Hello? Is Anyone There?

Hello? Is anyone there?

Hi all. I know it has been. . . a while since I've last uploaded any new writings. I apologize for that, I have no other excuse aside from life happening and being accompanied by agonizing writer's block. Do not worry, I am still very much in the ep fandom. Well, I come bearing good news. . . my writing brain is back again, and I am working on posting a few things very, very soon.

I have edited my masterlist. I made it simpler, might help in navigating through it.

Whilst you wait for my writings, please do give my on-going series 'Yours Truly' a chance. I initially posted it on Wattpad, and brought it over here - but it has received a lack of feedback. I know that we write for the love of it, but also feedback is the lifeblood of writers. It would mean the world if y'all would give it a chance. I've changed the summary of it, I feel it now sounds more straight to the point:

"In which a 21-year-old girl suddenly finds herself having consecutive dreams of a particular rock ‘n’ roll star whom she has never met and who died 45 years ago."

*cue mysterious music*

Love, Rose

Velvet Sky, Part 1 ✨🌌💙

TW: Significant age gap, innocent reader, this part is pretty tame tbh! 

August 31st, 1973

You find yourself picking nonexistent lint off your white dress, feeling uncomfortable in the outfit Mammina picked out for you—she said it was “eye catching” and “flattering in just the right way,” and though you are not entirely sure what “right way” she means, far be it for you to argue with your mother when she’s trying to impress. The last thing you want is for her to disappear into one of her dark moods, on your birthday, no less, so you had put on the dress with a smile and let her brush out your long, dark hair in that self-soothing way of hers.

“Stop picking, Daniella,” she admonishes quietly so Papa and his friends don’t hear but enough to make you jump a little in your seat.

“Yes, Mammina,” you say quietly, immediately stopping and smoothing your skirt.

She’s anxious, you can tell, being here in Vegas, Papa parading her around in front of all his associates. By extension you have been too, as Mammina has it in her head that this trip might finally snag you a well-off Italian man who can “take care of you, Daniella, and give me grandbabies. You can’t live at home forever, you know.”

The whole thing makes you shiver, but you suppose since, as of today, you are twenty-one, there is no longer a good excuse not to be looking towards the future. Though if you had your way, you would stay at home in your room with your books and paintbrushes and never worry about finding a husband again.

Being out amongst the throng of people in Vegas is overwhelming and nerve wracking. It always is, which is why you don’t come to Vegas much, despite all of Papa’s business dealings here. The constant noise of slot machines and haze of cigar smoke have your senses overstimulated, and it makes it hard to focus on the conversations you are expected to be listening to.

You have always been a quiet homebody, content with being included in (but slightly separate from) the bubble of the extended famigliayou’ve grown up in. As much as you love them, your boisterous older brothers, sisters, and cousins are too much for you most of the time. Being the baby, you’ve always been content to let everyone else have their say first, finding it is not worth the trouble to try and assert your own ideas in the loud, chaotic dynamic of your large Italian Catholic family. Consequently, you are always well taken care of but often teased for your social ineptitude and bookish, introverted nature.

But tonight is your birthday dinner, and being his favorite little Bambina, Papa has so generously arranged this special booth for Elvis Presley’s show at the Hilton. You are grateful for the gift and want to please Papa, so you’d let Mammina dress you up and bring you into a situation you would normally try and avoid. You are unsure why your celebration had to include Papa’s associates, but you know better than to question such a thing.

Your nerves are buzzing with excitement, despite being overwhelmed. Elvis has always been a favorite of yours—you grew up on his movies and music and he was the first man you doodled in your sketchbook. Papa promised when you turned twenty-one he would bring you to Elvis’ show here at the hotel, though you could never quite understand why you couldn’t come when you were younger. Maybe it’s because Papa knew it would be too much for you to be at a show like this with so much noise and so many people around.

