Secret Love - The King & His Forgotten Queen (E.P)

Pretty Good For A Southern Boy

Elvis thought Demi was beautiful, just like most men did. But most men didn’t get to see what Demi went through to create the elaborate photos most men saw her appear in. He watched from the sidelines as she was poked and prodded, pulled in and out of different clothes, - though, unfortunately for him, Elvis didn’t see what was coming out of said clothes - had makeup applied and wiped off again in the blink of an eye. But then, after what Elvis thought was quiet traumatic and made what he did suddenly feel a whole lot easier, he watched Demi create her beautiful photos. She was poised and graceful and he could see that every man in the room was madly in love with her. But he could also tell that she’d rebuffed every single one of them. He knew because it was the look the females on his movie sets gave him when he’d (politely) rejected them. They were still obsessively in love with him, but they couldn’t help but feel a bit put out that he’d chosen his leading lady – or no lady at all – over them. Finally, the shoot ended. Demi was taken out of her last outfit and reappeared in her silk nightgown. “It’s alright Molly. You and the stylists can go. I’ll manage.” Demi said, waving all the crew off who were ready to clean her up. As they all walked away, Demi turned to Elvis. “You look as exhausted as I feel.” She said, sitting at her dressing table. “It was a lot to take in. You really work hard.” He replied. Demi smiled. “I love what I do, so why wouldn’t I give it my all?” She replied, starting to wipe the makeup off. “I admire you for that. And I don’t feel I truly admire many people.” Elvis said, sincerely. Demi put her hand on his, moving her thumb round in comforting circular movements that made the hairs on the back of Elvis’ neck stand up. “Thank you. I can honestly say that you’re the only person I truly, truly admire. All these other models think because they’ve made it, they can just sit on their pretty little butts and do nothing. But you’ve been working for years now; you’ve made it and you’re still working your ass off.” Elvis smirked. “Does that mean you’ve been looking at my ass?” He asked. Demi pushed him playfully. “Can’t I have a serious conversation with you for once?” She asked, shaking her head. “Okay, okay. Sorry.” Elvis said, holding his hands up. He walked round to the back of Demi’s chair, looking at their reflections in the mirror. “What’s so funny?” He asked, noticing the smirk on Demi’s face. “I just checked out your ass; pretty good for a southern boy. And here I thought only northern city boys or Europeans had asses like that.” Elvis chuckled. “Yours ain’t too back either.” He replied, tapping what he could of her behind. She laughed dirtily. “You’re a bad boy, Elvis Presley.” She said, taking the last bit of makeup off. “Nah, honey. That’s just the animal in me.” “Or the beast?” The two of them laughed; Elvis hadn’t even realized he’d almost quoted himself.