Then freeze.
It’s not Vlad.
All sorts of confusion whirls around in my brain as Moira Black walks out of the suite, her perky implants getting to the elevator two seconds before she does. She turns around, blowing a kiss toward the door. I follow her gaze to find Vlad standing in the doorway in his bare feet and silk robe.
“I can’t wait to see you again,” Moira says. Only her tone of voice says, “I can’t wait to fuck you.”
My mouth goes dry as I hear his reply.
“Me too, pet.”
Pet.
I stand rooted to the spot as Moira gets into the elevators, and the steel doors slide closed behind her. Vlad disappears back into his suite, and I’m left alone in the corridor with my broken heel.
I gulp in deep breaths of air, trying to process what just happened. Okay, maybe Moira and Vlad are just friends. He said she’s a fan, right? Great, so maybe he was just autographing something for her.
Right. In his robe.
My grasp on the broken heel tightens like a vice grip. Shit, shit, shit. He called her pet. Pet! He calls me pet. That’s my name. That’s my term of endearment from my boyfriend.
I clench my teeth together as the image of Moira getting into the elevator fills my vision. And all excuses Vlad could possibly have for her being in his penthouse disappear as realization hits me.
Her shirt was on backwards.
How stupid am I? I mean, you would think that after the brush off The Morning After I would get the point. But no, here I am standing in his foyer, holding a broken heel, watching the man I’m supposed to be in love with send off the sluttiest woman to ever grace the tabloid pages ten minutes before our date. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m supposed to be the one leaving his suite with my clothes half on. I’m the fucking leading lady!
I take a deep breath, expecting tears to start racing down my cheeks. But to my surprise, they don’t I’m ready to deal with the grief of being cheated on, of being lied to, of being led on and, like a fool, believing it all. But I don’t feel that. Instead, all I feel washing over me as I stand there behind the potted palm is anger. Pure, searing, blinding anger that any one man can be such an incredible ass.
I stomp over to Vlad’s door, one leg three inches shorter than the other, and for a moment contemplate banging down the door and confronting him. But what good would that do? I could accuse him of being a liar, a cheater. But I already know this. Hell, he cheated on his wife with me. His infidelity is no big news to either of us. At least it shouldn’t be.
No, confrontation is too good for Vlad the Maggot. Instead, I hit the elevator button, seething and cursing as I wait for the carriage to arrive. It does and I ride it down to the twelfth floor, clomping down the hall to my suite, a rage building inside me like I’ve never known before. Even when Maria showed her flawlessly Troll-ish face here, even when Ella pointed out every false move I’ve made in this so-called relationship, and even when Petey shot pity at me from across the room I have never felt this angry.
I jam the keycard into my door and slam it open on its hinges. It falls closed behind me with a dull thud as I stomp into the kitchenette. I open the first cupboard I see and grab one of the white china plates Vlad has stocked the shelves with. I raise it above my head and bring it down as hard as I can against the tiled floor, a satisfying crash shattering it into dozens of pieces. Only one plate doesn’t do it. I grab another, then another. Hoping the echo of the breaking china can cover the sound of my own heart breaking.
* * *
“Kit? Kit, are you in there?” I hear Ella’s voice through the door, but all I want is to be left alone.
“Go away.”
“Kit, sweetie, open the door.”
“No.” I pick up a serving platter, one I never even knew I had, and chuck it at the door. It crashes against the wooden surface, spraying the carpet with tiny white shards. But honestly, it’s not even fun anymore.
I’ve broken just about every dish in the kitchenette, but I don’t feel any better. All I’ve accomplished is making a mess of my suite as well as my life. I even went to town on the bedroom, slashing the bed until it rained white down feathers. I threw take-out at the windows, smashed all three table lamps, and knocked over the armchair by the window, which, when I realized it was the first place Vlad ever kissed me, I tried to set on fire with a book of matches from the Bellagio. Only the material was treated with some sort of fire retardant, and all I accomplished was creating a big charred spot on the arm and filling the suite with noxious fumes.
