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melancholicbutterflies · 8 months

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Hellmouth | Chapter 1

Summary: After nearly a millennium of being away, Angel lands on Earth, finding herself in 1960s Memphis, Tennessee.

Tags/Warnings: vampire!Elvis, angel!reader, dark!Elvis, controlling!Elvis, religious overtones, mystery/horror elements.

Author's Note: At long last! First chapter of approx. 4 chapters planned.

Word Count: 4,043

The angels were talking loudly today. Normally you’d let this pass, focusing on your tasks. You had quite a few humans under your wing, so-to-speak, and because of your stellar performance you’d only acquired more in recent decades. One such human was Daphne Willows, and she wasn’t audible in the same way she had been previously to you. Something must have happened, and so you did something out of the ordinary. Once securing approval through the proper channels, you traveled down to earth, taking on a human appearance.

It had been so long since you were in the human world that your sense of fashion and behaviors had required a good deal of tweaking. Spying on a few humans out and about, you watched them for some time to understand their mannerisms and clothing choices. Your eyebrows rose in mild surprise; certainly, the dress code had changed quite a bit. In place of the more lengthy skirts females wore, you now found knee-high, tight fits and blouses and dresses that dipped low. Even stockings, which as you understood it were for coverage, had become sheer and more for a statement than practicality. Makeup, used to make one’s face prettier (for the male gender, of all things), too, had advanced, becoming a spectacle on a woman’s face with highly pronounced eyes and eyebrow arches. The hairstyle of today was the oddest; many women had taken to wearing their hair straight, but with a beehive sort of look, piling hair at the crown of their head and descending in a curl toward the end. All this had taken milliseconds for you to fashion upon your being, yet you pitied the humans who were forced to contend with it daily.

Daphne lived in a town called Memphis, in the US state of Tennessee. Your knowledge of human affairs was limited, and over time had whittled down to near nothingness; there was nothing required in your job title to understand their customs beyond the need to do your job, and so it was easily forgotten in the millenia or so you’d left the earth yourself. This suited the higher powers, as they emphasized a need to maintain distance between humans and angels. You didn’t understand why, at first, but at one point in time you had a fellow angel you might have called something akin to a friend in the human world lose their angelic powers (including a stripping of their wings, which was not unlike losing one’s identity, and nevertheless extremely painful) due to an inappropriate dalliance with a non-angel being. They were, incidentally, human; you couldn’t imagine how much worse the consequences would have been if it had been an unholy being. At the very least, one would be cut off from heaven entirely.

Memphis was hot. It appeared to have bustling tourism, with people milling about on nearly every corner. You suspected this had something to do with the number of buildings with music notes on them; on one you read ‘Sun Studios’, with many tourists crowding around the perimeter taking pictures and loitering with their eyes peeled inside the dark interior, as if they might spot something of interest.

Humans were funny.

Suddenly your stomach gurgled, and you stopped in the street, much to a driver’s discontent. You watched him drive around you, yelling blasphemous words, before hitting the gas. Humans really could be so short-tempered. Then you remembered that, as a human, you were now susceptible to all the many states and ailments of their kind. One such one, you distantly recalled, was hunger. Grimacing, you continued to pace the downtown until you found an establishment that would serve the energy resource. Unfortunately, upon entering a diner, your simple-minded drive made it difficult to locate something with which to fill your stomach. The waitress, a haggard woman with stains on her pinstripe apron, arrived with a pot of black-looking sludge which she used to fill your cup, and pulled out a pad of paper and writing utensil.

“What can I get you?” She asked.

“What do you recommend on the menu?”

Her eyes never left her pad of paper. “Steak and fries. What will you have?”

You glanced back down, looking at the poorly made depiction. “Yes, I’ll have that.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes,” you said again. You looked out the window, thinking again how peculiar it was that you couldn’t sense your charge’s exact location. Fortunately, you recalled where she lived, and would go at once. As soon as you received your order, you ate quickly, only narrowly avoiding spilling on your dress. As you rose you noticed an older man’s gaze on you, mid-bite on his hamburger, looking shocked. Perhaps you’d eaten too quickly, or inappropriately in some way. Nevermind, you had no time for the minutia of their manners. However, the woman came to you now looking angry.

“I didn’t just catch you tryin’ to just dine and dash, now did I?”

Your head tilted in confusion. “Dine and… dash?”

“Yes, leave without paying the bill. Are you simple? Not from here?” Her outburst drew the attention of restaurant-goers. If you were human, or here on Earth for a longer duration of time to adapt, you might have felt something like shame or embarrassment. Instead, you very matter-of-factly replied: “how much does it cost?”

“It’s 4 bucks fifty, with tip. You got that on you?” She eyed you skeptically, seeing no pockets on your dress.

The amount materialized on the table, beside your cleaned plate.

“There you are.” You turned back toward the door.

The waitress’ eyes bulged. “But-but, that wasn’t there when-”

Hearing the bell on top of the door chime behind you, you took some steps away from the diner to an alleyway to transport yourself to the house from memory. In doing so, you’d missed the man on the floor sitting in his own filth, an unmarked jug pressed to his lip as he cried, “What the - damn, I gotta get me off the bottle-!”

430 Bismark Road was in a cul-de-sac set off from the main road with nice manicured lawns and friendly folks sitting on their porches. It was the sort of neighborhood you’d come to learn was ‘darling’ in human terms. A far cry from the downtrodden home Daphne had grown up in, she bought the house together with her husband, Daniel, who worked as an investment banker. You weren’t quite sure what that meant, but it allowed them to live the lifestyle they enjoyed, and to which Daphne seemed all too willing to adopt. And you could sense for the first time in her life she was happy, well on her way to having the two point five kids she always dreamed of, having already attained the rich husband, house in the suburbs, and white picket fence. It was a regular old apple pie life, so you’d heard, and you couldn’t imagine what could have taken her away from it.

Ringing the doorbell, you waited until Daniel answered the door. Although it was only early afternoon, his car was parked in the driveway. He wasn’t keeping normal working hours. Strange. You rang again, this time a few more times, finally hearing steps thudding down the stairs, dull and heavy. When he opened the front door, you understood why. Dark circles lined his eyes, his hair was unkempt, and his eyes bloodshot, squinting at the sunlight that filtered through the doorway.

“Who are you? Are you here about Daphne?” He barked.

“I am, as a matter of fact. May I come in?”

Blinking several times, he seemed to come into himself. “Sure, yes, of course! I’ve been waiting so long to hear any news – but you…” he took a second look at you, from head to toe. “You dont look like the police...”

“Police?”

“Yes,” he frowned at you now. “My wife’s been missing for a few days now. Isn’t that what you’re here about?”

“Well yes, but I want to hear from you.” You immediately were regretting your outfit; perhaps he would have taken you more seriously had you presented in uniform. Regardless, you will retrieve the information you need from him. Using your angelic powers on a human was illegal, but under such circumstances, the case could be made.

He looked unsettled, and you put him into a trance-like state that would force him to be more welcoming to your line of questioning.

“When was the last time you saw Daphne?” You inquired.

“Last Sunday. We had a roast and went to bed shortly after. I went to work Monday morning and came back to find the house empty.”

“Is there any possibility she could be staying with someone? A sister? A friend?”

“No. I called her sister Monday evening and she hadn’t heard from her. Her friends hadn’t heard anything, either.”

The possibility that one of them knew but hadn’t told him didn’t escape your notice, although you couldn’t think of a reason why. Either way, you’d be sure to check with them.

“Anything odd about the way she has behaved lately? Something that seemed amiss? Could be anything.” You implored him to consider the words.

Pausing, he answered, “yes, she had been acting differently the past few weeks. I never could pinpoint why, but I suppose I was too caught up in work to take time to figure it out.”

“Differently in what ways?”

“She wasn’t going to service anymore. She always used to be a devout christian, at least since I met her. We would attend church every Sunday, and if not, then Saturday evenings. It was how we met, at church. A friend of a friend introduced us.”

You recalled this, and the news left a feeling you could only describe as unsettling. “That is indeed concerning.” You murmured. “Was there something she was doing instead? Surely this you would have noticed?”

“So she said, she was volunteering at a soup kitchen. I don’t even know how she found it, but it was something she seemed terribly passionate about, and seeing as it was serving the greater good, as Christ would, I didn’t have a problem with it.”

“Hmm.” You highlighted the mental note you made to talk to others in her life, her friends in particular. “What do the police think happened to Daphne?”

“They visited the house and took some fingerprints and photos. Nothing out of the ordinary, they claimed. They also said since nothing was taken, it wasn't likely anything to do with a burglary. Their working theory is that she ran off and just didn’t have the heart to tell me.”

“Do you believe that’s true?”

“No!” His forced calm demeanor morphed into anger. “Of course not. I’m her husband. I did right by her. I don’t know why she’d ever get an idea like that–”

“Was there any reason she could have been unhappy?” You interrupted his tirade.

