“Okay. I’ll ask Juanita to get the guestroom ready.”
I hear Julio coming out of the bedroom behind me.
“Hey, El, I gotta go. Thanks a ton, honey,”
“No problem.”
I hang up the phone as Julio walks out of the bedroom, making a bee-line for the front door.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
Then almost regret it as he turns around with exaggerated slowness, his eyes flashing that Latin fire at me.
“I am going for breakfast,” he says in clipped English. “Alone.”
He walks out, slamming the door after himself so hard that the framed photo of Julio and me on Lake Mead last summer falls to the floor and shatters with a sickening crash.
Chapter Eight:
Kit, the Ace of Clubs
I hate hangovers.
Hangovers make your head pound like the bass in a rapper’s supped up Hummer, make the dull glow of your digital alarm clock numbers glare like a spotlight, and produce a feeling of wishing you’d stepped in front of a bus the night before because at least then your death would have been swift and painless as opposed to the torture you’re now going through. Dark bags under your eyes. Raunchy gym-socks-in-your-mouth breath. Puffy chipmunk-like features. All gifts from the hangover goddess.
And all of which I am sadly experiencing again this morning. Or afternoon. Whatever.
Maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad if the hangover were a result of wild partying or debauchery. Maybe if I had some crazy memories of dancing on tabletops or hickies from officers on leave. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so horrible about the hangover. But I don’t. Instead my current state is due to an all night pity party for one, during which I drained the entire contents of my mini bar one pathetic little bottle after another.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, hoping that if I just stand still long enough, the world will stop spinning, and I won’t actually have to say good-bye to my breakfast like my stomach is now threatening. This is so not good. This is so not me.
This is so The Troll’s fault.
I’ve been holed up in my suite all weekend, avoiding Vlad like the plague and venturing out only to replenish my stock of chocolates and vodka, carefully avoiding all human contact. Which actually isn’t all that hard, as Vlad has canceled practice like three times. Fine by me. At least I can avoid seeing the Troll Wife make kissy faces at him with her pouty little lips. And even though I know firsthand just how untroll-like she is, I can’t help calling her that still. I imagine she has a horrible patch of hair on her back. Or maybe huge, ugly bunions on her feet. I know she doesn’t, but I can wish. I hate her. I hate The Troll.
I take a deep breath. The room has stopped spinning, and my breakfast seems relatively secure in my belly for the moment. I splash some cold water on my face and shuffle over to the sofa where I throw myself down in front of the television. Daytime TV, take me away.
I feel around the cushions and come up with a remote and a half eaten bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano’s. That works. Gingerly munching, I flip on Rikki Lake and settle in for another day of mind numbing paternity results and sexy make-overs.
Maybe if I got a sexy make-over I could lure Vlad away from his troll. Maybe skintight leather pants are all it would take and Vlad would realize he’s secretly been in love with me this whole time. That he can’t stand The Troll’s horrible bunions any longer. He’ll fling her aside and we’ll live happily ever after in his penthouse suite atop the twinkling lights of Vegas like magician royalty.
God, I’ve officially become pathetic, haven’t I?
The phone rings beside the sofa, and I abandon my make-overs momentarily to answer it.
“Hello?” I cringe, the act of speaking jarring my poor alcohol soaked brain into a dull throb.
“Hi, Kit. It’s Ella. Did you just get up?” Her voice seems about fifteen million decibels too loud and way too morning-person.
“Yes,” I croak.
“Kit, it’s four in the afternoon.”
“Thank you for the update, Miss Timekeeper. And your point is?”
I hear her sigh, and I swear I can feel her nose-crinkling even through the receiver.
“Listen, David’s parents are coming into town and he asked me to see if you had a couple extra tickets for next Saturday’s show?”
“Okay. How many?” I ask, hoping Ella doesn’t pick up my grungy vibe. If she lectures me right now I’ll have to hang up on her. And then I’d have to call back and apologize, and I hate apologizing. Especially this early in the morning. Or afternoon. Whatever.
