Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

The bumpy ride is quiet through remote, scrub-covered desert to the tiny settlement of Dolan Springs. You’re driving fast to make time; you know Elvis is going need a little more of it there at the only phone booth for a hundred miles alongside the road back to Vegas. In the passenger seat, he’s clearly ruminating, his shoulders tense, the knee of one leg bouncing while his right hand runs its thumb in circles over the sandstone Great-Uncle George gave him. You turn the radio on low to that staticky country station, but it doesn’t seem to settle him much.

You’re about ten minutes shy of the village outskirts when Elvis says quietly, “I cannot apologize enough you got dragged into this, Delaia. You been so good to me this whole time, and I-I—“ His jaw works, vacillating, before he heaves a deep sigh and shakes his head. “Well, I sure didn’t mean for it all to turn into such a mess.”

You glance over at him. “Apology for not calling it in yesterday: accepted. We’re human. We make mistakes. The rest of it— you couldn’t have anticipated. Thankfully, Chief Harmal’s clearing it all up.” You shrug. “Anyway, I’ve spent enough time around VIPs to walk into this with my eyes open.”

Elvis palms the stone and looks down at his hands, aimlessly rubbing at the base of one of his fingers as if he’s used to twisting a ring there. “Yeah, but you couldn’t’a known about… all of it. What you realized was goin’ on back there before I even did. No one does, really.” He takes a small breath. “Something I— I didn’t say earlier is, ‘cause my guys were gone yesterday and my daddy’s wife is in town, the only one who mighta answered if I had called in was the Colonel. And I-I… He woulda never…” He fumbles for a second before he simply says tautly, “He tends to get extremely worked up about my personal security.” 

I bet he does, you think darkly. 

That’s another thing that makes sense now— Elvis’s response to you an hour ago about this trip never happening if he’d contacted anyone about it beforehand. 

“Sounds like this Tom Parker gets extremely worked up about a lot of things beyond the bounds of ordinary management where you’re concerned,” you say, a little dryly. 

His jaw tightens, like he knows exactly what you mean. He silent for a short while before he says, “I… used to always think it was ‘cause he cared about me. Y’know. My safety. My family. Takin’ care o’ business for us.” He shifts in his seat, running a hand over his mouth and jaw. “B-B-But now that you said what you said, about him tryin’ to isolate me an’ makin’ me feel alone, tellin’ me he’s the only one who’s been holding everything together and usin’ it to make me feel obligated to do things I don’t wanna, I-I-I can’t unsee it. K-Keep thinkin’ of… o’ so many times he’s—”

His voice cracks. Then he shakes his head again, this time roughly. “And I’ve just… let him. All these years, I let him. What kinda man’s that make me, huh?”

“Don’t,” you caution quickly at the surge of anger, directed inward. “I once asked myself that question too where my old whitewater boss was concerned, so I know it is tempting. But if you go down that path, you’ll just be hurting yourself for the things he’s done, and he gets to poison you all over again without lifting a finger. He is the one at fault, not you. It sounds to me like you were trying to survive the best way you could with what you had at the time. Be kind to yourself for that. You’ve gotten this far. Some people don’t.”

Elvis lets out a long, shuddering breath; out of the corner of your eye, you see his hands clench into fists before he wraps his arms across his chest instead. Though he stays quiet, he doesn’t dispute you.

You nudge back your cowboy hat with a knuckle to shove your hand through your hair. “You should know, I come across Class-A assholes like this not infrequently as a paramedic. We talk about walking away, but that doesn’t mean it’s an easy thing to do, no matter how strong of a person you are, because they’re still trying to hold on, and they can be masterful at what they do. I mean, look — not even the police initially spotted what was really happening back there. And if he’d gotten away with it—“ 

You quickly stop yourself; you don’t even want to give life to the possible ends his authoritarian manager had had in mind by painting his already closely-monitored client as mentally ill and in need of ‘treatment.’ Instead, you continue, “Like you said yesterday, leaving him hasn’t even seemed like a choice, and there’s a reason for that. He’s made you doubt yourself and your instincts, probably for a long time. Don’t doubt yourself.”  

Elvis sighs again. “Don’t even know who I am anymore sometimes to feel certain of anything goin’ through my head,” he mumbles, rubbing his temples. 

You glance at him seriously. “What about your heart?” Your Hualapai relatives would argue that in all things, it’s the heart that matters far more than the head.

After a second, he looks over at you, his tense expression softening minutely. “Yeah, darlin’. Can still read that,” he says quietly. Then he looks back out across the arid plateau. “Makes it eighty times worse when I know I’m ignorin’ it, or watchin’ a parade o’ new opportunities it wants just slip away.”

The sporadic strains of a plucky banjo crackle through the radio for a full song cycle before Elvis breathes, “Wanna tell you somethin’ else I ain’t never told anybody.” He turns the radio down and looks over at you, his gaze somber. “Would ya hear it?” 

You wonder how concerned you should be about the fact that he’s actually asking if you want to hear it, rather than just laying it all out there like he has until this point. “Is it about your manager?” 

“Yeah.” 

Which means it has to be extremely serious — or, at least, he considers it to be. Considering Elvis’s tangible fear of this man, their long-time relationship and the disturbing picture of him that’s been painted, you think it really could be anything along the spectrum of workplace and domestic abuse.

You bite the inside of your cheek, gazing out across the familiar, flattened tire tracks that stretch to the horizon in front of you, curving toward the scattered, impoverished settlement of Dolan Springs growing larger in the distance. 

Yes, it’s true: Elvis has undeniably become your friend, and you’ve come to feel tremendously protective of him. But as someone who prizes your freedom, you would be remiss if you didn’t ask yourself how much more deeply you want to embroil yourself in the darkest, most closely-guarded secrets of one of the world’s most famous men— beyond the bounds of the legal protections you would usually incur should similar conversations occur while on SAR duty or on the river with clients. 

His disclosing all of this to you as he has over the last day could eventually come with risks and requests: you know, because as Field Team Leader you’ve sometimes been caught in the cross-fire between feuding parties and had to provide testimony regarding a handful of first responder interventions at court before. Medical evaluations, lawsuits, court cases, other legal entanglements… who knows what it’s going to take for Elvis to extract himself from this scumbag?

Then you figure… hell. You’re already going to be named in this morning’s police report, and you already know enough about Elvis’s relationship with Tom Parker that whatever additional, dirty details he might disclose to you about it now very likely will not come as a surprise.

You’re in this, too— as Elvis said: ’til the end of it, whenever it is.

“Tell me,” you say.

He swallows hard. “That sacred wilderness vow o’ secrecy, it still good in here?”

And he doesn’t want you to tell anybody else about it. 

You consider that, too. For reasons you still aren’t totally clear on, there doesn’t seem to be anyone in his Life Back Home who Elvis feels he can speak to about this traumatic relationship he’s caught in and what it’s doing to him. You’re sure that hasn’t helped him think about ways to get out of it. If your being a living, breathing sounding board can help him process it so he can begin to take the steps he needs to to be free of it, then… yes. You’re willing to be that ear.

You briefly lift your sunglasses to meet his waiting gaze. “If that’s what you want, then it’s good for however and whenever you need it to be,” you reply soberly.

Elvis nods once, and looks down at his hands. Still, it’s another minute before he takes a deep breath and begins. “A-A few years ago, the Colonel, h-he… threatened to destroy my career. If I broke contract,” he says quietly. He slowly rolls the sandstone around in his fingers. “At the time he was talkin’ ‘bout Hollywood, but since then he’s included his position with me in that. Said he’d— s-see to it that no one would ever sign or book me again, anywhere. And he, uh— he said he’d do the same if I-I ever breathed a word o’ it, to anybody.” 

Your mouth falls open. Holy hell, this Tom Parker is a real piece of work… and obviously very good at what he does because it’s heartbreakingly clear that Elvis has believed him, even though he’s one of the biggest, most in-demand celebrity names in the world. No wonder he was so distraught last night at the idea of firing his manager —  of even talking about doing it— despite how badly it’s clear he wants to.

Elvis hauls in another short, shaky breath and rakes his hands up over his face until his fingers dig into his hair, forehead resting in his palms. “Oh Lord, I-I— I cannot believe I just said that out loud. I mean it, darlin’, you can’t say a thing, to nobody. You promise?”  

You think he wouldn’t have told you if he wasn’t seriously considering defying those warnings regardless. Still, you reassure him, “Of course I’ll respect your wishes on this. Absolutely.” 

