My gaze bounces from her to Vlad standing behind her, looking about as tired as I felt a minute ago.
The woman looks me up and down, then says something in Russian. I don’t understand it, but they way she narrows her eyes and spits out the words makes it clear it’s nothing pleasant.
I look to Vlad. He, at least, has the decency to answer in English.
“This is Kit. My assistant.”
She sniffs at the air like she’s smelled something foul. “The Ice Queen,” she says with a heavy accent and a little sneer of her lips.
Instantly I feel my chin lifting and my jaw clenching.
“And she is?” I ask as if I’m due an explanation.
“Maria. My wife.”
* * *
I don’t know how I did it. Sheer willpower. Or maybe blind rage. But somehow I made my legs carry me all the way down the hall, to the elevator, across The Grand’s lobby to another bank of elevators and back up to my suite of rooms on the twelfth floor. But there is no way I’m sleeping now.
His wife? No. I must have heard wrong. I must be in some sleep deprived, alternate reality state. His wife is short, portly, hairy, with warts and big black hairs growing out of her chin. She’s a matronly little Eastern European block. She is not a supermodel.
Only she is.
Fuck.
I feel sick. I feel like crying, something I haven’t done since I left home. Despite my vow at dawn this morning to never touch another glass of vodka again, I fling open the mini bar and pour myself a generous helping of liquor. I don’t even know what it is. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is I need something, anything, right now to keep me from losing it.
I need to call someone. Who can I call?
Mentally I run down the list of my friends.
Ella? Out of the question. I need someone to tell me I’m not going insane, not someone who will give me a bland I-told-you-so lecture.
David? I take another swig from the glass in my hand, the burning sensation dulling my headache some but not the acute sense of shock still sinking in. I’m tempted to call David. He might get it. He might understand instead of lecturing me on how I really shouldn’t feel what I’m feeling in the first place.
But then again, he’s in a relationship. Which means, when all is said and done, David will probably say that I should leave those two alone to work it out.
Mary. I’ll call Mary. She’ll understand. She’ll get how even those of us with the best intentions get sucked into emotional black holes. How, through no fault of my own, my life as I’ve known it is suddenly over. I can guarantee I won’t be going to any parties with Vlad now that the little woman is here. Hell, I may even be thrown off the VIP list if she has anything to say about it. Which, by her look on her gorgeous face, she quite possibly might.
I fish my cell phone out of my bag. I fill up my glass again, which somehow seems to have emptied itself, and dial Mary’s number. Oh God, let her be home.
But, of course, she’s always home.
“Hello?” she answers, and I realize just how glad I am to hear her voice.
“It’s Kit.” I hate how shaky my voice sounds in my own ears.
“No,” Mary says emphatically.
“What?”
“No. I’m not going to some party with you tonight. I’ve had quite possibly the worst day of my life, and I’m not going to be dragged all over town in uncomfortable heels. Call Ella.”
“Mary, wait, don’t hang up!” I can tell the desperation of my situation has reached my voice in the way Mary responds.
“Why? What’s going on? Kit, are you okay?”
“Yes. No. A little.” I take another sip of my drink. Instead of becoming smoother, it burns as it hits my empty stomach, as I try to grasp for the right words. Words that express my devastation that Maria is in fact real. That she could double for a supermodel. That she could catch us having that imaginary affair now. And suddenly it all sounds so stupid. I’m ashamed to tell anyone this is actually my life.
It isn’t fair. It just isn’t fucking fair. I listened to Mary go on and on about her stupid breakup, and now I need someone to listen to me make a blubbering fool of myself over some guy. Only I can’t.
So instead, I say, “We’re still on for poker Tuesday, right?”
“Of course. I think Ella’s bringing some sort of tropical drink this time. She bought a whole bunch of tiny red umbrellas at the mall today. Speaking of which, I had brunch with my mother at Bertolini’s. Oh God, you wouldn’t believe, Kit. My little sister is getting married.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
“Well, I got there late, of course, and then my mother, who was wearing Prada of all things…” Mary drones on and I’m only half listening now. But even the steady flow of her voice, so familiar and so very neurotically Mary, is comforting. I fall down onto the featherbed and close my eyes, hoping I don’t fall asleep as Mary tells me about her day.
