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Her change in direction has me confused. Is she not going to acknowledge the fact that Mike Hunt is in a freaking teddy bear costume? “Teddy Bear” fades into “Don’t Be Cruel.” Except for a slight eyebrow twitch, Bell’s face remains impassive.
I really should have read those books.
“Um, no. But I told him to leverage my shares. Tell Stan I’d give up my shares as long as he wasn’t in the picture.”
“Wait, what? That’s not smart. He may want it in writing when he signs over control.”
I shrug. “Yeah. Probably.”
“But… you love Moore’s.”
“No. I love what it represented. And what I thought it could give me. Family. But it turns out I already had that. I just needed to pick up a phone every once in a while.”
Again, nothing.
“I love you, Bell. You’re what I love. Who I love.”
“You told me you loved me before.” Her eyes shine. “And then you left.”
Fuck.
I know I didn’t technically leave, that in reality I’d been holed up in my apartment like a sad, pathetic lump of self-pity, but pointing that out here isn’t going to help me. It doesn’t take a genius to realize she means emotionally. That I promised her I was worth it, and at the first blip I bailed.
“I’m sorry, Bell.” Unable to stop myself from touching her, I cup her cheek. “I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t pull away, so that’s something. “I—”
Right then, the house lights flare, and “Viva Las Vegas” blares from the speakers. Surprised, Bell pulls back and watches as seven Elvis impersonators in full sequined-jumpsuit regalia take over the dance floor, hips swaying, arms swinging, upper lips curled.
In my head, this had played out differently.
I imagined a well-choreographed ensemble of on-point impersonators dressed in custom fitted and designed jumpsuits with Swarovski crystal embellishment impressing Bell with their nuanced routine—each sway of their hips hypnotizing her until she felt compelled to forgive and love me until the end of time. Thank you very much.
What I got was a group of sweaty middle-aged men, faces beet red and chests heavy with exertion, dancing off-beat like Vegas Richard Simmon’s Rocking to the Oldies cardio class.
A few people duck, dodging the cheap metal and plastic beads flying off the Elvis’ outfits. But as each Elvis is out of step to the music, there’s no guessing when or where the next bedazzled projectile will fly.
I knew I should’ve asked for a video of a past performance before I booked.
“Did you… did you do this?” Bell, looking mesmerized not from love but horror, stands stock-still taking in the car-crash-like travesty.
Somewhere the King rolls over in his grave.
Here, people are taking bets on which Elvis needs CPR first.
Before I can answer, a wide-eyed blonde wearing the most badass fuck-me boots I’ve ever seen comes hurrying over. “Oh my god. Are you seeing this?”
A man with good taste in music, if his T-shirt is any indication, follows behind her. He nods in greeting.
“This has to be you,” Blondie says to Bell. “Only you love Elvis this much.”
“Actually…” Three pairs of eyes swing to me. “This was me.”
Blondie goes from shock and awe to suspicious in a nanosecond. “Who the fuck are you?”
I stick out my hand, having to twist a bit to get Mike out of the way. “Chase Moore.”
Her eyes flick to Bell and then back to my hand. She doesn’t take it. “As in New York’s Moore’s?”
“Leslie…” Bell starts.
