We pulled back up to the Sahara.  Despite the rolled down windows, I was almost choking from the pungent marijuana odor that had heavily permeated the cabin.  No wonder he'll screw the T-Rod experiment up so badly, I thought to myself, forgetting a moment I'd had more of a hand in that than he.  I don't care what any Tommy Chong disciple says, this stuff takes a toll.  God, what a stench.  

"I smell like Woodstock," Straker whispered to me as we hopped out of Steve's truck.

I nodded.  "Me too.  Wish we hadn't checked out yet, or I'd go freshen up."  Rudy had our suitcase as well, but I still had my backpack, and with it a few necessities. 

"I haven't, you're welcome to use my room," Peter offered.

"I think I will, thanks."

"Anything else I can do for you guys?" Steve asked hopefully.

"No, K," Straker said.  "You've been of invaluable help to us, though.  Thank you."

And Steve almost looked a little disappointed as he bid us goodbye.  As he was shaking my hand, though, he pulled out a crumpled bit of paper and wrote down a phone number.

"If there's anything else I can do for you, just let me know," he said quietly, handing me the scrap.  "The university's only a few blocks that way, so I'm real close."  K pointed in a vague direction.

"Thanks, K," I smiled, if nothing else grateful for this familiar face- this reminder of my past life still yet to be lived.  "If we need another ride, believe me, you're the first person I'm calling." 

"And if we're freshening up, we'd better do it now," Peter added, tugging me toward the casino entrance.  "Freddie's meeting us in a half-hour."

"Right."  So I waved farewell to K, watching as the now-sparkling clean pickup rolled down the street.  Somehow, maybe it was just a minor premonition, but I had a feeling this wouldn't be our final encounter with young Dr. K.  In the meantime, I was more interested in peeling off the pot smell.  Cigarette smoke, I could handle, and even liked.  Pot smoke was another story altogether- and Freddie would notice.  My fake fiance might ignore it, but Freddie without a doubt would say something.  I figured if I was getting quasi-married tonight, I ought to at least make an extra effort.  I had brought a nice dress along; hopefully it hadn't acted like a sponge too and soaked up the smoke.

I shook my head, still unable to fully accept what was happening.  In Vegas with Freddie for a fake marriage to someone I'd never met before.  No white dress, no ring, no bouquet, but a license, a bridegroom, and witnesses.  All to get out of a one hundred pound bet.  In-sane. 

And yet, so much fun... 

*****************************************************************************************

"He said six, right?"

"That's what I heard."

"Okay.  So it wasn't just me."

My chin rested in my hand, the fingers of my other hand drumming against the table, eyes roving restlessly over the Arabic decor in the House of Lords, the fine Sahara steakhouse.  A smiling portrait of Peter Lawford loomed over us, flanked on either side by his Rat Pack buddies Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin.  I was wearing my maroon wraparound dress, which K's bad habits had indeed spared and Straker was sweet enough to compliment.  He looked quite dapper himself, wearing a smart, gray suit and dark red button down.  My hair was pinned up and my lipstick refreshed, and I would have felt much prettier if I wasn't worrying so much about Freddie.

Straker sighed and glanced at his watch again.  "Maybe he's just running a little behind."

"Forty-five minutes is a 'little behind'?" I muttered.

"He'll probably call the casino at any minute and let us know what's-"

"He should have done that half an hour ago.  Freddie's more punctual than this. I don't like it.  Rudy should have ignored his little rebellion and gone with him anyway."

"Freddie's fine, Eve.  Don't worry."

Too late for that.  I was more than nervous by now; my foot tapped anxiously, my heart fluttering, the short glass of vodka in front of me doing little to calm me down.

"It could be, he's still looking for the right bloke," Straker suggested.

"What does he care?  All he has to do is grab somebody off the street, it's going to be blown to bits as soon as Roger sees the damn license anyway."

"Eve, it's, uh, I don't think you understand," Peter said. 

"Oh, yeah?"

"He wants this to be perfect- wants to do this right."