Regardless, this is the one thing you’ve been looking forward to during this trip. Dinner ends and you are grateful you can stop pretending to listen to conversations at the table. You lose yourself in the opening acts, swaying to the music of the Sweet Inspirations as your excitement builds. The music is quite loud and makes your heart pound, but there is a structure to the familiar songs which soothes your nerves rather than aggravating them.

Finally, the opening rumble of the main attraction begins and you’re already fidgeting with anticipation. When Elvis enters in his white jumpsuit, studded with gold and black, you feel a bit lightheaded and not just from the glass of champagne you’ve been sipping on. No, this is something else entirely. A warm, fuzzy feeling spreads out from your belly and down into your limbs.

Elvis takes the microphone and his voice rings out so clear and velvety smooth that it reaches your toes. You try not to bounce up and down in your seat but containing your skyrocketing excitement proves difficult under the circumstances. Mammina knowingly pats your hand with a smile, which does nothing to settle you. Instead, you are completely swept up into the performance, unable to take your eyes away from the magnificent, ethereal man commanding the stage in front of you.

Some numbers have you squealing and giggling in delight, others have tears pooling in your eyes, your sensitive nature absorbing it all. Everything about him has you on the edge of your seat—his crooning voice, his dark hair and lithe figure, the way he breaks into karate moves every so often, and, oh, the way the sweat begins pouring off him has you squirming, unsure of these heated, foreign feelings he’s provoking inside you.

It's over much too fast, and your heart knocks against your ribcage in time with the clapping of your hands as the last notes ring out.

“Oh, Papa, thank you! This was the best gift ever,” you say as the gold curtain falls, hugging your father, blinking back tears of joy mixed with sadness that the experience is over.

“Oh, my beautiful little principessa, don’t be sad. I have a surprise for you,” he says, conspiratorially, pulling you in close.

“Really?” you say, wondering what in the world it could be. “You’ve already been so generous, Papa, I don’t need any other gifts.”

“Oh, hush, Bambina, you know how he loves to spoil you,” Mammina says with a smile.

At that moment, a short man comes up to the table, interrupting. “Mr. Luciano, if you and your family would come with me?”

Your father seems to be expecting this, giving you a sly look as if this is all part of his surprise. Everyone exits the booth, though gratefully, his associates say their goodbyes and do not follow. You smooth down your dress, finding yourself feeling apprehensive but curious about this unexpected turn of events. It is late, well after midnight, and as your excitement from the show wanes, a wave of sleepiness hits you. You hope the surprise doesn’t take too long because there’s a bed upstairs just calling your name.

The short man, who introduces himself as Joe, makes conversation and winds your family back through a maze of hallways until you come to a door with a large, serious looking man in front of it. He waves you all through into some sort of anteroom. There are others here milling about and you barely have a moment to take it in before the door on the opposite side opens.

When Elvis steps through, your breath catches and your mouth goes dry. You look up at your father, clasping his arm, unsure if what you are seeing is real.

“Papa? That—That’s Elvis Presley!” you whisper, dumbfounded, as the star starts making his way through the room, talking with the variety of guests.

You father nods proudly, kissing you on top of your head, pleased his gift has surprised you. “Happy birthday, Bambina!”

“Close your mouth, Daniella,” your mother tuts.

You do as you are told, trying to swallow down the lump that sticks in your throat. Your toes tingle with numbness and you suddenly are unsteady in your high heels.

“I-I think I need to sit down,” you say. Papa seems to relish in your reaction, leading you and your mother to a sofa nearby. You clasp your mother’s hand tightly. It tethers you to reality while you try and comprehend this strange turn of events.

You can’t quite believe it. Elvis Presley is mere feet away from you, talking animatedly with some folks across the room. If you thought watching him perform live was overwhelming, it’s nothing compared to what you are feeling now. The crest of shock and awe in you collides with the fact he is just a man and not this larger-than-life figure on a screen or a stage.

