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from-memphis-with-love · 29 days

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Gambling on Your Love - Ch. 8

Summary: Francesca throws herself fully into a new project, all the while struggling with loneliness and unfulfilled desires. Elvis battles the demons of fame and addiction and goes back to making mediocre films, reminiscing about what could have been. A chance phone call sets the scene for the possibility of a reignited flame. Word count: 8,200 Warnings: Emotional distress; heartache; brief mentions of substance abuse. Catch up with Francesca and Elvis in previous chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

If New York was the city that never slept, Francesca could only think of Phoenix as the city that never cooled. For all its sunny beauty, fine cuisine and fast living: it was a sweltering mess. The humidity had her hairdresser working overtime on set to keep her updo inflated with hairspray.

The script for her new film had gone through changes along with her. She’d arrived looking for a new direction and the picture inadvertently transitioned too. Just the name had been washed and rinsed now about seven times. Flames of Fury. Flames of Retribution. Rising from the Ashes. Now there was a twist. The newly widowed lead, Roxy Flare, wasn’t just a housewife spiraling into a pit of despair and grief. Now, she’d crossed paths with the notorious mob boss tied to her husband’s supposed accidental death. It was morphing from cerebral drama to gritty thriller. She rather liked it.

Francesca never felt more focused on set, although she never felt more out at sea in her personal life. She went home to a townhouse in the suburbs, a lowkey location to keep off the map of the local paparazzi. Every now and then, one trickled in, but her house blended seamlessly in with the rest of the narrow lot cookie cutter houses. Hers was delightfully blue, complimenting the other rainbow hues swatching the uphill street.

Inside, she’d barely unpacked a thing. The walls were blank. Her floors, bare. Her steps echoed loudly in the empty house. Her cat had been unnerved, but got used to it rather quickly. Frannie wondered when it would start to feel like home for her too. But after a few weeks where she could barely bring herself to hang a set of curtains, she got into a slight groove. Then came a knock at the door.

That sound startled her. Only a few people knew of her new address and number: her immediate family and Dominick. She’d had her mail forwarded to a PO box. So, when a courier with a package tapped his foot on the porch, Frannie wondered if he possibly had the wrong address.

She opened the door. Beside the courier, a tall crate, notched with head-high holes. When she squinted into the darkness, she could see something moving inside. Startled, she didn’t notice the courier handing her a clipboard.

“Could you sign here? I can’t mark it as delivered otherwise.”

Frannie signed her name, peering at the sheet. Sure enough, it was addressed to her. A receipt of delivery for one: EXOTIC IMPORT. Er… what on Earth had made its way to her door?

Now the courier had a thick packet of papers for her.

“Wait, what's this?” She thumbed through them, letting him push the crate through the door, minding the hardwood as he sat it down. The papers were import records, vaccine certifications, and care instructions. Fluttering sounded from inside the box. “Do you know who sent this?”

The young man shrugged. “Dunno, ma’am, sorry. Whoever ordered it didn’t bother putting a return address on it. To be honest with you, I’m just glad to finally have it out of my van.”

He shook her hand, leaving her to the care of her new guest. Her cat sniffed around the edge of the crate. A clicking noise resounded from inside. Looking around for something to start shimmying the planks open with, the rattling of a hinge queued her into the latch at the top. Hesitantly, she unthreaded the silver bar and the door swung open. Before she could peer inside, whatever inhabited the space rushed out in a flurry.

Francesca recoiled. A wash of crimson and azure flashed before her eyes. An ear ratcheting squawk emanated in her echoing halls. Her cat took off, hiding safely from the stairway, keeping a close eye on the situation. The creature that’d been unceremoniously stuffed inside of the ill fitted box, now covered in crap and feathers, fanned out her beautiful wings, preening them.

It was a parrot. A large one at that, with black eyes that saw straight through her as it whimsically chattered, nibbling at itself, keeping her in its sight. Its beak was stark white against a vibrant plumage. She could see the fear in its eyes, which upon approach, she realized were not straight onyx, but moon yellow surrounding inky irises that narrowed and expanded. It’d perched on the back of her settee, its claws curling with loud pops into the fabric.

Sofly, she continued to close the distance between her and the bird. It was large enough and perhaps even frightened enough to do serious damage to her. This poor thing had been squeezed inside of a narrow crate with no food for who knows how long while it was shuttled off to live in a strange new home, in a totally foreign environment. Weren’t these beautiful things from the tropics? Again, she had to wonder who on Earth had sent this to her? Was this supposed to be a gift?

“It’s all right,” Francesca assured, gently extending out her hand to the bird. Its wings fanned open defensively, and she noticed that their length was distorted. They must have been clipped at some point. Another pang in her heart for this unfortunate soul. Then, it began to voice its displeasure with loud hawking crows. The sound was ear piercing, reverberating in her head. Relentless! It had to be hungry.

Suddenly, her day was filled with purpose, with routine. She bought seed from the store, specialized for large birds. She purchased some little jingly bells and a chain with a tiny mirror and shiny trinkets to pick at. Treats, vitamins. Birds needed supplemental nutrition, right? She couldn’t imagine being satisfied with a dusty bag of seeds.

Gertrude, emphasis on the rude, was the name she deemed fitting for the screechy little lady. For weeks, Frannie didn’t get enough peace because Gertrude simply wouldn’t stop cawing. Like a colicky baby, the noise, the squawking, it never ceased. She was lost on the idea that parrots knew words; this one simply knew how to scream. But, she was rather beautiful. And Frannie liked to admire that beauty as Gertrude sat atop her window perch, when her eyes were focused on the dogwalker outside or the mail being delivered, children running down the street—there was a fascination and sadness in the creature she related deeply to. Those quiet moments were growing longer and one day, after a particularly hard day filming with her fickle director, the two of them reached an understanding.

“Hmmm, that’s not it, now play it more melancholy,” Nolan James had asked, like it wasn’t her 11th take. Her feet were starting to ache in those gaudy, spiked heel boots. She longed for the solitude of home. For warm, brawny arms to wrap around her and tell her that it would be all right, that she was fussing over nothing. Take a vacation about it, darling, buy some jewels to feel better.

She longed for him. Oh, how she missed him.

Gertrude flew over, the sound so much louder than anyone could have prepared her for. Like a copter closing distance. She barely flinched now as her attention was rapt on a People Today article about Elvis’ new film promos. They seemed terribly formulaic, like his agent had put him back up for the highest bidder. It wasn’t what she’d want for him, certainly not what he seemed to crave on the set of Gambling on Your Love. There, he seemed determined, vigorous, driven, ready to cut his chops on something with more substance.

Filming on his new pictures was already wrapping up, whereas Frannie’s had another few months before hitting editing, at least. It didn’t bode well for him. She’d go see it, regardless of the pang in her heart when she saw his handsome face in a small shot of the movie’s ad poster. A cheesy back-to-back pose with an actress she didn’t recognize and Elvis, grinning at the camera. Love Me Tender, Love Me Alien. She chuckled at the absurdity. He was holding a ray gun.

Wings fluttered aside her and Gertrude’s claws popped in and out of the settee fabric as she inched closer to see what had Frannie so engaged. She leaned in, tilting her head, zooming with her right eye before chittering. It was the closest she’d come to her, and nearer still she inched until her warm body was pressed against the side of Frannie’s head. Before she knew it, the bird had stepped cautiously down onto her shoulders, making her wince at the sharpness of talons finding purchase. She allowed Frannie to stroke her chest and to feed her. Slowly, it graduated from the occasional preen to a spoiled neediness.

Gertrude liked to stay on Frannie’s shoulder. To pull at long strands of her hair and cleave the ends sneakily, letting little clippings fall all around the house. She loved to peck and nibble at Frannie’s earrings. Her humor didn’t shy away in the presence of guests, and she was happy to dance with Frannie to her favorite records.

In time, Frannie learned that wings must be clipped occasionally, or else they’ll grow back. But she didn’t mind at all. Now, Gertrude was a more elegant flier than ever. She was messy, still loud, and beautiful. Obediently learning words and short phrases.

She knew how to call the cat for dinner time, so that was a fun fussy debate she had to struggle through. “No, no, I know. It’s not fair, but don’t blame me. Gertrude outwitted us both.”

Still, she had to wonder who had sent Gertrude into her life. It was a beautiful distraction from the heartache. Her bed was still so, so terribly empty. She reached out across from herself to splay her hand in the coolness. Thinking of him was something she needed… and couldn’t stop. Tears misted her eyes as she lay alone holding onto her pillow, where if she buried her face deep and used a pinch of wishful thinking, she could just get a whiff of his cologne, clinging on for dear life.

She ought to call him, but looking at her phone, sitting pretty and quiet, unrung like her ring finger, she resisted the urge. What would she even say to him? Not only did she feel a pang in her chest at the thought of him, but for him. She’d left him quite quickly and quite distraught, with almost no explanation. And then the… thing that happened.

Reaching for a glass of water instead, she tried to focus her mind elsewhere, anywhere but the pain that seemed to settle in whenever she was still. So instead, she kept moving, jumping up so fast that Gertrude squabbled. She must keep busy with something. A distraction.

The filming process itself for Flames of Fury had been rocky but all in all, much smoother than the ups and downs on the set of Gambling for Your Love—but her truest performance, her heart and soul, had been poured entirely into that movie. She’d brought more than her everything each day. Having Elvis as friendly competition only fueled her to do that much better. They truly had been magic together.

Elvis slumped in the jacuzzi with a swarm of pills floating through him like champagne bubbles, while a girl named Champagne poured him some more cola. He was lost, looking out at the California skyline, mesmerized by the pulsing lights while he sipped slowly, downing some uppers to stable his mood. He couldn’t feel so low when he was surrounded by his crew, women, good music, drugs and food.

But with laughter all around him, echoing in his ears and growing duller by the second, he felt alone. Even in hot rolling water, California wind blowing through his hair, his thoughts were about her, only her.

Francesca had done a number on him.

Joe patted a buddy on the back, gently ushering a lady aside and telling her about the open bar upstairs, he’d join her later.

“Hey. You ain’t uh, looking so good. Sure you’re doing okay?” Joe splashed around in the water. “This steam making you dizzy or something? Talk to me. Hello?” He snapped his fingers and Elvis grinned, shoving them away.

“M’fine, I’m fine,” he slurred, clearing his throat, looking his friend in the soulful eyes. “Thank you, Joe.”

Unbelieving, his friend motioned for Red to come over. Now it was going to be a whole big thing and he didn’t want to deal with another round of their pep talks. He understood it. He appreciated it. He knew he shouldn’t be moping around in his misery, but here he was. Enjoying it in some sick way. It was the pain that proved he really loved her. Loved her right now just as much as yesterday and tomorrow. If he could just see her again, hold her in his arms. Smell her hair. Tell her how sorry he was for whatever he’d done. He’d take her back in a second, tell the whole world that he loved her. They were going steady. He was going to marry her.

“Not even gonna ask. Let’s get you out of the water buddy, you’re looking real… lax right now.” Red didn’t wait for his response, he just looped one brawny arm underneath his friend’s and lifted him up out of the pool. Water sloshed across the cement. The boys wrapped a towel around him.

He wandered inside and didn’t bother changing clothes as he sat still on the couch. This was his costar’s afterparty. Mitzy didn’t throw small bashes either, but Elvis stayed for the after-after party because he didn’t want to go home to his hotel room. Even the glitziest of suites had lost its charm after a few months of taking spurting, hot-cold showers and eating insipid dishes made by an overworked chef. But the service staff were sublime and heavy-handed tips always made the attendants’ eyes bright. He loved seeing that in someone, because he wasn’t getting much of that lately at all. He’d had it when he’d looked at his Francesca.

Elvis wouldn’t let himself fall to tears in front of the boys, but to say he was still torn up about it would be an understatement.

