Tremor

by Tonya Plank

  “Just keep it a secret so we can surprise her,” Mandi had said. So I did. Or tried to. I kind of tripped up when Arabelle asked how I knew to take her to the Venetian. Now, with Lucia and Mandi hanging over the balcony waving down at us, the little secret was up. I could feel Arabelle tense even though we weren’t touching. Tension between dance partners can travel, even when you’re not touching each other. And even though we weren’t dance partners, it was happening now.

  We got out of the canoe and I handed Mike a big tip.

  “Thanks, man,” he said. I always tried to be as generous as possible. Most of the entertainers here didn’t make a whole lot. Everyone knew I came from money. As long as I didn’t feel like people were taking advantage of it, I tried to spread the wealth around. Especially since my dad was such an asshole, looking down on performers as he did. Well, dirty lowlife dancers though they were, he was tipping them nicely—giving them the money he should be giving waiters and the like back in New York, which I knew he never did.

  I kept a low profile at lunch and chose a seat at the back of the table so that Arabelle could sit closest to the balcony, where she could look out on the crowd and lose herself in her thoughts, which, judging by the gondola ride, I knew she wanted to do right now. I didn’t really want to be seen. It would just interrupt lunch to have girls I knew coming up and chatting.

  I was right about Arabelle. She kept her face to the crowd the whole time, peering over the balcony at the canal. Not like she was trying to ignore anyone, just that she was lost in her thoughts. Throughout the meal, she wore a light smile that never reached her eyes, and said little except that the wine and food were good, that Vegas entertainment was quite different from L.A., and that she had amazing friends to treat her to such a nice lunch. Lucia and Mandi kept giving each other worried smiles. Under other circumstances, the awkwardness would have annoyed me to the point I would have found a way to leave politely and get myself the hell out of there. But I was so intrigued by this girl that somehow, I was content just to watch it all.

  “We were thinking of checking out the high roller,” Lucia said as the waiter took our dessert plates. “You want to come with us?” she asked me, raising her eyebrows in encouragement for me to accept.

  “Me? I have the rest of the day off, as I told Arabelle. So, sure.”

  “Awesome!” she answered. “I mean, that’s okay, Belle? The more the merrier?”

  Arabelle, still looking down at the canal, said nothing.

  “You know, I totally don’t mean to intrude,” I said.

  Now it was getting awkward. Mandi widened her eyes at me, as if to say, come on, don’t bail out now! I caught Lucia shooting Arabelle a similar wide-eyed look, her eyes motioning to me in the classic, come on, go for it, look. When Lucia made eye contact with me she immediately looked away, her face flushing red. Arabelle rolled her eyes. Okay, this was getting ridiculous. I really didn’t need to spend my time with someone so hard to convince I was worth being around for a few hours. Mandi would have to understand. She’d forgive me. I was just about to get up and excuse myself when Arabelle finally spoke.

  “No, it’s not you.” She laughed nervously. “I’m just, I’m not sure if I want to go up there. It always looks like the line is so long to get in and it’s just an over-large Ferris wheel anyway, isn’t it.”

  “No, it’s actually really cool.” Some friends were instrumental in creating it and I was really in to promoting it, not just because of them, but because I really did think it was a cool addition to Vegas. “It goes up really high, and you can see all over the city. And I know people. I can get us to the front of the line.”

  Lucia raised her eyebrows at Arabelle. Arabelle harrumphed. “Okay, I guess,” she said after a sigh. As if she had to force herself to be nice to me. This girl. Who was she? And why did I care?

  While the girls went together to the bathroom, as women are wont to do, I called my friend Red and got us tickets. Of course he was happy to oblige.

  “Hey Jett,” I heard a familiar voice call out while I was waiting outside. I turned to see another of my friends-with-benefits approaching.

  “Hey there!”

  Gwen, a backup dancer in one of the shows down the Strip, sashayed up, looking me up and down with hungry eyes. I looked around to make sure Arabella and Lucia weren’t around, then flashed her my usual wicked grin.

  She laughed devilishly. “What’s up? What are you doing here this early?”

