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

40. What a Lovely Way to Burn

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... 

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"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.