He faltered. “I… I don’t know.”

“Think carefully, Daniel.”

His head fell. “I gave her everything she ever wanted, with the exception of children, which we were well on our way to having. There was no reason Daphne would have left of her own free will, I can tell you that.”

He was convinced of his own words, and his mind felt rigid now to you. He wouldn’t be of any further help.

“Thank you, Daniel. Be well.” You waited until you were several steps from the house to relinquish your hold on him.

You were certain now more than ever that there was something very wrong with Daphne.

Night had come to Memphis, and you were feeling sluggish from your travels and interrogation. Using your powers was more draining in the human plane, and this had exponentially zapped you of your energy. Recalling humans laid their heads to sleep in hotels, you found one such one of low-profile. This took you back to the downtown area, which had emptied of the larger crowds of earlier. More of a motel, which as you understood was of less quality, you walked to the front desk, where a man stood behind looking skittish.

“Booking a room?” He said, taking his eyes off the small television in the corner.

His eyes had barely landed on you before you understood what he was.

“Angel?!” He hissed at you, eyes glowing dark as midnight as he immediately assumed an aggressive stance.

“Incubus,” you mirrored, narrowing your eyes in disgust. He was one of the unholy, and one of the most abominable creatures that there was. They existed off of the misery and taint leftovers that other unholies like vampire and werewolf kind alike had discarded. They were the bottom-feeders of their class.

“Well I’ll be. A goddamn angel in Memphis of all places. Guess you got bored and decided to slum it down here with us heathens,” he grinned meanly, showing his rotten incisors. To humans he would appear irresistibly handsome, but to your keen eye, and that of other supernaturals, this was a mere illusion for the dirt and rot that his true form possessed. His looks weren’t the worst part – to you he stunk of sin, and that was only displayed in the form he took. “I’ve got business, which incidentally, is none of yours. Now give me a key,” you reached over the counter.

He nearly seized your arm before remembering himself with a humorless laugh. The unholy burnt at the touch of an angelic, some even said to burst into flames; the reverse was not said to be true, although it would surely be unpleasant as well as lower your status in heaven.

“Ah, I suppose you can seize it as you wish.”

His eyes followed you up the stairs, licking his lips quick as a gecko as they narrowed into tiny flints. “I’d wish you sweet dreams, but I don’t think they will be.” He smirked.

He wasn’t wrong. Your night brought you a fitful sleep. Nearly drained of your powers for the day, you weren’t able to utilize as many protective measures as you might have otherwise, using what little you had left on the forcefields of your room that protected you from physical harm. The incubus’ face appeared in horrible visions, only disappearing at your wake. These were interspersed with dreams of your charge, Daphne, who flit from scene to scene like an actress appearing in film, never appearing clearly. In fact, even her surroundings were blurred, which was highly unusual. Your mind's eye had sought her presence in a dream-like state once before, and it was never like this. The only thing that became clear was the presence that surrounded her. It was dark, like ink flames that followed her wherever she went. Towards the end you might have caught something red pooling… blood? You couldn’t be sure. A terrifying smile that shook you to your core revealed itself to you, forcing you from your last attempt at rest. It was unfamiliar, yet so horrifying it could only belong to that of an unholy creature. Something told you that it was not that of the incubus’. Could it have been Daphne’s captor? This would mean you were most assuredly up against an unholy. Alas, you needed more information.

Being in the human realm in long periods made your angelic powers less accessible to you. It was dangerous, but you felt you had no choice but to move onward. The sooner you found Daphne, assured her health and safety, the sooner you could return home to heaven. This was what you told yourself as you sought a different source of sustenance in the early morning hours. Now remembering to pay, your breakfast went seamlessly, and you felt recharged enough to tackle the day. Daphne had three close friends varying in intimacy, and one sibling, her sister Sarah, who she’d reacquainted with later in her married life. Her friends were located only twenty minutes or so from her neighborhood, while Sarah was located approximately three-hours northeast in Nashville. You vowed to preserve your powers today, and would forego teleportation in favor of driving. If you made good time, you could return to Memphis by sundown and resume your search.

You quickly learned that Daphne’s friends were in the dark about her extracurriculars, all except for one that was.

Mary Jane. She was a forthright woman, which you could respect. She brewed you some coffee and revealed Daphne had talked about meeting someone at the soup kitchen.

“What kind of someone?” You’d asked.

“A man. I don’t know his name,” she shrugged, “she’d never said, but he was a real charmer apparently.”

Your eyebrows rose. “You don’t think Daphne had an affair, do you?”

Mary Jane looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so. If she did, I don’t think she could have fibbed so easily. She’s a terrible liar,” she gave a sardonic laugh, “but she was definitely taken with the man. I think it made her feel awful about it. She didn't talk about him after that, so I assumed it fizzled out. But then she got really distant, not wanting to get together as much. She said it was something at home, not related. Now that she’s missing. . .”

“What?”

“Well, I wonder if it’s about this mystery fella after all,” she looked perturbed. “Sorry, I can’t help more than that.” Probing her mind, you could tell Mary Jane was telling the truth.

Sarah wasn’t much more helpful. Her sister had only recently reconnected, and much of her time was spent wrangling four young children; there wasn’t a lot of common ground. Still, Sarah was appropriately concerned about her sister’s wearabouts. When asked about any new person in Daphne’s life, Sarah seemed completely in the dark. “I can’t say. I wish I could be more helpful.”

Night had descended by the time you returned to Memphis. The ‘Night Crawler’ was a night club just on the outskirts of the city limits, with the backdrop of corn fields all around; in darkness it was nearly pitch-black, save for the odd flickering lamp light that was only ever enough to illuminate a single parking place. An imposing figure stood guard outside the door of the nondescript building, arms crossed. He appeared to be checking for identification, which you would be lacking. Fortunately you had a trick up your sleeve.

“ID?” He asked boredly, eying you up and down. When you attempted to use a simple spell you felt a brick wall not unlike the building’s surface.

Cursing at you, he warned, “Whatever you’re trying to do, Angel, it won’t work.”

It became immediately clear you had run into another supernatural. But of what kind, was the question. You felt aggravation prick at you: what were the chances you’d run into so many non-humans in one place? Either there was more going on than met the eye in this city, or you were naive to the number of supernaturals that had immigrated to the human realm. The incubus hadn’t been entirely wrong in that angels were unaware of the goings on outside of heavenly affairs. Perhaps to your detriment, you were soon learning.

“What are you?” You demanded, feeling a sense of foreboding. “I can’t read you.”

The guard laughed, large chest bouncing with the effort. “It is amusing to see you out of your depth, Angel. I’m one of you. Well,” he considered, “technically, half of you.”

“A nephilim?” You gasped. “But I had heard you were extinct? Run out after the third war, the rest captured and killed.”

“Indeed,” he growled, “I don't need a history lesson on your kin’s ways. Abomination, right? Anything that’s not pure angel is.” He laughed humorlessly.

You remained silent.

It was a belief held by the most conservative of your kind that angel hybrids were to be rooted out with the same level of vengeance as an unholy, because they committed the most heinous of betrayals by diluting the heavenly essence. Both the parties that were found guilty of committing the act, and their offspring as a consequence. You yourself were neutral, but that didn’t seem like the right approach in this circumstance. “It’s unnecessary, and I don’t condone it.”

“But you wouldn’t stop it if you saw it happening either, would you?” He sneered.

Two men, or what appeared to be at first glance, broke into fight in the parking lot, their faces transforming into something monstrous. “Hey, break it up you dogs!” The guard bellowed, eventually pushing himself off the wall to intervene physically. Even half-angel, his strength was a force to be reckoned with, and was more than enough to subdue two fully-grown werewolves without further bloodshed. He looked back at you, gesturing toward the door. “Go on ahead, I won’t stop you. But if you cause any problems, you’ll regret it.”

With a solemn nod of understanding, you went inside, swallowed by the darkness within.

Third Person Point of View

Elvis sensed you the moment you entered the building. Powerful that he was, it was not out of the ordinary that he was acutely aware of others, particularly females, who were his preference of the human sexes. What was highly unusual was the preternatural need he had for you without ever having laid eyes on you. When he found your figure, standing out-of-place in the crowded dance floor while humans and supernaturals alike writhed up against one another and occasionally against your body, clueless thing that you were, he was mesmerized. He’d have thought it an act of God if he weren’t so far removed from heaven. Indeed, his dead heart raced in his chest, long deceased veins thrumming with pleasure as he drank in your view from afar. If you’d only look up, you might have seen him staring greedily, but alas, a woman on a mission, your focus appeared to be elsewhere.

No trouble at all, Elvis thought to himself, reclining back on the long couch surrounded by his scantily clad thralls. He was patient when he had to be. And for you, he had nothing but time.

To be continued . . .

