My heart’s beating so hard I can scarcely breathe, and yet I feel like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken in weeks as I peek around the house and spot Kinsley laughing at something Blaze just said. Her once-pale skin is a nice golden hue from the Mediterranean sun she’s been under the last week.
“Jesus.”
“You bring that ring, fuckface?”
“Yes. And shut the hell up already, you asshole. I said I was sorry! I was mad, all right? Christ. The woman almost got herself killed.”
That pissed me off because I felt like a real failure for not being there when she needed me. Of course, we all know who shot that asshole Jon, but I’m letting Kins stick to her story because I know that no matter what happened that day, I have a huge debt to pay to the shooter we’ve been looking for months for.
“Yeah. I know. But that’s Kins. When she was little, I’d follow her around just to make sure she survived whatever the hell she was getting into next. She doesn’t see things the way other people do. She probably wanted to go all Hulk on Jon that day, and would have if he didn’t have a gun. That’s her. You have to love her as she is and just try to look out for her where you can.”
“Yeah. Shit. I’m nervous, man,” I mutter, looking away when she smiles and starts talking animatedly.
“Stop being a pussy already and just do it. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“She could say no.”
That shuts him up quickly, and I feel my chest go tight with tension. We all know her. She could say no without feeling an ounce of guilt, and then probably spend an hour explaining the logic of her decision to me.
Whatever, I’d probably just be pathetically grateful for an hour’s worth of her time at this point.
Taking a deep breath, I shove the cooler at Lex and march across the yard, ignoring Storm’s greeting and attempt to waylay me. My sole focus is on Kinsley and the way she just seems to glow in the sunlight.
She stops laughing the minute she sees me, and dammit, everyone else has gone silent, and they are watching me like hawks when I stop right in front of Kinsley and look down into her eyes. My heart is pounding hard enough that black spots float into my vision.
“Kinsley.”
She smiles, just smiles at me and says my name. I feel like passing out as I fumble in my pocket and pull out the ring I’ve been carrying around since I bought it.
I’m nervous as fuck, sweating profusely and desperate for everyone to stop staring, but I ignore it all and drop down to one knee, holding the rock out as some kind of freaking incentive for her to accept.
Her eyes go round like two saucers, and I hear her squeak as I clear my throat.
“I have loved you since I first saw you. You were way too young for me back then, but I couldn’t do a damn thing about what I felt. I love your laugh, your smile, the way you scrunch your nose and go a little cross-eyed when you’re glaring. I love that you’re weird and do the strangest things just to prepare for the apocalypse. I love that you say the most inappropriate shit, like telling your mama that you finally gave head and liked it. By the way, that was a very uncomfortable phone call for me.”
Everyone laughs, and I hear Lex gag, as Kinsley blushes and shrugs, letting me know she isn’t the least bit bothered by the ribbing she’s going to get for this.
“I loved you when you were starry-eyed and looked at me like I hung the moon, even though I knew you were too good for me. I love you now, Kins, so damn much that you’ve felled me in a matter of days. Please, please forgive me for being an ass and marry me. I’ll beg at this point.”
The girls all aaaah and start sniffing, and I can feel the guys all grinning at my back, as I look up into her blue eyes and pray for a miracle. Kinsley smiles, her eyes shining bright with unshed tears. She leans down to cup my face, stroking slightly.
“I love you too, King, I really do. But the answer is no.”
“Well shit, this is just awkward,” I hear Cleo gasp behind me.
It really is, I think as I look up at Kinsley and blink, my body frozen on the spot as my entire family looks on, witnessing my utter and total devastation at this point.
“Kins—”
“I can’t marry you, King, because I love you. I don’t want or need a piece of paper to prove that you’re mine and I’m yours. So no, no wedding, but I will be yours if you want me to be, and I will try every single day to prove to you that you’re my one and only. You’ve been it for me since I saw you when I was sixteen and was too stupid to realize that I wanted more than a book full of dreams.”
I want to kiss her as my heart starts beating again. I go to stand, only to have her push me down, pluck the ring out of my hand and shove a piece of paper at me.
The ring is on her finger a second later, and I see her grin at it as she waves at the paper and nods.
“Go ahead.”
Happiness? Complete. At least that’s what I think as I grin and struggle not to cry like a bitch while opening the folded square. And then I do know pure happiness because I know exactly what it is, and to me it’s everything.
It’s the missing page from her diary, the one I never stop wondering about, and it’s all me. At the top, written in bold black marker is the title My Only Real Dream and across the page in elegant print is my name. Just that. Nothing else.
“You have got to marry me now, woman, you just made me cry,” I huff, swiping at tears as I jump up and pull her into my arms, kissing her thoroughly as our friends laugh and start cheering our names.
“All I need is you.”
“You have me. Now marry me, Kins.”
“Make me.”
Chapter Sixteen
Watcher
God, I really adore that woman, I think as I watch the celebrations through the scope of my rifle and keep watch. I know that I can never have that same happiness, and part of me is relieved as I take in all the work entailed in living the way they do.