Mitzy Marvel walked in. Adult film actress-made-Hollywood star. She was up and coming to say the least, and a very hard worker… but that’s what worried him about her. Acting was coming easier to him, it had started to when he’d been on stage with Frannie. Mitzy seemed to struggle with finding her footing. This was her first big gig and he had a sneaking suspicion that she’d slept her way in with how nervous she was. Maybe it was just because he was Elvis Presley, but there was a naive wobbliness to her performance. Endearing but nothing compared to Francesca’s heart pounding rounds. She could deliver the same song without losing a bit of enthusiasm, straight from the chest, every time. Just like that. It was something he didn’t just admire—it was something he’d aspired to be.

It gutted him even more still that Gambling on Your Love would remain in this beautifully perfect limbo. All it needed was one more scene, a finale to tie it off and she was good as gold. He’d dreamed of seeing it in theaters with his crew. With Frannie on his arm, pointing out their little nods and glances, knowing the real fire behind the flames on set.

Elvis burned for her.

Joe grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at him as he said in earnest, “Man, you’ve got to get a grip. This woman has ripped your heart clean out, by God. Don’t let her have any more of you. You’ve got to stop thinking about the past. It’s over. It’s done. She’s probably moved on by now—”

“Don’t say that,” Elvis hiccupped.

“So should you. You gotta do something for yourself. Live a little. Relax. Go on a date. Go back to a girl’s place. Bring her back to yours. Do something, other than all this moping.”

“Joe,” Red murmured.

“I’m just sayin’.”

Billy loudly vomited over the second level banister, and they all glanced back. Champagne was rubbing his back, Mitzy was wondering who gave him that much. She waved prettily at Elvis, her hair sprayed blonde curls glittering.

Elvis couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the life they could have had together if only she’d given him a chance. He would have taken such good care of her. Of their child.

These were the emotions he tried to avoid with partying and drugs, but some nights, it just made it so much worse. He’d had rougher ones, where he’d lain curled up like an infant in the shower, the light off because it hurt his eyes and made his head throb. Where he had to drag himself from the bathroom floor and into his bed. Never had he considered himself a lightweight, but something about the pain spiraled more pain.

He clutched at his chest, reclined his head and shut his eyes. Thinking about the night breeze cutting through his hair, the milk light of moon swatching a path for them to follow along dark highway roads, shining brighter than diamonds. Campfires reflecting in her gorgeous jewel eyes. The taste of her ruby lips.

When he awoke, it was sometime in the early morning, just after sunrise. He had to move slowly or else the pudding in his head would just leak out of his ears.

He recalled the boys trying to drag him off the couch, but he wouldn’t budge, slipping deeper into his self-loathing. It was what he’d gotten used to by now.

With the sun beaming mercilessly into his pinpoint pupils, rocking his head with ice pick stabbing pulses, Elvis winced with every step as he and the boys made their way to the car. He wasn’t feeling up for it at all, but he didn’t like cruising passenger and managed to throw himself into the driver’s seat. He gripped the wheel.

Back in his penthouse suite, where he had grown rather bored of, Elvis saw the blinking red light of hope twinkling on his answering machine. He raced over to answer it. It could be her. He still couldn’t track her down. She was somewhere in Phoenix, still filming. He knew the movie was a thriller and foolishly had no songs written for her. She was already branching out, while their debut film rested peacefully in an editing room, just waiting to be finished.

He pressed play, listening with all his heart, to a familiar voice. But it wasn’t Frannie on the other end of the receiver, it was Cassandra Morgan.

“Hey, Presley, it’s Cassandra. I can’t get in touch with Francesca, but I’m sure you can just tell her for me. Ahh, look, I don’t know how done with Gambling you are, but I’ve never stopped thinking about just how electric you two were on camera. I’d give anything to have you two back here in the studio for a little reunion. We can really give this picture what it deserves. I’m sure that you’d like to see it on the big screen, too. Well, just, gimme a call when you get this message. Bye.”

Francesca did not avoid her phone, per se, she just tastefully ignored it. But today, the tone was that of resolve as it rang for her attention. She felt out of body as she reached for the phone, clasping the bakelite to her ear, listening to static. Had he found her? Did she want him to? She wasn’t breathing.

“Frannie? Hellooo?” It was Dominick. She hadn’t even heard him.

“Yes, yes, good evening, Dominick. What kind of trouble are you getting into lately?”

She could hear his smile when he said, “Only the good kind. How’ve you been? How’s it going on set?”

“We’re almost done, I can see the finish line. I didn’t think I’d ever get tired from wearing heels, but these skyscrapers they have me in for some of these scenes are killing my poor ankles.”

“Hardest working ankles in Hollywood. You be sure to pamper yourself.” He lit a cigarette, closing the zippo with a sturdy sliding clack. “You’re your number one asset.”

“So I’ve heard,” she teased, filling up Gertrude’s tray with fresh nuts and seeds, a few veggies from her lunch salad. She happily chittered in response.

“What’s that? You keeping chickens now? I knew you’d tire of the glitz and glam and turn to something rustic and homesteady.”

“You know me too well, Dominick.” But she also knew him well enough that his well-fare calls were usually few and far between. He had something up his sleeve, she was just waiting on him to dish it out.

After a little pause of staticky silence, he said, “So, your old friend Cassandra Morgan rang me up the other day,” he took a long drag. “You’ll never guess what she wanted.”

Well, Frannie had more than a hint. But she’d play along. “She’s directing a new movie and wants me as the lead?” A girl could dream. Cassandra’s screenplays were the stuff of literary dreams on paper and played even better on screen.

“Hmm. Not quite. In fact, it’s a little closer to your heart than that. She pleaded for another shot with you. One more chance to have you and Elvis on stage together to patch up her unfinished vision.”

When Frannie didn’t immediately answer, Dominick put forth his own opinion. “For a second, let me step away as your agent—not all the way of course—and talk to you as down to Earth as I can, Frannie. Would you listen to an old friend when he says this would be good for you?”

Good for her? Her heart was already pounding at the thought of being on that beautiful, cursed set again. To rip another priceless dress? To wind up in the hospital once more? Who would poison her with what next? Or would her trust be totally violated by the man that she loved?

“I just… don’t think I can see it that way, Dominick. I’ve had fun. I did, I really did love every second. It was magical. But it came at such a hefty price, I just can’t seem to… to wrap my head around how I would begin to trust him again.”

“You know he’s done nothing but look for you ever since you left? He called me until I warned him I’d change my number if he didn’t drop it. I’m not saying you gotta trust the guy, but every time he pleaded with me, well, it sounded as desperate as Casandra, begging for you two once again.”

These are things she both hated and loved to hear. That he’d tried to get in touch with her. Had he gone to her empty apartment, knocking on an unanswered door in hopes that she would give him another chance?

“I have faith, Frannie, that he’ll take this just as seriously as you do. Besides,” he took a final long drag from his cigarette. “I know you haven’t unpacked those boxes you’re probably surrounded by.”

Alright, he got her there. “Tell Cassandra that I will think about it. Emphasis on think.”

“You’ve got my word. She’ll be happy to just hear a response, I’m sure. Well, take care Frannie. And let me know when you’re wrapping up filming, I’ll come to the premiere of Flames of Retribution.”

“Er, Fury,” she politely corrected. Not that she could blame him with how many tweaks and stitches the meat of the film had gone through, name included. But even for the hiccups, it was still like swimming in the kiddie pool compared to the catastrophic always-on-her-toes intensity of Gambling on Your Love. Although, maybe that was just the nature of her and Elvis’s relationship.

Could she face seeing him again? Not that she didn’t see him every day, hear him every day, think about him every day. Dream about him most nights. Ah, especially those balmy beach getaway dreams where Elvis laid her out underneath a cabana in the sun and made love to her all evening until the sunset and the tide came back in. Or the simpler, more painful ones, that let her perceive a glimpse of the life she could have had with him. All too domestic, just fantasies. She couldn’t be a doting housewife right now, not when her career was just starting to really take off. One day, perhaps. But she’d always worried in the back of her mind while she and Elvis were together, that that is exactly what he wanted. A sultry housewife to come home to that kept the place clean and their children well behaved. How excited he had been at the sudden prospect of a baby coming into their life. All things she couldn’t afford to think about right now!

Her co-star, Billy Flynn, the innocent eldest son of the mafia boss, was no Presley. Or that was to say, she and him had no chemistry. Not that the director seemed to notice. It seemed to play better for her stoic character for her to be less attached, distancing herself to keep her heart from truly being given to another. Playing it safe. He was kind and he read his lines well, played his parts marvelously. In short, there was nothing lacking about his performance, other than he simply wasn’t Him.

Can’t Help Falling in Love made her pull over one night on the drive home. She’d found a dark stretch of highway away from the doming glow of the city lights, where the stars were just visible. She shut the car off, reclined back in her seat and opened the sunroof to gaze up at the dotted night sky. The tears streamed down her face before she even realized.

In a few weeks, the red carpet roll out of Flames of Fury was a smashing success. Women wanted to be Roxy and men wanted to be with her. She was a dynamite dame with a sense of justice and loyalty that just resonated with the heart strings of so many.

The showings for Love Me Alien were all taken down as the next season’s films came into rotation. There she was, billed at the top, her name in flashing lights. Her sister was wrapped in a warm fur coat that she’d bought her, her neck shining with jewels, all the things she’d wanted for her since she’d begun carving her own way. Her father and brothers cut handsome figures in smartly tailored tuxedos. The only one missing was her mom, for whom she said a silent prayer. Champagne flowed into fragile stems and she didn’t know if it was the drink inducing the apathy—but she just didn’t feel… quite as high as she’d hoped.

The crowd gave her a standing ovation. Billy Flynn asked in her ear if they could get dinner afterwards and she politely but firmly reclined. Posters of her were around every corner, billboards, television ads. She’d dutifully attended her press conferences with her costars, smiling her winning smile and keeping her answers cool and concise. They ate up her every word, and yet something was missing. It just felt like her entire world had shifted and she was only a few millimeters off course, but dizzied and stranded, nonetheless.

Francesca peeked out of her little townhouse to see paparazzi had indeed made their way to her. Someone must have followed her home, or maybe even a nosy neighbor had sold her address to the highest bidder. She closed her curtains and rang up Dominick.

“Tell her I’ll do it. But I’m paid more than him and I want you there with me.”

“Of course, that’s just a start. What else?”

She loved him to pieces. He was like a father to her, an older brother type. He’d doted on her for a while now, respecting her. Taking her seriously. She’d had a handful of people, agencies that she’d tried venturing through, but upfront costs and greedy intentions without a care to her growth as an actress: hard pass. Dominick always made sure to look out for her first and foremost before even thinking about taking his cut. The total opposite to that squirmy Parker that followed in Elvis’s shadow.

“That I… hmm,” Well, she had to think about that, demands didn’t come easy to her in this regard, and she thought for a moment before saying without preamble, “And what do you think about hiring a private investigator?”

“For whom exactly?” He didn’t sound averse to the idea in the slightest, asking it like what she wanted for lunch.

“I want them to watch Elvis, more specifically, his associates. I don’t want dirt on them, I just want to know if someone is following me.” Messing with me. She wasn’t about to be harassed on set behind the scenes by someone too cowardly to show their face. If Elvis really was half as hurt as she was about their separation, then maybe someone else was doing the dirty work for him.

There were coincidences and then there were carefully laid plots.

“Alright, Frannie. I’ll get somebody on him. Someone real low key.” He switched ears with the phone, telling her, “You were amazing in Fury. I want you to know you did a good job. I’m proud of you. And your premiere was fabulous. You were lovely in that dress. The after party, though I couldn’t attend, I hear was wonderful.”