Chapter Seven:
David, the Straight Flush
Julio always takes Wednesdays off. I don’t do a show on Tuesday or Wednesday nights, so Julio and I spend the day together, just us boys. Our plan this morning is Noah’s for bagels and lox, then lounging on the sofa with the A Star is Born and Meet me in St. Louis. It’s Judy Garland Wednesday.
Julio’s sitting on our crimson sofa reading the paper as I fix my hair in the bathroom. Julio’s the lead hairdresser for Skintight, so we always have the best product samples sitting around. A perk I definitely love about dating him. I’m just putting the finishing touches on my hair, a little sculpting gel for that messy bedroom look, when I hear the phone ring in the other room.
“I’ll get it,” Julio calls. A minute later he appears in the bathroom doorway with the cordless in one hand. “It’s for you,” he mouths, fixing an errant strand of hair over my ear.
“Thanks, honey.” I take the cordless from him. “Hello?” I say, into the receiver.
“Davey?”
I freeze.
“Mom?” I say, looking around me as if I suddenly need to hide all the hair products lining the bathroom counter. It takes a moment of panic before I realize she can’t actually see through the phone.
“Who was it that just answered your phone?” she asks.
“Uh…” Shit. I look over at Julio. He’s carefully studying the fashion section of the paper. “Him? Um, just one of the guys from work. We’re, uh, going to the game today.” Oh please, let there be a game going on today. Football, hockey, badminton… anything!
“Oh, sounds fun,” Mom says, and I try hard not to breathe my sigh of relief into the receiver.
“So, uh, what’s up?” I ask. What’s up. One of the many phrases that emerge from my vocabulary only when my parents call. Which is usually twice a year – once on my birthday and once around December 3rd to hear what my excuse for not coming to Christmas dinner is this year. Because I can always come up with one. Not that I don’t love my parents. I do. That’s why I don’t go. I don’t know if I could keep up the High Desert David charade for an entire visit with my parents, and I don’t want to give them both heart attacks during the holiday season. Quite charitable of me really.
“Well, Davey,” Mom continues, “your father and I decided to take a vacation.”
“A vacation? That’s great, Ma. Where are y’all going?” Y’all. Another High Desert David phrase. Amazing how I just pull them all out at the drop of a hat, isn’t it?
“Guess,” Mom says.
“Guess?” Twenty questions with my mother? Pulease. Not my idea of fun on any day. Julio looks over from the sofa, pointing to his watch, then rubbing his stomach in mock starvation. I try not to laugh and walk into the kitchen where I can’t see his face.
“Gee, Mom, I don’t know, give me a hint?”
“It’s warm and sunny.”
“Florida?”
“No, baby. We’re comin’ to Las Vegas!”
I close my eyes and think a really dirty word.
> “You’re coming to Vegas,” I repeat, slowly, as if maybe I’ve heard her wrong.
“Yes, we are. Your father got these coupons from one of his customers. We’re staying at the Circus Circus for half price. And… we got buffet vouchers!”
I take a deep breath. My heart is beating again, but now about fifty million times too fast.
“That’s… that’s great, Ma.”
“Ain’t it? Oh, I can’t wait to see you, baby. It’s just been way too long.”
“Uh, when exactly are you coming?” Maybe I can be out of town that week. Julio and I haven’t been on vacation in a while. Florida suddenly sounds highly appealing.
“Tuesday.”
“This Tuesday?” God, that’s sooner than I thought. I mean, that’s really soon. Too soon to skip town. I can’t get time off from the show that soon.
Shit! The show! My audition for Marc’s old spot in the lead chorus is on Tuesday.
