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.

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

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.