Baby let’s play house 🖤

Colonel Tom Parker strode through the carpeted halls of the International Hotel with a triumphant gait, snapping his lapels and clenching a cigar between his teeth as if he owned the very foundation of the building.

To his right, Janelle, the head of press, scrambled with her notepad; to his left, the hotel manager nodded at every sentence Parker barked like a military order. The Colonel was so brimming with self-assurance he didn’t even look at them. His eyes were fixed forward, savoring the grandeur and the stillness of the corridor.

"The international press is hinting at 'emotional exhaustion' regarding Elvis, Colonel," Janelle interjected cautiously.

"Janelle, darling," Parker cut her off, pausing to exhale a cloud of grey smoke, "'emotional exhaustion' is a luxury reserved for those who don’t have a sold-out stadium waiting for them."

Then, it happened.

A dull vibration shuddered through the floor. First, the dry kick of the drums. Then, the roar of the brass. The sound tore through the heavy double doors of the showroom as if someone were pushing the hotel from the inside out.

The Colonel froze, biting down harder on his cigar.

"What on earth is that?" the manager asked, checking his watch, bewildered. "There’s no show until tonight."

"That is... music," Parker muttered, and he hated how his voice sounded: not like an owner, but like a man caught off guard.

He shoved the doors open.

The darkness of the auditorium was sliced by the stage lights—a searing glow that turned the dust in the room into golden particles. In the center, bathed in an amber halo, stood Elvis. A towel draped over his neck, sweat soaking his shirt, yet he moved as if energy were radiating from his very bones. The kind of energy you don’t negotiate with; you submit to.

Joe and Sonny were darting back and forth, moving crates, checking cables, speaking in rapid gestures. And Jerry sat in the third row, motionless, watching the rehearsal.

Suddenly, Elvis snapped his arm up, and the music cut out instantly.

"No, no… wait a damn minute!" Elvis roared, his voice echoing through the empty hall. "The slapback’s comin’ in late. It’s fuckin’ up the tempo, man! Again! From bar twelve!"

"Elvis?" the Colonel whispered from the entrance.

No one heard him. Or worse: no one allowed themselves to hear him.

"I SAID AGAIN!" Elvis kicked the mic stand with a flash of controlled violence.

The Colonel began marching down the center aisle, his cane striking the carpet with intent. An unscheduled rehearsal only meant one thing: invoices.

"What the hell is going on here?" he shouted upon reaching the edge of the stage. "Elvis! No one authorized a rehearsal! You know what it costs to get the whole orchestra out on a Tuesday morning?”

Elvis stopped. And instead of reacting like a startled employee, he reacted like a professional in command.

He approached the edge of the stage and crouched down to look Parker in the eye, very slowly. Joe and Sonny froze; for a second, even they doubted whether Elvis was about to do something reckless.

Elvis’s gaze was an icy blue. There wasn't a trace of the vulnerability from the night before.

“What’s goin’ on, Colonel,” Elvis said, smooth, deadly polite, “is that last night’s show was mediocre. And I don’t do mediocre shows. That costs money.”

He turned, pointing to the sound technician. "I want that slapback dead-on. No delays.”

Then, he looked at the stage manager. "And the A/C at max power thirty minutes before the show. I want the brass warmed up properly. I don’t want the opening sounding like a cheap tavern. No out-of-tune instruments."

The manager nodded frantically, scribbling as if his life depended on it. Every time Elvis spoke to someone, it felt like a gunshot: direct and clean.

Elvis turned toward Janelle, who watched him with a mix of fascination and terror. "Jan honey…tomorrow’s thing: five pre-approved questions. No more. If anybody steps out of line, session’s over. We good?”"

"Yes, Elvis. Five questions," she replied, a beat too fast.

Elvis wiped his face with the towel and called out without looking: "Joe."

Joe stepped forward.

"Tonight, I want noise. I want girls. I want… ya get me?"

