a breath.

“Oh, hey, Lori,” he says. “You’re finally up.”

“Madre di Dio, you scared me!” you gasp, trying not to let the panic leech into your voice too much. “Where is everyone? Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, they went ahead to the studio. I stayed back to drive you, if you still want to go.” He says it with pity, like you’re one of Elvis’ paramours that can just be dismissed on a whim, and frankly, he seems a little put out by this assignment.

“He did what?” Red lines your vision quite suddenly, anger washing away the worry you’d felt only a moment ago. Elvis is not supposed to be without you. It’s the reason you’re even here. He knows it.

And he just left you. Alone. Without a word.

Cliff backpedals instantly, sensing your indignation, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, I…um…I think he just thought you were tired? And wanted to let you sleep?”

“Oh, I bet he did,” you mutter under your breath. Then you grab your purse and beeline for the door. “Let’s go, Cliff.”

He scrambles behind out you, following you to the elevator. At first, he nervously prattles on about the weather, trying to make small talk, but finally gives up once he realizes your piercing glare isn’t going anywhere.

You tell yourself you’re angry because Elvis has put himself in danger by not having you with him, but you are smart enough to know it’s more than that. He’s treated you like any other woman when you are not.

It’s downright disrespectful.

Furthermore, it put you at risk. Without the safety of Elvis’ protective and insular group, you are exposed. Gianni or your father would have no trouble at all disposing of Cliff and dragging you back to New York, before Elvis even knew what happened.

Because you haven’t told him, a small voice reminds you.

It makes you sick to think of. Your pounding headache is back, and you feel a bit carsick with the intense Florida sun beating down as Cliff drives you to the studio.

Your frustration and fear have you out of the car before he has barely parked. Heels click-clacking on the concrete and Cliff struggling to keep up, you show your special pass to the doorman. You hate the way the man examines your pass as though it were fake, giving you a once over. Cliff nods at the man before he finally lets you both through, and you huff at the slight.

This isn’t like you. Before Elvis, you would have meekly stepped to the side and let Cliff lead, content to fade into the woodwork. Happy, even. Maybe Elvis’ hotheadedness is rubbing off on you because the swell of rage you feel is like nothing you’ve felt before.

Fuming, you finally reach the studio and then stop short at what you see, sending Cliff almost running into you.

Elvis looks the picture of health, none of the pain or vulnerability you’d seen last night anywhere to be seen. In fact, he has a pretty girl on either side of him, both tittering and blushing as he smiles his famous quirky smile at them in turn. Flirting.

Your nails dig into your clutch and your body goes rigid. It shouldn’t, but it makes your blood boil with betrayal.

How dare he.

It’s a stupid thought, and one you try to shake off as soon as it comes. He’s not your boyfriend. God knows he’s flirted—and done much more—with other girls around you before, and it didn’t bother you then. Not really.

But maybe it’s because he laid into you so hard yesterday about Sinatra and your supposed flirtation and about keeping up appearances and his damned jealousy, and yet here he is, blatantly disregarding all of it. Because of double standards and whatever other petty reasons he has for acting so strange with you since Nashville.

Your eyes burn into him and with the little sixth sense of his, he notices. His eyes darken and hit yours intentionally, and there’s not even a hint of surprise or regret in them. Just an infuriating quirk of a brow before the girls steal his attention again.

Like he planned this.

You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to take a breath instead of doing something stupid like slapping that smile right off his pretty face. No, you’ve got to be professional about this. You seethe, trying to reel in all these senseless emotions suddenly swirling out of control in your mind.

For whatever reason, he’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe he thinks he’s teaching you a lesson about yesterday. About Frank. About the smoking. Who knows what else.

Well, two can play at that game.

You breathe in, out, in again, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing yourself back into your clinical mode. God knows between the last few weeks, your upbringing, and your nurse’s training, you’ve learned how to deal with difficult people.

Elvis Presley has severely underestimated you if he thinks you’ll fold over this.

In another highly uncharacteristic move, you school your features into a relaxed smile as you walk towards him and the girls. You know he senses you even though he’s barely looking, but instead of confronting him or slinking into the shadows, you clip right past him and head towards the other famous men in the room.

His eyes are burning holes into your back as Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. notice your approach. You appreciate the fact that the two men smile so warmly at you, and not at all dismissively. It was a gamble, as you easily could’ve been rejected by them, too, but your gamble seems to have paid off.

“And who is this pretty young thing?” Sammy asks charmingly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. You don’t even have to pretend to blush under the scrutiny of both titans.

“Oh, this is the delightful Miss Dolores,” Frank says, “Elvis’ girl.”

“Ah, I knew that kid had good taste,” Sammy smiles.

“We weren’t sure if you were joining us today,” Frank says, looking not so casually behind you.

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

“There you are, darlin’! Wanted to let you sleep in after such a long day yesterday,” Elvis says, smoothly sidling in beside you and planting a kiss to your temple.

You hide your smile at your presumption coming true and at the suggestive nature of his comment. A dismissive “Mmhmm,” is all you give him back, though. You don’t even look at him.

“You know, my mother was a huge fan of you both,” you gush instead to the other men in front of you, ignoring Elvis. “She passed years ago, but any time I hear That Old Black Magic or Birth of the Blues, I can’t help but think of her.”

It’s not a lie, nor is the sudden swell of emotion you have at the thought of your mother listening and singing along to those tunes while she made supper. You sniffle and let out a little laugh.

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

“Look at me, getting all flustered,” you say, waving away your tears.

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

“Oh, we’re just honored to be a part of your memories like that, honey,” Sammy says kindly, and you feel Elvis stiffen beside you at the endearment.

“Frank, Elvis, we’re ready for the Love Me Tender/Witchcraftrun-through,” George, the very serious production assistant, interrupts.

Elvis starts directing you away. “Okay, then, baby, why don’t you—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear more about your mother, if you want to share,” Sammy says to you. “Don’t worry, Elvis, she’ll be safe with me.” He winks, reaching for your hand.

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

“Well, how could I refuse the great Sammy Davis Jr.?” you interrupt, a little coyly. Part of you wonders when you became so bold as to flirt so shamelessly with men like this.

You aren’t feeling much like your old self these days.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Tension ripples off Elvis and you honestly couldn’t have planned it better.

You can tell Elvis doesn’t want to offend Sammy as he hems and haws a bit too long. “Sure, sure, of course. I’ll come find ya after,” he finally gets out, a tad flippantly, and you don’t miss the amusement in Frank’s sparkling blue eyes as he leads Elvis away.

*

If you thought that would be the end of it, you were sorely mistaken. Your pleasure at winning the battle distracts you momentarily, making you think you’ve taught the man a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You were wrong.

Instead, Elvis has doubled down on his nonchalant dismissal of you, barely even acknowledging your presence. Suddenly, there are more girls around than before and all of them seemed more than happy to be on the arm of the all-too-handsome singer, even if only for a moment.

You realize fleetingly he’d been true to his word in keeping the girls away before now because of your perceived relationship. But not anymore.

His message seems clear, even though you still don’t understand the reason behind it: You are easily replaced.

If you were actually his girlfriend, maybe that would be true. For a second, you feel the sting of his rejection as if you were just some poor girl fawning over him.

But the reality is much more complicated. Much worse is the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of being fired and having to fend for yourself against the wolves nipping at your heels. As much as you don’t trust the Colonel, you don’t imagine he’d cast you aside so easily considering everything you know and the pains it would take to bring another nurse into the fold. And Elvis is smart enough to know it. It is a bit of a salve to the fear churning in your belly.

No, what Elvis is doing seems like some sort of strange tantrum, like he’s hurt and sending you a message the only way he knows how. What it truly could be, you have no idea, but having a slew of younger brothers, you understand that sometimes boys just need to wear themselves out with their nonsense. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating or humiliating for you, but you’ve been through worse than an adult man being immature and unable to communicate his feelings.

You almost wish his health was struggling a bit more because it would force him to engage with you. As it stands, he is the picture of health right now and he is only listening to you out of the necessity of keeping up appearances or when you have the gall to talk to another man.

It stings more than you want it to. More than it should.

It’s easy to blame it on the ever-growing fatigue you can’t seem to shake and on the fact you have less experience dealing with these kinds of relationships than most girls your age. It’s not as if you have a lot to compare it to, or even any girlfriends or relatives you talk to in order to help you try and understand what is wrong with him.

A deep loneliness sinks down over you suddenly, threatening to drown you in the overwhelming realization that you truly have only yourself to keep you steady. The worst part is Elvis is the only one who has any understanding of you at all, and for whatever reason, he is shutting you out. You force back the tears trying to spring to your eyes, swallowing your grief and resignation.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you mope as he entertains the girls the other guys have procured for the evening, you smile and keep up pleasantries for as long as you can before retiring to the bedroom to read. Not that you are able to, as the words keep swimming in your vision and you stay on the same page for much too long. Finally, you close your eyes against the emotional tide and your persistent headache, and it’s not until Elvis comes to bed that you stir again.

You don’t open your eyes, however, though you can feel him looking at you. His gaze burns through you, making your heart race. There’s a long moment of silence before he finally undresses, gets in the bed, and turns out the light.

*

March 26th, 1960

The studio is vibrating with energy. Not only are the people involved in the show bustling about, but the audience, packed full of young women, is tittering so much that you can feel it in your bones.

Surprisingly, Charlie came out and grabbed you after Elvis’ appearance in the opening. Elvis looked smart in the dress uniform he’d been so glad to be rid of those first days you’d met. While he’d been nicer to you today in general, you are unsure why he wants you backstage after the way he’d shooed you out before the show started. But there are thirty more minutes before his performance, and you are suddenly concerned he’s not doing as well as he made himself out to be.

You make your way back into the dressing room, trying to offset your own nerves. You slept terribly, thinking too much about your future, mulling over every worst-case scenario again and again in your head. But the moment you enter the dressing room, it all goes out the window.

Elvis turns around when the door opens, an absolute vision in a black tuxedo that does everything to show off his long frame. Everything.There’s no helping the sharp intake of breath you try to swallow and the way your feet stick to the floor as you take him in from top to bottom. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

His dark hair is swooped back on the sides, but styled tall and soft in the front, adding the appearance of at least three inches to his height and highlighting his long, chiseled jaw. His artfully applied makeup is subtle and does everything to show off his deep blue bedroom eyes.

Eyes that just happen to be swallowing you whole. A wave of heat washes over your entire body. You feel suspended in time and know you are gawking, but despite having spent over three weeks solid with the man, enduring every quirk and his maddening mood swings, you hadn’t been prepared to see him at his best.

Oh, Madone.

He has you locked down with his gaze, and while every professional bone in your body screams at you to be normal, it’s impossible. Every reason you’d been furious with him for the past week is forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it is suddenly dawning on you why Elvis Presley is who he is and that you’ve been working for him all this time without really realizing it.

“A-alright, everybody out. I need to talk to my Little Bird alone,” he drawls, but the command is crystal clear, sending all the boys filing out behind you. His nickname for you has never sounded so utterly sinful coming out of his mouth before. Your heart thuds in your chest and you hope to God Elvis cannot hear it or see the flush on your cheeks.