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melancholicbutterflies · 8 months

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okay I gotta say the fact that this is under 50 notes is a goddamn travesty because this is a masterpiece! I love the flow, our OFC, and how you describe elvis and others’ view of their relationship. It’s so realistic and he’s just *chef’s kiss*. The length is also a treat! I can't wait to read more :DD

So I wrote something secretly on AO3 and got found out in the best way. Thank you to @thatbanditqueen for your cheerleading, inspiration, magic and general supernatural talent!

An Enjoyable Slide into Oblivion

Summary: Like a lot of girls, Chancy Crawford had once been able to call herself one of Elvis's girlfriends, but that was long time ago. Now, she called herself his friend, or his 'cousin' if any of his girlfriends asked. It was just easier that way. And their relationship was all about being comfortable and easy. Until she gets asked to come and join a tour that seems endless and cursed.

Warnings: swearing, drug use, angst, violence, temper tantrums, all the usual.

An Enjoyable Slide to Oblivion

It had been a good show, another addition to the wonky, inconsistent pattern of performances that was becoming apparent to her during this tour.

It was not all down to Elvis; at some shows the sound system was temperamental or the band messed up or the general mood in the audience wasn’t quite right, but in the past, these would have been minor obstacles for him to overcome with the force of his energy, charisma, and showmanship.

The previous year there had been a drunk heckler in Tahoe, a nightmare for such an intimate venue where every cough or clink of glasses could be heard, and Elvis had handled it with such skill that it was even mentioned in the glowing write-up the next day. He had joked with and charmed that angry man until he was sat down whistling and cheering with the rest of the room. The guy even gave a comment to the paper that Elvis was ‘just the best there is- I love him!’

Of course, afterwards Elvis was all up for loading up with guns and taking the guys to hunt down the ‘sloppy, fuckin’ sonovabitch who dared to mess with my livelihood’, but he kept it together on stage. The man was lucky he hadn’t decided to attend a show during this tour, he might have been shot in the face from the stage.

Chancy had never had that much to do with the professional side of Elvis’s career. She and Elvis’s manager had a complicated relationship in that she had never been able to forgive him for the way that he had pressured Elvis to distance himself from her when he was starting out. One of the many painful aspects of their break-up had been the knowledge that she was giving old Colonel exactly what he wanted, even as he had helped her make a graceful exit by facilitating a smooth and almost silent separation.

Over the years, they had come to tolerate the other, sometimes nodding an acknowledgment when they passed on a movie lot or in a corridor backstage. She wondered if he was concerned about what he had seen or heard during this tour and what he planned to do about it. He was the kind of slippery, canny character that always had a plan. She hoped it was a good one.

As Elvis began the finale, Lamar came to fetch Gail, Elvis’s current girlfriend, to escort her to the car. Chancy was sitting with Sandi, Charlie’s girlfriend, making plans to go to the hotel bar for a few drinks. She looked in askance as Lamar beckoned her and she pointed at Sandi to let him know she would ride with them. Lamar shook his head and pointed at the security guarded double doors like he was a stern headteacher kicking her out of class.

“Sorry, looks like I’ve got my orders,” she said into Sandi’s ear, grabbing her purse.

“No problem. See you in the bar. Remember, last one there has to buy the cocktails!”

“I like your style,” Chancy laughed, speed walking after Lamar and Gail as they flashed their lanyards at the security guard.

“What’s going on? I came with the girls,” she pointed out to Lamar as they were admitted into the dark corridor.

“Boss wants you to ride with us,” Lamar replied brusquely, his tone not inviting questions.

Chancy wanted to make a wisecrack, rail a little against these orders that suddenly applied to her. Although was that the truth? Suddenly? Over the years she had watched Elvis gradually turn into ‘The Boss’, and had observed the resentment and chafing that some of the longer-tenured guys had experienced as their richly rewarded play time with their best buddy turned into harder borne demands and obligations, though the rich rewards remained the same.

It wasn’t just the boys either. Back in the early days she, Elvis’s cousin Patsy and sometimes even Chancy’s little sister Alicia had helped out with the unstoppable Elvis Presley machine. They had read and answered fan mail, becoming experts in forging Elvis’s signature so that even he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Chancy was sure that Alicia got her first lesson in sex education from reading some of the more explicit letters before they could whip them out of her hands and pore over them breathlessly themselves.

Now Patsy was the office manager, leading her own squadron of secretaries who answered the fans, signed the cheques, and played middleman between the promotional team run by the Colonel’s staff and the fan clubs that hyped and adored Elvis from afar.

And Chancy? Well, how many normal women were this involved in the life of their first love so many years on? She ran her own business, yes, but when Joe had called and told her that Elvis wanted her to fly out and jump on the tour, she had not even checked her date book before she agreed, and not because she knew her days were empty, quite the contrary. She had to upset some people and reschedule countless appointments before she packed her suitcases. And she hadn’t hesitated to do it. There was no denying that she was as whipped as the rest of them.

A roar startled her out of her self-reflection, rising from the very foundations of the building and shaking the asphalt beneath her feet as she stood by the waiting car in the underground parking garage attached to the arena.

“Time to go, ladies,” Lamar chivvied as Gail climbed into the backseat.

Chancy watched her scramble and then, eyeing Lamar, circled him quickly and climbed into the next row of seats behind the driver. Poor Lamar threw up his hands, but didn’t have time to say anything before the bullet train Elvis express shot down the corridor towards the car.

Even inside the car, Chancy could hear the pounding of thousands of feet and the gradually unified chanting of Elvis’s name. It made her skin prickle with goosebumps, the sheer force of it.

The car pulled out as soon as the last door slammed and headed for the exit. For a second, the noise of the crowds, revving of the engine and the darkness felt oppressive, like they were strapped in a rocket ship that was roaring through the atmosphere, but then the car paused at the exit, the streetlights lit the interior of the car, and the traffic sped past, bringing her back to reality. She let out a relieved gasp, earning her a strange look from Sonny who was sat beside her. She shrugged at him.

“You guys hear how terrible the sound was in that building?” Elvis snapped directly behind her. “The goddamn feedback is getting out of control. Someone needs to do their fucking job and fix the problem. What am I paying everyone for?!”

“I’ll get on to Bruce,” Joe said. “See if there’s some sort of equipment problem.”

“I don’t care what it is, just get it done,” Elvis snapped. “Standing out there singing my guts out and having my ass handed to me by feedback. We look like a goddamn amateur operation!”

“I didn’t hear any feedback, baby,” Gail said comfortingly.

“The fuck would you know?!” he retorted cruelly. “I’ve only been doing this for nearly twenty years, so maybe keep your damn amateur opinions to yourself, huh?”

Chancy winced and knew she wasn’t the only one. They had all learnt the hard way that you could never comfort an irritated Elvis by contradicting him. She flinched as the back of her seat jarred, no doubt from a sharp kick from behind.

“How about you? You got something to add since we’re taking comments from the peanut gallery?”

Chancy took a deep breath and pushed her irritation down as far as she could so that she could plaster an innocent look on her face before she turned, half kneeling in her seat.

“Well, I didn’t like that building so much,” she commented, casting her eyes down. “We were in the parking lot waiting for you guys and that crowd were going wild yelling and stamping for you when you came off stage, I thought the whole place was going to come down around our ears. It was like it couldn’t take that kind of power; it was scary.”

“It’s true, E, she was trembling like a leaf and when we got out of that parking garage she let out this big sigh of relief,” Sonny added helpfully. She frowned slightly at him, as if she was embarrassed, but it was all part of the performance.

Elvis surveyed them both stony-faced, rubbing the side of his face with the towel that was around his neck. Finally, he glanced at Joe to his right.

“After you call Bruce, call the old man and tell him we ain’t playing that place again. We can do better than that third-rate shithole.”

“No problem,” Joe nodded, making a note in a small notebook he kept in his breast pocket.

The car pulled around to the service entrance of the hotel and Chancy kept her head down as the small group of wily fans called out to Elvis and waved. He gave them a wave in return, but didn’t slow as they headed for the door.

Packed into the service elevator, she was wedged into the corner, just a face peering out between the shoulders of Elvis and Dick the security guy. She could feel the heat radiating from Elvis and he nudged her as he shrugged his shoulder at the discomfort of the sweat-drenched suit pinching in the wrong places.

“’Scuse me,” he murmured, before realising who he had knocked into. “Cha-Cha, I swear you move with the shadows by God, come on out here.” He dragged her arm until she slid out from behind Dick and rested his other hand on her left hip, drawing her back against him in the cramped space.

“Sorry, honey, I’m awfully sweaty,” he murmured into the back of her head.

“That’s okay, it’s not the first time,” she replied thoughtlessly. She started when the elevator of men exploded into surprised laughter. Howling, Elvis rested his head on her shoulder, his whole body shaking so hard behind her.