"What for?  I mean, I know he's a heck of a perfectionist-"

"Freddie wants to do you justice," he said, with a strange look in his eyes.  "It means a lot to him- as do you.  But I'm sure you already know that."

I frowned.  "What are you saying?"

Straker grinned.  "He's right; you are stubborn."

"Is that what he told you?" I said dryly.  "Well, you have my permission to relay this message back to him: so is he."  I lifted my half-full glass and took a little sip.  I had picked up so many bad habits in the past nine or ten days it wasn't even funny.  (I was only drinking because I was nervous; thankfully, this habit didn't stick.)

Straker watched me.  "Freddie's quite taken with you, you know."

I hesitated.  "Why do you say tha-"

"Because he said so."

"Oh, did he?" I sat back against the plush booth, feeling heat collect in my cheeks.  "Using those exact words, I suppose?"

"No, he, uh, said something a little more emphatic than that, but I really shouldn't be the one to tell you verbatim."

"Freddie and I are physically attracted to each other, granted," I said.  "And I would go so far as to call myself a friend of his.  But that's all."

"He doesn't think so," Peter put in, taking out another cigarette.

"So what does he think?"

"He told me you two have a great deal in common- including but not limited to rather hard-headedness."

I was starting to get defensive.  "I am nothing like him.  He's nothing like me."

Straker smirked.  "I rest my case."

"Whatever," I sighed, pretending not to care.  With that I lifted my glass to my lips and proceeded to drain it.

Freddie's friend struck a match, lit the cigarette between his fingers. And then, he said it:

"I think he's falling for you."

I choked mid-swallow and immediately started hacking.  "Wh- What the-" I gasped.  Straker slapped my back, chuckling until I finally got myself under control.

"And you decided that, how?" I demanded with one more little cough.

"I mean, I think it's fairly obvious myself," Peter said.  "I see the way he looks at you.  He absolutely lit up when you walked into the room this morning.  And no matter what time of day it is, I always seem to catch you two in the throes of passion."

"So he didn't tell you this directly?"

"Well, no."

I nodded.  "I didn't think so."

Peter protested, "But that's not how he does things when it-"

"I can't speak for Freddie," I interrupted flatly, my legs crossing underneath me.  "But as far as I am concerned, we are friends, he's very, very kind to me, and I just so happen to find him, uh, extremely attractive.  But again, that- is-all."  I cleared my throat.  "You see, that's how I do things."

"You say that to me," Straker smirked.  "Would you say that to him?"

"Hattie," I groaned, but didn't answer.  Honestly, I didn't know what I'd say to him.  I wondered if Freddie had put Straker up to such statements to see if they'd get a rise out of me.  I guess he's just going to have to be disappointed again. 

That was, assuming we'd even see Freddie again.  Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes after we'd shared this awkward little exchange, our dear friend was still missing.  The clock was ticking, and Straker would have to be on the plane pretty soon along with the other fellows.  And Freddie- anything could have happened to him.  At this point I didn't care anymore about the license or much anything else, just so long as Freddie returned in one piece.

Peter started noticing how late it was as well.  Stifling a yawn, he remarked aloud, "Good Lord.  You'd better get a move on, Freddie dear.  This plane won't wait for us like the Starship did."

It was at that moment a starched and pressed casino employee approached our table.  "Excuse me, there's a phone call waiting for a, um..."

"How'd you know it was us?" Straker asked.

"Well, if you'll pardon the indiscretion, he said it would be the salt and pepper couple," he replied.  "And you're the only one I saw, so I more or less assumed..."

That sounds like Freddie, all right, I thought to myself, fighting back a snicker.  But had there still been any doubts, what the attendant said next annihilated them once and for all.

"The call was for a... here, I wrote it down... ah yes!  A Miss Kitty Cute-Ass-"

Straker burst out in a fit of his loud cackling laughter.  I blushed even harder than before, and broke down right alongside my partner in crime.  I can be wearing a lovely dress, made up perfectly, not a hair out of place- and with one line Freddie makes me feel like a burlesque stripper.

But I managed to say, "Well, Hattie, what are you waiting for?  Go talk to him-"

"Oh, no!  He wants you.  I pay attention."