The door clicks shut, and Elvis sighs audibly in what seems like relief, his shoulders sagging a bit, and as he deflates, it breaks whatever strange spell he had on you. He adjusts his cufflinks nervously, then shakes his hands at his sides, bouncing on his toes, like he’s trying to expel the nerves out his limbs.

“Are you okay?” you ask, finally able to speak again.

“O-oh, honey, I-I-I-I’m so damn scared, I feel like my heart’s ‘bout ready to fly right o-o-outta my chest,” he stutters, looking at you as though you can provide him some relief. “S’like I can’t breathe.”

This kicks you into gear, the need to make sure he is healthy enough to perform washing away the awe at the handsome figure he cuts.

“You’re okay, just take off your jacket and sit down,” you guide him gently. He doesn’t fight you at all, but you can see the way he trembles with anxiety. The change in him seems strange to you considering the easy ego he’s been coasting on for weeks.

Maybe he’s been such a jerk because he’s been nervous, you think suddenly. As quick as it comes, you push it back out again, wanting to focus on his care.

You don’t have all your things, but you take his pulse, which is noticeably racing, and his breathing seems fast but not wheezing.

“I-I-I’m not dying, am I? W-w-what i-if I-I go o-out there and p-pass out in front of—” He is stuttering so much, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, but his fear is clear: he’s terrified he’s going to mess up this critical piece of his comeback in front of the world and some of the greatest performers out there.

“Elvis,” you say gently, grabbing his hands in yours and stilling them. Once his fearful, wide eyes find yours, you continue, “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t going to die out there, I promise. Now, take a deep breath with me.” You inhale deeply, hold, and then exhale nice and long, then do it again until he’s matching you.

In, out, in, out, again and again.

The breathing has just as much effect on you as it does him. The energy in the room calms substantially, your fears and his dissipating a little more with each breath.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there with him, his hands dwarfing yours, but when he opens his eyes and meets yours, you can all at once see every iteration of Elvis Presley coexisting in harmony: the playful boy, the charming but humble superstar, the fiery and moody young man. He is both the most human you’ve ever seen him, yet the most ethereal in the same breath. The vulnerability and complexity astound you speechless once again.

“You are magic, Little Bird,” he says softly, eyes tracking over your face. Your heart skips a beat, then two. You’re in freefall for a few seconds before you can tear your eyes away from him enough to regain your wits.

When you look back at him, his face is a handsome mask, giving little away. Perhaps it’s just him preparing to perform, locking some of himself away. But something tells you there is more to it than that.

His thumbs trace up and down, sweeping between your thumbs and pointer fingers in the same rhythm as your breath. Somehow it grounds you while still making you feel a bit dizzy. He says you are magic, but he is the one enchanting you and all at once you want to tell him everything. Every single thing weighing on your mind. All your fears. The feelings you are starting to have for him that terrify you. How you see him. How you’ve deceived him to protect him. To protect yourself. It’s not the right time, it never is, but it’s like he’s drawing it out of you with his caress. You can’t bear for him to go cold on you again, not when he’s your only glimmer of hope.

They say the truth will set you free.

The words start to tumble out of their own accord, “Elvis, I need to tell you—”

A sharp rap at the door interrupts your confession before it even starts, and your heart catches in your throat.

“Places, Mr. Presley!” George yells through the door.

“Thank you!” he yells back. His eyes shine with something hopeful behind them when he turns his attention back to you, almost expectant. “Save that thought, honey.”

It’s all you can do to nod, tamping down on the adrenaline pouring through your veins. He leaps up, releasing your hands, severing the connection you hadn’t realized until right now you needed so much. Pulling his jacket on, he adjusts, and you stop him, craving the sense of intimacy that is slipping through your fingers like a sieve. You step up to him, straightening and smoothing the velvet lapels of his jacket. Your hands linger a moment too long near the button and you look at them, unable to stop the heat on your cheeks or to look up into Elvis’ eyes.

“Wish me luck, baby?” he says playfully, but with an edge of need you force yourself to ignore. He squeezes your hands, encouraging you to raise your head. You school your features into something calmer than what you feel.

“You don’t need it. You’ll be amazing and they’ll love you. They already do,” you say. It comes out much more breathless than you’d like, and you look everywhere but in his eyes.

The air gets heavy, crushing all sensibility, and you can’t help your eyes darting up then. His full lips part the slightest bit, his body leaning forward enough to make your breath catch. Suddenly every one of your nerves is on fire, crawling under your skin, something new and forbidden winding its way into your belly.

He’s only ever kissed you in a performative way, playing to an audience, but this, this is different. The way those sapphire eyes drink you in is much too much. You’re drowning in them, wondering how different it will be if he kisses you and not pretend-girlfriend you. He is so close you can smell the now-familiar, delicious waft of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath on your face.

Oh, Madone, we can’t. The thought stabs through your head with a panic, straightening your spine like a ramrod, and Elvis is nothing if not observant. So expertly does he change course you doubt he had any other intention than to press his open mouth to your cheek. The soft feeling has you sighing, but you aren’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Not unlike the look on his face.

Stepping back breaks the tension in the air enough for you to recover what is left of your wits. You smooth the front of your dress. “Would you like me in the audience or backstage?” You hope it comes out more professional than you feel.

“Needja out front. Wanna be able to see your pretty face unable to take your eyes off me,” he jokes, oozing charm, but his twitching hands and serious eyes belie his nervousness.

“Oh, we’ll see.” You roll your eyes, playing into what he seems to need in this moment from you, though your heart is still galloping enough that you feel breathless. You barely register opening the door and walking back out to your seat in the audience, feeling the roll of anxiety in your stomach, both for his performance and for what you almost let happen in the dressing room.

Before you can spiral too far into beating yourself up, Frank is up introducing Elvis. The girls in the studio go so wild, they sound possessed, chants of “We want Elvis!” devolving into shrieking. You resist the urge to stick your fingers in your ears to protect your eardrums.

But then Elvis, in all his breathtaking beauty, is ambling downstage, managing to be cool, casual, and charming, but also bashful, like he didn’t expect this reaction. And it’s not a put on.

He didn’t think they’d still love him, you realize.

The way he bites his lip, then runs his tongue over his teeth before erupting into an almost embarrassed grin makes your heart flutter at its sweetness because you know just how scared he is. His skill, however, is that no one else does.

He turns to signal the band and the first bars of Fame and Fortune come in. The man who turns around to sing is someone much different than the bashful boy of just a second ago. The sultry look he throws the audience takes your breath away, but as he waits to come in, he can’t totally hold the pose, that lip of his curling up and his tongue trying to banish it in the name of being serious. The girls scream in response, eating it up, and you can’t say you blame them. He looks up to the sky, perhaps saying a silent prayer, to regain his composure before he opens his mouth to sing.

Now, in the last few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with his gifted voice, but it is not until this very moment you understand the scope of his talent. The spell that he casts over the room feels nearly as intimate as the one he had with you in the dressing room just minutes ago. The nervousness you know is there is so artfully maneuvered that it opens him to the audience rather than pushing them away. Few other stars would get away with smiling and laughing at the reaction of their audience in the middle of their ballad but when he does it, you feel it down to your toes.

Or maybe it’s the how his voice is like silk in your ears, a contradiction of impressively light but warm and rich. The honeyed timbre winds its way down your spine, right into the core of you. It’s not just in your body but your soul, too. The hair on your arms stands straight up, a visceral reaction proving his effect on you isn’t in your imagination.

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

Despite the way you want to fight the hold of his performance and its battle in your mind with the man you’re getting to know, it is quite impossible. You get utterly sucked into the tide of Elvis Presley.

He is stunning.

You can’t help the way your mouth drops open and your palms begin to sweat. There is brilliance in every move and sound he makes, and you’re amazed at his ability to include everyone in the room, from the camera, the band and backup singers, to how those bedroom eyes scan the entirety of the audience in one breath. You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning every time they catch yours.

If you weren’t so dumbstruck, you might chastise yourself for feeling so carried away, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s sharing something important with you right now—an essential part of his soul, this thing he was obviously born to do. It brings tears to your eyes.

As the song winds down, you and the rest of the audience mourn its end. But in the split second he bows his head and bites his lip, you see the utter relief that fills him at the realization that he’s still got it. Then the upbeat lilt of Stuck on You comes in and he’s immediately reinvigorated.

He knows he has you all now, and it’s as if suddenly his body remembers everything that made him a star. Sure, it’s toned down some for his new adult image, but those unique movements are still there. He’s playful and energized in a way you’ve never seen him before. It’s not just in his long limbs (which you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from) but also in his voice. Flirtatious and silly, he wraps you all around his snapping fingers.

The girls are going crazy and rightly so: you find yourself having to bite down on your lip to keep from squealing with them. A bead of sweat runs down your spine and you cross and uncross your legs to try and stave off the total, uncontrolled insanity you are feeling trying to reconcile this Elvis with the one you sleep in the same bed with, the one you care for when he’s so ill he can barely function.

Nothing about this is remotely helping the feelings for him you know are brewing under the surface. It’s like being dragged under by a riptide—you can’t fight it, not now, and you just have to give yourself over to the current.

But one thing is for certain: there is nothing sane about any of this.

You can see even Frank is off kilter because when he comes out for the duet, this cool-as-a-cucumber, wildly talented star in his own right is stumbling over his lines. The man is struggling to maintain his dominance as the host and the elder, more refined performer. Sensing what you think is his competitive edge, you watch Frank rebound for control as best he can, but even he has got to know Elvis is in a class of his own. He’s upstaging Frank without even trying.

Part of you knows you are witnessing history in the making. You can hardly believe it. A month ago, you were living an entirely different life. You certainly didn’t care much for Elvis in the beginning, and now you want nothing more than to stay in his orbit. It’s strange to feel so starstruck around him.

The whole thing is madness.

You are still buzzing and a bit dazed when Charlie pulls you backstage. The prideful, overly logical part of your brain wants you to calm yourself before you see Elvis, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big head around you, but the giddy girl in you doesn’t care. That silly little girl eats up the grin spreading across Elvis’ face and falls straight into his open arms. He hugs you tight, like he means it. It feels real and not for the benefit of all those around you thinking you’re the adoring girlfriend congratulating him on his triumph. The way he squeezes you and presses his lips to your temple feels special and just for you.

“What didja think, Little Bird?” he whispers in your ear.

“Oh, well, the guys did great, and Nancy was lovely,” you hear yourself teasing.

The playful, possessive little growl he makes and the way his fingers press into your ribcage has you fighting unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of excitement running through you. You curl your toes in your heels trying to absorb the heady feeling it leaves you with to get yourself right enough to speak again.

“Well, I’m a bit loathe to admit it, but you were wonderful,” you finally say, looking up at him and placing your hand on his chest. His heart thumps wildly under your palm and under any other circumstance you might be concerned, but you let it be. This is his moment.

“Better than Ricky Nelson?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Hmm, marginally,” you tut, trying to keep a straight face.

“’Marginally’, huh? I’ll show you marginal!” he laughs. And then he buries his head in your neck, his hot breath and soft lips pebbling your skin and setting your body aflame. You don’t recognize the gasping giggles erupting from you like a schoolgirl.