Joe swallowed hard, lowering his voice just enough for only Elvis to hear. "Are you sure you want this? Are you sure that—"

"Yes," Elvis cut him off, still not looking at him, pinning his gaze on the Colonel as he folded the towel. "Pretty sure."

A chill ran down Jerry’s spine. He closed his eyes for a second and shook his head from his seat, as if he had just watched Elvis finally reveal his true face. Jerry hated being right, but he knew that sooner or later, Elvis would turn the page.

"Well..." Parker bit his cigar, reclaiming the air of a man in total control. "If this helps you perform, I’ll allow it."

Elvis didn't answer. He stood up and turned his back on everyone as if he had just dismissed the entire world. A perfect performance, buying time for Red to return.

"Let’s go! Again!"

The music exploded once more, a wall of sound that forced the Colonel to take a step back. He stood in the middle of the aisle, mouth agape, watching Elvis move across the stage with almost inhuman precision.

"Look at him..." the hotel manager whispered, impressed. "He’s a perfectionist."

Parker adjusted his hat, the greedy smile returning to his face like an old mask.

"That’s my boy. Who said 'emotional exhaustion,' eh?"

he said to the staff. But his eyes... his eyes weren't smiling. They remained fixed on Elvis with a new spark, one mixed with deep suspicion.

The car engine groaned as it died, leaving Red enveloped in a silence that weighed heavier than the fatigue of ten hours on the road. The neighborhood was a postcard of artificial tranquility: perfectly manicured lawns, the scent of neighborly coffee, and a morning sun beginning to bake the asphalt.

Red adjusted his jacket and walked toward your parents' house. His boots crunched on the gravel like a countdown. He knocked. One, two, three times.

Nothing.

"Come on... damn it," he muttered, peering through the porch window. The curtains were drawn, but the house felt hollow, stripped of the energy of daily life. He knew the Colonel moved fast, but he hadn't expected him to scrub the trail this clean.

Frustrated, Red turned around. He was halfway to the car, scratching the back of his neck and wondering what the hell he’d tell Elvis, when the hum of a bicycle stopped him.

A mailman was pedaling slowly. He looked at Red, looked at the house, and braked with professional curiosity. He hopped off, carrying a leather folder and a thick envelope. He scrutinized Red’s athletic build and his "don't-mess-with-me" stare.

"Mr. Beaulieu?" the man asked, adjusting his cap. "I have a certified letter. Priority delivery."

Red’s heart stopped for half a second. His brain worked at lightning speed. If he said no, the letter would go back to the office and the trail would be lost. If he said yes...

"Yeah," Red said, lowering his voice to give it a hint of exhaustion. "That’s me. Sorry, I just... haven't had a good night."

The mailman nodded sympathetically, never suspecting the man in front of him wasn't almost forty years old nor possessed a Texas accent. He handed him a small form and a pen.

"Sign here, please."

Red took the pen. His fingers, thick and used to squeezing triggers or steering wheels, trembled imperceptibly.

He caught a glimpse of the return address before signing. The logo was unmistakable: an elegant, aggressive "P." Office of Colonel T. Parker. 1215 Gallatin Pike S, Madison, TN.

He scribbled an illegible signature, a quick stroke that could have been any name and handed the clipboard back.

The mailman tore off the receipt, smiling without really looking. "Thanks, have a good day," he said, and pedaled off, whistling as if he hadn't just delivered a bomb with an official stamp.

Red waited until the humming faded down the street. Then he looked at the envelope, swallowed hard, and let out a dry laugh.

He walked to the car, the envelope burning his fingers, his pulse thundering in his ears. He knew this was going to be big for Elvis.

He got into the car, locked the door, and stared at the paper for a moment. The "Confidential" stamp stood out in bold red. He checked his mirrors. No one.

With a sharp movement, he ripped the envelope open.

He pulled out the contents expecting a letter. But it was a document: cold, stamped, with numbers that screamed even though they were printed in black ink.

He unfolded it over the steering wheel.

