by Joyce Armor
They got off at one of the top floors and he led her down a hallway, through a stairway door and up a flight of stairs. If it had been anyone but Brian, she might have been worried that he had so quickly gotten her so isolated. But this was Brian. She knew him. Didn’t she? Famous last words of numerous victims of serial axe killers.
He stopped at a door, pulled out a card key from his pocket and inserted it, and Ellie realized he had led her to the penthouse. He opened the door and stood aside so she could walk in first. Go quickly, before he can plant the axe in your back. The suite was absolutely beautiful, opulently decorated with buttery leather furniture and a huge pink, red, yellow and orange flower arrangement of orchids and lilies on a chrome and beveled glass coffee table. A fabulous, inviting basket of fruit and nuts sat on the marble counter, and the suite also included a killer view of the Las Vegas skyline.
“Unreal,” Ellie said, taking it all in with a look of awe. She could definitely get used to this. Yeah, it’ll be just the three of you. You, Brian and his fiancée.
“I booked it for the weekend.”
Uh-oh. He was tempting. Oh, so tempting. But he was also engaged. This wasn’t right. She was having the old inner struggle, though, that was for sure. He’s not married yet. All’s fair... “Brian…”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “No expectations, Ellie. I just wanted a place to crash between the periods of insanity.”
She wondered why he couldn’t go home, but didn’t ask. She took a couple of steps sideways, snatching one of the largest strawberries she’d ever seen from the fruit basket, and sunk into the glorious butter yellow couch. Ah, yes, this sofa definitely had her butt’s name on it.
“Some place. You always were a classy guy.” She fought the urge to run into the bathroom and see how fluffy the towels were.
Brian joined her on the couch. Close, but not too close. Way classy.
“Even if you don’t want to see the bedroom, the sofa pulls out into a bed with a great view.”
What if there’s somebody across the Strip with a telescope?
She smiled at that. Good, she hadn’t responded to her inner voice, well, except for the smile. She was making progress. She had an awfully good view right here, she thought, looking at Brian. They spent two or three hours catching up and talking about old times. She could see the hunger in his eyes but was not quite ready to lay it all out there, figuratively or actually. He had asked her something, but she missed the question. Overthink much?
Before she could gather her thoughts to ask him to repeat himself, his cell phone rang. Yet again. “Here’s that insanity I was talking about,” he said apologetically and answered the call.
“Yeah. Uh-huh. Now?” He looked at his watch. “He’s two hours early.” He pulled a little black book from his back pocket, flipped through it to confirm what he already knew and shoved it back in his pocket. “Okay, okay. Yeah. I’m on my way.”
He ended the call. Ellie stood. So did Brian. He reached in another pocket and handed her a key card.
“You can hang out here whenever you want. I’m so sorry. I don’t expect my life to always be so…so…”
“…busy? Complicated? Chaotic? Convoluted?” she offered.
He smiled. “All of the above.” He leaned over, lifted her chin and kissed her on the lips, softly and sweetly.
This was not a sex kiss. It was a harbinger of things to come kiss. A much more dangerous kiss.
“Come on. I’ll drive you back to the convention center.” He grabbed her hand and started toward the door.
She stopped. “No, you go ahead. I can catch a cab.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “You just want to eat more strawberries. I appreciate it, though. This is kind of an emergency. I’ll call you or text.”
After he left, Ellie walked over to the fruit basket and helped herself to some huge and wonderfully firm green grapes, going over in her mind what Brian wanted and what she wanted. Sex was obviously on the list for Brian—he didn’t fool her with those sweet kisses—and she certainly saw the up side of that—no pun intended—but she was at a point in her life where she wanted more, at least as far as he was concerned. At least she thought she did. She knew he genuinely liked her, but was he just wanting to have a wild weekend or a “same time next year” kind of relationship, or was he thinking of breaking up with Cindy and risking his job to find something permanent with Ellie? She was a realist, and that one was a little too hard to believe, much as she might have liked to. She had a long-standing track record to live up to, or down to, and it didn’t include perfect or near-perfect guys giving up anything for her.