It’s all for show it’s all for show it’s all for show…a voice in your head viciously reminds you.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly, trying to still his ministrations. “I will concede that you, Elvis Presley, are a very talented man.”

“Oooh, am I now?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, sending another wash of heat over your body.

Your mouth pops open, but before you can think to respond, someone cuts in. “Hey, Presley, quit making googly eyes at your girl and get over here!”

Elvis responds by doing the silly little thing he does with his eyes that makes all the girls scream and you can’t help but laugh.

The moment he walks away, taking his warm essence with him, you find yourself deflate a little. It sobers you quickly and the letdown of the entire experience has you unexpectedly emotional. Without his warmth and light, you feel cold and unprotected and alone.

Sneaking away to the restroom, you lock yourself in with shaking hands. Oh, God, what is wrong with me? you think as the tears well and then escape in rivulets down your cheeks. You swipe at them, fighting what you fear is happening but cannot quite admit to yourself.

You refuse to be like every other woman, falling over your own feet for Elvis. Desperate for any sliver of attention, living for his small touches and knowing gazes. Blinded by his talent and fame.

You are not that girl. Breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself, you remember he is just a flesh-and-blood man, and you cannot give another man the power to hurt you again. He is your employer, your patient, and nothing more.

Liar.

Pushing those treacherous thoughts away, you switch tacks. You need to protect him from the storm you know is coming but your survival instincts are doing everything possible to keep you safe, and Elvis might be the only person who can do that. Telling him about Gianni and your background risks his rejection. Your heart aches at the idea of him letting you go, and not just because of your safety. There’s no way you can tell him the truth about you now, not when he’s flying so high, not when for the first time in weeks you finally feel connected with him again.

Maybe too connected.

No, you’ll just have to wait until the right time. You can’t spoil this for him. Talk of Gianni and your father would destroy this goodness, and you can’t let them destroy anything else.

Forcing yourself to put it on the back burner, you paste on a smile and play the devoted girlfriend for the rest of the evening. Every little touch is like tinder catching flame under your skin—his hand around your waist, thumb grazing so near your breast, his fingers interlocking with yours—and the sparkle in his eyes makes your heart dance against your ribcage. It’s easy to believe he truly cares and that he’s yours.

He's a better actor than they give him credit for.

For once, you let yourself lean into it, pretending he wants you. You are swept up into his joy and relief and affection. It’s an addictive and glorious drug. By the time you both stumble exhausted into the bedroom of the suite, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Your body hums a little from the glass of champagne you allowed yourself, mind buzzing with the excitement of the day and from your proximity to the man of the hour. Elvis seems to be much in the same boat, riding high and energized as he takes off his jacket, throwing it over the chair in the corner. The tiny tie was lost long ago when he unbuttoned his top buttons at the studio and sweat glistens in the divot between his collarbones as he begins rolling up his sleeves. You were unaware until this very moment how attractive forearms could be.

Suddenly your mouth feels very dry. You lick your lips, watching his every movement.

Elvis looks up quickly, catching your undivided attention, and his lip quirks in a slow smirk that is both sinful and self-conscious. His eyes flash with a heat that makes your toes curl into the soles your shoes and your pulse flutter wildly.

Oh, no. No. I will not get flustered by Elvis.

Cheeks heating, you look away and focus every ounce of attention you have on undoing the straps on your heels.

Elvis starts to hum a song you don’t immediately recognize, the sound vibrating and warm and sultry. Like a siren’s song, it threatens to hypnotize you. It distracts you enough that you fumble with the stubborn clasp on your heel, unable to wrench the leather free of the buckle. You let out a huff.

“Here. Lemme help, baby,” he says, more a soft command than an offer, the sound wrapping around you like velvet. He kneels before you, placing your foot on his knee, his long, nimble fingers working the strap free. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, the way he gently massages the crease the strap left on your ankle through your stockings might have caused you to gasp.

“How’d I never notice these pretty lil’ sooties?” he coos, rubbing his thumb into the sore arch of your foot.

You bite back the moan threatening to slip free due to the sensation, but it escapes anyway, as a tiny whimper instead. Perhaps you imagine the way the apples of his cheeks go pink at the sound. Either way, you feel like you are about to come apart at the seams.

He makes slow work of massaging your foot and then placing it back down. You suck in a breath, just as he grabs the other and repeats the action of freeing then massaging it.

“Elvis,” you gasp much too breathlessly. You want to melt into the sensation, but the rest of your body feels like it’s on fire, a molten pit growing in your belly that you can’t seem to stop. You should push him away, you know you should, because this is too much, too intimate, but you can’t seem to will yourself to do so.

“Hmm?” he replies innocently, as if he truly has no idea what he has reduced you to. His hand squeezes down your foot until he reaches your toes. “Oh, honey, why ain’t these perfect lil’ piggies painted?” he asks, near scandalized.

The question throws you. “I…I’ve never seen the need,” you stutter out. “It’s not as though anyone would see them and being on my feet all day in the ward would just ruin them…”

His brows furrow. “Not even with your girlfriends? Or for a day at the beach?” he asks, genuinely confused as to why a young lady would never paint her toenails.

Your heart aches acutely all the sudden. The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them: “I didn’t have many friends like that. Or time to spend with them. I was busy raising my brothers and then I left for nursing school….”

“Oh.” He says it so softly and full of compassion you nearly want to cry. Then, his demeanor shifts. “Well, all that changes now, Little Bird.” He gives your feet one last pat and then smoothly lifts himself off his knees, going towards the door.

“What?” you ask, confused. This man has your head spinning.

He flings the door open. “Hey, Charlie! Charlie!” he yells into the penthouse.

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

“I need you to get some nail polish. Pink is best, but red’ll do.”

You hear a long pause, then a shuffle. “Ummm, where am I gonna find polish in the middle of the night, EP?”

Elvis sighs. “Use yer brain, buddy. You tellin’ me none of those girls out there has any polish on ‘em? I have faith you can figure it out.” Then he shuts the door with a grin.

Dumbfounded, you gape at him. “You can’t be serious, Elvis. It’s late and we need to get some rest…I don’t particularly want to paint my toenails right now. And truth be told, I’m not very good at it,” you say, feeling panicked by the whole idea. The idea of him watching you trying and failing to paint your toes makes you squirm.

He just grins. “Good thing I ain’t tired, then, baby! You can relax and I’ll take care of it. Go get in your jammies.”

Your brain feels broken. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he is. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Close that purty mouth—you look like a big ol’ guppy over ‘dere,” he laughs, his accent seeming stronger than usual. “Now, go on—get ready for bed,” he orders, pulling you off the bed.

“Elvis—”

“Nope, don’ wanna hear it, honey! Go!”

Which is how you find yourself in the bathroom, changing into the modest but silky, white, button up pajamas Elvis bought for you on your shopping spree a few weeks ago and doing your nightly routine with a flock of very baffled butterflies in your stomach. You are also a little afraid for the state of your toes by the time this is all said and done.

And yet, Elvis manages to surprise you again, not only with the fact that Charlie was indeed able to get his hands on pearly pink nail polish at this hour, but with his ability to paint nails. It’s more than adorable the way he concentrates on getting it right, tongue caught between his teeth, even sticking cotton between your toes to keep them apart. Usually, you would hate having someone touch your feet, but he’s so gentle about it and you are so distracted by how unbelievable the situation is and how a dark lock of hair falls imperfectly over his forehead as he bends over your toes that you can’t bring yourself to tell him no.

As always, time seems to warp with him, and it’s so late it’s early. You find yourself yawning, wiggling your freshly pink toenails in a state of strangely pleased disbelief.

“You like ‘em, Little Bird?” he asks, eyes shining with an unexpected need of approval.

“Yes, they are lovely. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, you could open a salon. The girls would go crazy,” you joke.

He bows his head with a bashful smile, then looks up at you through those long lashes and you feel like the bed has dropped out from under you.

“Naw, this is only for the special lil’ nurses who hafta put up with me every day. No one else.” His eyes twinkle, lighting your body with electricity.

Why does he have to be so charming?

Part of you wants to scream at him to stop being so nice to you. If he knew what trouble you were, what you’ve brought to his doorstep, he’d never be looking at you like this or treating you with such care.

No one since your mother has treated you with such care.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes, and you push your feelings as far away as you can, as fast as you can.

“Speaking of,” you say, clearing your throat, “I should take your vitals before you sleep.”

Elvis looks confused and maybe a little hurt at your abrupt subject change but recovers quickly enough. “Aww, come on, Little Bird, not tonight. I feel fine, I swear it.”

But you need your armor, and your job gives you that. It gives you space from these stupidly complicated feelings you are having. “Grab my bag and we can prove it.”

Elvis sighs, but does what you say, quiet as you take his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. When you finish, surprise fills you.

Elvis looks concerned. “What is it? Everythin’ okay? I’m tired, sure, but I feel—”

“No, I know,” you interrupt, “your numbers are good. Apparently a wildly successful comeback performance coupled with giving a late-night pedicure was just the right medicine.” You can’t help but smile at him.

He looks at you wide eyed, then gives you a blinding smile. “Or maybe you’re just that good for me, darlin’.”

Your heart flips in your chest, beating in your throat, but you refuse to let it show on your face. “Sure, mister. Quit your flirting and get in the bed,” you say firmly, only realizing your mistake when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“To sleep! Go to sleep, Elvis!” you say, rolling your eyes. You cover the blush on your face by turning over to flip off the lamp on your nightstand.

His hiccupping laugh makes you smile in the dark when he slides into the bed next to you. You are acutely aware of the heat of him, and though he doesn’t touch you, you can’t help but sense that he wants to as his chuckles die down to silence.

After a pregnant pause, he speaks again, quiet but direct.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, honey? From earlier when we got interrupted?”

Your heart trips, then races with both surprise and fear. Thank God he can’t see your face because you are battling the onslaught of thoughts spiraling in your mind.

He won’t understand. He’ll kick you out on the street.

No, don’t keep lying to him. He deserves the truth.

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

It’s the vision of Gianni ripping out Elvis’ throat that makes the decision for you.

“No, it was nothing,” you whisper shakily, clutching the sheets in your hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost blankly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded upset.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

Your stomach drops at how he uses your actual name, all the warmth from earlier gone from his voice. As tired as you are, shame and regret churn in your stomach—a stew of nausea that won’t seem to abate, even after you eventually drift off to sleep.

*

Three more days you spend in Florida, each one bringing even more maddening behavior from Elvis. Somehow, when you weren’t looking, a switch flipped yet again. He’s rapidly vacillating between moody and sullen to downright cold and cutting.

He keeps you close, to be sure, while going water skiing and taking long drives and cavorting with his friends, but the sweet, compassionate closeness from the night of filming the special is nowhere to be found. You feel like an accessory he strapped to his wrist, desperately trying to make sure he doesn’t run himself ragged with all the “fun” he is having. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the flirting and the inappropriate jokes and jabs not fit for mixed company. No, he does it with you at his side, like he’s trying to make a point.