"You sure about that?"

"Undoubtedly.  He said Miss Cute-Ass instead of Mister Cute-Ass."

"You people, I swear," I chortled in spite of myself.  "Okay, Hattie, be right back."

As I slipped out of the booth, I noticed Straker grinning at me, like he'd just made some subliminal point.

"What?" I asked.

"You both do love your nicknames, don't you- Harley?" he said smugly.

The employee's voice had carried across to nearby tables, so that as I moved by them I saw well-dressed men and women chuckling to themselves, eyes on me.  Defiantly I faced forward and lifted my chin.  I'll get you for this, Freddie- and I'll get you good.

But as I strolled into the lobby to the phone booths, I realized Straker was right; Freddie wasn't the only one who assigned people pet names.  Maybe we really do have more in common than I thought.  God, that's a frightful notion.  I wonder where it ends.  If it does.

I walked up to the phone booth and lifted the receiver to my ear.  It was times like these that made me appreciate modern technology.

A click, and then my heart swelled in relief at the sound of his smooth, lilting voice- followed immediately by another flush of annoyance.

"Hello? Is this Miss Cute-Ass?"

"I can't believe you," I groaned. "You made him say that in front of a full restaurant of people!"

"Did you laugh?"

"No," I lied, putting my hand over my mouth as if to hide the smile.

"You are such a rotten liar, my dear; it works so well to my advantage," he sang. Even over the phone I could tell Freddie was energized, full of that stage power no amount of complaining would bring him out of.

"Where are you two?" I cried, bringing him back to the more relevant matter. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago!"

"Oh, right," Freddie said. All of a sudden he sounded uncomfortable.

My voice flattened. "Freddie, did you forget?"

"I did not forget!  The idea! I just got a little tied up in my other things, and uh, our rendezvous sort of fell by the wayside-"

"So you forgot."  I wouldn't have been so grumpy had Straker and I not spent over an hour waiting for he and Mr. Z.  Not that I was hungry, because we'd shared a little appetizer thing that we both decided was excellent, but I didn't like just sitting around, waiting for something to happen when there was so much we had to do before eight, and now so little time in which to do it.

"Darling, saying I forgot doesn't fix anything.  It so happens I've already taken steps to correct my, um, mistake.  Got the license?"

"I do.  Please at least tell me you found the would-be Mark Zuckerberg."

"Oh, yes!  He's a fine specimen indeed."

"Did you actually find an Eskimo?"

"In the desert?  Come on.  No, but he'll do just fine for our purposes."

"What did you have to pay this poor man?"

"Well, that's the beauty of it, darling.  He's agreed to it, no charge."

"None?"

"None whatsoever."

"Is he there?  Can I talk to him?  I bet he thinks you're crazy-"

"He should already be there!"

"Here? With us?"  I squinted.  "Why aren't you with him?"

"I told you, I got a little tied up in certain things, so he's going to meet you there at Caesar's Palace, and I'll meet you at the chap-"

"Caesar's?  Freddie, we're at the Sahara!"

The line went dramatically silent.  At last, a sheepish: "Oh.  Yeah."

Did you get into Steve's stash, Freddie? 

But instead of flipping out, Freddie simply sighed and said aloofly, "Well, I suppose you'll just have to get a cab and meet him there, then."

"But- but- you're not really just going to leave me alone with the guy?"

"Not really, he's meeting you in the Circus Maximus, there'll be lots of people in there."

"What's that?"

"The auditorium at the Palace.  There's a show tonight- his favorite, Tom Jones, I believe he said-"

"We don't have time to see Tom Jones!" I had raised my voice; people all across the lobby were staring at me, but I scarcely noticed.  "We have to get home- and if you're not there how will I know what to look for?"

"Darling, Mark is harmless.  A passionate man, certainly, but he won't bite too hard, I'll see to that.  Either way, I'll be there to protect you soon enough.  Be at the Palace by seven forty-five.  Mark knows what to do."

"We're going to miss our plane," I said lamely.

