What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

“You would cheat on me with a woman who has a third nipple?” My voice gets all high and squeaky.

  “Jesus, Ella. I’m not cheating on you with Karen Richardson.” Brad is out of bed now, his voice rising until I see lights in the windows across the street turn on. It’s only a matter of time before someone calls the neighborhood committee for noise pollution.

  “Fine. If it’s not Karen then who is she?”

  “She? What ‘she?’” He’s standing in front of me, so close I can smell his cologne. He’s not wearing a shirt, only his sweatpants. And despite how pissed I am at him, despite how angry and upset, I can’t help the physical response churning in my stomach at the sight of him. A memory of a time when I would have thrown myself into those strong arms hits me, and I suddenly want to cry.

  “She. The reason you want to sleep in the guestroom instead of with me.”

  Brad shakes his head, planting his hands on his hips. “Oh this is rich, this is really fucking rich. You’re accusing me of cheating after moving your goddamned boyfriend in here?”

  I freeze. “Boyfriend?”

  “You heard me. Julio. Your boyfriend. And don’t think I don’t know what’s been going on between you two. I just can’t believe that after all the nights you’ve stay out late and come home smelling like that guy’s cheap aftershave, you have the nerve to accuse me of cheating.”

  I blink. Twice. Three times. “You think I’m sleeping with Julio?”

  Brad’s jaw tenses. “At least do me the courtesy of not denying it, Ella. I think you owe our marriage that much.”

  His green eyes stare down at me. And for the first time I could swear the emotion is plain as day in them. Hurt.

  I take a tentative step closer. “Brad, Julio isn’t my boyfriend. He’s gay.”

  Brad narrows his eyes, not sure he believes me.

  “He and David are both gay. They live together. They’re lovers. I swear to you, Brad, Julio is just a friend.”

  Brad crosses his arms over his chest. He looks out the window at the sleepy neighborhood, where lights have turned on in Karen Richardson’s house in response to our shouts.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Brad lets out a deep breath. “Well, shit.”

  “Brad, do you really think I would cheat on you?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, Ella. What was I supposed to think? I mean, you’re never here anymore. It’s like the second I come home from work you’re racing out the door dressed in… well…” He trails off, gesturing to my va-va-voom dress. “You used to wear this kind of thing for me,” he says, his voice tight and low. He reaches out a hand and strokes the silky material at my hip, his fingers lingering there.

  “Do you like it?” The words catch in my throat even as I try to get it out.

  “Yeah. Yeah I do.” With what seems like difficulty, he forces his eyes back up to mine.

  “El, you know there’s never been anyone but you, right?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t get the chance. Brad’s arms are suddenly pulling me to him, his mouth covering mine. His warmth hits me, and I can’t help but sink into it. Like I used to. And I realize just how much I’ve missed him. I feel tears in the back of my throa,t and I wrap my arms around him, holding on for dear life.

  We stand like that for a long time. Holding each other, kissing each other. How long, I don’t know before he rocks me back to the bed and we both sit down.

  I stare at my hands, not sure what to say now. If this were the movies, it would have flashed “the end” and we’d all assume Ella and her husband live happily ever after now. But it’s not. And I’m not sure what my next line is.

  “So,” I say.

  “So.”

  “So… third nipple, huh?”

  Brad smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah.”

  “Guess she’s not so perfect after all.”

  “I guess not.”

  But that isn’t really what I wanted to say. I take a deep breath.

  “Brad, do you still love me?” I almost want to cover my ears, so I don’t have to hear the answer. Because even as I ask it, I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t. And that’s the real reason I’ve settled into the role of shadow lurking in the house I once occupied. Because it was easier than hearing the ugly truth. I grit my teeth against the answer as Brad looks down at his hands, fiddling with the drawstring of his sweatpants as if he doesn’t want to say it any more than I want to hear it.

