Waking Up in Vegas

by Stephanie Kisner

  “I’ll snag you some chairs,” I said as I took a quick look at the currently playing song’s remaining minute-and-a-half. “I couldn’t exactly have them in here ahead of time.”

  I didn’t mention the guys’ presence on-air during a break in the tunes, since the intended recipient of the surprise still wasn’t in the broadcast booth. A few people dropped by to stare through the open studio door—I was amazed that there weren’t more, knowing how the folks around here will use any excuse to stop working—so I kicked the wedge that held the door open and let it drift closed right in their faces.

  This was a very private favor that would just happen to be broadcast at a hundred-thousand watts across the Las Vegas valley. I didn’t need the added distraction of the local peanut gallery out there in the hall. I was already nervous as fuck.

  We drank a pot of coffee and they did their best to entertain me with touring stories while the songs and commercials played on, waiting for the lady of the hour to arrive.

  “I hate to break it to you, but we’re running out of time,” JT said.

  He was right; it was twenty minutes ‘til ten. “I wish I knew what the hell was keeping her. And we’re overdue for her traffic update.”

  Paul fiddled with the tuning keys on his guitar, and, growing restless, JT snatched up the stacked papers on Jen’s side of the counter and flipped through them. “Can I do the traffic report? I’ve always wondered how I’d do as a news reader.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “First, you have to learn how to read,” Paul interjected.

  “And you have to learn how to play guitar. I’m tired of singing louder to cover your sour notes.”

  Paul flicked a guitar pick and it bounced off JT’s temple. “Direct hit. Wanker,” JT laughed out.

  “I was aiming for your big mouth,” Paul said as he lined up another shot.

  “Ten seconds left of the song, guys,” I said, feeling like the substitute teacher in a John Hughes movie.

  Jen had left her headphones behind; JT grabbed them up and held a can over one ear. “Just say when.” He was still chuckling.

  I slid my own phones on and held up a finger. “That was Bon Jovi with ‘Runaway.’ We have a couple of special guests in this morning—I won’t tell you who. See if you can guess.” I flipped my finger to point at JT as he switched his microphone on.

  “Good morning, Las Vegas. Traffic is a nightmare. Every major freeway is clogged with accidents, and the surface streets are a snarled-up mess. We have a sinkhole that’s swallowed up several casinos, and aliens broke out of Area 51, taking the entire city of Henderson hostage until the breakfast buffet at the Tropicana is ninety-nine cents again. Stay home where it’s safe, put on some music, and tell the boss to piss off.”

  I barked out a completely unprofessional laugh as Paul strummed out a quick flamenco flourish.

  “Well, it seems that Tack is incoherent right now, so I’ll just make the introductions. I’m JT Blackwood, and the noisy git on the guitar is Paul Ross. We’re two-fifths of Slanker Knox, and we dropped by this morning to annoy you all with a brief, unplugged concert.”

  Through the closed door, we heard a smattering of applause from the slacking employees hanging out in the hall.

  They started with one of their older acoustic ballads, and as JT’s lyrics about love and loss washed over me, I got anxious all over again. Where in this godforsaken building was Jensen, and what was taking her so long?

  I peeked out through the slot window next to the door, and, peering around the gathered folks out in the hall, didn’t see her coming yet.

  Additionally, much as their presence annoyed me, why was the group hanging around outside the door so small? Normally, most of the building would be out there at this point during an in-studio performance.

  The second that thought flitted through my head, the crowd increased as if I’d conjured them. I guess KLVR hadn’t been the station playing on the overheads this morning.

  I’ll bet it was now.

  The duo launched into ‘Love Will Win’ and still, Jensen was not here.

  They finished the song, and though the minor mob in hall clapped and cheered, the person for whom the mini-concert was intended had still not shown her face.

  What the everloving hell?

