Holly muscled Shane’s car through the side streets of Vegas at maximum speed without breaking the law. It would not do to get pulled over—not when she was missing the car keys and was lifting and propelling the chassis with her mind. Not when she was nude. She wished her hair were longer by a foot or two so it would cover her completely, Lady Godiva–style.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have the power to grow her own hair to fabulous lengths instantly, and she needed coverage. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, but she was trying very hard to think logically through what she was about to do. Kaylee had Elijah in custody by now, and she wanted Holly too. Holly would have liked to think Kaylee would let them out of captivity after she solved her bigger problems, as she’d said in her office. But who knew how long that would be? Another seven years?
Hell no.
So Holly was headed to Hoover Dam to stage her own impossible feat of physical stamina. Tourists would watch her. News crews would film her. The publicity would give her a platform. She would be in the public eye, the ultimate threat to the casino and the Res. She would report all of them and have them nabbed by a mysterious government agency, never to be seen again, if they didn’t leave her alone and let Elijah go.
If they’d feared she would overshadow her dad’s magic act at the casino when she was fourteen, they hadn’t seen anything yet.
But public relations in Vegas walked a fine line between X-rated and family friendly. Clips of her performance of derring-do would not be shown on the local TV news if she was naked.
She rounded the last residential block and set Shane’s car down in the back parking lot of Glitterati, just where Rob’s cop car had been that awful night. A few other cars told her some staff members were here to ready the club for opening. She crouched behind the wheel, eyes on the back door, working up her courage to streak. One, two, three.
She dashed across the asphalt in her high heels, the hot wind streaming cheekily across her bare bu**ocks. She jerked open the door, stepped inside, and slammed it behind her. In Vegas, jovial naked seemed less suspicious than skulking nakedly about. She called down the corridor and into the club, “Cher! Diana! Marilyn! It’s Holly Starr. I need a favor!”
“In here.”
Holly dove in the direction of the voice, through an open doorway. She almost backed out of the room again in alarm because she didn’t recognize Marilyn Monroe at first glance. He was hunched over a computer in the corner of the dressing room, only half done up. His makeup was finished and his hair was pasted back, but he hadn’t put his blond wig on, or his padded bra. He wore only boxers decorated with cat-eye sunglasses and lipsticks and stars from Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. But the most surprising thing of all was that when he spoke, he used his man voice. “Why, Miss Starr.”
“Hey,” Holly said, waving casually, keeping the other arm plastered over her ni**les. “Whatcha doing?”
“I was just googling ‘perfect ten.’ ”
Holly felt her cheeks coloring. “Oh, ha-ha, you’re sweet.” She edged over to a costume rack against the wall. With one arm still pressed to her br**sts, she raked through the hangers with her other hand. She pulled out a low-cut silver sequined minidress. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed this? And I can’t promise I’ll return it completely intact, but if I don’t, I’ll pay you back, I swear.”
Marilyn waved her concerns away. “Oh, honey, don’t worry. It’s vintage, and the lining is ripped.”
“Thanks.” Holly turned her back—which didn’t really work for her modesty, she realized belatedly, because her bottom was also naked—and wriggled into the dress.
“The way we party around Vegas, I’ve heard of a lot of bad days after,” Marilyn called, “but this takes the cake.”
“Yeah, I’ve had better.” Holly skittered across the floor toward Marilyn and turned her back again. “Zip, please.”
Marilyn’s warm fingers pressed the edges of the dress together, zipped it up, and fumbled with the clasp at the neck. Holly relaxed a little under the familiar and friendly hands of a fellow showgirl.
“There. Beautiful.” Marilyn patted Holly’s ass. “How about some underwear?”
“Oh, no thanks,” Holly said.
Marilyn’s nostrils flared. “See, you people are all the same. Trannies are dirty, right? You could never borrow underwear from a tranny.”
“I would not borrow underwear from my own mother,” Holly said honestly. She leaned forward to kiss Marilyn’s cheek—possibly the last time she would touch another human being alive. She thought she could fake walking a tightrope across the canyon at Hoover Dam, but it would have been better if she’d had time to work up to this stunt. “Wish me luck.”
Marilyn’s voice softened at Holly’s touch. “Sure, hon. Where are you off to? Big performance?”
“Turn on the local news in about forty-five minutes.”
“Really?” Marilyn asked. “You’re going to flash Channel 13?”
“I sincerely hope not. Bye, and thanks!” Holly clopped out of Glitterati and toward Shane’s car, newly confident in her formfitting spangled dress, ready to put on a show.
18
Holly had been a beautiful baby. By that time Lanie had already dyed her own hair blond. She said she looked more like a showgirl that way. Whoever heard of a brunette magician’s assistant? But Peter had liked Lanie’s hair brown, and when Holly was born with a mass of brown curls, it was like having the old Lanie back again in miniature. They took every Monday off from the show and had a picnic at Lake Mead. Lanie was afraid of keeping baby Holly out in the sun too long. She slathered Holly in sunscreen. Her excuse was that they had to think of Holly’s future career, and a career as a high-profile magician started with tight and supple skin. They couldn’t risk sun damage. Of course, Lanie wasn’t nearly as concerned about appearances as she let on. That was just for show, to keep up the casino act. Peter knew what the fuss was really about. She was overprotective of Holly, always thinking of the first baby she had lost.
But he was content to let Holly sit on the beach as long as she wanted. She was fascinated by the large-grained sand worn from the surrounding mountains, tiny rocks every color of the rainbow. She would scoop up a handful, examine it sticking to her fingers, and wash it off by waving her fat hand in the inch of water lapping at her baby toes. Strange that such sand, like a billion gemstones, could come from the dun-colored mountains. Strange that he’d likewise found Lanie among the monsters at the Res, a powerless farm girl drawn in by magic. He’d rescued her and built a beautiful life with her under Mr. Diamond’s protection and created this beautiful baby.