“Lord, you’re a bunch of children!” she snapped, choosing annoyance over mortification. This only made them laugh harder; that, and the fact that Elvis was still in hysterics, which was always contagious anyway. Thankfully, the elevator reached the top floor and they burst out into the corridor.

“Oh God,” Elvis gasped, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You sure know how to break my heart and crush my ego all in one, baby!” His uncontrollable laughter set the others off again. She pretended to storm off down the corridor, but waited at her door for the others to catch up.

“Hey Elvis, can I borrow Gail for a minute?” she asked, putting her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“Sure, just don’t teach her none of your cruel ways, woman,” he replied, giving them a wink.

“No promises,” she called, unlocking her door.

Gail followed her into the room, but her face remained blank and mistrustful. Chancy hesitated, wondering if she was making the right choice after all, but ploughed ahead.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Gail stared at her and Chancy thought she was trying to decipher her intentions, but then she saw the sheen of tears glint in her eyes in the lamplight.

“I always say the wrong thing!” Gail said finally, her voice cracking. “I try to help and I make it worse!”

“Aw, honey,” Chancy murmured, hurrying to grab the box of tissues from the desk by the window.

“He gets so mad, sometimes for no reason that I can see, and then he tells me I don’t understand. He says that maybe I’m not the girl he thought I was… But I’m trying and I love him so much!” Chancy’s chest hurt and she took a ragged breath as she watched Gail blotting her tears to prevent her eye make-up running.

“How long have you been together?” Chancy asked softly, gesturing to the desk chair and perching herself on the end of her bed.

“Since March.” Three months.

“And this is your first tour?”

“Well, he was on tour when we met. He invited me to come with him for the rest of the dates, but this is my first whole one, I guess.

Last time he was so sweet and lovely. It was like he just wanted to take care of me even though he was the big star, you know? He said that he had been looking for someone like me all his life.” Aw, honey.

Chancy wondered if she had been the first girl he had used that line on, discovering how effective it was at getting him what he wanted. For all she knew, there were others before her even, though not yet good enough to bring home to meet the family.

“You’re not his cousin, are you?” Gail asked softly.

“No, I’m not,” Chancy admitted in a rush, “but I’m not a threat to you in any way, I promise.”

Gail snorted bitterly.

“Yeah, right. I’m not stupid, Chancy, or Cha-Cha or any of the other pet names he calls you.”

“I’m not lying, and I wasn’t lying about our families knowing each other so long. I’m like an old shoe or a sweater or something. I’m comfortable, familiar.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw his face when I asked if you and Red had ever dated, or if you saw how often he looks to you when you’re around.”

Chancy sighed, thought longingly of the cocktails waiting for her in the hotel bar, and then grabbed the girl’s hand. She squeezed her eyes shut when she caught sight of their near identical rings side by side and shuddered the discomfort out of her body.

“Right, darlin’, I think it’s time for a little Elvis 101, y’all ready? Here is the big damn secret: Elvis may be a superstar or what have you, but he is also just a man. Like most men, he enjoys women. Unlike most men, he is expected to enjoy every woman, and bless his heart he does his best! He is attuned to us, he wants our attention, he wants his ego tickled by having us all hanging on his every word. It’s in his nature to want to please us, but that doesn’t mean he gives a damn about us all really. He chose you, right? He shares his bed with you.” Chancy swallowed. “You need to trust in that.”

“I’ll try,” Gail sighed. “How do you do it though? How do you know the right thing to say and the right time to say it?”

“I don’t know that I do,” she murmured, beginning to have second thoughts about this pep talk. “I just know that when he’s in a mood you can’t talk him round and you definitely can’t reason with him. Your best bet is distraction, being silly or.. Well, you don’t need me to tell you how to distract a man. If he’s too far gone for that, you can try riding it out with him, finding a different problem that he can fix quickly.

“Most of the rest of the time, just be sweet, understanding and playful and that’s what you’ll get in return.”

“Just a comfortable old sweater, huh,” Gail remarked, raising her eyebrow.

“That’s me,” she shrugged.

Gail rose to leave and Chancy walked with her to the door. She considered for a moment, watching the younger woman check her make-up in the mirror before she left to ensure no trace of her tears remained.

“Look,” Chancy sighed again, “when you go in there… Don’t be meek and contrite or give him the cold-shoulder or anything. He’ll already be feeling sore at himself for what he said. Give him a chance to make it up to you without losing face. Off you go now.”

Gail’s smile was devastatingly pretty and it made Chancy’s stomach churn as she watched her trot off down the corridor. She refused to think too closely about why. Instead, she reached into her room, grabbed her purse, and headed off to the bar.

Quite a few members of the band were in the hotel bar still in their stage gear. They had commandeered a corner to themselves and, as the after-dinner crowd gradually dissipated, they were taking over.

As Chancy arrived, Jerry the bass player was reassuring the bartender that they would keep the noise down and they were very sorry for the disturbance.

“Hi y’all,” she called as she stopped at the bar. “Anyone else want a drink?”

“Cocktails!” came Sandi’s yell from somewhere amongst the throng. The barman shot them a harried look and threw his dishtowel towards the sink.

“Hey there,” Chancy smiled. “I want to apologise for my friends. You see, they’re Elvis Presley’s stage band- hardest working musicians in showbusiness. They just need to unwind a little, you understand.” She steeled herself before putting fifty dollars onto the mirrored bar, too much of all the money she had brought with her. The barman’s eyes flickered down to the notes and he nodded, still looking less than pleased.

“Fantastic, so I think we need another round for my friends and I.”

At some point, Charlie took over the piano and the group had to scrounge up another fifty bucks to smooth the barman’s ruffled feathers.

“Charlie, Charlie honey, we have an actual piano genius here,” Chancy pointed out, gesturing at Glen, the virtuoso who had played all over the world.

“No, no,” laughed Glen. “You can’t afford me!”

“You sayin’ I ain’t a piano genius?” Charlie retorted, pounding out the intro to ‘Blueberry Hill’. “Hey, c’mon Chance, let’s country this place up some. The atmosphere here is just too yankified for me.”

“You want us to start whistling Dixie?!” Chancy laughed.

“Naw, come sing, darlin’. I remember you got a set of pipes. Come on.”

“Yeah, sure, and how about after that I go dance in front of the Royal Ballet company. I ain’t singing in this crowd!”

Some of the girls started egging her on, and she was almost drunk enough to agree to do her best Patsy impression, but then the barman was back at the table along with another man in hotel uniform.

“Jesus, you’re squeezing us dry tonight!” one of the guys complained, assuming they were there to complain about the noise again.

“I have a phone message for a Miss Crawford?” said the second man, referring to the little scrap of paper in his hand.

“That’s me,” Chancy called, raising her hand. She tried to think of who would be trying to contact her at this time of night. It could only be for bad news.

Climbing over legs and jostling half-empty glasses, she made her way out from the table and took the piece of paper from the man. She could hear him politely inform the rest of the group that the bar was now closed to a chorus of boos and hissing.

“Hey, everything okay?” Charlie asked quietly, coming to her side. She frowned over the words and then looked up at his blood-shot blue eyes.

“Joe says I’m needed upstairs.”

“Aw shit,” he slurred in the same soft tone. “You gonna be okay getting up there?” She forced a smile and gave him a pat on the chest.

“I still remember how to operate an elevator, Charlie, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t until she was trying to walk across the freshly mopped tiled lobby floor that she grasped how drunk she was. There hadn’t been much time to eat that day and she had foolishly tried to make up for that by ordering as many drinks with fruit in them as possible. Now her vision was blurry around the edges and her heels were too damn high.

In the elevator, she slipped out of her shoes, hooking the heels with her finger, and examined her reflection in the mirrored walls. She looked just as undone as she felt, her eyes were black smudges and her lips were smeared pink, the red almost blotted away by rims of many glasses. God, please don’t let something have happened to Grandma. She was getting on in years, but she wasn’t slowing down yet. She wasn’t ready to go gently into the night. But if not Grandma, then who else? There was no one Chancy was prepared to lose, she had already lost enough, dammit. She tried to calm her breathing, but she could feel how close the tears were on the periphery, soaking into her eyes and throat.

The elevator door slid open as she gathered herself and gave her dissolute reflection a sharp nod. Get yourself together, Chancy.

“Excuse me, ma’am, this area is closed to the public.” A uniformed rent-a-cop came swooping towards the opening.

“I- I’m part of- I’m supposed to be here,” she said, hearing her voice rising even as she was trying to stay calm.

“Sure you are. Look, why not go down to the front desk and they’ll remind you where your room is.” She rummaged in her bag looking for the damn security card to show him, but he was crowding her and pushing her back into the mirrored box.

“No, wait a minute!” she cried. “I’ve got the thing- my pass!” She dropped a shoe and almost lost her balance trying to grab it.