And even if it was the latter, is that what Ellie truly wanted? That’s the big question, isn’t it, Sherlock? Well, maybe not, if that wasn’t his goal. She thought her head might explode if she had to keep thinking about it. Too bad she wasn’t more like Russell, the king of go-with-the-flow. Or Tiffy, who knew how live in the moment. Now she knew she was going crazy if she had aberrant thoughts like that. She had to smile when she thought of Russell, though. What a character.
Chapter 10
With so many thoughts in her head, she checked in with Chantella and decided to walk back to the convention center. It was a beautiful day, not as scorchingly hot as Las Vegas could get, and the sky was as blue as she’d ever seen it. That was the great thing about Roger being her boss; schedules were always flexible. She thoroughly enjoyed the walk. She passed dozens of people, mostly tourists, along the way. The majority of them were chattering away, so happy and seemingly carefree. Normally she would enjoy watching the people and mentally critiquing their mode of dress, but she was supposed to be clearing her head. It didn’t help, however. She was just as befuddled about the Brian situation as she was at The Electra. Only now she didn’t have the giant strawberries and succulent grapes to assuage her discomfort.
When she arrived back at the Full Court Press booth, several people stood in line. Wesley was watching as Spencer signed a comic for a fan. She felt admiration and sympathy for Wesley, as he was a talented artist who hadn’t caught his break yet.
“Make it to Buzzie the Shoe King,” the fan gushed, practically drooling.
As Spencer wrote with a flourish, Russell, aka Muskman, approached with a middle-aged guy, wearing way too much denim, in tow.
“What’d I tell you?” Russell said triumphantly, thrusting one arm forward.
“I swear, I heard he died in a fire in France.”
Spencer, now in a gauzy shirt, tan shorts and sandals, stood up and stretched his legs. “I’m getting low on “Muskman” #3 and “Phar Out” #2.”
“I’ll get ‘em.” Wesley pulled out a box from beneath the table and began going through it as the Shoe King paid Ellie and headed off. Spencer sat back down and rifled through his shoulder bag, coming up with a fresh pen.
“There were only twelve issues of “Muskman,” right?” a fan asked.
“That’s right,” the artist answered. “Who should I make this out to?”
“Juanita. She’s my sister. She’ll go nuts. Why did you stop?”
“Oh, it’s all timing.”
Sludge walked up during this exchange. “Yeah, and it’s pretty hard to be creative when you’re drowning in Scotch.”
“I’ve been sober for more than twenty years, slimeball.”
“And how sober were you the night you burned the warehouse down?” Sludge sneered.
Spencer stood, nearly knocking over his chair.
Ellie tensed. “Come on, guys. Did you want something, Mr. Sludge?”
Spencer laughed. “Mr. Sludge. That’s a laugh. And an oxymoron. Or moron, at least.”
“I just wondered if anyone would actually come to see this has-been.”
“Well it’s better to be a has-been than a never-was,” Ellie huffed, then realized what she had said. She turned to Spencer. “Not that you are. A has-been, I mean.”
&
nbsp; Sludge took a step closer. “At least I can remember where I was in the ‘60s and ‘70s.”
Spencer didn’t budge. “Too bad nobody cares.” He sat back down.
Sludge started to walk off, then turned back. “And I never started any fires that could have killed my friends.”
Ellie gasped as Spencer leapt out of his chair, past the table and tackled Sludge. They went at it, exchanging punches and engaging in heavy-duty tussling. Sludge, who was thin but surprisingly strong, had Spencer pinned down when Muskman came flying out of nowhere and suddenly jumped onto his back with an “Ayeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Well, you can’t ever say life is dull working for Full Court Press.
