5
JOEL
The door slams behind me like the crack of thunder. With sweat pooled at my neckline, I grab the hem of my V-neck sweater and pull it off, then tug at the knot of my tie, yanking it from side to side until I can finally breathe.
Goddamn, that callback was amazing.
It started out like something from my fucking nightmares, a re-creation of American Idol except that the judges consisted of a chef, a producer/editor, and a director. Five observers sat on my right with clipboards in their hands. With a mic hanging above me from a boom stand and a camera lens trained at my face, an assistant rolled in a cart with a covered tray. She uncovered it with a magician’s flare to reveal spaghetti and meatballs underneath. I was given three minutes to come up with a spiel about how it looked, how it tasted, and how it made me feel.
The task was too easy. I lived on spaghetti and meatballs as a kid.
But I choked, both literally and figuratively. Literally, because the spaghetti was undercooked, the meatballs dry and tasteless, the marinara without a lick of spice. Figuratively, because I didn’t know how to describe it without tearing it to shreds, and the singular thing running through my mind was: What if the chef who made it was the one in front of me?
So I turned up the shine. I threw myself into the role. With nothing to lose except for the shitload of money I dropped to get here, I literally made stuff up to embellish the taste of the dish. My adrenaline pumped out words and phrases I hadn’t planned. I fed off the expressions of the judge’s faces, and I lost myself in my speech.
Hell, now stomping through the carpeted hallway lined with a slew of hopefuls waiting their turns, I don’t even remember everything I said. I do know it felt good to be seen and heard.
Undoubtedly, I want this job.
I swipe a bottled water from a tabletop tub of ice and bottled drinks. Since pouring it over my head to calm my shit down probably will get me kicked out of this hotel, I swig it while making my way to the lobby.
If I don’t get this gig, it won’t be from lack of trying.
While New York is known as the City That Never Sleeps, and Philly’s described as the City of Brotherly Love, Vegas takes the prize as the Most Flamboyant of Them All. The MGM Grand, the hotel taken over by West Coast Eats for their auditions, is the epitome of extravagance. Grandiose and luxurious, it breathes excess and Vegas mystique with its mirror-shiny floors, gold effects, and of course, the lion statue right smack in the middle of the lobby.
With my mind still on my audition and distracted by the flow of people, I struggle to spot my buddy Darrell, a manager at Nevada Lights, a VIP-only club on the strip. He was good enough to make time to meet me for a drink. I haven’t seen him in about nine years, since I left the Army, so I’m not sure if I should look for a high and tight haircut or an overgrown shag and facial hair.
My body rears to the side as someone tackles me. I choke out a laugh when arms wrap around my upper half and I’m lifted off my feet. Only one guy would have the balls to do this to me . . .
“What’s up, man?” Darrell squeezes me like I’m an empty plastic bottle of ketchup.
My curse comes out like a wheeze. “Fuck, Muñoz.” When Darrell puts me down, I shake hands with him, bump shoulders in a proper greeting. I take in the total change from the guy who used to live in white T-shirts and basketball shorts. “You, in a dress shirt? And holy shit, you’re ripped, man. I wouldn’t have recognized you.” He’s easily twice the size I remember him. Neck, arms, girth. All muscle.
“Been working out.” He shrugs, humble as usual. “It looks like you’re still in shape, too, man. Except for that animal growing on your face.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I scrub my hands over my beard.
“And, uh . . . I can’t even tell.” He points to my cheek, grinning.
“Is this how we’re starting this reunion?” I jest. My knuckle comes up to rub the scar on my cheek, a habit I haven’t been able to break. To be honest, I forget it’s even there, and behind the camera, among people who don’t know me, it’s like it never existed.
But this guy was a witness when this scar came to be—as in, he was right next to me when a guy broke his fingers on my face.
As if he senses I’m not in the mood to talk about it, he launches into a fit of questions. “So, what the fuck are you doing here? And yeah, sorry I couldn’t put you up for the night. I just moved into my apartment, and my housemate and I are still trying to sort out all the rules. She’s kind of uptight.” Darrell leads me to the nearest bar, where we both lean against the red mahogany wood, as lush as everything in the MGM Grand. Darrell nods at the bartender, who automatically brings him a beer.