You can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it must have been for him to carry by himself, for years, a threat from one of the people closest to him to blow up his entire life and his future if he doesn’t go along and play along. That his manager has used Elvis’s own insecurities and obvious discomfort with confrontation against him for so long, and gotten away with it, sends righteous anger surging through you, and before you can stop the words from spilling from your mouth, you growl, “You have no idea how much I would love to punch this absolute worm right in the face.” 

Elvis straightens quickly, looking concerned, like he actually believes you might find a way to try. “No, mama, you can’t do that. He’s…” his voice trembles for only a second before he says more evenly, “He ain’t a good man. He’ll hit back. A-An’ if he ever got goin’, I-I… I don’t think he’d stop ’til the other guy ain’t gettin’ up again.”

You blink at what he’s saying — what he isn’t saying. But he’s returned to looking assiduously down at his hands, his shoulders rigid. He doesn’t offer anything else, and you certainly won’t push him if he isn’t. But your dislike of Tom Parker hardens into something much, much stronger. 

It’s you this time who hauls in a breath, reeling in that flare of fury. You slowly exhale until you feel it grousingly settle back down, then shake your head. “I shouldn’t have lost my cool back there. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable talking about this to me.” Though you can’t quite bring yourself to apologize for what you actually said. “I’ll do better at checking myself next time.” 

That startles Elvis. He looks over at you, seemingly in surprise. 

At the reaction, you confirm, “Is that good with you?”

His lips part. “I, uh… Yeah. Sure, honey.” He sounds like he isn’t quite sure how to respond. “Thanks for.. y’know. Sayin’ that.” He looks back down at his hands, clears his throat. “Not really good at… talkin’ these things out, like you are.” 

“You’re doing fine,” you assure him evenly.  

Coming up on your left, you abruptly see the dusty, lonely phone booth sticking out of the flat plains like a hitchhiker’s thumb and growing larger by the second; the village is spread out, and aside from the small community church across from it, there isn’t much else in sight except a few trailer homes in the distance. 

As you start to decelerate, Elvis continues quietly, “To be honest with you, been plenty o’ times I... I’ve wanted to punch him, too.” Distress abruptly thickens his accent. “But… he’s been like family, y’understand? You don’t go ‘round disrespectin’ your father to his face, no matter what he does or what way he makes you feel.” 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You start to understand more clearly now, how Tom Parker has pulled this off for so long: Like a father, and not a kind one if the two main things he inspires in his client-son are respect and fear— such a devastating combination ripe for abuses in childhood and beyond it.

He’s going to need support to get through this.

“And h-h-he can make good on those threats, too,” Elvis goes on, as if he can hear your thoughts. “He’s handled the entire business side o’ my performances, since I got started. All of it. He’s the one bookin’ the shows an’ makin’ the deals an’ trackin’ the cash flows there, not me. He’s got influence everywhere and eyes an’ ears everywhere, which sounds crazy but I swear it’s true. After he warned me off, I-I— I didn’t even know how to go about… findin’ a way outta it if I wanted to. Not without the possibility of it gettin’ back to him.” He lets out another shuddery breath, cradling his forehead in his hand before he rubs his hands across his face. “I-I mean, Christ, you— you saw what he just did with the cops—”

“What he tried to do,” you correct, pulling off the road beside the booth. “Tried. He failed. And now there’ll be an official record that those intimations could be wrong if he ever tries it again.” You admit his manager sounds formidable, but that just means Elvis will have to fight smarter, not run scared. Pointedly, you ask, “Didn’t he fail, today?”

He sighs, turning the canyon rock over in his hands, before he rumbles somewhat reluctantly, “Yeah, I-I… I guess he did. ‘Cause of you.” 

“And you,” you counter, putting the truck in park. “At times back there I imagine it might’ve frustratingly felt like you were a passive bystander, but everything you have done since I met you helped me make the argument in your defence that I gave Glen.” 

Removing your sunglasses, you turn to fully face his hunched form, pulling one knee up on the leather as you lean sideways against the back of the driver’s seat. “E, could you look at me, please? This is important.” 

When Elvis lifts his head from his hands and glances toward you uncertainly, you hold out your hand. After a second, he pockets the stone and shifts enough to give you his, though he looks a little apprehensive, allowing you to turn him further toward you when you take his hand between both of yours and draw it slightly toward your chest.

Looking straight into his eyes, you say earnestly: “I would like you to hear me, because I mean this so sincerely. I don’t know much about the entertainment world, but I do know this: Whatever this man thinks he is, whatever contacts he may have, he does not have the kind of power to do what he’s threatened to.” His fingers abruptly tremor and then tighten around yours; you squeeze his hand back reassuringly. “Maybe, once, a long time ago, when you were a kid, he might’ve, or it certainly could have seemed that way. But now you are Elvis Presley. You are the talented, electrifying man the world loves. You are the one who people everywhere are paying to see perform and would throw themselves in front of moving vehicles just to have a chance to get near. You are the one with the power, which is why he is working so very hard to convince you you aren’t.” 

Elvis’s eyes have started to glisten; blinking rapidly, he squeezes them shut and releases a slow, controlled breath, leaning the side of his head against the headrest, still holding to your hand. You mirror the motion, resting the side of your head against your own, giving him the space and time he needs to absorb that. You’ve made good time driving so far, and you won’t feel right parting ways with your new friend in only a short time without knowing you’ve at least left him with some of the support it’s clear he desperately needs. 

After a minute, he whispers, “Thank you for all’a that, darlin’.” 

His blue eyes open again, meet your gaze. Softly, so softly, he murmurs, “But even hearin’ you say it, like you’re deliverin’ a handwritten message straight from God; even feelin’ like I hafta let go of that rope and step away like your uncle said, or it might just do me in one day, I-I…” 

Trailing off, Elvis shakes his head slowly, gaze briefly turning upward to blindly search the ceiling, before he admits, “I don’t know how.” 

In a rush, you get it: It’s why domestic violence nonprofits have started to spring up across the country as the The Women's Liberation movement has gathered momentum over the last decade— to give abuse survivors the resources they need to begin to reckon with their situation and make a plan to escape. In that time, you’ve pointed more than a handful of people to them.

“To be fair,” you say quietly, “extracting yourself from an extortive, abusive relationship isn’t something they teach anyone in school.” 

A small huff jets dryly from his nose. “Ain’t that the god’s honest truth. Or navigatin’ contracts an’ runnin’ a business called sellin’ yourself at the age o’ eighteen, for that matter. Part of how I got into this whole mess in the first place.” 

Elvis’s eyes return to yours; the moment seems so inexplicably intimate, the both of you leaning against the headrests of your cab while you cradle his hand, voices low, like the vertical equivalent of pillow talk. “Put me in front o’ sixty musicians on stage, or new lyrics, or a script, or—” his lips turn upward in a wry half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “a lotta inconsequential things where this is concerned, really, and I-I… I can figure it out. But breakin’ free o’ this web and all it entails, that ain’t— somethin’ I even know how t’ begin to do. I cannot trust anybody on it but me, and I’m so damn beat from all the performin’ half the time anymore, even though I love singin’ live, that I…“

He blinks rapidly again, harshly wiping at the corner of one of his eyes before he swallows hard and shakes his head. Thinking of those 70 performances in a month flat, of how sick and exhausted he still seemed only yesterday, you wonder if maybe that wasn’t done on purpose, too, even if Elvis ultimately agreed to doing that many shows as well. Clearly much of what’s happened where his career has been concerned lately has held some degree of duress.

You shift his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers with his. Slowly, you lift your other hand, closing the short gap between you, and gently brush his forelock off his temple, smoothing it back beneath his cap— the same motion that had appeared to comfort him last night. His eyes flutter shut, and a soft susseration of pleasure seems to involuntarily leave the back of his throat as you continue to soothingly comb your fingers through it. 

“Thank you for telling me all of this. I know how hard it can be to talk about these things. It takes a lot of strength,” you say quietly. “After we get back. Sometime in the next couple of days before I leave Las Vegas, after the wedding. I can access resources that can help you start to create a plan for how to navigate this, broadly— in your circle of people, even with your manager himself. Would you find that helpful?”

He’s quiet another moment, then murmurs, “Long as we could think o’ a way for you to sneak it through to me. Unfortunately, that ain’t always the easiest thing in the world to do where I’m concerned.” 

You’re abruptly reminded you’re dealing with a superstar who likely has tons of fans, fanmail and god only knows what else trying to get through to him at any given time. 

“Yesterday you mentioned you have friends and family who could support you through this?” you remind him, though it’s partially a question. “Could they pick it up?” 

Elvis sighs, the sound shaky. “Ain’t so sure about that anymore, lil’ mama, not after what just happened. I don’t know who all was involved in puttin’ together that missin’ person report. The Colonel usually wouldn’t handle nothin’ like that, it’d be one of my personnel.” You lower your hand from his brow as he looks back at you. “Like I toldja, these days I-I… I don’t entirely know who to trust. Not with something like this. Sounds kinda paranoid, but there it is.”

