by P. C. Cast
"You don't have to whisper. You're alone. And you're making your case to the wrong woman here. Let us review the old joke. What does a lesbian take with her on a second date?" She paused expectantly.
"A U-Haul trailer so she can move in," Pamela provided.
"Right you are. So you see, from my point of view I think you've shown amazing discretion."
"You're right. I'm talking to the wrong woman," Pamela said.
V ignored her. "Which does not mean that you shouldn't play it cool. At least for a little while tonight until Young Jedi Phoebus explains why he's cutting out on you in the morning and, more importantly, why he failed to mention that little fact before, during, or after your legs were akimbo."
"I really wish you wouldn't call him that."
"Why? I mean it as a compliment. Besides, according to your gushing descriptions, it fits him perfectly."
"He's not like a Jedi. If you want the truth, he's more like a young god."
"Oh, get a grip on yourself. Nothing trumps a Jedi Knight except Princess Leia."
"Vernelle! You're so not helping."
"Sorry. Okay, what to wear… How about that adorable little butter-colored silk dress, you know, the one with the spaghetti straps. It's a spring fashion staple and always a hit with the masses. You did bring it with you, didn't you?"
"Yes I did. And do you remember how low it's cut? Hello! It has spaghetti straps! Bare shoulders and cleavage do not add up to hot without being hot," Pamela said.
"True. Okay. Did you bring those black slacks with you? The ones with the little slits that show a pretty glimpse of your calves?"
"Yeah, I think I did."
"Wear those with one of your sleeveless shells. Just be sure it's a shell that's also high-necked. That way he gets to see a little of your legs and a little of your arms, and just the outline of everything else. Then if he's a good boy, he can unwrap the rest of the package after he's made amends."
"V, you're incorrigible," Pamela said.
"Yes, I am, but I also know what looks good on women."
"You've got me there. Okay. I'll wear the slacks. And I won't sleep with him. Again."
"Sleep with? You didn't say anything about sleeping with the Jedi. I may not be hetero, but even I know no one sleeps with Jedi Knights."
"Stop it. You know I'm talking about sex."
"Pammy, you can have sex with him. Just make him miserable first."
Pamela started to say something, and then changed her mind. "Okay. Maybe."
"Don't okay maybe me. I know that tone. What's wrong? Give, girl."
"I like him," Pamela said softly.
"Yes, you've made that more than clear. So what's wrong with that?"
"No, I mean I really like him. And I don't want to. It's just not very smart."
"Pammy, listen to me. What's not very smart is letting Mr. Control Freak Duane poison your future. This Phoebus guy might not be the one. He might just be someone to have a fun Vegas fling with, and you will forever remember him as the man who got you out there again. But you'll never find out what he is, or what any other guy is, if you aren't willing to take a chance. Love's like that. You have to chance losing to win."
"I don't know if I can," Pamela said. "We've already established that I'm not a very good gambler."
"You can," V said firmly.
"How can you be so sure?"
"If you were meant to be alone, you wouldn't agonize over the should I or shouldn't I's. You'd accept the shouldn't I as what feels best for you and move on with your life. Be honest. Can you really tell me that it felt better before you met Phoebus?"
"It felt easier," Pamela said dryly.
"Well, doll, it's easier to make bedroom window treatments out of the same material as the bedspread. Does that make it better?"
Pamela grimaced, visions of perfectly matched floral prints assailing her. "Definitely not."
"Please take a chance, Pammy. You deserve to be able to really live again."
"I love you, V," Pamela said.
"That's what all the girls say. Have fun tonight. And try not to overanalyze the poor tripod. Remember, you can be smart without being uptight."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Go get dressed."
"Okay, I'll call you tomorrow," Pamela said.
"By the way, you do realize that this is the second phone call in a row during which you haven't once mentioned work, don't ya?"
"Bloody buggering hell! I am losing my mind. How did it go with Mrs.—" she began, but V's laughter cut her off.
"Pammy! Stop. It's a good thing that you actually have something besides Ruby Slipper on your mind."
