I’m not sure if I find it disheartening or reassuring that four years later Sam and Trevor are still together.
“That’s great, Sam,” I say, “I really hope he does it this time.”
“Oh God, me too. Do you know my roommate snores like a lumberjack? Hey, what’s this?” Sam asks, noticing the package on the edge of my desk for the first time.
“Oh, uh, it’s nothing.”
She leans closer, reading the address upside down. “Brandon Asherton? Oh God, Mary, don’t tell me you’re still pining after that guy?”
“I never pined,” I shoot back.
Sam narrows her big blue eyes at me. “Uh huh. Then what’s this?”
“For your information, it is the ring. I’m sending it back to him. That’s all.”
“Oh, girl, I totally woulda pawned it.”
“I’m not pawning it! I’m sending it back. I’m over him, so I’m sending the ring back.” Wow, I almost sounded convincing there for a minute.
“Cool, whatever. I’ve totally gotta run, I have a nail appointment in ten. Here, I’ll drop this at the P.O. for you on my way.”
Before I can stop her, Sam grabs the package and is flouncing her beautifully tanned self out the frosted front doors. I watch her with fingers of panic curling around my gut as she slides into her convertible Beemer and speeds away.
I repeat, speeds away!
And just like that, the last remaining tie between me and my perfect life is severed.
Suddenly the empty space on my desk where the ring sat is a big gaping hole of nothingness and I’m thrown into separation shock.
Luckily the phone rings, saving me from the overwhelming temptation to run down the street after my sister screaming that she give me back my I-do-have-a-chance-at-love ring.
“The Chapel of Love, how may I help you?” I ask, still staring at the empty spot on my desk, wondering if I can somehow call the post office and have them return the package without Brandon knowing.
“Hey Mary, it’s me,” Kit shouts into my ear. I can hear voices and music pounding loudly in the background.
“Hi, Kit.”
“What? I can barely hear you, Mary.”
“I said, ‘hi.’ Where are you?”
“I’m at some boxer’s party. He’s fighting at The Grand tonight. Oh shit, Hang on-” I hear Kit in the background, yelling at someone. The words “champagne” and “$300 dress” come through and I get a vision of some poor little waiter getting a severe dressing down. I glance down at my heart-shaped desk clock. It’s only eleven in the morning.
“Sorry, it’s crazy here,” she says, coming back to the phone.
“Right.”
“So, what are you doing tonight?”
“Why?” I counter.
“‘Cause I’ve got this thing to go to.”
“What kind of thing?”
“A club opening. It’s the new magnet of the Bellissimo. The Back Room. So, you in?”
“What time?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Two-ish?”
“I can’t, I have to work until five,” I say, only mildly disappointed. As much as I enjoy the free drinks at these “things”, Kit invariably finds a dozen people she knows and I get left slinging back martinis alone. Not that I don’t feel the need to drink myself into oblivion at the sudden departure of The Package, but I wake up every morning a VIP. Violently Ill Person. I don’t do hangovers well
“Mary, you’re so cute! No, I meant two a.m.”
“Oh.” Silly me. “Sorry, Kit I have brunch with my mom and Sam tomorrow.” The only things that would make our mother-daughter brunch any worse are bloodshot eyes and a jackhammer headache. Imagine the Seinfeld soup nazi in a Chanel suit. Meet my mom. Not someone you want to face the morning after.
“I’ll have you home before dawn.”
“Tempting, but really, I can’t, Kit. Besides, I’m not really in the mood for a party tonight,” I say, again staring at the empty spot on my desk. Quickly I move my heart shaped clock over to fill it.
“Fine, I guess I’ll call Ella. So, did you say adios to the ring yet?”
I look down at the empty space on my desk again. The clock doesn’t really fill it.
“Yes.”
“Good for you, girl. Hey, we should get together and celebrate soon.”
While I appreciate the sentiment, eating myself into a chocolate coma is about the only kind of celebrating I can fathom enjoying at the moment.
“Look, I gotta go, Vlad’s calling me. Good luck with your mom tomorrow,” Kit calls.