His hand’s started to feel cold and clammy, and you give it a comforting rub to warm it. “Okay. You get a good legal team, who have ethical obligations to you as their client, and I all but guarantee they will know exactly how to navigate this.” 

He laughs hollowly. “Yeah, if they don’t try to fleece me for every penny I got, just like everyone else. Don’t mean to sound so negative, mama, but there’s a-a reason I… I stopped thinkin’ about this for the last five years. People spot me comin’ from a mile away and see nothin’ but dollar signs. They lose sight o’ me as a person. Unless there’s someone I know well actin’ as liaison, I-I can’t trust any o’ ‘em to do right by me, only themselves. Between my divorce a-and now this, if Colonel ain’t makin’ the deals anymore or he— he tries to go to war somehow, then I-I ain’t gonna have the kinda cash flow I’m used to. And if that happens, I-I…” 

His voice and hand tremble for a moment before his gaze shifts to the seat’s leather backboard. Then he breathes determinedly, more to himself than to you, “But I— I gotta figure it out, somehow. God’s tellin’ me I gotta. Not just for me, f-f-for Lisa, an'— an' my whole family. And the good Lord would not ask somethin’ of me he did not think I could do.”

Although you yourself aren’t particularly religious, you don’t care where Elvis is drawing his motivation from as long as he can keep giving himself pep talks like that. But it’s only now you’re starting to truly comprehend the shockingly constrained box this seemingly global man is stuck in — Why he’s chosen to trust you, an admittedly trustworthy person yet someone who only yesterday had been a stranger to him, with all of this, and not anyone in the tinselled world he came from. 

You say the thought that’s been on your mind since you left the West Rim. “It sounds like you explicitly need more time away from this man and the people connected with him to come up with a plan.”

Elvis lets out a long breath, his hand curling tighter around yours. A few seconds later, his gaze shifts to yours, and he gives a small, silent nod. 

“You have a safe place you can go to do that?” If it sounds like you’ve slipped into First Responder mode again, well, you kind of have.

Inexplicably, something in his expression flinches slightly before he blinks rapidly, looks over at the brown seat back again. After a moment, he says lowly, eyes still turned away, “I-I— I don’t know. I mean, I do— have places, that is, but…” He clears his throat. “Guess I’ll see after this call.”

You both turn to glance at the phone booth, Elvis looking a little like he’s expecting it to sprout three heads and attempt to eat him. 

With a sigh, he sits up nonetheless, squinting in the sunlight and covering his eyes with his shades again before pulling the brim of his baseball hat down low, as if he’s worried the lone car that’s driven past since you’ve parked here might recognize him. “Right, I’ll get movin’. Try to make it quick as I can, know you got places to be.” 

A thought strikes you. “Based on this morning, I wouldn’t put it past Tom Parker to record this call, would you?” 

He tenses, but when he glances back toward you, there’s the faintest gleam of levity in his eyes. “You’re real determined not to call him Colonel, huh?”

“God, no. I have no intention of giving that man an ounce of my respect.” The hardness in your voice is fully directed at his manager, not him.

Elvis looks down, fiddles with the stone Great-Uncle George gave him before he slips it back into his pocket. “Yeah, well. S’pose it wasn’t exactly bestowed on him in the Army anyway.” Before you can ask about that, he lets out a soft breath. “You’re right. I’ll… I’ll try’n be careful.”

As he opens the door, you quickly dig around the truck’s spare change holder and extend a handful of coins. “Here.” 

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, darlin’. I’ll just have him reverse the charges.”

Your eyebrow arches. “Really? You want to give him the pleasure of knowing you owe him for this call?”

Elvis looks between you and the coins, which you give a little shake, causing them to jingle. You see the exact moment that spark of rebellion you’d seen in him last night reenters his expression. Decisively, he grabs the spare change, along with an empty candy wrapper you’d offered ‘for static,’ if necessary. “Yeah, I’ll take those, thanks.” 

“Good man,” you say approvingly. “You got this, E. You know what you’re fighting for. Let that guide you.”

He takes a deep breath. Then he looks to you, nods, and slams the truck door behind him.

You take a quick look at the fuel tank and turn off the engine. Parked in the early September sun, the car immediately feels warmer, and you roll down your window and lean over to do the same with Elvis’s before you push open the driver’s side door entirely, allowing the last of the mid-morning breeze to ventilate your truck. 

Stretching out your legs as Elvis gets inside the phone booth and closes the door, you rest the heels of your well-worn boots up on the open window ledge and pull your hair off your neck into a loose ponytail. Then you twist sideways, pulling out a slender, soft-cover mystery novel that’s tucked beneath the driver’s seat to give him privacy.

He hunches over the phone after the call’s put through, shoulders curled inward like you imagine they might be if this man were actually standing in front of him. It’s not your intention to listen in, and the glass walls of the stand muffle the low conversation to a mostly unintelligible degree, but you can’t help but glance over at him from the book pages occasionally to make sure he’s okay. 

One of his hands soon moves to cradle and then massage his forehead beneath his baseball cap, as if he’s already in the middle of a raging headache. Though he’s clearly tense, he appears to manage to keep his cool for a couple minutes of garbled back-and-forth discussion… until his mouth drops open. 

In a heatbeat, Elvis stands up straight. Then, his voice abruptly elevates loud enough that it sails straight through the glass. “Are you kiddin’ me, is that what all’a this was really about? A goddamned meeting?” 

In a flash, the palm of his hand furiously smacks the side of the phone box before he clenches it into a fist. Briefly, he presses his knuckles to his lips, then snarls, voice shaking with anger, “Colonel, I am not some kinda slave for you to keep chained to that infernal building just so you can parade me out whenever you—!”

He stops, as if he’s been interrupted. Several seconds later, he lets out a bark of cynical laughter and spits out sarcastically, “Oh yeah, no, it had nothin’ to do with it, y’all were real worried. I bet.”

You feel a surge of pride for how he’s holding his own, and a flash of confidence that with the right support, and a good plan, he can do this— that he does have it in him to stand up to this man, though you imagine it probably helps to have a hundred miles of distance between them, too. 

His voice goes low again, and you return your attention to your book. After another couple of minutes, you catch another flash of sudden movement out of the corner of your eye, as Elvis’s shoulders straighten again. He hisses something else into the receiver— something he emphatically punctuates with a shoved, pointed finger. 

Then, he forcefully hangs up the phone with a slam. 

In the silence that follows, he stands motionless, still clutching the receiver. After a few seconds, though, he slowly lowers his chin and tips forward slightly to lean the top of his hat-covered head against the glass wall, chest visibly heaving with breaths. 

Hold himself up as he had, that call had obviously taken a lot out of him.

It takes a minute before Elvis pushes himself up, wipes his brow with the back of his arm and turns his head until his sunglasses are facing you directly. He holds up a finger in the universal gesture for ‘one minute,’ then lifts up the phone, inserts more coins and makes another call.

This one ultimately lasts about five minutes and has him rubbing his forehead again as he speaks, even if his muffled words sound slower than before and he doesn’t look half as angry as he did when he was talking to his manager. You’ve just turned the page to a new chapter when you hear him exclaim, “Daddy… Daddy, please, you ain’t listenin’ to what I’m sayin’!” 

Jesus H. Christ, in that moment he sounds so much like a distressed young boy desperate for his parents’ understanding, and not receiving it, that your heart abruptly wrenches compassionately for him. 

You know that not everyone has been as fortunate as you: To have a fun-loving, resilient and open-minded father — an entire family — who have always given you the strength you needed to get through hard things, during and after the sudden tragedy that all af you endured when you were still a child, and in all the challenges you’ve taken on since.

Glancing over at Elvis, watching him appear to try to reason with his father, with possibly mixed success, you have to wonder if some level of lack of that familial support or proper guidance is another reason Tom Parker has been able to dig his claws into him so deeply for so long.

Once the second call ends, Elvis returns to the Gladiator and silently gets in. Sweat clings to the sides of his face; he’s visibly shaking, radiating anger and upset. Without looking at you, he opens the glove compartment, removes the rescue inhaler he’d left there and sucks in a dose of it. Asks in a rasp, “Got anymore of that Extra Strength Excedrin, honey?” 

You sit up and pull your legs back inside the cab, digging into Roland’s backpack and pulling out the bottle. Gently, you say, “Is there anything going on with you right now that I should know about as a paramedic?” 

He shakes his head, still not looking at you. “Just got a headache, is all.”