  “We’d like to remind everyone that that last song, ‘Love Will Win,’ will be forever available as a single for download at your favorite music e-tailer, because every last penny that you pay for it goes to support the Earthling Rights Foundation. So if you don’t have it, get it. And if you do have it,” JT chuckled, “download it again from somewhere else.”

  He looked at me, brows raised, as if I’d know what was going on with Jensen. All I could do was shrug.

  “I think we have time for just one more tune. You have a favorite, Tack?”

  JT’s question was meant as a time-filling stall, as we’d already discussed which songs they would play this morning. I played along. At this point, the dramatic impact was lost, and all I could hope for was that she’d make it for at least one song.

  “How about ‘Heartbeats?’”

  “Ah, the song everyone almost didn’t get to hear. I’ll give you a little trivia tidbit about that one—our bass player, Rafe, wrote that song as a wedding gift to me and Kori, and he was adamant that we never record it commercially.”

  “But?” JT had shared this story with me when he’d sent me the MP3 of the rough version. He wanted my opinion on its commercial viability, he’d said. I’d laughed at his email; the man was never uncertain about anything. He’d just been fishing for compliments. And the song deserved them.

  “But I’d recorded it when he played it at our reception, then added strings, a heavier bass line, some background vocal loops, and stuck my voice over his like we were singing a duet. I sent it to him and threatened to release my version. He, of course, had a conniption, so we all went in-studio to do it up right. And that’s how the single, as you hear it now, came about.”

  Paul had turned away from the mic, softly strumming the intro since I’d mentioned the song title, background music to JT’s little flash of history. He spun back so the notes were louder over the airwaves, and JT joined in on rhythm.

  Love may be blind,

  But it blind-sided me…

  JT crooned the lyrics with a voice rough around the edges, and I found myself nodding, not sure if it was to keep tempo or because the words hit home… ah, who the hell am I kidding? The lyrics were practically pulled from my own head.

  This was the song I wanted Jen to hear; it said so many things that I couldn’t articulate (or wasn’t yet willing to).

  And if it was currently reaching her ears, it sure as shit wasn’t doing it anywhere in my vicinity. For all I knew, she was still in BK’s office and the overhead speakers were turned down low.

  What happened to my life? Jesus. Ever since I met that woman, my normal was… well, it wasn’t. Nothing went according to plan anymore. My emotions had been thrown into a Mixmaster set to frappe, then the bastard at the controls had walked away and left the thing to blend.

  I closed my eyes and wished, for the thousandth time, for a fragment of a blessing. Just a shred to tell me that I was heading in the right direction and that this might turn out the way I hoped.

  The rattle of the doorknob behind me was almost imperceptible, and I turned quickly, scowling and ready to rip into whoever was presumptuous enough to invite themselves inside while we were on the air.

  My glare melted away as I recognized who was closing the door as gently as it had been opened.

  Jen gave me a little wave, punctuated by a shrugging duck of her head. The enormous grin plastered to her face had every last doubt evaporating.

  Apparently, I only qualified for wish-granting when I was desperate.

  Whatever. I’d take it.

  As the song finished, Jen launched into clapping and grinning like a kid with a Toys R Us gift card. “I can’t believe you came bac
k! What a fabulous surprise!” she gushed like the fan-girl she was. “I’m so sorry I had to miss most of it.”

  JT mumbled something and hugged her, squashing his guitar between the two of them with a clunk, then winked at me over her shoulder. There was no way in God’s green fuck that I was ever going to confess that it had all been arranged just for her. Not now. She’d feel awful, and it would ruin the elation she’d associate with the memory.

  I sighed in my head as Paul introduced himself and she let out a squeal.

  I grabbed a microphone and wrapped up the show as the door banged open and damn-near everyone in the building crammed into the room. If anybody noticed that my smile looked strained, they didn’t mention it.

  Chapter 20

  *Never Say Goodbye*

  “I heard your show yesterday morning, when Slanker Knox was playing in the studio.” Dr. Cooper wasn’t doing anything clichéd with his hands for once, which threw me for as much of a loop as hearing him say he listened to my show. Somehow, he didn’t strike me as the KLVR type. I’m fairly sure I kept the shock from my face.