  “Showing some friends around town. And it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “That’s what I mean! Seriously, I know you, you know!” She play punched me in the ribs.

  She did. We’d spent more than a few nights together. Up way late, hitting the clubs, drinking ourselves into a frenzy, having sex all night and into the following morning. Okay, into the following afternoon. I had to blink and look away thinking about it. She was really hot. Legs that went on forever, long red hair that was actually real, and well built up top. Plus, she knew some nasty moves. Tempting. Very temping. But then I heard Arabelle’s voice in the distance.

  “I know, I know. I just…need time.” Her voice was soft, light, feathery, delicate, like her; a sharp contrast to Gwen.

  I smiled at Gwen again, this time sans devilish grin. “Here come my friends. It was really good seeing you.”

  She gave me a bemused frown in return, as if not understanding my sudden lack of flirtation.

  Arabelle and the girls emerged from the restaurant and walked up behind me.

  Gwen did an up and down of Arabelle, then smirked. “Okay, well, have a good day off and call me when you want to get together, all right?” The way she said ‘get together’ was dripping with sex. She might as well have licked her lips and winked. She giggled and was off, swaying her sexy-as-hell ass side to side as she went. Totally overdoing it. It occurred to me I was rude not to introduce them. I looked back at Arabelle. She narrowed her eyes at me. She clearly thought I was a man-whore. Well, she wasn’t really wrong. I’m a fun-loving guy. That’s why I live here. What’s wrong with that?

  “I made the reservations. We’re in,” I said to all three, not taking my eyes off of Arabelle. I held my hand out to her and she looked at it like it was a snake.

  “Awesome! Thank you, partna!” Mandi squealed.

  * * *

  Once we were inside and seated, Arabelle looked a little pale.

  “Don’t worry, it goes really slow. It’s not like a roller coaster or anything,” I said.

  “I’m okay,” she responded, again rejecting my snake-arm. She looked outside, toward the window, her gaze lost again.

  “Ooooh,” Lucia squeeked as we began to move higher.

  “It’s so cool. You can see everything from up here,” Mandi chirped.

  But Arabelle was inhaling and exhaling deeply. And I noticed she had her middle finger of each hand pressed to her thumbs as if in meditation, as if she was trying to calm herself. Her head was turned away from me, so I tapped gently on her arm to ask if she was okay. She flinched at the touch.

  “I’m sorry. Just making sure you’re all right. Some people have gotten sick up here. You wouldn’t be the first.” I joked.

  “I’m not going to get sick,” she said, emphasizing the ‘not.’ She glared. But her eyes belied her fear.

  “Yep, she’s the flying queen, Jett!” Mandi said.

  “Been known to ask how high a chandelier way, way up on the high ceiling was before she’d take the floor!” Lucia added. But when she realized her friend wasn’t taking well to the compliments, she toned down. “There’s plenty of steel supporting us. Don’t worry, hun, this is totally safe. Right Jett?”

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t have brought you guys up here if it wasn’t.”

  “I’m not scared,” Arabelle reiterated. “But I think it’s now you who’s the flying queen.” She smiled at Mandi. “Seriously, you were really gorgeous out there last night.”

  “Oh, you’re so sweet. That mea
ns so much coming from you, Belle.”

  Arabelle’s lips curved up into another of her smiles that didn’t reach her eyes, and she looked straight out the window. I saw a tiny bit of water pooling at the edge of her eye. She blinked it away.

  From that point on, Arabelle made the same oohs and aaahs as the other two, but I noticed she often closed her eyes. I didn’t know whether it was to keep fear or tears away. So, she’d once been a fearless dancer like Mandi and me before this tremor thing set in. I sure hoped it wasn’t permanent. I figured not, since it wasn’t constant. I wondered what caused it. I’d have to look it up. Anyway, I could only imagine how gorgeous she must have been.

  “So how are you girls going to spend your last night in Vegas?” I asked while walking them back to Caesar’s Palace.

  “Well, Mandi’s going to take me clubbing, right?”

  Mandi nodded rapidly. “Oh yeah. We’re gonna go to Dre’s!”