SUBJECT / CONCEPT: "SPIRITUAL RETREAT"

Red frowned, suspicious. His eyes scanned down.

The air left his lungs.

AMOUNT: $100,000

CHARGE TO: EP Enterprises Inc.

"No..." he whispered, but he was already reading faster.

BENEFICIARY: White Sands Convent.

Parker didn't hide you. He sold you. And on top of that... with the money of the man he claims to be saving from himself.

Red let out a humorless, dangerous laugh.

"'Spiritual retreat'..." he spat. "You’re an artist, you son of a bitch."

He reread the line about the convent one more time, as if the name might vanish if he blinked. Then, he folded the receipt with steady hands and tucked it inside his jacket, close to his chest.

"Found you, little girl," Red whispered, cranking the engine with one hand.

The car roared off, leaving the neighborhood behind. Red had only one thought: Elvis was going to lose his mind, but they finally had a lead to start the hunt.

The communal bathroom was a massive chamber of cold stone, designed in the style of ancient Moorish baths. In the center, a large tub dominated the room, while individual showers lined the perimeter walls. The echo inside was treacherous; a sigh sounded like a scream.

You were in the central tub, on your knees, scrubbing the stone with a root brush. Beside you, Ann and several other sisters did the same. The smell of ammonia was so strong it made your eyes water and burned your nostrils.

The black silhouette of the Mother Superior was framed against the arched entrance.

"Attention," her voice boomed off the stone walls, amplified by the acoustics. "The auxiliary bishop arrives in three days. This place must be a mirror."

The nun began to pace around the central tub, her footsteps sounding muffled against the foam.

"Certain rules take effect starting today; I will explain the rest to you in due time," she dictated, raising a bony finger.

"First: The use of these showers is strictly prohibited from dusk until dawn." She paused, letting the silence weigh heavy. "As of six o'clock, this bathroom is reserved exclusively for the Diocese. They require privacy and purity."

A murmur rippled through the line. A novice accidentally dropped her brush; the clack echoed through the hall. The Mother Superior glared at her until the girl picked it up with trembling hands, pale as wax.

"Second," she continued, "cell doors will remain cracked open. I want no secrets, no whispers, no private prayers that are not in the book."

Ann gritted her teeth. You knew what she was thinking: it was the end of the only privacy you had left.

"And third," she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a cavernous tone, "no wandering. Respect the guard rotations to the millimeter. If I find anyone out of their bed or away from their post... I swear to God I will lock you in the cellar, and you won't see the light of day for a month."

The novices exchanged quick, terrified looks. The cellar was a dark legend in the convent; they said down there, the rats were the only company.

"Ten minutes," she decreed. "I want to see my reflection in this floor. And if I see a single spot, you will lick it clean."

As soon as the nun disappeared down the hall, the silence was broken only by the scritch-scritch of the brushes. Ann stopped, sitting back on her heels. She looked at you intensely.

"Are you going to tell me what’s on that paper you tucked away?" Ann whispered, her voice bouncing softly off the stone.

You froze. "It's nothing. Keep scrubbing."

"I saw your face; it’s obviously important," she insisted, crawling closer through the empty pool. "I told you, I have a past too. Show me. We're in the same boat, aren't we?"

The pressure of the confinement broke you. You needed an ally, or at least to stop pretending for a second. With trembling, damp hands, you pulled out the folded clipping. You opened it with infinite care on the palm of your hand.

Ann leaned in. Her eyes widened as she saw the silhouette—the defiant stance in black and white. She let out a laugh that sounded like a snap.

"Elvis?" She looked at you with total incredulity. "You have a hidden photo of Elvis Presley? That is your big secret?"

"He’s the reason I’m here," you defended, offended by her tone. "The last thing he told me was that he loved me and he’d come for me."

Ann shook her head, smiling cynically. "Please. We all have fantasies… but good grief, you’re in deep."

Panic rose in your throat. "I’m telling the truth!" you blurted out, desperate. "You don’t understand…he’s... he was my uncle!"