"That's all right, we can always catch another.  Circus Maximus, seven forty-five.  And don't be late, or else I'll hear about it and I'll-"

"You'll what?"

"I'll call you up some other time while you're out in public and ask for a Miss Sexy Big-Ti-"

"Oh, good grief."

Freddie laughed.  "Right, dear, I'm going to have to go- oh!  One more thing.  He said he'd be in the very center, so that should help you find him."

Fantastic.  That really narrows it down.  "Anything else I should look for?"

"You'll know him when you see him," Freddie said cryptically. 

But I sighed.  If he wasn't offering any pertinent info now, he wouldn't do it in another five seconds.  "Okay.  You're the boss.  I'll see you at the final rendezvous then."

"Splendid.  I can't wait to hear how you and Straker went about getting the papers and things."

"I'm dying to know what you've been doing the past six hours myself."

"See you in a little while!  Give Peter a kiss goodbye for me!"

With a huff, I started to hang up the phone when Freddie spoke up one last time.  "Oh, and Evie?"

"What now?"

"Remember the Mercurena?"

"Yeah?"

"Good."

"What about it?"

His voice changed all of a sudden.  Very slyly, in a hushed tone, he said, "Just go with it."

"Go with what?"

"No more questions.  Don't think, just do.  You'll see."

Click.

That last line had me suspicious.  I didn't like how he'd said it; there were too many strings attached to that tone.  Aloud I said, "What are you up to, Freddie?"  

Nevertheless, like an obedient puppy, I trotted back to Straker and told him the news.  Once again, he wasn't at all surprised, albeit a bit disappointed that he wouldn't get to meet Mr. Zuckerberg.  It was getting late and he had to head for the airport; apparently Peter had something going on that coming Monday and he couldn't afford to miss it.

"But this weekend has been thoroughly fantastic," Peter said.  "Hope everything works out with Mr. Z.  We really have to do this again, it's been mad in the best sense possible."

"Thanks for being such a sport, Straker," I said.  "And by the way, your timing is perfect.  Just thought I'd say that."

"Will you be there at his party in a few days?"

"Party?  Oh, the dinner party he's throwing?"  I remembered the invitations he'd had me address and send off a week or so ago.

"I hope you'll still be around for that.  We'll need a little of you to spice it up."

"Freddie -and you- are spice enough."

"Nice save," Straker chuckled, then bent to kiss my forehead.  I returned the kiss to his cheek.

"Good luck, Harley," he said. 

"You too, Hattie."

He turned, about to walk away when he asked me one final question.  "You've never actually seen him live, have you?  Performing, I mean."

I shook my head.  "Never."  I wondered what that had to do with anything.

Straker nodded, said, "Hm," then with a little wave turned away.

And within moments I was alone again, with twenty minutes to get to Caesar's Palace.  I needed a ride, but I also wanted to save my money.

A light switched on in my brain.  That left one single option.  A risky one, but wasn't anything in this world a little risky?  I hardly knew what it meant to play safe anymore anyway.

I went back to the phone booth and rang the number on the scrap of paper.  After a few rings, he picked up.  I could hear the smile in his voice.  "Hello?"

"Hey, K, it's Eve. I'm calling in that favor..."

****************************************************************************************************

I hopped out of the truck bed, no worse for the wear, with only a thin layer of road dust on my dress.  At least I didn't smell like the inside of a bong.  Brushing it off, I asked Steve to circle around and to pick me and the fellow up when he saw us emerge.

Whistling "Tequila Sunrise" (which was the song Steve had just had playing on his car stereo; he was a big fan of Southern rock judging by what had been blaring out the windows ever since I climbed into the back of the truck), I walked past the flamboyant fountains straight for the entrance into Circus Maximus at Caesar's Palace.

As soon as I was inside, I fixed my hair; the dry Las Vegas wind had not been kind to my carefully pinned bun.  There were posters everywhere advertising the coming acts-  the current one,  indeed, being Tom Jones.

I walked up to the will call booth and asked if there had been any calls for reserved tickets in the past ten minutes.  The man there nodded, then asked for the name. 

"Um," I said cautiously, for I didn't know if Freddie had played any more tricks, "is there one that begins with ...'Kitty'?"