  “Excellent choice,” I said. “I know one of the bartenders. Actually two. Kid and Mack. You see either one of them, tell them I sent you and they’ll give you a free drink. Or two.”

  “Okay!” Lucia had an impressed grin. “You know everyone!”

  “He really does,” Arabelle echoed, her tone indicating she meant it in a bad way.

  “I get around, I guess.” I shrugged, realizing I was making myself into Arabelle’s imagined man-whore. But I was starting not to care how it sounded. “I’ve been here a while. I go out a lot.”

  Mandi and Lucia cracked up laughing. I joined them. I could laugh at myself. The only one not laughing was Arabelle.

  “Well, we were gonna ask if you wanna come with us, you know!” Mandi said.

  “Me?” I sounded ridiculous. Of course they meant me. But I just envisioned walking through Dre’s, meeting half the girls I’d hooked up with here. Well, maybe a quarter. Okay, maybe a tenth. Regardless, it would be real fun trying to avert all of them around Arabelle.

  “Of course you, you dork.” Mandi laughed.

  “I’m always game. You know that,” I said. “What time you want me to pick you all up?”

  “You mean Mandi and Lucia. I’m not a clubber,” Arabelle said.

  “Oh come on, honey. It’ll be fun!” Lucia play whined.

  “You know that’s not me, Lucia.”

  “Just for a while! What else are you going to do?”

  “I’m really tired. I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

  “Oh come on. You can’t just go back to the room and sleep. This is your last night here! It’s your birthday night. You gotta do something.”

  Arabelle took a deep breath. “Lucia, I just really don’t want to go, okay?” Her voice was getting angry. She stopped walking and turned toward her friend. “I know you brought me here for my birthday and I’m grateful, I really am. But I just…I just don’t want to do the clubbing thing, okay? I did everything else you wanted.” Her voice was blunt, as if she was reaching a breaking point.

  “If you want,” I began, trying to stifle the tension. “I can keep you company, and we can do something mellow. There’s a really nice French restaurant inside the Paris. I mean, I’d love to…take you there.” Everyone was looking at me. Mandi looked hopeful, but Lucia still looked a bit stung from Arabelle’s sudden anger. I couldn’t believe I was offering to take her out to the best, most expensive restaurant in town. Now I had to spend one-on-one time with this girl who clearly didn’t like me. What was I doing?

  “Wow. That sounds really nice, Jett. That’s more your style, right, hon?” Lucia said.

  Arabelle looked down, glanced at me, then faced Lucia. “Luce, I’m really sorry for snapping. I didn’t mean to. And, yeah, I can do the French restaurant.”

  “It’s okay, hon.” Lucia put her arm around Arabelle’s shoulder and they continued walking arm in arm. Everyone was feeling better but me. ‘I can do the French restaurant,’ she’d said. Talk about feeling reduced to a major Plan B.

  I agreed to pick her up at seven, and called to make the reservation. Of course the restaurant was full. But my friend Wynn, who was actually a nice, married young woman and not a friend-with-benefits, said she’d manage to find a little private corner table for us.

  I went back to my house, not too far from the Strip. I walked my black lab, on older guy named Ranger, whom I’d gotten from the shelter when I first moved here. I had a Heineken and watched the last two episodes of Banshee on Cinemax on Demand. Then I took a shower, and dressed in a dark grey suit with a black t-shirt underneath—instead of a pressed shirt—to make it more casual. I slicked my hair slightly back with a little gel so I wouldn’t look like a surfer dude, and hopped into my red convertible BMW to head over to Caesar’s.

  Chapter 5

  Arabelle

  Ugh, why had I agreed to go out with this guy? I knew why. Because I’d felt badly about snapping at Lucia, especially in front of the others. She was only trying to help me out of my depression, which had been going on for a ridiculously long time. And she’d organized such a nice weekend. I was being pissy and needed to stop. So, fine, I’d be game for what she wanted. Then when we got home I’d go back to my life, my cat, my training with Drew, my teaching, to my life without Willem—which was admittedly not great, but was perfectly fine.