  “I thought you were leaving me, Ella,” he finally says. “After the twins were born it was like you couldn’t wait to get away from here. Poker with the girls, and then out dancing with this Julio guy until all hours. I knew how lucky I was to have you when we got married, that every guy who saw you on stage wanted you. I mean, I’m just a dermatologist who drives a fucking E class, how the hell was I supposed to hold onto a women like you?” His eyes lift up to meet mine. “I know can’t compete with these movie stars and dancers and CEO’s you meet at all these clubs. But I couldn’t just stand by and watch you slip away. I couldn’t stand hearing you come home at three in the morning, smelling like cigarettes and other men. I guess it was just easier to stay in the guestroom. Easier to lose myself in work and pretend I didn’t care than face the truth that I was losing you. El, it was breaking my heart to watch you pull away from me.”

  My mouth opens in shock, and I don’t know what to say. Brad’s eyes meet mine. Pleading. Begging me to prove him wrong with the same desperate hope against hope I felt just minutes ago. I guess his eyes aren’t really that hard to read at all. Could it be I just haven’t been looking? That somehow I’ve been so afraid of what I’d find there that I haven’t wanted to know what thoughts run behind those green eyes?

  “I, I, wasn’t pulling away from you,” I finally stammer. “I was just trying to find myself again.” And even as I say it, I realize how ridiculous that sounds. I was right here all a long. All I had to do was look in Brad’s eyes, and I would have seen myself reflected there. I am not a red Versace and a martini anymore than I am a Laura Ashley living room set. Wife. Mother. Topless dancer. Who fucking cares what title sits in front of my name? As long as the people who care the most know me.

  Like my husband.

  I reach out a tentative hand and touch Brad’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I know those two simple words can’t erase all the damage we’ve done to each other. But it’s a start.

  He looks up, his green eyes thick with emotion.

  I’m sorry, too. Let’s not fight anymore, not suspect and avoid each other anymore, stop living like strangers. I love you, Ella.

  And then he really does say it. “I love you, Ella.”

  Brad wraps his arms around me and we fall back onto the bed together. We lay side by side, as he flips off the light. His arms snake around my middle, holding me close to him. I feel his heart beating against mine. I close my eyes, sinking into the familiarity, the excitement, the comfort. My husband.

  And we fall asleep.

  * * *

  The phone rings, pulling me out of the deepest sleep I’ve had in months. I roll over, looking at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock. 4:30 a.m. I rub my eyes open with one hand as I grip for the cordless.

  “Campbell residence,” I croak.

  “Ella, it’s Julio,” I hear. He sounds far away, like he’s on a pay phone.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  I feel Brad stir beside me. “Who is it?” he asks.

  “Julio,” I mouth.

  “El, something has happened,” Julio says through the phone. His voice is soft, like he’s been crying.

  “Where are you?” I ask, even as I throw back the sheets and grope in the darkness for my clothes.

  And even before he says the rest, I feel a hollow pit open up in my stomach, his words coming slowly across the static filled connection. “I’m at Lake Mead Hospital. Come quickly. It’s David.”

  Chapter Twenty-three:

&n
bsp; David, the Straight Flush

  The room is completely dark, and all I can hear is a steady beeping pulse from far away. It sounds like the alarm on my clock radio. I try to move my hand to shut it off, but I think it’s been cased in cement. “Shut that thing off,” I want to yell. But somehow the act of opening my mouth has become impossibly hard. Instead, I try to think why the alarm is going off and what I might be late for. Work? Auditions? My mother’s apple brown betty? My brain is fuzzy, almost like I’ve been drugged. In fact, just breathing is a labor in itself. It feels like there’s a sumo wrestler sitting on my chest. I turn my head to the side. Bad idea. The movement sends a blinding shot of pain pinging between my ears.

  “Try not to move,” a voice says. It’s soft and deep, and I recognize it immediately. Julio.

  Quickly it all comes rushing back to me like a bad movie of the week. My parents. The fight. The pick-up men. I think one of them hit me on the head. That would explain the stabbing pain. I try to close my eyes and make it all go away, but I realize they’re already closed. No wonder the room is so dark.