She smiled. “It was nice seeing you again. When can I see the little ones? I know Gracie is getting to be a big girl now.” Grabbing the coiled cord around her finger, she gazed out onto the little street she’d grown used to, the glass lamps casting a warm glow on the sidewalk.

“We’ll all come visit you again, I promise. You get some rest now. I hear you got a big movie coming up.”

Elvis couldn’t believe this was really happening. His circumstances, while fragile in a way, were a blessing. He was almost in a daze while readying up for his private flight back to Las Vegas, to where it all began with her.

Equal parts thrilling and nerve racking. He wanted to start where they left off. Start over? He didn’t know how to approach her. He knew how he wanted to, but he had to see what it was that Francesca wanted. Still ready to give it all to her, he contemplated seeing if her old apartment was open for rent, but even he would admit that was going too far. Suddenly, his feet felt like lead. He missed California as soon as he left the plane.

Colonel Parker was simmering the entire damn time, tapping his foot, hands steepled in his lap while he stared straight ahead. Not partaking in any of the drinks or cigars, just simmering. He’d absolutely exploded when Elvis told him bluntly that this wasn’t a request, or a plea, it was a statement, a notification that: Yes, he absolutely would take the opportunity to finish this masterpiece with her. Just seeing her again, dancing and singing with her again would all be worth it.

“You’re making a huge mistake. Biggest mistake of your life.” Parker had seethed, roaring at him over the phone that this was the most disrespectful thing he’d ever done. But Elvis just didn’t see it that way.

The boys thought he was a little crazy but doing the right thing. Except Joe, who was wary of Frannie’s influence over him. Elvis rather liked that influence, and that perfume she always had on. What’s that one, Chanel? Nina Ricci? He bought her another, crystal pink as her other one. She’d tilt her head to the side in that elegant, bird-like way and spritz her lithe neck, her chest.

He needed to see her as soon as possible. He’d been working up the courage to see her new movie, but something in him just resisted the idea. The posters said that her outfits and her dance moves might drive him up the wall for weeks, not that she didn’t already have him still besotted with her. Even when he tried to shack up with other women, he couldn’t stay with them if he didn’t think of her, her beautiful heart shaped face, rosy cheeks and dark, shining hair. She was an angel, breaking his heart into a million tiny pieces. Stirring around the dust with her heel a little bit just to get the point across.

But when he saw her on set for the first time, past the crew, past the cameras and curtains; he forgot all about his pain, at least for a brief second. Her hair had grown a bit. She had on a stunning black sundress and white heels. Her loveliness a knife in his heart. He watched her float amongst the rest, daintily reintroducing herself to familiar faces. Cassandra wouldn’t do with a handshake and yanked Frannie into a hug, squeezing her tight with a few hardy pats to the back, telling her, “You don’t know how wonderful it is to see you.”

Francesca’s eyes met his and he saw something in her face that looked like hope. She inhaled. He watched her chest rise and fall. She grabbed at the pearls draped over her collar, fingering their gleaming beauty. He’d given them to her.

His heart skipped. Soared. He didn’t know whether to give into the relief or remain entirely on edge, because this would be too good to be true. Francesca, still pining for him even after she’d dumped him hard and fast. Maybe it was his fault for not pushing harder for their publicity. Did she think he didn’t want to be associated with her? He knew her cut was above the rest, she really was a superior actress compared to so many he’d seen or worked with. Mitzy was a clueless but buoyant young girl and he did wish her the best. But just being near Frannie on set was a breath of fresh air.

“Chess,” he acknowledged. I see you.

Her eye contact did not break, even as her face softened, her expression puzzling him. “Elvis Presley. What a pleasure it is to work with you again.”

“I can only say the same, my dear.” He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her heavy, until her knees were weak and she was clinging to him. She was gorgeous.

Cassandra laughed, albeit a hint nervously as she watched them interact. She clapped, saying, “Okay, so, we’re just warming up today, getting the lighting back in place, the camera back in place. I honestly thought about just splicing the thing and keeping in the bits that did make it, intertwined with whatever we film over the next few days, but, I think it would be a better idea to just film the entire last duet together once more, from the top. Fresh, clean, and guarded, because god dammit I’m paying someone overtime to stay here and guard this film reel personally.” She was intense, absolutely bringing her A-game to the table. She was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted to be.

And so was he.

Before he could muster the courage to knock on her dressing room door, assuming she was even in there, he ran into Eddie, who’d grown out his hair a little bit since he’s last seen him. He was even sporting a little bit of a beard, looking more like a grown man than the kid he’d been months ago.

“Eddie! It’s good to see you again!” Elvis embraced him warmly.

“You still owe me dinner. My dad says that I’m crazy. That I’m not friends with Elvis Presley, that I’m just pulling his chain.”

Elvis grinned. He had promised him that, hadn’t he? “Well, a man’s only as good as his word. So, what’s the address and when’s the food gonna be ready?” It’d been a long time since he’d last had a home cooked family style meal that wasn’t served up at a restaurant. Or whipped up by one of the fellas in a drunken, but generous, stupor.

Francesca, who wasn’t in her dressing room at all, but readying to head out the door, overheard their conversation. He knew this because she was looking right at him when he glanced her way. He could practically feel her eyes on him. If only it were her silky little hands climbing him instead.

Winning her back was his ultimate goal, other than of course, putting on one hell of a show.

The next day, when filming finally commenced and Francesca was in that dress, his eyes were magnetized. Long legs that went on for miles, led straight to heaven. Where he’d once been invited.

And the way she was looking at him, even while trying her best to avoid being alone with him, he knew that some part of her still desired him. He just needed to stoke the flame. He knew her well enough. The things that made her sigh and moan. If she’d just give him a chance to show her again, how he was just perfect for her and she, him.

But he couldn’t see the forest for the trees and nearly fumbled his first few practice steps with her. Beat for beat, he slowly acclimated back, finding the rhythm like it was second nature. Muscle memory. Hopping back on the horse, he rose hard, never disrupting his gaze from the one thing that meant the most to him: her approval. And, well, obviously her. But he needed her to see, he hadn’t lost the memory of their dancing duet together.

One part of the song had him running after her for a brief second before lifting her up by her slender waist onto the top of the piano his character had always played solo. Her eyes were glittering from the prop lights and with flecks of something else as she looked at him.

Cassandra nearly forgot to call scene when the two of them were done, chests heaving as they panted. Their bodies were rigorously taut and spent as if they’d made love. She was heart achingly beautiful and she still didn’t acknowledge him the way he needed her to.

When they were finished, she parted from him as cool as the change of season. Spring pushed into fall, and he shuddered, watching her leave him near effortlessly. But on her way out, when she kissed cheeks and signed a few crew autographs, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. Batting her glamorous lashes at him, like a matador waving a red flag. He pursued, giving chase like never before.

It was one thing to be scorned, but another to be ignored. He just couldn’t stand not being under her guise. It ate at him more than if she just rebuffed him.

Today, things were serious. Cassandra had implied rather overtly that this portion of filming wasn’t supported by any generous backers, but from her own pocket. The cast, the crew, she was investing herself into this film more than ever. It only made him all the more confident that he’d chosen the best passion piece.

Colonel Parker always occasionally visited Elvis on set before, but now he was heavy handed, coming every day, sometimes staying for the entire duration of filming even though he’d tried dismissing him.

“Don’t you get bored watching us practice?”

“I’m just looking out for my number one guy, Elvis.”

Eddie was incredibly jittering, having to be scolded twice about the lights being off center. He apologized profusely. The previous night, Elvis had finally made good on his promise to have dinner at the young man’s house. It was a charming little factory home on the other side of the railroad tracks. Small, modest, but very well loved. It was cozy and reminded him of home.

Upon seeing the pair walk in, Eddie was the first one to be greeted, wrapped warmly in hugs. His father had to look once, twice, three separate times before he realized whom he laid eyes on.

“Well I’ll be damned…”

“Harold, not in front of our guest,” Eddie’s mother chided, elbowing her gobsmacked husband. She offered out her hand, shiny from cooking with grease. The smell of something delicious wafted out from behind them.

Sitting down at the too large dining room table in a house that did smell slightly of cigarettes, Elvis was treated to some of the best Mississippi roast he’d ever forked into his mouth. And Eddie’s mother, Glenda, was overjoyed to have company, let alone Elvis Presley, who they asked a bevy of questions. The typical ones that he’d answered dozens if not hundreds of times.

“What’s your favorite concert you’ve done?”

“What’s the best town you’ve been to?”

“Do you think you could help tune my old guitar, it just doesn’t sound right and these old ears aren’t what they used to be.”

Elvis was more than delighted to zoom in the scope of his understanding of the world, to fine tune his vision to see into these little domestic bits. Eddie’s parents, fawning over their beloved only child, their older age belying the struggle he must have been to conceive. They proudly showed off Eddie’s camera collection and all the places he’s been to recently. But when Glenda cheerfully went to open Eddie’s photo proofing room, a large utility closet he’d renovated, Eddie eagerly flattened his palm against the door, insisting that the light would ruin his set up. And besides, they were just “boring naturescapes”.

On set, his uneasiness hadn’t diminished and Elvis was surprised to find he was worried about the kid. But today, he had to have a laser focused mindset. No distractions.

When Francesca walked upon the stage, as graceful and goddess-like as ever, Elvis offered out his hand to her and they got down to it. Hot and fast, one, two, three, four. Twists, turns, hip dips that had him feverish. He burned that heat with her, feeling it flare between them. Her hand touched his face, her eyes pooled into his. Her body was perfectly in sync with his; tandem movements in absolute perfection.

Cassandra was stunned. “That’s it people. We got it.”

The crew, overjoyed to have been reunited for a marvelous feature, cheered for the couple, breathing laboriously after their round. Her hand was still in his and she smiled at him, that old Frannie smile that he couldn’t get enough of.

When he finally found a moment alone with her, after weeks of simply being in her presence, Elvis didn’t hold back his feelings. It was the dark aisle behind the set, the both of them still soaring from that performance. It was unspoken between them that that had been it. Flawless. When this movie premiered, he couldn’t help but feel that they were pushing their project out into the world. But it wasn’t just a movie they were starring in, it was a movie made for them, even Cassandra said so, telling them, “You two were electric before. But whatever that was just now. Lighting in a bottle, babes. Don’t let it go, cause you two have got it.”

They did have it. He just needed to remind Francesca.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?” He asked her honestly. Did she have any idea? By the look in her tragic face, he knew the answer. She didn’t just have an idea, she knew exactly how he felt. It filled him with pride, he wanted to shout. Her feelings for him hadn’t waned. Just reigniting the flames was all it took. His burned out of control.

Francesca did not pull away from him. She turned her head to half-heartedly avoid his kiss. And breathlessly she told him, with her fingers pressed against his lips, with her face growing warm from his nearness, “Elvis, we can’t.”

“But we can. We absolutely can, Chess,” he said, sealing that assertion with a kiss. He didn’t care who saw. Maybe she did, but right now, all he could think about was her and closing the gap between them. He only felt far from her, letting her push him away. But here, she instantly melted against him, if only for a fleeting second.

Elvis felt her shiver. He felt the chills breaking across her flesh when he rubbed her arms. He kissed her deeper, tilting her head back, drinking her. The taste of her, the feel of her against him. Her hands curled against his waist, hooking into the belt loops and easing him towards her.

“You missed me, admit it,” he teased, pushing her buttons, testing his limits with her already. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to see her frustrated, suffering, but not with pain—with desire.

Francesca peered out the window of the limousine and gasped, sitting straight back in her seat. “Good God, that’s a lot of people.” A hundred or so on either side of the red carpet, dozens and dozens more spilling out onto the streets. She’d never seen so many people or so many cameras in one place.

Their car was two behind and she anxiously awaited the slow roll, watching Cassandra exit the car with her friend, a lovely tall blonde woman who Frannie recognized. When it was their turn to exit the limousine, Francesca steeled herself. Put on her best Hollywood smile.