“Just three. Thanks, Kit. I’ll come by after the show tonight and pick them up.”
“Fine.”
“Speaking of which…”
“Yeah?”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready soon? I mean, the show starts in-”
I hang up before Ella can finish. Great. Another good reason to stay locked in my cozy cave. Facing Little Miss Sunshine later. I really don’t think I can do nose scrunching tonight. I may end up strangling her. Then I’d really have something to apologize for.
Rikki signs off having made over one soccer mom, a topless dancer, and two rebellious teens. I watch a commercial for fabric softener then Montel comes on. I vow to get ready after Montel. If I take a quick shower, I’ll still have half an hour to psyche myself up before I have to face Vlad again at the first show. Luckily I spend most of it behind a big black curtain or stuffed into a tiny box, but it’ll still be a challenge being that close to him knowing The Troll has dibs. God, I hate her.
As Montel brings his psychic out to contact some lady’s Aunt Ruth from the other side, I have the incredible urge to call in and ask just what afterlife befalls those who break up their bosses’ marriages.
* * *
The smoke billows. Vlad points at me. I step out of the box. The crowd cheers. I step down the platform. Blah, blah, blah. The curtain falls.
I have never done a show so by rote before. I’ve been on autopilot ever since I left my suite this afternoon, my body responding to all the familiar cues while my mind is busy obsessing over whether or not she is there tonight. Is she watching? Is she jealous? Does she hate me as much as I hate her?
When Montel ended his séance with Aunt Ruth, I showered, changed, and rode the two separate elevators down to my basement dressing room, all the while chanting, “You can do this, Kit, you can do this.” But I never was very good at self-delusion. The second I stepped into my dressing room, that’s where I froze. Wardrobe had my costume cleaned and my shoes neatly lined up by the full length mirror on the back wall and even my jeans had been hung up on the metal rack by the door. But damn if they couldn’t clean out the smell of exotic aftershave and expensive vodka. The place smelled like Vlad. And just like that I realized he wouldn’t be visiting me in my dressing room tonight after the show. Probably not ever again, if The Troll has anything to say about it.
Somehow, I have no idea how, I made it through the show. But if there had been a talent agent in the audience tonight, he would have been seriously questioning my IT factor. I was so not IT tonight. Which really pisses me off, because I’m sure she was watching and, of all people, I wanted her to know I’m IT.
Petey rushes out from the wings, ushering Vlad back to his dressing room. I quickly pick my way through the show’s aftermath, lest I encounter her. Obsessing about her in the safety of my suite is one thing, but I don’t think I can actually face her. At least, not without clawing her eyes out.
I quickly duck into my dressing room, kick off my shoes and yank off my costume. I grab my jeans and a tank top and the first pair of shoes I can find. I know my makeup is still on, and I probably look like a cross dressing hooker in my bright blonde wig, but I don’t care. I need to get out of here.
I turn off the lights and scamper down the hallway. Yes, I know scamper is a word usually reserved for chipmunks and woodland creatures, but I swear that’s exactly what I do, my heels making little pi
tter patter sounds on the cement corridor as I haul ass to the elevators. Luckily Vlad’s dressing room door is closed, and I don’t hear any sounds coming out of it. I don’t know what I’d do if I heard her cooing to him though the heavy door. Maybe tear it off its hinges and strangle her till her pouty little lips turn blue. Hmm. That’s not a bad idea. I file it away for later.
I make my way to the elevators and fairly collapse against the wall as the doors slide shut. Two short minutes later I am in the lobby of The Grand. I pass by the lounge as I focus on my goal – the west bank of elevators that lead to my suite. My sanctuary. My troll free zone.
When I remember I promised to meet Ella with the tickets.
Shit.
I take a quick look around the lobby but don’t see any sign of her blonde bob. Ironic considering she’s always riding me for being late. Fine. Whatever. I’ll go wait for her in the lounge. At least I can get a nice stiff drink there before fleeing to my suite.
