“What is she talking about?” I mutter to Nick but by the bewildered look on his face he’s got no clue either. Jane waves us to follow her into a room with a long, well-lit vanity punctuated with four makeup chairs. One of which is occupied with a black-leather Elvis, his matching black hair getting a full-on Aqua Net attack.

  They still make that?

  “So here’s the deal,” Jane begins. “You’re not doing your act tonight. You’re doing ours.”

  “Excuse me?” Nick panics. Now so do I.

  “This isn’t a corporate retreat. It’s Elvis Week. We need Elvis-related material for the guests,” she says, then a woman, presumably Lindsey, rushes into the room with a couple of scripts and hands them over to Bad News Jane. “Priscilla, you’ll do this ten-minute routine, and Elvis, you’ve got twenty minutes.” She shoves our respective material at us. “You go on before the grand-opening show. You’ve got two hours to get familiar with the material.”

  “Two hours!” I blurt. How am I going to memorize a whole new set with the right timing and inflections in only two hours?

  Jane raises an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

  “No, it’s no problem. Right, Olivia?” Nick says through a clenched jaw. Is he getting the gravity of the situation?

  Still, I’m a professional. And a professional performer needs to be able to adapt quickly. “Right,” I say.

  “Good.” Jane doesn’t crack a smile. “Lucky for you two we’ll have a teleprompter but I’d prefer you not rely on it. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Good luck. Don’t screw it up.” She leaves without another word, and Nick and I stare after her like dogs left at the pound. Then I remember, Nick is a dog.

  “Bernie didn’t mention anything about this,” I say in a hostile whisper. That word pops up in my head again. You know, the one that’s been haunting me this whole trip—disaster. This is more than a disaster. This is just more karmic retribution for hoppin’ in the sack with Nick—a total cad. “How am I gonna pull this off in two hours?”

  “Hey, I’ve got twice as much material as you.” That’s probably because he lied twice as much—deceived two of us at the same time. “At least you don’t have to risk bombing your own material tonight.”

  That’s it. I’m after Nick’s blood now. And I’m taking the Jeep when I get away with it.

  “Just remember,” he continues, “triple pay, free hotel.”

  I take in a deep so help me God breath. “Triple pay, free hotel. Triple pay, free hotel,” I say, simultaneously chanting in my mind—Nick’s gonna get it. Nick’s gonna get it.

  “Are y’all the comedians?” a woman asks with a Tennessee twang. She reminds me of one of the Designing Women with a big, feathery ’80s do held together with copious amounts of hairspray. We nod. “Good. My name’s Millie and I’ll be gettin’ y’all ready. Now go on there and take a seat.” Nick and I gingerly make our way to the makeup chairs and Millie pats Leather Elvis on the shoulder. “You’re all set, baby. Have a good show.” The guy gives us a nod, dragging with him an obnoxious trail of cologne as he passes by.

  I cover my crinkled nose. “Ugh, he smells like Rico Suave.”

  “Close, honey. It’s Paco Rabanne,” Millie offers.

  “That’s still legal?” I ask, spotting a set of long fake lashes on the counter. Those will definitely get smooshed behind my lenses.

  “Yes, young lady. I got a whole case of it in the back.”

  “Hey, Millie, does my costume look like that?” Nick asks.

  She smirks, looking him up and down like she knows his type. “Oh, we’ve got somethin’ extra special for you.”

  “You know what that means,” I say out of the side of my mouth, then begin looking at my material.

  Nick seems just as engrossed in his Elvis set study. “Listen to this one. ‘You know, Elvis was a red-meat guy. Boy, did he love his steaks. That’s why he wrote . . . ’ ” Then Nick sings, “Loooove meat tender. Love meat true.”

  I roll my eyes so hard that my head rolls back with them. “Those are the kind of jokes we’re doing? We have to sing?” I frantically flip through my pages.

  Don’t be cruel, Elvis Week.

  Millie hovers near me. “Now, you got some contacts you can put in or somethin’? Or are those glasses just for show?”

  “No. They’re very necessary.” Especially since I will likely be relying on that teleprompter.