“Thanks,” I say into the receiver, but the line’s already dead.
I hang up the phone. Then rearrange the pencils on my desk, move the clock over again, and generally fidget like a third grader waiting for recess to keep myself from doing something really stupid right now. Like crying. I will not cry over the ring. I will not cry of Brandon. I will not cry over the fact that I am single again. Single is good. Single is fun. I’m carefree. And carefree people do not cry, I tell myself staunchly.
Journey’s Open Arms interrupts my mental breakdown, erupting from the chapel as a signal that Princess is now officially Mrs. Stoopid. Lucky her. The bride and groom make their way down the pink, carpeted aisle and past my desk.
“Congratulations and thank you for choosing The Chapel of Love,” I say by rote.
Reverend Rhinestone Elvis saunters out of the chapel, curling his lip. “The newlyweds have left the building. Thank you, thank you very much.”
The new Mrs. Stoopid waves back at us. “We’re, like, totally married now,” she calls, still slurring while her like-totally-husband stares at her boobs.
Soulmates? I wonder silently as they stumble outside and begin frenching in the parking lot.
What are the odds?
Chapter Two:
Kit, the Ace of Clubs
Number one thing I love about Las Vegas – Vlad the Magnificent.
The crowd cheers wildly. Their faces turn toward him as he spreads his hands wide, reaching up to the sky in a grand gesture. Clouds of smoke rise on either side, partially obscuring my vision, but I already know what happens.
Vlad the Magnificent raises his head to the sky, calling on the powers of his ancestors, the black magic practitioners scattered across the plains of Eastern Europe. The synthesized music swells to a biting crescendo, egging on the already frantic crowd. Someone throws a silver thong onto the stage and screams his name. Explosions go off behind him, and he points across the theater in a sweeping gesture as the mesh curtain in front of me is lifted and I strike a pose.
Cheers rise up to the rafters of the auditorium, tourists turn to each other whispering, “How did he do that?” Women, old and young alike, shout out his name, their eyes sparkling with lust.
Vlad lets a tiny smile play at the corners of his mouth, as if he’s a regal king of the Baltic Isles looking out over his subjects and saying, “I am pleased.” He takes my hand, as I descend the five steps from my platform, slowly due to my three and a half inch heels and the plunging neckline of my sequined leotard. The crowd’s applause vibrate around us. He bows to the audience, a grand gesture that I emulate in a dainty curtsy.
His gaze trails to mine, lingering on the fabric of my costume tugging across my chest. His smile broadens and he winks at me just before the red curtain falls in front of us, obscuring our contact with his crowd of adoring fans.
The man is fucking magnificent.
Vladimir Mikhailov. Possibly the greatest magician that ever lived, known to his hordes of adoring fans as Vlad the Magnificent. The most cheese-tastic name I can think of for a magician, but once you see him, you really can’t think of another word to describe him. He is fucking magnificent. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. I step over at least a dozen pairs of women’s panties as I make my way across the now dark stage, the dull roar of the crowd still penetrating the thick velvet curtain that separates Us from Them.
Vlad’s manager, Petey, quickly
ushers him backstage to his dressing room, sequestering him to “recharge his powers” after the show. Petey and I are the only ones who know that Vlad’s powers run on expensive Russian vodka.
I can still hear his fans cheering, calling his name even as I dodge union men pulling ropes, changing lights, and carefully moving Vlad’s equipment off the stage into his personal holding area beneath the MGM Grand Casino. Vlad’s vault. Magicians, I have learned, never let anyone near their equipment. Fine by me. I already know Vlad’s secrets anyway.
I pull off my platinum blond wig as I walk, shaking out the fake snowflakes that fall from the rafters at the end of act three. The latest incarnation of Vlad’s show is called the Magic of the North, where Vlad capitalizes on his blue eyes and Nordic blonde looks with ice-capped sets and silvery backdrops. I get to play the Ice Queen - cool, mysterious, and utterly untouchable. I love it.
“Good show tonight,” the stage manager calls, as I make my way through the wings. I think his name is Jim or Jake or something like that.