I move through the palm tree border between the lobby and the lounge and enter the dimly lit area that perpetually feels like a cross between happy hour and last call. I pass two early Elvises and a six foot three Diana Ross with an adam’s apple on my way to the teakwood bar. I’m just about to plop myself down on a vinyl stool, when I hear someone call my name.
“Kit? Kit, come join us.”
Even without turning around I know his voice. It’s Vlad.
Option number one - pretend I didn’t hear him, turn around and run my chicken hearted butt back up to my suite.
Option number two - march my fabulous self over there and have a drink with Vlad and her. Pretending I don’t give a shit how pretty she is or how faithfully married Vlad remains because I am just too damn fabulous to bother with such Euro trash.
I take a deep breath, adjust my tank top, and saunter over to their booth in the back like I own the place. Hoping like hell I’m a good enough actress to pull off fabulous and aloof.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say. Vlad looks up, his eyes giving me a slow sweep. God, he looks good tonight. He’s wearing a soft silk shirt and black slacks that fit his body like they were made for him. And knowing Vlad, they probably were.
He would look perfect except for the pouty little accessory on his arm. The Troll has a slim champagne flute in her hand and a sulky expression on her face.
On Maria’s right is man I don’t recognize. Probably some horrible Latvian friend.
“Vlad, that was a great performance tonight,” I say gushing like one of his groupies. Vlad looks pleased. Maria, not so much. Her eyes narrow like a cat’s. Careful honey, that’s the way to get wrinkles.
“Yes. We did well tonight.”
“Hey, you were in the show too,” Maria’s companion says. I’m surprised to hear not a Russian accent, but a southern drawl from him.
“Yes, I’m the Ice Queen.” I look pointedly at Maria. She narrows her eyes again. Not a pretty look on her. Makes her cheekbones stick out too much.
“Well, heck, join us.” The man scoots over in the booth. Maria looks as if she’s about to protest, but I sit down quickly before she has a chance to. Ha! One point for the beautiful assistant.
The man hands me a champagne glass of my own. “So,” he says, “introduce us, Vlad.”
“Evan, this is my assistant, Kit,” Vlad says, signaling the waiter to bring another bottle. I see they’ve already emptied two. Either there’s some big time celebrating going on or The Troll is driving him to drink. I choose to believe the later.
“Hiya, Kit. Nice to meet you.” He extends his hand. “I’m Evan.”
“Evan?” I ask, wracking my brain for an Evan file.
“Evan Wilder,” Maria says, through her pout. “The movie director.”
Oh… Oh! That Evan. As in on the cover of Entertainment Weekly three times last year, Evan. Suddenly I’m very glad I didn’t turn tail and run back up to my suite.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, as he continues to pump my hand.
He gives me a wide grin, showing off two rows of big white teeth. “The pleasure is mine, darlin’. That’s some show y’all put on.”
“Well, it’s Vlad’s show really.” I send a sugary look his way. He winks at me. Maria pretend not to notice, having found a fascinating piece of lint on her dress
“Don’t be so modest,” Evan responds. “You’re the one running around appearing out of nowhere. Hell, I think you did more work than Vlad, here.”
I have to say, I like this guy. “Thanks.”
“You know, I have this friend over at Fox who’s doing an exposé on magicians. Sort of a magic’s secrets revealed thing. You know, where they tell how all that tricky stuff is done.”
“Ah,” Vlad says, waving his hands in the air, “it will never air. No magician would ever give away his secrets.”
“That’s what I told him, but the man’s determined. I don’t know, he may convince someone yet. Money talks, if you know what I mean.” Evan punctuates this with an exaggerated wink.
“So, how do you two know each other?” I ask.
Vlad looks to Maria but she’s busy glaring at me.
“Evan is Maria’s acquaintance,” he says. “She modeled for him in a commercial a few years ago.”
Figures. She is a fucking supermodel.
But instead I say, “How nice that Evan hasn’t forgotten his old friends.” Maria’s head snaps up. Honestly, she can’t be much past thirty, but in supermodel years that’s like ancient.
