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Twenty-Six
It’s after nine p.m. when the Elvis Extravaganza Stage Show concludes. I haven’t seen Nick since he exited stage left while I waited in the wings stage right. I jetted after him as fast as these heels and hair would allow, but I couldn’t catch him. And he won’t answer his phone for me either.
Now all of the performers are heading over to the after-party in another area of the soundstage. A different Elvis cover band fills the room with those Gibson guitar strums and warm, familiar harmonies. Elvis sure could write a catchy tune. Still, the music doesn’t distract me from my mission—find Nick.
After any other show, this would be a piece of cake. Just find the leather-clad funny guy. But I’m swimming in a current of Presley Ocean. There are way too many white caped jumpsuits and pompadours to count. I walk the perimeter of the darkened banquet room for a good twenty minutes and follow my nose more than my eyes. If someone smells like they’ve been doused in a bath of Spanish cologne, I follow them.
Wait, I think I see him. “Nick!” I call over the music, but he doesn’t turn around. Still mad, I see. I rush over and grab him by the shoulder. “Hey, Nick!”
A clean-shaven man with pouty lips faces me. Definitely not Nick. Wrong Elvis slides his shades down the bridge of his nose. “Hello, baaaaby,” he says like the Big Bopper.
“Uh... sorry, thought you were someone else.” I back away. Not fast enough because he grabs me by the waist and pulls me in so close I can feel his pelvis.
Ugh, what a creep.
“I can be whoever you want me to be, beautiful.” This guy smells more like he bathed in a barrel of Tennessee whiskey.
“Then be a gentleman and get your grubby hands off me.” I shove him away but he’s strong for a drunk and doesn’t let up. My heart begins to race because even though we’re surrounded by people, it’s dark and loud and I can’t see as well with these damn lashes stuck to my eyelids.
“I never seen a Priscilla in glasses as pretty as you before.” He opens his mouth, his big sloppy tongue hanging out. I dig my elbows into him with every ounce of strength I have.
“Stop it, you douchebag!” The one time I don’t have any pepper spray on me.
“C’mon, Priscilla.” He kisses the air and I shake my head back and forth but still catch one on the nose.
“Get off her!” a man growls, bolting in, and I’m released from Creeper Elvis’s grip. I catch my breath and squint in the dark at Hero Elvis.
It’s Nick.
“You okay?” he asks, but before I can answer Creeper Elvis strikes back with a roar, swinging at Nick. He misses.
“Hey, you son of a bitch!” Millie appears out of nowhere, spraying the offender only inches from his eyes with mace.
No, wait.
With Paco Rabanne!
He howls, clawing at his eyes and stumbling around. The crowd begins to circle the commotion. Nick and I trade wigged-out glances then I turn to Millie, who pats her teased hairdo. A couple security guys arrive on the scene and drag Creeper Elvis away.
“You all right, honey?” Millie asks.
I nod, still reeling. What in the hell just happened? “Thanks, Millie.”
“Anytime.” She slides the small cologne bottle back into her pocket and proceeds through the crowd without a drop of sweat on her brow. They break for her, cheering as she passes. Still a little stunned myself, I slide my glasses back up my nose and dust off my dress. Nick stands by my side, and now I really owe the guy something.
“Hey, thanks for pushing that guy off.”
“You’re welcome.” His words sound forced. I guess now that the perpetrator’s gone, he’s back to being pissed at me. I hate this part—I was wrong. I’m sorry. It would be nice to just move past it.
“What do you say we grab a couple burgers after this? My treat,” I offer.
“No thanks.” He scoffs and turns away, so I yank his ornate cape.
“C’mon, Nick. It was an honest mistake. Can’t you just accept my apology?”
“Apology?” Nick whips around. “I didn’t hear any apology.”
“Hey, y’all doin’ okay?” A man with a burnt-red tan and wrinkled forehead asks. A woman, presumably his wife (though assumptions seem pretty unreliable now), is by his side gazing at us with a maternal concern.
