Chapter Text
How you ended up with the Elvis Presley in the backseat of your Ford International Scout with you at the wheel, you'll never know. What you are aware of is the fact that he clearly wants to be discreet as he and a few members of his entourage, his “Memphis Mafia”, travel out of the city he's been performing in this past week.
Jerry Schilling is the one who hires you, and you're sure it's a fluke, because you've been earning money as of late as a driver, and there's no way he could know this. You're at a gas station when he spots you, nursing a cigarette as you aimlessly pace in front of the door. You don't like the smoke permeating in the Scout. You see someone eyeballing you from the gas pumps, and you take your hand out of your pocket when he finishes and starts walking towards you. Last thing you want is a man to catch you off guard.
"Hey, got a question for you," he lights his own cigarette and you lean your back against the wall of the convenience store when he stops in front of you.
"What's that?" You turn your head slightly as you blow out white smoke, so as not to be rude, but you keep your eyes on him.
"You want to make some money?" He asks, and you scoff.
"That's some question to ask a woman, late at night and alone at a gas station."
He seems to realize his error and he shakes his head at himself, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
"Sorry, that's not what I meant. I need a—" He pauses and mulls over his words. "—I need a driver to take some friends and I out of town. One of 'em is a singer, but he's wary of all the press following him around, and I figure he could use a break from all that."
You squint at him. "A singer, huh? How much are you paying?"
He holds your gaze for a moment and you can't help but think about how pretty his glittering eyes are underneath the obnoxious gas station lights.
"A grand for taking us where we want to go, and a grand for the trouble of coming all the way back. We'll pay for the gas."
You whistle low and flick your ash on the ground. "Long drive?"
He nods wordlessly and inhales his Marlboro.
"We've already got another vehicle for everyone's bags, there's just no room for us. So we'll probably follow you," he shrugs. "Or you can follow us, whatever you want."
You mull over his offer. It almost sounds nefarious, and you know you probably shouldn't even be thinking about it, but two thousand dollars for carting someone from point A to point B? That was an offer you couldn't refuse.
"What's your name?" You asked, crushing your cigarette butt underneath your boot.
He has this little half-smile as he tucks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.
"Jerry. Jerry Schilling."
You tell him your nickname and his grin gets wider, but he doesn't press you for anything else. He then informs you where to meet him tomorrow evening; it's not too far from where you live, but it's at a fancy hotel. You nod and part ways, and you worry the next day away, thinking about Jerry and his pretty eyes and his kind smile.
You follow the instructions he gives you: go to the hotel, park in the underground parking garage a half-hour before they're supposed to leave, and wait. You catch sight of a vehicle packed to the brim with suitcases, parked near the elevator, so you park next to it. The buzzing fluorescents illuminate the garage, and they're spaced out enough to cast shadows between the sections of fancy cars. You can't help but feel out of place, with your army green, dust-covered Scout. Every other car in here is polished, waxed, and you're sure they individually cost more than your entire apartment building.
You kill the engine and get out to smoke a cigarette, leaning against the hood of your car while you wait. The minutes tick by slowly, and you're startled out of your daze by the ding of the elevator, signaling it's just come from above you.
When the door opens, a flood of men in suits emerge, all surrounding this one point of attention; a man in a suit of his own, only it's the prettiest shade of pale blue you've ever seen, with a navy and white floral shirt peeking out from his collar. Navy accents line the collar and lapels, along with his blazer buttons and pockets. He's the most well-dressed man out of the group, and when you realize who he is, you have to fight the urge to turn away and empty the contents of your stomach onto the concrete.
Elvis Presley...that's the singer you're driving to point B.
God fucking help me. You think to yourself as you tap your boot on the cement nervously as the group approaches. You can audibly hear the rush of your heartbeat in your ears.
"There she is," you hear someone, Jerry, speak over the cacophony of voices. One corner of Elvis' mouth is turned up as he listens to someone next to him, but he glances over at Jerry's voice and follows his line of sight, his eyes finally landing on you.
"EP, I want you to meet our driver," Jerry moves to stand beside you and you straighten your posture. The man in question pauses, along with his entourage, and his eyes twinkle with curiosity as he sizes you up, but not in the arrogant, blatant way his men are. He has an unlit cigar between his fingers that glitter with ornate rings, and you feel a flicker of embarrassment in your belly.