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a little half-wave. That’s what I love about being in show business. Everyone feels like they know you even when you can’t remember their names.
I always knew I wanted to be in show business, even when I was a kid. And I could think of nothing that would piss my parents off more than if I came to Vegas to be a showgirl. That didn’t quite work out though because, as it turns out, I can’t dance. Instead I kind of stumbled into the job of a blackjack dealer after dating the floor manager at the Mirage. It wasn’t hard really, once you knew what to look for in the players and when to close the tables before the casino lost its shirt. But it was fucking boring.
That’s when I met Vlad. I had to beat out forty other women for the role of his assistant, all of them with more experience than I had. Hell, I had no idea what a magician’s assistant did and like every other Midwest-grown wannabe thought they were just the eye candy in the show. I didn’t know they were the show, without which there would be no magic, just some guy in a cape pointing at boxes that never open and women that never appear. Didn’t matter. I knew I would get the job anyway. I wanted it more. The other women may have had experience, but I had IT. That indefinable quality stars are made of. Now, I’m not a conceited person, but I know my assets.
And I’m not afraid to use them to my fullest advantage. Two years later, and I’m still the only one Vlad trusts with his tricks.
I click my heels along the floor, making my way to my dressing room behind the stage of the Hollywood Theater. Normally assistants don’t get their own dressing rooms, but since I’m the only one Vlad has, I do. Even if it’s not much more than a broom closet with a vanity. Fine by me. It beats changing your drawers in front of thirty gay men the way David has to.
I kick my shoes into a pile by the door and pad over to the mirror. Vlad says I never take enough care with my shoes, but the way they torture me the fifty-five minutes a day I spend on stage, they deserve to be kicked around a little. Flipping on the frame of lights, I sit down and begin to remove the layers of stage makeup covering my face. I hate the stuff. It’s a bitch to take it all off, and it does a number on my skin if I leave it on too long. But the way those lights glare on me, I’d look like a ghost out there without it. Besides, Vlad likes things showy. And what Vlad wants, Vlad gets.
I’m just pulling my false eyelashes off one thick, black strand at a time when the door opens. I can smell him even before I see him come up behind me in the mirror. It’s a mixture of exotic aftershave, strong vodka, and smoke from the end of act two.
“Hello gorgeous,” Vlad says. He puts one hand on my shoulder, his eyes hitting mine in the mirror. My pulse beats double time under his steady gaze.
“Hi.” I sweep the eyelashes under my wig. I hate it when he catches me half undone like this.
“So, zee show vent vell tonight, yes?” Vlad has the sexiest accent I’ve ever heard. The way he talks is almost like one of those big cats purring. He’s a little hard to understand at first, but really, who cares what the hell a man is saying when he sounds like that?
“Yeah. The crowd was good tonight.”
“You came in a little late on the rings trick, my dear,” he says, moving his hands to my neck and gently massaging there.
“Did I?” He has got to be the only person in the world who can criticize me and still make me want to sleep with him all in the same breath.
His hands move higher, his thumbs making tiny circles at the base of my skull while his fingers graze my jaw line. His hands smell clean, and I know he’s just washed them. He washes his hands obsessively.
“Yes, you did. Try to work on that for next time, eh pet?”
Pet. I love it when he calls me Pet. “I will,” I say.
“Good.” His eyes lock onto mine in the mirror. Blue eyes. Ice pale blue, traveling down my face, gliding over my lips, down my neck, ending at the sequined vee between my breasts. A small smile curves his mouth, and I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. Sexy doesn’t even begin to describe the man.
“You will be at the opening tonight, yes?” he asks, his eyes still glued to my breasts. Fine by me. Stare all you like, Vlad. Touch me, kiss me, Vlad. Take me back up to your suite and make me forget my own name, Vlad.
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.” His hands rub my neck again. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
I swallow hard, trying to remind myself of the million reasons why I won’t sleep with Vlad. Why I absolutely can’t sleep with him. Only all I can think about are Vlad’s big, warm hands on my bare skin.