“Let’s go, lady. You can see Elvis on stage with everyone else.”

“Get off me!” she shrieked, smacking him with her remaining shoe. “If you just listen-”

In a move she didn’t quite understand, he managed to whip her round and pin her arms up behind her back. Her face hit the glass wall and her arm bones creaked in agony. She screamed words that would have killed her mother all over again if she had heard them coming from her daughter’s mouth.

Suddenly, there were more bodies in the glass box, but Chancy only got an impression with her face smushed up against the glass. She could just about breathe through her squashed nose and the air was thick with cologne and cigarettes.

“She’s with us, she’s with us,” she heard Joe appeasing as Sonny was demanding with some saltier language that the cop let her go. Her arms were finally released and she shoved herself away from kissing her reflection and whirled around.

“The pass is in my damn bag, you deaf bastard!” she screamed, her ears ringing with the sound as well as the swirl of her blood pumping through her body.

There was a shocked pause; Sonny and Joe were staring at her and whatever crazed expression she had on her face, their arms shoved backwards to get the cop out of the elevator. Then, her own screaming was put to shame by a deafening deep roar coming from the corridor.

With the reflexes of mountain lions, Joe and Sonny spun round and barrelled the cop out of the way as they sprinted up the corridor. Chancy scrambled around collecting her shoes and the sundry items she had spilled from her handbag before she followed.

“Get off, get the fuck off of me!” The commotion seemed to be coming from her door. “Aargh, I swear to God, I’ll rip your fuckin' balls off- Get off me!”

“Easy, easy!” Joe was saying soothingly from behind Dick’s hunched, broad back as Chancy heard Sonny and Lamar exhorting:

“Just calm down, you’re gonna hurt yourself!”

Head aching, face aching, bones aching, stomach aching, Chancy stumbled to a halt at her doorway and eyed the dogpile of grown men on the carpet inside.

“What in the world is going on? Why are y’all in my room?”

There was a pause as a gaggle of blotchy, panicked faces turned towards her and then Lamar shrieked almost as high as Chancy had in the elevator and dropped heavily to the floor, rolling to the side as he cupped his groin. Elvis emerged from the bottom of the pile, his face red and sweaty, and the vein in his neck pulsing as he gritted his teeth.

The rest of the guys, valuing their manhood, scattered backwards as he rose from the floor. Chancy had just enough time to tense before he barrelled into her, half knocking her into the opposite wall of the hallway.

“You hurt? D’he hurt you?” She stared in confusion as he turned her face both ways before his nostrils flared and he growled like a crazed animal.

“That cocksucker! Where’s my gun? Where’s my damn gun?!” He patted round his waistband and scanned the floor. Chancy caught Lamar, still grasping his groin, flinging something dark and heavy under her bed.

“I’m not hurt!” Chancy lied loudly, tossing her shoes again and grabbing Elvis’s forearms. He was almost vibrating with fury, so tense that the corded muscle was solid like stone. “I’m not hurt, Elvis.” He couldn’t seem to hear her, so she grabbed his face and she was chilled by what she saw when she looked into his eyes- pure mindless hate-filled rage. Unnatural rage. “I… I’m not hurt. Everyone’s fine.” Apart from poor Lamar.

Joe was making his way down the corridor, assuring the people opening their doors that everything was okay and that they should go back to bed.

“Lamar, you okay, man?” Sonny asked breathlessly, slapping the man’s hunched shoulder as Lamar dropped, breathing hard, against the wall.

“I warned you; I fuckin' warned you, man!” Elvis snapped, his voice rising again.

The guys started to converge once more and Chancy, her mind still somewhere between the bar and the corridor, sailed in too, grabbing the lapels of Elvis’s pyjamas. She had no hope of turning him when he was on a mission like this and the soles of her stocking feet slid momentarily against the carpet before he gripped the tops of her arms and glanced down. He stuttered and then stopped, stumbling back a few steps.

“We’re okay, we’re okay,” Joe was still saying like they were trying to calm a herd of startled horses.

“Let’s go in here, honey, let’s go,” Chancy said loudly, managing to point to her room with her elbow before Elvis gathered her up into some sort of aggressive bear hug. He let her walk him backwards into the room and close the door on the nightmare in the hallway.

“Those sonsofbitches,” he growled, storming away from her as she hastily turned the locks and slid the chain across like this would slow him down. “Getting in my way, holding me down and ignoring me like I don’t own their goddamn asses!” He swiped the phone off the desk with a yell, sending it smashing into the adjacent wall.

Chancy tried to steel herself to avoid flinching too hard, but her legs were shaking uncontrollably from all of the adrenaline. She didn’t dare take her eyes from him, not because she thought he would deliberately hurt her, but for fear something he did might ricochet in a way he hadn’t anticipated, couldn’t anticipate in this condition.

“I’m gonna fire the lot of them,” he said quietly, as if to himself. “Pull the plug on the whole damn enterprise and burn it down. Everybody’s getting too fuckin’ comfortable playing their mind games, trying to control me.”

At this, his head snapped sideways towards her and, though she couldn’t see much of his face as it was wreathed in shadow, Chancy made out the light glinting in his eyes.

Slowly, she moved sideways across the room to her bed, feeling her way past the obstacles, eyes fixed on him.

“Who were you with?” She frowned at his question, feeling the accusation though she didn’t understand it.

“Uh, Charlie and people from the show. Everyone’s in the bar downstairs.” He bit on his bottom lip, sucking it in pensively.

“Everyone.” Ouch.

“Not everyone,” she amended hastily. “Anyway I-I thought you were having some quiet time with Gail tonight.”

“Did you? Is that what you thought?” Chancy wasn’t sure she liked this quiet Elvis any more than she liked the yelling maniac Elvis. “Is that what you planned when you were priming her… Uh, tuning her like a- a guitar. Pulling her strings.”

“I-” Chancy frowned. “What?”

“Telling her we ain’t family so I got the third degree?”

“She asked me point blank if I was your cousin, Elvis. I can’t lie, I’ve never been any good at it.”

“On the contrary, I think you’re real good at it,” he countered bitterly. “I think you’re a goddamn genius at it. Boy, the way you tell your stories…”

“What stories? I told her- No, I confirmed what she already knew, that we weren’t cousins. I said we’d known each other a long time and that she didn’t have to worry about me. I thought I was helping.”

“Well, you know what you can do with your helpin’. I told her that we were married.” He dropped down next to her on the bed and carried on down until he was flat on his back.

“You what?!”

“I told you, she was all up in my face because of your goddamn meddling so I told her the truth. Boy, it felt good. Might try and do it more often.”

“That’s not funny. It ain’t nice to joke about that.”

“I ain’t being funny, baby, you’ll know when I’m being funny. I don’t know what to tell you, I told her. A-and it’s your fault too-“

“How the heck is it my fault?!”

“‘Elvis dogs after all the girls to feed his ego.’” He was lashing out, he knew she hated that mocking falsetto he used to impersonate women like they were stupid cartoon characters. “’He don’t give a shit about none of ‘em’ What kind of mean bitch comment is that to say about someone, huh?”

“That’s not what I said!” she snapped, jumping to her feet. “I was nice.”

“Yeah, real nice, Chancy. Look, I don’t need or want you fluffing up girls and sending ‘em to my room to distract me so you can go do God knows what lookin’ like that.”

“Hey now,” she warned. “I feel like one of us is about to say something they don’t really mean.” She walked over to the door and turned the locks back. “I think you should leave.”

Still flat on her bed, he lifted his head for a second and dropped it back.

“Fuck no, I paid for this room.” His dismissive tone fed air to the smouldering embers of her anger. He was the second man to disregard her that night.

“Fine, then I’ll go.” She managed to get the door open before he was behind her, forcing it shut again.

“The hell you will.” He had one hand splayed on the door to her right and the other on the adjacent wall, forcing her into the corner. Chancy studied him warily. She knew better than to provoke him by fighting back or pushing her luck. She wasn’t about to swing at him with her shoes like she did the clueless cop- Damn, where were her shoes this time?!

“Well, this day was just a pile of shit from start to finish,” he remarked softly. He crowded her in closer until the bridge of his nose was resting on her shoulder. She couldn’t breathe without being pressed against him. “Only good thing was getting some sleep, finally.”

All of a sudden, like a timer had gone off on his temper, Elvis dropped his head and let out a big sigh.

That was her cue and it dangled there waiting for Chancy to pick it up. She hesitated, because while it would mean the night had cooled down and things were back on an even keel, she also knew that she would be giving his outrageous behaviour her tacit approval. They would carry on like nothing had happened, like what had happened was nothing. But she was tired and, despite her blood being diluted by adrenaline, still a little drunk. She also thought that maybe she had hit her head against the wall of the elevator, but there was no room for her to check for a bump.

“You’re not sleeping?” she murmured eventually like the weak and lazy pushover she was. He shook his head, his cheek brushing against hers. It was like fire.