  I guess if I thought about it, Jett wasn’t really that bad. He was definitely a major womanizer, and very cocky. He was a total name-dropper, and a show-off onstage. But he wasn’t all bad. He was pretty nice to set things up for Mandi and her friends, to give them free tickets and all, and he gave me distance when I made clear I needed it.

  I looked out the window. We had a view of one of the pools. Everyone looked so happy in their skimpy bikinis, chatting and laughing and sipping champagne from plastic flutes. I did really want to get this weight of sadness off of me, to be happy like them, to be part of that world again.

  Lucia slept while I dressed. It was going to be a late night for her, so I didn’t wake her to ask her what she thought of my outfit. Not that it mattered, because I couldn’t have cared less what this guy thought of me. I wore a black strapless sundress with an opaque sheath covered by a lacey, see-through outer layer. It wouldn’t be too cold with my long wrap. Plus, we’d be inside most of the time. The opaque part was substantially shorter than the lacey diaphanous layer, so I was covered—but it was still sexy. Not that I cared to be sexy for him; I just didn’t want to attract stares from all of his so-called friends and fans, some of whom, judging by the way they looked at me, clearly thought I was too virginal.

  I finished off the look with a pair of peep-toed patent leather kitten heels. I tied my hair up into a chiffon, then decided it looked better down. I put on a light but classy coat of makeup, mainly light pink lips and blush, with just a smidgeon of mascara and a hint of sky blue lining my upper lid.

  “It’s Jett,” he called, knocking on the door. I looked at the alarm clock. Right on time. A couple minutes early, even. Hmmm, impressive.

  When I opened the door, I had to admit—he looked hot. He was wearing a dark suit that made him look professional, but with a t-shirt underneath that gave it a more playful, casual look. And his shoes were black, with the squared toe that was so in style and very expensive-looking. His blonde hair was slicked back, contributing to the more professional look and also making him appear a bit ballroom dancer-ish, since that’s how they all wore their hair. I wondered briefly if he’d meant to evoke that, then answered my own question. Of course not. He knew nothing about ballroom dancing; he’d admitted as much. He was trying to impress other women, not me.

  “Good evening. You look lovely.” That damn dimpled grin made him ooze boyish charm all over again.

  “Thank you,” I managed. I peered around the corner to Lucia’s bed, but her head was under the covers. I grabbed my purse and closed the door behind me.

  “How was your nap?” he asked as we walked out through the vast lobby into the Vegas twilight.

  “Pretty good. How about you?”<
br />
  He shook his head. “I don’t need that much sleep.”

  Of course not, I thought. You’re Mr. Perfect. This guy, no matter what he said, it just seemed to rub me the wrong way. He seemed to sense my annoyance.

  “I just went back home and watched some TV, took the dog for a walk, you know, stuff like that.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Yep.”

  “What type?”

  “A black lab. Ranger.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. For some reason that changed my perception of him. Slightly. He took care of an animal. He couldn’t be completely self-centered.

  “What about you? You have any pets?”

  “A cat. A little white cat.”

  “Sweet,” he said, and I wondered if he meant it. Usually dog people hated cats. Especially people with big manly dogs, like labs. “What’s her name?”

  “Arabesque,” I said under my breath.

  “Arabelle?”

  I looked at him. “What? No, no, Arabesque,” I enunciated.

  “Oh, I was going to say. You named your cat after yourself?” He laughed. “Arabesque is a cute, dancer-y name.”

  For the first time, I laughed with him. Of course he got it. He’s a dancer. “The way she stretches, she elongates one leg way behind the other and points her little toes. Her body is so lithe and her legs are so long, it looks like she’s doing an arabesque.”

  “Well, it sounds fitting then. Just funny that it’s so close to your name.”

  “Yeah. Well that was part of it. She’s white, blue-eyed, and small-boned, and she’s part Siamese. And, well, my husband, when he saw her at the shelter, he thought she reminded him of me. So…” My voice faltered at the memory of Willem bringing her home in one of those cardboard containers they give people who decided last minute to adopt. I swallowed.