  “Well, I’m not sure they’re gonna work for this look. Priscilla never wore glasses. You know the saying, Elvis don’t make passes at girls that wear glasses.” Millie’s completely serious and my cheeks grow resentfully hot. This is definitely punishment.

  “Triple pay, free hotel,” Nick says, reminding me this time.

  I grit my teeth and remove my glasses, thankful I can’t see my own reflection in the mirror. Fortunately for me, I’m nearsighted so I focus on studying my material while she contours my cheeks and swipes my spidery fake lashes with mascara. Finally, she fashions a giant bouffant wig to my head. I don’t need 20/20 vision to see that it gives me a good eight inches. “Good Lord, this is extra.”

  “Just be grateful you don’t have to dance in it,” Millie says, and spritzes me with an Elizabeth Taylor perfume.

  “Really? Because I feel like a go-go dancer.”

  “You look great. Now let me get your costumes.” Ms. Millie runs out of the room. I slide on my glasses to get a proper look at myself. Nick shifts his eyes my way in our mirrored reflections.

  “You look like a knockoff Danny Zuko,” I say.

  “And you look like a goth Dolly Parton.”

  “Hey.” I point a stern finger his way. “Leave Dolly out of this. We’re at Graceland.”

  “Here we are!” Millie sings, returning to the makeup room holding the famous white Elvis jumpsuit, a white dress . . . and a wedding veil? Can this get any worse?

  “Have mercy,” Nick says, staring down at his.

  “That’s not Elvis, honey. That’s Uncle Jesse,” Millie says, handing him the costumed hanger. Finally, something we agree on.

  “See,” I add, then turn my attention to the dress and veil I’m now holding. Of course, I sleep with a married man and now I have to dress up like a Halloween bride. Why doesn’t she just spray a scarlet A on my chest with the perfume or scribble whore on my back with the mascara wand and call it a day? I can’t put this thing on. “Exactly what kind of costume is this?”

  “Priscilla’s weddin’ dress, of course.”

  “Where’s the rest of it?” I look over the so-called wedding gown that could use another ten inches of length.

  “Well, it’s been modernized, I guess.”

  “So Nick gets to be the famous rock star and Priscilla’s reduced to a sexy bride? And God forbid she wear glasses to see all those Elvis wannabes objectify her. And me.” For a woman on her pretend period, it certainly seems like I have PMS.

  “Oh, don’t get your panties all in a twist,” she says. “I swear you millennials don’t know how to relax and have some harmless fun.”

  “Yeah, Olivia. You’ll make a beautiful bride with that wig,” Nick chimes in with a laugh. Beautiful bride my ass. I’ve never even been invited to be a bridesmaid. It’s like brides don’t make passes at friends that wear glasses.

  We take our respective costumes into the changing area, following her instructions to avoid getting any makeup stains on the white garments. After a good five minutes, Nick’s privacy curtain whooshes open. I stare at the makeshift bride in the mirror. I hate this. But if I want the money, I’ll brave the stage.

  “What do you think?” Nick says with a snarled lip and an Elvis baritone. “Am I just a hunk, a hunk of burnin’ love?” Nick does a few pelvis thrusts, and I’m reminded of the moves he used on me last night.

  “I am so embarrassed for you.”

  He points to the center of his partially exposed chest. “Me? Look at you!”

  I scoff. “Whatever.”

  “Why are you being so weird today? Is this about last night? Because I thought it was great.”

  “Oh, really? It was great?”

  “Yeah.” Nick knows he’s missing something. How has he not figured it out by now?

  “Well, I faked it. Fake, fake, fake!” I confess, hoping the admission will hurt as much as his lie hurt his wife and me.

  Ripping off his gold shades, he says, “You faked it?”

  “Oh, don’t act all innocent. I’m not the only one here who’s faking it.”

  “What are you even talking about?” He thinks he’s got the wool over my eyes but he’s got another think coming.

  “What am I talking about? This!” I gesture to my getup—veil and all. “Does this remind you of anything?”

  “Only a really bad night in Vegas.”