"Mm-no."

"Angel?"

"Uh-uh."

"Dubroc?"

"Ah, yes, there's one for Eve Dubroc right here.  Are you she, madam?"

I nodded wearily.  I can't keep up with all my names.

I paid for the ticket, trying not to freak out too much when he said the front row seat was only forty dollars.  Front row seat for Tom Jones at Caesar's Frickin' Palace and the ticket cost just over forty dollars.  In my world, you paid at least fifty dollars for nosebleed seats to watch "Weird Al" Yankovic bound across the Winspear stage. (Don't ask me how I know...)

Without much further ado, I walked into the venue, craning my neck to see who was filling the center seats.  I saw a wide range of folks, mostly middle-aged people in suits and dresses.  The occasional young person dotted the rapidly filling amphitheater.  I wasn't too shocked.  This wasn't exactly a show aimed your young, rebellious, teenage demographic- but then, neither was Queen.  I've always felt that Queen was just a little more sophisticated than typical rock music, and I'd always been drawn to things well outside my target zone anyway.  Older music, older movies, older men.  But not too old, of course, as far as being attracted to men went.  I drew the line at fifteen years.  Perhaps even older worked for some ladies, but anything further than that smelled of "trophy wife"-ism to me.

Aren't I lucky that Freddie fits right within the bracket-

Before I could finish that wayward thought I reminded myself yet again of all the people who belonged to Freddie at this stage.  Mary.  David.  Liza(?).  The, ahem, flirtations aside, I had no right to him, not when so many others saw him first.  As soon as I got back to London, I had a life to build from the bottom up- a life I could not allow to interfere with Freddie's unless I wanted to screw things over for everyone who came after.

Naturally, my thoughts drifted again to what Peter had told me.  "I think he's falling for you."  For some reason, thinking about it now brought such a lightness to my head.  Supposing Peter was right?

'Well, he isn't," I said defiantly.  "There's nothing of the sort.  We just want each other.  That's all."

Before you write me off as a cold fish with a heart of stone, please understand.  I was, and am, very capable of deep affection.  I was quite capable, trust me, of complete, mad, almost possessive, love.  And if I was not careful, I knew, I could very easily lose my head in very little time.  That's why I was constantly talking myself out of acknowledging the most obvious feelings.  I was wary of affection, especially anything coming from Freddie, because if I allowed myself to believe it was anything more than Freddie's natural affect enhanced by sex withdrawal, I'd find myself plunging down the rabbit hole with no chance of getting my sanity back.

But anyway.

My eyes continued to scan in vain.  I wish he'd given me some sort of defining characteristic, I'm out on a limb here.  Mark could be anybody.

Behind me, on the stage, I could hear musicians rustling in the dark, situating themselves with their instruments, tuning haphazardly.  It was an enormous stage with undulating red velvet curtains hanging from the ceiling, hiding the muted chaos going on backstage.  It was enough room to accommodate a whole orchestra and still leave enough room for Tom Jones's "killer" dance moves.

I slung my backpack off my shoulder and checked my Magic M- I mean, my Android smart phone for the time.  It was already five minutes past eight, and the house was nearly full.  If Tom Jones didn't have an opening act, he would be making an appearance very soon.  And I still couldn't find Mark. 

Suddenly the curtain split, revealing a very confused looking big band set-up complete with horns, saxes, and upright basses.  The lights went up over them, then went out again, then flashed, then went out.  The audience looked on, unsure of whether to clap for the start of the show, or jeer at the tech team's incompetence.

Then all the lights in the house went out, plunging the place in darkness.  And a voice screeched over the loudspeaker.

"We apologize for the delay, Tom Jones will be a few minutes behind schedule," it said.  "In the meantime, please enjoy this... uh...  our special opening guest-"

The microphone cut out there.  Some serious technical difficulties were happening here at the Circus Maximus.  A few happy campers in the back began to boo.  I squinted against the darkness.  I couldn't see any singer.  What was happening?