Everything seemed to happen quickly after that. Wesley pulled Muskman off the pile and tried to separate the other two as a crowd gathered, with several guys and at least one woman, who wore a black and white striped onesie, shouting enthusiastically. Men, and apparently quite a few women, did like a good fight. Ellie paced back and forth, jumping up periodically to try and see above the crowd. Finally, a couple of no-neck security guards in starchy gray uniforms pushed their way through the gathering and pulled the combatants apart.
One of Sludge’s eyes was almost swollen shut, and his lip was split and bleeding. His hair was all askew and he looked decidedly more disheveled than usual. Spencer looked slightly better but his hair had come out of its tie. A small cut on his cheek was dripping blood and he was shaking his hand, which must have been hurting.
“C’mon, you two,” said one of the guards, with a firm hold of Sludge’s arm, “Let’s go get this sorted out.” He addressed the crowd. “Show’s over, folks.”
Wesley looked over his shoulder and called out to Ellie. “I’ll go with them!”
Wesley was so young, but he was such a born leader, a patriarch, though he didn’t quite fit into that typical patriarchal niche. Too bad he’s too young for you. You got that right. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate him. Not that she would ever betray Chantella’s friendship, even if they were all the same age. You’re not quite so loyal to Cindy, are you? God, she hated that voice.
Ellie and Russell returned to the booth as the entourage walked off, followed by a few gawkers, and the crowd dispersed. She looked at him. Russell didn’t seem to fit into a niche either. He’s nicheless. She chuckled.
“What?”
Well, she wasn’t going to tell him that. “I’m guessing there’s still a little baggage there,” Ellie said.
“A boatload, apparently,” he agreed.
Russell found a piece of paper and wrote up a sign that said, “Be Back Later” and taped it on the board announcing Spencer’s appearance. Ellie wished she’d thought of that. She couldn’t help watching him as he leaned over to tape up the paper. She wondered what he would look like naked. Whoa! Put the brakes on there. Fantasize about one naked guy at a time.
Somewhat apprehensively, as if her skin didn’t fit right, she began rearranging the t-shirts. God knew how many times she had done that already. Russell watched her, thinking how dependable and stable she was, not all flipping out because of the fight. Ellie was solid, not that she’d take that as a great compliment, he imagined, but it was.
She glanced at Russell then and realized his fur had gotten a little ruffled in the fight. She walked over and smoothed it out on his shoulder just as he began to sing. Touching him—or his fur—she felt such a connection it stunned her. It wasn’t Russell, she told herself, removing her hand as if it had been in a fire pit. It was Muskman, or the idea of Muskman. Yeah, keep believing that.
Buffalo gals won’t you come out tonight
Come out tonight, come out tonight
Buffalo gals won’t you come out tonight
And dance by the light of the moon.
Ellie looked up and stared at him. He kept singing.
As I was walking down the street,
Down the street, down the street,
A pretty little gal I chanced to meet,
Oh, she was fair to see.
She still stared. He stopped singing.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” She looked past him and her whole expression changed. “Oh, good. You’re back.”
He turned to see Chantella approaching.
“I’m going to get a drink. I’ll be right back,” Ellie said as the younger woman stashed her purse under the table.
Ellie headed off as fast as she could without looking like she was running for her life, but Russell rushed right after her, following her to a snack bar, where she purchased a soda and stood off to the side, drinking it.
“Must you follow me everywhere?”
He smiled. “Yes, I must.”
“Where’s the Tifster?”
“She went to find some shrimp cocktail.”
Ellie sighed wistfully. “I used to be Tiffy and Chantella.”
“Hard to picture. Seeing the old boyfriend’s dredging up old memories, eh?”
She took a long swig and gave him an exasperated look. “Why doesn’t Muskman concentrate on Muskman for a change?”
With that she took another sip of her soda and walked off. Russell, of course, followed.
“You’re making a mistake, you know,” he said.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Muskman knows this. Muskman is all-seeing and all-knowing.”
Unfortunately, just then he walked into a giant sandwich board with a resounding thwack!”
