Mary laughs, snorting her martini.
“It would be like trying to convince them Siegfried and Roy are just good friends.”
Ella laughs too.
“Or Boy George is just artistic,” Mary adds.
“Or Ellen DeGeneres just can’t get a date.”
We’re all busting up now and it feels good. I haven’t laughed like this in days, maybe even weeks, now that I think about it. Ella’s laughing so hard her cheeks are turning red, and Mary’s making a snorting sound that she tries to cover in cocktail napkin. And I can’t seem to catch my breath I’m laughing so hard. And I wonder why on earth I didn’t just do this when The Troll showed up? I should have gone to my friends. I should have done this, gone out and laughed and talked about nothing and had fabulous drinks instead of moping around a hotel suite feeling sorry for myself.
And suddenly I want to tell them. I want to tell them about Vlad and his divorce and the kiss that shattered the world. I want to tell them how excited I am that he might finally be mine. That I’m this close to being his leading lady. That I know he wants me too. They couldn’t possibly disapprove. What could be better than wanting someone and knowing they want you back? Ella and Mary are my friends, they’d be happy for me.
“Ladies,” Emilio says, coming over to our table and setting down three more martinis. “Extra olives for you.” He gives me a wink as he sets a glass in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Any time.” Emilio flashes a bright white smile at us before moving his delicious rear back through the throng of bodies filling the club. All three of us tilt our heads to get a better look. No doubt about it, the man is hot.
Mary whistles low in her throat. “Yummy. You sure he’s gay?”
“He’s not gay,” Ella says. “Look at the way he’s flirting with Kit.”
“Was he flirting?” I ask coyly.
“He was so flirting with you,” Mary says, looking disappointed and slightly jealous.
“Kit, why don’t you ask him out?” Ella says.
“Emilio?”
“Yes. Why not?”
The oh-so-subtle nudging in her voice suddenly reminds me of my mother. The way she used to lecture me when she found crisp, white binder paper in my backpack instead of the murky brown recycled stuff she bought for me. Why would I want to want to pollute the earth’s already bulging landfills when I could use paper that looks like cardboard? Who cares if all the other kids do their homework on new paper, I should use recycled. Why? Because it’s the right thing to do.
Like dating Emilio would be the right thing to do. Why shouldn’t I date him? He’s cute, he’s got an ass to die for, and he’s single. Single. Unlike some people.
And just like that I remember why I can’t tell my friends about Vlad. They would never understand.
He’s my secret and mine alone. And while the idea of taking a secret lover should be tantalizing and exciting, instead I feel suddenly depressed again, and all I want to do is finish my martini and go back to my hotel room alone.
“Kit, he’s just your type,” Ella says again. Prod, prod, nudge, nudge, use recycled paper.
“Okay,” I concede, “maybe I will ask him out.”
Ella looks elated. Mary even looks a little excited, presumably at the prospect of living vicariously through me.
I sip my drink, watching Emilio pour a shot for a co-ed in a tube top. I should ask him out, I should get excited about the prospect of dating someone like him. But the more I look at him, all I can think about are those fantastic few seconds in Vlad’s arms this afternoon. And the possibility of even more. Would I have felt bad about sleeping with a married man? Absolutely. About sleeping with a man whose wife has just filed for divorce? That question will take a little more consideration.
“Okay, I’m liquored up. Let’s go dance,” Mary says, draining her glass. Ella takes my hand as Mary leads us into the midst of the dancing mob. I remind myself again that Ella really does mean well. She just wants what’s best for me. She’s a good friend and she doesn’t want to see me hurt.
So, as we wiggle our asses to the booming bass rhythm, do I have the heart to tell her I will never in a million years ask out Emilio the bartender?
No, I do not.
Chapter Twelve:
Ella, the Full House
Despite downing three martinis at the Back Room, I’m home early. Mary hates to stay out late, so even though the club crowd was just arriving, Mary called it quits after Emilio went on break. Then Kit ran into some guy named Evan who invited her up to the VIP suite. Personally I think she was just grateful she wouldn’t have to pretend to ask Emilio out for my benefit.