Elvis clasped her hand. “You and me, Frannie.”

Once out into the limelight, she was stunned at the turnout of people. There were fans with signs that said all sorts of fanatical things, “Marry me, Elvis!” “I love Elvis Presley!” “Let’s Gamble on Our Love, Baby!”

It was amazing, the sheer amount and this wasn’t a broadly advertised event amongst the public. He simply had that many devoted fans, pining for his attention. And he was walking her through a cheering crowd, with her arm looped under his. He led her with propriety, like he was her husband. And she could feel them noticing, eyes tracking her. Pictures of him and her were held anxiously out, blank books for them to sign. There were fans asking for hugs, roses were being tossed at them.

This felt like a dream. It felt like what she wanted a red carpet premiere to feel like. She and him were the center of attention. Paparazzi were flashing cameras, bulbs popping like a summer thunderstorm with their frequency. She just smiled, telling herself not to lean against him, no matter how good it might feel. God, he smelled so good right now, she could just take a bite out of him. Control yourself, Frannie.

It was certainly hard when he was resting his knee so close against hers on the ride here. Why she insisted in the first place, she wasn’t entirely sure. Whether to have a chance alone with him, or simply for the fanfare factor of the acting couple stepping out together. Which had paid off, seeing as the crowd was still screaming excitedly behind them as they made their way into the marvelous theater.

Francesca wanted the full movie experience and ordered a big bucket of popcorn for herself, or at least she tried to before Elvis butted in with his order, insisting on paying both their tabs. She argued but to no avail. He was always persuasive in ways she didn’t anticipate, charming but persistent.

Elvis racked up on candy and excitedly sat down next to her, it was easy for her to notice that he was doggedly watching her, critically reading her every expression, every reaction to him. He was terrified he was going to mess up, wasn’t he? She felt a pang in her heart that he was so high strung while this was his big night just as much as hers.

Although, she couldn’t feel too bad for him, considering as of late, she was practically beating him off with a stick. He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t relent. When she pushed, he pulled, when she retreated, he pursued.

When she rebuffed him the last day of filming, after he’d racked her body with shuddering desire thanks to one of the most smoldering kisses he’d ever lain on her, he’d been perturbed exactly none. In fact, it was her own fault, letting him get her so wound up. She’d been clinging to him, rocking her hips into his to stem some of the tension pooling between her thighs. Elvis had a maddening effect on her and he absolutely knew it.

With his hand resting innocently, so innocently on her knee and her face as hot as the sun during Gambling on Your Love’s premiere, Francesca knew that she wasn’t over him.

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fanfic #elvis fans #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis x oc #elvis fic #gambling on your love

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from-memphis-with-love · 30 days

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Gambling on Your Love - An Elvis Presley Fanfiction

Summary: Mid-'60s Elvis is stuck in a dead end film career that he hates. Until he meets one Francesca Ferrara, a triple threat from Brooklyn, NY on a meteoric rise whose talent rivals his own. The Colonel is determined to put a stop to their hot and heavy romance at any cost, fearing it may hurt his client's career. But Elvis has other plans.

Word count: ~12,000 Warnings: alcohol, cigarette, and pill usage; sexual content and innuendos; mental health and turmoil. Elvis is not a happy camper as we start this story.

The limousine was oppressive with heat. Boozy breath clung in the air like miasma. City lights smeared like paints along the fogging glass. Glittering nails and hairsprayed blonde curls skewed his already hazy vision and he just barely put out his cigarette in the ashtray without scalding Daisy’s—or was it Cindy’s?—sequin dress.

“Hey! Watch it,” she drunkenly giggled in his face, poking him in the chest with one bony index. She looked older, harsher now in the neon lights. Tap tap tap. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

He didn’t know what he said in response, but it didn’t matter. She was still happy just to be in a limousine, leaving a party with Elvis Presley. Something she keenly shared with him that she couldn’t wait to tell her friends all about.

Stumbling into his hotel room, ceiling-to-floor mirrors reflecting him back, he didn’t remember the elevator trip up. He heard once that if nothing new happens on a routine route, your brain doesn’t bother to write it down. Just doesn’t think you need to use that extra space for something rudimentary.

Sitting down on a different couch, with a different girl, in a different one of his suites, didn’t constitute much change. The pills he’d imbibed suppressed his lust and he felt himself just going through the motions with her. With himself.

The silence was sharp. Always ringing in his ear. It’s why he liked keeping the party going—he didn’t have to listen to it. She was asleep in the bed, and he wasn’t sure if he was, too, when he stumbled out and into the too empty, echoing living room. The uncomfortable leather couch squeaked when he sat down, cold and sticky. The television was on a late-night variety show. It was an encore for an hours-prior live performance. He held the remote poised at the set, blinking tiredly at the political jab Johnny Carson made, the crowd laughing even when he didn’t say anything funny. He introduced their next guest and Elvis clicked away.

But before he switched to Nightlife, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and a sparkling high cut dress. Elvis clicked back. Trapezing onto stage, jovial and collected, was a songstress he didn’t recognize, though lately he hadn’t been busy with keeping up with anyone else but himself. He didn’t know anyone on set, hadn’t even heard of the director before—it was just another film in a long line of commercially successful mediocrity. Sitting, he watched her as she glowed with something he felt fading away, spilling out of his seams. He leaned closer towards the television, and Johnny introduced her to an anticipating audience.

Her name was Francesca Ferrara. What was that, Italian? Either way, it rolled pleasantly off his tongue. He repeated it out loud, watching as she performed. Her voice was like velvet and when she danced, the notes didn’t even quiver. She retained perfect pitch while going heel-toe, shimmying and sliding, dipping her hips in her glittering gown. He was enthralled, gazing from so far away yet feeling like she was right before him, and he was an awestruck member of the audience.

Grabbing a pill he left close at hand for pangs of severe loneliness, he drank it down with a swig of water, wiping his mouth and saying goodbye with the crowd as everyone waved at lovely Frannie, leaving the stage and leaving him longing for someone he’d probably never meet. Probably wouldn’t even remember.

Waking up on the couch hours later, he had to go through the awkward peel-away of scooting his latest girl out with a fistful of cab fare. “Thanks for the great night,” he clipped, holding the door like a baseball bat, ready to swing. “Of course! I had suuuch a good time with you, I put my number on your fridge for when you’re lonely, big guy.” She wasn’t bothered by his briskness and ambled away without argument, leaving him by himself. A routine start to his days.

Three months later, he saw Frannie again. But this time he was clear-headed, clearer than he’d been in years. And he did remember.

“Can’t y’all be quiet for five minutes? Goddamn pack of cacklin’ hens!” Elvis scolded the rowdy group of partygoers behind him. Their raucous cheers and shouts drowned out any hope of silence. He couldn’t entirely blame them for having fun without him, though, as his attention was elsewhere.

"Is anyone else seeing her?!" he muttered to himself as he absentmindedly jiggled his fingers. The crowd hushed ever so slightly, allowing him to catch fragments of the sit-down interview taking place on the television screen. There she was again, that Ferrara girl. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her voice reached out to him like a siren's call, its rhythm hypnotic. Penetrating his very being.

On set, she sunk back into the big red couch, legs crossed demurely in a miniskirt, listening intently as Mike Douglas poked and prodded with his innuendos. Petite, just like Elvis liked ‘em. Fishnet stockings on supple thighs evoked just the right amount of daring playfulness. Then, with suggestive abandon, she threw her head back into the most beautiful laugh Elvis had ever heard. Seeing the soft flesh of her graceful neck made him tingle in a deep, forgotten place inside. She was sensual without even trying. Even better, she seemed completely unaware of her effect on the men around her. The cameraman, for one, must have been completely smitten for the way he lingered on her face. "So, this is the female version of me everyone's been talking about," Elvis mused, a mix of astonishment and delight coloring his voice. "Well, I'll be damned."

Her natural charisma was palpable. Her lips, just like his, bent into an impishly crooked smile that could bring members of the opposite sex to their knees. As she joked with Douglas, it became increasingly apparent why people drew comparisons between them. They both radiated an effortless sensuality that seemed to leap from the screen. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but disagree with the comparison as she palmed the microphone for an impromptu song—he thought she was even better, a force that surpassed his own artistry.

Her voice. It was soulful, raspy, and powerful, yet also warm and velvety. Effortless, even. From the lower notes that were rich, heavy, and dark to the higher ones that rang clear as a bell, she had an impressive range. Elvis surmised that she easily spanned three octaves and a major sixth, far surpassing his own two and a third. The way she easily hit an E6, a note that seemed out of reach for many singers, left him both jealous and utterly fascinated. Her talent and beauty made him question his own abilities, yet his ego pushed him to pursue her. To consume her. Elvis’ breath hitched in his throat and his hands dropped idly to his sides. Accustomed to being the center of attention, he found the tables turning, himself transfixed and unable to tear his gaze away. He silently vowed to meet this Frannie at any cost.

He had never experienced love at first sight before, but this was as close as it gets.

As she continued to sing, her voice dripped raw with passion. Elvis didn’t know how long he’d been watching, but by the time Frannie entered the chorus for the second time, it seemed as if every man in the room had somehow crowded around the television set. Suddenly, the once boisterous party fell into deafening silence.

"Damn, EP, who is that?" Red West, one of the men in the room, practically gaped at the screen, his jaw hanging open. Whoever it was on the stage, he thought she was phenomenal.

"That," Elvis responded with a confident grin, "is going to be my next co-star."

The next day, Colonel Parker jumped down his throat about late nights and partying, always quick to remind Elvis just who tirelessly scouted for him, trying to get him better and better roles. He went from quipping about Elvis’s pale skin and sunken eyes some mornings to blatantly questioning Elvis’s apparent lack of control.

But Elvis could stop whenever he wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

The movie premiere went without a hitch. Everyone at the showing had rave reviews about “Kissin’ Cousins,” but almost everyone in attendance had been family or friends. It’d been a gauzy shield, a curtain keeping reality just out of sight for when the movie would release in theaters just two weeks later.

Even the “good” reviews were hard for him to grit through.

“Good, harmless fun. Pandering, unpretentious, dim-witted fun.”

The bad reviews just cut.

“The songs weren’t memorable, and the dialogue was sitcom levels of easily digestible canned slop for the masses. You’re better off glancing at the poster and thinking up your own plot to stimulate your brain more than this “film” will.”

“Bad. Bad. Bad. Do I need to say anything with depth for a film lacking any? Save your money.”

The critics were tearing him a new one, but he was more successful than ever, making more money than he’d thought possible in a lifetime. Yet there was something lacking. In the women and the cars, the pick-up games, and the palling around with his stunted entourage. His sleepless nights were plagued with visions of a haunting beauty. It kept him ambitious, fanning the dying flame until he was spurred to reach for the phone.

Over the past few weeks, Elvis had sent around on set that he needed to get in touch with Francesca Ferrara’s manager. Someone had to know someone that knew someone. It just took asking the right person, and schmoozing on set with the makeup girls was a pleasant cost to pay as any.

Eventually it did get back to the right person. Her agent was a man named Dominick Archer, and he was notoriously scrupulous with his clients, only taking on the best actors, singers, and scripts. Elvis learned Francesca didn’t just sing here and there, she was lighting up the charts, skyrocketing to the top. Just the other day, he heard her on the radio. It felt like more than a coincidence.

He had to call Dominick. Again. He’d left a message on the receiver, laying it all out in a quick barrage, “Hey, uh, yeah. It’s Elvis Presley. Look, I saw her— Frannie—I saw her piece on Johnny Carson. She was a fireball, Mr. Archer. I need to work with someone like that. I need to work with her. Call me.”