Fighting herself all the way, she slid up a hand from between them, up over his chest and his shoulder and clasped the back of his head, digging her nails into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Even started sleepwalkin’ again last week,” he said into her skin, the words rumbling through their chests at the same time. “You remember when I used to do that?”

Boy, did she. Everyone had warned her, Mr and Mrs Presley, Gene, Junior, even Grandma that she had to watch out for it; that, and the nightmares. She had to make sure she never left open the bedroom window at night, and they always locked the front door of the apartment after the time that a teenage Elvis had wandered out into the neighbourhood in his underwear and woken up half a block from home in the thankfully deserted night. He had been furious that they had told her that story.

One night, she woke to find him shuffling around the bedroom, mumbling to himself. She thought he was fooling around at first and laughingly urged him to come back to bed, but when he ignored her, she had climbed out to stand in front of him. Then she had seen the empty half-lidded look in his eyes. Her first instinct was to run, go get Mr or Mrs Presley, but she had told herself in her fear that this was her responsibility now, he was hers.

Gene had warned her not to try and wake him and definitely not to startle him, showing her the scar on his own eyebrow from where he had done just that. So she had taken Elvis’s hand gently and tried to lead him back to bed. It went about as well as it ever did when anyone ever tried to persuade Elvis Presley to do anything. He didn’t budge.

Eventually, using all the ingenuity her half-asleep teenage brain could muster, she had corralled him using the pillows as shields until his wandering had him bumping into the bed over and over. Finally, he had climbed back in of his own accord.

“In a hotel, honey, that’s not good.

“Yeah, Sonny caught my ass before I went off a fire escape or somethin’. You imagine the movie magazines and tabloid trash if I showed up half-nekkid and talkin’ to myself in the hotel lobby?” He scoffed, lifting his head slightly to see her face, making sure he had made it funny enough that she didn’t think he was pitiful.

“Why do you think it’s started happening again?”

“Damned if I know. Can we maybe go sit down?” She never ceased to marvel at the way he could do that, reframe reality so that she ended up apologising to him for making him pin her in a corner. They moved back to the bed and Chancy, exhausted, wasted, drained, nearly missed the corner of the mattress completely. She grabbed Elvis’s arm with a whoop and then a panicked laugh. He smiled too, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You- uh- you think you could go… You wanna clean yourself up a bit, honey?” he asked awkwardly, looking at her sideways.

Chancy snorted, burying her face in her hand for a minute. She could feel the grime the sweat and tears had made of her make-up and could only imagine the state of her hair, but she still marvelled at the audacity of a man who had not only been wrestling on the floor with his own bodyguards, but had to be tricked out of trying to shoot an off-duty cop, trying to tell her that she was in a state.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered off-hand, stumbling into the bathroom. She locked the door and stepped up to the mirror, bracing herself.

The hair had held up pretty well, considering. The sixties had been a decade-long lesson in managing to secure and rein her wild dark curls, beating them into submission with back-combing, hair irons and industrial blow dryers. She had learned all the products, the equipment, the pins, the ties and the clips. She reached into the mass now, drawing out bobby pins and letting them fall with a cascade of pings into the sink.

The face hadn’t fared as well, but she would have liked to see anyone else take a wall to the face and look immaculate afterwards. That was still so surreal, being manhandled by a police officer like she was a hippie protestor. How many of Elvis’s fans had experienced the same thing? It didn’t seem right somehow.

There was a raised red mark on her left cheek just below her eye and her lips looked a little swollen, but no permanent damage. She swallowed back the thickness in her throat as she met the eyes of her reflection. Her corneas stung with unshed tears.

Abandoning the idea of just washing her face, she turned to the tub and started the shower. Dropping her clothes at her feet, she stepped into the scalding spray with a chest-heaving sigh. She thought of home, of the vastness of the sky at night and the windows of the main house lit up like a beacon. It would be dark now, everyone asleep in both the big house and the bunkhouse, except maybe for Grandma Marie, who hardly ever seemed to sleep.

Chancy thought about going down to the kitchen in the early hours and finding the lights on, Grandma fixing her warm milk and a slice of pie and telling stories about raising children in a two-roomed cabin with no electricity or running water. Chancy might have been crying, but the rivulets of water running down her face could also have been coming from the shower head above, so who’s to say.

After fifteen minutes or an hour or a day, she wasn’t quite sure, she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a terrycloth robe, towelling her hair dry. She had lingered in the shower in spite of her tears and tiredness, maybe secretly hoping that when she emerged, her room would be empty and Elvis would be distracted by some other shiny thing.

Instead, the television was flickering with the sound down, the radio was playing some random AM station and the room was lit by one of the dim lamps. She glanced around, seeing Elvis sprawled on her bed eating what looked and smelled like a cheeseburger.

“There’s my girl,” he commented, his smile so luminous that it bleached away the sarcastic remark she had on her tongue.

“How did you manage to get cheeseburgers at-” She checked the wall clock. “Four thirty in the morning? No, actually, I don’t think I’m really surprised.”

“You know I gots my ways,” he replied, winking. “There’s some for you too. Come and sit with me.” She fought the urge to roll her eyes at being invited to sit on her own bed. He rooted around the foil packages and grabbed one. “Yep, no onions, extra pickles, too much ketchup and way undercooked, this is definitely one of yours.”

“Liking something different to you is not a character flaw,” she replied primly, unwrapping the warm packaging. Her stomach grumbled with anticipation.

“No, just wrong,” he shrugged smugly, tilting back as she pushed him.

“Oh, this is so good!” she moaned as she bit into the burger, hamming it up.

“Wait, it gets better,” he promised with a boyish grin, wiggling his eyebrows. He rolled to the side of the bed and leant down with a grunt. Chancy froze, thinking of Lamar tossing something under there earlier that night.

“Here we go!” He brought up two tall paper cups with straws. “This one’s for you.”

“Chocolate milkshake?!” she gasped. “You are my hero, Elvis Presley!” He laughed his deep-down dirty laugh and she couldn’t help joining in.

“If I only knew sooner that this was all it took!”

It was a happy, companionable meal. Chancy had no idea how he conjured such things, but Elvis had a knack for making the impossible happen. He was enjoying her delight and his mood was mellow and playful. Food always had a comforting, calming effect on him, but as his words started to slow and slide into one another, she suspected that it had a little help.

“Best milkshake I ever had… was… in Texas in 1955,” he mused, squinting into his memories. “There was this little, uh, roadside diner/gas station place out there and their milkshakes were out of sight. I mean, this one’s pretty good too, but… Waitress was a sweet little thing as well, if I remember right.”

“Hey!” She gave his shin a little kick. “Remember who you’re talking to!” His bemused frown slowly transformed into amusement.

“Course, I already had the most prettiest little girl at home,” he amended with a sheepish grin, nudging her shoulder.

“Yeah, you did,” she muttered, smiling as she sucked on her straw. She went to poke his chest, but got him in the sternum where his belly started to swell outwards.

“Ow!” he laughed, rubbing the top of his stomach. “Careful, darlin’, I just ate!” She shrugged, tossing her empty cup onto the bedside table.

He watched her clearing away the empty wrappers, dropping onto his back as he put his own cup to the side. When she returned to the bed after throwing away the trash, he surprised her by grabbing her hands and giving them a yank. She let out a muffled shriek as she unexpectedly toppled onto his chest.

“Quit fooling around, you,” she chided, going to push up and away, but he had his arms wrapped around her shoulders. “Elvis, come on now.”

His face had gone still and serious and he was staring at her with the full power of his petrol blue eyes, the shadows of his long lashes playing against his cheeks. Her mouth went quite dry as she could only take in small shallow breaths. She glanced down at his famous pouty lips and then quickly back to his sleepy eyes. She had the feeling of standing and watching a huge natural event take place in real time, knowing there was little she could do about it other than pay witness to the devastation it wrought.

“I’m just so tired,” she heard herself say in a small, pathetic voice. And when she heard it, she realised how true it was in so many ways. A fat tear immediately spilled from her eye and started to wend itself down the side of her cheek.

Elvis’s forehead creased as his face turned mournful, full of heartfelt empathy and compassion like a little boy’s. How he did that at nearly forty years old she had no idea, but it could break your heart.

“It’s okay, lil darlin’. We’ll go sleep, don’t cry,” he murmured thick and sweetly, loosening his grip on her to thumb away the tear before it dripped off her jaw. She nodded her head and he mirrored her, his eyebrows knitted together.

Elvis released her in order to click off the television, leaving them with just the light from the small reading lamp beside the bed and the mournful faint tones from the radio. Chancy knew better than to ask for that to be switched off.

Beneath the covers, he gathered her to him, her head pillowed just below his collar bone. He smelt musky from his earlier exertions and so damn familiar it made her heart hurt with homesickness. She drew up her hand and her fingertips found his crucifix amidst the hair on his chest. She could feel him humming through his hot skin. With anyone else, she would have worried they were running a temperature, but he had always run warm.