However, the same essence emanating from him that made his performance so captivating is making the air in this small room bend and shift around him. While he is a man, he is unlike any you’ve encountered. There is still something other about him. Closer and closer he gets and drawing a full breath seems harder with each inch. You are trying not to be rude and stare at him, but your eyes keep drifting back towards him by their own accord.

At one point, it’s as if he senses you looking and his cobalt eyes dart in your direction. He catches you and your heart stops. Unable to tear your eyes away, you watch with bated breath as his lip raises slowly in what is almost a shy smile.

That can’t be right. Elvis seems anything but shy.

You can’t help but smile back nervously. He looks down and away as though he’s the one who has been caught and returns to finish his conversation. It’s as if a hummingbird has been let loose in your chest and your cheeks feel like they are on fire. Your mother and father, in their outgoing ways, have started making conversation with people nearby and are none the wiser to the calamity going on inside you.

It feels like forever but is likely only a couple of minutes before Elvis makes his way to your little group. Even his stride oozes nonchalant confidence and then he is towering above you, shaking hands with your father. Your mother jumps up readily as Elvis turns his focus to her and says something you can’t quite concentrate on, your gaze travelling up the long expanse of his jewel-clad body until your chin is tipped up and you are frozen in place, gawking. Conversation happens above you for a moment before Elvis’ eyes land squarely on you, and you wonder if you are imagining the way they seem to soften.

“And who is this pretty little girl?” he drawls in your direction, eyes never leaving yours. He reaches out his hand and, realizing what he wants, you have no choice but to give your hand to him. His is warm and dry as it folds around your fingers, and a jolt of electricity zings right down to your spine at the contact.

He pulls you up. Unable to speak, it is all you can do to bring yourself to standing without toppling over. Something inside you unlocks, like there was a secret door in you all these years, hiding in the recesses of your mind. It’s a subtle click which you don’t quite understand; in fact, it is a little frightening. Part of you wants to run away and hide, but the swirling in his endless blue eyes draws you in. The spicy, aromatic smell of him wafts over you, and you are entranced by the way his kind and amused eyes search yours.

“This is Daniella,” Mammina jumps in when you don’t speak, grasping your waist with a little pinch. “Please excuse her, she’s a little shy.”

Papa cuts Mammina off, “She’s just surprised, amore mio.” Then he says to Elvis, “It’s her birthday today and she had no idea she was going to meet you until a few minutes ago.”

Elvis’ eyes stay fixed to yours, even when your father speaks, which you are not used to. Everyone pays attention to Papa, and rarely are you the object of anyone’s focus in quite this way. He brings your hand to his mouth, pressing his impossibly soft lips into your knuckles. You can’t help the small gasp that falls from your mouth, though Elvis seems to be the only one who notices, his mouth curving into a smile against your skin.

“Well, hello there, Daniella. Am I a satisfactory birthday present?” he says with amusement dancing in his eyes and lilting in his voice.

How can you possibly explain these new, intense feelings churning inside you—the way your heart and soul seem to open into a cavernous abyss that only he can fill, like the earth has gone out from under your feet and only he can catch you? You can’t, and even if you did, you fear no one would understand.

Everyone is waiting on you to speak, and finally you clear your throat, your face burning. “Oh! I…well, of course, sir! It’s been wonderful--you’re wonderful!” you say quietly, awestruck.

Everyone laughs and you can’t help but feel like the butt of a joke. With so many emotions overloading you, you feel tears threaten, stinging your eyes, and you look away quickly. Don’t you dare cry in front of Elvis Presley, you silly girl! Your hand begins to tremble in his and you feel like shrinking into the wall.

“Oh, hey now, it’s okay, honey. Don’t be embarrassed—it’s the nicest thing anybody’s said all night,” Elvis says comfortingly, putting both hands around yours to still them. You look down at the way they engulf yours so completely and you are distracted by the glint of gemstones and gold dripping from his fingers and wrists. Somehow, this steadies you through your embarrassment. A big, fat tear drops straight from your eye and lands on the back of his tanned hand. You can’t bring yourself to look at his gorgeous face, instead focusing on the gold embellishments on his suit and belt, trying to stop making a fool of yourself.