"Yeah, but—"
"Yeah, but everything's fine. As usual. You have no worries. Call me tomorrow after you meet with Faust. And remember—fun and fantasy, Pamela, fun and fantasy…"
"You look beautiful as well as amazingly seductive tonight," Apollo said, kissing her hand with his lips lingering on her skin almost as suggestively as his eyes.
Great, she thought as her stomach pitched and rolled at the sight of him, the exact opposite of the look I was going for.
"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," Pamela quipped, borrowing V's line.
"Not lately, I haven't," he said, his summer-sky eyes going all dark and serious, "and never with as much sincerity."
"Then thank you," Pamela said, trying unsuccessfully not to fall under the blue spell his eyes cast. Like a cat ridding itself of water, she shook herself mentally and neatly changed the subject. "How's your sister?"
"She is well. Still troubled, but well." He kept Pamela's hand enclosed in his own as he propped one foot up on the bottom rung of the tall chair next to her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her soundly right there in front of their cafe, but her body language told him clearly that he needed to take it slow and easy. "Diana did not mean to offend you this afternoon. As she said, she has not been herself lately."
Pamela started to shrug an offhanded "no big deal" comment when she stopped herself. Instead, she squared her shoulders and looked directly into his bottomless eyes. "I'm not going to pretend that it didn't hurt my feelings to find out you're leaving so soon and you didn't say anything to me about it. To tell you the truth, it made me want to run away from you."
"Ah, truth…" He nodded his head thoughtfully, thinking how very much he appreciated her honesty, and at the same time realizing how few women had ever been honest with him. They had adored him—worshiped him—vied for his attentions. But he didn't think any of them had ever really been honest with him.
"It caused you pain to think that I would leave you without an explanation. And I am sorry for that." He touched her cheek. "The last thing I desire is that you feel that you have to run from me to protect yourself." He let his finger touch the gold coin that dangled around her neck. "Please trust that your feelings are safe with me."
Again, she answered him with total frankness. "I'll try to trust you, but I can't promise you anything yet."
He lifted her hand to his lips again. "Then I'll settle for your honesty and the opportunity to win your trust."
"Can you tell me why you're leaving?"
"Would you mind very much if we talked about it over dinner? I have something rather special planned for you tonight."
"Oh, okay," Pamela felt a flush of pleasure that she wished she could control better. "I am hungry." She stood up, very aware that Phoebus still held her hand, but unwilling to pull it from his warm grasp. "Where are we going?"
"Mount Olympus," he said, eyes shinning.
"That sounds like a restaurant that would fit right in around here, but I don't remember seeing it while I was walking around The Forum. Is it in Caesars Palace?"
"It can be entered through Caesars Palace, but it is very exclusive. Few people know of it."
"Just the gods, right?" Pamela kidded.
"Just the gods," Apollo agreed, grinning at her.
They strolled hand in hand through Th
e Forum towards the casino. Their arms brushed together intimately, and Pamela remembered how wonderful it had felt to be wrapped in his arms, pressed against his naked chest. She could smell his unique scent. It wasn't some trendy, oh-so-manly department store cologne smell. Phoebus' scent was clean and natural and male. It made her want to inhale him.
"Did you finish the sketch of the baths?" Apollo asked.
"Yes, I did," she said, jerking her thoughts away from remembrances of his naked skin. "And I like it, too. I've never designed anything similar to it. It's exciting to do something totally new. Well, that is, it will be if I can talk Eddie into it."
"I think you'll persuade him."
"I really hope so, I—OHMYGOD!" Pamela stopped as if she'd run into an invisible wall. She was staring at a glittering display of purses that sat on a marble pillar inside a locked glass case in front of a sassy little accessory store. "I can not believe how perfect it is!"
Transfixed, Pamela dropped Phoebus' hand and approached the display case. Three jeweled purses were placed on small crystal boxes. One purse looked just like a child's piggy bank, another was a lovely dragonfly, and the third—the third was the one she gravitated to. It was an exact replica of one of Dorothy's ruby slippers. It winked and glistened with red beads and semiprecious stones under the display spotlight, looking magical and familiar and very, very Wizard of Oz.