“Ma, I don’t know if I can get the time off work Tuesday,” I say. Notice I don’t actually say what kind of work. As far as my parents know, I work as a bartender at the House of Blues. Very butch. They’d probably shit a bumpkin brick if they knew I worked in one of “those” shows.
“Oh. Oh, well, I suppose we can try t’ amuse ourselves,” my mother says, sounding thoroughly deflated.
Damn. There’s that bitch, Guilt, camping out on my psyche again. Okay, fine, I can do this. I’ll just have to find a way to slip away for the audition. I can leave them at the slots. Or something.
“No, Ma. It’s fine. I’ll get the time off somehow.”
“Oh goody. Davey, I can’t wait to see your place.”
My eyes do a slow sweep of the apartment Julio and I have been sharing for the past year.
Okay, so it’s not as if we have gay pride banners hanging from the walls or a stack of playgirls on the table. Really it’s not that much different than any bachelor pad in Vegas. In fact, I realize, and I’m not sure if this makes me feel better or worse, there is only one thing that really looks gay in this whole apartment. And he’s sitting on the sofa reading the paper.
“Right. My place.”
“Oh Davey, don’t sound so worried. I know how you bachelors live.”
Trust me, Ma, you don’t.
“Oh, and your father wants to see one of them shows while we’re there.”
“Those shows?” I have a terrifying vision of my father, Mr. Wranglers, suspenders, and a John Deer hat, watching Jason strut across the stage in his silver thong.
“Yeah, you know like a magic show or that blue guy show. Somethin’ real Vegasy.”
“Right. I’ll see what I can do.” Mom and Dad in my apartment. Mom and Dad at a Vegas show. Not good.
“Oh, goody. Well, I’ll let you go now, Davey. I love you, baby.”
“Love you too, Ma.”
“Ma?” Julio says from the sofa as I hang up the phone, still feeling slightly numb with shock. “Jeeze, your folks really are from the sticks aren’t they?”
“Yeah, they are.” I look over at Julio, one arm draped across the back of our sofa. He’s wearing a mesh tank top, black jeans, and cowboy boots with pointy toes. His frosted highlights are loaded with product above that one shiny diamond stud in his ear. I have to get rid of him by Tuesday. How am I going to tell him?
“So, when are they coming?”
“Next Tuesday.” I sit down on the sofa beside Julio. Oh God, he’s gonna kill me.
“Wow, that’s soon.”
“Yeah.” I look into Julio’s brown eyes. Maybe he’ll just realize he needs to stay somewhere else. I’d do that for him. I’d help him convince his family he’s straight so they would leave him alone until next December 3rd. He’ll do it for me, right?
Wrong. He’s just looking at me with a blank stare of devotion in those big brown eyes of his. God, is that a smile I see hitting his lips? Does he actually think a visit with my parents will be fun? No, this is not fun. This is the time for Julio to hide his fabulous self deep, deep in the closet. Okay. I have to tell him. Here goes nothing. “Um, they want to come see the apartment, honey.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“So, uh, I hate to ask you, but, um, do you think maybe…” I kind of trail off, hoping he gets the point, and I don’t actually have to say the words out loud.
“What?”
Shit. He’s going make me say it, isn’t he? Even though I can tell by the tight clench to his jaw he already knows what I’m going to say. He may be beautiful but he’s not stupid. And he is going to make me say it.
“Maybe you could stay with Ella for a couple days?”
He doesn’t say anything, he just leans back into the crimson cushions, crossing his arms over his chest, his chocolate eyes narrowing into slits.
“Look, it’s just that my parents have no idea about you. I can’t just spring this on them.”
“So, you’re kicking me out of my home instead?” he says. I didn’t think it was possible, but his eyes narrow even further.
“Look, it’s just a few days,” I say, cringing against the tantrum I know is coming.
“So, tell them I’m your roommate.”
“Pulease! Julio, there’s only one bedroom.”
And then it comes. Julio jumps up from the sofa swearing in Spanish. I would argue with him, but I don’t have a clue what he’s saying, just that he is pissed.
Finally a bit of English comes through.