I danced for a while by myself, but I didn’t really see anyone I knew, and even my red Versace couldn’t make me feel like a glamour girl tonight. I just kept thinking about how Karen Richardson would be standing outside her house tomorrow morning waving to her husband as he drives away, her hair perfect, her makeup perfect, her robe perfect. It was the first night I lost Just Ella in the middle of a packed dance floor.
So I left early, too, taking a cab home by myself.
We pull up to 715 Yucca, and I hand the driver a twenty. My motion sensor lights flash on as I walk up to the front door, illuminating my little red purse as I search for my house key. You would think it’d be easy to find in the tiny bag that only has enough room to hold a tampon, a twenty, and a house key, but I think the martinis have made my hands a little slow. Finally my fingers curl around the cool metal, and I unlock the door, stepping into the dark foyer.
The house smells like the pot roast Juanita cooked for dinner. That and the scents of baby powder and Ajax all mixed together. I can hear the dishwasher humming contentedly, a sign that Juanita’s gone to bed.
Of course Brad’s in bed already. He never stays up past eleven. He watches the early news, has a glass of cabernet, then goes to sleep in the guestroom.
Only tonight he’s not in the guestroom.
The house is eerily quiet as I stand in the foyer. I know I should go upstairs and get into bed because I have a houseguest to entertain tomorrow, but my limbs feel like cement at the thought of climbing into the same bed as my husband. I don’t know why it should seem like such a big deal, we’ve slept together a million times. But it does.
I wonder if Brad was nervous at all as he climbed into bed.
Should I wear the flannel pajamas or the silk? Should I shave first? What will I say to her? Will I hold her? Touch her? Kiss her?
More likely he didn’t even care that he was sleeping in my bed tonight.
My bed? Our bed.
Again I marvel at how quickly things have taken on “mine” and “his” labels. I wonder if anything will ever be “ours” again.
I take a deep breath and force my feet to move, one painstaking step at a time. I feel ridiculous. It’s just my bedroom. It’s not like I’m going to the executioner’s.
I walk up the stairs and finally I’m at the door. My hands are ice cold as I turn the knob and walk in. It’s dark. The TV is off. I can see Brad’s form filling one side of the bed.
His side.
I can hear his heavy breathing, and I know he’s asleep already. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
In the dark I feel my way into the closet. I pull the dress over my head, kick my heels off and strip away my stockings. I reach for my flannel nightgown, but oddly enough, something stops me. I’m not sure why, but instead I search in the dark for the satin negligee Brad gave me on our first anniversary. It’s black with soft lace trim at the neckline. I find it beneath a pile of winter sweaters and slip the cool material over my head, its silkiness hitting me like a stream of water sliding over my body. I pad into the bathroom on bare feet and quickly wash my face, removing all traces of nightclub makeup lest it stain my white linen pillowcases.
My pillowcases. There it is again. Mine, his.
I dry my face, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wond
er why I put on the negligee. Brad is asleep and even if he were awake, I doubt he would notice. I doubt he would care. He probably doesn’t even remember buying me the negligee anyway.
I turn out the light and glide across the carpeted floor to my bed.
I pull the covers back, sliding silently beneath the sheets. I expect them to be cold, but they’re not. They’re warm. And they smell like Brad.
Suddenly I have butterflies in my stomach. I pull the covers over myself, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness again as I inhale the scent of Brad’s cologne still clinging to his skin. I can hear the steady rhythm of his breath and wonder for the millionth time why I’m wearing black satin to bed.
I roll over, trying to ignore the nostalgia that hits me. It’s the same bed we’ve shared, the same two people, the same room. And yet, nothing is the same between us anymore.
As I shift my weight beneath the down quilt, my leg brushes against Brad’s. I freeze, the touch of his skin searing into me like a hot poker. I think it’s the first time in six months our bare skin has touched. His is warm, and the hairs on his leg tickle. But it feels good.