Yeah, that you saw coming a mile away. When you offer him the right dose, he uncaps his water bottle and throws it back. Then he rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. Taking off his sunglasses, he rubs his eyes before he buries his face in his hands.

You shut the door and window, turning the Gladiator’s key; the air conditioning blasts on as the engine rumbles to life. Otherwise, you turn back to your book, giving him time to collect himself before you speed off.

Eventually, Elvis croaks through his fingers, “You were right.”

You close the novel, looking over at him.

He lifts his head slightly, clears his throat; his blue eyes look red-rimmed. “Apparently there’s a meetin’ in a few hours I’m supposed to be at. Didn’t come straight out and say it, but Colonel did this on purpose to get me back in time for it, I know he did.”

You cannot begin to comprehend what kind of person would permanently smear his client’s name to yank him back for single event; you still suspect there’s more to it than that. “A meeting with who, God?”  

That loosens a startled snort of amusement from his tense chest. “Gods of broadcasting, maybe. Contingent o’ NBC bigwigs the Colonel’s been courtin’ for this special. Got nothin’ against those men, but…” 

His head hangs for another moment before his fingers curl into fists and his breathing rate intensifies, as if he’s either about to panic or to explode. 

It turns out to be the latter when he abruptly sits upright. Heatedly, he shoves his sunglasses back on his face with a trembling hand. “Normally h-h-he’d get me feelin’ real guilty about missin’ it, too,” his voice elevates in anger, “about lettin’ everybody down while he’s been out there makin’ it rain, but, damn, Delaia, h-he— he made me look an’ sound like I’m crazy! To the police, to my staff. To my family. Made me think I—“ 

He sucks in a soft breath, pressing a hand to his mouth without finishing that. You don’t say anything, allowing him to vent, but you’re extremely glad his fury is now being directed at the person who deserves it instead of himself.

“Coupl’a things he said, though…” Elvis visibly swallows hard, hands spasming for the briefest moment before he clenches them again and shakes his head. “No way in hell was he recordin’ that. Oh Lord, I-I-I ain’t heard him that livid in a long, long time. But soon as he knew I wasn’t gonna take it lyin’ down, he got real sweet. All apologies, tryin’ to get me to come back soon as I can, promisin’ me he’d ensure nothin’ like it would ever happen again, no problem.” 

Ah yes, you think; there it is. The dirty truth, right out in the open yet spun like it means something far more benevolent. You imagine Tom Parker is planning exactly how to ensure Elvis can never do anything like this again, whatever that might involve.

Elvis fumbles into his pocket to pull out the green handkerchief from it, wiping the sweat from his still-pale face. “I cannot recall the last time he’s ever kissed ass to me like that behind closed doors, least ’til he gave it up at the end. If it weren’t for me makin’ the money, I woulda sworn he was tryin’a lure me into a trap that I wasn’t gonna be walkin’ outta this time.”

So, he sees it too— which likely makes the next little while even more dangerous for him. His manager already sounds like he’s crossed so many lines that you can’t assume there’s limits to the lengths he would go to retain his hold over his cash cow client.

“It sounds to me like you’ve refused to play by his rules, so you’re still holding the cards. Told you you have power in this,” you say. Carefully, you add, “Did you give him any indication at all you’re thinking of firing him?”

“No. Oh Lord, no,” Elvis breathes out immediately, tucking the handkerchief away. “It’d be all over before it started if I did.”

“Good. That’s really good.” Thinking back to that final, almost violent hang-up, you glance at him curiously. “I couldn’t hear what was going on, but it sure looked like you told him there at the end.” 

He lets out a short huff, momentarily rubbing his palms atop his pantlegs. “I dunno, I-I guess I did.” He sounds a little like a kid grown big enough to finally slug back an abusive dad, and is shocked and maybe a little terrified that he has. “He kept spoutin’ the same ol’ sidewindin’ bullshit he always uses to make me fall in line, and I just couldn’t take hearin’ it anymore.”

Considering his hesitation to give himself the credit you think he deserves, if he did indeed tell Tom Parker off, you think he should be acknowledged for it. “You absolutely do not have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’d love to know what you said to him.”

Elvis shrugs diffidently, shaking his head. “I-I… think it mighta been somethin’ like, ‘Listen up, you—‘ uh, something I won’t repeat,” he quickly censors as if you haven’t both cursed in front of each other a hundred times since you met yesterday, “ ‘I been workin’ my ass off takin’ care of business up on stage in that goddamn hotel an’ across this entire country since back when Neil Armstrong took his giant leap for mankind. I am not a nine-year-old boy who needs mindin’, and I am not comin’ back until I’m good an’ ready. Try not to gamble yourself or my business into bankruptcy while I’m gone.’ ” 

Your eyebrows fly up, impressed. “You said all that to him?”

His shoulders straighten, at last with the slightest bit of pride. “Yeah, I did. And then I hung up.”

“Nice,” you say in appreciation, smiling at him before you even realize it. Even if not quite face to face, against a man who’s had the kind of oppressive hold over Elvis as his manager has, this whole thing undoubtedly took a lot of courage. “Well done, E. I mean it. I know standing up to him like that may not have been easy, but you did it anyway and said exactly what you needed to. For what it’s worth, I’m very proud of you.”

Surprise flashes across his expression. For a second, he seems like he doesn’t know what to do with that; he looks down at his hands, twisting them in his lap, before his chest puffs out a little bit more, and he looks back up at you again with a little crooked, pleased smile. “Thanks, mama,” he replies, sounding shy.

You file that reaction away — that willingness to give himself credit only after someone else has. You find it a little surprising that someone like Elvis Presley is unaccustomed to praise, although you suppose he may view glorification from the masses and sincere commendation from those closer to him as two separate things. 

You decide you can probably get moving at this point, and shift the car into gear. By now you’ll have to haul serious ass to make it back to Las Vegas by the time you’d prefer to get there. Even so, you’re glad it sounds like Elvis has definitively made the decision to go somewhere other than where Tom Parker can get his hands on him for the time being, and wonder if he’d hoped it would be with his father.

“You called another person afterward?” you ask as you pull back onto the road. 

Elvis rolls up his window as the AC continues to blast. “Yeah, my daddy. He’s upset, too.” He sighs; instead of looking angry now, he just seems tired. “And I-I-I get it, I know I done wrong leavin’ everybody hangin’ like I did, but I think he mighta actually believed that BS about me goin’ nuts.” He’s clearly hurt by the idea. “Wants me to come back too, work things out with the Colonel so he can get this TV special finalized and then let it all settle down.”

You try not to shake your head in disappointment on Elvis’s behalf: that it sounds like his father is either as scared of this man as Elvis is, or firmly in his back pocket; that both the apparent father-figures in his life are failing him. “And what do you want? Because that’s what matters here.” 

He casts you the briefest, grateful glance before he leans forward on his elbows. Steepling his hands over his nose and mouth, he lets out a long breath. 

“Whole time I was on that phone,” he finally says slowly, “everything inside me was screamin’ at me to get the hell outta there, which is not uncommon. But this last day is one of the first times in my whole life I’ve ever felt like I actually could.” He shakes his head. “Ain’t ever been able to make a clean break from all’a it like this before, ever. The Army and the coupl’a months I spent at an ol’ ranch o’ mine was maybe the closest I ever got. But even then, I was still…”

He trails off, his jaw tight. You wait, for him and for a semi truck to barrel past before you make a hard right onto US-93 straight north to Hoover Dam. As you accelerate, Elvis starts again in a low voice, “I-I-If I go back now, when I-I still got no real idea yet o’ what I’m doin’, I…” 

But that, too, he doesn’t finish. 

Eventually, quieter, he says, soft and firm, “Ain’t no coward, but I— I just ain’t ready to go back, mama. Not yet.”

That doesn’t come as a surprise in the least, nor does his need to add that preface— not given the added stigma of being a male abuse survivor in a society where the dominant patriarchal worldview would condemn him as being weak or spineless for his inability to defend himself. 

Even so, you glance over at him. “That is the last thing you seem like to me,” you say, and mean it. “Considering your opponent, that seems like a smart decision to give yourself time to adequately prepare. I think you’ve made a good call on this.”

No, there’s no question one day is hardly any time at all to steel oneself to fight the machine— not if wherever he’s coming from is as toxic and controlling as it appears to be, the man behind it all a true viper who’s probably made several contingency plans to back-up his worst threats, and familial support obviously lacking right now. 

Oddly, though, Elvis just stares at you in response. Then he sits up, leaning back in his seat, his index finger resting on his lips. “Darlin’, d’you know I would literally pay you whatever you want to have you travel alongside me wherever I’m workin’ and just— do what you do?” 

