In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

37. Morning in Vegas

"Hey, Fred, just had this idea for the backing track on 'Ragtime Pian-'" Peter began to say as he sauntered into the room. But he trailed off once he saw the bed, which looked like we had had a very serious romp upon it.

Shooting a look of surprise at Freddie, he said a little sheepishly, "I can come back in a few minutes..."

Freddie rolled his eyes. "It's not what it looks like."

Peter held up his hands. "Hey, each to his own, man, I just seem to remember she's engaged to-"

Before Straker could finish, Freddie pushed the bathroom door open and pointed at his bed-tub.

"You be the judge," was all Freddie had to say.

Room service picked up at last, and I asked them for some tea and coffee. Freddie and Peter fed me their desired breakfasts, which I relayed to the attendant, and followed theirs up with mine.

After saying good morning to Peter, I excused myself and slipped into the bathroom to get cleaned up. Pushing the pillow and such out of the bathtub (and making absolute certain the door was locked), I showered in peace. As the warm streams of water rained down upon me, I naturally began daydreaming, playing back in my head the scene Peter had crashed. I closed my eyes, reliving how those last few kisses had made me feel. His arms... That tongue... Oh, God...

Shame on me. Think of the other people in his life, I reminded myself. What would Mary say? Or Minsy? Or whoever it is he's officially with right now?

But even that didn't make much sense. If he was in a relationship with Minsy at the moment (that's who I thought he was with, anyway, I couldn't keep track of all his lovers), why did he want me? Why should he be sexually attracted to me, a girl- and one who wouldn't know what to do should he even get that far? Not that he would. He may come close, but that can't happen. That would make things so awkward, and I don't want to be a link in a chain of loveless sex partners. If I can only choose between friendship and a hot, heavy one-night-stand, I'd rather just be his friend. Problem is, that's not what he wants.

I had no illusions about the phrase "make love." Freddie wasn't saying he was in love with me, because on Freddie's lips, those two words only meant sex. Listen to "Get Down, Make Love" and see what I mean. There's no love there, no sweetness, no kindness, no desire for any long-term relations. It's just raw, unadulterated lust. Call me old-fashioned, but I wanted more than that from a man.

All the same, that didn't mean I couldn't be tempted.

"Again, I can't tell how glad I am you're helping produce the album, Fred," Straker was saying as I stepped out. Freddie had since donned a t-shirt, and was stirring his steaming cup of tea. He glanced up and smiled, pointing theatrically at the coffee pot.

"Are you a singer too, Peter?" I asked, making a beeline for the coffee.

"Sort of. I'm a kind of stage actor mostly. Musicals, you know."

"He was in Hair," Freddie said enthusiastically, "weren't you, dear?"

"You were?" I feigned surprise. "That's so cool!"

Straker nodded, lighting a cigarette. "I played Hud."

"Did you have a song?"

"But of course! Mine was 'Coloured Spade.'"

I tried not to react. "Did you, uh- did you say 'Coloured Spade'? Not sure I remember that one."

Peter needed no further invitation. He stood and planted his legs into the floor. Throwing his head around, he launched into the song, which, if you look up the lyrics, is nothing but a long list of racial slurs and derogatory names for black people (written to poke fun at stupid prejudices, that is all). I sat there stunned and a little nervous, while Freddie clapped along to the beat. What could I do but join him. Such a politically incorrect world compared to mine. So much has changed in forty years.