The echo of the word "uncle" hung in the air for a second. Ann blinked. Then, she let out a loud, cruel laugh that bounced off the bathroom dome.

"Your uncle?" she mocked, grabbing the photo. "Are you telling me Elvis Presley is your uncle and you're having an affair? Do you think I’m stupid? If you don't want to tell me the truth, fine, but you didn't have to lie to me."

"It is the truth! Give me that!" In the struggle, Ann knocked your hand.

The newspaper clipping went flying. It landed face-down in the puddle of soapy water and concentrated bleach accumulating in the central drain.

"NO!" you screamed, lunging for the paper.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!"

The Mother Superior’s voice exploded like a cannon shot. She had returned.

You stood paralyzed, hand outstretched toward the drain. The nun descended the pool steps with terrifying speed. She swatted your hand away and picked up the soaked paper with two fingers, as if it were a venomous insect.

The bleach had been fast. The cheap newspaper ink was dissolving into black threads. The headline, the suit, the name... all of it was a grey smudge.

Only the face remained. The deep, lined eyes and the jet-black hair.

The Mother Superior, a woman who hadn't looked at the outside world in thirty years, narrowed her eyes. She didn't see the King of Rock. She saw a young, attractive man with a sinful gaze.

"A man?" the nun hissed, displaying the blurred image. "You fight like alley cats over the image of a man?"

"Sister, she said he was her un—" Ann started, but she fell silent at the nun's murderous look.

"Silence!" She crushed the wet ball of paper in her fist, destroying what little was left of Elvis. "I care nothing for your lies or your worldly kin. Bringing the image of a male into this sacred bath is a profanation."

She tucked the paper ball into her sleeve, confiscating it forever.

"You have broken silence and modesty." She pointed toward the exit. "Tonight you will sleep in the hallway, without blankets. And when the bishop arrives, I will hand him this... trash. I will let him decide what penance is deserved by one who keeps a man in her mind within these walls."

You stared at the nun's sleeve. Your proof, your link, your physical hope, had dissolved in bleach. Your hands shook... you didn't know which would be worse: the punishment from the Mother Superior, or the judgment of the Bishop.

The door to the suite was vibrating, literally. From the hallway, which was usually silent, music now thudded through the wood, mixed with the sharp clinking of broken glass and shrill female laughter.

"Yeah, baby, that’s how I like it!" Elvis’s voice filtered through, distorted but unmistakable.

Jerry was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes lost in the geometric pattern of the carpet. It was his turn for bodyguard duty, filling in for Red.

The rhythmic thud of a cane on the carpet snapped him out of his trance. Colonel Parker emerged from the shadows, walking with an unusual lightness. He stopped next to Jerry, listening to the ruckus coming from the suite with the smile of a satisfied grandfather.

“Sounds like things are back to normal, huh, Jerry?” the Colonel said. “Sounds like our boy’s got his appetite back.”

Jerry didn't move. He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He knew that tone; it was the prelude to an order.

"Cut the crap, Colonel,” Jerry muttered. “What do you want?”

Parker dropped the smile. He took a short step forward, invading Jerry's personal space.

"Go in there. Sit in a corner, pretend to drink, and don't take your eyes off him. I want to know who goes in, who goes out, and everything he does."

Jerry pulled away from the wall, straightening up with indignation. "No. Find someone else for your dirty work. I’m not your spy and I’m not your puppet."

The Colonel let out a dry chuckle. He leaned in an inch closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous hiss.

"Not a puppet... no," he said softly. "But you are a man who should know when to bow his head."

Jerry opened his mouth to reply, but Parker raised a finger, like one silencing a child. Then he dropped the line, cold and definitive:

Be thankful you’re still working here, son. Thanks to me.” Minimal pause, surgical. “Because you were the one responsible for that photo getting published.”

The air in the hallway turned to ice. Jerry didn't blink. He couldn't. As if doing so would be admitting it was true. He swallowed hard, his eyes clouding for a second.