It’d been three whole days since he left that message and every afternoon he scrambled to the phone, checking to see if his call had been returned. Nothing. But he wasn’t perturbed. He dialed the number again. It rang four, eight times—“What? Speak quick.” There was a rustling sound, like the phone was being held between a face and shoulder.

“It’s Elvis. Presley, sir.”

“Oh yeah. Think I heard of you,” Dominick laughed in that sort of nonplussed way that New Yorkers who have seen it all do. “What do you want?”

Elvis blinked. What did he want? “I left you a message. I think a movie with me and Francesca Ferrara would make box office history.”

Silence. Elvis heard Dominick sniff. Discomforted, he continued, “Do you want to work together?”

“Listen, my going rate for outside agency actors is 60/40. I land us a solid script, a good director, all that jazz. And Francesca is listed as the headliner.”

Bigger cut and her name was supposed to be listed before his? Colonel Parker wouldn’t hear of it. But he could be convinced, maybe. If the profit was tempting enough. Elvis would worry about that later. Right now, securing a spot with Frannie was all that compelled him. He had to get this gig.

So, he answered briskly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dominick asked back with a smile in his voice. “Well, then we can start talking business. Get your agent to call me.” And that was it. The call dropped and Elvis heard only a dial tone droning in his ear. It echoed hope.

Now to tell the Colonel.

Elvis was not a man who dreaded much, but he braced himself for this conversation. He was not a pacifist but if in the right circles, could be mistaken for one. Normally, he disliked confrontation and always preferred to take the path with least resistance. And he’d been in the same boat with Colonel Parker for years; abandoning ship now seemed unfeasible if not outright impossible.

He didn’t want to waste time with a phone call; he knew Parker would just hang up on him the moment he received any pushback. So, he made his way downtown to his manager’s temporary office, where Parker’s sandal-clad feet were kicked up on his mahogany desk and a cigar hung precariously from his thin lips, the whole office reeking of tobacco and coffee while he shot the shit with one of his terrified assistants. Smoke raced out the door when Elvis swung it open, catching Parker off guard.

“My boy! No knock, no call? What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be on set right now?” He put the phone back on the receiver, only slightly annoyed.

Elvis leveled him with a stare. “Because I had some errands to do. Besides, it’s reshoots with Barbara today, they don’t need me. Look, I…” He rubbed his palms, remaining standing as he placed them flat on Parker’s desk and leaned across. “There’s a girl. A girl, Admiral. You’ve got to see her, she's got the voice of an angel. Francesca Ferrara.” God, he liked saying that name. Maybe it should get first billing.

“Don’t tell me she’s carrying your baby, Presley.”

“No, no. I didn’t get anyone pregnant. I haven’t even met her yet. I saw her on the television. Heard her on the radio! She’s got somethin’, I promise you.”

The Colonel’s chair creaked as he readjusted, stamping out his expensive cigar. His fingers steepled and he asked in a gravely, wet voice, “And I assume you’re going somewhere with this?”

“I want—no. I need to work with that woman.”

Shrugging, Parker retorted, “Get her agent on the phone. Who is he? Not that needle-dick bastard Jenkins, is he?”

“I already talked to him.”

“You talked to him already? When? Why? I—” He shook his head, holding up his meaty, red palms. “Whaddya think you’re paying me for, kid? You let me do all the talking. So. What’d he say?”

Elvis swished the statement, diluting it. “He wants her to get top billing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And… a 60/40 split.”

“Sixty isn’t enough, you deserve seventy. I haven’t even heard of this broad. Forty percent, my ass.”

“Sir, she would get the sixty.”

Parker rubbed his mouth and jabbed a finger at him. “What are you playing at? You think this is funny? No way in hell.” He started laughing humorlessly, shaking his head. “Sixty percent. You must have fallen and bumped your head, Presley. Now get out of my office.” He flicked his hand but Elvis didn’t budge.

The older man simmered, quietly, wondering with a glare why Elvis hadn’t made himself scarce yet.

“It ain’t right, never letting me pick and choose what I wanna do. You know I’m the star here, right?” He regretted the words before they left his mouth. The delivery, not their meaning. That part he meant through and through.

“So why do you think I’d let you throw away your cut? You really want to make 40 percent and split that 50/50 with me? What kind of bank do you expect to make from that? Think, Presley! Now quit wasting my time and let me get back to looking out for you. I’ve got some calls to make, so scram.”

He refused. If there was ever a time to take a stand, it was now. He was so tired of letting Parker take damn near full control of his life. The finances, the social guidelines, the shitty movies. All of it.

“I said scram! If you don’t get lost, so help me. You know I don’t like gettin’ pissed off, kid. Don’t push me.”

Elvis didn’t move. Instead, he firmly reiterated, “I think it could be a great opportunity.”

The Colonel flew up from his chair. He was prone to being a jackass, but Elvis had rarely seen him so angry. But then again, he rarely defied his manager, having always seen him as someone who, despite his flaws, nearly always got the job done. Bread in the bank, so to speak. Colonel Parker made damn sure it was always in excess, even if it meant taking a generous cut of his star’s earnings. That part, Elvis didn’t mind. It was just money, after all, and he could always make more. What Elvis had begun to resent was the vice grip control Colonel had on him. With an iron fist, he wielded him like a weapon, cleaving his way through Hollywood one mediocre movie at a time. It was him who spearheaded his silver screen career, scheduled his engagements, managed his merchandising contracts. But at the cost of rigid ruling.

Elvis was not allowed to announce he was dating anyone for the “time being,” that being however long his manager saw fit. He couldn’t deposit checks directly into his bank; Parker handled all the finances down to the penny. Nobody important could get to Elvis without going through Parker first–not other producers, managers, or even would-be friends. Everyone had to be vetted by the Colonel, who wasn’t above isolating Elvis when he felt someone with influence was getting too close. The contracts Elvis would find himself pledged to were oftentimes suffocating with how long he would be tied to one studio, making critically-panned but commercially successful slop for the masses. He couldn’t escape the exhausting treadmill of quickie films, and he knew that they were there solely to make money. Funds that the studios would use to finance the more important, artistic projects with serious actors. Ones that weren’t Elvis.

There was a marked disdain for any growth in artistic expression or flexibility. He was proud of his filmography regardless, but there were times he’d felt outclassed at parties. Where it was clear nepotism was the unspoken theme and, ill trained and easily tongue-tied, Elvis would get sweetly nudged aside with smiles by those who deemed themselves more sophisticated than him. Those moments were rare but gutting. It hollowed him out and he didn’t like what he saw. A few years into his movie career, he’d developed painful ulcers that still kept him up at night, and he suffered from debilitating migraines during the day.

“You need to listen to me and listen good, boy.” Boy. Elvis hated when Parker called him that. “You keep bucking up to me like you run the show and I might have to make a stir about your favorite hobbies. I’m sure the papers would love to know what you get up to in your free time, how you spend all that money you earn. In detail.” The insinuation left little to the imagination and Elvis felt threatened to cave, but knew that if he backed down now, things would never improve.

“If I can convince them to bill me first. Would you consider it?”

Parker was already shaking his head, loudly saying, “No, no. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

“We can negotiate for a fairer split. I’ll make this a one-time deal if it all goes to hell. But if this works, you’ve got to admit that to me and let me pursue it. I barely ask you for anything, Colonel. When’s the last time I asked you a favor that you can remember?” At his lengthy silence, Elvis said, “Once you see her, you’ll change your tune, I know you will.”

The Colonel was still boiling, his round ruddy face tight around the relit cigar, taking a drink of iceless, room temperature water, clear as crystal in a highball glass. “One. You get one chance at picking your own script. We’ll see how it goes. Good parents let their children learn from their mistakes, right?”

Elvis winced. He already had a father, and he didn’t need more scolding. If he was determined before, he was now dead set on seeing this through given that Parker threatened an exposé. But if he could just win something–just this once–it’d put him over the moon. When he left his manager’s office that day, he called Dominick back himself and told him that things were tentatively going well and that they’d stay in touch, but things might have to be worked out a bit more, something the other man wasn’t too thrilled to hear, telling him briefly, “I’ll let you know when something comes up.”

For weeks nothing at all came up. Then the weeks bled into two long months and the seed of doubt bloomed wild. He began to wonder if he’d ever get to be in a movie with Francesca. But he wouldn’t let the dread creep further. He waited patiently, working diligently at his current contractual obligations, not because he was crazy about the film, but because he knew he needed to practice so that he could give the next project his all. He just had a good feeling about this. Something in his gut told him that it would all work out.

Colonel Parker had him slotted for another slop fest of a movie. He didn’t agree to it, but that didn’t matter. Pushing it on him was just par for the course and he deflected, saying he wanted to take a break and relax. But that was seen through almost immediately.

“You’ll get a vacation when I do.”

And the Colonel didn’t plan on one anytime soon with as many movies he had lined up for Elvis. They had started to lose their shine in his eyes and while they were more commercially successful than ever, he’d never felt more out of touch. Just going through the motions.

He saw her face on a billboard one morning in Chicago while stepping out of the bus, the sun illuminating her like some angel. Performing live, but the dates had already passed. He’d missed her by 6 hours. They might have even been in the city at the same time. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How would he introduce himself? What would she say when meeting Elvis Presley and learning he was smitten with her? Surely it wouldn’t be a hot pursuit, he just needed to be near enough to her. He could perhaps convince her to feel what he felt too. Or maybe it was all a silly fantasy, keeping him shaking on stage for the thousands in attendance at the premiere.

Tonight, he’d almost been assaulted by an over-excited herd of young fans grouping too close to the flimsy perimeter fence, sending it toppling and knocking into his knees. He wasn’t injured but seeing people literally willing to hurt themselves to get a chance to grab at his coat sleeve or tug at his pants leg was enough to disturb him for the rest of the night. He didn’t talk for a while, just sitting and staring in the silence of his suite, the bus stationary for the next 4 hours. He couldn’t sleep when it was moving, it just tossed his stomach to bits.

He clicked on the radio, swapping between stations to maybe catch a glimpse of her, but there was nothing. Just brassy tunes to lull him to sleep.

When he and his entourage checked into a hotel halfway to Memphis, he didn’t bother glancing at the machine, not ready for another dollop of displeasure after his latest film was panned by critics again. He thought it wouldn’t dagger as hard this time, but it never got less twisting. It was impossible to not take it personally.

“Do you want to see someone simultaneously over-act and under-perform in the same film? Then Fun in Acapulco is the watch for you.”

What was he doing so wrong that he couldn’t see? He wanted what he idolized in other stars, the natural ability to convincingly portray a role. Perfect, practiced, performances with organic delivery. It was only when he went back and rewatched these movies himself did he see his flaws. The framing, the diction, the lostness in his expressions. He just wasn’t grounded enough. And of course, the material itself was complete shit.

“You can’t relate to any of Presley’s latest characters because there simply is no relatability. This isn’t Mike, it’s so clearly Elvis Presley through the weakly played facade. This isn’t acting. It’s lying.”

He needed to stop reading into the criticism. More money meant more money. There was value to it all, merit in his every success, even if they lacked any spiritual nourishment. Even though he felt hollow at the end of nearly every day.

Sitting in front of the television, too tired to call a girl over, too jaded to invite his friends around, he flicked on the set and slouched with a glass of water and a rattling bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, red flashed intermittently. On the phone stand, the machine blinked, gently prying for his attention. He was walking without thought, hands outstretched, mouth dry.

Elvis hit play, listening to a half second of rustling. A wet lip smack and a cigarette-accented inhale. Then, Dominic Archer’s tinny voice clicked through the receiver, “Might have a bit for you, kid. Jake Turner, a talented headliner at a famous casino is tired of the routine, starts a hot romantic encounter with the mysterious new card dealer on the run from her past. You and Frannie. Previous deal stands, Presley. Give me a call. Your manager is a fucking asshole.”