Even the Colonel is distressed, confronting Elvis about spending too much and making the return trip to Memphis one by bus instead of train as some sort of power move to wrangle the star. Elvis just laughs it off, and in what seems to be true Elvis fashion, he seems to spend more rather than less just to stick it to the Colonel. All of it put together reminds you of the adolescent behavior of your younger brothers.

It’s exhausting, running after this moody man-child who acts like you hung the moon one minute and in the next ignores you. You remind him until you are blue in the face that he must rest and have some semblance of a normal routine when he can, instead of running himself into the ground by overindulging in nearly every sense of the word. The man seems to have no concept of the word “moderation” and as annoyed as you are, you are more worried this will lead to another, more serious episode.

It's easy to blame him for the near-constant headaches and exhaustion ailing you. Having to pretend to go along with his antics as his girlfriend while also having to babysit him as his nurse is continuing to run you ragged. Not to mention the emotional upheaval of trying to piece out your own feelings for him and manage your lingering fear about Gianni at the same time.

The worst, however, is the lack of playfulness Elvis had with you coupled with the brooding silence he shoves between you in your very few moments alone. Nothing reminds you more you are just his nurse. The rest, whatever it was, seems a folly concocted by your addled imagination.

You can’t shake the feeling of being punished for some unknown offense. Maybe it is just your guilt brewing under the surface, trying to make sense of this man. It’s hard to break the habit of feeling like no matter what you do and how good you are at your job, you are somehow still a burden to the men in your life.

But it isn’t just that. Every stunning smile or touch he gives another woman fees barbed and has your blood boiling, even though it shouldn’t. Every sly remark about being “tied down” he makes to the guys makes your skin crawl. Worse yet, he starts poking fun at you any chance he gets, edging more into mean spirited with each jab, and even his friends shoot you apologetic looks by the end of the trip.

And yet another full day with them all, coupled with Elvis’ ire, all the stupid jokes, and the rampant gas that all the men seem to have, this time trapped on a smelly chartered bus, has you feeling claustrophobic and ready to throw yourself out the window. It’s unusual for you to feel so bothered by such things—you grew up in a houseful of men after all. You learned early on to keep your feelings to yourself, especially to keep off your father’s radar. Patience for rowdy men has historically been one of your greatest virtues, but Elvis has you digging your nails into your knees and biting your tongue more than once as the bus slowly ambles towards Memphis.

He's just an unruly patient—don’t take it personally, you chant to yourself all the way home. You try, you do, but your stomach ties in more knots with each passing mile and with the memory of feeling cared for by him contradicting everything he’s lobbing at you.

By the time you arrive back at Graceland, you are ruing all your life decisions. Despite reminding yourself of how, logically, you are safer and more secure here than you’ve ever been in your life, you’ve reached your limit of patience with Elvis and his entourage for the day. Maybe the week. Or the month.

Oh, Madone, how am I supposed to do this for the unforeseen future if I can’t make it a month with this man?

At least here you can safely put some space between you. You fly off the bus as soon as the door opens.

“Hey! Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” he yells from behind you.

Why do you care? is what you want to say, but you swallow the urge instead.

You keep walking down the driveway, away from the house, pretending you don’t hear him. Nothing good can come from you answering him right now, not when you are feeling so on edge. Besides that, it’s hard to think with the throbbing behind your eyes and the slight carsickness rolling in your stomach from being on the bus all day.

“Lori, stop! Goddammit, Dolores, where. Are. You. Goin’?” he shouts, punctuating each word, your name rolling off his tongue like an admonishment. You stop in your tracks. It infuriates you he deems to use your given name like you’re the one who has done something wrong, like it’s your behavior that’s been so poor.

“Away from you!” you shout back at him, unable to keep your frustration locked in any longer.

Your heart sinks, immediately knowing you’ve overstepped but annoyed enough not to quit while you’re ahead. You start walking again, hurrying away as if you can still escape this whole situation.

The chorus of men chuckling and “oooh”ing at Elvis as they amble off the bus does not help matters.

“What the hell did you just say?” he growls low, his large strides hard on the pavement as they try to catch up with your smaller ones. “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“Leave me alone, Elvis! It’s obvious you’ve wanted me out of your hair for weeks, so go! Do whatever it is you need to do to get whatever this is out of your system,” you snap, still stomping forward, pulling your coat tight around your middle as you try to reacclimate to the early spring chill in the air. “Go…get laid or something,” you mutter, surprised at your own crassness.

“Hey! Stop bein’ such a b-bitch and stop walkin’ away from me!” he roars, grabbing your upper arm to pull you around.

You gasp as his rough touch lances through you, sending a lightning bolt of fear down to your toes. “Get your hands off me!” you hiss, violently yanking away from his grasp. Your heart knocks unpleasantly in your chest, faster and faster as your breath heaves. Part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, but you are frozen in place.

He’s not Gianni, a soft voice whispers. He won’t hurt you.

You want to believe it, you really do, but the fact is you barely know this man. You’ve wanted to believe so badly he is warm and caring, you’ve wanted to trust him because there is no one else you can, but your hopes don’t make it true.

Seeing your distress, something besides anger flashes in Elvis’ eyes and he quickly drops his arm from you.

All your pent-up fury washes over you then and you lash out uncharacteristically. “And don’t you dare call me a bitch when you’ve been acting the way you have,” you spit back at him.

He shutters his look of shock at your outburst so quickly you barely see it before flames darken his eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just crazy.” It’s cutting but it’s obvious you struck a nerve.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding and your head throbbing with a hundred emotions threatening to tear you apart.

You’ve never felt so bold or off the rails before, but the words fly out of you with little thought of the consequences as you point your finger at him. “Listen to me, Elvis Presley: I’m not Anita or one of your sycophantic girlfriends you can play your silly little hot-and-cold mind games with. I’m not crazy. I’m here to do a job. And instead of letting me, you are making it hard every step of the way. For days you’ve been sulking around like a child who hasn’t gotten his way instead of communicating like an adult what is wrong!”

Elvis’ eyes go wide as he reels back like you’ve slapped him in the face. Then his brow furrows, eyes blazing before locking you out once more.

“Oh, you’d know all about mind games, wouldn’t ya, honey?” he says coldly, advancing on you. “Why communicate w-w-when y-you can just pretend it’s not happenin’ and run away? I’m sure your fee-an-cè and his mafia buddies would have a lot to say about that, now, huh?”

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

“Elvis…” you breathe out, and then you can’t seem to breathe in again. Your shock is eclipsed by the fact somehow Elvis knows your secret. Everything else is forgotten. All your panicked mind can think of is how Gianni or your father somehow got to Elvis and they must be here, now, to take you back to New York.

An involuntary shudder overtakes you as you whisper, “How?”

“Oh, your good friend Sinatra told me the w-w-whole damn East Coast of mobsters is pissed o-off. Called you some mafia princess Helen of Troy and told me to cut you loose, if I-I-I knew w-what w-was good for me,” Elvis barrels on, his handsome face dark and storming with anger.

“What?” It’s so breathless, you aren’t sure you said it aloud. Frank knew? Of course.

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

The acid in your stomach bubbles, and if it weren’t empty, the contents would be spilled over Elvis’ expensive shoes.

“I-It w-was humiliatin’, not knowin’ what the hell he was talkin’ about! But you wanna know the worst of it, Lori? That I gave you every chance to tell me and you still didn’t. You lied. I thought…” Elvis keeps speaking, his low voice angry and hurt, but suddenly it sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel. All your focus turns inward, though you are vaguely aware that you are shaking like a leaf.

Elvis is going to send me back.

And he has every right. He’s got to protect himself. You were selfish and brought this to his doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to warn him. Then he had to go and hear it from Frank of all people.

It was no wonder he’s been acting so strange.

He’s been preparing to let me go.

Your chest constricts and your heart aches. It feels like betrayal, though you know it’s not. You are the one who betrayed him, not the other way around. You’d thought maybe Elvis was different, he’d shown you such compassion at your worst moments, but that was before he knew what you’d dragged him into. And you are a horrible for doing it. Maybe you deserve the hell you know Gianni will put you through.

There is no stopping the tears from pouring down your cheeks.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” you sob, now a hiccupping, shivering mess.

Gianni’s obsidian eyes and horrific smile when he sees you again flash in your mind. “Hello, Bella…”

Oh, Madone, I can’t go back, I can’t. He’ll kill me. Or worse…

The air in your lungs seems to evaporate, leaving you gasping and dizzy. That weightless space, the one you go to when you can’t bear to feel anymore, awaits you, but you can’t seem to reach it because Elvis is grabbing your shoulders, the anger gone from his eyes and replaced with concern. But he is tethering you to reality when all you want to do is disappear. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve damned him.

Your stomach churns once more and you lose the battle, heaving bile off to the side and onto the pavement. It steals what little strength and air you have left, and the edges of your vision bleed black, like the shadow of Gianni is finally here to take you away.

I’m sorry, is the only thought left when your knees buckle and your body crumbles into Elvis’ arms.

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

*

Thank you for reading and supporting my work!! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated if you enjoyed what you read! 💗

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[missmaywemeetagain]

Pink Scarf Alternate 1954 Flashback - Exclusive now available for Sweethearts & above! Join HERE now to read!! 💗🧣💗

I've got a little treat tonight for my Pink Scarf lovers out there! Here's a flashback from 1954 that I started before I decided I didn't want Reader (Beth) and Elvis to see each other again until '55 with Jack involved. (Please forgive me if I've played with the historical timeline a little here, as well.)

I think it's a fun little vignette of what might've been if they'd run into each other sooner. And I'm 100% a sucker for some 50's E in the PS Universe! 🥰

Anyway, enjoy this little foray on this lovely summer evening! Otherwise, I'm knee deep into the draft of Chapter 11 of Broken Glass, so hopefully that will be out soon(ish)! 😘

 *He's so damn cute here in summer of '54, I can't stand it!! 🥹

Sneak Peek!

Summer 1954

The sweltering early summer heat follows Elvis into the homey diner, the sweat trickling down his neck as he hauls a box of parts inside for Herb, the senior electrician, who ordered them. The bell on the door tinkles with his arrival, but he doesn’t see anyone save an older gentleman reading the paper at the counter and a couple of kids in the booth in the corner.

The box is heavy, but he hesitates to set it down, not wanting to dirty a table. He strides towards the register, hoping to get the attention of someone, anyone, who can tell him where to drop this box off.

“Um, hello? Herb? Anyone there?” he clears his throat and calls out. “I-I’m here from Crown Electric to drop off some parts.”

“We’re back here, son! Come on through the kitchen!” he hears Herb’s voice call from deep in the building.

Hefting the slipping box up in his arms with a huff, he backs his way through the wooden swinging half-doors to the kitchen. Maybe it’s because he’s too damn hot and this box is too damn heavy, but he doesn’t think to look for anyone on the other side. He certainly doesn’t expect anyone to be backing through opposite him.

He nearly jumps right out of his skin when he feels the warmth of another person bump into his back and shoulder as he starts to swing the box around. The high-pitched equally surprised yelp of, “Oh, my lord!” behind him has him spinning towards the sound. The momentum of the heavy box in his tiring arms propels him forward and the box starts to slip precariously in his sweaty hands. He feels the clash rather than seeing it and then hears the crash of splintering ceramic on the tile floor.