Instinctively I roll toward him. His back is to me and my eyes are just adjusting to the dim light. I can see the fine hairs on his neck, the streak of premature silver at his temple. He shifts, and I realize he’s not wearing a shirt. Bittersweet familiarity hits me as the quilt slips down his shoulders and his bronzed skin shines in the moonlight. The shadows fall across his back, creating peaks and valleys of the muscles there.
My palms ache with the memory of how it felt to glide along this body, to follow each line of his back as his arms wrapped around me. I shift, letting the covers fall away. I’m suddenly much too hot.
Brad shifts, too. His breathing slows, softer and quieter now. He’s awake.
Without thinking, I move closer to him, my body seeking out the heat of his. My silky negligee slides along his back, my leg brushes his again, and I’m sure he can feel my breath coming out in quick gasps along his neck. And I long to hear him say those words.
God, I’ve missed you, Ella. You’ve never looked sexier in that negligee, and I need you right now, Ella. I need to feel you in my arms, to hold you, to make love to my wife again…
“Ella, be still, will you?” my husband says. “I have an early appointment tomorrow.”
Reality leaves a stinging shock as it slaps me across the face. Brad isn’t here because he wants to sleep with me. He’s here because I gave away his bed.
His bed. So, now he has to share mine. But there is no our bed anymore.
I roll over, pulling the quilt back over me, tucking it tightly up to my chin. Brad shifts again, his legs moving away from mine. Suddenly the bed seems huge and the space between us gapes open.
* * *
After tossing and turning and generally trying to make myself as small as I could on my side of the bed all night, it’s almost noon before I get up. Brad’s side of the bed is empty, and I can still smell the moisture and ivory soap from his shower lingering in the room. I try not to breathe it in. Instead I roll myself out of bed and strip off the black satin negligee, burying it back under the pile of wool sweaters deep in my closet where I won’t be tempted to make a fool of myself again. I slip on a pair of sweats and my robe before padding downstairs. I can hear Sylvia with the twins out in the yard and Julio and Juanita giggling together in Spanish from the kitchen. I’m almost to the kitchen door, dreaming of that first heavenly cup of coffee, maybe with a small shot of brandy in it this morning, when the doorbell rings. So, I backtrack and pull open the door, fully expecting to meet the FedEx man with some package of overpriced curtains from Brad’s mother.
Instead I’m met with Karen Richardson’s perfectly made-up face, a tiny frown imbedded between her waxed eyebrows as she takes in my bathrobe.
“Oh, Ellen. I’m so glad you’re okay,” she says.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. I don’t invite her in. Instead I watch her stand on the porch, shifting from one loafer clad foot to the other.
“Well, when you didn’t show up to the meeting this morning, we were all worried.”
Shit. The Homeowners Association meeting. I totally forgot. And I was supposed to bring the low-fat brownies, too.
“Jennifer said maybe you’d just forgotten. But I said that didn’t sound like Ellen, so I thought I’d come and check.”
I look into Karen’s face. And it strikes me. Her skin is perfect. I mean, not blotchy at all like it would be if she’d had a chemical peel that wasn’t healing right. And I know. I know for sure Karen is screwing my husband.
“Ella,” I say slowly.
“What?” Karen cocks her head to one side.
“My name is Ella. Not Ellen. E-L-L-A,” I spell out for her. “Ella.”
“Oh.” Karen clears her throat. “Well, in any case, there were some decisions to be made about the improvements to the common area, and we-”
“I don’t care.”
This stops Karen dead in her tracks, her blue eyes growing wide as she blinks at me.
What do you mean you don’t care, Ella? What’s wrong? Is it Brad? Do you want me to stop fucking him? Because I will if that’s what it takes to get you to come to the next meeting. We just couldn’t make a decision without your low fat brownies.
“You- I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Ellen.”
“Ella!” I yell. “My name is Ella. And I don’t care what you do with the common area. Plant cactus, cover it in tanbark, hell, put up a nudie bar. I don’t freaking care anymore. And I’d sooner jump off a bridge than drink your weak decaf again, so don’t expect me at the next meeting either, you home wrecking whore.” And I slam the door in her face.