  That’s it! Not even a can of Aqua Net can hold me down. “You’re unbelievable. Do you have any respect for the sanctity of marriage?”

  “Hey, I get that you’re cruising through PMS City right now but you’re kinda being a bitch.”

  He did not just say that to me. “I’m not a bitch. You’re an asshole.”

  “What is your problem?” he yells back.

  “My problem is that you used me. You lied to me.”

  “Lie? What lie?” Man, he’s good. It’s almost like he’s convinced himself of his own bullshit.

  “I know you’re married, Nick! I found your wedding band in your bag this morning.”

  “Wha . . . you went through my stuff?” Who knew a man wearing polyester bell-bottoms could look so angry? But I’m sure my wig isn’t doing me any favors either.

  “I wasn’t going through your stuff. I was looking for dental floss. And don’t try to turn this around on me. You’re the one who’s shamelessly cheating on your wife. What kind of husband are you?” And more important, what kind of man is he?

  “I’m not anyone’s husband, Olivia!” His voice booms throughout the dressing room. “I’m divorced.”

  Wait, what?

  “Divorced?”

  “Yeah . . . for eleven months.” Nick’s tone drops, still trembling with anger. “The next time you go snooping through my shit, make sure you have the facts before you go making accusations.”

  Oh, no. How did I read this whole thing so wrong?

  Without another word, he storms out. Patent leather shoes stomping. Bedazzled cape flapping behind him.

  Nick Leto has left the building.

  Twenty-Six

  It’s after nine p.m. when the Elvis Extravaganza Stage Show concludes. I haven’t seen Nick since he exited stage left while I waited in the wings stage right. I jetted after him as fast as these heels and hair would allow, but I couldn’t catch him. And he won’t answer his phone for me either.

  Now all of the performers are heading over to the after-party in another area of the soundstage. A different Elvis cover band fills the room with those Gibson guitar strums and warm, familiar harmonies. Elvis sure could write a catchy tune. Still, the music doesn’t distract me from my mission—find Nick.

  After any other show, this would be a piece of cake. Just find the leather-clad funny guy. But I’m swimming in a current of Presley Ocean. There are way too many white caped jumpsuits and pompadours to count. I walk the perimeter of the darkened banquet room for a good twenty minutes and follow my nose more than my eyes. If someone smells like they’ve been doused in a bath of Spanish cologne, I follow them.

  Wait, I think I see him. “Nick!” I call over the music, but he doesn’t turn around. Still mad, I see. I rush over and grab him by the shoulder. “Hey, Nick!”

  A clean-shaven man with pouty lips faces me. Definitely not Nick. Wrong Elvis slides his shades down the bridge of his nose. “Hello, baaaaby,” he says like the Big Bopper.

  “Uh . . . sorry, thought you were someone else.” I back away. Not fast enough because he grabs me by the waist and pulls me in so close I can feel his pelvis.

  Ugh, what a creep.

  “I can be whoever you want me to be, beautiful.” This guy smells more like he bathed in a barrel of Tennessee whiskey.

  “Then be a gentleman and get your grubby hands off me.” I shove him away but he’s strong for a drunk and doesn’t let up. My heart begins to race because even though we’re surrounded by people, it’s dark and loud and I can’t see as well with these damn lashes stuck to my eyelids.

  “I never seen a Priscilla in glasses as pretty as you before.” He opens his mouth, his big sloppy tongue hanging out. I dig my elbows into him with every ounce of strength I have.

  “Stop it, you douchebag!” The one time I don’t have any pepper spray on me.

  “C’mon, Priscilla.” He kisses the air and I shake my head back and forth but still catch one on the nose.

  “Get off her!” a man growls, bolting in, and I’m released from Creeper Elvis’s grip. I catch my breath and squint in the dark at Hero Elvis.

  It’s Nick.

  “You okay?” he asks, but before I can answer Creeper Elvis strikes back with a roar, swinging at Nick. He misses.

  “Hey, you son of a bitch!” Millie appears out of nowhere, spraying the offender only inches from his eyes with mace.

  No, wait.

  With Paco Rabanne!