This is such a complete waste of time, I muttered to myself. How am I supposed to find the designated perfect stranger in a crowd when I don't have the first clue what he looks like - assuming I can even see him in this darkness? Perhaps I had been abandoned for real this time. But again, this was a lot of kerfuffle to just abandon someone.

The lights at the feet of the band came on again.  I was so close I could still see the confusion on their faces.  The clarinet player looked especially put out, and one of the alto saxers shrugged passively.

Without much further ado, the conductor tapped them to attention and the band began to play. 

(I'm inserting this version of the song since it is the closest thing I could find to this Vegas, Rat Pack-esque arrangement, I suggest you just let it play.  Nothing special to see, keep reading.  Ignore the voices, they are who you think they are, just pretend the voice is another, starting at 0:42.)

https://youtu.be/sUGHQQGm7tk

A lonesome muted horn floated forth, piercing the empty air.  The crowd murmured with interest.  Gradually a sea of strings slipped in underneath the horn.  The stage lights overhead came back on, but stayed dim to maintain the strange magic settling over everything.  My back was turned, my face still toward the shadowy people behind me. 

The audience's murmur rose in volume; a couple of confused people clapped.  At last curiosity got the best of me and I looked at the stage to see the silhouette of a curly-haired man slightly hunched over, standing with his legs slightly apart in a power stance, hands wrapped tightly around the microphone stand in front of him.

It was here the hidden emcee's voice came back and awkwardly stated: "Please welcome, ah- Mark Zuckerberg."

My eyes widened as the audience politely clapped.  My fiance is the opening act?

The spotlight shone directly upon Mark's poofy brown curls- not Brian May poofy, more like Napoleon Dynamite poofy.  His face was turned towards his white, stilt-like platform shoes, but he was clearly wearing sunglasses.  He was dressed in all things seventies, and not necessarily tasteful seventies at that.  His wide-collared button down glowed an iridescent orange, and his trousers were a deep red wine hue.

The upright bass took over, plucking a sultry, sexy beat.  Mark lifted one hand from the stand and snapped his fingers to the rhythm.  The crowd cheered; they knew this song, as did I.  Mark lifted his head, showing that he sported star-shaped sunglasses and a serious handlebar mustache; and his shirt was half-open to reveal a mat of thick black hair underneath that didn't match the hair on his head-

My heart did a back flip.  Oh no. It can't be.  It can't.

And then he started to sing in a chocolate, baritone voice: "Never know how much I love you/ never know how much I care/ when you put your arms around me/ I get a fever that's so hard to bear/ You give me fever-"

I covered my mouth.  I knew that vibrato anywhere.

  OH MY GOD!

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?!?!" I screamed in complete surprise.  I didn't care if I blew my cover or his, I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

i saw him zero in on me even behind the glasses.  The scream only seemed to egg him on further.  The full lips split into a knowing grin, the teeth well-obscured by the exaggerated fake mustache.  His right leg began to twitch out of time with the beat.  "Fever," he breathed in a forced American accent, throwing his head and shoulders back with the music, "in the mornin'/ Fever all through the night..."

He slid the microphone off its stand and began to move freely about the stage.  At one point he became borderline suggestive, swinging his snake hips and putting his hand almost too close to his crotch, but nobody took offense.  On the contrary, all the women screamed with delight.   The crowd was loving every bit of it; already they were eating out of his hand.

And I was still trying to get past the outfit! 

"Everybo-dy's/ got the fe-ver," he growled, "That is some-thin' you all know-" He reached down toward the audience, and everyone swarmed up to meet him.  Somehow Freddie -or should I say "Mark"- had turned these jaded, strait-laced adults into salivating fanboys and fangirls in less than two minutes while wearing a ridiculous disguise.  I forgot to fangirl myself, at least outwardly; my heart was beating too hard, my eyes too wide, my smile too big.  I was so proud I couldn't stand it.

My God, I'm running around with a grown up Ferris Bueller.