Storm is cradling his heavily pregnant wife and laughing at Jericho, who can’t keep his hands off Cleo’s ass. Blaze takes over the grilling and shouts curses and insults at King, who just looks shell-shocked and exuberant all at once.
And here I am. Alone. Always watching. Never truly here but for the protection I can provide as I draw my prey near and use these men and their families as bait.
I’m just about to leave and go back to my empty room where I’ll likely pull out my phone and watch her, when I catch movement in my scope and look back over at King.
The thank you he mouths my way makes me grin, and for once I feel.
I just feel.
ALL SHOOK UP
Chapter One
Rosetta
The sounds of slots singing and the metallic jangle of coins are like my favorite ballad. I strut around the floor and do my routine, stopping every now and then to curl my lip and growl at tittering old broads with purple hair and red lips that would be more appropriate on much less aged versions of themselves.
“Do Suspicious Minds!”
I grin at that and then twist around to shake my ass closer to the lady in question. I give her my all, as I shimmy and start singing, my voice going deep in all the right parts.
God, I love my life, I think, as I croon and stare deeply into her eyes, giving her exactly what she’s asking for—and what the casino pays me to do. I’m one of the three biggest draws that Graceland Casino has to offer.
I love this job because I get to belt out Elvis songs and wear costumes that I’d never get to wear apart from Halloween, or risk people calling me a weirdo or a lesbian. And I get freaking paid to do it!
So, okay, eight hours stuck in the suit and cape can be torturous when the temperatures soar, and yes, the wig totally makes me feel like I have the fleas of a thousand dogs taking up residence on my scalp.
But it still beats an office job or working a fast-food counter.
Mostly I love it, like tonight when I get to stare into an old broad’s eyes, kiss her hand and watch her
titter. And she’ll never for a second guess that, under the makeup and body stocking that holds me in, I am all woman and not even remotely attracted to the same sex.
Yeah, people, I get paid to impersonate Elvis and hit on little old ladies, who spend their husbands’ money on slots while having their weekly gossip sessions.
I know them all by name—well, most of them at least. I’ve worked Graceland’s floors for four years, along with the other Elvis wannabes. The old lady I just made wet for the first time in two decades?
She’s Linny Kroeger, my favorite customer, because she never fails to slip a twenty into my collar or blow me a kiss—even though I suspect she copped a feel of my boob weeks ago but hasn’t yet mentioned that she knows I’m a woman.
“Hey, El, Jesus, this place is hopping tonight!”
I turn and smile at my co-worker Lonny as we both wave to our admirers and head toward the staff area where the locker rooms are situated. My feet feel like hamburger meat, and I’m pretty sure some of my ass crack has melted down my leg as we hobble our way toward the door and wave at security.
“You’re telling me, man. Old Diane just about cupped my crotch while I was in the middle of Jail House Rock.”
That gets him laughing, that big belly of his shaking as we turn into the locker room and start tearing off the suits. I’m not shy about undressing in front of my fat Elvis counterpart, not since I met his husband, Rodney, and the two of them asked me to be their “maybe egg donor” if they can’t find a sucker prettier than I am.
The suit slides off with a slop, my skin pouring and crying out in relief as I fall back onto the long wooden bench in the middle of the room and let the air conditioning pour over me.
Lon does the same and moans. His hairy tub of a belly shakes, as we let out hard groans and just wait for the melting to stop. Some nights, I swear I could mold my boobs any way I want them and just wait for the cool air to set them that way.
That’s my dream since it feels like every inch of me is melted like hot candle wax.
“So, I heard Gino is hiring some new girls to work the floor, starting next month. Priscillas,” he says, coming up on his elbow to look down at me. “You think that’ll help or make things bad? I gotta tell ya, I won’t be too pleased if those bitches steal my tips.”
My laughter is a lot less amused and a lot more in agreement as I roll to a sitting position and peel the body sock off, its wet fabric clinging before it peels off and drops to the floor.
“Oh, please cheese, you think those old broads are going to be tipping tits when they’ve got man meat strutting around gyrating their hips?”
Lon chortles, sending his gut dancing. He looks down at the balled-up sock filling the front of my thong, his eyes twinkling. He doesn’t even glance at my boobs, winking at my fake crotch.
“Well, if it were real…”
“Shut up, pervert, and get real here. Honestly, do you think they’re looking to pull new blood into this place?”
This worries me, no matter how much I want to play it off, because I know, and have always known that if Elvises are getting the boot, my girlie ass will be the first one to go.
I mean, I’m a great impersonator, no matter the boobs or vag, but in the Elvis stakes, I’m a poor second to guys like Lon, who have the balls to pull off the voice far better than I ever will.
That sucks, because as jobs go, this one is my number one. I love everything about it. The clothes, the makeup, the songs—God, I love the songs. They remind me of Nana and those days before she died—and not to mention all the excitement, especially when tourists come pouring in, wanting to take photos with me and demanding an on-the-spot improv of songs that my idol didn’t actually sing.
My favorite was one elderly Japanese couple who asked me to sing Mariah Carey’s Hero. Gino and I laughed about that one for days, and I think the guys in security still have that travesty on tape.