That’s when I gave up and called Ella, sobbing and blubbering like a baby. She tried to calm me down and ask what was wrong, but all I could manage to get out was a reference to feeding Vlad’s testicles to a goat before the rage took hold again, and I hung up to wail on my toaster with the dusty thigh master from the back of my closet.
“Kit? Are you okay?” I hear again. Only it’s Mary’s voice this time. Great. It’s a full on pity party.
“Kit, sweetie, Please open up.”
“Go away!” I yell again. Accentuating this command by picking up the small, mahogany side table and smashing it against the door frame.
I think I hear Mary utter a, “Holy crap,” in response.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Kit, open the damn door,” Ella says. “Come on, we’ve got Ben & Jerry’s and Merlot. Open up.”
I can tell they’re not leaving. And I’m out of booze.
“Fine, I’m coming,” I yell.
I open the door a crack to see Ella and Mary standing in the hallway. Ella’s holding a shopping bag and Mary’s already started in on a pint of Chunky Monkey, a plastic spoon hovering halfway to her lips.
“Wow, you don’t look so hot,” she says.
I look down. She’s right. I don’t. There’s take-out Chinese spattered down the front of my dress, a small burn on the hem and I’m still wearing one stiletto. Whatever. I am so beyond caring about anything right now. Except maybe wine and ice cream.
“Just leave the bag and go.”
“Uh, uh. No way. Tell us what happened.” Mary pushes her way into my suite. Ella follows her before I can protest.
“Not much to tell,” I say, resigned to the fact I’m going to have to endure the pity party if I want the booze. I sink down into the sofa, completely ignoring the Doritos bag that crunches under my butt. “Vlad’s fucking Moira Black. Not me. End of story.”
“Who?” Mary asks.
“The movie star,” Ella explains. “She’s bi.”
“Lingual?”
“Sexual.”
“Ooooh. Wow.”
“And, you forgot to mention, the biggest slut that ever screwed her way up the Hollywood food chain,” I add.
“I’m sorry, Kit,” Ella says. Which I actually find very supportive of her. It’s painful to admit but, for all her nose scrunching, Ella was right about Vlad all along.
“This just really sucks,” Mary says. “Kit, you deserve so much better than this.”
“No shit. Is somebody going to open that wine or what?” The sad thing is, Mary’s right. I know I deserve better than this kind of treatment, I know I’ll be better off without that kind of jackass in my life, and I know I did the right thing by walking away when I did. But it still hurts. If I knew how to turn that off, I would. But, as it is, the only thing that makes it feel any better is smashing things. And maybe some Merlot.
“Right. I’ll open a bottle.” Mary pulls one out of Ella’s shopping bag. Then looks at the pile of broken dishes in the kitchenette. “Um, do you have any glasses left?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, we’ll improvise.” Mary goes in search of a corkscrew, gingerly stepping over shards of broken glass and china.
“You’ve really done a number on this place,” Ella says.
“Yeah, well, Vlad was paying for it.” Something that gives me small comfort. At least I can cost him a couple grand in repairs once I leave.
&n
bsp; Because that was the first thing I realized when I came back to my suite - I can’t stay here any longer. The suite goes with the job as Vlad’s assistant, and that train left the station when Moira Black left his suite with her shirt on backwards. Hell, I don’t think I can even look at Vlad without vomiting right now, let alone smile and preen around him onstage for all of Vegas to “ooo” and “ahhh” at the bastard. I don’t know what I’m going to do now, but I know my career as the Ice Queen is over.
“Well, I guess this is one way to get back at him,” Mary say, returning with a corkscrew, spoons and a pint of B&J for each of us.
I take a big bite of Cherry Garcia. I admit, it helps a little.
“Have you talked to Vlad about this?” Ella asks. “I mean, could it be you misinterpreted the situation?”
“No offense, Ella, but there was no misinterpreting this. He’s an ass and that’s all there is to it.”
“Some men are just like that,” Mary says, pouring three glasses of wine. Or more accurately, one mug of wine, one souvenir cup from the Hard Rock Café, and one gravy boat. She hands me the gravy boat. “Sorry, it was all I could find.”
