What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  The second I turned eighteen, I left Hugo. To be honest, Milton and Cheyenne, as my parents insisted I call them, were probably too high to notice. I send them a card at Christmas and everyone’s happy. They’re glad I’m embarking on my journey of self-exploration and coming into my own as a citizen of mother earth, and I’m glad my life is now Bob Dylan and bong free.

  The first thing I did when I got to Vegas was change my name. Kit. Just Kit. Now that’s an IT name. Kitten Warchowski was doomed to life as the Dairy Queen drive-thru window girl. However, Kit spends her days sleeping in feather beds at The Grand and her evenings prancing around a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans. I’d rather be Kit.

  “715 Yucca,” the cab driver announces. I tell him to wait, slip out of the cab and up the drive to perfect number 715. Ella has gardeners who clip the lawns and trim the hedges and plant the flowers that by no means should be blooming in Vegas. The only thing the house is missing is a white picket fence.

  However, as I go to ring the bell, I hear voices beyond the paneled front door. Loud ones. Yelling at each other.

  Surprise number one of the evening – Ella knows how to yell.

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard Ella’s voice rise above a carefully modulated pleasantry. I mean, Martha Stewart just doesn’t yell.

  I put my ear to the door. The other voice is Brad’s. Her husband. Mr. Perfect Doctor.

  I ring the bell, hoping I’m not disturbing some domestic showdown but damned if I’m going to show up to the opening of the Back Room alone.

  The voices stop abruptly as if I hit the mute button instead of the doorbell, and seconds later Ella opens the door.

  If she was yelling, you would never know. Her subtle, yet classy, makeup is perfectly applied, eyes dry and clear. She’s wearing a red, lacey dress that hits just below her knees, ending in ruby red, strappy heels.

  “Hi, Kit,” she says, air kissing me on both cheeks.

  “Ready?” I ask tentatively, looking past her into the tiled entryway for any sign of the fight I heard brewing. I see none. Not even a trace of her tall, dark, and almost-as-perfect-as-her husband.

  “Ready,” she says with a smile as she locks the door behind her. Ella slips her arm through mine, and we walk down the dark drive to the waiting cab.

  “Everything all right in there?” I whisper, still glancing behind me at the closed oak door that reads “Campbell Residence” on a hand-painted wooden plaque.

  “Fine,” she says, turning her vacant blue eyes toward mine.

  I’m not sure I believe her. In fact, I know she’s not fine because she hasn’t even mentioned the fact that I’m twenty minutes late. But then again, what the hell do I know about married life?

  “Come on,” she says, sliding into the back seat of the cab, “Let’s go have some fun.”

  * * *

  “Kit, over here, love!” I look through the mass of people to see a leather clad woman wearing the blondest wig in existence hailing me from across the room.

  “Hi, Moira,” I call.

  “Who’s she?” Ella asks, into my ear to be heard over the noise.

  “Moira Black. Movie star. She’s shooting that big budget action pic out in Red Rock.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “I can’t stand her,” I confide, knowing there is no way Ella and Moira would ever run in the same circles long enough for my confidence to get out.

  “Oh.”

  “She’s a slut and completely bi.”

  “Polar?”

  “Sexual.”

  “Oh my,” Ella says, her blue eyes growing wide as she looks at Moira again.

  Moira waves in our direction, giving Ella a once over. Then smiles her biggest, flirtiest smile.

  Surprise number two – lesbians dig Martha Stewart.

  Feeling a little guilty, I steer Ella out of Moira’s line of vision and toward the bar. Which isn’t easy to do as the place is packed and the bar is the main attraction tonight. Emilio is working behind the counter. He was a greeter at the Mirage when I worked the tables and more than once bailed me out of a sticky situation when I broke up with the floor manager.

  “Emilio! Hi, gorgeous,” I call as we make it to the length of neon and glass surrounding him. Ella crushes up behind me, making little disgusted sounds either at the number of strangers bumping into her or the fact that I’m so friendly with the bartender. I’m hard pressed to tell which.