I loved it. And why shouldn’t I? I like making people happy, seeing them smile and laugh and clap with delight when I do something they seem to enjoy.
That’s been my mainstay and the only thing that saved me after Nana passed. For a while there, I was in danger of getting lost, maybe being pulled under in the mire of misery my grief brought on.
But I stayed the course and lived for every smile, every laugh, and most importantly every little dimpled peek of happiness that I know Nana would have loved to see.
If I’m tired sometimes since I work eight hours and sometimes more if we lose an Elvis to another casino, well, I get over it. This job is all I have besides a very small pool of friends. And, as I said, it beats some of the other things a girl like me could be doing in Vegas.
“I dunno, Rosie. I just hope they don’t do something that could make our jobs shitty is all. Rod is planning to take me to Hawaii for a week next month, but if things here go badly, I’ll have to postpone.”
“Don’t you dare!” I huff, walking into the showers with exhaustion gripping me. “He’s been saving for two years for this vacation, and he’s tweeted at least thirty times about everything you guys are going to do.”
The spray comes on, and I groan when the tepid water hits my overheated skin, not doing a damn thing for my aching muscles but definitely helping with the sweat factor.
I spend ten minutes scrubbing and washing my hair with the shampoo Lon brings in for both of us, a product that Rodney and I both worked on.
The lavender-honey blend smells amazing, and it makes me feel relaxed yet energized as I dry off and pull on a pair of ratty old jeans, flats, and a Graceland t-shirt that does nothing to disguise my unbound breasts, or the fact that I’m a lousy B-cup, one of the reasons I don’t have to tape them to get them out of the way while I’m working.
“Yeah, you’re right. Besides, if things go south, I can always go work with Rod, though God knows, making bath products could not be any darn gayer,” he grumps, grinning mischievously, as I snort and shove my un-brushed hair into a ponytail holder.
“Lon, honey pie, you’re the biggest fairy I have ever met, and you know it. Rod is six two, buff as hell, and speaks as if he was breastfed pure testosterone. There ain’t a damn thing gay about that man on paper until you see the way he looks at your adorable ass. Now stop ruining my no-sweat buzz, old man, and come have a beer with me before I have to crawl home.”
“Darling, I’m the man in my marriage, and don’t you forget it.”
What else can I do but giggle? Lon is short, hairy, and has a gut that tells of his love for ice cream sandwiches and candy bars. Plus, he sashays when he walks unless he’s working, and he speaks with more femininity than I do.
He’s the bottom, no doubt, but I hate to burst that bubble and hardly ever do. Well, unless I’ve got my menses, and then I turn into Satan’s concubine. But then so does Lon. I think our cycles have synched or something.
“Stop relegating me to the bottom, girl. If you knew what I do—”
“Lalalalalalalala! No. Stop. Please Jesus, the last sex story you told me had me shrinking away from human touch for months. Hell no, Lonny girl, keep that nasty shit to yourself, pun not intended but trademarked if indeed it’s as cool as I think it is.” I grin, avoiding his slap as we leave the locker room and start walking down the long corridor toward the employee lounge deeper in the belly of the beast.
I feel a migraine coming on but ignore it, not wanting to think about the stress I’ve been under lately or the reason for it.
“So, that freak sending you letters still?”
And there goes my migraine, straight to nuclear explosion.
“Lon.”
“No way, Nancy! I want to know if you’re still getting those ridiculous notes and if you’ve called the cops. That shit is just plain freaky, girl,” he mutters, as we grab a beer and fall into the cheap plastic chairs that make up the only furniture in the stark white room.
I’m freaking tempted to take up smoking again as I join him and gulp at the ice-cold brew, my neck going
stiff with tension. About two months ago, I started getting weird little notes on my windshield, under the door at home, and once in my locker after a long shift.
Every note is the same, though in recent weeks the messages have been getting more and more aggressive the longer I ignore them. It’s not a case of someone wanting me, or even really just stalking me from what I can see.
Nuh-uh, these notes are just plain creepy and say some really unpleasant things about the fate of my body parts and one…well, let’s just say that I do not relish the thought of some maniac planning to use my innards as a clothing option.
“Give it a rest already. It’s just some harmless nut, who enjoys terrorizing me. He’ll soon enough see that I don’t give a hoot and move on.”
At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for weeks now. Honestly though, what difference would it make to go to the cops? They’d just tell me they can’t do anything and that would tick me off, something that won’t get me anywhere but contemplating an attack on a government building.
And trust me, that would be bad. I’m five three and weigh one hundred and twenty pounds. I’d die in prison—in the first hour.
“Rod says this guy is a freak and that you should come stay with us.”
“And spend my days being asked about vaginas like they’re an alien being you guys are morbidly fascinated with? No thanks,” I say with a snort, giggling around my beer.
“Not fascinated! Just curious. Honestly though, what do straight guys see in them anyway?”
“Er, female in the building, sausage guzzler! I happen to like my lady tank, thank you very much. And guys like her too, seeing as she’s all pink and pretty and warm inside,” I say, tongue in cheek as Lon shivers delicately.
THE WATCHERS: 6 Military Romance Bundle Page 60