A surprised, disbelieving laugh bursts from your lips. “You’re ridiculous. Are you seriously offering to pay me to keep being your friend?” 

It’s honestly so typical of everything you’ve come to know about him, and that includes his shiftiness at your question. “Well, I was, uh… thinkin’ more along the lines of somethin’ like a— a personal advisor. Sagacious guru. Steel sidewinder. Right-hand woman. Or whatever title you want, you can pick it.”

You almost make a joke back about what the hell his own friends and family are doing if he has to pay someone to be those things… but you swiftly bite down on your lip hard to restrain it at the sudden realization he obviously thinks he does. 

“I-I give great benefits,” Elvis adds quickly. “Medical, dental, retirement, lotsa free perks, the whole thing. Work hours can be a little wonky, but, y’know, we find ways to get through it, make it fun.”

He really is seriously doing this, with a practiced recruitment pitch it sounds like he’s given many times before. 

In a rush, you feel profound sadness for him. How many of his other friends have taken him up on this decidedly generous offer to join the payroll that’s clearly been taking a real toll on him to earn— getting paid his money, with full benefits, to just hang out? Because that’s all you’re really being right now: a friend to someone in need, just as others have been to you during the times in your life that you’ve needed it. 

You get that maybe he thinks he’s looking after them, but you’re not looking for a job, or applying for one. But friendship? To you, that isn’t something you demand a price for.

You clear the emotion from your throat, blinking rapidly to subdue the surge of wetness pricking at your eyes. “E, that is very kind of you to offer, and I am flattered by the way you intend it. But how about this,” you propose, reaching over to take his sweat-dampened hand and giving it a little squeeze. “For as long as you’re in my truck, you get me for free. And if you ever want to pop by, about this— or anything — you can always find me. Aspen, Vail, the Colorado — I’m usually only in a handful of places out this way. You are always welcome, and you will always be my friend. No cost involved.” 

You rarely make promises, it’s true. But for this, you wholeheartedly will.

Elvis is quiet for at least a full verse of whatever staticky classic country song from the ‘40s is playing. Then he says, a little thickly, “And I’ll be yours.” 

You look at him quickly. He clears his throat, too, curls his fingers back around yours, and goes on, “Know doin’ this for nothin’ is important to you, but if there’s… ever anything you need that I can offer you, or help you with. Whatever it is. Whenever it is. Five. Ten. Twenty years from now.” He shifts in his seat, momentarily looking self-conscious. “Or, uh. Y’know. If you ever just wanna… spend a little more time together, sometime. I’ll find a way to ensure that you can reach me. My door will always be open to you. Wherever I am. Always, mama.”

That damn wetness surges at your eyes again. This time, you can’t totally hold it back. You sniff as a couple tears escape and roll down your cheek, one eye on the road while the other’s on him. “Thanks, E,” you say quietly, squeezing his hand again, and briefly turn to give him a warm, grateful smile which Elvis returns with a wavering one of his own.

As you move to retake the gear shift, though, you see him stop suddenly. His head tilts a little to the side, like he’s just caught sight of something. His mouth opens, closes, and then he says in a soft rumble, “Honey, you’ve, uh— you’ve got —“

He gestures at his head, and you assume you have an insect of some sort on you; in your rearview mirror, you glance at your cowboy hat and low, loose ponytail slung partially over your shoulder, but don’t see anything. “Okay. Why don’t you take care of it?”

For a few seconds, he doesn’t move. Then, in a low voice, he says, “Alright, mama. I got you.”

Elvis loosens his seatbelt slightly to turn more toward you. Slowly, almost tentatively, as if he’s approaching a venomous reptile, he extends his right hand and leans forward, his face the perfect expression of concentration. You hold yourself still, one eye still on the road… 

Until you feel the warmth of his fingers brush your cheek, slowly tracing down your skin where your tears had fallen as he wipes away the wetness there.

Your heartbeat accelerates swiftly and suddenly, your lips parting in surprise. You stare at him as his energy burns into your skin, as he follows your unintended request beautifully, his careful touch achingly soft… which is the direct opposite of a number of things you’d abruptly like to do with him, laid beneath you, lips pressed to skin, against the leather seat of your Gladiator. You feel the distinct loss of him when he pulls his hand away, still feeling the trail of his searing fingertips across your cheek—

Elvis glances toward the road. Though his voice is still a bit gravelly, he says, almost nonchalantly, “Cottontail at eleven, honey.” 

Your gaze leaps forward, and you swiftly maneuver with a honked horn around the poor rabbit that’s unwisely attempting a highway crossing a few dozen yards in front of you; thankfully, the noise startles it away from the road. 

“Shit,” you mutter, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Alright, no more heartfelt declarations until we are no longer on one of the most dangerous stretches of highway in the U.S.”

That seems to surprise him. “Is it?”

You take a deep, steadying breath, and fall back on your wilderness EMT facade to cover the fact that you’re still coming back from that unanticipated surge of desire. “Yeah, there’s more fatal accidents here than almost anywhere else in the Southwest. What makes it worse is that it can take hours for first responders to arrive. The Lake Mohave Ranchos Fire District has one ambulance that covers 2200 square miles of Mohave County. You get an emergency out by the Hualapai Reservation followed directly by an accident south of Hoover Dam, it can take four to five hours for anyone caught in that accident to get by EMS to a medical facility.”

To his credit, Elvis looks genuinely disturbed by this. “Well, no wonder everybody’s dyin’. That’s crazy. That… That don’t seem right at all. Can’t nothin’ be done to improve the situation?”

You shrug. “I mean… possibly? The addition of a second station with another ambulance to split up the territory would probably be the best solution, but the population here’s low and impoverished, so the likelihood of that getting approved politically is unfortunately extremely low. A lot of the accidents on 93 do involve long-haul commuters who’re just passing through, but that tends to take emergency response services away from residents who live out this way when they actually need it.” 

Elvis rests a couple of fingers on his lips and falls silent after that, though he looks like he’s ruminating again. 

You wait for about five minutes or so before you venture, “So, not to go back to this topic if you don’t want to, but I’m going to need some idea soon of where you’re going in Las Vegas. Have you thought about your next steps?” For some survivors of particularly controlling or violent abusers, the clean break he’d been talking about earlier can involve disappearing entirely and reinventing themselves somewhere far away; given Elvis is who he is, that very likely isn’t an option for him, but it sounded like he’d wanted to stay well clear of his manager and ‘all of it’ for at least a little while longer, whatever that means to him. “Do you have friends you could stay with, or get to, if going to any place of yours right now is too obvious?” 

Elvis shifts a little and sighs, tapping his fingers on his leg. It’s obvious he’s heard your question… but he otherwise remains quiet for so long you begin to think that he, for whatever reason, isn’t going to answer you at all. 

Then, from your peripheral vision, you see him take off his sunglasses and look over at you. When you briefly shift your eyes to quizzically return his gaze fully, there’s an unspoken, vulnerable question in his own. 

Your eyebrows lift in astonishment, mouth falling open slightly.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

You can honestly say you hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t even considered it yourself: Given he’s trying to lay low, get some distance from his stardom, and give himself time to decide on his next steps, you had thought the last place he’d want to be is a day-and-a-half wedding celebration with a whole host of strangers to him. Not that you aren’t happy to help him out if he really needs it, glad to potentially extend this time with him a little longer, but…

When you don’t respond immediately, Elvis looks down, rubbing his palms on his pantlegs. Sounding nervous, he quips, “Bet you never thought I-I’d try to collect immediately on that offer of poppin’ ‘round again sometime, huh?” 

As two tractor-trailers begin to box you in, you quickly focus back on the road, weaving between them before the gap in the two-lane highway closes. 

“E, I’m saying this for your sake as much as mine,” you begin slowly, “but you know I have plans through the end of tomorrow, right?” Though you suppose you haven’t talked much about the wedding’s details with him. “Like, bridesmaid glow-uppy things this afternoon and groomslady duties the whole evening and—“

“Yeah, and I-I-I don’t wanna upend none of that,” Elvis says quickly. “You got your own room, don’t you? I-I can stay outta the way there and outta your hair the whole wedding. Your friends don’t even have to know I’m there.”

You shake your head. “Wish it could be that easy, big fella, but it’s not. The bridal party’s checking out of our rooms practically as soon as I get back, while we’re getting ready. And the rest of the weekend we’re staying at these rustic mystery accommodations at the venue out past Mt. Charleston, which if my friend Boone is to be believed is like some kind of treehouse village straight out of the Swiss Family Robinson. I don’t have any one private place you could hide out until it’s over. It could be really tough for you to keep a low profile.”