A knock sounds at the door, followed by Vlad’s manager, Petey, poking his head into my dressing room.
“Vlad?” he says, completely ignoring me. Petey always does. As far as he’s concerned I’m just the decoration in the show, about as significant as the fireworks at the end of the first act. Vlad is the star. Never mind that I do just as much work as he does up there on stage. Vlad’s name is the one that brings in the money. And Petey’s a strictly numbers kind of guy.
“Yes?” Vlad answers, his eyes reluctantly moving from my D cups to Petey’s balding frame.
“Your wife is on the phone.”
“Ah, yes. You will watch that entrance then, Kit?” he calls to me as he leaves the room.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He follows Petey out the door, winking one incredibly blue eye at me again as he does.
I rub my neck where his hands were, as if I can rub out the tingling sensation that still lingers there. As if I want to.
I’ve never seen Maria Mikhailov. Apparently she lives back home in the old country. Vlad and Maria’s relationship consists solely of telephone calls, usually at inconvenient times like while he’s in the middle of a new trick, or about to take me out to the latest club opening. Or rubbing my neck and staring at my breasts.
Vlad and I never talk about Maria. She’s like the pink elephant standing in the middle of the room, and we’re all supposed to ignore her existence. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if she didn’t call. What would happen if Petey didn’t pop his beady little head into my dressing room. If no one told Vlad to take his hand off my shoulder and his eyes just kept roving my skin that way. Would I forget that I’m his assistant and he’s married? Would he?
Petey told me they haven’t actually seen each other in three years. Can you imagine? Petey says that Vlad stays married to her only because in the old country men do not divorce their wives. It’s a matter of honor that he stays with her. He doesn’t want her to become the scandal of the village.
I picture Maria as a stout, hairy little troll of a woman with a gypsy bandana tied on her big, ugly head. And I can’t imagine Vlad and her together.
But I know Vlad. Probably better than anyone. As long as there is a Maria, he’ll remember I’m just his assistant.
I strip off my sequined one piece, throwing it in a pile with the shoes. Vlad has wardrobe people who take care of t
hat stuff. I pull on my favorite pair of jeans and a silver tube top. The outfit is capped off by a pair of dangling diamond earrings that Vlad bought me after our one hundredth show last year. I smile at the results in the mirror. So he has a wife. So what? That Eastern Bloc Troll may have Vlad the Magnificent tied up but I have two things she doesn’t have.
Tiffany earrings and IT.
* * *
I came to Vegas three years ago from Hugo, Minnesota, trying hard to lose the accent that made me sound like a Fargo reject. I think I’ve succeeded, though sometimes when I’m really stressed, like now, it slips.
“Yucca drive, Henderson,” I say, cringing as I hear the nasally tone creep into my voice.
The cab driver nods and shifts the car into gear, seemingly unaware.
I look down at my watch. Twenty minutes late. Damn. Ella hates it when I’m late. One reason why she was last on my list of plus-ones to call. Don’t get me wrong, I love her. But an evening with Ella equals stress.
Ella has this way of crinkling up her little ski jump nose whenever she disapproves of something that just sets my teeth on edge. And she disapproves a lot, which equals a lot of nose crinkling, which equals a lot of stress.
Ella is a Martha Stewart without the prison record. Everything she wears is achingly tasteful, her house belongs in Better Homes and Gardens replica, and her life revolves around homeowners association meetings, ladies luncheons, and playing the perfect doctor’s wife at country club black ties. The complete opposite of everything I grew up knowing, which is probably why I feel like some backwards kid from the sticks every time I’m around her.
When I was growing up, my house always had stacks of newspapers piled on Salvation Army furniture and homemade afghans tacked up to cover the windows. My parents were hippies who were perpetually stuck in 1969 and insisted on raising me in their peace, love, and pot lifestyle. They actually named me Kitten Warchowski. Can you think of a crueler thing to name a child? And of course, my parents were the only two hippies in Hugo, Minnesota, so while Heather and Jessica were trading their friendship bracelets, I was sitting in the corner playing with my homemade hemp dolls all by myself.
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