by S. E. Law
“That’s just the thing I need, sweetheart,” she rasps in a croaky voice. “Give me a sip and let’s have a chat. Why are you still awake, Maddy? You weren’t waiting up for me, were you?”
I take a seat, my cheeks a little pink. The truth is that I was waiting for Grace. It’s two a.m. on a Friday night, and I know I should be out partying with boys or at least seeing a movie with my friends, but it’s impossible to have fun when I know my mom is slaving away to pay our bills. As a result, I’m dressed in my flannel PJs, but wide awake and relieved that she’s back now.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to wait up,” Grace says, covering my hand with hers. “I’m your dear old mom. No one’s going to kidnap me.”
I sputter a bit.
“No, it’s not kidnapping,” I say. “I’m just worried. You work so hard to put food on the table and I feel so bad that I don’t contribute –”
My mom holds one hand up, cutting me off.
“I don’t want you to contribute Maddy. I don’t want you to be like me, working from the age of twelve and barely graduating from high school. I want you to have a real future, where you go to college and get a professional job. Where you don’t use your body to make money,” she says, smiling sadly.
I protest.
“You’re not really using your body. You’re not taking off your clothes or letting men touch you or anything like that,” I say quickly.
But Grace merely shrugs.
“I’m not, but sometimes I feel like I am. There’s a fine line between being a showgirl and being a stripper. But on another note, how are those college applications going?” she asks, sitting up straight. “Have you gotten your essay written? How about your letters of recommendation? I’m sure my baby will get into all the best schools. Imagine it: Madeline Mitchell, summa cum laude graduate!”
I smile with her, but then my look turns serious.
“Mom, everything is fine with me, and all my college apps are on track. But what about you? You’re sick, right? Why don’t you go to the doctor tomorrow? You have tomorrow off, and I have time. I can drive you,” I say encouragingly.
But Grace looks down then, her lips trembling a bit.
“Mom, what is it?” I ask, my spidey sense going off like a five-alarm bell. “What’s wrong?”
My mom takes a deep breath and for the first time, I notice a faint gray pallor to her face.
“Maddy, we should try not to go to the doctor too much. We should save those visits only for emergencies,” she says quietly, although her voice wavers just a bit.
I nod.
“Of course, I know we have that thirty-dollar co-pay every time we go. But you are sick, Mom. You need to see the doctor because that cough’s been getting worse over the last week, and not better. You’re not improving.”
But my mom merely shakes her head again, still looking at the floor.
“Honey, we shouldn’t go to the doctor unless it’s an absolute emergency because I lost my job today. Evidently, I’m too old to be a showgirl at Le Palms now. I guess being in your fourth decade is a little over the hill for this kind of job,” she says with a small, sad twist to her smile.
I stare at my mom, my mouth open in shock.
“But you look great Mom! Who said that? Was it Mr. Crocker, who manages the show? Or the woman who choreographs your routines? Oh, I know. It was that bitchy costume assistant right? The one who’s always dropping hints about dieting and laxatives.”
My mom shakes her head in defeat.
“No, it wasn’t any of them. Supposedly, word came from Cameron Savage himself, owner of Le Palms. He thinks I’m too old to perform for his guests.”
My back jerks ramrod straight in outrage.
“What the hell? This is age discrimination! I’m going to file something with the EEOC or whatever it’s called. This is total bullshit, and Le Palms isn’t going to get away with it.”
My mom puts a gentle hand on my arm, and her sad eyes break my heart.
“No, Maddy. You’ll just make more trouble for us if you report Mr. Savage. Besides, they’ve offered me my old job in the hotel laundry again, so it’s not the end of the world. I’ll still get paid, and there are some benefits attached to that position, provided I work a minimum of thirty hours a week.”
