Las Vegas

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Las Vegas is, and always has been, Trina's kind of town -- glitzy, bright, unapologetically brash and loud and thoroughly unashamed. But her favorite thing about Vegas (which no one who knew her would be likely to believe, if she were likely to admit it, which she's not) is that there's a certain degree of anonymity possible there. She can walk

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[dead_hooker_2]

Screen
Vegas is a good town for celebrities to party in. Unfortunately, Chad Witherspoon hasn't felt much like partying lately.

(This is besides the fact that partying on the Vegas circuit really doesn't fit with the Chad Witherspoon image.)

"So if he asks again, just tell the guy from the Sun that I'm happy for him," he is saying, as he walks into the green room; and then he looks up, and sees Trina.

His eyes widen.

"Trina Echolls?"

"Who?" says his agent, on the other end of the line.

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It's not really fair to say that Trina wasn't expecting to see him, because, really, she hasn't though about it enough to be expecting to see or not see anyone, but if there were a list of people Trina wasn't expecting to see, her ex-boy-band-member ex-boyfriend would be at the top.

"Chad? Oh my God. Nobody told me you were going to be here."

There's an oh-so-Hollywood one-armed hug and kiss to the cheek. The kind of greeting that more or less indicates you've met once (or thought about meeting) before.

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"Larry, I'll call you back," Chad tells his agent, during the process of being kissed, and snaps the phone shut - with panache - before stepping back to look at her appreciatively.

"Trina Echolls," he repeats. "How long has it been since I've seen your face - it must have been four years, at least."

He's not counting magazine covers.

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Trina knows good panache when she see it, and grins.

"Eight, but who's counting?" she corrects, not counting magazine covers, tabloids, red carpet arrival shows, most episodes of Entertainment Tonight, album covers, an episode of Behind the Music, and that ill-advised cameo in that teen movie flop.

"You look marvelous, Sweetie. How've you been?"

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"Oh - you know. The daily round," says Chad, with the sad and nobly disillusioned smile that had featured on at least a quarter of those album covers. "I won't bore you with the details."

Besides, at least 95% of America has heard them already, in full gory detail.

"And you, of course, have just gotten more gorgeous every day since I saw you last," he adds, gallantly.

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"Thank you," she say. Trina knows how accept a compliment, and yes, flattery can get you pretty much any place you want to go. Within reason.

But her face takes on look of world-weary concern that she uses when talking about things like any member of ther family, living or dead, in response to the sad and nobly disullisioned smile.

"I was sorry to hear about you and Jerrica," she says. "And, you know, the break up of the Ümlüats. But you can do better, honey. Than all of them."

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Chad ducks his head, with the humility that marked him as the sensitive, poetic member of the now-defunct Pretentious Ümlaüts. He is obviously sincere as he says, "It means a lot to hear you say that.

"Jerrica - she was a big part of my life, you know, but she's got to go her own way. I wish her every happiness, I really do."

This is possibly less sincere, but you couldn't tell from Chad's tone, which conveys just the right amount of sorrowful tolerance.

"But enough about me," he continues, his voice shifting to earnest concern. "How have you been holding up? I was so sorry to hear about your father; the world lost something when he passed, it really did."

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Yes, it did. Just what it lost is probably up to debate, but most of it is, frankly, irrelenvant to Trina.

A slight shrug and a very small smile. "I'm all right," she says. "And thanks. I'm just glad they cleared his name before . . . well, before it happened."

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A solemn and understanding nod.

"I thought about sending condolence flowers, you know," Chad confesses, "but I'm glad I got to see you in person, instead. It's much more - real this way."

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"I barely saw most of the flowers anyway," she says, "there were so many. But thanks."

A half-smile.

"Well, aren't we being gloomy?" she asks, aiming for self-depreciating, and almost making it. "Surely we have something, I don't know, happy, to talk about."

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A short pause.

"Well," Chad says, finally - still wearing his Sensitive and Poetic face - "we could talk about how I'm going to beat you in poker."

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An arch of an eyebrow, and then a grin. "Oh?" she says. "And how, exactly, do you plan to pull that off?"

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A grandiose, arm-spreading gesture.

"With my mad skills, of course."

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"So you've acquired mad poker skills in the past eight years? Well, this I'm looking forward to. After all, I'm not the one who wound up naked last time we played."

At least, not until well after the game was over.

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Maintaining an almost constantly tragic expression over a period of eight years gives one marvelous eyebrow control.

This Chad proceeds to demonstrate, raising his eyebrows eventually.

"How do you know that wasn't the plan?"

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It's all about the eyebrow control, really.

"Because, Chad, I can't think for a moment that any twenty-year-old guy ever came up with a plan that resulted in his being the naked one, rather than his girlfriend."

Even a sensitive tragic emo poet type.