Falling in Love with a King [Elvis]

Chapter 3 - That Pretty Reporter

I collapsed in my yellow sofa and let out a massive sigh. What a day. What a night! I loved my fans and the press—they were the people who made my business, but they could suck the energy right out of me, and I mean that I dance and sing for them and lose sleep over them.

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Now... I had another reason to lose some sleep.

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Miss Miller—Daisy, like one of my mother's favorite flowers—was something I wasn't expecting. The interviews were rather, well, boring, but the moment I saw her, I became interested. At first, she seemed like just another reporter, but something seemed different about her. I saw her among all the reporters, way in the back, jumping to get a better view, and trying to push through with all her might, but she was such a small gal, as I had come to see. Honestly, she didn't stand a chance. I had watched her as best I could as I answered questions, focused on that pretty face of hers. I did so since people always blocked the way. She was persistent. I saw her run into the crowd and then get shoved out of the way and fall to the floor. It seemed like no one noticed.

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"Horrible," I mumbled as I stared at the white ceiling of my spacious living room of my apartment in inner Memphis, an apartment in the higher district. I needed to get myself a better place. I had my eye on that mansion outside of Memphis in Graceland, that my parents and I could live in. Maybe after filming was done for Loving You, I would seriously think of buying the place. Currently, I just needed a temporary place to crash, and a place to be away from the crowds.

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Crowds like were there today at the concert. Of course, those were mild compared to what I had experienced before. I never mentioned why people threw things at me. Yes, girls wanted to throw me their things, but others threw things for the purpose to really hurt me to make a point. There were people who hated my music and would protest, but that wasn't going to stop me from doing what I loved. With any line of work, you would have unhappy customers.

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What would Daisy have done if I mentioned that people hated me so much, they tried to hurt me? She would be sympathetic, like she was earlier. I had never met a reporter who really cared about my life. Yes, she had a job to do, but she wasn't one of those rote reporters who asked the questions and then would leave. She was interested and talked to me like a normal person and added her opinions and feelings. I knew something was different about her when I saw her in the crowd. It was a feeling in my gut. When I saw her fall and then walk away, I wanted—really wanted—to see if she was okay. So, in the most polite and gracious way I could, I dismissed the reporters and went after the one who interested me. I had seen her down the hallway, sitting on a bench, rubbing her wrist that I could see was blue and bruised. My heart had fallen to the floor, knowing she got hurt because of me. Then she pulled out a little mirror from her purse. I watched her every move as she did so and as she tried to fix a loose bang. My heart had hammered as I walked up to her, slowly, like she was the beautiful star, and I was the civilian. She didn't even notice me standing in front of her until she dropped her mirror and it landed at my feet. Did she even pick it up? Did I? It could still be on the floor in that hallway.

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I recalled those green-blue eyes widen as she saw me standing there, and how they glimmered in the overhead light. She was young, maybe close to my age, and her skin looked as smooth as a porcelain doll's, and those pretty eyes were surrounded by long dark lashes. It didn't look like she wore makeup, she just showed her natural beauty to the world.

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Since when had I been so captivated by a woman at first look? I had thought girls pretty, of course, and went steady with some, but since when had I stopped and stared at one since she was so pretty? I was a moron, standing there staring at her as she was staring back at me in shock. So, I spoke up. I apologized for spooking her.

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The rest of our time with one another meshed together. I took her to the doc, and she asked her questions, and didn't mind her wrist being wrapped up as she did so. She didn't let it get in the way of what she was there to do. She was passionate, or just desperate and took advantage of the situation, but nonetheless, I was impressed. And touched. As I had mentioned, she cared. And she was a fan, as she had made clear.

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But not a die-hard screaming fan. It was refreshing.

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I blew air out of my mouth and shut my eyes, the image of Daisy there after I fixed her bang before we said our final goodnights. I had never fixed a girl's bang like I did, after just meeting her. She probably saw me blush. She probably saw me blush after the zing I felt shoot up my arm during our handshake. I had never felt that before.

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Maybe I could see her again. I hoped I could. Filming for Loving You started in a week. I had been practicing the songs so I could be ready for the movie. My manager Tony, who was in the kitchen getting a beer, said it was a good idea to get all the songs down before the filming started. I was looking forward to getting up on the stage and singing and playing my guitar, even in front of a camera. I was used to it by now, being on talk shows, mainly the Ed Sullivan Show that usually took place in New York but would air in the area in the near future just for the sake of having me on it.

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I wonder what it would be like to have Daisy play in Loving You and I had some sort of fling with her—in the movie. One could only dream.

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"Hey, Elvis, you got anything better in there?" asked Tony as he waked into the spacious living room that had the sofa, an armchair, a box TV and a record player in it. The yellow curtains were shut on the windows.

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Tony was a great manager and looked out for me. At first, a man called Colonel Tom Parker was suggested to be my manager after my first one, Bob Neal, but I politely declined when Tony came forward. He seemed more promising and less of a drill sergeant. I felt I could be more successful and happier with him. He reminded me of my father as well.

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"That's all I have, Tony. If someone would get me the good stuff, you wouldn't have to complain."

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I smirked at that, telling him I was kidding around with him. He smiled. He was normally the one who would get the food for me, along with his lovely wife Mary. "Well, Mary wants to make ya a home-cooked meal."

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That caught my attention. I opened my eyes and looked at him sitting in the brown armchair, sipping his beer. His graying blonde hair shined in the overhead light. "A beef roast, I hope. I'm still dreamin' about the last one she made. I may sing a love song 'bout it."

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He let out a hearty laugh. "You would, Elvis."

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I stared back at the ceiling, thinking about that roast. I loved Mary's home-cooked meals. She said that a growing boy should eat right and not at burger joints or eating sandwiches on the road. Honestly, I didn't mind it, but it was nice to have a home-cooked meal sometimes.

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"So, what you did tonight was something out of the ordinary."

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I knew what he meant. "She needed help. Thanks again for helpin' me shoo the reporters away." I paused. "That's the first time I've done that."

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"Yeah, you usually endure all of those mindless questions. That's just the type of guy you are. That little gal must have done something to ya."

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He took a sip of his beer, beer that was only for him and not me since I didn't like the stuff. I didn't drink at all. I nodded. "I'm not gonna lie... she did. She was different. I knew she was before I met 'er."

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"You felt sorry for her."

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"I just wanted to help."

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"Because she was pretty?"

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Yes. That was part of the reason. "She was hurt. I wanted her to be taken care of."

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"You're a good boy, Elvis."

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I smiled at that, taking the complement. "Thanks, Tony. You are, too."

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He patted his belly. "You can hardly call me a boy."

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