“Oh, sh—dang it!” Elvis catches the curse before it comes out his mouth and then mercifully manages to stop the box from tumbling into the person by bringing up his thigh under the tipping box, slowing its descent before lowering it ungracefully to the floor with a grunt.

Looking down, he sees the ponytail of the waitress kneeling beside him, already trying to clean up the mess of shattered plates and food now strewn across the kitchen floor.

I’m such an idiot, he thinks.

“Oh, Miss, I-I’m so, so sorry! I-I-I wasn’t lookin’, and here, let me help with that,” he rambles, kneeling down next to her to help clean up the mess.

“No, I—it’s fine,” you say, exasperated, and he recognizes that voice instantly.

Holy hell, it’s you...

Join HERE to finish! 💋

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass Chapter 10 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Ahhhh, my babies, we've finally reached the chapter I've been itching to tell you about for ages! And I cannot WAIT to hear what you think about it!

We left off in Chapter 9 with poor Lori fighting physical exhaustion and a gamut of feelings for Elvis (who's being a stubborn idiot), and when they arrived home to Graceland, their frustrations came to a head. Elvis finally confronted her about her past and a terrified Lori didn't take it well.

Now in Elvis' perspective, we pick up immediately after her collapse. He is mortified and lovesick and convinced that he's harmed her beyond repair. Oh, Elvis. 💔

Like I said, I can't wait to hear your screams about the twists in this chapter, so please don't hold back! 😁 I hope you enjoy!

Much Love! xoxoxox, Madi 💗

TW: Please scroll to the end only if you need them--I don't want to spoil anything for those who hate spoilers!

Broken Glass Chapter 10

Shit shit shit shit, Elvis chants in his head as you vomit violently onto the pavement, go grey as a ghost, and your terrified eyes roll back into your head. His lean arms wrap around you quickly when you collapse, keeping you from falling into your own sick or hitting your head on the ground.

“Shit,” he curses, out loud this time, following your center of gravity and scooping you up into his arms. “Lori! Come on, darlin’, wake up f’me,” he pleads softly.

Your body seems awfully tiny and much too light for someone who’s presence he can never truly ignore, even when he wants to. His heart slams in his chest, his blood already up from his temper, though it fizzled out the moment you started shivering and sobbing and apologizing like he was sending you to the gallows. The look of resigned fear on your face was enough to give him nightmares and that was before you’d lost consciousness.

He is no stranger to fainting women, it being a staple of his fame since almost the beginning. While he never could quite understand why he of all people caused such a reaction in young ladies, he was always as calm and gentle as he could be. It was his fault they got overexcited, after all—they couldn’t control it just as much as he couldn’t.

But this was different.

You certainly hadn’t passed out because you were overcome by the joy of his presence. Instead, you look like death, and he’s not remotely calm about it.

“What the hell happened? What’d you do to her?” Gene asks accusatorily, running up behind him, followed by the rest of the guys in various states of concern.

“What’d I do…? Shut yer damn mouth ‘fore ya catch flies, ya idiot, and go call the doctor,” Elvis huffs back, hoisting you up into his arms, swinging around, and hightailing it towards the house.

The fear that lances through him at your pallor and lifelessness hits like a knife. The seed of anger he’s held on to so tightly this last week withers at the thought he’s done real damage here.

This is my fault.

He’s not exactly sure how but he knows. He only had to take one look at your face when he called you out to understand you hadn’t meant to hurt him and your past scared you enough to risk the lie. Stupidly, he’d wanted the satisfaction of confronting your wrongdoing, for you to have a smidge of the hurt he was feeling.

But he never wanted this.

How could he have missed something was wrong? You are so damn strong, meeting every challenge thrown your way that he never considered you might be unwell. Selfish idiot, he chastises himself.

He comes close to kicking down the door to his home, but Charlie scoots around him fast enough to open it before he resorts to property damage.

“Come on, Little Bird, wake up for me,” he murmurs softly as he oh so gently sets you on the long sofa. He hates the boneless way you settle, eyes closed and completely unconscious. Nerves shudder down his spine and he doesn’t bother to hide them.

“Did someone call the damn doctor?” he yells at Charlie.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s on his way.” Charlie has the sense to look worried, unlike his idiot cousin who peers over his shoulder.

“Wipe that dumbass look offa your face and go get her some water!” Elvis snaps at Gene, who looks at him wide eyed for a moment before disappearing.

Brushing a lock of hair off your forehead, he holds and rubs your cold little hand in his as he quietly talks to you.

“I’m sorry, Lo, I-I-I shouldn’t’ve come atchu like that. I-I realize now that, um, maybe you had your reasons f’not telling me ‘bout your past. I jus’ thought you knew you could trust me, and-and it hurt that you din’t and sometimes I just get so mad I can’t see straight but I shouldn’t take it out on you…” he rambles quietly, “Please jus’ wake up, now, you gotta wake up, honey. I can’t do this without ya.” The admission falls breathlessly from his lips, soft as snowfall.

His heart plummets when he thinks about all the ways he’s taken his anger out on you this past week—ignoring you, throwing girls in your face, making snide comments—and his ego wants nothing more to justify his actions, but in truth, you were right. He had been playing mind games and not communicating why he was upset. He should have just asked you about it right after Frank spilled the beans instead of punishing you for something you didn’t even know he’d found out.

Lord, his mama would have his hide for such childish behavior.

Shame flames his cheeks and worries surround him like a dark cloud until the doctor shows up. You still haven’t so much as stirred and it has him nibbling at his nails—a nervous old habit he’s never quite been able to kick.

When Dr. Shaw arrives, Elvis shoos away the audience of men who’ve crowded the living room when he wasn’t looking. At least they all have the sense to look concerned.

“What happened?” Dr. Shaw asks, setting his bag down next to the couch.

“I-I-I don’t know exactly, one minute she was fine, well maybe not fine cuz we were in a bit of a disagreement, ya see, and well, she, maybe she was worked up? One minute she was standing there and the next she lost her lunch on the pavement and passed out,” he says, unsure if he’s making any sense.

“Did she hit her head?” The doctor asks, examining your hairline.

“Naw, I caught her before she hit the ground.” His leg jiggles uncontrollably, wondering if you’re okay, wondering what he could’ve done differently.

Dr. Shaw looks at Elvis over his glasses, taking in his nervousness. “Has she been ill otherwise?”

Elvis blinks. “Um, I-I-I’m not sure.”

The doctor is one of the only people who knows about his illness, who you really are and what you are doing here, so it’s unsurprising he looks a bit incredulous. “Elvis, you’re spending all of your time with this young woman, and you don’t know if she’s been ill or not?”

More shame bleeds through his chest and settles like a stone in his stomach. His face flushes red hot and the temperature in the room seems to have gone up without him noticing.

“Um, no, I-I guess not, sir,” he mumbles.

He knows his faults, and generally being uncaring isn’t one of them. But these past few weeks, he’s been thinking mostly about himself. His feelings. How your secret affected him. Not how it affected you, or why you might need to hide it. You’d tried your best to take care of him, apparently to the detriment of yourself.

No, he’d been mighty careless with you, and spitefully so.

Dr. Shaw gives him a pursed-lip look.

“I, well, now I know the new hours are keepin’ her busy, what with how I gotta live and all. I-I-I guess she’s seemed tired?” Elvis adds, desperate to fill the silence.

He doesn’t feel he can share all the other pieces, like how you’d been on the run from your mafia fiancé who’d…

Oh, Lord.

Dread rolls in his stomach when he realizes his misstep.

The nightmares. You quivering in terror on the bathroom floor. The bruises. Bruises he’d seen staining your body in places no bruise should ever be. The way you’d flinched when he touched you roughly.

Your fiancé had done that to you. That man was the reason you fled New York.

How stupid he was for not putting it all together sooner. Your fiancé hurt you, and you tried to escape the only way you could.

And Elvis was so afraid of loving you, so consumed by his own feelings, he punished you for it. Just another man in your life punishing you for something that wasn’t your fault.

Fuck.

His gut rolls, leaving him queasy. Through his horror, he wonders if you’ll ever be able to forgive him. If you even should.

Your little moan steals his attention as you stir slightly on the sofa.

“Lori?” he asks, jumping to, wanting you so badly to wake up so he can apologize, so he can make it up to you. “Please, baby, you gotta wake up now. The doc is here.” He grabs your hand and doesn’t even care how desperate he sounds.

“Mmm?” Your eyes flutter open and his heart swells to see those crystal blues start to focus.

“What happened?” you moan quietly, rubbing your eyes.

“You, uh, you got sick, darlin’ and then fainted,” he coos but there is an edge of disappointment in it, in himself.

Your eyes narrow and then widen with what he assumes is your memory coming back. He watches the trepidation and embarrassment fill your eyes. You slide your hand out of his, shirking back from him, and his heart crumbles a little.

I did this.

“Dolores, can you tell me what happened? How are you feeling?” the doctor asks.

Your attention pulls away from Elvis, your trepidation clouded by your struggle to focus.

“Oh, I’m sure I’m fine, probably just carsick from the bus ride,” you say, voice wavering, unconvincingly trying to blow off the concern.

“You’re not fuckin’ fine,” Elvis snaps before he can stop himself.

Your eyes widen and Dr. Shaw clears his throat.

“Excuse my language,” he apologizes, then tries to continue more gently, “but you’re not. You’re always gettin’ on me about not tellin’ you what’s what, so now you better answer the doctor’s questions truthfully, honey.”

There’s a beaten, submissive look in your eye that nearly breaks his heart. You turn your attention back to Shaw.

“I’ve had an ongoing headache for days…weeks, maybe? And I am exhausted,” you admit quietly. “Carsick on the rides. It’s probably just a virus. Nothing a l-little rest won’t cure.”

Dr. Shaw purses his lips. “I’d still like to do an examination and some tests. Is there somewhere more private we can go?”

“Upstairs.” Elvis jumps up, eager to be helpful and expend some of the nervous energy coursing through him. He extends his hand to help you off the couch, but you shrink back from him. Stomach churning with guilt, he watches as you warily push yourself off the couch to standing.

You wobble and sway on your feet, and his instinct kicks in as he immediately swoops his arm under you and lifts.

“Elvis, stop, I can get up the stairs by myself,” you protest halfheartedly, but by the way your body sags against him, he doesn’t believe you.

“Hush.”

Scowling, you don’t fight anymore, your eyes getting a dim and faraway look when your head plops on his shoulder with defeat. It’s worrisome.

By the time he maneuvers you up the stairs and into the bedroom, his growing unease has taken root. And it grows more when he sets you on the bed and you look like a shadow of your usual self. Like darkness is trying to swallow you whole and you are letting it.

He looks at Shaw, his eyes trying to convey the deep concern he now feels for your wellbeing, the concern that should’ve been there for weeks if not for his head being wedged so far up his own ass he refused to see what was right in front of him.

“Thank you, Elvis,” Shaw says, “Now, I’ll need some privacy to do the examination.��� The doctor nods his head towards the door, dismissing him.

“Aw, hell no. I’m not leavin’ her like this.” He shakes his head stubbornly. The thought of her alone with any man but him suddenly makes his skin crawl, even though he’s known Shaw for years.