I lift up my bottled water to let him know I’m not interested. “All good. I got a room here. Last minute deal, discounted using some of the points I have from all the traveling.”
“Lucky.”
“From your lips to God, man.” I shake my head. “It was a callback, to be a host for a show.”
“No shit? That’s awesome. When did you start thinking about doing that?”
“I always wanted to, I guess. But I thought I belonged in the background, you know?”
“You kidding? You’re all stealth. But when you say something or do something—people listen.”
“Where were you during this audition? You could’ve eased the skids a little. I called spaghetti and meatballs a”—I use air-quotes for the next words—“ ‘spectacular fireworks show worthy of a Fourth of July celebration.’ ”
He chokes on his beer. “That’s . . .”
“We’ve been friends forever,” I say when his words trail. “You don’t have to bullshit me.”
“Fucking cheesy.”
I laugh. “Yep. And hopefully it lands me this job.”
“What show is this for?”
“Don’t know yet, and they won’t say unless I actually get the gig.”
“Damn. When do you find out?”
“In the morning. They want me to come back tomorrow at eight. I don’t know what it means that they want me to come back even before they’ve auditioned everyone. That waiting room was full.”
“So that leaves me with what”—he overtly counts on his fingers—“ten hours to keep your mind off of it?” A familiar sly look comes over him, the kind that has only one thing at the end of the line: trouble.
I shake my head. “I dunno. I’m exhausted, man. Just came off a big job, and all I want to do is sleep.”
“Oh, hell no. That’s not going to do.” He takes another pull of his beer. “I seem to remember it’s you who we had to keep up with. I mean, you’re a legend. You and that scar of yours.” His lips wiggle into a grin.
I flip him off.
“And we’re in Vegas. Time to play.” He rubs his chin. “So, the bet: a hundred dollars to the first man to get a gorgeous woman on the dance floor.”
I cough. “Fuck. You know I hate to dance.”
An eyebrow goes up. “And when did that ever stop you? I’m looking to win tonight, and since all the poker tables in this damned town aren’t giving me what I want . . .”
I set down my bottle on the table. “I hate it when you bet me even more than I hate to dance.”
“Scared?”
“Hell no. Guilty . . . after I win this bet. I’m in.”
“Good man.” Darrell scans the room, eyes darting to the various groups of huddled women around the lobby area. When a fiendish smile grows on his face, I follow his gaze.
I take in the scene with the eyes of a cameraman: with focus and context. Standing under the lion’s head are two women. Heads bent, reading something on their phone, they’re wearing normal clothes. Or normal by everywhere-but-Vegas standards. Most visitors take on spectacular and fantastical personas when they cross over the city limits, but not these ladies. Which could mean a better chance at winning because I’m currently not dressed like I’m ready to party myself. I look harmless enough that they may be willing to come out with us.
“I’m going in.” Intrigued, I cruise another ten feet closer and get a better look. My eyes are drawn to one of them especially, to the familiar way her hair drapes to the side and how her weight is on one foot, a hand on her hip.
The thing about being in another state, in a completely surreal environment? Nothing is familiar until it’s truly blatant, staring at you in the face. It takes one of the women looking up and smiling at me for the truth to smack me in the face.
It’s Victoria Aquino. Next to her is Ellie Reyes, the chef at Paraiso Retreats.
“Joel?” Victoria has an unreadable expression on her face, but my body responds with an immediate need to get to her side. I start to cross the lobby.
“Dude.” Darrell catches up and practically shoves me aside. “Who. Is. That?”
None of your business, I almost say, as a sudden wave of protectiveness surges through me. Victoria was upset enough to drink herself sick last night. She was intent on starting over.
Nope. She won’t be starting over with Darrell. If there’s anyone who’s going to dance with her, it’s going to be me.