He played it again. Listening intently to every word. This was textbook glitz and glam that Colonel Parker frothed over, but just enough meat for Elvis to really sink his teeth into the role. There was no way this wasn’t going to be a hit. Two stars burning bright on screen. It was too easy to pitch. He just had to have patience and persistence. He’d beat Parker down with enough persuading. He wasn’t so spiteful to say no to possibly the biggest check of his life, was he?

Fuming. The Colonel was quiet; always at his angriest. He looked over his tightly intertwined hands at Elvis. The young star laid it all out once more, repeating in firm earnest that this was the right move for his career.

“How’s this any different from the other movies you have me in, Colonel?”

“What’s different is that she’s asking for a bigger cut and to be the headliner. How do you think that’s going to make you look?”

“No one cares. I couldn’t tell you who the headliners for the last twenty movies I’ve seen were! You know this is a golden opportunity. You gotta see the bigger picture here!”

The lack of a response left Elvis unnerved. Parker was either thinking or stewing, about to blow his top.

But he surprised Elvis when he said slowly, bluntly, “60/50. That’s my takeaway cut from whatever you receive, as your manager. For going out on a limb for you.”

“Done.” No hesitation. Something that made a nerve in Parker’s jaw twitch. But Elvis didn’t give a shit if Parker wanted a king’s share of the money. He could have it. As long as he got a chance to finally shine in a decent role, with a decent director, with a co-star that actually had some chops!

“Let this be a lesson when this fails. And I promise you, it will fail.” The words were harsh and calculated, delivered with carelessness as Colonel Parker shrugged, waving him out. Elvis looked at him, stunned at the lack of motivation. No encouragement. Nothing. He shouldn’t expect it, but there was something overwhelmingly frustrating about silently sharing his hard-won earnings with someone like him. He wanted a change but didn’t know where else to start.

Taking himself more seriously was the first step. And he raced to return Dominick’s offer with a resounding “Yes, sir! Let me start by apologizing to you on my manager’s behalf—”

“No need. We start filming in May.”

May. The month couldn’t come fast enough. He was still a few weeks away, flirting with cold blue spring mornings and balmy evenings. He needed to move back to Las Vegas for filming. He liked the house enough, but it was out in the eerie quiet desert, and he could always see eyes bobbing like ghosts out on the pitch-black horizon. It was spooky being there, so he often never went. Parker came too, insisting that phoning it in wasn’t an option, even if he was clearly sour grapes about the entire trip there, about booking an apartment long term, about coming to the early filming every day (and every other weekend).

“A female director. A female lead. You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Parker scoffed.

Cassandra Morgan was an innovative filmmaker with a unique approach, renowned for passionately exploring complex characters. Elvis watched one of her movies after he settled in while housekeeping cleared the cobwebs. There were some huge spiders always waiting for eviction when he left his Vegas home for long stretches. But the pool was glittering and the pantry was restocked. There was life in the house again and he found himself walking around, wondering how Frannie would like everything. Most men didn’t care to decorate their spaces with fine art and designer furniture. He could see her dazzled by the globe glass chandelier painting the sunken marble living room with dappled prisms. Or her lounging by the infinity pool and gazing out onto the native garden.

Elvis barely slept that night. So nervous was he that he actually downed some whiskey, suddenly aware of the smell of alcohol leaking from his pores, or the mauve pitting of his eyes when slumber escaped him. He wanted to be at his brightest for this. He felt like an unpaid intern at some big wig exec’s office, knees turned in and gut doing flips.

The studio was a sun scorched walk across bleached white concrete, but he made it as far as two steps past the gate when a cart rolled up to collect him, puttering him across the long stretch. He didn’t see his manager amongst the crew. His make-up artists were sweet gals, older than he expected, enthusiastic to be here. Delia and Margo. On set, there was a dip in professionalism as everyone swarmed him, happily introducing themselves.

His neck craned and his eyes flitted about the room, constantly searching for her. What would she be wearing? What would her face look like when she finally met him? What perfume would she smell like? “Get a hold of yourself, Presley,” he muttered to himself.

Back stage, he got powdered up for rehearsals, having breezed through the script on the long plane ride to Vegas. It was his seventeenth read-through from start to finish, mesmerized by the similarity between himself and the character he was supposed to play. Jake was also bored of his routine performances and craved something meaningful, something new and fresh in his monotonous life. That something was Frannie’s character. And he knew that the chemistry that was sure to fire between them would translate flawlessly to the screen. This was a once in a lifetime film. He could feel the makings of a classic in his hands. He just had to act his heart out. There was a duet, even though the scene was supposed to be a playful conflict, with the two of them fighting over the right to the microphone during a shared bit. Making music together sounded too good to be true. He couldn’t wait.

On stage for rehearsals of the first scene, he recalled in the script that Frannie’s character wouldn’t be revealed until the first ten minutes in. It opened with a shot of Elvis playing the piano, a slower number than Elvis was used to, but Jake’s style of rock and roll was heavy on the roll. The guitarist was an actor he wasn’t familiar with, but the film barely had any focus on him other than a side plot knocking up a cocktail waitress.

The director was a lovely, warm woman in her late 50s. Elvis shook her hand and was surprised with its firmness. There was a boyish twinkle in her weathered eyes and she seemed born to direct with her motherly cadence. She patted Elvis on the upper back with her big meaty hand, walloping him good and cheering, “I couldn’t believe it ‘til I saw it. You know you were my first choice. Something tells me you understand this character very well. I’m glad you chomped at the bit. I know we’re going to make great things together. I’m gonna make you act yer heart out, Presley!”

Cassandra’s canvas chair creaked loudly as she hunkered down and took her lavalier and shouted, “Action!”

Though he was heartened by the director’s enthusiasm, he couldn’t help but feel a welling sense of disappointment as well. He thought he’d be seeing Francesca by now, but she was nowhere to be spotted, at least until he practiced his lines and the narration that he was supposed to record over the scene. He was struck, mid-sentence, when the metal exit door creaked open and a figure slipped into the darkness of the crowd, whispers lighting up in greeting to welcome the shadow in. The dim lights warmed, and Elvis could see her clearly.

She walked on set that day, a star. He knew just looking at her that she was born for this.

His rehearsal was short and clean, and Cassandra was overjoyed to have seen him in action, clapping for him and thanking dress for whoever picked a white suit for the opening scene. It was stark against the black Wurlitzer. They chose to film in Vegas for real slot machines to rent, adding authenticity to the vibe. The irony of the jackpots going off in the background wasn’t lost on him.

Francesca Ferrara was a silent marvel, blending in, strikingly indistinguishable when she wanted to be. She leaned against Cassandra, and whatever muttering they shared made them both laugh sweetly behind their hands.

“Oh stop. Get up there, sweetheart. You can worry about makeup later.”

She was fussed over for a moment, her hair brushed and a clean sheen of red applied to her cupid’s bow lips. He was struck right through, clutching his chest as she rose up the set steps.

The spotlight was cast, its honeyed glow illuminating her as she walked in from the left of stage. It made a halo in her hair. She was intense from the moment she took center and began her performance bold and clean and with grace in her casual attire. A black dress top and red silk skirt. She already looked the part of an ardent card slinger with a secret past (and a secret set of hidden pipes). It was a whisper to begin, lulling the crowd in. She hadn’t practiced any vocals, but what left her was honed and mighty.

Elvis was rapt, standing amongst the crew, attentive on her. She spun and her skirt draped like a second skin against her shapely legs. Her timbre was soulful, all-American in its honesty. She didn’t close her throat around her vowels, she didn’t whisper, she trusted herself to carry every note with masterful precision. Her hair twirled about her face and he could see her alight.

“I can’t believe you’re really here. This is my first time working on a big Hollywood budget kind of thing.” A crew member tried chatting him up, murmuring low so that she didn’t interrupt Frannie’s practice, but it was distracting him. He nodded politely but tight.

“Uh huh. It’s the big leagues alright.”

“I’m Sherri. I’m the one who put you in white. It’s totally your color, hun.” She was way too young to be calling him hun.

He didn’t mean to be rude, but Frannie was consuming his attention, singing, wondering to the audience with song when her life would finally take a turn for the better. When would she finally find the man of her dreams? Did he truly exist? It was over and she went out as gracefully as candlelight in the wind, curtsying with her ankles crossed and skirt held aloft.

The spotlight on her shuddered then flicked off when the air conditioning unit for the studio hummed to life. Frannie exited stage without preamble. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t looking for him.

He watched her meander through the backstage with grace, never a step out of line. Her movements were taken with such… precision. It was like a dance she never stopped, on her toes with a devastating smile. A smile Francesca rarely titled his way, substituting instead for raw surmisal. It was almost like she was waiting. For him to make a fool of himself. He followed her around set, but she was just out of reach somehow, and whenever she got close enough for him to start a conversation, someone would intercept his path and vie for his attention.

“When I told my Dad I was going to be working on a film with Elvis Presley, he couldn’t believe it! Do you mind if I get an autograph? I promise I won’t always be pestering you like this. I just have to shoot my shot. I loved you in Jailhouse Rock and King Creole! Haha, ain’t that what life is? A couple of good moments.”

Elvis grinned, finding the kid endearing. “And all the rest is trying to chase them. What’s your name, young man?”

“Edward! But all my friends call me Eddie. So, you can call me Eddie for sure, Mr. Presley! And I’m—and I’m just a gaffer. But if you ever need anything you just send for me. Say the word, and I’ll have it done. We’re all here for you!” He was filled with enthusiasm, bright eyes wide with wonder as he pulled out a notebook with only two other signatures on the first page. A young buck in the cinematography world. Elvis smiled back.

Thanks for always looking out for me, Eddie. From your pal, Elvis Presley.

“You ain’t tearing up, are you?” Elvis laughed when Eddie’s face pinkened as the young man clutched his notebook tight.

“No sir, dust in my eyes. It’s just so… dusty up there in the scaffolding.” He sniffled, smiling at him before politely, letting Elvis get back to finding Frannie.

“Hey, do you know where Miss Ferrara went?”

“I think she stepped outside for a smoke?” Eddie pointed towards the glowing exit sign and Elvis booked it, keeping his gaze fixed straight so that no one would be tempted. He made it to the door and pushed, stepping out into the shaded alleyway.

Elvis spotted her instantly. She was smiling to a kindly makeup extra who was puffing away, giving her a little wave before she finally turned her attention towards him. She didn’t have a cigarette, she’d just stepped out for air.

Her gaze nearly tipped him over and he couldn’t remember the last time a girl really made his heart skip, but here he was, thinking up one liners, sweet nothings, compliments about her glossy hair—something. Anything. But when he opened his mouth to finally break the handful of seconds’ silence, she offered out her elegant hand for him to take. It was warm, her fingers hugged lovingly by glittering jewels. Did she feel the sweat in his palm?

“And you must be Elvis Presley,” she grinned, taking back her hand and leveling him with a look. There was that flicker of resolve in her fierce eyes, just like on stage at Johnny Carson’s show. When the stage light was a halo behind her head and he heard her voice warble, not with falter, but with emotion, constricting her elegant throat. He had to have her. That kind of conviction was rare in a woman.

“Francesca.” He cursed himself for not kissing the cool back of her palm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“I’m sure,” she teased, but with a bit of venom in her purr. “So, what’s a big star like you doing on a movie set like this? Isn’t the role a little... non-traditional for you?” Heavy with insinuation, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach her question, to approach her. She was of a different cut. He knew he’d never met a woman like her.

“When I saw you on Carson, I knew we had to mix some of our star power together. For the good of the movie going people,” he joked. “Give them something like they’ve never seen before.”

Francesca smiled, but it lacked warmth. She was analyzing him. “Then let’s make magic together, Presley.” She said unconvincingly and he realized at once that she had no faith in him. That sinking feeling that he got at those uppity parties, of immaturity and shallowness, washed over him in waves now. She hadn’t even seen his rehearsal and she already doubted him. Was this a mistake after all?