He’s quiet for a moment, bites his lip as he thinks. “Look, w-what if you just book another room for me wherever you’re stayin’ now, in your name? O-Or I… I lay low here in your truck, take it out for a drive in between places? I’ll pay for it, no issue. Don’t mind no rustic accommodations neither, promise you I’ve stayed in far rougher places. I-I-I just— I can’t go back there today, Delaia.” He lifts the battered blue baseball cap to shove shaky fingers through his hair, then fits it back down over his head and crosses his hands over his chest, rubbing his upper arms vigorously as if he’s gone cold. “Need a little more time, to— to figure things out first, come up with a plan. Like we’ve said.” 

Understanding of that as you are — and you truly are — you don’t understand why Elvis would want to go through all of this, cramming himself into the various hiding holes he’d have to just to keep this going if he doesn’t want to be discovered, instead of simply staying with other good friends he’d feel more at ease with. Certainly more physically comfortable, at the very least.

Unless…

You swiftly think back to his job offer a few minutes ago. It strikes you that, if he has an army of friends working for him, perhaps he thinks that still connects them back to his job and his manager somehow. 

But… even if that were the case, you imagine he must have a network of other people at or near his level of fame who intimately understand and appreciate stardom’s challenges and potential abuses. The wealthy and celebrities tend to flock in tight circles of their own kind, and not only is Elvis Elvis, he’s given the impression of being the consummate houseguest; no doubt one of them would be happy to put him up if he asked. 

Then you consider that you’re making an awful lot of assumptions. 

Because Elvis has kept repeating over and over that he can’t trust anyone else with this, that his manager has already been working to isolate him from others. And he didn’t make a third call for aid from that phone booth when his father disagreed with his plans, though he could have.

Maybe, for the moment, at least… you really are it.

Your brow furrows. “If this were to happen… how much time are you thinking?” The irony isn’t lost on you that it’s one of the very first questions he’d ever asked you yesterday.

Elvis lets out a breath and slowly rubs his temples, contemplating. “I, uh… next coupl’a days, s’pose? ’Til my flight to LA Tuesday night? Can’t exactly drop everything much longer, much as part o’ me’d like to, but I got a little time this month between engagements.”

When you don’t answer immediately, still calculating exactly how you could effectively make this work — to suit your needs as well as his, to be present and focused at one of your longtime friend’s biggest celebrations — his blue eyes lift to yours. Softly, he says, “Please, mama. Know how important this wedding is to you and on my honor, I’ll do whatever it takes not to mess it up for you. But you asked before if I had a safe place to go, and if I’m bein’ fully truthful, only place I feel totally safe with everything that’s goin’ on right now is with you.”

Jesus, you were right. And damn if this beautiful, vulnerable man and his pleading gaze aren’t continuing to pull on every string of that fierce protector inside you, the one that stems all the way back to your youth, though it’s typically found its outlet powering you through Search and Rescue runs and coaching your outdoor adventure clientele to take on the challenges they want to in difficult terrain. 

It also kills the idea, in your view, of just booking another hotel room under your name for Elvis to wait out the next day and a half in. It sounds like he wants to stay around you, and to tell the whole truth, you want him with you, too — as much as he can be while you’re off on wedding duty. Given how he’s just spent the last month cooped up inside, you imagine he’d probably like relaxing at its woodsy location. 

Actually… 

A mental door opens as that thought flits through your mind. Once you get a sense of what this treehouse setup actually is, it could very well be significantly more private than anywhere in Las Vegas, as long as you can work out a way for him to lay low from the main wedding crowd. Will each member of the wedding party who’s staying get their own private tree-room? Boone and Morwenna, though enthusiastic, have been so unhelpfully vague about the whole thing that you don’t fucking know, and right now it’s driving you nuts. 

Clearly unaware your decision’s been made, Elvis touches your forearm, lightly rubbing his thumb over your skin. “Realize this is askin’ an awful lot of you, honey. If there is anything I can—”

You shoot him a narrow-eyed look that shuts him up fast… before he does something like attempt to buy your cooperation. “Can you guarantee a SWAT team isn’t going to bust through my hotel windows or anywhere else we go if you stay with me?” 

That breaks the solemn entreaty in his gaze, and he narrowly restrains a short chuckle, shaking his head. “No. No, nothin’ like that. Not now they know I’m takin’ a little time off on my own, much as they don’t like it.” 

He pauses, swallows hard, then adds, sounding somewhat trepidatious, “ ‘Laia, this— this a-ain’t like yesterday. You gotta let me spot you the expenses if you’ll have me, however much they’ll be. I got open tabs in a lotta places, and I can give my bank a call the minute we get in…”

You’re pleased he’s pushing back on something else he disagrees with, even as you shake your head. “I hear you and I appreciate that, but the wedding stuff at least is already paid for.” You recall his wallet is still at his hotel, and evidently he has no intention of returning there right away to pick it up. “For anything else that comes up where I would genuinely want you to split the cost with me, I would figure that out with you on a case-by-case basis and we’d just keep a running tab. It wouldn’t be some giant mystery sum that I’d be demanding from you later.”

Elvis nods seriously, his long-lashed eyes wide and hopeful. “Yeah, that sounds… real damn fair.” 

You shove a hand back through your hair, let out a breath. “Okay.” You look over at him with a nod and a small smile. “Let’s do this. You can stick with me for the time you need.”

“Really? You mean it?” Somehow he still seems surprised by the allowance.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not totally sure what it’s going to look like, but we’ll figure it out. Let’s just keep talking it out as we go along.” 

You hadn’t fully appreciated how much Elvis wanted this until his shoulders slump and sheer relief spreads across his features. When he reaches for your hand, momentarily wrapping it around yours atop the gear shift, you let him. 

“Thank you, Delaia,” he breathes. He shakes his head, rubs your wrist with his thumb. “Honey, you don’t… you do not know—” 

His voice cracks. Despite the additional layer of complexity that’s just been added to the next twenty-four hours, your heart simultaneously aches and swells with care for him. “I do, brave fella.” You briefly flip your hand over, squeezing his back. “You keep telling me, over and over.” 

You give him a soft smile, one he seems too emotional to return, so you follow it with an encouraging nudge. “Hey. Even though you’ve got a lot of heavy stuff on your plate, and I don’t totally know what the hell is happening with this wedding— no fault of yours, there’s a story there— this’ll be fun. We’ll get to hang out more. You can help me make sense of it all and eat wedding cake I smuggle out. I can help you make sense of… whatever I can. We’ll both walk out of it better than we were before.” 

Elvis takes a small breath and manages to give you an unsteady smile at that. “Yeah, mama,” he says in a quiet rasp, “That… That all sounds real good right about now.”   

He shakes his head with another faint grin as you return your focus to the road and continue to gun it north up the mostly-empty rural expressway, smoothly shifting into high gear to speed up around a slow-moving semi truck. “Hot damn, Slippery Sidewinder, an’ here I thought I liked to speed.” He pauses, clearing the hoarseness from his throat. “Where about in Vegas we headed to?” 

“Beside a drive-through restaurant of our choice?” you ask dryly. At this point, you’re starving, and you’re guessing he is, too. 

When you tell him a new multi-story hotel and casino west of the Vegas Convention Center called the Royal Inn, his eyes widen. “Christ, I can read that place’s signage from my penthouse. You’ve been practically across the street from me this whole week.”

Yeah, and you’ve gotten an eyeful of the ugly, flat-glass cement tower he’s been in, too. Much as you dislike being in the city, you’ve been grateful that at least the Royal Inn rooms have outdoor balconies. 

“Well, you may be happy to know my room isn’t facing the International— Hilton— whatever it’s called now, not that we’ll be in it long. I’ve got a set date with a shower and a stylist, apparently, and you have a date with…” Your brow knits, displeased with the current options available to him for the two hours between the time that you check out of your room and drive over to the Spring Mountains. “Hm. We’ll have to think about that.”

Elvis changes the staticky radio station back to the top 40 station you’d had on yesterday, close enough to Vegas now that the reception’s decent, though he turns it down when he says, “So tell me what’s goin’ on with this wedding you don’t know much about.” The apprehensive tension that’s radiated from him for the last two hours seems to be ebbing out of him, and he sounds a lot more at ease. “Who’s gettin’ married? Why’s it happenin’ in trees?” 

You laugh. “Not in trees, although also, yes… in trees. Apparently they’re walking down a perfectly straight aisle of hundred-year-old yellow pines called Cathedral Grove. Morwenna— the bride— her sister cannot stop talking about it.”

You give him a quick overview: how you know Boone and most of the groomsman from the Colorado River; that his fiance Morwenna’s on staff at the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, where her dad’s an astronomy professor; that about thirty-five or so people, all close friends or family of the bride and groom, will be heading out to a place called Spring Mountains Grove for an early evening wedding, and some of the bridal party are staying the night.