It was the highlight of Ellie’s day.
* * *
Early that evening, at the Courtyard DuMont pool area, Bonnie, Roger and Russell, in bathing suits, sat at a table enjoying tropical drinks and watching Chantella and Wesley and Spencer and Tiffy in the pool. They were playing chicken, with the women on the men’s shoulders, trying to knock each other into the water while a couple of middle-aged women cowered in the shallow end of the pool. Both the Full Court Press women looked stellar in their skimpy bikinis. Chantella’s was dark green, complementing her alabaster skin, not to mention her several tattoos, including a fierce-looking black-and-white dragon on her back, and Tiffy’s was bright blue, highlighting her perfect tan. Chantella’s exotic colorful tattoos in key spots just enhanced her attraction. No surprise there. Tiffy also had a tattoo, a red rosebud on her right shoulder.
“They decided not to press charges on each other,” Bonnie told Russell.
“Sigh.”
They all looked over to the pool as Tiffy shrieked with delight, attacking Chantella with abandon.
“Tiffy seems to be enjoying herself,” Roger observed.
“Yeah,” said Russell, taking a sip of his mango colada. “She’s surprisingly competitive.”
Bonnie looked at Russell contemplatively. “We could take them, you know.”
She smiled engagingly, they both looked at Roger, who shrugged, and then back at each other. Then they both jumped up simultaneously and ran to the pool and threw themselves in, just as Ellie approached the table and sat. She wore a black one-piece suit with a black and white polka dot, mid-thigh length cover. Black, the woman’s forgiving color worldwide.
She looked over at the pool. “I’m not even going to ask,” she said.
Bonnie and Russell emerged from under the water with Russell on Bonnie’s shoulders. They attacked, and he quickly disposed of Chantella. Then they turned on Tiffy.
“Hashtag, no…!”
Ellie couldn’t help but notice the girls’ tattoo. She had long since become familiar with Chantella’s artwork. Tiffy’s was a surprise, but she supposed it shouldn’t have been. Maybe that’s what Ellie should do while she was in Las Vegas to mark the new, improved version of herself. Get a tattoo. Of what? Two naked men? Something to ponder, as if she didn’t have enough to think about. Are you even allowed to get a tattoo when you’re sober, or do you have to be drunk?
At the table, a cocktail waitress made a notation of Ellie’s drink order—a root beer—and moved on to the next tabl
e.
Ellie studied Roger, who looked a little tired and lost in thought. Maybe the move to France was weighing on his shoulders. Or maybe it was the fight. She was struck again by how things change, how a person is on one path and then suddenly on another, totally different from the previous direction. It’s not always a good thing and not always a bad thing. It just is.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if there had never been a fire?” she asked. She had no idea where that thought had come from.
“Nah,” Roger said, swishing his rather strikingly blue drink around with his straw. “If there hadn’t been a fire, there would have been a flood. That’s life.”
“I never took you for a cynic.”
“Not a cynic, just a realist.”
Ellie brushed some debris off the table. “I’m gonna miss you. Are you sure you want to move to France?”
“Yeah. It’s time for a change. France is our Volume Two.”
“You just want the French to think you’re a god.”
“Yeah, that, too,” he smiled.
More shrieks, splashes and laughter emanated from the pool. Once again, Ellie felt a sense of sadness that Roger and Bonnie would be gone and she’d be out of a job. No, it wasn’t really that. She’d be out of these dear, fun, intelligent, unique people. She could always find another job. There was something a lot more important than having a mega career, as politically incorrect as that might be in this era of the independent woman. She felt fortunate to understand that at a young age. Relatively young.
“Bite me.”
Roger looked up. “What?”
Yet again she resolved to stop talking to her alter ego. At least in front of other people. Quickly she shifted gears and nodded toward the pool. “Why don’t you join in?”
He took a sip of his drink. “Sigh. Roger doesn’t do water.”
“Would that be coastal France you’re moving to?”