“Oh, don’t mind her. She’s just overly sensitive,” your mother says with a forced laugh, pinching your waist again and, as usual, not making the situation any better.

Elvis’ thumbs begin to stroke your hands in a soothing motion and your shaking breath begins to steady. Something about his presence is calming, which is contrary to all the other ways he’s making you feel, like you’re hot and cold all at the same time. And amongst it all, there is an invisible thread of connection that lights up between you. Maybe you are imagining it, though, since there is no way Elvis would ever feel anything of the sort for a shy girl like yourself. This thought causes more tears to well in your eyes.

“Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m pretty sensitive, too,” Elvis says gently but pointedly. This subtle dig at your mother’s comment has you raising your watery eyes up towards his. He smiles at you, as if you are in on the joke. It makes your heart skip a beat.

“How ‘bout this, lil’ Dani? Why don’t y’all come up to our little after party as my special guests, huh? It’ll be like a little birthday party for ya. I bet we can even scrounge up some cake ‘n everythin’,” he says so sweetly that you bite your lip and nod in response before your brain can even think to jump in and make you question such a kind gesture.

“Oh, that’s so lovely of you, Mr. Presley!” Mammina gushes. Papa nods in agreement, seemingly satisfied that his plan is going even better than expected. Your father quite enjoys being the most important man in the room, so you can only imagine this special treatment excites him.

“Perfect!” Elvis exclaims, and never letting go of your hand, he turns and pulls you along with him.

“Oh!” you gasp quietly as he interlocks your arm in his. Thankfully, your tears have abated with your shock, but waves of heat keep blooming through your body and are getting worse the closer the heat of his body is to yours. You can only imagine how red your face is.

Somehow, even though your side is brushing against his as you walk, you feel less worked up than a moment ago. There is a safety in the way the sea of people parts for him, for you, as if you are part of his bubble and can’t be bothered with all the noises and smells and lights that would usually bother you. No, right now there is only him—his warmth and his smell and his touch—and it all at once makes you feel comfortable.

“How old are ya today, sweetheart?” Elvis asks in your ear.

You jump a little at the feel of his breath tickling you, causing a pleasant shiver to cascade into your belly. “Twenty-one, sir,” you respond quietly.

“Hmmm, you’re just a lil’ baby, ain’t ya?” he coos, squeezing you close.

If anyone else had said those words to you, you would take offense, but he is so endearing with it, you don’t. You just feel special (and a little confused) that he’s taking such an interest in you at all.

You barely register that he has signaled to his men before the lot of you are leaving the dressing room and weaving through back hallways to a service elevator. In fact, it feels like you are floating, your earlier embarrassment forgotten as Elvis manages to talk with those around him—his guys, your parents—and then turns and whispers things to you in the meantime. It is masterful the way he includes you without making you feel pressured or uneasy like you usually feel. You can hardly believe how natural it is to be on his arm.

“Is this your first time to Vegas, darlin’?” His eyes sparkle down at you.

You shake your head. “No, sir, Papa does a lot of business here. He owns part of the hotel,” you say matter-of-factly. You feel Elvis go a bit stiff next to you, though you’re not exactly sure why this information is surprising. Everybody in Vegas knows Papa.

“Remind me of your last name, Dani darlin’?”

“Luciano.” You pause, wondering at the shift in his behavior and hoping you didn’t do something to upset him. “Did I…did I say something wrong, sir?” you whisper as you all get in the elevator.

“No, no, not at all, honey, just thinkin’ about how pretty your name is. Pretty name for a pretty little girl. And please call me Elvis,” he says, smiling. The warmth of it melts you into a puddle and has you forgetting his strange reaction to your name.

