by Sage Nyx
“Hey wait! If you don’t have time for dinner, how about drinks? Or one drink? A tiny little one? Upstairs at the bar? We don’t need to leave the hotel if you’re in a hurry or have other plans for later. Give me five minutes to put back on my shirt and jacket, and then we can split. There’s no way they’ll let me into a bar only wearing pants.”
Her eyes drop to my bare chest. Indecision crosses her face. She’s wavering.
Now is my chance.
“The bar has a special signature cocktail that everyone needs to try before they leave Vegas. Come on. It’ll be fun.”
“What’s it called?”
“The drink or the bar? It’s a surprise. One hour, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Okay,” she finally relents. “Only an hour though. I’m not much of a party girl.”
“Super!” I say. “You’ll love it, I promise.”
Once Jade agrees to go with me, I wave over one of my staff members who brings me my shirt and jacket. After slipping them on, I usher Jade into a private staff elevator.
Five minutes later, we’re walking into one of the hotel’s famous bars, the Pink Elephant. The regular bartender is busy polishing the white marble bar stretching the full length of the room. He nods at me when we step inside the entrance.
There’s no need for a menu. He knows what I’ll order. A bottle of champagne and a house specialty drink for the lady.
I lead Jade to a small cocktail table in a far corner with high metal stools. In retrospect, I wish I’d chosen another bar in the hotel. One with private, comfy booths where she could sit close beside me instead of a high table with unsteady, metal, dainty stools covered in pink and white polka-dotted fabric.
Jade hops up on a stool and I slide another one closer to her before sitting down. The metal chair scrapes the floor when I move it.
“This is nice,” she says politely, waving a hand at the bubbly, pink elephant themed décor. “A little dainty for you though. I expected something different.”
“What do you mean?” I joke. “Doesn’t every man love pink? The bar is called the Pink Elephant. There’s not much they could do with the décor to work around the name. Supposedly it was designed after a children’s book the hotel owner read when he was growing up as a child in Naples, Italy. His elderly mother is a permanent resident of the hotel and named the bar herself.”
“I don’t remember any books about pink elephants from my childhood,” she says, frowning. “How about you?”
My mind goes back to how I grew up, moving from town-to-town with my dad, sleeping in the back of the truck and sneaking showers at truck stops.
The closest thing I had to pink elephants were the occasional stray dogs that were hanging around gas stations begging for food scraps.
I don’t tell her this.
“Definitely no pink elephant books in my childhood,” I say. “Maybe it’s an Italian thing. Were you telling the truth about being from Orlando? How was it growing up there?”
“My family moved to Orlando a few years ago. We didn’t live there when I was a child.”
“Probably not a bad thing,” I say. “Orlando must be similar to Vegas. A massive fake world designed solely to part tourists from their hard-earned money.”
“It is,” she says. “Everything is sparkling clean and wonderful inside the theme parks. If you venture too far from them, you’ll find rundown extended-stay hotels and trailer parks. The reality is much different than the dream. The weather is nice, and my brother is happy in Orlando, so I am too.”
“Is he an older brother?”
“Younger. He’s only ten.”
“I’ve always wondered how it would be to have a brother. That must be fun having a younger sibling to hang out with and spoil rotten.”
Her face lights up. “It is. He’s awesome. I missed him terribly when I was away at college.”
“I’m sure he loves getting your phone calls. Or do you video chat? It’s the next best thing to being there in person.”
“He isn’t very talkative.” A clouded expression crosses her face. “Mom keeps me informed about how he’s doing and vice versa. I’m looking forward to being home for Christmas. We always watch the Christmas Day parade on television. It’s taped several days before, but my brother doesn’t realize that. Mom makes us special pancakes for breakfast, and we sit around in red matching pajamas until noon. It never snows in Orlando, so we have to make our own holiday traditions.”
I can easily picture Jade and her family sitting around a fake fireplace with palm trees blowing softly in the wind outside the window.
Not a bad image.
“Sounds fun,” I say. “Unfortunately, I’ll be working late on Christmas Eve. The same as I do every year. There’s a special holiday themed show planned that night. Which means I’ll spend Christmas Day sleeping off the inevitable hangover I’ll have from partying all night on Christmas Eve.”
She raises her eyebrows at me. “That isn’t a good way to spend Christmas. What about your family? Won’t they be upset if you’re not there with them to enjoy the holiday?”
I hesitate before answering. I haven’t shared the truth about my family with anyone except my closest friends…Leroy, Kit and Vulcan.
They’re the only ones who know my family life is less than perfect. It’s easier to keep up pretenses that way.
“My family is accustomed to not seeing me on Christmas Day,” I lie. “It was hard at first. After a while, we all adjusted to me not being there. That’s the curse of showbiz. Working when everyone else is on vacation.”
“Ahh…that’s sad,” she says. “Christmas is about family. I would be depressed if I couldn’t be with my family on Christmas.”
“Does that mean you’ll be leaving Vegas before Christmas Day then?” The question slips out.