“Elvis, I’ve got her. Go. I’ll be down to update you in a bit.” Shaw’s voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for question.

Elvis clenches his fists, his nostrils flaring.

Breathe. In, out.

It’s your voice saying it. He looks to you, sitting stock still against the pillows, staring into space, and realizes your voice is only in his head. It’s both heart-wrenching and comforting.

Finally, he nods curtly, then leaves his—our—room, shutting the door quietly behind him, resisting the urge to leave it open just a crack in order to listen in, to make sure no harm comes to you. But even in his current state, he knows that is overstepping. He forces himself to walk down the stairs, his mind churning.

After pacing the length of the house multiple times, beating himself up for his poor treatment of you, furious at your former fiancé for hurting you, and tying himself into knots with worst-case scenarios, he eventually finds himself at the piano. The only thing that ever truly quiets his mind is music. His fingers fly over the keys and he pours it all into the spirituals coming to him from deep within his soul.

God loves him best when he sings. Maybe He’ll hear his pleas for forgiveness, his prayers for healing—not for himself, but for you.

Lost in the music, he’s not sure how long he sings, but stops abruptly when Dr. Shaw appears in the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the doc says.

Elvis waves his arm dismissively. “How is she?”

Shaw hesitates. “It could just be a virus, but I took some blood and urine to test.”

There’s something he’s not saying, Elvis can tell. “And?”

Another pause. “I’m a little concerned about her…state of mind. I know I’ve only met her once or twice, but she seems withdrawn, almost traumatized. You said there was an argument?” He looks at Elvis with an undercurrent of judgement.

Heat blazes across Elvis’ cheeks, while guilt stabs in his belly. “I-I-I…yes, sir, but I’d never hurt her! And I-I don’t think…I-I mean, I don’t know…I think something happened t’her before we met,” he eventually gets out. It’s not his place to share your secrets, but damn if he’s going to let this doctor think he’s hurt you physically.

Dr. Shaw’s eyebrow raises, but he doesn’t press. He looks over Elvis with pursed lips and a watchful eye before his gaze softens.

“Can I go up and see her?” Elvis asks, almost desperately.

Shaw nods. “But she needs to rest. Stay off her feet. Eat well, if she can, and drink plenty of fluids.” Not run around after your ass, is the unspoken instruction. “Make sure she’s doing those things but…I wouldn’t press her.”

“Yessir.”

There’s tension hanging in the air before the subject is changed. “How are you feeling? Do we to have someone else step in until Ms. Cannava is well?”

Elvis grimaces, shaking his head. The last thing he needs is someone else poking around in his business, in your business. “I’m alright, sir. Probably could use a little R & R myself.”

Shaw looks at him with a critical eye. “Alright, son. Let’s keep it low-key, shall we? I’ll be back tomorrow to check in and hopefully we’ll have some answers.”

And with that, Elvis sees the doctor out.

He lasts approximately 90 seconds before he runs to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and takes the stairs quickly enough that he spills half the glass before he makes it to his room.

“Knock, knock,” he says gently, opening the door. You are laying on your side now, away from him, curled in on yourself on top of the covers and the sight nearly does him in for how vulnerable you look.

“Doc said you need plenty of fluids, so I brought you some water,” he rambles, coming around and setting the glass on the stand next to the bed. “Can I getchu anythin’ else?”

You blink slowly, but don’t respond otherwise. His stomach drops. It’s unnerving, the way you’re staring through him at the wall, vacant and broken.

He can’t have done this, right? Not like this. There’s got to be more to this than a silly fight.

You’re a fuckin’ asshole, the voice in his head berates. He wants to disagree but can’t. But this isn’t the time for him to feel sorry for himself. Standing here being useless isn’t helping anyone.

What would Little Bird do? The thought snaps him into action. “Imma gonna just take off these shoes a’ yours, okay?” he says gently, not wanting to startle you. With care, he takes off your heels one by one, setting them on the carpet at the end of the bed. He wants you to be comfortable but hesitates to undress you, unsure if that would be crossing a line. But he can’t well leave you to sleep in the clothes you wore on the bus for near a day.

After a minute of indecision, he plows forward. “Alright, honey, I’m just going to help you out of these clothes, just down to your slip, okay? Nothin’ more, don’t you worry.”

You don’t fight him at all, wordlessly allowing him to move you upright and undo your blouse. There’s certainly nothing untoward about the way his fingers manage the buttons or how they unzip your skirt. It’s not the way he ever wanted to be doing these things, though, he thinks as he strips your clothes and pulls down the spread on the bed. You have no outward reaction to him lying you down and pulling the covers up over your body, other than letting your eyes fall closed.

He thinks back to the care you’ve shown him when he’s been such in a state, and it’s what gets him through the feeling of helplessness churning in his gut.

Once you are tucked in, he grabs his own pajamas. He’s got no urge to leave you or deal with the idiots downstairs. No, even though his mind is going, he joins you in the bed, attempting to read the book on his nightstand while worry nags at him. Eventually, his eyes droop closed and the darkness takes him, too.

*

You are a bit more responsive the next day, eating a bite of the toast and jam he’d brought up for you, but you stay in bed, eerily quiet and entirely too withdrawn for his liking. He does his damnedest to follow Dr. Shaw’s instructions and leave you be, but it’s nearly impossible for him to not check on you multiple times an hour.

Honestly, he’s not sure you even register his presence half the time and fuck if that doesn’t stab him straight through the heart.

Charlie and the other boys do their best to distract him, but he’s got no humor for the usual fun and games. No, he’s much too wrapped up in his own head, vacillating from wanting to punch his way through the wall and being so lovesick he feels nauseous. The only thing keeping him from totally spiraling is the fact you are still here and alive and in his bed. He hasn’t lost you yet, he doesn’t think.

He can’t lose you.

By the time Dr. Shaw arrives in the evening, Elvis is about ready to jump down his throat with questions. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“Let’s go upstairs, son,” Dr. Shaw says, in a somewhat ominous tone. If the doc wants him there for the conversation, the news can’t be good.

Elvis’ heart knocks against his ribs with each step closer he gets to you. You can’t be sick. He’s only just found you and Lord, does he need you more than he needs air. If he’s learned nothing else, it’s that.

Fidgeting, he lets the doctor in the room, following close behind.

“How are you feeling today, Lori?” Dr. Shaw asks, sitting near you on the edge of the bed.

Your usually bright and savvy eyes seem dull as you take the effort to focus on the doctor and his question. “I’m tired,” you whisper sluggishly, shrugging.

“Well, I think we have an answer as to the reason for that,” Shaw says kindly, then motions to him. “Elvis, why don’t you sit?” He gets up from the bed, offering Elvis his spot.

Oh, God, it’s that bad. His dinner threatens to make a reappearance, but he swallows the bile down, sinking onto the bed near your legs.

Dr. Shaw clears his throat. “Ahem, well, Lori, the good news is I don’t think you are sick in the real sense of the word.”

A wave of elation hits Elvis. Thank you, Jesus.

“You are, however, pregnant.”

The crest hits, disbelief slamming into him, taking his breath away in a whoosh.

“How’s that possible?” It falls out of his mouth immediately and without thinking, imbued with much too much innocence after his jaw hits the floor.

A deeply biological sense of panic washes over him then because it is most unmarried men’s nightmare, especially a man like him, to be blindsided by news like this. But his biology and his brain aren’t on the same level because it takes him longer than it should to reconcile there is absolutely no way this child is his.  

This isn’t technically his mess.

But the doctor doesn’t know that and peers over his spectacles with a raised eyebrow. “I trust I don’t have to give you a talk about the birds and the bees, Elvis.”

A flush of heat hits his cheeks and he shakes his head. “No, sir.”

All at once, the gravity of the situation sinks in. The bruises. Your fiancé. That fuckin’ monster. The slightly judgmental way Shaw is looking at Elvis because in the doc’s mind, Elvis is the one who got you in trouble.

Shit.

Finally, his head turns to you. Your olive skin is deathly pale, your icy eyes more intense than usual and shining with unshed tears as you stare straight ahead. Your fingers twist around and around themselves, something he’s noticed you do when you are nervous.

Elvis lightly places his hand on your shin and your eyes whip to his for the first time in over a day. At least you don’t flinch at his touch this time. Instead, his touch seems to ground you and he watches carefully as you come back into yourself and out of wherever your head has held you prisoner since he yelled at you yesterday.

Dr. Shaw looks at the both of you before continuing. “It’s very early days, my guess is—”

“Four weeks,” you finish, the pain of knowing exactly how long etched in your features. It makes his heart ache for you, and more than anything he wants to find the man who did this to you and make him regret he was ever born. But now isn’t the time for all that.

Four weeks is the same amount of time you’ve known each other, meaning this happened after he’d already met you.

How?

“Yes, and anything can happen in these early days, as you well know. I know this is a…delicate situation.” There is unspoken subtext in the doctor’s words, and while Elvis is piecing it out, you seem to understand immediately. The look you give him is heavy and filled with words you cannot say out loud yet. The silence sits heavy between you two.

The doctor takes his cue. “You two have a lot to talk about. Why don’t I come back tomorrow to do your exam and get you set up with what you’ll need going forward? Keep your activity light for now.”

You nod. “Thank you, Dr. Shaw,” you whisper.

Elvis stares at you, trying to psychically glean what you are thinking, but your eyes have shuttered and his own thoughts are going a mile a minute. It’s hard to focus until after he sees the doctor to the door.

“Doc, this probably goes without saying, but we need to keep a lid on this,” Elvis says quietly. He’s too much in shock to understand all the ramifications just yet, but he knows this world is unkind to unmarried young ladies who find themselves in the family way, even if it wasn’t their fault.

He’s got to protect you.

“Of course, Elvis. The same discretion I apply to you will apply to her, don’t worry son,” the man says, patting his back in solidarity.

He ignores the concerned and curious looks from the guys in the living room as he takes the stairs two at a time, his anxiety rising the more he’s away from you.

Skidding through the door, he grinds to a halt when he sees the empty bed. Frantically, he looks around the room, finding you in the closet.

“Little Bird, what’re you doin’?” he says, watching in disbelief as you start pulling clothes and throwing them on the bed before dragging your suitcase, which had only been put away yesterday, back out into the room.

“I have to go,” you say, deliberately not looking at him as you rummage in the closet.

“Go?” he asks stupidly. “Go where?”

“I don’t know…maybe out West somewhere. Canada, maybe,” you mumble, as if this a normal conversation.

His pulse thunders in his head. “What…no, why do you think you’re goin’ anywhere in your condition?”

“I’m not an invalid, Elvis, I’m pregnant,” you scoff. “I’m—” your breath hitches for a moment, your shaking hand revealing your true feelings no matter how calm you are trying to appear. “This isn’t on you, and I know you were getting ready to let me go because I lied to you, which I’ve accepted, but I had no idea…I should’ve known. And I thought I’d have more time to get ready…”

His mouth might be catching flies for how dumbfounded he feels as he tries to follow your rambling train of thought. You scurry into the bathroom and rustle around before returning with some of your things, which you dump haphazardly into the suitcase.