  “Hey Kitty Cat. Watta ya have?” Emilio asks, obviously flirting with me. Fine by me. I flirt back, showing just the hint of cleavage as I lean on the bar.

  “Two Manhattans please,” I answer, looking to Ella for confirmation. She nods enthusiastically, her perfect blond bob skimming her shoulders.

  “Gosh, it’s loud in here,” she says, scrunching up her nose.

  I want to say not as loud as your house, but I don’t. Despite the fact that Ella went and got married on me, I can’t quite hate her. Ella was the first person I met when I came to Vegas, and without her, who knows where I might have ended up? Probably pole dancing in some strip club for tourists’ traveler’s checks.

  “Here you go, gorgeous,” Emilio says, sliding the drinks across the bar. He sends me a wink. I have to admit, Emilio is cute. Tall, dark, Cuban. And straight. Unfortunately, he’s a bartender. Try as I might, I can’t get excited about dating a bartender.

  “Thanks, Emilio,” I answer, passing Ella her drink.

  She latches onto right away, downing more than a lady-like sip. “Let’s dance,” she says. Then wiggles her skinny body to the throbbing music being pumped in from the million dollar sound system.

  “Mmm, maybe later.” I eye the dance floor. It’s packed with beautiful people. But I know they’re all beautiful nobodies, invited to make you feel like you’re in Hollywood and not some warehouse behind the Strip. The real action is in the back rooms. The cigar smoking, the hand shaking, the deal making that will result in the tearing down of another landmark casino six months from now to put in a family friendly themed hotel That is where the IT people are.

  And Vlad.

  “Oh, come on, Kit. I want to have fun, tonight,” Ella says, emphasizing the word.

  I ignore Ella’s whining. “Is Vlad here yet?” I ask Emilio in what I hope sounds like a casual tone.

  “Yeah. VIP room at the top of the stairs.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ella shoots me a disapproving look, which I try to ignore.

  “What?” I ask as we walk away, threading through the crush of scantily clad bodies toward the stairs.

  “Nothing.” Ella’s eyes hit the floor and she takes another sip from her glass.

  “What?” I ask again. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know reason number five hundred and thirty-two why perfect Ella Campbell thinks I’m ruining my life. But like a chump, I ask anyway. “What is it?”

  “It’s just… I mean…”

  “I swear to God, El, if you say ‘nothing’ again, I’m going to toss this drink at you.” Which would be a shame, because I think the dress she’s wearing is Versace and dousing it in whiskey and vermouth would be a crime.

  Ella looks me straight in the eye. She cocks her head to the side. She purses her perfect little bow of a mouth.

  “Sweetie,” she says in a voice I know she usually reserves for patronizing her twins, “he’s married.”

  “Christ, El. I know he’s married. I didn’t ask if I could fuck him, I just asked whether he was here or not.”

  “Right.” She’s not convinced. And neither am I. I can feel my cheeks growing hot under the lights as she crinkles her nose at me.

  “Kit, I know married men, you don’t want to get involved. They’re… they’re not all they’re cracked up to be.”

  “I am not – N-O-T-” I spell out for her, “involved with a married man. I am not getting involved, okay?”

  “Oh come off it, Kit. You are so full of it. I know that look in your eyes. You’re into him.”

  �
�Fine. You know what, let’s go dance then,” I say, moving away from the stairs. Who cares if Vlad is upstairs smoking Cuban cigars in the plush VIP room with movie directors and half naked starlets? Fine by me. I’ll just dance with my suburban best friend down here and make eyes at Moira the dyke.

  “Kit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Ella trails off. She can tell she’s hit a nerve. Which of course pisses me off even more.

  “It’s fine. Let’s just dance.”

  “No, Kit, if you want to go say ‘hi’ to Vlad, then go,” she says, scrunching her upturned little nose at me again.

  Say hi. Right. Suddenly I feel about as transparent as Moira’s bad wig. No matter how much I try to pretend, Ella and I both know I don’t just want to say “hi” to Vlad. Hell, even Petey knows I don’t just want to say “hi” to him. I feel my cheeks grow even hotter as I see Emilio waving my way, pointing to the VIP room. I bet even Emilio knows I don’t just want to say “hi” to Vlad.