The elevator doors close and you all at once feel very claustrophobic. Closing your eyes, you whimper as the car lurches upwards.

“Y’okay, baby?” Elvis asks kindly. “Don’t like elevators, huh? Here, I gotcha.” He wraps his arm protectively around your waist, securing you firmly into his side.

Suddenly, your fear feels lightyears away compared to the lightheaded feeling of being pressed into his strong frame so intimately. The thread of connection you felt earlier laces tight between you two, winding its way around your spine and settling with a flutter in your belly. You can’t help the way your hand falls tentatively on his chest to steady you. The feel of the gold-studded gems on his suit are nothing in comparison to the heat that radiates through it and into your palm.

Elvis looks down at you unguardedly, intimately, as if he’s known you your whole life and can see through every part of you. “There, now that’s better,” he says comfortingly for only you to hear.

Caught in his gaze, it’s all you can do to nod. His eyes contain multitudes and you all at once realize there is so much more to him that you know. You are glad that you are in the back of the elevator, behind your ever-watchful parents’ eyes, and it feels like you and Elvis are the only two people in the world. The bell dings for the 30th floor and it’s the only time in your life you’ve ever wanted an elevator ride to last longer.

*

Elvis can’t stop looking at you. There is something about your pensive, innocent, chocolate doe eyes that makes him utterly weak in the knees. He is exhausted after two shows, wheedling down to the end of another long, arduous engagement at the Hilton, feeling evermore like a peacock trapped in a gilded cage, but the moment he saw you, something lit up inside him. He can barely bring himself to talk to or look at anyone else, so enraptured is he, but he wrenches himself away just long enough to take the quickest shower known to man so he can get changed and back out to you. Hardly able to bear the thought of you without him in a room full of strangers, he uses his post show burst of energy to cut through his looming fatigue in order to be there for you.

You do look overwhelmed when he comes back in the room, all withdrawn and shy, but the way your eyes widen and light up when you see him makes his heart skip a beat. You are just too precious for words, and stunningly beautiful in a quiet, understated way. There is more to you than meets the eye, he is sure of it.

He feels it in his soul—you’ve been placed in his life for a reason.

He is also mighty aware your parents are right there in the room, too. Now that he has pieced together exactly who your father is, he understands he must tread much more carefully than he might usually. Luckily, he’s always had a way with parents, so, he puts on his most charming smile and tucks in next to you on the couch.

He barely touches you at first, keeping far enough away to be appropriate despite the innate urge to curl you up into his lap and hold you. As the evening wears on and the mood mellows, he notices the way you lean closer to him. It feels natural to put his arm around the back of you on the sofa. He sees the narrowing of your father’s eyes, though your mother seems none the wiser, or else she does not care. Elvis keeps it all above board and appropriate, being as cool as he can, only letting his grazing touches linger when your father is distracted.

You are more receptive to his touch than he expects at first, but as he learns the dynamics between you and your parents, he thinks perhaps you aren’t used to this sort of attention. When he learns more of your big Italian family, he can only imagine that a sensitive little angel like yourself gets pushed aside and inundated by it all. No, you need a steady presence to look out for you instead of leaving you to the wolves to fend for yourself.

After some pointed looks he shoots to Joe and Charlie, Mr. and Mrs. Luciano are surreptitiously drawn into conversations with some other guests, and Elvis is finally able to abscond with you alone on a tour of the penthouse. You ooh and ahh at all the right places, your little hand tucked snugly into his, though he knows opulence must be familiar to you. However, you seem entirely comfortable just listening to him talk as he shows you around.

When he takes you into his private suite, he makes sure to leave the door open when he sees your reluctance to cross over the threshold.

“Never in a million years would I hurt you, little one,” he says honestly, openly, when you hesitate.

Your big eyes widen, as if you hadn’t even truly thought through the implications of being alone with him in his room until this very moment, and his heart aches when he realizes that you may not even be aware of what those things are, only that they are frowned upon.