I take a large sip. God I hate this. I hate feeling so… used. That’s really it, isn’t it? He used me. Onstage to make him look good and in his bedroom to serve as some perverted boost to his bruised ego after his wife took up with someone new. Oh, how I’d like to take that ego down a few pegs. I mean, who the hell calls themselves Vlad the Magnificent anyway? It’s like me calling myself Kit the Good in Bed. Give me a break.
I take another slug of wine.
“Kit, that’s a vintage merlot,” Ella starts. But she checks herself as I give her a look that could wither a cactus. “Never mind,” she mumbles. “Drink up.”
“I bet you’d feel better if you ended this on your own terms,” Mary says. “What you need is closure.”
“Closure.” I repeat the word. “Is that like revenge?”
Mary frowns between her eyebrows. “Um, it’s more like telling Vlad that you’re saying good-bye and letting go.”
“Revenge sounds like more fun.”
Ella looks around at the suite. “Well, this is a good start.”
“No.” I take another big gulp. “No, this is petty stuff. I want to squash him like the slimy bug he is. I want his ego to be so small he needs a microscope to find it.” Either the wine is kicking in or this is a really good idea. Because I inexplicably find myself smiling.
“Well, you could sabotage one of his tricks?” Mary offers.
My gravy boat pauses halfway to my mouth.
“What did you say?”
Mary purses her lips together as if she’s thinking hard, “Um, sabotage?”
“No, the other thing. His tricks.” Suddenly an idea hits me. To borrow a phrase from the Grinch – a wonderful, awful idea. There are only two people in the world who know how Vlad the Magnificently Egocentric does his tricks. Vlad and me. So, what if one of us should let the cat out of the bag? I bet women wouldn’t be so quick to spend $72.50 a seat if they knew the disappearing woman really just slipped through a trap door in the bottom of the case and snuck back up behind the curtain during the smoke explosions. Sure, I could be blacklisted from ever working in magic again, but to tell the truth, I’m kind of sick of magic after this anyway. I mean – what good is being the beautiful assistant for the rest of my life? I want more. I want to be the star. And I know just the show to cut my teeth on.
“Mary, you are a fucking genius,” I say, not even pausing to make sure that Doritos bag isn’t stuck to my butt before diving for the front door.
“Wait,” Ella calls, “where are you going?”
But I don’t stop to answer, practically running down the hall. God, I hope he’s here tonight.
Mary and Ella catch up to me at the elevators. I’m jamming the button down with my thumb, praying he’s here.
“Kit, where are you going?” I ask.
“The lobby.”
“Dressed like that?” Mary asks. I don’t point out that her plaid skirt and striped tank top don’t exactly a fashion statement make.
“What’s in the lobby?” Ella asks.
“Hopefully, Evan Wilder.”
“Kit, I’m worried,” she says. “You’ve go the same look on your face that my twins get before they pour grape juice on my white rug.”
I laugh out loud. “Grape juice is nothing compared to this.”
Ella doesn’t look reassured.
The elevator doors slide open, and I jump inside. Mary and Ella follow as I smack the “L” button with lethal force.
“What do you want with Evan Wilder?” Ella asks.
“Hopefully, a job.”
Maier and Ella share a look. Mary shrugs. “What kind of job?” she asks.
“The kind that’s going to put Vlad the Maggot out of business.”
The doors slide open to the lobby, and I jump out, pumping long purposeful strides toward the lounge. I can hear Mary and Ella doing a little half run behind me to keep up. I pause as I enter the dimly lit room, scanning the tables. I have a moment of doubt that he won’t be here, but it quickly fades as I spy him at a table near the back, sitting between two toothpaste commercial perfect men. I clomp across the room on my one heel, ignoring the funny looks from the Tom Jones impersonator at the bar.
“Excuse me, I hope I’m not interrupting,” I say as I reach their table.
Evan Wilder looks up. “Kit, how are ya’, honey?”
“I’ve been better, Evan,” I answer truthfully.