“Just tell them you’re gay,” he shouts.
I actually laugh out loud at this. “Tell them I’m gay? Oh, honey, you don’t know my parents.”
“No, I don’t,” he says with feeling. “And why is that, David? Why is it I haven’t met your parents?”
“Pulease, Julio! Maybe because they don’t know I’m gay, and you’re… well, you’re pretty obvious.”
“Oh, so I should try to be less obvious? I should try to be more subtle. Is that it? Because you are real subtle, David,” he says, sarcasm oozing from his perfectly exfoliated pores.
Put like that I do sound like an ass, but dammit he’s being unrealistic. He doesn’t know my parents. People like my parents don’t just change overnight and accept their son’s lover with open arms. No, seeing Julio here would likely kill them. I don’t want to kill my parents, do I?
I try a new tactic.
“I haven’t met your parents.”
“They live in Columbia. You want I should fly them up here just to meet my boyfriend?” He must be really pissed now because his accent is growing thick.
“Julio, it’s just for a couple days.”
“Fine. You know what, fine. I’d rather be at Ella’s anyway.” He stalks into the bedroom, his cowboy boots clumping hard on the camel hair rug.
“I’m sorry,” I say, for want of anything else.
“Yeah, you know what, David. Me too. I’m sorry you’re so ashamed of me.”
“Julio, you know it’s not like that…”
But he cuts me off, slamming the bedroom door so hard the framed pictures on the wall rattle against the sheetrock.
I just stand there. I don’t know what to do. I’m not going after him, because what can I say? I’m sorry, honey, stay here, I’ll tell my parents the truth. Not something I could do in a million years. Not even for Julio. I love him, but I love my parents, too, and I can’t do that to them. I seriously think my father might actually keel over and call it quits. Not to mention my mom. She would probably sequester herself in her bedroom with her Jesus statues for a month.
See, it’s not me that’s ashamed. It’s them. I’m secure in who I am. I’m just trying to be considerate for them. Julio just doesn’t get it. I think he came out of the closet when he was like ten. He’s never had to deal with that moment when you tell your family that your whole life up until now has been a lie.
I turn away from the framed photos of Julio and me still swaying on the wall in front of me. Those are so going to have to come down before my parents get here. I walk to
the phone and dial Ella’s number.
“Campbell residence,” her maid answers the phone.
“Is Ella in?” I ask, not in the mood to make chit chat with Juanita today.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s David.”
“One moment please.” I hear her padding across the marble tiled hallway to get Ella. I imagine she’s sitting on the porch sipping Blood Marys or lounging by the pool with a piña colada, living the idle life of a doctor’s wife. What the hell is Julio so worked up about? Staying at her house will be like a vacation.
“Hello?” Ella answers.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Oh, hi David,” she says and I hear her sucking on a straw. See, I knew she was out by the pool.
“I need a favor. And not like a tape-American Idol-for-me favor, but a big one.”
“Okay,” she says.
“My parent are coming to town, and I need to get Julio out of the house. Can he stay with you for a couple days?”
“Oh, well, our guest room is kind of…” she trails off, but I jump right in, pleading my case.
“Please, please, please, El? If my parents find Julio here they may just die on the spot. Please, El, be a life saver?”
She sighs. “All right. I guess Julio can stay here.”
“Thanks, Ella. You are an absolute doll.”
“When are they coming?”
“Tuesday.”
“And Julio’s okay with all this? Hiding out at my place?”
“Well, ‘okay,’ is not really the word I would use.”
“He blew up, huh?”
“Like a tornado on a trailer park.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” There’s that sucking sound again.
“Blood Mary or piña colada?”
“What?”
“What are you sucking on?”
“A binky.”
“A what?”
“Benny’s pacifier. It fell on the ground. I’m cleaning it off.”
“With your mouth?” I ask, thoroughly disgusted.
“Oh, get over it.”
“So, I’ll have Julio come over Monday night. I, uh, kind of need to clean the place up a little before my parents get here.”
What Happens in Vegas Page 7