I open my mouth but then it snaps shut. My sense of outrage is still strong, but my sense of sadness is overwhelming. My mom looks defeated as she sits in the recliner with her slumped shoulders. Her hair, under the harsh light of the lamp, has been dyed platinum blonde but it’s also showing tell-tale strands of silver now. Her make-up looks garish, and her cheeks are beginning to sink in on themselves with age. In short, Le Palms has taken my mother’s best years and then spit her out like she’s worth nothing now that she can’t produce.
I manage a tight smile.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Grace. Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. They can’t just use you like this, and then toss you away once you’ve lost your looks. Besides, you’re still beautiful and you’re probably the best dancer they have.”
The older woman smiles wearily at me.
“You’re so kind, sugar, and I know we’ll get by no matter what happens. Remember, it’s you and me against the world, right Maddy? I love you, my sweet girl.”
My heart breaks again and tears come to my eyes. With a heavy lump in my throat, I help my mom up the stairs and into bed before softly shutting the door to her bedroom. But despite my grief, my heart’s pumping with rage, fear, and injustice because I’m not going to let Le Palms use her like this. I’m going to confront Cameron Savage face-to-face so that he sees the destruction he’s wreaked, and then I’m going to destroy him so that he gets a taste of his own medicine.
21
Cameron
It’s a boring night tonight, which is saying something when you’re the owner of Le Palms. After all, my hotel is the glitziest, most glamorous casino on the Strip. If you want to sample the finest wines, come to my restaurants. If you want to take in the finest artwork, then enjoy our private museum. If you want the best rooms, the best card games, and the most outrageous nightclubs, then Le Palms is your place. So it’s pretty crazy that I’m bored amidst it all.
But it makes sense on some level. I founded Le Palms twenty years ago when I was a young upstart without a cent to my name. I’d just graduated from hotel school, and had a raging hunger to be successful but only a sliver of an idea how to do it. As a result, after scraping some cash from friends and family, I purchased a small run-down casino that had dollar beers and fifty cent shots. It was that low rent.
But over the next couple years, I transformed the place into something different. I started upping the ante of everything I touched, from the food and drink, to the slot machines. I put in a nightly revue featuring beautiful showgirls, and then hired an MC who could draw the crowd. Within ten years, we’d moved to a different location and were hosting Vegas residencies by the likes of Celine Dion and Britney Spears. Money was being made hand over fist, to say the least.
But money gets old. You can’t eat money, you can’t drink money, and you can’t fuck money. As a result, I’m up to my ears in cash, but I don’t care about it anymore. It certainly doesn’t care about me. When I’m in my grave, my bank accounts aren’t going to cry, and my dollar bills won’t hold a funeral to commemorate my passing.
But it is what it is. I have a lot of it, and people kowtow to me as a result. Everyone calls me Mr. Savage or Sir, and most people maintain a deferential air at all times. It’s always “Yes Mr. Savage” or “Yes Sir, whatever you like.” It suits me okay. I don’t love being surrounded by yes men, but when you have as much as I do, it’s hard to find someone who will give it to you straight.
Sighing, I lean back in my office chair and look out over Le Savage, our nightclub. My office is situated on the second floor so that I can look down on the dance floor, and it’s always an interesting sight. They have the black lights going tonight, and the
crowd is bathed in an unearthly pale blue glow as bodies mash together in a pulsing heap. I can see couples making out while others break apart, only to come back together. I can even see the fronds of a plant over to the left shaking wildly, and I’d bet a million dollars that people are having fun there tonight.
But this is what Le Savage is about. People come to Vegas to forget their cares, and what happens here, stays here. Let them spend their money and live wild dreams; after all, that’s what I seek to provide. I just wish I had someone special amidst it all. But all work and no play has made Cameron Savage a very boring, if wealthy, man, and no women have caught my eye in quite a while now.
Suddenly, a sharp rap sounds on the door. I glance at my watch. It’s about four a.m. and most of my staff has left. There’s probably a bodyguard around, and god knows what he or she wants.
I call out, “Come,” and the door swings open. But standing there is neither a burly man nor an assistant of any type. Instead, a beautiful girl is framed in the doorway with blonde hair of spun gold, and a curvy figure that makes my mouth water. Unfortunately, the pocket Venus looks as mad as a hornet, and my heart begins pounding with anticipation. What does she want? There’s only one way to find out.