"I have to have it." Pamela crooked her finger at an attentive salesman within the store.
Apollo watched as Pamela, completely entranced by the purse that looked like a red slipper perched on one of the daggerlike heels she was so fond of, waited impatiently for the servant to unlock the case and carefully lift out the shoe purse. Pamela handled it reverently. She flipped over the gold-embossed tag that hung from the clasp. And her face paled.
"Let me be sure that I'm reading this correctly. Does it say four thousand dollars and not four hundred dollars?" she asked the clerk.
"Yes madam, you are correct. The purse is a Judith Leiber original." His tone said that was explanation enough for the price.
"It's beautiful." Reluctantly, Pamela returned the purse to the clerk, who placed it back in the case.
"May I show you anything else, madam?"
"No, thank you."
The employee closed and locked the case. "Just call if I can be of further assistance." He executed an abrupt about-face and returned to the posh interior of the boutique.
"Are you not going to purchase it?" Apollo asked, hating the forlorn look on Pamela's face.
"Are you kidding? It's four thousand dollars. I can't spend that kind of money on a purse."
"But you said that it was perfect."
"It is! Four thousand dollars worth of perfect." She sighed and slid her arm through his, steering him away from the front of the store. "Let's go before I cry."
"You don't have four thousand dollars?" Apollo asked as they walked.
"Yeah, I have four grand. But I don't have four extra grand—or at least not extra enough that I can justify spending it on an extravagance like a jeweled purse. Even if it is a ruby slipper jeweled purse. Oh, well," she said wistfully. "Maybe someday."
Apollo thought about the roll of currency he carried in his pocket. He couldn't remember exactly how much he'd brought with him. He'd just skimmed some off the top of the pile of bills Zeus had commanded Bacchus leave in a golden bowl near the portal. He did a quick mental calculation, and was pretty sure it wouldn't add up to four thousand dollars. Pamela seemed to consider it a great deal of money anyway, probably more than she would accept as a gift. He glanced down at his gold coin that nestled just above the valley of her breasts. She almost hadn't accepted that from him, and she had had no idea of even a fraction of its worth. No, Pamela definitely would not allow him to gift her with the purse.
The faux stone floor gave way to an opulent carpet as they left The Forum Shops and entered Caesars Palace.
"It's this way," Apollo said, turning to their right and winding past several rows of busily blinking slot machines… and his steps slowed and then stopped.
"Did we take a wrong turn?" Pamela asked him.
He smiled. "No, but I just had a thought. Would you like to take a small chance?"
Her pretty face was a question mark.
"You want the purse, but you don't want to spend your four thousand of dollars. But what if you won the money? Would you purchase the purse then?"
"I suppose…"
Apollo tilted his head at the nearest row of slot machines. "I feel that luck is with us tonight."
Pamela chewed on the side of her lip. "I'm not really a very good gambler. I like knowing that I'm getting something back when I let my money loose."
"Then allow me to provide the money." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his roll of currency and flipped it open, shuffling quickly through the dozen or so bills, most of which had 50 or 100 printed on them.
"Good lord, Phoebus, do you not believe in credit cards?"
He tried to keep the confusion out of his voice. Bacchus had mentioned something about other ways modern mortals paid for their purchases, but Phoebus couldn't remember exactly what he had said.
"I like this currency," he paused, trying to decide what else he could say. "It's not very colorful, but it's interesting looking." He handed her a hundred dollar bill. "Take this one and feed it into one of the machines, and let us see what happens."
Pamela screwed up her face and looked at him like he was crazy. "I can't just blow a hundred dollars like that, even if it is yours. And really, I never gamble. I don't think I have the right attitude to be lucky at it."
"I think you are lucky. You're lucky for me."
That drew a reluctant smile from her. "I can't throw one hundred dollars away."
"Then use this one." He shuffled the money until he found a fifty dollar bill. "Remember, you might win enough money to buy your slipper purse." At the mention of the much-coveted purse, Apollo saw a light come into her eyes and he knew he'd won.