“I know you were getting ready to let me go…” circles round in his head a few times before it hits.

You’re running. And you seem to think it’s what he wants.

“Stop.” The command is low and firm.

You freeze in the closet for a moment before grabbing another armful of dresses, ones he bought you even though you insisted you didn’t need anything.

“Dolores, stop this right now and sit yer ass down, goddammit!” he raises his voice, pointing to the bed.

Finally halting, he watches a shudder run through you before you defeatedly sit on the very edge of the bed, your arms full of clothes. Refusing to look at him. He can’t tell if you are more afraid or ashamed, but either makes his heart crumble and the thought of you leaving has him wanting to break in two.

He sinks to his knees in front of you, desperately wanting to take your hands in his own but not wanting to overstep in your fragile state. He softens his voice like he’s going to sing a lullaby.

“Little Bird, I don’t want you to go. Why would you say that?” It comes out too pleadingly, but he can’t bring himself to care.

You blink rapidly, once, twice, processing his words, the unemotional mask you are trying so hard to keep on your face cracking. “You…you were so angry I lied and have every right to be! I thought you’d want me gone as soon as you found someone new,” you whisper.

“Honey, no—”

“And now, as if Gianni hadn’t already done his worst, now I’m…I’m pregnant.” Your voice chokes and the façade finally collapses as sobs wrack your shoulders.

Elvis can’t stand it any longer, sinking onto the bed next to you, pulling you into his arms. You go stiff for a second, resisting, but he squeezes, and you relent, your head falling on his shoulder, tiny hand clutching the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.

Every quiet sob coming from you breaks his heart a little. He still doesn’t know you like he wants to but knows without a doubt you didn’t deserve to be hurt like this. You don’t deserve to bear the consequences of an evil man’s actions.

Gianni.

That was the name you said. Rage simmers deep in his stomach, but now is not the time to plot that asshole’s demise, no matter how much he wants to. Right now, Elvis has to make sure you don’t do something stupid, like leave him and run to Canada.

His shirt soaks with your tears. The damp sticks to his skin and should be uncomfortable yet it’s not. It’s proof you are here, with him, and he holds onto that.

“Breathe, baby. Just like you showed me—in, out, in, out,” he coos.

Sobs turn to sniffles. Your body shivers but fights for those slower breaths, your grip on him loosening as you seem to calm. He is lulled, too, his racing mind given reprieve for a moment, distracted by your presence in his arms.

Heavy silence fills the space.

“I have to go,” you whisper, sounding pragmatic and defeated, but calm. Peeling yourself from the cocoon of his arms, you stand abruptly.

He grabs you gently by the wrist, turning you back to him. “Din’t you hear me, lil’ one? I don’t want you to go. I-I’m sorry I been such an ass. I-I-I shoulda just asked ya what happened instead o-of punishing ya for somethin’ I din’t understand.” Desperation he’s unaccustomed to feeling leeches into his voice.

He looks up into your shining eyes, hating the warring resignation on your pretty features.

“Elvis…” you begin, stepping away, “you have every right to be angry but—"

“No, n-no…I mean, yeah, I was, but that doesn’t matter now. Please, Little Bird.”

You pause. “I need to leave.” You start putting things in your suitcase, much slower this time.

His heart cracks a little more with every beat. “No, Lori. You…listen, I-I-I’ll be a much better patient, I promise. I’ll stick to your diet and routine and all that shit.” He tries to make light but your face fixes in a determined scowl.  

You just shake your head resolutely.

Finally, he grasps your hands. “Honey, ain’t you hearin’ me? I’m sorry, so fuckin’ sorry, an’ I don’t admit that very often cuz I’m a stubborn ol’ goat, but I’m sayin’ it now. I don’t want you to go. So, stop this nonsense and talk to me!”

Quiet tears streak down your cheeks and you try to blink them away as you look down at him.

“I hear you. But you don’t understand—you’re not thinking, Elvis. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go to save you,” you plead.

“What?” He can’t hide his confusion.

“I already put a target on your back. And if Gianni finds out I’m…he’s coming after me. Whether today or tomorrow or a year from now, I feel it in my bones, and I’ve put you right in the crossfire.”

“I can take care of myself,” he bristles.

You shake your head. “It’s not just that. Once the press gets wind of this—” you motion to your belly “—it won’t be good for either of us. If I go now and disappear, you’ll have a chance.” Your sentence ends in a whisper.

He blinks once, twice, trying to absorb what you’re saying. But all the logic in the world doesn’t change his heart. It doesn’t change how much he…

“I need you,” he admits, staring right into your eyes, unwaveringly.

Your lip quivers. “I can’t.” You look away before speaking again. “I’m sure Colonel can find you someone else who can fulfill your needs.”

Fuck. He’s losing you; you are slipping right through his fingers. Frustration fills him with frantic desperation.

“You ain’t gettin’ it, Dolores. I don’t need some other nurse, I need you, goddammit!”

His voice is loud in the small space, echoing briefly before the sound gets sucked into the sound proofing.

“Elvis…” you whisper, eyes going wide with questions he can’t answer, not now.

“Listen—jus’ listen to me, okay? There’s gotta be somethin’, cuz I sure as hell ain’t lettin’ you out there by yourself to get hurt by those goons. I’ll fend ‘em off myself.” His brain whirls, trying to see his way through the problem.

“No, Elvis, you don’t understand! This isn’t the movies! Gianni, my father, the famiglia—those ‘goons’—they are dangerous. Lethal. They’ll stop at nothing to get what they want. And if Frank knows I left, it means even if they can’t get to you physically, they can do worse to your reputation and your career—everything you’re working so hard to keep.”

Your face blanches and your entire body goes tense. “And if Gianni finds out I’m pregnant with his child, even you might not be safe from him. Oh, Madone, I should have never come here.” Green tinges your face and you bolt for the bathroom.

His heart races, slamming against his ribcage again and again. You paint a bleak picture, and your fear is contagious. But the fear of never seeing you again, of you being out there alone and in danger, strikes not only dread in his heart, but a protective fervor he’s never quite felt before.

An idea comes to him then in a flash, and the sound of your retching snaps him into action. Whether it’s terror or the baby, or both, it has you so in knots you are sick, and he can’t have that.

A few weeks ago, he may have been able to tell himself it’s because you are a good nurse, that he doesn’t want to train some new girl when you already know what you are doing, and that’s why he’s about to do something either wildly clever or wildly stupid. But he’d be lying.

He feels like he’s buzzing from the inside out with nerves, almost like the feeling he gets when doing a live show. It’s equally terrifying and exhilarating and addicting and maybe it’s God’s way of letting him know he’s on the right path.

Barely aware of how he got there, he’s in the bathroom, wetting a washcloth and crouching down next to you by the toilet. Not how he ever imagined this would go, but here he is anyway, brushing the hair off your cheeks. He’s so far gone for you, the sick doesn’t even phase him as he wipes your face.

None of it phases him enough to let you go.

You don’t want to look at him, he can tell, but you finally do, your ice blue irises vibrant against your bloodshot eyes, looking defeated and scared and miserable. But still beautiful. Always beautiful.

“Marry me.”

He says it with a quiet confidence only he could muster, despite the pounding of his heart.

You blink in shock, straightening. “W-what?”

“Marry me.”

“Elvis, you can’t be—”

He holds up his hand, halting her reply. “And before you say no, hear me out.”

Your mouth snaps shut in bewilderment.

“Doc said it was early. So, if we get married real soon—love-at-first-sight and all that—it’s still plausible to those without details everything is on the up and up, right?”

Your eyes narrow a little as you work through it. “I…I suppose so, if all goes well.”

A thought comes to him suddenly, threatening to ruin his plan, but he has to say it or he won’t forgive himself for not giving you the out. “I shoulda asked…I-I mean…there are other ways to solve this, less legal ones, but I’d pay for it if that’s what you want. I wouldn’t blame ya, considerin’ the circumstances,” he says almost bashfully.

It takes you a second to glean his meaning, your face going more ashen than it was already. “Oh. Oh, no. I…I’m Catholic. I don’t…that’s not an option for me.”

“Okay.” He nods, knowing he needs to continue, “T-There’s also adoption. I won’t force you to raise this baby, even if it looks bad for me…I-I-I would never do that to ya.”  

Your eyes fill with tears again, a gamut of emotions running through them. “I don’t think I want that either,” you say quietly.

The weight of that settles between them for a moment before he clears his throat. “Alrighty. I hate to ask this, but you said ‘four weeks’ earlier…so did he hurt you after we met? How—how long were y’all together?” It all leaves a bad taste in his mouth to ask, but he needs to know in order to make this work.

Your eyes close painfully. When you open them, there is resolve there, covering your suffering. “We weren’t. Not really. Gianni set his sights on me a long time ago, and my father…well, Gianni’s family is powerful, and Pop knew a marriage between us would raise his status in the famiglia. My mother didn’t want it, but when she died…well, I had to help raise my brothers, and I was too young, anyway. Then, I escaped by going to nursing school and managed to avoid him for a while, but…,” you take a deep, shuddering breath to keep going. “…but the day after we met in the hospital, he cornered me after my shift. He, um, proposed, and I froze. I didn’t say yes, but I-I was paralyzed, and he took that as acceptance. Then he brought me home to an empty house and…stole what he thought was already his.”

Elvis squeezes his fists so hard his knuckles go white. He has never been a particularly violent man, not finding pleasure in it like some men. Even in his bouts of bad temper, his anger is usually taken out on inanimate objects rather than people, but right now the rage he feels at Gianni is downright murderous. He’d like to rip this man’s heart out of his chest for what he’s done to you.

He swallows the bitter pill of his rage, though, tempered by the anguish in your eyes. A single tear streaks down your cheek and before he can stop himself, he’s cupping your face and pressing his forehead to yours.

“Never again, Little Bird. As long as I have breath in my lungs, nobody’s gonna hurt you again.”

You suck in air sharply, then your body shudders on your exhale.

“You can’t promise that,” you whisper tearfully. “I can’t ask you to promise that.”

“Well, I am, and you know better than anybody I don’ take kindly to bein’ told what to do or not do, so you better save us all the trouble and jus’ accept it,” he says, and while there is humor in it, he’s never been more serious.

He fights every instinct in him that wants to kiss your lips, instead pressing his own to your forehead, wishing he could give you some semblance of peace. Pulling back before he does something stupid, he gently wipes your tear-stained cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. You let him, and he supposes that’s enough for right now.

“Does anyone know what he did, besides me?” he asks, hating that he must.

“No, not unless Gianni told someone. I didn’t even tell anyone he’d proposed. I just went to work and then Colonel offered me this job and I realized it was my only chance to escape. I didn’t even say goodbye to my brothers in person. I’m so sorry I lied and put you in this position,” you say, voice cracking with emotion.

“You were jus’ tryin’ to survive, honey. No one can fault you for that. I’m glad you got away.” And he is, he thinks, as he smooths your hair. He nearly gets trapped in the blue of your mournful eyes before he snaps himself out of it. He’s got to focus.