  I want to grab Ella’s hand and go to the dance floor. I want to shake my size two ass all over that floor and make every man in the room drool for me. I want to say, “Screw it,” and go home with Emilio and enjoy every inch of his sculpted abs and not care one wit whether he serves martinis to the rich and pompous for a living. I want to tell my friend I do not lust after my married boss.

  But do I do that? No.

  “Go dance, I’ll be down in a minute,” I say and run the rest of the way up the stairs to the VIP room.

  Chapter Three:

  David, the Straight Flush

  “Where the hell is my eyeliner? Has anyone seen my eyeliner? David?”

  Marc comes up behind me, reaching a hairless arm and snatches an eyeliner stick from my dressing table.

  “I was just borrowing it, dahling,” I say in my most sugary voice as he narrows his green eyes at me in the mirror. Fake green eyes. Everything about Marc is fake, from his colored contacts right down to his sock stuffed tightei whities.

  “Have you ever heard of asking?”

  “Puhlease may I borrow your eyeliner, oh great and wonderful Marcus?” I ask, laying on the sarcasm.

  Marc narrows his eyes at me. “Get your own,” he says before turning on heel.

  “Hey, break a leg tonight, honey,” I call to his retreating backside as he stomps across the dressing room, trying not to trip on the makeup bags and heels scattered across the floor. “Literally,” I add under my breath.

  Jason at the next table giggles.

  “He’s just jealous, ‘cause it looks better on you, pumpkin” he whispers. Jason has a lisp and a way of making everything he says comes out almost seductive if it weren’t so creepy.

  “Thanks,” I mumble as I finish applying my bronzer. I’m never sure if I should encourage Jason or steer clear of him. On the other hand, backstage breeds more drama more than a Spanish soap, so I try not to make enemies. I remain neutral. I am Switzerland. In better shoes.

  “Besides,” Jason says, applying a thick layer of rouge over his chubby cheeks. “Marc’s a little pissy, it being his last night and all.”

  “Last night?”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” I ask, suitably aghast at being left out of the rumor loop.

  “Our esteemed producer gave him his walking papers. He’s going to…” Jason leans in for effect and I can smell the cheap cologne he uses, “…Reno.”

  “Good Gucci, what did he do to deserve that?” I gasp. Reno is a fate I would not wish on anyone. Even someone as catty as Marcy-boy. Reno is where the acts Vegas chews up and spits out go to die. You think the old blue hairs flock the slots here, honey, you should see Reno on a Saturday night. The high rollers bring their Metamucil to the table with them. No wonder Marc’s pissy.

  Jason leans in again, his eyes glittering with the light of really juicy gossip. “I heard Marc was sleeping with the producer. They had some sort of lovers’ spat, and now Marc’s out. Come morning he’ll be on the slow bus to the big ‘R.’” Jason looks practically giddy at being the bearer of a virgin rumor, flouncing happily away to slip on his costume.

  Poor Marc. Now, I’m not in love with the boy or anything. Not by a long shot. He stole the lead chorus position out from under me at the last recasting session, which, honey, let me tell you, put me on the rumor merry go round for three full days. Ever since then we’ve had a love-hate, Paula-and-Simon thing going on. So, even though I am sorry to see him sliding down the casino food chain, the fact that the lead chorus will have to be recast sends a tickle of joy rushing through me.

  “Five minutes everyone,” the stage manager calls, ducking his microphoned head into the dressing room. Which of course causes the room to buzz with “where’s-my-head-dress” and “have-you-seen-my-shoes” and “shit-I-ran-my-hose”.

  I quickly finish applying my bronzer and slip into my costume. Tux tails and thong. Nothin’ but class here, honey. I grab my top hat and give myself a once over in the mirror. Black hair slicked back, six pack abs toned and tucked, teeth a glittering white smile. Not bad for a skinny white boy from the desert.