“You’re wrong…” he said finally, voice cracking at the edge, “and you know it.”

"Oh, but I am. You went to 'move heaven and earth' so the photo wouldn't see the light of day, didn't you? You knocked on doors. You asked questions. You offered favors. 'For Elvis'." Parker clicked his tongue. "And thanks to you, the media stopped waiting... and started looking. Tracking. Hunting the photographer like dogs."

Jerry felt as if the air had been vacuumed from his lungs. He opened his mouth to protest, but guilt choked his throat. Rage and shame swirled in his chest.

At that moment, the elevator at the end of the hall dinged. Red burst out, shirt wrinkled, chest heaving violently, panting as if he’d run a marathon. His eyes shone with a feverish urgency, heavy with the secret of what he had found.

He saw the Colonel and skidded to a halt, swapping his expression of panic for a mask of exhaustion. He approached them, catching his breath.

Jerry, his nerves shattered by the Colonel’s accusation, dumped all his frustration onto him.

"Where the fuck were you, Red?" Jerry barked, glaring at him with fury.

Without waiting for an answer, Jerry pushed off the wall and brushed past him, hitting Red's shoulder with brute force as he stormed off, fleeing the Colonel’s gaze and his own demons.

Red massaged his hit shoulder, watching Jerry disappear around the bend. Then, he turned to the Colonel, throwing his hands up in fake indignation.

"I get days off too, you know!” he shouted at the empty hallway. “People got lives!”"

Red looked down and, making sure the Colonel heard him, whispered with disdain: "Stupid Jerry... always so dramatic."

Parker didn't laugh. Parker didn't fall for easy tricks. He "scanned" him from head to toe with a slow, inventory-like gaze: shoes, face, sweat, nerves. For a second, Red felt like the old man could read his mind.

Red held the gaze a second too long, just enough to be insolent. Just enough so Parker wouldn't know if he was looking at an idiot or someone playing a game.

The Colonel, in the end, simply readjusted his jacket with insulting elegance.

"Goodnight, Red," Parker murmured as he walked away.

The suite was bursting with laughter, ice, music… and lies.

Elvis was at the center of the room. Two girls were pressed against him, one laughing too close to his ear, another toyed with his collar. Joe and Sonny were in the corner, playing their parts, serving drinks with easy chatter.

Elvis cracked a joke, let out a laugh that was a pitch too high, and pulled a girl onto his lap. He draped a hand around her waist... and yet, it was obvious: he wasn't looking at her. He wasn't looking at anyone.

"Elvis, you’re wild," one of them giggled, trying to tuck a finger into his shirt collar.

He smiled. Perfect. Magazine-ready. "Yeah, honey. I’m a real handful."

And as he said it... he gripped the edge of the sofa so hard his knuckles turned white.

A soft knock on the door. Knock-knock.

Elvis went still. The smile stayed, but it froze. The girls didn't notice; they kept laughing, talking over each other. He raised a hand with a gentle, almost polite gesture.

"Hold on, ladies. One second."

The door opened before he could answer. Red burst in like the law was on his heels. His face was flushed, sweat at his temples, hair a mess.

Elvis didn't stand up. Not yet. He just looked at him.

"Red." His voice was low, dangerous.

"What?" Red swallowed. He looked at the girls. Then at Elvis. And he understood instantly what he was seeing: the "Party Elvis" was standing there like a mask, but the man underneath was in pieces.

"I need to talk to you... alone." Elvis didn't blink; he didn't make a scene. He just smiled again, charming, as if he were about to tell an anecdote.

"Stay comfy right here, ladies. Room service is comin’… I’ll be back in a sec…"

"Aww, E—" one protested, but he kissed her fingers with a fake tenderness that disarmed them.

"Come," he said to Red. His voice was flat, dry.

Red entered. Joe, who had caught the shift in the air from across the room, moved without being asked. "I'm coming with you."

Elvis didn't even look at him. He was already heading for the bedroom, crossing the suite with firm strides. Red followed. Joe closed the door.

