Vegas Boys

"May I take your order?" asked the waitress brightly. This was a different girl than the one who had seated us; this one was platinum blonde, and far too tan, with pencil-thin eyebrows and pink lipstick that matched the walls perfectly.

"Um..." I glanced down at the paper menu, but it was just as it had been the last time I looked at it--there were still only four options: hamburger, cheeseburger, bacon cheeseburger, double cheeseburger. "I guess I'll have the cheeseburger."

"Nice choice." Brendon winked at me.

"And to drink?"

"Uh, wa--"

"Coke," Brendon interrupted, giving me another reassuring smile. "She wants a coke."

"...Okay." The waitress was obviously as confused as I was. "And what would you like, sir?"

"I'll have the same." He smiled sweetly at her and handed her our menus.

As she bustled off to put in our orders, Brendon leaned across the table towards me--he didn't have to lean far (I couldn't see how the tiny table was even big enough for two plates of food), and suddenly there was only an inch or two of space between us.

"Their water's disgusting here," he explained in a low voice. "They keep it in a big tank that they never clean, and it's got slime and mold and all this other shit growing in it. Everything else is fine, but the water's fucking gross."

"Um, thanks, then," I muttered, shuddering a little. I didn't even want to ask how he knew this.

Brendon laughed outright at me as he sat back in his seat casually. "Don't worry, the food's good, I promise."

I raised my eyebrows skeptically at him.

"You don't really think I'd take you to some shithole place where they serve tainted meat, do you? Don't you trust me?"

He was grinning. He couldn't possibly understand how close he had come to the truth of the matter.

I was distracted, though, as a girl with long, thin blonde hair and baggy clothes--a girl who might've emerged straight from the seventies via time machine--began fidgeting with a microphone stand on the stage on the other side of the room. I hadn't even noticed it before, but it was hardly a stage, really; it was more of a platform, if anything, and it looked to have been added on to the room as an afterthought. Someone else brought out a stool and a guitar and she started setting up her equipment.

"Who's that?" I asked without thinking.

Brendon followed my gaze. "Oh--her. I'm not sure what her name is, but she's really good. She always plays here on Friday nights--eight to twelve. I come and watch her just about every week. Sometimes I'm the last person here, but I've always been kind of scared to talk to her."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. She's really good," he said conclusively, as if that explained everything.

Everyone else in the restaurant started frowning and looking around in agitation as the nameless musician started tuning her guitar. She looked up and smiled apologetically--a lonely, melancholy smile--but said nothing.

-----

The waitress soon returned with our orders, and I was surprised to find that the food actually was very good--it was the best cheeseburger I'd ever had. When I told Brendon this, he laughed and said, "I told you so."

Somehow, I found myself deep in conversation with him as we ate; we talked about school and music and the usual, but mostly we people-watched. It made me nervous, making fun of other people in such an enclosed space, but Brendon was as loud and unabashed as ever. He promptly fell into hysterics after I pointed out that a fat, red-faced man with a graying handle-bar mustache in the corner starkly resembled a walrus, and I rolled my eyes at him.

As time passed, I grew more and more aware of the musician, sitting all alone with just an acoustic guitar on the little platform. After a few minutes, I recognized Bob Dylan's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door"--it took me a while, because it was different: there was a bohemian, country feel to it (and yes, I do realize that those two particular adjectives are nothing alike. Just trust me on this one.)

Brendon made some joke I didn't catch, because I was watching the musician. He followed my gaze and turned back to me with a mild, content expression.

"She's good," I said.

"Yeah. She is." He put his food down and leaned back in his chair, giving me an odd look I couldn't quite decipher; it was pensive, searching, and indecisively affectionate all at once. It was the look my mother always gave my father whenever he made a joke or tried to be helpful, when she was sizing him up, unsure of his motives and whether or not she could trust him this time.

Finally, Brendon cleared his throat a little in a hesitant manner that seemed completely alien to him, and said, "I thought you would like it."

I wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, so I just nodded.

We finished our food in silence--and any kind of silence was highly unusual for Brendon. The mood had shifted suddenly; where we had been loud and talkative before, now were quiet and thoughtful, and maybe a little unsure. He kept stealing glances at me over his food: there would be an upward darting of dark pupils, and then he was looking down at his plate again. I wondered briefly what was going on here.

Then, finally, Brendon said softly, "I've been saving this place for a long time--you know, for someone who could appreciate it."

I just stared at him blankly as I struggled to process that.

But it just got harder and harder to think clearly as my heart sped up and blood, too much of it, rushed to my head, and I felt a little dizzy all at once. My nerves were tingling with the fight-or-flight defense mechanism, and my body was screaming at me to get out, get out... Truth be told, I was scared.

To go out to eat with Brendon and drive too fast and make fun of all the ugly people--that was fun. To sit and hear him tell me that I was special, that I meant something to him--that was too much.

Because if I meant something to him, it was only a matter of time until the opposite was true as well.

And when someone is special to you, they have all the power. They have the power to hurt you. Badly.

And Mom always said not to trust Vegas boys.

"I don't--" I started, and then realized that I didn't know what I was saying. I looked around wildly for an escape and spotted the ugly gray door in the corner of the room. "I need some air," I gasped desperately, and made a mad dash for the door before Brendon could even look too shocked.

-----

But I was stupid to think that Brendon wouldn't follow me.

I had hardly made it down the dilapidated concrete steps leading down from the backdoor to the black pavement of the parking lot before I heard the loud creak of the rusty door swinging open again, and Brendon was calling after me.

"Kelsey," he said calmly--too calmly. "Kels, come on--"

"Don't call me that!" I snapped, whirling around to face him. The hurt look on his face caught me off guard, and for a moment I forgot myself--but then I recovered, and I was back to glaring again.

"What--'Kels'?" asked Brendon.

"Yes," I said quietly. "My mom calls me that--when she's trying to--butter me up--" I had to keep pausing to stop myself from crying--why was I crying?!

His tense expression dissolved into one of heartbreaking sympathy. "I'm not trying to butter you up. I just don't want you to be upset."

I shook my head, biting my lip, desperate not to cry in front of him. "It's not your fault," I choked out.

"It doesn't matter. I don't care why..." He took a step towards me, and somehow, I could see in his face that he was itching to touch me. "I just don't want you to ever be upset."

I let him come closer. The musician inside ended her song, Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic," and it was so quiet for a few moments that I could hear our breathing aligned, our lungs pumping air in and out of our bodies in sync. His dark eyes held my gaze for so long that another tremor of terror ran through me.

And then he said, "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry."

And I hated him for it--for having the power to scare me, and for knowing that he could. Bitter tears stung my eyes and I brushed them away gruffly.

"I'm not scared," I said evenly. At first, I just said it in defense of my foolish pride, but after a moment I realized that it was the truth. I wasn't so scared anymore. When I looked at Brendon, I could see that he was sincere--that he wanted me to trust him almost as much as I wanted to trust him myself.

"Come with me, my love..."

From inside, we heard the musician start another song--Phil Phillips' "Sea of Love"--and we both turned and looked instinctively towards the door. Then Brendon turned back to me and smiled a little.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked quietly, extending a hand.

"Okay," I agreed shyly, giggling despite myself.

I took a step towards him and a second later his arms were draped loosely about my hips and my hands were on his shoulders. It was too comfortable, really; we fit together perfectly, somehow.

"I want to tell you...how much...I love you..."

We slow danced in the mostly-empty parking lot for a while. His hands were warm on my waist as he held me close, and as I relaxed, I leaned into him more and more until finally I was resting my forehead on his shoulder. And every time I breathed, I breathed him in--and when I lay down in bed that night, his scent still lingered in my hair, and I hoped and prayed it would never leave.