  It takes effort, but I finally manage to pry them open to half-mast, revealing an alarmingly bright room. It’s shaking, as if the picture’s out of focu,s and I look quickly around myself, trying to figure out where I am. The room is white, blindingly white, and smells like rubbing alcohol. The hum of machinery accompanies the beeping, and I realize it’s not an alarm clock, but a heart monitor. Mine. I think I let out a squeak of alarm.

  “Shhh, it’s okay, David. I’m here.”

  Despite the pain spreading across my brain, I turn toward the voice and realize he is, in fact, there. Julio. He’s holding my hand and watching me with a tenderness that suddenly has my eyes watering. His face is pale, and his eyes look heavy, but it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. I wonder how long he’s been here. For that matter, how long have I been here, and where the hell is here?

  “Where am I?” I say.

  “You’re in the hospital. You’ve got a couple broken bones and a concussion, but the doctor says you’re going to be fine.”

  That would explain the pain in my head. I blink my eyes again, trying to clear the cobwebs.

  “How-?” I start, but Julio cuts me off.

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about that now. You’re going to be fine,” he reassures me again.

  A nurse comes into the room wearing those thick white shoes and scrubs with kittens all over them. She and Julio exchange a few words in low tones. She checks over the monitors beside my bed, noting the steady beep, beep, beep and scribbles on her clipboard.

  I use the moment to take a mental stock of my person. Gingerly I wiggle my fingers and toes. All ten in working order. Though there’s the largest, ugliest cast I have ever seen extending from my right elbow to my fingers. Damn. The Jubilee producers aren’t going to be happy about that one bit. A boy can’t dance in a cast. Everything else seems to move okay, though there’s about a mile of white tape wrapped around my ribs. Which would explain the sumo wrestler feeling. I glance down, trying to get a better look, and notice for the first time I’m in one of those hideous, back-opening hospital gowns.

  “What the hell am I wearing?” I ask.

  Julio’s face breaks into a smile as the nurse walks away.

  “Sorry, David, everyone gets one.”

  “You’re not wearing one,” I retort. He’s still in the clothes he had on at Kit’s show. They look a little rumpled and worse for the wear, but they’re a hell of a lot better than a than a backless hospital gown.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, taking my hand again.

  “Thanks.” And I hope he realizes I don’t just mean about the gown. I mean everything. For sitting here with me, for holding my hand, and, most of all, for coming back.

  I think he knows, his chocolate brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at me.

  The door to the right of me flies open and the girls spill into the room.

  “Oh my God, you scared us half to death, you little shit,” Kit yells, clomping across the linoleum in three-inch stilettos.

  Only as I look past Kit, the stilettos fade into the background when I get an eyeful of Mary’s outfit. She’s in a powder pink T-shirt sporting Paris Hilton’s signature, “That’s Hot” across the front, purple green and white plaid boxer shorts, pink Ugg boots and, this is the kicker, a long, white trench coat.

  Julio leans down and whispers in my ear. “At least you’re not wearing that.”

  I stifle a giggle, not wanting to find out how the sumo wrestler reacts to laughing.

  “Oh, sweetie, are you okay?” Ella asks, laying a hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever. Mother’s instinct I guess.

  “What happened?” Mary demands, grasping my other hand and sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “What happened to you, girl?” I counter.

  She looks down. “What? I was asleep when Ella called.”

  “Oh honey, even the Sandman deserves a better outfit than this.”

  “Yes, he’s okay,” says Kit sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

  Mary sticks her tongue out at Kit.

  Kit drags a chair over sits beside me. Ella takes a position behind Julio. They’re all looking at me as if I’m about to die. I can’t remember when I’ve had this much sympathetic attention in my life. And I’d be enjoying my fifteen minutes if my head wasn’t still banging like a headboard in a cheap motel.