My hands shake, adrenaline shooting through my belly, and I feel slightly dizzy. Did I just call the Homeowners Association President a whore?
I should be mortified. I should see my life as a suburban queen flashing before my eyes, all the PTA meetings I’ve yet to be shunned from, the only soccer mom not invited to the fundraising bake sale.
But I don’t. Instead, all I can see is the look of pure shock on Karen Richardson’s made-up face.
And I giggle.
Chapter Thirteen:
David, the Straight Flush
“Mary, thank God, you’re home,” I shout into my cell, itching at the cheap flannel shirt I put on this morning right before my parents’ Chevy pulled up.
“David, is that you?”
“Listen, honey, I’m at Circus Circus-”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“Don’t ask. Listen, honey, I need you to do me a huge, huge, huge favor.”
Mary groans on the other end.
“Please, honey, this is like, trés importante.”
“What is it?”
“The lead chorus audition is this afternoon, and my parents are in town. And there is no way I can leave them alone. Knowing my mother she’ll probably wander into the audition room just as I’m trying on my thong. I need you to distract them. Make sure they stay away from the audition.”
Mary groans again. “You want me to baby-sit your parents on my day off?”
“Puhlease, please, please,” I beg. I see Mom out of the corner of my eye pulling my dad into the casino gift shop. She’s already bought two Circus Circs sweatshirts and an I-heart-Vegas key chain.
“David…” she whines.
I can see I’m going to have to bring out the big guns. “What if I promise to set you up with one of the boys from the show? A real hottie. How about it, honey?”
Another groan.
“I swear, he’s to die for. Brad Pitt-o-licious. You’ll love him.”
“Is he straight?”
“As an arrow, honey. What do you say?”
She sighs into the receiver and I hold my breath. If she says “no” I'm sunk.
“Fine. I’ll do it,”
Thank you, Mary. You are an absolute doll. Meet me at Bally’s at
three, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll be there. But he better be cute, got it, David?”
“As a button, honey.”
I hang up. Good, I’ve got Mom and Dad a babysitter. Cross one unpleasant task off my list. On to the next task, keeping my parents far away from anyone who knows me.
I manage to rescue Dad from the gift shop, and we somehow wrestle Mom away with only a Vegas snow globe, featuring a puddle of water that says, “Vegas snow,” underneath, and a handful of postcards with pictures of the Hoover Dam.
“Davey, I’ve got fresh rolled nickels just itchin’ to jump into one o’ these slot machines,” Mom says, jiggling her gargantuan purse. “Thelma Miller won a hundred bucks last time she an’ Bobby Tom were here. Paid for their whole weekend.”
I shudder to think where the Bobby Tom Millers stayed that a hundred would cover a whole weekend. However, the nickel slots sound like a fine idea to me. No one I know would be caught dead there.
Mom’s eyes light up as she spies a brightly lit bank of slots between the Wheel of Fortune games and video poker machines. Mom pulls out a roll of nickels, bound by a paper wrapper, and starts feeding a go-fish game where the object is to catch a gold coin on a fishing string. She’s enamored with it. Dad settles into a video poker machine down at the end of the row.
“You wanna play, baby?” Mom asks, handing me a roll of nickels.
“No thanks, I’ll just watch.”
“But they’re like video games, an’ I know how you love those.”
I avoiding pointing out the last video game I played was Wrestle Mania about a hundred years ago on my super NES and that was only because I thought Hulk Hogan had a nice butt. Instead, I humor her, being a good little boy, and take the nickels.
Two hours later, I’m down $5 and Mom’s eyes are bugging out from staring at the little blue screen filled with fish. But Ma refuses to give, telling me instead about Leanne Jackson two doors down from her who played the slots for fourteen hours straight and won enough to buy a brand new dishwasher from Sears. Ma’s convinced the fishes are going to net her a new washing machine.
What Happens in Vegas Page 12