“The timeline works out, then, darlin’. Even if people believe we did the deed before marriage, there’s no reason for them to think it’s anyone’s but mine. Gettin’ married cements it, ‘specially with this new, a-dult image Colonel is tryin’ to push of me.”

Colonel is gonna hate this.

“Colonel is never—” you start, seemingly on the same wavelength.

“I know, which means there’s gotta be no doubt in anyone’s mind this baby is mine.”

Your eyes go wide in understanding. You haven’t said yes yet, but he knows how logical and practical you are. He’s got to make you see this is the only way.

“Will Colonel believe it, though? He knows we—I—didn’t take to this arrangement so easily in the beginning.”

“We gotta make him. And I think you continue to underestimate my powers of seduction,” he jokes, wiggling his brow, trying to lighten the increasingly heavy mood.

You sigh. “Be serious, Elvis.”

“I am. It doesn’t matter what really happened, honey, it matters what people think happened. And I’m bein’ honest when I say it won’t take much for most to believe we fell in love and you fell into my arms. Or vice versa. My, um, reputation’s gonna work in our favor.” Heat flames his cheeks, which he knows is silly, but he plays it off with a smirk.

Your eyebrow quirks, but you leave it at that.

He rambles on, “And I don’t know this, um, family of yours, but I’m guessin’ even Gianni is gonna have a hard time provin’ anythin’ if you’re married to one of the most famous men in the world. I can’t imagine even the mob will try an’ steal ya out from under me, so to speak. Not with our ‘love story’ pasted across the world in black and white for all to see. It keeps you and the baby safe.”

You go quiet and still, and he can see the wheels in your head turning. “I…okay. Maybe, just maybe, you’re on to something,” you finally relent.

His heart jumps and he can’t help the proud grin spreading across his face from your almost-praise.

“But Elvis, this is too much to ask of you. This is your life. I know you had no plans to get married, at least anytime soon—”

“Plans change,” he throws back, quickly and a little too adamantly.

“Not like this.”

“Things changed the minute I got this diagnosis, honey,” he adds soberly.

You go quiet, as though with everything going on you forgot what you were doing here in the first place.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” you apologize.

Elvis shrugs it off. But he doesn’t want your pity. No, he wants you safe, and he wants you to stay. And he’s man enough to admit this isn’t all for your benefit. He’s being selfish here, too, because, somehow, you’ve wrapped yourself around his heart and the idea of you ever leaving him fills him with despair.

You continue, “I hear what you’re saying, I do, but, Elvis, I’m afraid you’re not thinking this through entirely. You’re offering to raise another man’s child as your own, offering to marry someone who you don’t love…there’s no going back from that, especially when there’s a child involved.”

He swallows thickly, but not because he’s in doubt. Anything but. The image in his head of you smiling and laughing as he plays with the baby, of early morning whispers of love and sharing a bed in more than just name, of you helping fill the rooms of this damn mansion he bought for his mama with gorgeous blue-eyed children…it is so enticing and so close he can’t bear to think what might happen if you don’t say yes.

I love you.

And even if you can only give your trust in him to keep you safe and help raise your child and nothing else, he would still rather have you at his side and love you in secret than not have you at all.

God, how I love you.

If he let the words fall out of his mouth right now, would you agree, or would they send you running?

He can’t chance it. Not with the state you’re in now. So he steels himself instead, using the charm God gave him to get you to understand.

“Honey, I know what you’re sayin’, and it don’t change a thing.”

Those eyes of yours go wide, and he can tell there’s something you’re debating on sharing. A few moments pass while he lets you deliberate.

“Elvis, you need to know before…,” you trail off. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “This is it for me. Maybe it’s old fashioned, but with my beliefs, even in this insane situation, this wouldn’t be temporary. Gianni, my father…it’s possible they’ll never stop trying to get to me. And in my world, marriage is forever. Divorce is not an option. I…I can’t bear to think I’m the one ever keeping you from true happiness, from a love and children of your own. Instead, you’re getting a sullied wife who shackled you in a moment of need and who you’ll come to regret. I can’t have you regret me, Elvis.” Tears pool in your eyes and if he wasn’t already on his knees, he thinks this would have brought him there.

This is a tipping point, just like the moment the doctor handed him his diagnosis. Nothing will be the same after today, for either of you. God has a plan, he’d thought when you’d shown back up in his hospital room at just the right moment, and it hits him now—he swears on his dear mama—it was all leading to this.

“There’s no me without you anymore, darlin’. Who else is gonna take care of me? Who else can I trust with my life? I’m helping you and your baby, yes, but you’re keeping me alive, too. And you aren’t ‘sullied’,” he says with more conviction than he’s said anything before, his voice trembling with all the words he cannot say to you yet. He can only pray you see him, too.

The welling tears in your eyes overflow once more, and it cuts him to not know what you’re thinking, to think he’s the one making you cry this time.

“Don’t be sad, honey, please,” he whispers, begs. “I can’t bear to make you cry.” Unable to stop himself, he brushes your cheeks with his fingers, cupping one in his hand.

The way you lean into him is so slight he might be imagining it, but it’s enough to give him an ounce of hope, one he latches onto immediately.

“I’m not crying because I’m sad, not about you anyway. I’m crying because I can’t believe you’re willing to do this for me. You hardly know me,” you weep.

“I know enough.” And I’d do anything for you.

You close your eyes, dark lashes clumped with tears fanning across your cheeks. “Can you…can you give me a minute?” you say, not unkindly.

“Y-Yeah, yeah, o-of course,” he stutters, his heart fluttering nervously as he stands. Holding out his hand, he helps you up off the floor, making sure you’re steady on your feet before letting go. “I-I’ll be in there, when you’re ready.”

The door to the bathroom shuts behind him and he hears the faucet running. Waiting has never been his strong suit, which he’s brutally reminded of as the minutes tick by. He tries to sit on the bed, but he can’t keep still and jumps up immediately, running a hand through his hair while pacing the room.

But as much as he should be doubting his decisions, he’s not. He should be questioning his damn sanity, proposing to you like that—a woman he’s known all of a month who comes with more baggage than an airliner—but honestly, he’s never felt so sure of something in his life.

Sure, Elvis from five weeks ago may have sent him to the looney bin for offering to marry a girl and raise another (apparently very dangerous) man’s child, but that Elvis hadn’t been handed a death sentence and a ticking clock. That Elvis didn’t know his Little Bird.

That Elvis didn’t love her.

Hell, he’s much more worried you’ll leave out of some hairbrained thought he’s better off without you and get caught by Gianni, who he’s absolutely certain will hurt you in ways you never thought possible if he catches you.

No, Elvis isn’t scared you’ll say yes—he’s terrified you won’t.

He can’t begin to think of the despair he’ll feel if you disappear. Selfishly, he’s not sure he can stand to take another heartbreak, not now. It would be a cruel joke for God to put you in his life and then rip you away just when he needs you the most.

It makes him think of his mama and the gaping wound of her loss that’s only begun to heal. All Mama ever wanted for him was to be settled and happy, with a good woman by his side. He hadn’t understood why at the time. He’d wanted to focus on his career, to be free, to enjoy his youth and all the perks of his fame. But God humbled him right quick, first by sending him off to the Army, then by taking his mama. Since then, he’d spent too much time falling into the arms of woman after woman both drowning his sorrows and in the hopes he’d find the one to magically fill the void left in his heart.  

Yet all of it led a path straight to you. And there’s something serendipitous about it he can’t ignore, no matter how batty it all might seem.

So, he best convince you to stay.

After what seems like an eternity, the bathroom door swings open. Your color is still drawn and sallow, the dark circles under your deep-set eyes more pronounced than usual, but you are hauntingly beautiful. Silent, you glide your way towards him slowly, your face shuttered in that way of yours, giving nothing away. His blood thunders in his ears and he hopes you cannot hear it.

You stop before him, mere inches away. Anticipation itches under his skin as his pulse ratchets up. He jumps when you place your palm flat on his chest, right over his heart, the way he knows you do to ground yourself.

Well, hell, there’s no hiding now, not when he knows you can feel just how fast you have his heart beating. You’re probably counting his pulse and getting ready to tell him to relax.

But you don’t. You don’t speak at all. You stare at your hand over his heart and wait, but he’s not sure what for. It’s not until his lungs scream for air that he realizes he’s holding his breath. He feels like he’s going to float away and finds himself shakily breathing in. He knows you feel it. His hand covers yours, anchoring him to you, trying to prove he means everything he’s told you and so much more he can’t yet say.

Finally, your eyes raise up to meet his so intensely he might have been knocked off his feet if he wasn’t locked onto your hand so tightly, feeling his heart thrum against your palm.

“Lori—”

Your finger shushes him, pulling against the fullness of his lips. The touch is electric, zinging through every nerve in his body and buzzing around his chest. He doesn’t understand what’s happening until you’re on your tiptoes, your cold little hand pulling down on his jaw.

The two of you have kissed before, of course, but always for an audience, and even then, you’ve never once initiated it. So, when your lips meet his so softly, he’s taken aback with disbelief.

You don’t waver, however, through the milliseconds it takes him to recover his wits, waiting patiently until every sense in his body hums to life all at once. His heart swells and his belly tingles and then he’s kissing you back, as gently as he can, swearing he won’t be careless with you again.

He wants to devour you but doesn’t want to scare you, doesn’t want to ruin this blissful, unbelievable little moment where your lips are pressed so chastely against his own, using them to say all the things neither of you can seem to say out loud.

The sliver of logic still left in his brain tries to convince him this slice of vulnerability you’re sharing with him is likely nothing more than a show of gratitude, but his aching heart can’t tell the difference.

So there’s no helping the way his other hand falls to your waist, cinching there, pulling you closer. Your minty breath puffs against him in surprise, then he’s gently chasing your mouth with his, unable to stop himself—the hope of it all, of what could be, is too consuming. He can’t stop the way it blossoms through him, opening pieces of him he didn’t know existed.

It’s dangerous, this hope, but Lord have mercy, he can’t bring himself to care about the risks. Not when you’re in his arms like this. Not when he needs you like he needs oxygen.

This little kiss is like heaven, he realizes, because you are giving it freely. It’s not for show; it’s not begrudging or afraid. No, a kiss like this from you means only one thing:

It’s an answer.

A promise.

Or it’s a goodbye, you idiot.

The horror of that possibility squeezes his throat, threatening to choke him, but he pushes it away fiercely.

When the sweet kiss breaks, he finds himself winded even though he shouldn’t be, his head bowed and pressing into yours. He threads his fingers through yours over his wildly beating heart. Anything to keep you tethered to him.

Not one kiss out of the hundreds he’s had in his life has ever knocked him flat quite like this.

“You don’t have to do this, Elvis. You are offering me so much—too much—and I don’t know how much I can give you in return…I—,” you whisper, voice wavering.

“You’re enough,” he manages to get out, not wanting to hear the rest. And it’s true. God help him, it’s true.

You breathe in a little gasp of air, one that makes his heart flip. Then your crystal eyes raise to meet his.

“Then, yes, Elvis Presley, I’ll marry you.”

 *

TW: physical illness (fainting, vomiting), dissociation, Gianni and references to previous sexual assault, lots of cussing, unplanned pregnancy due to sexual assault, brief allusions to abortion

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