22
Maddy
This is a hare-brained idea, for sure, but I was so upset about my mom’s impromptu dismissal that I had to do something. As a result, after Grace fell asleep, I quickly changed and then jumped into my Jetta and raced straight to Le Palms. I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do. Complain to customer service? File a complaint with Human Resources? Who knows?
But as I sped down the freeway, an idea leapt into mind. I’d confront Cameron Savage himself. He’s rich, but he’s not all-powerful. He’s not God. He needs to see the devastation he’s wreaked upon my family, not to mention the humiliation suffered by my mom. Grace has aged ten years in the last two, and he deserves to get a tongue-lashing if nothing else. Who cares if he fires her from the laundry department? There are plenty of jobs like that around the Strip.
As my car pulled up to the hotel, a sudden pang of fear lanced through my heart. Was I really up for this? After all, Le Palms is enormous. There are huge palm trees planted in a semi-circle before the silver high-rise, and each one likely cost thousands of dollars, seeing that they were imported from a far-away place. Not just that, but the other cars pulling into and out of the hotel’s circular driveway were fancy. There were Bugattis, Ferraris and Lamborghinis, not to mention the occasional Rolls. These weren’t your usual luxury cars; these were la crème de la crème, each vehicle worth at least a few hundred thousand.
Thus, it was with trembling legs that I parked my Jetta in a spot over to the side before striding to the hotel’s front doors. Once again, I almost lost my nerve. The men and women who passed me all seemed to be dressed to the nines as they laughed and talked. The women wore mini-dresses or ball-gowns, often in jewel tones with lots of sequins. The men were dashing in perfectly-cut tuxedos, the white dress shirts highlighting their tanned skin.
Meanwhile, there was me. I’m not tanned at all. Instead, I’m as pale as a ghost, although my lips are deeply pink and my lashes and brows a medium chestnut. My hair is a golden blonde, and most days it’s back in a ponytail. But in my rush, it pooled around my shoulders, coasting over the lumpy sweater and jeans I wore.
Nonetheless, I put my head down and stormed into the casino. Lights flashed everywhere, and the sound of coins clanking seemed to ring out from every corner. Were those sound effects, or were people really playing the slots with that kind of frequency? I jerked my head. Cameron Savage wouldn’t be here. He would be somewhere hidden away and remote, watching the action.
Slowly, I crept around the casino. To be honest, it was a maze, and it took me quite a while to get my bearings. But finally, I located a map and was able to see a blank area where it looked like there was nothing. Ah-ha! the voice in my head reasoned. That must be where corporate offices are located.
Following the map, I made my way towards the pulsing beat of Le Savage, the nightclub. The offices had to be around here somewhere. There were lots of locked doors, but one set of double doors to the side were open, and I pushed them wide before letting myself into a brightly-lit hall. I wandered in towards the back, and then randomly began trying doors. Nope, most of them were locked. Meanwhile, the lights grew dimmer and then, I entered a plush walkway off to the left.
Almost tiptoeing, I make my way down the hall to an unmarked door at the very end. The music from the nightclub was still audible, but it was faint. The walls here must have been sound-proofed, and I was willing to bet that Cameron Savage’s office would be as quiet as library, with its thick, lush carpet and overstuffed furniture. Finally, I stopped before the door and raised one hand to knock. To my surprise, my knock came out firm and decisive, and upon hearing the raps, a deep voice sounded from within.
“Come,” it said.
My heart began to pound. Holy cow, was this the lair of Cameron Savage himself? Knees shaky, I turned the doorknob and stepped in to meet the king.
23
Cameron
Holy shit, the girl is beautiful. She’s dressed in rags, but even the rags can’t detract from the perfect symmetry of her features, and the lush lips that have me raging with a hard-on within seconds. I was ready to devour her but then those lips opened to speak.