  He howls, clawing at his eyes and stumbling around. The crowd begins to circle the commotion. Nick and I trade wigged-out glances then I turn to Millie, who pats her teased hairdo. A couple security guys arrive on the scene and drag Creeper Elvis away.

  “You all right, honey?” Millie asks.

  I nod, still reeling. What in the hell just happened? “Thanks, Millie.”

  “Anytime.” She slides the small cologne bottle back into her pocket and proceeds through the crowd without a drop of sweat on her brow. They break for her, cheering as she passes. Still a little stunned myself, I slide my glasses back up my nose and dust off my dress. Nick stands by my side, and now I really owe the guy something.

  “Hey, thanks for pushing that guy off.”

  “You’re welcome.” His words sound forced. I guess now that the perpetrator’s gone, he’s back to being pissed at me. I hate this part—I was wrong. I’m sorry. It would be nice to just move past it.

  “What do you say we grab a couple burgers after this? My treat,” I offer.

  “No thanks.” He scoffs and turns away, so I yank his ornate cape.

  “C’mon, Nick. It was an honest mistake. Can’t you just accept my apology?”

  “Apology?” Nick whips around. “I didn’t hear any apology.”

  “Hey, y’all doin’ okay?” A man with a burnt-red tan and wrinkled forehead asks. A woman, presumably his wife (though assumptions seem pretty unreliable now), is by his side gazing at us with a maternal concern.

  I send them a polite smile. “We’re fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “That was quite a scene,” the man adds. “Hey, wait a second. Were y’all the comedians at the show?” Nick and I nod, watching their grins grow wider. “You two were so funny. That TCB joke was hilarious,” he laughs, referring to one of Nick’s Elvis jokes that went completely over my head.

  “Thanks,” Nick says with a modest smile. Definitely not his usual chipper self.

  “I’m Ed and this is my wife, Pamela. We’re in town from Knoxville.” We greet them with friendly handshakes, hoping this is the end of the interruption.

  “I’m Nick and this is Olivia.”

  “Well, you make a beautiful couple,” Pamela says. “I bet y’all make each other laugh all the time. You know that’s so important in marriage.”

  “We’re not married,” I say. When can I take off this veil?

  “Oh,” Pamela says. “Well, you must be close otherwise.” Not at the moment, ma’am.

  Ed elbows Nick in the ribs. “She’s already in the white dress, might want to marry her now before someone else does.”

  Oh, Lord. This is a very awkward exchange under our normal circumstances but with the marital miscommunication conflict at hand, it’s worse.

  The music slows to a lullaby and the mood of the entire room shifts instantly. It’s an Elvis hit I recognize only from UB40—“Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

  “All right now, we’re gonna slow it down for a beat,” Stage Elvis says into the mic. “All you Elvises out there, go on and grab your Priscilla sweetheart and let her know how ya feel.” Then he croons, “Wise men say . . .”

  “Go on, ask her to dance,” our fan encourages us, giving Nick a gentle push.

  “It’s okay,” I say, my knees locked. “We don’t dance.”

  “Oh, c’mon. We wanna see you dance.” Ed says it so loud that now others are staring. “Dance with her. Dance with her,” he chants.

  Uh-oh.

  Then two, four, and ten others join in—Dance with her. Dance with her.

  Ooh, shit, what do we do? Nick seems to feel the pressure because he relents and takes my hand.

  “If it’ll get ’em to shut up,” he says low near my ear.

  Our little fan club cheers us on. The rational part of me knows this is just a show for the fans. But the moment his fingers are wrapped around mine and his breath tickles my ear, that little bud of a crush (the one I thought was finished after the ring) begins to bloom inside me. Nick’s hand slides above my waist and I rest mine lightly on his shoulder as we begin to sway to the romantic melody. I keep my gaze lowered and muscles stiff. He obviously doesn’t want to be here with me. How much longer before this feeling (and song) is over?

  I slowly look up his stubbled chin enough to know he’s staring off somewhere else. There’s only one way to fix this. And it’s all up to me. “I’m sorry,” I start. “About the ring. I shouldn’t have been in your things. And I definitely shouldn’t have made assumptions about you. Especially after last night.”