“Elvis?” she whispered.

“Mmmhm?” he replied, sounding like he was half in oblivion already.

“Please don’t sleepwalk, I can’t take the responsibility.”

He hiccupped a laugh that she heard through him and she felt him press his lips to the top of her head. His verbal response was unintelligible.

It took her a while to drift off, though she was warm and comfortable. She could hear her heart still racing in her ears, revved into high gear by the sugar, salt, alcohol and drama of the night.

In contrast, Elvis’s heartbeat was a ponderous bass note that seemed to slow even further as she focussed on it. At one point, she was sure that it had stopped and she lifted her head, saying his name in a panic. He let out an exhale as she nudged him and a faint moan at the back of his throat, as if he was trying to reply from whatever deep down, faraway place his consciousness was taking a vacation. Satisfied, she returned her ear to his chest.

He had been about to kiss her.

Chancy scrunched up her face as if to both deny the thought and shake it loose at the same time. Nope, not in a million years. They had already played that one out and had the scars to prove it.

She had been about to let him kiss her.

If that was true, then she was exactly the kind of weak, pathetic idiot she had worked so hard not to become. If it was true, then she was the conniving harlot she used to imagine lurking in every hotel room and audience when she was a desperate young girl trying to grip hold of a boy everyone wanted.

No, a comfortable old sweater, that’s what she had called herself and that still stood. She wasn’t the insecure young thing who sat and gazed in awe and adoration, who laughed at tired, old jokes and whiled away the hours waiting for the audiences and entourage to leave so that those heavy lidded, bedroom eyes would look her way.

For one thing, Chancy had aged out of ‘young thing’ a while ago. Not that she couldn’t hold her own, especially in a good outfit and with a couple of hours preparation, but if she had been an actress she would now be attending ‘wife’ auditions rather than ingenue.

Furthermore, Chancy had been around for the first telling of most of the stories and jokes all the guys passed around. She knew where all the stupid nicknames had come from, the catchphrases that just had to be said to make them drop what they were doing and fall into hysterics. She had been around for the actual boys, so she didn’t find ‘the boys’ so captivating fifteen years on.

All of that was all well and good, but it didn’t explain how or why she was currently in bed with Elvis Presley. Again.

When she slept, it was a fragile doze, a light gauzy sheet of rest that did little to insulate her from cold, bright reality. The early morning farm report droning softly on the radio pasted itself into her dreams, the reading light still throwing out its weak beam over on Elvis’s side of the bed became the sun in the landscape of her subconscious, and the soft breathing zephyrs that drifted among the clouds.

At times, she idly watched the sunlight moving around the edges of the window, not sure whether she was awake or asleep. At others, she watched amorphous black monsters crawling across a mountainside in her mind with the same placidity. The brain was a strange and terrible weapon.

When the soft tapping started at her door, she accepted it without jarring, already so close to the boundary of wakefulness.

Elvis had barely moved in the night in contrast to her restlessness. The sleeping pills he took were like vast anchors thrown deep into the unconscious ocean, pinning him in place. It was a dramatic difference from back when she used to share a bed with him. Well, ‘share’ was an idealistic word, occupy might be a better one, because trying to get some rest in close proximity to Elvis back then was a war of attrition. If he wasn’t sleepwalking or writhing through some unspecified nightmare, he would be wrestling with the blankets or forming new shapes with his body as he tried to soothe his restless, twitching limbs. She had once joked that he would only get a decent night’s sleep when he inevitably ended up strapped down in an asylum somewhere.

The young man at the door was one of Elvis’s crew as expected.

“I gotta wake the boss up,” he said, starting forward before he even finished the sentence. Chancy gripped the door, keeping it bracketed by her body so that he had to stop before they bounced off one another.

“Uh, hello,” she said sharply. “You’re one of the Stanley boys, aren’t you. Which one are you?” He scoffed slightly, but appeared to realise halfway through that she was serious and his face fell.

“R- Ricky.” He had the beginnings of a wispy kid moustache and the remnants of teenage acne at his temples.

“Hello Ricky, my name’s Miss Chancy Crawford. You should probably have that information before you barge into my hotel room without a by your leave.” He stared like he had never seen a woman speak before. “’Please’ might also make things easier.”

“Uh.” He cleared his throat. “I have to wake him up at eleven thirty so that we can go to the airport… please… ma’am.” She sighed and decided that this would have to be good enough, pushing the door away. The boy grabbed a tray from the floor and scuttled past her into the room.

Watching the kid trying to rouse Elvis made Chancy’s stomach hurt. It was obviously a well-worn routine and the boy was so tender and gentle about it, but seeing Elvis struggle to come back, to speak, to move, was nausea-inducing. He was always in control, of too much and too many usually, but now he was just one lifeline away from lost. She cleared her throat and hurried into the bathroom, unable to stay once the kid started emptying a rattling cup into Elvis’s uncoordinated hand and proffering a glass of water, extolling his boss to take his medicine.

Again, she hid in the shower, scrubbing at her fears and regrets as if she could ever remove their stain. She heard movement, doors shutting and opening, and stuck her head under the spray, holding her breath as long as she could.

The room was empty when she emerged and huffed a breath of relief as the knot of anxiety in her stomach loosened. Her eyes fell on her shoes from last night arranged neatly together with her handbag just inside the door. The bed was in disarray, the bottom of the blankets folded and twisted where she had been walking and running through her dreams. The side that was not hers was turned back, left by someone climbing out. She crossed the room hurriedly and finally turned off the reading light and the radio, yanking the curtains open on a grey autumn morning.

It was then that she finally saw what she had overlooked in the chaos of the night: her suitcase looked ransacked, her bags spewing clothes and books, and the drawers in her room half-opened or hanging from their runners. That was without the remnants of the phone scattered in the corner. Had she been burgled?!

Dressing quickly, she checked the most obvious things, her jewellery was all there, the little bit of cash she had stashed in case of emergencies was still in her make-up bag, and her return ticket was still bookmarked in the novel she was reading. Leaving everything else, she rushed out into the hallway, but quickly ran back in to grab the godforsaken security pass from her bag.

Sonny was back on door duty. She wondered when exactly he slept and the bags under his eyes seemed to be an answer.

“Hi Sonny, is Joe around?”

“He’s getting everything over to the airport,” Sonny replied, studying her. “Why, what d’you need?”

“I- I don’t know. My room is.. trashed, like someone has gone through all my things. I can’t see that anything’s missing, but…” She trailed off as his face went from sharp and attentive to knowing and all the way through to awkward. “…I wasn’t robbed, was I.”

“Uh, last night was pretty out of hand,” he answered with a shrug. “Nice shiner, by the way.” She touched her fingers to her left eye. The skin beneath was hot, puffy and tender.

“Oh, yeah.”

“It’s just probably a good idea to always let us know if you plan on going somewhere. You know how it goes when Elvis wants something… or someone.” Like she was a four in the morning cheeseburger.

“Sure,” she muttered. “I know.” She released a frustrated sigh. “Look, I can probably just tidy most of it, but the phone is smashed and… and I think there’s a gun under my bed. I’m not touching it.” He rose with a swift inhale like he had been asked to take out the garbage. She watched him pointedly leave open the door as he surveyed the bed, kneeling to grope around underneath it.

“How’s Lamar?” she asked.

“Aw, he’ll be okay. Boss was right- he warned him. Should’ve kept his wits about him.” Chancy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Besides, I think the two-thousand-dollar bonus he got this morning’ll be good medicine.” His face registered his success as he lifted a large, shiny .44 magnum with a turquoise handgrip.

“Please tell me that is not loaded,” Chancy breathed.

“I can tell you that if it makes you feel better?” he returned laconically.

“Sweet Jesus,” she muttered, her hand wiping down her face as a wave of ice rippled through her body.

“Life on the road, huh,” he remarked, lifting his brows wearily.

Chancy closed the door as he strolled out and turned to face the disorder.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered to herself. “I can’t.”

Leaving that realisation hanging in the air, she mechanically began to attend to the mess, resetting drawers and arranging her bags. In the bathroom, she examined her face, which actually felt worse than it looked. She managed to cover the discolouration with foundation, but the swelling was trickier. In the end, she shoved on some sunglasses. She was on tour with a bunch of rock ‘n’ roll musicians, it wasn’t like she was going to stand out.

She was just refolding the last of her clothes and putting them back into the case when there was a brisk knock on the door. She thought it was probably Joe letting her know that they would be leaving for the airport soon and threw it open.

Elvis filled the doorway, his hands braced against the frame as he spoke to someone off to his left, his face creased with laughter. There was a split second where Chancy considered closing the door again, but even without looking at her, he reached out to grab the edge of it.