You're in flared jeans and a striped shirt, with a black suede jacket to match your black boots.
At any other time you'd think your outfit was acceptable, but standing here in front of the "King of Rock n' Roll" himself...you don't know what you're thinking.
Jerry interrupts your train of thought by introducing you by the nickname you gave him yesterday, and Elvis smiles wider and nods at you, his black bangs gently bouncing with the movement.
"Pretty," he muses. "But that's not your name, is it?"
You shake your head. "No...just what I prefer."
He seems to understand as he nods again and he waves the men surrounding him off to do whatever it is they do. Some of them say their goodbyes to him and leave in fire engine red Ferraris and sleek, black Stingrays, while others go back up to the hotel via the elevator. Two of them get into the vehicle loaded with suitcases, and Jerry checks his watch for the time.
"Should probably get going." He says, though you're not entirely sure if he's talking to you or his friend, who seems content to stand there and observe the commotion he's commanded.
"Yeah," you agree anyway, taking one last puff of your cigarette before tossing it in the trash receptacle by the elevator doors. Your boots echo in the garage as you walk over to the driver's side, and Jerry props the passenger seat up for Elvis to slide into the back before situating himself in the front.
"You want to lead or follow?" Jerry asks, to which you shrug.
"54 is the easiest way to get to where you're going. It's a trucker's highway," you explain as you turn the engine. "And no offense, but I probably know it better than you boys."
Jerry nods and waves at the men in the other car, pointing his thumb to the back as a way of explanation. They nod and you put the Scout in gear and drive out of the parking garage, the others following you a car's length behind.
"There's some water bottles back there," you glance at Elvis in your rear view mirror and find he's already watching you, and your neck prickles. "Have at 'em."
"Thank you." He says politely around the cigar he's since stuck in the corner of his mouth. He notices the ease in which you drive one handed with your free elbow propped up on the armrest of your door.
"So," he starts, the streetlights starting to come alive for the evening. Every time you pass one, it illuminates the cab with a soft orange glow, highlighting his and Jerry's tans.
"This your first time being a chauffeur?" His tone is teasing but easy; you don't feel like he's making fun of you, which makes you feel that much better. This isn't five-star service, and you're certainly not driving a limousine.
"Actually, no." You reply, and Jerry looks over at you, having been previously occupied by scribbling in a little notebook, which he sticks in the front pocket of his denim jacket, along with the pen. You note that it's getting too dark to read or write anyway.
"I usually drive my friends around if they need it, but once in a while they'll get wind of someone that needs a ride, be it a co-worker or a friend of theirs, and they'll call me. I'm cheaper than a taxi, and a lot of them don't come outside the city limits anyway." You feel like you're rambling, but Elvis just hums thoughtfully at your explanation.
"Awful nice of ya." He says, his long eyelashes drooping when he looks down to undo his blazer buttons. The floral shirt underneath is in sharp contrast to his sun-kissed skin, but not necessarily in a bad way. You think it suits him.
"It pays the bills."
When he leans back into the leather seats and spreads his legs to get comfortable, you force yourself to pay attention to the road again, though you find it difficult. Jerry turns a little in his own seat and you feel his gaze on you, which makes your grip on the steering wheel flex unconsciously.
"...What?" You ask, side-eying him when he doesn't say anything. Elvis looks up at the question, flicking his eyes between the two of you.
"I'm just wondering how I ended up finding you," he says. "Not like you had a big sign saying, 'pick me, I drive for a living!' "
You shrug at him, still unnerved by his stare. "I'm sure if you hadn't picked me, someone else would've taken you up on your offer."
You pause for a moment before adding, "It was kind of hard to resist."
Jerry chuckles and Elvis takes the cigar out of his mouth, resting his hand on a blue-clad knee. "How much did he offer you?"
Jerry gives him an amused glance over his shoulder.
"None of your business."