The place hasn’t even officially opened yet. The engaged couple are longtime friends with the slightly eccentric but (according to Boone) ‘genius’ builder who inherited the rustic, wooded property and decided to turn it into a ‘magical mountain wedding venue,’ quote-unquote Morwenna, to compete with Lee Canyon’s wedding package. Perhaps slightly less comforting, he’d given them a heavy discount to take the recently completed venue for a test run in exchange for feedback on any final, needed tweaks and a promise to plug it to their respective tourist clientele should they like it… although you’re pretty sure only the bridal party is aware of that little fact.

“Boone keeps calling it ‘unexpected.’ As in, that’s his go-to word. Unexpected. I don’t know what to do with that,” you huff, and a small laugh bubbles from Elvis’s lips. “I mean, will we need to climb rope ladders that unexpectedly appear at random times to get to our rooms? Will flying pixies be holding up lanterns to light the way between treehouses? Will the reception also unexpectedly be twenty feet up in a tree? Will Aidan have to carry Boone’s eighty-year-old Grandma Dorie up there fireman-style? At this point, I’m kind of preparing myself for anything here.” 

He runs a hand over his jaw pensively, still chuckling. “Kinda reminds me of one o’ those Mystery Spots off the highway. Y’know, where they tell you the laws of gravity don’t hold up and take your money to see it, and then after enough time you figure out it’s just optical illusions. Carnival tricks.” 

For a second, you stare straight at the road. Then, you place a hand on your chest and gasp dramatically, turning to give him a thunderstruck expression. “What?! Mystery Spots are optical illusions?” 

When he stares at you in disbelief before again spluttering into laughter, you continue in mock-astonishment, “You mean people can’t actually stand sideways in their own homes? Water can’t really flow uphill? The forces of nature cannot be bent?” 

Elvis snorts, giggling harder, but completely loses it when you indignantly give the side of his arm a little whack and exclaim, “Are you kidding me? You just ruined my childhood! The next thing I know, you’re going to go and say something else just as crazy, like— like Santa Claus isn’t real!”

Several more hearty chortles escape his lips. With exceptional focus, he appears to force himself to rein it in in a series of little stuttering gasps, his expression settling into something halfway resembling sobriety. 

He looks over at you seriously. Mischief tugs at the corners of his lips.

You cast a sidelong glare at him, warningly lifting a finger. “Don’t. Elvis Presley, don’t you dare.” 

It’s obvious he’s fighting to keep his expression grave. “Honey, really hate to be the one to break it to you,” he begins solemnly, while you pretend to ignore him, narrowing your eyes and determinedly staring at the desert road ahead, “But that ol’ bearded man who flies through the sky on a sleigh pulled by glowin’-nosed reindeer to give all the good children gifts on Christmas Day—“

“La la la I’m not listening—!”

“—Yeah. That’s a made-up story parents use to put the blame on someone else if their kids ain’t happy with what they got on Christmas.” He pauses. “And the Easter Bunny ain’t nothin’ but a man dressed up in a rabbit suit.”

Your mouth drops open, and you turn to look at him flatly. “Really? Was that last one really necessary?”

Elvis takes one look at your affronted, unimpressed expression and collapses back into unconstrained peals of laughter that would be delightfully contagious if you weren’t fighting so hard to stay straight-faced yourself. 

You affectionately shake your head in exasperation. “You’re an utter miscreant. A holy terror. You get a permanent checkmark under Naughty on Santa’s very real List. You should be given no quarter at children’s events.”

When that just makes him laugh harder, to the point that he removes his sunglasses to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes, you can’t hold back your own anymore and finally crack, too. Giggling hysterically at pure silliness feels like exactly the curative release that’s needed, somehow, and you’re so glad to see the reemergence of this playful side of him, glad to know all the challenges he’s faced and the threatening hand he’s been living under haven’t killed his sense of humor or his laughter. 

When you both catch your breath a minute later, Elvis’s blue eyes are sparkling. 

“Naw, I-I… I actually love kids. Kinda a big one myself, if you haven’t noticed,” he says, stretching out his legs and looking the most relaxed he has since you left the Grand Canyon. “Want my daughter to have all the magic o’ the seasons my family couldn’t afford when I was growin’ up, the feastin’ an’ holiday lights an’ presents an’ all. Santa and the Easter Bunny can exist ’til she’s twenty far as I’m concerned, long as there ain’t no creep in the suit.”

While it’s a sweet sentiment, he throws in the last bit with such a salty, protective-dad huff, like he’s clearly already thought this through more than once, that you have to laugh. “Good looking out for her. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” 

“She’s my baby girl. I always will.” Elvis’s eyes crinkle proudly as his gaze goes distant, still thinking of his daughter, you’re certain. Then he slides on his shades and turns back to you. “This Mystery Spot wedding… I dunno, honey, you bein’ so credulous and all, the whole thing sounds pretty risky to me. You got anyone to watch your back out there? Keep you from wanderin’ trustingly down the dark forest path and into the pixie lights when you shouldn’t be?”

You think he’s still joking and chuckle, making the pass around another slow-moving tractor-trailer. “Why, are you offering?” 

From the corner of your eye, you see Elvis look down at his hands and shrug. “Well, you been watchin’ mine this whole time, seems only right I return the favor. I might be steerin’ clear of one part of my life for the moment, but that don’t mean I’m totally useless in a tight situation.” He clears his throat. “Although, y’know. Obviously, if you’re already goin’ with someone else…”

You hear what he isn’t saying, and your heart swiftly speeds up momentarily at the same time that you blink in surprise. “Wait. Are you saying you want to come to wedding?” Until this point, it had sounded like he’d wanted to keep a low profile for the next four days, however and whatever way he could. 

Elvis shifts in his seat. “I-I mean… not necessarily. I don’t wanna be any trouble,” he says almost coyly without directly answering the question. He fiddles with the base of a bare righthand finger like you’ve seen him do before, like he’s used to twisting rings he usually wears there. “Me bein’ me, it can cause a commotion like you saw there in Vegas, just by me standin’ there. You an’ your friends may not want that. Wouldn’t blame y’all if you don’t.” 

But now that this is on the table as a possibility and your mind starts to work with it, you realized it isn’t that far-fetched at all. 

“It doesn’t have to be. Like Vegas,” you say, thinking out loud. “Maybe a quarter of us going are used to working with celebrity clients. Between us, we could do everything we can to make sure you’d be okay and the other guests wouldn’t, you know. Harass you and expect you to be on rockstar duty, even if they’re well-meaning by it. Give you a little more normalcy for a little while longer.” 

Quite frankly, even those efforts would probably be ten times easier than trying to keep a six-foot tall, highly-recognizable superstar hidden from all your friends and their family at a rural property you’ve never visited before… plus at every point along the way beforehand.

Elvis seems surprised by the offer. He hesitates before he goes back to playing with those imaginary rings again, shakes his head. “I-I-I don’t wanna put y’all out or nothin’ when it’s your friend’s wedding day,” he says demurely. “If I gotta sign autographs or take photos or whatever else folks there would like, I don’t mind it. Just part ’n parcel of bein’ me, you know? I’m used to it.” 

You frown, remembering how stressed he’d been after being mobbed out on the street yesterday. “Yeah, but you’d be coming as my guest, not the entertainment. I mean, maybe you like being ‘on’ and at the middle of things, and if you do, that’s totally fine. But wouldn’t it be nice to just… be a guest, like everybody else?”

He continues to stare down at his hands for a long time before he breathes, “Yeah, it would, darlin’.” Quickly, though, he turns toward you and adds, “But I-I-I… I don’t ever want my fans to think I ain’t grateful for ‘em. Don’t like seein’ anybody get turned down.”

You turn that over in your mind. “I can’t imagi— hey.” You tap his arm lightly with the back of your hand. “What if we set a certain amount of time— like, twenty minutes, tops, while the wedding photos are happening — for you to be ‘on,’ for whoever wants to do that fan stuff. And then: The switch flips, and everyone there knows you’re off the clock for the rest of the night. No one would ever hold that against you.”

The more you think about it, the more convinced you become this is a good idea. You know he needs time to think through a plan for beginning to extract himself from his manager’s claws, but how much of that is he really going to be able to do this evening while sequestered away at a rustic venue in the woods with a few dozen chatting people and a live band somewhere in the background nearby? He’d probably have so much more fun at the wedding, and if anyone’s in need of that right now, it’s him.