"Okay, here's the deal." She didn't take the fifty dollar bill. Instead, she rifled through the wad of money until she found a twenty. "I'll play this, and only this. If I win, you get half. If I lose, I owe you ten dollars."
"I'll take your deal," Apollo said. "Which machine shall we try?"
Pamela studied the rows of blinking, bonging, blaring machines, feeling a little intimidated by their slick foreign appearance. It was after eight o'clock on Sunday night, but still at least half of the machines were occupied by gamblers who were pressing buttons and pulling metal arms with a single-minded intensity.
"You're the one feeling lucky. You pick," she said.
Apollo rubbed his chin, pretending to carefully consider the rows of machines. "I like the way this one looks." He took her hand and pulled her to a machine not far from where they were standing. There were only two other people in that row, and they sat several seats down from the one he stopped in front of.
"Wheel of Fortune. Are you sure you want this one? I think it might be a bad omen that I never liked the show. I'm not a particularly good speller." She shrugged. "Hated it."
"You're nervous." Apollo didn't understand all of her words, but he certainly recognized the tone of her voice and her body language.
"Yep," she said, feeling foolish. "You're right. I am. I told you I've never gambled before."
"Don't think of it as gambling. Think of it as purse shopping."
Pamela visibly perked up. "Purse shopping is definitely something I can do." She sat on the little padded seat and searched the front of the gaudy machine. "I guess the money goes in here," she said, sliding the twenty into a little slot. The money disappeared, and the machine clicked and clanged, digitally displaying a credit of twenty dollars. She looked up at Phoebus. "Ready?"
"Ready."
Pamela grasped the red ball at the end of the silver arm, and pulled. Her attention was totally focused on the three-panel window, and she didn't notice the small, commanding
gesture Apollo made with his hand.
"Bar…" Pamela said as the first scroll clunked to a stop inside the window. "Bar…" she said when the next one halted, excitement growing in her voice, until "BAR!" she shouted as the third black picture stopped. The machine exploded in lights and sirens and began vomiting money from its mechanical mouth as Pamela shrieked and leaped up to throw her arms around Apollo, who hugged her back, laughing joyously.
Sometimes it was really good to be a god.
Chapter 19
The strap of the ruby slipper purse was made of a filigree gold chain that reminded Pamela of something a 1920s flapper would have worn as a long, sultry necklace. She slid it over her shoulder and had the insanely childish urge to skip like Dorothy down the Yellow Brick Road. She couldn't believe it was hers! V was going to shit monkeys when she saw it.
"I can not believe the jackpot was exactly eight thousand dollars," she gushed, doing a little twirl as she watched the purse wink and glitter in her reflection in the store windows they passed.
"I told you I was feeling lucky tonight," Apollo said, delighted at the uninhibited exuberance of Pamela's reaction to winning the money.
"I would never have let myself buy something so outrageously expensive." She squeezed his hand and lowered her voice. "Not even a pair of fabulous, beginning-of-season designer shoes—not for four thousand dollars."
"But you love the purse." Apollo smiled down at her, thoroughly pleased that he had been able to orchestrate such joy for her. And, oddly enough, he didn't even care that he couldn't tell her that he had commanded the machine to spurt out the money she required. That he got the credit wasn't the point. The point was that Pamela was so incredibly happy. It made his heart feel light and carefree.
"I love the purse. I adore the purse. I'm totally enamored with the purse!" She laughed. "I don't care how shallow and materialistic it sounds. I'm only going to carry it on special occasions. When I get back to my shop, I'm going to mount it under glass in the front picture window, the one with our logo painted in red script on it: Ruby Slipper Design Studio… We Make Sure That There's No Place Like Home."
They retraced their way back through Caesars Palace as Apollo listened to Pamela's excited chatter. He believed her design studio's motto. Without Pamela, there was no home. He knew it was true—he'd already proven it. The Kingdom of Vegas was a foreign, strange place, but when he had passed through the portal that night and made his way to The Lost Cellar and Pamela, he felt as if he was coming home. However improbable, Apollo, God of Light, one of the original Twelve Olympians, was falling in love with Pamela Gray, a very modern mortal woman.