  “JT’s a cool guy. On Monday, he offered to come back and try to serenade Jensen for me. But the boss called her to his office right before they arrived.”

  “Why wouldn’t he wait until after the performance, I wonder?” Like they’d never stopped, Doc Stereotype aimed both his steeple-digits and his laser-stare at me from across the desk. Good to know that everything was right in this corner of my world, at least.

  “Probably ‘cause he didn’t know. It was a secret.” Too bad I was actually the surprised one. “I can’t ever let Jen know that it was set up just for her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because even though she was only there for half a song, she was so damn happy. Telling her would destroy that.”

  He jotted something down in his notebook, and closed the cover before I could decipher his cramped, upside-down cursive. It was a moment before he spoke. I guess he had to get his fingers lined up just right before his voicebox would engage.

  “So your girly-movie ploy didn’t work. Big deal—you’ve said it’s not your style, anyway. Take her out instead.”

  For a split-second, I wondered what porn had to do with anything. Then I translated girly-movie into chick flick and it all made sense. Kinda.

  “What good would getting her drunk at a nightclub do? Jensen getting naked and into my bed is not something either of us need alcohol for. As a matter of fact, sex would be counterproductive right now.” And there’s something I never thought I’d say.

  The doc’s weird little geisha-giggle bubbled up from his side of the desk and I had to fight the shiver that tripped up my spine. “Not a night on the town, Tack. A romantic dinner. Someplace where you have to dress up to get in the door.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to shake off that freaky laugh without being obvious. He continued smiling, obviously thinking the head-shaking deal meant I was right on board with his suggestion.

  Which, wonder of wonders, I actually was.

  “Gotcha.” I glanced at my watch before I went on. “Do you think we could end the session early today? I’ve got to make some calls if I’m going to pull this off tonight.”

  I knew the perfect place. Not that I’d ever been, because my kind of dates don’t require wining and dining and second mortgages to pay the dinner tab, but that didn’t mean I was an uninformed cretin.

  Fortunately, the spot I had in mind was not attached to where my mother worked. But unfortunately, it just might take pulling some strings to get a reservation on such short notice.

  I sat in the clinic’s parking lot with the air conditioning going full blast, wishing the few spots under the trees were vacant. The conversation I was about to embark on would be trying enough without blisters forming on every part of my skin that touched the interior.

  With a sigh, I hit the tiny Wicked Witch of the West photo on my phone and put it to my ear.

  And went straight to voicemail. Dammit. The one time I actually wanted to talk to the woman and she had her phone off.

  “Hey, Mom. Can you call me back as soon as you get this? I really need your help.”

  I ended up circling the block five times on the way home. My mother returned my call and, though she did her best to pry them out of me, I didn’t share many details. She finally quit trying and told me she’d call back when she had it all squared away.

  I gotta hand it to her; not ninety seconds later, my phone chimed an incoming text. I stayed at a stop sign a little too long, garnering a honk from the impatient minivan behind me, to read the two words she’d sent.

  It certainly wasn’t amazing that she got it set up so quickly—because that was just how she operated—but it sure was handy. When I told Jen I wanted to take her someplace special for dinner, she camped out in the bathroom and I didn’t see her for over an hour.

  I was just beginning to get antsy, glancing at my watch every ten seconds while simultaneously keeping Angus from sneaking into my lap, when I heard her bedroom door open. The hushed sound of her feet on the carpet brought me to my feet, ready to take her in.

  I wasn’t prepared when she came around the corner into the living room.

  And I absolutely wasn’t worthy.

  My mouth dried up and I struggled to breathe. I’m pretty sure my jaw was scraping the carpet.