  “The doctor says he has a concussion,” Julio says. “And a couple broken ribs. They’re going keep him here overnight just to make sure, but he should be fine.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Mary says. “So, do you remember anything?”

  “I got in a fight.”

  “Looks like you lost,” Kit says. Miss smart ass. But even though her tone is flippant, I can see the bright white pallor of her skin beneath her makeup. Awe, the Ice Queen cares.

  “Do you know who did this?” Ella asks.

  Through the fog wrapping my head, I try to think how to answer that question. I’d be lying if I said I got a great look at the guys’ faces. It all happened so fast, and I was too upset about Julio leaving to notice much else around me. To be honest, I’m not even sure how many guys there were. Two? Three? More than one, but beyond that I don’t really know. I remember parts of what happened, but it’s all jumbled up and out of sequence.

  But the sad thing is I probably do know who did this. The description fits every kid I grew up with. The guys who went dirt bike racing on the weekends, skeet shooting after school, and played football like it was their one chance to be somebody in life. Off the top of my head, I could tell you the names of fifteen guys who could fit the exact description of my attackers. Including my childhood best friend, my first crush, and even my brother.

  The irony is, until I came to Vegas, even I could have fit the description.

  Luckily I don’t have to try to explain this to my friends, as Julio answers for me.

  “Some assholes, that’s who. Just give me five minutes alone with those pajúos…” and Julio trails off, detailing in Spanish just what revenge he’d like to seek. From the way that vein is pulsating in his neck, I’m sure it’s not giving them a slap on the wrist and a fierce finger wagging.

  In one way, it’s comforting to know there’s someone who’s so vehemently on my side. In another, I cringe, wondering just how I’m going to tell him that I used to be one of those guys.

  Because it’s become clear I have to.

  Maybe being hit on the head knocked some sense into me, but as I lie here, surrounded by my friends, I realize he was right. Everything he said to me as we stood in that alley was right. I haven’t been myself this past week. I’ve been playing a role I thought I had to play for my parents’ benefit.

  But what Julio doesn’t realize is that I haven’t been myself with him either. I’ve been who he expected me to be. I’ve been careful to eradicate all traces of “hick” from my speech, given
up dirt bike racing completely, and most painful of all, I now realize, I’ve cut my parents almost completely out of my life.

  Something I’ve sorely missed. Sure, Mom’s coupon crazy and Dad’s got more varieties of grunt than a wild hog. But they’re my parents. And I love them. And I can’t hide that side of me from Julio any more than I can hide Julio from my Dad. I can’t, and what’s more, I just don’t want to anymore.

  “Well, we’ll let you get some rest,” Mary says, and I’m vaguely aware that there’s been conversation going on around me. I notice an IV stand beside my bed. I blame the drugs on my lack of awareness.

  “I’ll be back later.” Ella tucks the hospital issue sheets up to my armpits and kisses me on the forehead.

  “Don’t miss the bedpan,” Kit tells me with a wink as Ella drags her out of the room.

  After they leave, Julio sighs, letting go of my hand and sits back in his chair. “You look tired,” he says. “You should get some rest.”

  “I will,” I whisper. But I can’t let him go just yet.

  Despite the fact that he’s here instead of packing his belongings, there’s still an air of unresolve hanging between us.

  I just hope he can understand. I rode dirt bikes and fished and hunted and never felt like I really fit in, because I wanted to be dancing to Abba and wearing penny loafers with no socks. And then I go out to clubs in my Versace and ogle the bartenders, but I don’t really fit in there either. Always afraid I might slip up and say “y’all” and my high desert past will be revealed. It’s almost like I’ve never been me. And I can’t go on like this anymore. More than anything I want Julio to know who I am.

  “Julio?”

  “Yeah, David.”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  His dark eyebrows knit together and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “It can wait.”

  “No, I…”

  “David, it’s okay,” he says as he leans forward and takes my hand again. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. It’s going to be okay.”

  I search his chocolate brown eyes, filled with more emotion. Will he understand? Will he accept the hick as well as the showboy?