Elvis laughs and your own mouth pulls at the corners as you slow down at a red light. The other car is still behind you, at a healthy distance. You can see the driver drumming his hands on the steering wheel; he must be listening to music, which gives you the idea to click the radio on. You keep the volume low so as not to be rude, and soon Patsy Cline is crooning out in the night.
"Boy," Elvis says. "That's some way to talk to your boss."
"Aw, can it." Jerry scoffs good-naturedly. "We've known each other long enough to talk any way we'd like."
They bicker some more but in a familiar, brotherly manner, and you find it refreshing, compared to the usual drunken mess you have to listen to from your various “clients”.
When the stop light turns green, you press on the gas and make your way towards I54.
"So what do you do when you're not driving, darlin’?" Elvis speaks up again, persistent with his questions. “You a college girl?”
You smile ruefully and shake your head. “No, sir.”
“Sir?” His eyes go wide and Jerry laughs out loud.
“Now what are you callin’ me ‘sir,’ for?” His voice is comically incredulous and he leans forward to smack Jerry’s shoulder, looking positively scandalized, which just makes you and Jerry laugh harder.
You’re much more comfortable and relaxed in Elvis’ presence now, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You figure this is probably why he’s so well-liked and admired, because he makes those around him at ease.
“So?” He nudges a big hand against your arm, still leaning forward in his seat. Even though his cigar is still unlit, you can smell the remnants of the one he must have smoked before coming down to the garage, and you note faint traces of cologne, and something else that just inherently smells manly.
"I don’t know what you want me to say,” You huff amusedly. “I'm just a regular girl, Mr. Presley.”
He groans again and Jerry shakes his head with a grin.
“That’s even worse! It’s just Elvis, baby, please don’t call me Mr. Presley.” He begs in mock indignation.
“Alright, alright. Elvis.” You concede with a grin.
***
After a while, you bring your speed up to 80, five over the limit, because from here to the next gas station, it’s a straight shot. During the two hour drive, you manage to go through all the cassette tapes that were in the glove, and you’ve been regaled with so many stories from your two passengers that you don’t feel like much of a hired driver anymore, you feel like a friend.
When you see the illuminated gas station sign, you slow down and pull up to a pump, trying not to jostle Jerry too much since he’s dozed off with his head leaned against the window. The conversation has lulled since he said he was going to cat nap, but Elvis is wide awake. The other vehicle pulls into an adjoining pump and the driver and passenger go about their business, but they seem content enough to talk amongst themselves outside.
When you cut the engine off, you reach over and gently pat Jerry’s shoulder as Elvis gets out to stretch his legs.
“Hey, if you need to take a minute, now’s the time.” You talk softly but Jerry groans awake, stretching his arms as he opens his bleary eyes. You get out and see Elvis leaned against the side of the Scout, where he can’t be seen by any passersby unless they walk by the pump. He has a twenty in his hand, and he promptly gives it to you when he sees Jerry walk inside to use the facilities.
“Can’t let him cover everything.” He gives you a lopsided smile. “Why don’t you grab the gas and whatever else you need.”
You watch as he opens your fuel door and situates the gas nozzle in the tank. He looks so out of place, in his nice suit, willing to pump your gas for you.
“What about you?” You ask. “Need anything while I’m in there?”
He shakes his head in response and waves you off, causing you to purse your lips in an effort to keep from smiling.
Inside, you pay the attendant for gas and mill about in the aisles, looking for something to catch your eye. You’re not very hungry but you grab a couple of cracker tins and three bottles of Coke. When you walk back up to the counter, you see Jerry’s already made his way back outside and is talking to Elvis.
“That it for you?” The cashier, a guy who looked to be in his late teens to early twenties, asked. He was friendly enough the first go around, and you wonder how he can be so chipper this late at night.
“Yes, thank you.” You reply with a polite smile as you fish the remainder of the cash out of your pocket.
“Kind of late for a girl like you to be out.” He says, ringing up your items. “You alone?”
You hear the sound of boots right behind you, and your stomach drops, but you don’t look. The cashier keeps his eyes on you and you force yourself to smile wider.
“No, I’m not. My friends are outside.” He looks out the window and you feel even worse when you don’t see either one of them standing by the Scout.
“Oh…” He looks back at you, and his tone is condescending. “I don’t see them.”
To be continued…