In the living room, Sonny stayed with the girls, laughing. "Well ladies, the boss has business to tend to, but don’t worry… there’s plenty of Sonny to go around!"

The girls' laughter was the soundtrack until the bedroom door clicked shut.

And then... the theater collapsed.

Elvis slumped for a second... just a second. The smile vanished like a light being switched off.

"Talk."

Red held up the envelope, still out of breath. "I went to the house... the parents were gone, the place looked empty. I thought I went there for nothing..." Red held the envelope up higher. "But... the Holy Spirit showed up."

Elvis narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Red handed him the envelope without a word. Elvis tore it open. He pulled out the paper. He unfolded it.

Silence.

At first, he just read. His eyes raced across the lines, desperate. He swallowed hard. His jaw tightened.

Then, suddenly, his shoulders slumped for a beat... and that beat was long enough to be frightening.

"No... no..." he let out a dry, horrible laugh. "Don’t fuck with me man."

Joe stepped closer, trying to see the header. "What is it?"

Elvis didn't answer. He looked at the paper again. And that’s when it changed. He crushed the receipt against his palm.

"'Spiritual retreat'." The voice came out with a dry, ugly laugh. "'Beneficiary'..." he read again, the name of the place feeling like it was breaking his teeth, "...a goddamn convent."

Red opened his mouth to explain, but Elvis cut him off with a look.

"No. Don’t tell me nothin’.” He holds up the paper. “It’s right here. I see it.”

Joe tried to be the voice of reason. "Where did you get this, Red?"

Red tried to speak, but Elvis looked down again. He decided the explanation didn't matter yet. Only that number. That concept. That trail.

Elvis crumpled the receipt. He balled it up until the paper crunched like bone.

“He’s payin’ with my money.”

Joe held up his hands, trying to stand between Elvis and the explosion he knew was coming. "Okay, okay. That means we have a trail. It’s good, Elvis. It’s good because—"

"GOOD?" Elvis spun around suddenly. "“Ya tellin’ me it’s good they locked her up and they’re stealin’ from me?”

Joe didn't flinch, but he lowered his tone. "I'm saying now we can find her. That’s what matters."

Elvis looked up. And in his eyes, there was no longer sadness. There was something worse: fury laced with guilt.

“I’m out there—” he thumbs toward the living room “—pretendin’ I’m havin’ a blast… with girls, with music, with the whole circus…” he laughs, but no humor “…and she’s locked away. And God knows what kinda conditions they got her in.”

Red took a cautious step toward him. Elvis caught him in a millisecond. The question came out like a prayer with a blade behind it.

"Where, Red? Tell me where."

Red shook his head, still breathing hard.

Elvis paced the room like a cornered animal. Joe stood between Elvis and the door—not to stop him, but to keep him from charging into the living room and wrecking the suite in front of the girls.

Elvis rubbed his face and stood still for a moment, where the only sound was the muffled music from the other room.

Joe lowered his voice, speaking with cold logic:

“We’re gonna do somethin’, but careful-like. First: locate her. Second: get her out. Third: we’ll fight the rest of the world later.”

Elvis turned, the rage rising again, now more dangerous because it finally had a target.

"'Locate her...'" he whispered, "...'and get her out'."

One hand trembled. The other curled into a fist.

“I’m gon’ tear that goddamned old son of a bitch apart.”

Joe didn't let him fall into the impulse. He leaned in, almost whispering. "Steady, Elvis. If you make a wrong move, he’ll know before you do. And then he’ll move her. Or hide her deeper."

Elvis blinked, breathing hard through his nose. It was clear he was struggling... because being calm felt like losing.

Red, trying to steer the fury toward the plan, blurted out: "So... where do we start looking for this convent without raising any alarms?"

Joe looked at him for a second, thoughtful, and then that spark appeared: the one he got when he saw a crack in the wall. He lowered his voice even more, as if the suite had ears.

"Alright. Listen..." he looked at both of them. "I have an idea."