“You can trust me, Frannie, I’d never—”

“Only my friends call me Frannie. Just call me Miss Ferrara, please.” Her voice was pretty, lightly accented with a New York lilt. He could smell her perfume. She was even more stunning in person. Suddenly, he was dizzy. “I’m getting back inside and out of this heat,” she offered. Fall couldn’t set in quickly enough.

Elvis watched her sway away without an argument, wondering how he’d already screwed this up. He’d never really had to introduce himself to anyone, to make a good impression. He just showed up and was the life of the party. Ladies flocked to him and guys wanted to hang out with him. Approaching a guarded woman was a new beast entirely but he was undaunted. Tailing after her, he slid his hands coolly in his pockets.

“So, what are you doing after this? We can talk over dinner.”

“I’m too tired to talk. I still have another two hours of rehearsal, Elvis Presley.”

“Well, maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend.”

“I’m busy next weekend.”

“Okay. Well,” he stumbled to open the door for her and she didn’t regard him as she trotted on through without breaking her stride. “What about the weekend after that?”

“Busy then, too.”

Elvis’s face flattened. “I get the message, Frannie—cesca. Francesca Ferrara. Uh, Miss Ferrara.” He was approached by some crew members with notepads and proper autograph books, pictures of him. They mirrored how Elvis felt, tailing after Francesca, who left him to his groupies.

“I was there at your premiere in Memphis last year! I spent my whole Christmas bonus on those tickets!”

“Mr. Presley! Are you busy after this? A bunch of the crew were going to Marco’s for lunch. Cassandra’s treat!”

“What are you asking him for? Of course he’s going! Elvis, come on. Pile in with the rest of us!”

Elvis laughed, eyes glancing for an out. He’d rather just have a day to wind down since his scene rehearsal was finished for the evening, but he relented, placating them with a smile and joining in. Somehow, Elvis’ Memphis crew found him and jumped in their own cars to follow. Frannie was nowhere in the sight and certainly hadn’t booked a separate ride to the restaurant.

It was dim and the portions were tiny and the conversations were ones he’d had thousands of times already.

“Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Did you ever freeze up on stage?”

“Do you have a favorite song to perform?”

“What do you think you have that makes you Elvis Presley?”

He was tired. He wanted to be someone again, not a thing, an object, an idol, an undigested voice. No one wanted to know a deeper, more meaningful him. It was always about the act, the playing, the singing, and the glamor. Didn’t anyone want to know what his worst fear was? What kept him getting out of bed everyday when there was almost nothing worldly left for him to achieve? How for a time, he felt he couldn’t go on living after his mama died? He had everything, fame, money, charisma. He could reach for top shelf trim whenever he desired and yet his heart was always empty. Tired of the vices, he longed for a connection. And he promised himself that tomorrow would be in line with his goals, that he’d make Francesca see that he had more to him than critically panned cheese and charm.

Francesca just didn’t like him. He was a ham. A sock hop with fourteen moves under his belt exactly. She counted them. He fubbed his lines and under spoke, his voice almost an indiscernible mumble at times. Other times he was just bleakly shouting without a hint of emotional inflection. She felt there was wasted potential there. But for the moment, he couldn’t act to save his life and yet he was the center of attention. No matter what he did, people loved him. It was like Francesca had a meter for detecting bullshit and Elvis was riddled with it. What he did have going for him was his flair. His artistry. His charisma. And God help her, that voice. His voice was like a whiskey hammer, strong and soothing. It rolled over her like black silk, a lover’s caress.

He took the thunder in almost every rehearsal scene he was in. If they had to act like they were in a bitter argument, Elvis was always more emotional, more explosive. If they had to practice their duet, she could feel him trying to suffocate her voice with his. And to make it all worse, he did all this obnoxiously and obliviously. She knew what he was trying to do, emphasis on try. He clearly wanted to impress. Not just the director, but her. He wanted Frannie to take him seriously. But if one-upping her was all he had, then he’d better be prepared for filming, because she was holding back right now, letting him burn all the glory he wanted. Sprinting hard and fast, not realizing the length of this endurance race. She stayed with him, jogging aloofly alongside, performing her part for rehearsals. Never missing a day, even if she wasn’t required on set.

Not only was Presley grating on her nerves, his meddling weasel of a manager with the shark eyes and angry red cheeks, always glared at her whenever he graced them with his presence. He never stopped trying to talk her agent down, to make a change in the headliner decision. It was Francesca’s one request. She didn’t care about the money nearly as much as Dominick, which is why she gave him such a generous 20% cut (that he objected to time and time again, saying she needed to build her estate up and enjoy her youth while she still had it). She just wanted to be a star. For everyone to know her name. Ask anyone for anywhere who Elvis Presley was, and they could tell you. Ask anyone outside of young people who Francesca Ferrara was? Deadpan stares.

To say it was irritating would be an understatement. It wasn’t fair to her to watch him prance in the limelight like a show pony. But at least he wasn’t the highest billed, and she held that close to her heart with pride. Dominick could work magic; he was the only man involved with this she had any faith in.

Elvis, however, worryingly acted like he was about to star in his next big flop and bring Frannie down before she truly had the chance to shine on her own merit. If she was going to lose, she didn’t want to keep herself tied to him. She’d be “that one girl in that one Elvis movie. What was it called again?” She shuddered to think about her future if this big break didn’t pan out. Was hitching herself to the Presley wagon a mistake?

So, she dedicated herself ten-fold to her theatrics and practiced hard, applied herself harder. She was in the dance studio in her free time, honing her skills, tightening her spirals, widening her devastating smile. Slowly, but surely, she would sway them all. Make them all her adoring fans.

Tonight, it rained hard on the tin studio roof. The lights were low, and the stage echoed with the whispers of her feet pittering across the lacquered floor. She didn’t have on shoes to give her blisters some relief, and the added grip made her even more agile. Music played in her head. For this scene, she was supposed to be in a round. The camera would cut to each character lamenting their current situation in harmony, longing for their dreams to one day come true. In the next scene, she would be alone in her dingy motel room, sitting on the bed and counting her cash, hiding it in the mattress. The dance would intersperse, haunting and flighty, like a specter, because that was her character’s life. Bouncing from one place to the next, always on the run and never somewhere long enough to make a human connection with anyone. She was losing herself, a shell of who she wanted to be.

It seemed like no matter what she did, she would be in his shadow. And for that alone, she disdained him with an unbridled intensity. She snubbed his advances, tossing him out to like feed for hungry extras on set who were vying for their next meal.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Presley?” Emphasis on the anything.

“You know I’m also a licensed masseuse. I can see so much tension you’re carrying in those doorway-busting shoulders.”

“You seein’ anybody, Mr. Elvis?”

It was eye rolling at first but after a time, rolling them so much gave her a migraine. She downed two ibuprofen, drinking from the canteen and crushing the little paper cup in her hand. She could feel the pills still stuck in her throat and she swallowed dryly, eyes watering to the sound of the director praising Elvis yet again for such a good performance. She hated admitting it, but was Cassandra actually getting a good performance out of him?

Throwing the cup into the garbage, she shook the thought out of her head. No, the only thing the lackey could do was sing and even then, he had to be in a serious mood. He was intent on his perceived conquest of her. She felt like hunted game when she turned a corner to find him conveniently there for her to bump into, hit with the heady wash of his piney cologne. He helped her to her waiting golf cart, hopping into his garish pink Cadillac. He offered her a ride every time and every time she declined him.

“Coffee?”

“It upsets my stomach.”

“There’s a new Italian place down the street from—”

“I don’t like Italian.” Total bluff, she grew up on the stuff. Frannie made sure not to ever eat lasagna leftovers in front of him.

“I have a cabin up in Gatlinburg, you should come out sometime. Perfect view of the stars.”

“I can see them just fine from my balcony.” Another lie. The city lights suffocated any natural starlight. When she looked up, she could see the moon and little else but Orion’s lonely belt. Her disdain was threatening to turn into loathing with his insistent pestering, his constant lackadaisy attitude. He showed up on time the first few weeks, but he’d taken to coming in late occasionally or playing pick-up games on set with his pack of hangers on from Memphis. His routine was without practice.

Cassandra’s enthusiasm waned, but only a tad bit. She wasn’t afraid of scaring him off with critique, telling him to tighten up his act and try it again from the top. Her patience was endless, and she was determined to pull a show-stopping performance from him. Cassandra knew he had it in him. But Elvis struggled with some of the more complex footwork, stumbling once and catching himself, his palms slapping loudly against the stage. He wrung his hands, his wrists swollen and red the next day.

He had to go to the hospital for them to tell him he’d suffered a fracture in each wrist, but that he should heal without any issues after some rest and keeping them in a cast. He was encouraged to wear them on set, but he refused when performing.

“They just slow me down, anyways.”

Elvis missed a few days of filming, stalling production considerably. He was apologetic and embarrassed. Francesca practiced her rehearsals without him, going over her part of the duet again and again. She perfected her choreography, working after hours with a dance coach to help her flexibility. Show stopping high kicks and quick splits. There was nothing that could stand in her way.

She caught him looming once when she was going over another routine, practicing her lines and her placement. There was a cartwheel that kept dropping her voice and she wanted to train the warble out. Everything else was flawless, except for that one note.

“Take me awAy!”

Agh, she did it again! And then she saw him in the back row of chairs that some of the crew sat in. He was watching her. She pretended not to notice.

In make-up today, disaster struck. When Margo was going on about her boyfriend’s new job at the furniture store, her cigarette breath punctuating her words, she uncapped the same red lipstick that was used for Josephine every day. But as she painted the cream across Frannie’s lips, the actress cried out, swatting the tube out of her hand. It hit the ground and rolled, breaking the lipstick bullet off its base.

Margo reached down, taking it in her hands while Frannie cupped her stinging mouth. On the takeaway, there was a line of blood.

“What the hell?” Margo exclaimed, showing Frannie that a sewing needle had been inserted inside the wax. It was sticking out just enough to nick.

The room seemed to tilt. The lights on her cheval glass blurred. Someone had tried to hurt her.

Unceremoniously, the lipstick plunked into the trash and Margo reached into her kit to draw out a fresh backup among the dozen others. She peeled the plastic casing and popped it open, inspecting it, running the tip across her wrist and just swiping clean color.

“This one is just fine, sweetheart. Don’t you worry. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this. I’ll have security tell me who was here last night. They usually keep a headcount. They’re good about that.” But the words were muffled in Francesca’s ears as her heart began to pound.

Who would have done this to her?

She was frazzled for the rest of her rehearsal, stumbling over her own two feet after having danced her heart out during practice late last night. And who else had been there? She knew Elvis and a few extras. Sure, he was annoying but he’d never once seemed threatening. This was just downright malicious.

It took her focus completely off track and she went through the motions without soul, guarded, eyes shifting across the crew, like she might see a sign. Elvis was watching her intently, but then again, he often did.

During her lackluster performance, a loud clang sounded above her. Frannie flinched as a light came crashing down, shattering on impact just a few feet from her. It was small, but if that’d hit her, she’d be knocked out cold.

She breathed a sigh of relief, finding that her nerves weren’t baseline at any point, fluttering high. She laughed the incident off though on the inside, she was rattled. Her lips were sore when she smiled. “That was almost lights out for me!”

“Oh my god! Eddie!” Someone screamed, pointing to the back of the stage, where just below the curtains, a pair of feet could be seen dangling, kicking.

Francesca realized she was looking at the gaffer, Edward, a rope lassoed tightly around his neck and left hand. His teeth were bared as he struggled to push against the tension of the rope, his legs jutting out straight, his free arm wiggling wildly. He couldn’t manage a cry for help beyond a high-pitched rasp.

People were scrambling, trying to find a ladder, but the young man’s face was beginning to purple.