I beat Darrell to Vic’s side. Arms come around me as the two women give me hugs, but it’s Victoria I lean toward, and I wrap an arm around her waist. She feels good in my arms, and knowing she’s all right despite a rough night is pure relief.
“I’m Darrell.” My friend sticks his hand out to Vic. Of course.
“Hi, I’m Victoria.” She steps away and takes his hand.
“And you are?” His gaze slides over to Ellie.
I provide the rest of the introductions and information on how we all know each other. Darrell kisses the top of Ellie’s hand when he shakes it, and when she sidles up to him to have their own conversation, it forces Victoria to my side.
I relish that it’s Ellie who has gotten Darrell’s attention, not Victoria. The next second, I internally admonish myself. I can’t mess with this woman. She’s vulnerable, and I know enough about her to know I’m not her type. She’s the kind of woman who wants something that will last longer than a night. I can’t give her that.
I wasn’t always this way, but circumstances and time made me realize that the only strings I need in my life are my job and family.
But the fact that she’s here, in Vegas . . . a fun night out wouldn’t hurt.
“Small world. What are you doing here?” Vic asks me.
I chew on my cheek, then decide on a lie. Though I’ll never see her again after today, I hate to jinx this opportunity and mention it to anyone else. How many people had the network called back for this show? My audition kicked ass, but what if some pro had already been tagged for the job? “Just blowing off some steam.”
“Us, too.” Ellie cuts into the conversation, gleefully. During the time I filmed at Paraiso, Ellie seemed the most hesitant and tight-lipped on camera. She came on to the scene toward the end of filming. A transplant from Dallas, she brought her own kind of energy to the retreat, a fun and sarcastic edge, and it fit right in with Bryn’s straightforward nature and Vic’s optimism. “We should blow off some steam together.”
“Um . . . well.” Vic’s face is unsure.
“Perfect timing. Joel and I were looking for some friends to chill with.” Darrell throws an arm around Ellie, his smile devilish and daring, no doubt with the bet as his ulterior motive, among other things. “I like it. There’s two of you; there’s two of us. We can go next door to Nevada Lights. They have great music, and I can get us in.”
“You’re singing my song.” Ellie pulls Darrell by the hand. “Let’s go.”
I laugh as Victoria and I follow steps behind them. “They don’t need us, apparently.”
When she doesn’t answer, I glance over and catch the fake smile on her face. That’s another thing I’ve gotten good at: spotting the fake versus the real expressions of the people I film. It’s whether their expressions reach their eyes, how their skin wrinkles a certain way around the sides of their mouths.
Right now, Vic’s smile is all teeth, no wrinkles anywhere. “About last night . . .” she starts, awkwardness lacing her tone. “I was a mess . . .”
I know what road she’s going down: she wants to apologize. The shame is written all over her face. I shake my head to keep her from going any further. “The only thing I remember from last night was our talk about starting over.” I offer her my hand. “Hi. I’m Joel Silva: cameraman, loves movies and music. Horrible singer.”
Victoria’s face transforms. And yes, her real smile appears. She takes my hand. “Victoria Aquino: blogger, loves TV. Proud shower rock star.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I lean in and gesture toward the two in front of us. Ellie has thrown her head back in laughter at something Darrell said. “Darrell and I have got a hundred-dollar bill riding on who gets on the dance floor first.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes snap to the two in front.
“I bet he’s already told Ellie. Or he’s telling her now.”
“And . . . you think you can win? Are you a better dancer than you are a singer?”
“If there’s money involved—yes.” I do a double take at her raised-eyebrow expression. “Is that surprising?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, the night is young, Ms. Aquino.”
“Well then, Mr. Silva, I suppose we should find a way to get to the club first, because I’m dying to see you on the dance floor.” Her steps speed up, and when we close in on Darrell and Ellie, now stalled behind a big group of women wearing red hats, she grabs my hand and pulls me through another set of doors to exit the lobby.
My insides leap at the contact, and I lace my fingers with hers. “Who knew you had such a competitive spirit?”
“I want a cut of that bet . . . and what happens in Vegas, right?”