More quickly than he expects, your reticence turns to acceptance. “I know,” you say with a frank certainty, and it is as if you see down into him. He blinks at you in surprise, wanting more than anything to pull you close, but your attention shifts when you see the stacks and stacks of books around the room.

With a childlike glee, you read the spines, picking up his favorites and running them through your hands as though they are made of the finest silks. Holding his copy of The Impersonal Life, your brow furrows the slightest bit.

“Is God the One inside you, creating your performances, do you think?” you contemplate, blinking your brown eyes at him as if it were the most natural question in the world. It floors him that you have a working knowledge of one of his favorite books, so much so he can hardly utter a reply.

“I-I…w-w-well, I think so, honey,” he breathes, baffled, his heart beginning to gallop.

You pause, weighing his words. “Do you…do you think we can truly share consciousness?” you ponder. The question is so devoid of artifice or presumption that it takes everything in him not to launch into the stratosphere with his thoughts on the subject. An excitement bubbles in his veins so strongly it makes his hands shake, and he isn’t sure what he wants to do more—talk to you or kiss you.

You open for him like a rare orchid, slowly unfurling at first and then wildly energized by sharing your love for knowledge with him. His heart soars. You may be innocent, shy, and naïve socially, but intellectually, you yearn for truth and beauty and the ability to share it with others. He imagines you don’t often have that chance, based on the way you so animatedly talk to him.

It’s then, he thinks, that he falls head over heels in love with you.

Everything about the way your face brightens as you converse about his books has him enthralled. So quickly do you move past the glitz and glamour of him, instead interested his thoughts. It seizes his heart. He finds himself almost shy, wanting to impress you, letting you be as enthusiastic as he is at finding someone with a similar curious nature.

As caught up as he is, he knows he can’t keep you for too long, not with your parents here, not if he wants a chance at seeing you again. But he can’t let you leave without taking a part of him with you, especially since you have no idea you’ve already claimed his heart.

“Here, take this one,” he says, handing her The Prophet. “It’s one of my favorites. And maybe…maybe you can come back and tell me what you think?” He means it to be a confident statement that of course you will come back, but instead it comes out as a hopeful question from his shadow-self—a hapless, gawky, small town hick teenager—who has not seen the light of day in a long time.

You beam at him, swaying up on your tiptoes with barely contained enthusiasm. “Really? I mean, you’d want to hear what I think?”

Lord, your eagerness to be heard endears him to you as much as it makes him angry that you seemingly have no one else in your life who truly sees you. Sure, it’s obvious you are daddy’s little princess, but he can already tell they view you only as a baby to be paraded about and shushed rather than a young woman with her own thoughts and needs.

Elvis circumvents his anger at your parents and smiles at you. “Of course, honey. More than you know.”

You blush, a rosy glow under your olive complexion. “Okay, good,” you say, but then a shadow crosses your face, “but…how will I see you again?” He can see your mind running through all the obstacles just as his is, the difference being he can do something about it.

“How ‘bout you let me worry about that, lil’ angel. You just read that book for me, promise?” he says, crossing to you and putting his hands on your shoulders.

You seem to be reassured by his touch, your furrowed brow relaxing as you nod up at him. “Promise.”

The impetus to want to give you everything he has rolls through him like thunder. He wants to shower you with anything your little heart desires, but he pauses, knowing it’s different with you, that he’s gotta tread carefully because your daddy can (and he’s sure does) give you anything you could ever want.

Well, not everything.

He bites his lip at that thought, quickly shutting down those baser needs, knowing it’s pulling the cart before the horse.

What he does know is that buying you a car or something of the sort might be seen as an insult to Mr. Luciano, and he can’t have that. No, his gifts will have to be one of a kind and not too flashy. Unfortunately, subtlety isn’t his specialty, but he’ll think of something. He has to because this attraction towards you is uncontrollable. Which is why, against his better judgement, he leans forward and slowly presses his lips to your cheek.