“I’m sorry to hear that, hon. Here, why don’t you join us?” Evan asks, signaling the waiter to bring another round of whatever he’s having. The pretty boys scoot over, making room for the three of us, and I slide in next to Evan, Mary and Ella scrunching in beside me.
“Who are your friends?” Evan asks.
“This is Mary and Ella,” I say, gesturing to them. “Evan Wilder, ladies.”
I think Mary may pass out, she’s smiling and pumping Evan’s hand up and down like it’s the handle of a slot machine. Fortunately, he’s getting a kick out of it. Ella’s more reserved, of course, taking his hand in a quick, polite embrace, while sliding a sideways glance at me. Probably still worried about grape juice.
I can feel the anger that’s been rushing through my veins all evening quickly being converted into purpose and I waste no time getting right to the point.
“Evan, I need a job.”
Evan laughs. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you, doll?”
“Never.”
“What kind of job you lookin’ for?”
“Is that friend of yours still looking to do a magic exposé?”
Evan sits back in the booth, scrutinizing me. “He is. He’s still trying to find a magician willing to part with a few secrets. I told him it would be a tough sell, but he’s determined.” He cocks his head to one side. “You willing to offer a little insight?”
“I’m offering a lot of insight. I know every one of Vlad’s tricks inside and out. And, well, let’s just say we’ve had some creative differences, and I’m looking to jump start a new career.”
I hear Mary suck in a breath through her teeth, and I can just feel Ella’s nose scrunching beside me. But the only reaction I care about at the moment is Evan’s. And maybe Vlad’s when he watches his life crumble away one trick at a time on Fox TV.
Evan’s face slowly breaks into a grin. “You want me to give him your number?”
“Oh yeah, I want.”
The waiter brings a round of double scotches. Mary sniffs hers, wrinkling her nose. Ella takes a dainty sip. I drink a long, satisfying swig, feeling the liquid warm me from the inside out. Or maybe it’s not so much the liquid as the image of Vlad’s face, contorted with surprise and desperation, as his “pet” does the rings trick with perfect timing and precision for the television audience.
How’s that for closure?
Chapter Twenty-six:
Davi
d, The Straight Flush
I Love Lucy is on. I’m eating hideous green Jell-O cubes from a plastic tray for lunch and trying not to laugh as Lucy consumes her weight in chocolate from the conveyer belt. How wrong is it that they put on something this hilarious for a boy with three broken ribs? Not fair at all. Though, I’m happy to report the pain has subsided to more of dull ache when I move too quickly. My nurse in the kitten scrubs said as long as everything checks out I can go home tonight. I’m going to miss the morphine drip, but Julio promised to buy me a Costco-sized tub of Jell-O. I told him that was so not funny.
The phone beside my bed rings. I wade through the dozens of flowers that Ella and Mary sent to the receiver, wincing only slightly as the tape catches across my ribs.
“Hello?” I say, expecting it to be Julio checking up on me for the billionth time that day. He and the girls have been trading off babysitting me, though Julio insisted on staying the whole night here with me. I finally forced him out of my hospital room this morning. He wanted to call in sick to work, but I told him if he didn’t go home and take a shower soon, the staff might throw him out. Honestly, he didn’t so much smell as looked like he needed to sleep in a real bed for a few hours.
“David, it’s me,” Julio says. Do I know my man or what?
“I’m fine, Julio. Still fine.”
“Good, but that’s not why I’m calling. David, I just checked the machine and there’s a message for you from the Jubilee producer.”
Oh no. I close my eyes, bracing for the worst. I called in this morning and left a message with the producer’s receptionist, Tiffany, that I’d broken my arm and was going to be out for a few weeks. Even though I saw Reno flashing in big lights in my future, I knew there was no way I could go onstage with this eyesore of a cast. The receptionist said she’d let the producer know, and someone would get back to me. Apparently they had.
“Well, don’t leave me hanging. What did they say?”
Julio pauses. I bite my lip so hard I can taste blood.
“You got it,” he finally says.
What Happens in Vegas Page 23