Point number two for the assistant.
Going for a record third point, I lean over the table so that my boobs are practically spilling out of my tank. “So, Vlad, I’ve really missed our practices this week.”
His eyes immediately narrow in on my chest like moths to a flame. He licks his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Uh, yes, well, it was unavoidable,” he says looking slightly uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as Maria. She sits back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. Very flat, I notice. Awe, poor supermodel, no boobs?
“I hope you won’t disappoint me this week?” I lean further over.
“No, of course not,” he responds. Giving my boobs a good healthy stare.
Apparently Maria knows my D cups have her beat, as she pulls out her trump card. She turns to Vlad, giving him that little Russian girl pout again. “I’m tired. Take me to bed.”
God, I hate her.
Vlad looks longingly at my low cut shirt, but nods. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse us. Maria is still not used to the time change.”
“Oh, of course. You mustn’t miss any more of that beauty sleep,” I say, as she slides out of the booth. She pretends to ignore me, but I see her spine straighten and her shoulders clench up as she shrugs her purse onto her arm.
“Good seeing y’all again,” Evan says.
“Nice to see you too, Evan. ‘Night Kit.” Vlad nods at me before Maria quickly grabs his hand, leading him through the maze of tables and out into the light of the casino lobby.
I watch, trying to squelch the overwhelming urge to run after them, drag Maria away from him by her long, black hair, and scratch her eyeballs out. How is it fair she gets him, and all I get is a hangover?
“So,” Evan says, pulling me back to reality, “I guess it’s just you and me, kid.”
I pry my eyes off Vlad and Maria’s retreating backs and try to remember I’m sitting here with a multi-million dollar director.
“It certainly is, Evan.”
“You know, you really remind me of someone,” he says.
“It’s the blonde wig. It’s from the Marilyn collection,” I say, only half listening. Still busy trying not to care that The Troll will be sleeping in Vlad’s bed tonight, and I’ll be going home alone.
“No, that’s not it.” Evan takes a sip from his drink, scrutinizing me. “I’ve got it! There’s this TV who works the Hollywood and Vine corner. You’re the spittin’ image in that get-up.”
“TV?” I ask.
&
nbsp; “Transvestite. Boy, you two could be sisters.”
That’s it, my life is officially in the toilet.
Chapter Nine:
Ella, the Full House
I think my husband is having an affair. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before, but the truth has suddenly become plain as day.
Last night after picking up David’s tickets from Kit, I couldn’t quite face going home to my big empty bed, so I had a martini in The Grand’s lounge. Which turned into three, which then turned into a Tom Collins and a peach daiquiri when a group of happy Canadian bridesmaids wandered in and began buying rounds for everyone. By the time my cab finally pulled up to Yucca Drive the sun was already rising again.
I let myself into the house and stripped out of my slinky dress and heels, trading them in for faded sweats as I heard the boys waking up. I carried Benny and Timmy downstairs and strapped them into their high chairs. I gave them each a handful of Cheerios to lob at each other, hoping maybe a few would make it into their mouths, but knowing, like usual, most would end up on Juanita’s clean floor.
I put two pieces of whole grain bread in the toaster and sipped my coffee while I waited for them to pop, mentally going through the routine I would do at the gym later that day. Juanita sailed through the kitchen, an armload of dirty clothes clutched to her chest as she passed to the laundry room. I watched her bustling about, humming some Spanish melody to herself. It was all so comforting and domestic.
Until my eyes rested on the key rack by the back door. Hanging on the hook were the keys to my burgundy SUV. But not the Mercedes keys.
Ella, where the hell are my keys? I’m late for work, and I don’t have time for this bullshit. Where the hell did you put them this time?
Brad was really going to be pissed if I didn’t find his keys.
“Juanita,” I called. But she didn’t hear me. She’d started the washing machine, and the sounds of running water and Tide being measured drowned out my calls.
What Happens in Vegas Page 8