You gasp in surprise and he’s close enough to feel the soft puff of air on his face, so pure yet so tantalizing all in one breath. You do not shirk away from him, not in the least, not with the way you lean in and your arms waver up to brush against his elbows. He wonders if you, too, feel the heaviness in the air, the charge of electricity that builds like static before a lightning strike.

He’s kissed hundreds of women in various ways over the years, and lord knows he is capable in putting the moves on the ones he truly wants, yet this innocent gesture quickly has him feeling overheated despite the chill in the room. Your delicate scent fills his nose and he instantly commits it to memory. Oh, he wants a thousand of these kisses with you. If things went as they usually do, he’d already have you changing into his pajamas and crawling into bed with him as he reads to you.

But not tonight, he reminds himself, begrudgingly pulling away from you even as you topple over to follow him. You are different…special…fragile, and so is your circumstance, and he must be gentle and tender with all of it. It makes you even more alluring, because you are not like the other women in his life. He cannot have you the way he so desperately needs you right this moment, and he is so very used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.

He must be patient, which he is not used to, not these days.

Pulling away with a small, bashful smile, he leads you out of his bedroom and into the kitchenette, out to the birthday cake he’s so craftily arranged for you on wildly short notice. Your eyes widen with surprise when you see the 21 candles blazing in front of you. Since he already picked up on your sensitivity to larger groups of people, there is only him, your parents, and Charlie playing the guitar to accompany the soft “Happy Birthday” he lilts at you.

Your eyes well with what he hopes are happy tears as you clutch his copy of The Prophet close into your chest. They flutter closed and you pause, as if taking special care to think of just the right wish before you take a deep breath and blow out all your candles in one go. The small, makeshift bunch of them clap and cheer for you, and you smile. The sight makes his heart flip over in his chest and he quite suddenly knows that he wants to spend many more birthdays with you.

Your parents hug and tut over you, their youngest child, and he can’t help but think about Lisa Marie and Cilla, and how desperately he failed at creating a happy picture of two doting parents celebrating such a milestone birthday, together as a happy family.

Fuck. These aren’t things he wants to think about. He doesn’t want to think about how he’s wasting his energy, trapped in this damn hotel, one performance after another, staring at the creepy angels on the wall and playing the same old songs to the same old crowd. Then it’s out on the road again, hawking the same bullshit. Never mind the way his body is starting to fight him every step of the damn way, as if it knows this is draining him dry creatively and physically. It is a kind of hellacious carnival-ride purgatory he is not sure he deserves.

Maybe that’s why Cilla left him—to get off the damn ride.

He’s told the Colonel he wants out. This is the last run of shows here in Vegas. It’s gotta be. He can’t turn back time and save his marriage but he sure as hell can save his soul.

And now there is you. My beautiful little Dani. It can’t be a coincidence that you appeared for him tonight. He is drawn to you in ways he can’t explain, in ways he probably shouldn’t be considering he’s almost twice your age and because of who your father is. But you are like the pull of an ocean tide, and he cannot seem to fight the way he needs you.

You look at him, then, as if you can hear his thoughts, your soulful brown eyes understanding and wanting. A torrent of tingles radiates down his limbs, taking his breath away. It’s then he realizes what you’ve wished for, and he will do anything to give it to you.

She is my salvation.

*

Jane Birkin, Romy Schneider & Alain Delon at the premier of La Piscine (1969) on January 31, 1969.

Authors play every role in the telling of a story — actor, director, scripts, costumes, set design, props, lighting, sometimes even soundtrack. All one person. It’s a tall order and I just think that’s really incredible.

Elvis leaves his home on Goethestrasse 14 in Bad Nauheim, Germany whilst in the army. His BMW 507 is full of mud. Some fan wrote "I love you, Elvis" in it.