The instruments took over for a few bars which allowed him to hop down amongst us mortals and absolutely drive us out of our heads further.  He began teasing the people in the front row.  "Romeo loved Juliet," he purred, "And Juliet, she felt the same."  In time with the words he slipped his arms around one woman and came so close she was sure he would kiss her, then broke away as soon as he sang "Thou givest fever."  At least, I think that was the line, by now people were screaming so loudly I could barely hear him. For a moment I closed my eyes.

And that's when he seized my hand and yanked me violently away from my seat.  I just barely remembered to grab my bag.

Before I knew it I was brushed right up against him and he was singing the next verse about Captain Smith and Pocahontas.  I looked up at him, and he lowered his silly shades, revealing those perfect eyes, and he winked.  Go with it, he said. Think Mercurena.  Okay, you got it.

He danced us back up onto the stage, still leaving no space between our bodies.  People were really screaming now, as the piano played a few filler notes. 

"Mark" kissed my hand and held it up.  "You like my fiance?" he asked everyone over the music.  They hollered their approval.

"That's too bad," he said back, letting a little British accent seep through, "because she likes me."  And again, everyone cheered, poor Tom Jones having been long forgotten.

I turned at him, suddenly realizing what this meant.  If he was Mark, then...  But I couldn't let it sink in just yet, the song had to finish and we had to get out of here.

"Now you've listened to my story," he breathed, coming a little closer to backstage with every sway. "Here's the point that I have made-" Then he stuck the microphone right under my nose and made me sing the next line: "Cats were born to give chicks fever-" and we sang together quite fittingly- "In Fahrenheit or Centigrade, they give you fever..."

By now my head was spinning out of control.  And the voluptuous, brassy horns pulsing behind us didn't help.  In this moment, under the hot spotlights, I was completely ensnared by this madman who had likely moved heaven and earth to arrange this stupid little performance.  The surreal feel of this whole trip climaxed here as Freddie closed out the song, "What a lovely way to burn/ what a lovely way to burn..."

Everyone was screaming, begging for more as we disappeared behind the velvet curtain and "Mark" led me down a stairway backstage.

We were right in front of Tom Jones's greenroom when I pulled him to a quick stop and turned him around to face me. 

The disguised crazy man smiled and folded his arms.  "So you're Eve, eh?" he said with an attempt at the Canadian accent.

I threw my arms around him and laughed.  "You're nuts!"  I whispered.  "YOU'RE SO WONDERFULLY NUTS!"

"Come on, dear, no time for this now," he hissed, breaking away, speaking in his normal voice.  "We have an appointment in fifteen and have to go before the hordes find us."

"Yes, my prince," I sang.  I didn't know why he was being so standoffish so soon, but I was far too elevated to care too much. 

He pushed his glasses further up his nose.  "Got the getaway vehicle, I hope?"

I grinned.  "I do."

"Then lead the way, Miss Cute-Ass-"

"How about you stop calling me that now?" I whispered.

"I think it suits you awfully well myself."

"All right, then, Freddie, you leave me no choice."  Don't you worry.  Dr. K's got a perfect ride for us.  For you.

"What have you got up your sleeve?"

I kissed his rough cheek.  "Go with it."

Freddie's mouth twitched under his fake mustache.  "Can we do a little better than that?"

I began tugging away.  "I thought there wasn't much time-"

"Enough time for this!"

Then he pulled me close again and  we shared a single kiss, our energized hearts beating rapidly against each other's.  A door opened behind me and someone walked up to us, but we didn't break apart.  I guess we had more time than Freddie suggested. 

"Hey, man," someone with a deep voice tapped Freddie's shoulder, "were you the one they were screaming over out there?"

"Mm-hm," Freddie hummed, very slowly pulling away from me, making no secret of his annoyance that we were being interrupted yet again- even if that interrupter was Tom Jones himself. In my head I shouted, STRAKER! (It became a running thing, an inside joke that I still use today; whenever someone interrupts something important, that's what I'll say.)

"You'll be a hard act to follow, you will," Tom chuckled.  "This is one night I can't afford to be shonky.  Thanks for volunteering!"

Freddie and I waved back as he slipped past us, then looked at each other.  "Where were we?" I asked.

"Running for our lives."

"Oh, yeah."

And we started running again.