If so, that means I have little time to get to know her. Christmas is only two weeks away. Normally I can’t wait for my ‘girl of the day’ to leave town. Now I’m wishing for more time.
“I’ll definitely be long gone by then,” she says. “I’m only here for a few days. There’s no way I could afford a two-week Vegas vacation.”
A waitress dressed in a bright pink and white polka-dotted dress arrives at our table and interrupts our conversation.
“Here you go,” she says with a fake bright smile, placing a massive, oversized martini glass on the table between us filled with a colorful pink concoction. “The Cotton Candy Dream House Special. Do you want me to add the champagne?”
“No, I’ll do it, thank you,” I tell her.
“Oh, wow!” Jade says, her eyes growing wide at the sight of the glass filled with colorful liquid and topped with a stack of fuzzy pink cotton candy. “What do we do with this? When you said one drink, I assumed you meant a normal drink in a glass, not…this.” She waves a hand at the drink. “Whatever this is. Do we eat the cotton candy and chase it with the champagne?”
“The champagne goes over the top,” I tell her, reaching over to pull the champagne bottle from the ice bucket.
“You don’t really expect me to drink this by myself, do you?” she asks. “I wouldn’t be able to walk out of here unassisted.”
I grasp one of the two straws already placed in the glass. “Don’t worry. It’s meant to be shared. I would be concerned if you wanted to keep it all to yourself. Take a sip and see if you like it. If not, we can order something else. Or one of everything on the menu if you want. We’ll try them all.”
She takes a tiny taste and nods. “This is delicious,” she says before taking another long sip. “And refreshing. I’m thirsty. It was blazing hot in the theater with the crowd and even hotter in that damn box.”
“Go easy,” I warn when she takes another long draw on the straw. “The drink contains more alcohol than you can taste.”
“What’s in it?”
“I’m not sure. A few secret ingredients the bartender won’t share with me. I keep asking and he won’t tell. The hotel management made
him sign a non-disclosure agreement not to reveal the ingredients. Can you believe that? What is the world coming to when contracts need to be signed about cocktails? Apparently, they don’t want their secret recipe to get out.”
“Everyone in this town has secrets,” she says, her green eyes gazing at me over the straw. It would be easy to get lost in her eyes. “You won’t tell me how to do your magic tricks and the bartender won’t give up his special cotton candy cocktail recipe.”
“If only those were the biggest secrets this town was keeping,” I say. “At least you’re not hiding secrets, right? You’re in town to play around, let off some steam and have a little fun.”
Her eyes grow guarded. I intentionally made the remark to see how she would react physically. I’m watching for tiny imperceptible changes in her facial expression.
Her eyes.
Her luscious lips tinged with a hint of gloss.
A slight hitch in breathing.
Jade shifts her long legs and crosses them under the table. An unconscious protective instinct to block me out.
I fight the urge to slip my hand under the table and run my hand along her thigh. With any other woman, I would do it without a second thought.
Would Jade object if I did? Something tells me she might.
Do I risk running her off so early in the game? For the first time in forever, I’m holding back. I don’t want to blow my chances with her.
“Partying isn’t the only reason to be in Vegas,” she replies after a moment. “There’s gambling, shopping, sight-seeing.”
“You gamble?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Aren’t you a little young to be vacationing alone in Vegas to gamble?”
“Who says I’m alone?” she replies with a teasing smile.
Good point.
I didn’t think of that. I assumed she came alone.
“Are you here in Vegas with someone else then?”
I’m not one to beat around the bush. If I want to know something, I’ll be direct and ask. Life is too short to play stupid mind games. Messing around with another man’s girl is something I would never willingly do.
Why get involved with unnecessary drama?
“If you’re asking if I’m here in Vegas with another man, the answer is no,” she replies. “I’m here celebrating my graduation from college.”
“Sitting in a casino all day alone doesn’t strike me as a good way to celebrate. Or maybe that’s me. Wouldn’t a week in Cancun, Mexico or Daytona Beach be more exciting and fun?”
“I’m only here for a few days,” she explains. “A quick getaway before I start the serious job search. Not a real vacation. I can’t afford one of those until I get a job and more money saved up. Maybe in a few years if I’m lucky. I have a ton of student loans to pay off first before I can play around.”
“Where did you go to college?”
Once again, she hesitates. Imperceptibly, but enough for me to notice.
“M.I.T.,” she finally answers.
Her body language says she’s telling the truth. Breaking eye contact with me, she leans down and takes another long sip of the drink.
My questions are making her increasingly uncomfortable. She’s finding it hard to meet my eyes. I’m trying to figure out why. All we’re talking about is college, not government secrets.
“The Montana Institute of Travel?” I tease.
“The Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” she corrects me in a serious tone, not realizing I’m joking.
“I was kidding you,” I say. “I knew that. You’re a smart girl. No surprise there. You must be on a whole different level of smart to get into that college. What were your S.A.T. scores? I bet they were off the charts. I heard the entrance requirements are a killer.”
I’m rambling on about test scores when I don’t know one damn thing about the S.A.T. test. I’ve never taken it. What would she think if she knew I only made it to fifth grade of formal education before being pulled out and ‘homeschooled’ by my father?