  The red warning lights go on backstage and the bell rings. A sign that we have exactly one minute until curtain and if we want to keep our jobs we’d better get our fabulous selves up to the wings. A line of tux clad men scramble up the stairs that lead from our basement dressing rooms to the upper level stage. The girls run up the opposites stairs, twenty-pound, feathered headpieces and all.

  “Let’s go,” Jason says, taking my hand and dragging me away from my mirror as we file into line. Lucky for him, I was done. You do not drag a showboy away from his mirror.

  Slow pokes that we are, Jason finds himself directly behind Marc. He quickly shoves me in front of him as a buffer between them.

  The lights backstage go down, and we’re left in darkness as the MC of the show takes the stage. He struts out to the front welcoming in the audience. We have exactly two minutes and twenty-one seconds before our opening number. I can see the women across the stage in the wings adjusting each other’s feathers. I can hear Jason tugging at his thong behind me.

  Marc turns around and sees me.

  “Good luck,” he says, and even through the darkness I can see the pissy has been replaced with sadness. His last Vegas performance. Despite being giddier than a schoolboy that the lead chorus is up for grabs, I do feel a little sorry for the guy. I mean, his only fault is bad taste in men. Well, okay, most of us have the good sense not to screw the man that casts us, but I still feel sorry for him.

  “You too,” I say.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles. Man, he sounds low. I mean, really country-song sad.

  “I heard about Reno,” I say in a whisper.

  “Oh, hell. Has everyone heard?”

  “Jason’s having a field day.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Yeah,” I say, hoping Jason doesn’t hear us.

  Marc shuffles his feet, and I kid you not, he looks like he’s going to cry. If he runs that mascara right before curtain, he won’t even be playing Reno. He’ll be on the first Barry Manilow bus to Laughlin.

  “Hey, Julio and I are going out to this club opening tonight. You wanna go with us?” I say, having a more Paula than Simon moment.

  “Oh yeah, where?” he asks, though I can tell he doesn’t care. He looks like I just asked him to come with me to the Gay Prom, the way his eyes instantly light up. Okay, so Marc’s not my favorite person, but every boy deserves a shot of fun before he’s shipped off to blue-hair land.

  “The Back Room at the Bellisimo. We’re going right after the show.”

  “Sure, I’ll go.”

  I hear the swell of music rise over the tourist murmurs and Marc turns around in line, the lot of us looking like nudist penguins as we sashay our way onto the stage for Marc’s swan song.

  * * *

  The Bellisimo’s Back Room is packed. It’s a success of an opening if ever I saw one and, honey, let me tell you, I ha
ve seen a few. Julio leaves us to get drinks and Marc and I wiggle our behinds onto the dance floor. Marc is boogying like there’s no tomorrow, which for him there really isn’t. He’s gone all out tonight in a pair of tight leather pants and a silk Armani shirt, unbuttoned at the top. Though he’s still wearing that hangdog look.

  How awful that one man’s chance at the lead chorus has to be at the hands of another man’s painful trip to Reno. As I watch him dance, I feel the teeny tiniest prickle of guilt over feeling so excited at the chance to land lead. Bad. Bad, David.

  “Hey David,” I hear from across the dance floor. I turn around and see Ella hailing me, a Manhattan in one hand and a gorgeous woman in the other. She looks vaguely familiar.

  “Ella, honey, what are you doing here?” I ask, as she gyrates herself closer to us. I wouldn’t have guessed this was Ella’s scene. Maybe back when we’d danced together in Jubilee, but that was an eternity ago. Long before she deserted us all for the sacred bonds of marriage and suburbanitehood.

  “I came with Kit, but she’s ditched me. David, meet Moira Black.”

  “Hi,” the woman says, extending a hand toward me without taking her eyes off of Ella.

  “Hi.” I shake her limp grasp.

  “She’s a movie star,” Ella says, leaning in with a mock whisper. Her breath smells like whiskey and maraschino cherries.

  “Bully for her,” I whisper back.

  “Is Julio here?” Ella adores my boyfriend and vice versa. I don’t get it. Suburban housewife meets Latin lover. But, somehow they always find something to bend their heads together about.

  “Yeah, he’s getting us drinks. Our friend Marc is shipping out tomorrow.”