She couldn’t believe what she was witnessing, her legs were moving of their own accord. He wasn’t so high that he couldn’t be reached, or at least his feet anyways. She knew she couldn’t get him down on her own but before she could even try, a man pushed past her, gently moving her aside. It was Presley, looking taller somehow as he lifted his gentle hands up, giving the dangling stagehand a place to stand if only for a brief second. His legs wobbled, knees bowing back, but the crew were all suffused whispers for a brief second, listening for the young boy to breathe.

“Oh my god, Edward, just breathe, honey. The boys are about to cut you down now, just breathe sweetie,” Francesca’s heart was pounding. Presley’s arms were straight up, his sleeves rolling down, his shirt constricting around his powerful chest. She knew his wrists must be on fire, as she could see they were still yellow and purple with healing bruising.

Someone managed to find a ladder and scurried up, hacking the rope after a few of the men gathered together, lacing their arms to catch him. The rope gave and Eddie fell back with a gasp, his face beet red, his eyes bulging, veins completely blown out and bleeding into his sclera. But he was already happily choking, tears freefalling as he profusely rasped, “You saved my life. Elvis, you saved my life.”

“Just relax, Eddie. We’re getting you to a hospital.”

Eddie wheezed, unable to lift his head or move his broken wrist.

“What happened?” Someone asked from the tight circle of concerned faces.

Cassandra shook her head. “It’s that damn scaffolding. It’s going to come down and kill someone.”

Francesca felt superstition warning her that the film might be cursed. Had her bitterness transformed into malevolence and wreaked havoc on set? She glanced up at Elvis through her curtain of dark hair with new eyes. Seeing him jump into action like that had shifted her view of him just slightly for the better. She must have been smiling, because when he caught her looking his way, he grinned back, looping his arm under Eddie’s shoulder and helping him to a stand.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you in the car. Wanna tell your old man you got to ride in my Cadillac?”

“No way…” Eddie croaked, “You think I could drive it back?”

“We’ll uh, we’ll have to take a rain check on that. But one day, kid, one day!”

Frannie couldn’t help but find this side of him endearing. So, she joined him. Much to his surprise.

“What if he passes out or something? Looks like you need a hand with him,” she suggested, hopping into the back. When Elvis grabbed the steering wheel, he grunted, frozen. Eddie didn’t seem to notice as he winced and bellyached, trying to find some way he could hold his sprained neck without causing severe pain.

With grace, Frannie grabbed the headrest and leaned forward, her voice wet at Elvis’s ear when she asked, “Do you want me to drive?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, looking straight ahead, the shells of his ears flushing pink. “You know what? Give her a whirl. Just be careful, she’s sensitive.”

Surprised with his casualness, she slotted into the driver’s seat in his place, the plush leather still warm from his body. His long legs needed the space, but Frannie had to scoot up to the steering wheel before settling comfortably in.

The ride was smooth and she took every turn with care, with Elvis pointing over her shoulder. “Now turn right here, traffic’s going to have Main Street backed up.” He’d obviously spent a lot of time in Las Vegas before. He checked over Eddie, telling him, “Now when you tell the story, you can say it was my Caddy, but that you were driven by the Francesca Ferrara.”

She smirked, choosing to take that as a complement, even if he loaded that with patronization. They didn’t have to wait long at all in the ER—apparently any injury above the shoulders was considered high risk and the patient was swept immediately away.

Eddie called his parents, but they were out of town. Elvis volunteered to be his ride and Eddie begged him to just go home—he obviously had more important things to do, being Elvis Presley, after all—but Presley just assured him. “No, no, I really don’t.”

While Eddie was being looked over by physicians, Elvis got them something out of the vending machines, telling Francesca, “See, I told you I’d take you out for dinner one day.”

Frannie couldn’t stifle her laugh. He got her with that. Now she pondered when he was going to ask her again, but she didn’t have to wonder long when after inhaling a pack of cheese crackers, he brought up the topic.

“You know dating on set means asking for trouble. Right?” She asked, looking out at the darkening, orange sky.

“You seem like the kinda girl who doesn’t mind a little trouble.”

He thought he was slick. And maybe he was. “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Presley.”

“Call me Elvis, please,” he insisted. “Come on. Just one date. Dinner. A movie. Horseback riding on the beach. Anything you want.”

“Don’t try to charm me.”

“So, you’re saying I’m charming?” He smirked playfully.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mama always told me ladies like a man with consistency. I like you, Frannie. I like you a lot.”

She couldn’t detect any dishonesty. It almost seemed like he was earnest in taking her out on a real date. But she still didn’t want to budge on the principle of dating her co-stars. That was a hot pot of drama waiting to blow. Perhaps she could meet him halfway, just this once. Holding up one finger, she told him, “Take me as a friend to the carnival. There’s one next week in Indian Springs.”

He was like a dog with a bone, wagging his tail. He finally got a bite and practically shot up in victory. Elvis pumped his fist boyishly.

“Then I’ll be the best friend you could ask for,” he assured, leaving her with a week to ruminate on if this was the first of many bad decisions with this dangerously likable man.

Elvis watched her dark hair cascade down her shoulders. Her hips swayed sensuously when she walked, inviting his gaze to linger. Francesca drew almost everyone’s eyes, turning heads when she made her way to the ticket booth in her fire red dress, gems glinting on her throat and in her stormy tresses. She splurged on the limitless pass, presenting the back of her hand proudly to be stamped with a bright yellow star, one to match his as he made the same purchase, kicking himself for not covering hers—not that she even gave him a chance. She was adamant on making this as casual as she could.

He wanted her arm in his. He wanted her to lean her pretty head against his shoulder while they walked in step to the Ferris wheel. While she had a big panda bear or something he won her. It seemed so… trivial of her, to pick something like this. Low brow, even. He loved it. There were single moms with lines of unruly children in tow, trash skittering across whatever parking lot the fair rented out, and Frannie was beaming, smiling from ear to ear, eyes reflecting the string lights like fireworks.

“What’s first? I’m real good at ring toss.” He absolutely wasn’t, but anything to get her one step closer to taking him—them?—seriously, was a step in the right direction.

She shook her head, pointing to the carousel, adjacent to a funnel cake stand and a house of mirrors. Trapezing ahead without him, he was starting to suspect he was getting recognized even with his hat on as eyes followed the pair and hands cupped over secret sharing mouths as people whispered.

“I don’t want to carry around some big stuffed animal the whole time,” she remarked about the game of ring toss he mentioned earlier. “And besides, I don’t want to school you in ring toss, it’d just be embarrassing for you.” She grinned, sending a flare of heat up his spine. Dynamite. He tailed after her long strides, wondering how she was walking in those lacquered things that sure made her hips look good.

“Alright, alright. You’re the boss. Let’s do what you’d like first, then.”

She pointed to the Fireball. A sketchy looking hoop of metal with a snake of carts that went in a 360, first fast, then slow, then counterclockwise. It made his stomach churn just looking at it, but she was giddy, eating up the distance between them and the ride.

“If you don’t want to ride, you can just watch,” she suggested, grinning at him over her shoulder. She was egging him on.

“As much as I’d love to watch you get scared all by your li’l self, I’ll join you. My treat.” He sidled in next to her, lifting his arms as the bright yellow cage restraints shuddered down over their shoulders. He evened his breathing, and involuntarily gasped when the ride shot forward sooner than he expected. Frannie was already screaming excitedly, her hair billowing around her thrilled face. They made the first revolutions and Elvis realized that these janky machines, hissing and clanking, gained more heart, more charm and whimsy when you had someone to share the memory with.

Even though they were both a peck dizzy, they stumbled to the game booths anyway. And although Frannie absolutely did not school him at ring toss like she boasted, she did blow him away at darts. Nailing every high value balloon point blank, dead center. She won him a teddy bear in a smoking jacket, with a hot pair of shades to match. He was tickled, taking the little bear under his arm like a treasure, toting him everywhere and even putting him on the carousel and on the whirly swings next to them.

He won her a giant panda bear after spending way more than its worth on his chances at skeeball. His wrists were still sore from his fall on set, but he was determined to win her something memorable and to see the mirth when she embraced it tightly near the end of the night, just how she wanted. It was all worth it.

Frannie introduced him to the delights of obscenely large funnel cake and vinegar fries, and he convinced her to try her first chili dog. She apparently only ever ate them with sauerkraut, from hot dog stands in New York.

“You know, where I come from, a kid would get bullied for eating a dog with no chili.” He made her laugh for the dozenth time of the night and lavished in the wind chime sound. The way she threw her head back. The way her eyes sparkled.

In the house of horrors, she startled him with a funny little, “Boo!” after dashing ahead when he stopped for a moment to fix his loafer. He exaggerated his surprise for her a little and she reveled in it, reminding him happily through different points of the night, “I got you good back there, didn’t I?”

You certainly did, Francesca.

On the way back, he drove with his arm across her shoulders. It was rare that he ever did anything without his crew, but boy was he glad he did tonight. Wind blew in their hair and star spray reflected on the chrome trimming. He could see her dark curves outlined by slivers of moonlight. He felt like he was in a dream as he drove the empty stretch of backroads to the city and finally towards her luxurious apartment. Heart in his throat, his palms were damp when he opened the passenger door and helped her across the sidewalk.

The doorman, Bennington, tipped his hat to her and then looked at Elvis once, twice, three times before his eyes bugged and his diligent demeanor cracked.

“No way. You’re.... you’re—him! Francesca Ferrara, now you have some explaining to do. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing the—”

“Nuh uh,” Frannie laughed heartily, holding up her palm. “We’re just friends, Bennington. You know I’d tell you if I had a man in my life!”

He smacked his lips at her, back to focusing on Presley. “I’m kicking myself. I thought you had his haircut when you picked up Miss Francesca, but I told myself there was no way! Now, I always said if I saw you in person, I’d have something for you to sign but my boss would kill me if I got ink on my uniform.” He patted his chest but came up empty handed.

“I’ll do you one better,” Elvis proposed, unfastening his diamond and pearl cufflinks. “How about these? They even have my name stamped on ‘em. See?”

Bennington’s mouth was agape, his hands cradled in prayer to hold the cufflinks. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Presley. Thank you! Thank you so much!” He pocketed them for safe keeping. “Boy, this is the best night of my life.”

“Mine too,” Elvis said, cupping young Bennington’s shoulders and bidding him a good night.

Frannie was bowled over by his generosity. She stopped at the elevator, hitting the call button and waiting for it to come cruising down the transparent glass tube.

“Tonight was fun. I don’t really get to have a lot of fun. My life is just exhausting sometimes. I-it’s nice to get to do something like this every once in a while,” he cooed. Her glossy hair had come undone from its jeweled bindings. She squeezed the stuffed panda he’d won her and smiled that heart stopping smile.

He was devastated, knowing that when the elevator doors opened, he’d be alone shortly thereafter.

“Thank you, Elvis.”

She leaned in to kiss him and his lips were slightly pursed, his pulse rocketing. But she pressed her lips gingerly against his cheek, her perfume suffusing him, all cinnamon and powdered sugar.

“Anytime, Frannie.”

She let him get away with it as she turned her back towards him and entered the elevator, the doors shutting and whisking her up. He could see she was looking at him all the way up. Was she thinking about letting him in? She’d communicated very clearly that this wasn’t a date. So why was he so torn up about being left in the lobby, and walking past cheery Bennington who said with surprise, “Oh, goodnight Mr. Presley! Get home safe. And good luck on set!”

Elvis acknowledged him and returned the gesture, legging it to his car and shutting the door, revving it on the start. And although he was forlorn about going back to his cavernous home in the desert, he glanced in the rearview and saw that hot red lip imprint on his cheek.

Francesca liked him. She just had to give him a chance to make her fall in love. Like he was already falling for her.

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