  She was staggering, and I don’t mean that in a way that would imply she could barely stand upright. Me, on the other hand…

  She did a little twirl to reveal a flash of very low-cut back, the skirt on her electric blue dress flaring slightly before settling back down to just above her knees. Her right hand was mercilessly twisting a strand of hair by her cheek and she seemed to be studying the fiber pattern in the carpet.

  Guess I wasn’t the only one feeling like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

  “My God, Jen. I have no words to describe how exquisite you are.” I didn’t mean just her appearance, either. I actually glanced down at her feet to make sure she was real and found her sparkly silver high heels sinking into the heavily padded beige Berber.

  Okay then.

  My eyes traced slowly back up her curves, lingering just a split-second longer on the hint of cleavage in the modest u-shape of her neckline. Desperately fighting the urge to pull her to me and sketch a journey over her skin with my lips, I swallowed hard over non-existent saliva and took in the blush creeping up her cheeks.

  “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

  She said, “Not really.” But when her eyes met mine, I could see that I had.

  “This just feels… weird,” she finished after a moment.

  “Weird-bad, or weird-good?” I don’t remember stepping closer but I found myself near enough that if I leaned down just a little, my lips could be on hers.

  I wanted that more than my next breath.

  “Weird-weird. I mean, you see me in my bathrobe.”

  “All the more reason to see you out of it.”

  Her eyes flashed and a tiny smirk danced at the corners of her mouth.

  I groaned. She was seriously trying to kill me.

  “Ordinarily, I appreciate a dirty mind. But we have reservations.”

  And did I ever; reservations about keeping my hands off her like I promised myself, reservations about changing her mind, and reservations about what I would do if she actually did stay. For now, I focused on the one penciled into the maître d’s calendar at Bellagio’s Picasso restaurant.

  I am completely candy in her hands. Case in point:

  In the glow of a nearly-full moon and about a million underwater spotlights, we were leaning on the wrought iron railing that outlined the wide walkway, watching the fountains dance to ‘Hey, Big Spender.’

  Like most residents of the city, I’ve driven past the fountains countless times on South Las Vegas Boulevard, and had even briefly stopped to look a few times on my way to one of the clubs inside.

  Hey, we’re desert dwel
lers. Of course we’re fascinated by all that water.

  But I had never intentionally stood and just watched them.

  All through dinner, Jen kept stealing glances out the nearby window at the illuminated spray as it jumped and swirled.

  While we finished the last of our second bottle of wine, I asked if she wanted to get a closer look. The expression on her face, all three-year-old-in-Santa’s-workshop-with-a-couple-of-Disney-princesses-as-tourguides, was the only answer I needed.

  So we strolled, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm, until we found an empty spot on the balustrade. I’d draped one arm across her shoulders, since the heat of the day had bled off into cool desert night, and she hadn’t thought to bring a wrap.

  A mellow breeze lifted the hair from Jen’s neck and I felt her fight a tremor and lose. Stepping behind her to block the draft, I caged her in my arms against the railing and leaned close; the scent of something amber mixed with a sweetness I couldn’t identify flooded my head, and my vision fritzed out at the edges.

  Add to that the view of all that exposed skin on her back, golden and shadowy in the fountain’s light and mere inches in front of me—well, I’ll just let you guess where every spare drop of blood in my body was surging off to.

  Her shoulders were still trembling and she’d let go of the railing to wrap her arms around herself.

  Deciding that keeping her warm was not technically a violation of my no-touching oath, I enveloped her in my arms. Cursing softly at the gooseflesh under my hands, I tucked her into my chest and lowered my chin to rest on her hair.

  Just to block the breeze.

  Inhaling her warm scent had nothing to do with it. Seriously. I already had an erection the size of Kansas that I was trying to simultaneously ignore and keep from grinding into her body where she leaned against me.

  Even after the music ended, we stayed that way, waiting to see what was next. I hoped it wasn’t a song from ‘The Music Man’ or something. I can handle just so many showtunes.

  We got blue balls with a capital B and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool… as in ‘Pool that blue dress around your ankles and climb my naked body like a tree.’