“Hey,” he said finally, turning to her. His public smile, so luminous and confident, abruptly faded into something more human, intimate, nervous even. Obviously fresh from the shower, the ends of his dark hair were still dripping onto the collar of his shirt and she spied a little patch of razor burn on the underside of his jawline. Just human.

“You gonna let me in, honey?”

She stepped back quickly, watching him as he entered and his eyes took in the room. She thought that maybe she could glimpse a little guilt, but it was gone when he turned towards her.

“I- uh- was thinking…” He frowned and reached for her sunglasses. “I can’t talk to my own damn reflection.” She squinted and blinked as he removed the glasses, not catching the change in his expression. “Oh, honey…” His eyes were wide, that little boy look back as he brushed the side of her face with his thumb, his touch feather light.

“I’m okay,” she assured him hastily, thinking of that loaded magnum. “And I did hit him with my shoe first.”

“My little baby delinquent,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as he let his thumb run down from the corner of her eye, across her cheekbone and to the edge of her mouth. “He’ll get his, don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“What were you thinking?” she prompted, anxious to move on and distract him from that topic entirely.

“Huh?”

“You said you were thinking before.”

“Oh, uh… Shit, I forgot…” He brought his other hand to his forehead, still holding her sunglasses, making a show of trying to remember what he had been about to say, but she couldn’t bring herself to laugh when his words were still so stilted and slurred in his mouth. “No, wait! That’s reminded me. Get it together, you damn forgetful fool!” He smiled at her and she tried to respond in kind.

“I was thinking,” he began again, making a concerted effort to enunciate like he was breaking the surface of the slumbering ocean he had been anchored beneath, “that it seems like we forgot something last night.”

Chancy wished that she was cruel enough to brush him off, to make some cool remark about enjoying the food and sidestep away. That was all it would take, she was sure of it. His ego was a vast, but incredibly fragile thing.

“And what was that?” she said instead just like he had set her up to do.

He paused and she instantly knew what was coming. Her fingers twisted together in front of her so tightly that she felt pain before she felt the plush softness of his lips on hers. He paused again, waiting for her response like a gentleman, like he hadn’t been inured into complacency by the thousands of girls he had kissed whose reactions were immediate and ecstatic.

Slowly, she disentangled her knotted fingers and reached up to link her hands behind his neck, drawing him closer and kneading her lips against his. He tasted of toothpaste like he had brushed just before coming over. His minty lips tilted up into a smile, she imagined a smug one, before he deepened the kiss again. His tongue tickled against the centre of her bottom lip, making her gasp and open her mouth to him automatically. This was all the encouragement he needed, surging forward with his arms wrapped tight around her, his palms flat and hot through the back of her shirt.

It was too late; too late for the cool, dismissive comment, too late to pull away and give him the kind squeeze of the hand brush-off, too late to warn him that this was an awful, terrible, catastrophic idea. She wasn’t just witnessing a natural disaster now, she was riding it. When a man could kiss like Elvis could at least it would be an enjoyable slide to oblivion.

There were grey blobs floating in front of Chancy’s eyes when she opened them, having broken away before she suffocated. She felt a little foolish that she had forgotten to breathe like a teenager having her first kiss, but she was relieved to see Elvis looking a little flushed and breathless too.

“So, uh, yeah, that’s all I wanted say,” he mumbled in a low voice, looking down at his shoes. “See you later.”

He pretended to turn and leave, but his hands remained very firmly on her waist and when he looked back at her his eyes were sparkling. God, he looked beautiful and delighted and her stomach flipped.

Chancy’s forearms were resting on top of his, hands around the crooks of his elbows. Looking down, she couldn’t tell if she was clinging to him or pushing him away.

“You’re all up in your head, honey, come on back,” he murmured, drawing her towards him. Her fingers scrambled to grip his sleeves and she pulled down as he lifted his hands to her face.

“Wait,” she whispered. To his credit, he did. He always had.

When she groped around for the right words to say and came up empty, he slid a finger under her chin and tilted her face up towards his.

“Wait, or stop?”

There it was, her out, a doorway opened so gently and lovingly. She imagined stepping through it. Elvis would likely make a joke of it and then he’d leave the room quickly to save face. On the outside nothing much would change, except the spaces between them would grow a little wider and colder.

It would go back to the way it was the first time she had ‘rejected’ him, though without the melodrama and intensity because they were older now and harder. She remembered that rigid, cold void in her stomach back then, the way that it had leeched from her until she was icy to touch and all the world seemed to be in dull sepia. It wouldn’t be like that again, not after one kiss, no matter how great it was.

Just before she had managed to convince herself, she was besieged by images, violent and technicolour: Elvis limp and helpless in the bed, struggling to rouse himself; that heartfelt, mournful expression on his face when she had started to cry; the sight of him standing on the stage, hundreds of flashbulbs popping, but him with his eyes closed singing along with her favourite gospel song. She blinked up at his face now, older, and fuller, but all the features were the same: the heavy-lidded eyes, the aquiline nose with the nostrils that always flared when he was trying to contain a strong emotion, and those soft full lips that could tell you lies that made you smile and truths that broke your heart. Still her Elvis.

“Wait,” she clarified. “Just, wait.” Her fingers trembled as she released her death grip on his sleeve and lifted her hand to just above his jaw where a line of muscle was flexing. She stroked the side of her thumb against the flickering, all the way up to his temple as her fingertips grazed the side of his neck. She could tell he was trying so hard to keep still, which was never easy for him, and her breathing started to even out in contrast to his starting to stutter. She rocked slowly up onto her toes and nudged her lips against his, sliding back as he moved towards her.

‘Wait’ she mouthed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, his top lip, and bottom lip, before giving him her open mouth. He let out a quiet whine in the back of his throat and sprang forward, catching her in his arms before she could pull away this time. They tussled, laughing, and kissing as she kept trying to insist that he wait and he kept replying, ‘no’, the word muffled against her lips, her cheek, her neck, and shoulder.

Chancy froze when there was a light rap on the door, and Elvis seized the opportunity to give her ass a sharp slap, snorting at her outraged expression.

“Wait,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he strode over and threw open the door- her door.

“Hey Boss, we’re just loading up and I came to get Miss Crawford’s bags.”

Chancy’s mouth quirked into a small smile as Ricky said her name. Elvis stepped back and Ricky hesitated, looking to Chancy expectantly.

“Hi Ricky, you can come on in,” she assured him. “If you could take the case and these two bags, I’d be ever so grateful. Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” he mumbled, the tips of his ears turning pink. She had to bite her lip as he scurried about and then turned at the door and thanked her before rushing out.

“Miss Crawford, huh,” Elvis remarked. “Makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Well, he’s at that age when you turn all boys into lovesick fools.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” she scoffed, turning to throw the last few things into her handbag. “My diabolical scheme to bewitch all men, one teenage boy at a time.”

“As long as bewitching is all you’re doing,” he intoned, suddenly directly behind her. She whirled and found herself in his grasp. “You know I don’t share.”

“Uh huh, me and your girlfriend both know that.”

Chancy’s own face dropped once she said it, having had no prior warning that it was coming. Her aghast expression apparently saved the situation.

Elvis exhaled loudly, raised an eyebrow, and observed, “Got a little too clever for yourself there, didn’t you, honey.” His tone, the condescending disapproval, annoyed her and made her want to grab hold of whatever independent spirit had moved through her to make her say such a thing. She clenched her jaw and didn’t reply.

“Come on, baby, stay sweet for me. Today’s starting out so good.” He nuzzled the side of her head, taking a nip of the top of her ear and she gasped, giving him a slight shove.

It was Joe’s turn to bang on her door, this time calling through it that it was time to leave for the airport. Elvis yelled an answer to him and Chancy sighed.

“What?”

“Does everyone know that you’re in here and what we’re doing?”

“Well, it’s kinda their job to know where I am, honey. As to what we’re doing… Not sure even I know that at this point.”

“Me neither.” He gave her one last kiss, clasping the back of her neck the way she had seen him do to dozens of girlfriends in the past. It unnerved her, seeing them in montage flickering through her mind like pages of a gossip magazine.

“Time to go to work.” He handed her back her sunglasses; she had forgotten that he had them. As he opened the door, he looked back over his shoulder. “You coming?”

“I’ll… uh, be there in a minute.” He frowned, his expression an amalgamation of confusion and amusement.

“All right then.”

As soon as the door closed, Chancy gasped out an exhale and then strode off into several different directions, her head in her hands. She surged for the telephone, but thought about trying to explain the situation to Alicia in code to throw off anyone else listening in. And how would Alicia react anyway? She dropped the receiver like it was hot.

“You’re okay,” she whispered to herself. “You’re okay.” She snatched up her purse, surveyed the room to check nothing had been left behind and then walked out into the corridor, plastering a peppy smile onto her face.

#elvis fans #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction

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