“Cameron Savage?” she asks in a challenging voice.
I smirk.
“That’s me.”
Her brows lower and storm clouds descend.
“My name is Madeline Mitchell,” she says in a huff. “And I’ll have you know that you just destroyed the soul of a beautiful woman who didn’t deserve it.”
I raise my brows in amusement as the door slams shut behind her.
“I’m sorry? And would this beautiful woman be you?”
The blonde shakes her head furiously.
“No, it’s not, and I don’t appreciate you making fun of me. For your information, the woman I’m talking about is my mother, Grace DeWitt Mitchell, and you have officially ground her into dust with your abominable treatment of her.”
My mind whirls. Who is this Grace person? I try to think, but no one comes to mind. There was the woman that I hooked up with last month, but her name was something that started with “L.” I would remember if her name was Grace.
Then, there’s my ex from a year ago who keeps calling and then hanging up before I can answer. Adelaide is insane, and I’m happy to be rid of her. Crazies are difficult to reason with, and being with one who’s hot and crazy seems to be an especially lethal mix.
But who is the sumptuous woman standing before me, and who is Grace?
“I’m sorry,” I say in a silky tone. “But I think you have the wrong person. I don’t know who you’re talking about, nor do I know anything about these alleged high crimes I’ve committed.”
The girl snorts, her cheeks a bewitching shade of pink.
“Grace Mitchell is my mother,” she says in a trembling voice. “She’s worked for Le Palms for almost ten years now as a showgirl, and you just fired her tonight. You broke her heart, Mr. Savage, and cast her away like she means nothing! After ten years of service. Is this how you treat all your employees?”
I squint, trying to recall the events of tonight. I did have a conversation with George Cox, who manages the showgirls who work at Le Palms earlier. And he did say something about having to let a couple of the girls go because of drug-related dependencies and general truancy. But he didn’t say anything about firing a middle-aged woman who was supporting her family. Or did he?
“I’m sorry,” I say with a shrug. “But personnel matters are private, and I can’t discuss them with any random stranger who comes bursting into my office in the middle of the night. Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say in a frigidly polite tone.
But the blonde’s not having it.
“No,” she spits. “You listen to me, Cameron Savage. My mom has worked l
ong and hard for years now working her fingers to the bone, and you are not going to break her like this. Before she was a showgirl at Le Palms, she worked in housekeeping doing the hotel linens and other peoples’ laundry. Do you understand what I’m saying? My mom is not a leech. She is not a bloodsucker. Grace is a good person who works hard, and she doesn’t deserve to be fired from her job just like that!”
I shake my head, weariness overtaking me. The girl is gorgeous, but I hate all matters pertaining to HR. It’s not my forte, although I’ve had to become skilled at managing people out of sheer necessity.
“I’m sorry, and who are you again?” I drawl. I’ve already asked but I want to get under her skin. Clearly, I’m an asshole of the nth degree.
Her cheeks flare red again.
“I’m Madeline Mitchell,” she says stiffly. “Grace’s daughter.”
I look at the woman for a moment. She really is shapely, come to think of it. The baggy sweater can’t hide the well-formed breasts beneath the thick, lumpy material, and her jeans hang loosely on long, slender legs. She’s well-proportioned, and her face and hair look touched by sunshine, even within the gloom of my office.
“Okay, let’s just say for argument’s sake that I did fire your mother. What do you want me to do?”
“Re-hire her,” says Maddy promptly, her hands on her hips. “That’s the only decent thing to do.”
I lean back in my chair.
“Yes, but I can’t do that. My guess is that your mother is over-worked and probably too old to keep doing what she’s doing. Being a showgirl isn’t just about smiling and high-kicks; it’s about being an athlete. You have to get up there for three hours straight and take the crowd by storm. There’s all sorts of tumbling, in addition to shimmying, shaking, and multiple costume changes. It’s not for the faint of heart and it’s hard on your body. How old is your mom now? Forty? Forty-one? Forty-two?”