When you can tell he’s considering it, you add coaxingly, “Fresh mountain air. Music and dancing. Wedding cake and chocolate fondue. Floating reception platforms lit by torches; leprechauns and fairies— who the hell knows. Plus, if you like me, I think you’d like my boat brothers. And because we’re staying there, you could duck out and retreat to our treetop oasis anytime you felt like it. Zero pressure.”

After a second, Elvis lets out a breath and looks over at you, a tentative smile pulling at his lips. “You kinda had me all the way back at chocolate fondue.”

Total delight surges through you. “Yes! We’re doing this, baby.” You release the gear shift to jubilantly hold up your hand for a high-five, grinning broadly. 

Elvis’s smile instantly widens too, radiant and beautiful, and he laughs a little as he twists to slap his hand against yours with a loud smack! “Damn leprechauns sure ain’t gonna get up to no tricks now.”

“Heck no they won’t,” you agree confidently. “Pesky pixies, watch out.” 

He sits back, still grinning, but it fades slightly when his chin tips downward. “Man, I’m seriously gonna need somethin’ to wear. Maybe I will hafta smuggle some of my stuff outta the International after all. Need some o’ those prescription meds I mentioned earlier too, like for my eyes.” His brow furrows. “Let me think about it.” 

“Just so I’m clear on this, too,” you say neutrally, “You don’t want your team to know where you’re at at all right now?”

Elvis slowly shakes his head. “Don’t think it’s a good idea, mama. If they do, they’ll just descend like a swarm, an’ if Colonel gets wind o’ it, which he somehow always does, I… I dunno what he’d do. My daddy knows I’m fine and I’m stayin’ out with a responsible friend and I wanna keep it private. I-I know he don’t like it, but I— I just wanna hold onto this a little longer, you know?”

His voice turns upward pleadingly at the end, and you yet again feel for him, that he thinks he has to defend a choice that most thirty-something-year-old men would make without a second thought. 

“I know,” you reply quietly, empathetically. You clear the emotion in your throat. “E, you’re a full-grown adult; you don’t have to convince me, and quite honestly, I personally don’t think you should have to convince him, either. If they’re aware you’re fine and you think this is the best course of action to keep yourself safe right now, then I support it.”

Elvis lets that wash over him, nods. Then he looks over at you seriously. "You ever change your mind about that job offer, you come find me."

Fifteen minutes later, you’re cruising across the bridge over Hoover Dam and the Nevada-Arizona state line. Beneath a clear azure sky, the crystal blue waters along the curved channel from Lake Mead are a vividly stark contrast to the mountainous orange terrain surrounding it. 

For the last little while, you and Elvis both have been humming along with a sung line or two thrown in here or there to the passing songs on the radio, Elvis’s fingers tapping along to the music. You’re feeling excited about the next several hours, even if you still have a number of puzzle pieces to fit together, though you’ve already decided a quick conversation with Boone and then probably Aidan, the second-most responsible groomsman (the first, of course, being yourself) is in order to organize the guys from your rafting outfitter in Elvis’s support while minimally affecting the planned event proceedings.

“Hey, Mama D,” Elvis says suddenly, “d’you think Boone and Morwenna might want me to, y’know. Sing somethin’? During the wedding, I mean. Could do anything, songs don’t have to be mine.” 

Knowing he’s already given a gorgeous, free performance for your Hualapai relations, you look over at him in genuine astonishment. “You’d do that?” 

“Yeah. For your friends, I’d be glad to, if you thought they might like it and it wouldn’t disrupt no plans they already have. It’s the least I can do, ‘Laia. I’d like to.” 

That he’s willing to sing yet again for your friends, even after he’s had a harrowing morning and you’ve made it clear he doesn’t have to do anything like that, is… almost unbelievable. Another swell of affection for him bubbles up in your chest, and you give him a warm smile. 

“That’s tremendously nice of you, E. I cannot imagine they wouldn’t love it, but I’ll put it to Boone and Morwenna’s sister Marcy to make the final call when we get back.” You think back to the rehearsal lunch, which was only yesterday afternoon but feels like a week ago, where more concrete details about the wedding day had begun to emerge. “Pretty sure she’s doing the music for the ceremony— probably cello. I’ve heard her before; she plays beautifully.” 

Elvis gives a low whistle of admiration. “A lone cello, in a cathedral of trees. Man, they aren’t gonna need me at all. That’s gonna be…” he trails off, as if he’s imagining it, and then gives a single, approving nod, “real damn beautiful. Yeah.”

Oh, you sweet, humble man, you think, even if that’s true, they’ll have no doubts about how much more beautiful your voice would make it. 

In that moment, you recall Morwenna’s disappointment about the bachelorette party missing Elvis’s last Vegas residency shows by a day, and imagine she might actually lose her mind at what may be about to occur. 

Thinking back to his earlier dilemma, you suggest, “Whatever ends up being decided, maybe one of my guys could go pick up your things from the International before we head over. It’s nearby; it shouldn’t take them that long. That way you wouldn’t have to go out yourself or tell anybody on your team your exact location.” 

His eyebrows fly up. “Your guys? You’re turnin’ into me for real now.”

You laugh. “You aren’t the only one in the world with guys, you know. Anyway, I bet they wouldn’t mind.” 

Elvis thinks about it. “Thanks, darlin’. Yeah, if they’re good with it, that could work. Got a coupl’a guys — my guys—“ he adds with a lopsided little grin, “—still at the hotel who I’m pretty sure would go along with it without flaggin’ anything to the Colonel.”

“Okay, done. My people will rendezvous with your people and, as you say, we’ll take care of business secret-agent style.” 

He seems utterly tickled by that idea. Big kid, indeed, you think with a smile to yourself— not that you’re one to talk.

After another ten minutes, you clear the arid orange-brown hills of Railroad Pass and finally get the first glimpses of Las Vegas’s flat urban sprawl in the distance— close enough now that you can almost taste the chicken sandwich with extra pickles and cheese you’re going to order from whatever fast-food place you decide on, because it’s going to be awhile before you eat again.

Beside you, though, you hear Elvis sigh heavily. He shifts in his seat and starts to fidget uncomfortably, fingers now tapping anxiously, rather than rhythmically, against his bouncing leg. 

You briefly reach over to give that fretting hand a knowing, reassuring squeeze. “We’re gonna get out of this town again almost as soon as we get in, E.” 

He lets out a shuddery breath, nods. “Yeah, I know. Still don’t hafta like it, though.”

Suddenly, your ears catch a familiar, opening beat on the radio. As one sometimes does, you can’t stop yourself from bursting out victoriously, “Yes, I love this song.”

When your head starts bobbing to the rhythm almost of its own accord, Elvis gives a weak half-smile and reaches forward to turn it up. He curls rigidly into himself when he sits back, though, looking like he’s about to start ruminating again, and well— you aren’t about to let the dark cloud of Tom Parker attempt to ruin the second half of his day like it did his first. (Or yours, for that matter.)

You take one look at the tension and discomfort emanating from him, and, deliberately, you begin to sing along with the radio as America starts: “On the first part of the journey, I was looking at all the life…”

Elvis startles slightly before he looks over at you, his mouth dropping open slightly. You ignore him as you keep singing, playfully dancing in your seat to the music; after one entire verse cycles by, he says carefully, “Honey, not quite sure how to put this, but… you do not sing like you howl.” 

You glance over briefly, narrowing your eyes. “EP, is that your Southern gentlemanly way of telling me I sing atrociously?” You smoothly slide your shoulders back and forth to the beat for a second, then lean toward him, as if you’re bestowing upon him a great secret, and whisper loudly, “I know.” 

When you sit back and shamelessly trill the next line of the verse, he covers his face and mumbles something that sounds like, “Oh Lord have mercy.”

To Elvis, you say, “I need some help here. Save me from myself, Great Virtuoso.” 

You blare out the next line regardless, really feeling the music as you do. You know you’ve nailed that last note when a laugh abruptly rips from Elvis’s lips; he covers his mouth to hide the (possibly mildly horrified) smile there, eyebrows raised up high over his aviators. You grin mischievously at him as you keep singing, bobbing your head with the rhythm.

In a matter of seconds, you see the tension start to slip from his shoulders… see him lower his hands and take a long, deep breath as another slow smile pulls across his face. 

As the chorus starts again, he abruptly turns toward you and joins in, “I been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out of the rain; in the desert, you can’t remember your name, ‘cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain—“

And then you’re both belting it out, singing, “La, la, la la la la, la la la, la la….” as you follow the surge of traffic along the 515 into Las Vegas— one of you sounding considerably more accomplished than the other, and both of you grinning like a pair of loons.

And, short of a major lawsuit, that may be the best ‘Go to hell’ that Elvis could send his manager of all.