Homeschooling to Dad meant learning how to survive in the real world, not memorizing random science facts found in textbooks. The only time I could study was on long car rides between county fairs.
We’d hit garage sales where we’d pick up interesting paperback books for a dime a piece. Everything from Western novels to learn history, or maps to study United States geography.
The one subject Dad was a stickler about was math. He’d spend hours grilling me over and over on my multiplication tables. After I mastered the times tables, we moved on to more complex mathematical equations.
I learned how to count money, make change, and think fast on my feet.
All the things I would need to know in the real world, not to score high on a college entrance exam.
If I had it all to do over, I wouldn’t change a thing about my childhood. I’m where I’m at today because of it.
“I’m not super smart,” she answers. “Not compared to the other students. Their level of intelligence is mind-blowing. The same goes for most of the professors, too. I spent my time there being in awe of everyone else. It’s intimidating being surrounded by the brightest minds in the world.”
She’s intentionally downplaying her intelligence. I wish she wouldn’t. Anyone who graduates from M.I.T. should be proud of their accomplishments.
“What did you study?” I ask. “Engineering? Computers?”
“A little of everything they offered,” she answers. “Enumerative Combinatorics was my favorite.”
“An interesting field,” I say.
I don’t have a clue what the fuck she’s talking about.
“And coding,” she adds, noticing my blank expression.
“You can write computer programs?”
“Sure, among other things,” she replies with a shrug. “Computer programs, cellphone apps, even the occasional video game program. It’s all boring, basic stuff.” She turns slightly, giving me her whole attention. “Not nearly as fun as it sounds. There are much more exciting things to talk about. Your illusionist show, for example. How did you get started? Did you receive a magic kit as a Christmas present when you were a kid? Spill it. I want to know all the fascinating details.”
Now it’s my turn to be on the hot seat and answer her questions.
I automatically begin to give her the regular spiel that I often recite in interviews about how my big break happened in Las Vegas.
Every word is a big, fat lie.
Carefully crafted by my public relations team to give me the desired image their research shows would have the most appeal to the largest audience.
The truth is different and not so pretty or media friendly.
What would Jade think of me if she knew the truth?
Sugar
Something tells me Jade would see me differently if she knew that my dad is sitting in prison.
That I grew up working side hustles on city streets. Everything from the basic three-cup-monte scam to pickpocketing distracted observers of Dad’s tricks if we needed money for dinner.
That I spent my childhood traveling from town-to-town and living out of an old beat-up truck.
That I never knew how it felt to have a room of my own or a real home.
Not anywhere.
In the summer and fall, my dad and I worked state fairs and fall festivals. We’d run hustles on the crowds outside the grounds until they’d chase us off.
In the winter months, we’d head south. Dad had a special touch with the ladies. There were plenty of rich, old snowbirds in Florida to turn his charm on. All he had to do was stroll down the beach boardwalk in a white suit and a dark tan. In no time, he’d have them eating out of his hand and fighting each other for his attention.
By the time spring rolled around, he’d be antsy again. Dad could never stay in one place for too long.
We’d leave Florida in the middle of the night with a suitcase full of cash and a collection of expensive watches. Whatever he could convince the old lad
ies to buy or give him.
We lived completely off the grid.
No bank accounts, no credit cards, no tax returns, and no school records for me.
He taught me everything I needed to know.
Now I’m sitting next to an interesting, brilliant girl who is gazing at me as if she believes I’m something special.
Something good and worthwhile.
Do I tell her the truth about me and watch the light go out in those beautiful eyes?
Or do I pretend a little longer?
The decision is easy to make.
“How on earth did you know about the Christmas present?” I ask with a chuckle. “I thought I was the mind reader here. That’s exactly what happened. I put it at the top of my Christmas list when I was ten. And guess what Santa brought me under the tree? A magician’s kit, complete with a black top hat and a stuffed bunny. I begged for a real rabbit, but my parents said Santa couldn’t deliver live animals because of the danger of riding in a sleigh.”
She laughs and her whole face lights up.
“I drove my family crazy that year making them watch me practice the tricks over and over. Believe me, there for a while, they deeply regretted telling Santa to bring me a magic kit. They wished I would’ve asked for a bicycle instead.”
“You must be a hit at family get-togethers,” she says. “Do you still make them watch magic tricks on Christmas?”
For the past two years, I’ve spent Christmas driving back and forth to the prison to see Dad for my allotted thirty-minute visit. I always pick up a cake from his favorite bakery as a special treat. Before I’m allowed to take it inside the prison, the guards chop it into a million pieces to make sure nothing that can be used as a weapon is hidden inside.
Dad never complains or fails to make a joke about it. He says once it hits his mouth, it’s all mush, anyway.
Not once has he tried to make me feel guilty.
I still do.
It’s a gut punch to me every time I see in him there, pale, thin and wearing a drab, grey prison uniform that’s two sizes too big.
Especially on Christmas Day.
I always leave the prison heartsick and discouraged.