by Loren, Celia
He’d recognized her immediately, of course—but the look on her face as she’d searched to place him in her memory had been too much to pass up. That was the same face she’d made the day after he hadn’t shown up for some stupid science class project back in high school: a face full of longing and intelligence and confusion. He’d never once been with a woman who made faces so complex, who allowed the world to keep them so very puzzled.
Of course in high school he’d been a cad of the highest degree—but he had noticed her. He’d noticed her blonde hair, natural and shining while the other girls’ were mini-Marilyns, made from a bottle. He’d noticed her full pink lips which never seemed to smile (again, the world was likely too puzzling a thing for a girl like her to smile about). He’d been distantly aware of her tragic childhood, which seemed to make her brains and guile the more impressive. He could also recall now plenty of time spent staring at the heavy-looking scoops of her breasts.
He didn’t date complicated girls. He didn’t really date at all. He was Bryson Vaughn, of the Devils Aces: women came his way freely, and he loved them in equal measure the way he loved bodies in general. But there was something about Romy Adelaide, the blackjack dealer at The Windsor. There was something about her inquisitive eyes the color of lake water, and her trim hips wobbling nervously above a thick ass and long, long legs. He wanted her for longer than a single night. He wanted to smell her and taste her and lick her and tease her through mornings and afternoons and evenings uncountable, because something about her face said he’d never be bored with a woman like her. And so, with a grand new resolution, Bryson Vaughn pledged to topple The Windsor. He wanted to save beautiful Romy Adelaide from all her tortures, and then he wanted to have her, and then he wanted to keep her.
Bryson kicked away his bike’s kickstand, and let the revving engine soothe what had become a massive erection pushing against his slacks. He took a deep breath of the dirty city air before shoving off into the night.
FIVE
In the locker room before shift the next day, Paulette hovered around Romy like a butterfly. While she wouldn’t come right out and ask what had taken place the night of Lefty DiMartino’s secret proposition, she made a big show of asking Romy if she needed anything. As if the trade of information was to be quid pro quo:
“Ro? You hungry? Because I made a pot roast big as I am the other morning, and if you’re hungry, I can give you half. Happily.”
“Romy, you look sleepy again, doll! Want me to cover for you on the floor tonight? I’m sure we can get you out early!”
“Ro—I got my sister tickets to Cher for next month at the Bellagio. Want to come with?”
As much as she wanted to tell her friend all the down and dirty details, Lefty’s words would not leave her head: This conversation never happened. What was that supposed to mean? Was it a threat?
And why was the VIP room such a secret endeavor, anyways? Plenty of other casinos had “secret” VIP rooms, for those celebrities, CEOs and politicians who preferred to keep their gambling addictions under wraps. She knew of girls who worked those tables—their salaries were higher and they were expected to keep quiet about whatever personal information was divulged around the table, but their very jobs weren’t a secret.
Perhaps Lefty had meant to tease her, with the whole silent treatment. Perhaps this was a form of hazing. Romy turned the evening’s events over and over in her mind, still flummoxed.
Sunday was a slow day at the casino, typically—businessmen were headed home, and locals had to turn in early for work. The biggest clients this night were usually what the floor referred to as “industry people”—casino-workers from other spots on the Strip out for a change of scenery, or sex workers and hustlers looking to spend a little of the weekend’s hard-earned dough. The Windsor was well loved on this inside track, because it was one of the more low-key spots overall. A high-roller on their blackjack floor was Bryson, as opposed to a traveling CEO paying his way through games with gold bullion. I guess everything would be different in the VIP room, Romy thought to herself. Life would likely be a lot less “low-key” if she took Lefty's offer...
Though Romy was grateful to have a quiet night to consider her options, the empty spaces on the table only served to remind her of Bryson. She would probably never see him again. He was a conjured mirage, surely—the kind of man who appeared to lonely women only in their dreams. He probably pulls that “remember me” line on everyone, Romy thought. As the hours ticked slowly by and no sign of Bryson appeared, she grew only more convinced: I need to think practically. There’s no knight in shining armor coming to save me from this life.
On her first union break of the night, Romy pulled out her checkbook. A grim, familiar list of responsibilities snaked its way down the page. First, a hunk of fall tuition was due at the end of the month. Student loan payments from her undergrad in Arizona were also just around the river bend, set to spike in January into the triple digits. There was the credit card, there was rent, and to boot, the cranky old Thunderbird had started making a highly distressing noise whenever she changed gears. More likely than not, she’d need to replace the car’s transmission in a month or so...perhaps even invest in a less-shitty car altogether.
Looking at the bills listed together like this made her sick. She felt impotent, and out of control—the only thing that kept the fiction of fine-ness intact was the predictability of the blackjack floor, where her money was stable and her days were bland. Romy glanced up at all the other industry people—bitching at the bar, grinning at the slot machines. She wasn’t even allowed these kinds of miniature indulgence. Not with lab papers to write and a future to plan for.
It occurred to Romy that last night’s brief encounter with Bryson Vaughn had been the sexiest thing to happen to her in a year or more. The un-special one night stand with the Silver Fox had been months ago, and before that she hadn’t had sex in two years. Her whole body ached almost constantly with a wish to be touched, to be held, to be wooed—and yet she couldn’t even begin to address sex or love as a concern, not when there was so much else to think about. Money was silly at root, but it sure could make a difference in her day to day. With money, she could make time to eat. She could eat more than the occasional snatched granola bars. She could extend her days at school, take an extra semester to finish all the coursework. She could start a savings account.
There were plenty of women working the Strip who did wild, humiliating things in the name of financial freedom. Romy wouldn’t judge them. And what, a two-bit gangster wanted her to prance around a VIP room dealing blackjack and flirting with the one percent? Things could be a lot worse. Hell, they were.
Romy rose as if bitten, and scanned the pit quickly for Lou Valentine. Her boss was leaning casually against a bank of slot machines, his arm curled around an unwilling-looking young woman Romy recognized as a door-girl at The Venetian. As she got closer, she overheard Lou’s sloppy come-on:
“Really, baby. You want what I got. I can make you feel better than any slob in this place.”
“Hey Lou! I bet you can!” Romy sidled up to her boss and placed a hand on his chest. He looked baffled at the attention—and, saved by the diversion, his conquest scurried away.
“That’s right, cutie. I want another meeting with Lefty. Can you make that happen for me, stat?” Romy batted her eyes. If her new job demanded that she schmooze with high-level creeps, what better way to practice than on Lou?
“Look at you, Miss Moneypenny. Want a little more change in your pocket?”
“I just like to make a good man happy,” Romy said. “I want to do that for Lefty. For all of you fine fellas.”
Lou glanced down at her hand on his chest, seeming to size her up. “I thought you were a bit too shee-shee for this line of work,” he said finally, pressing his own greasy paw against her lower back. “I’m very glad you decided to see reason.”
“So you’ll tell him? You’ll tell Lefty?”
“Will I, baby. Will
. I.” And with a twisted smirk, Lou lifted himself off the slot machine and made for the edge of the floor. He squeezed Romy’s ass in farewell. It took a heft of professional willpower to keep a horrified grimace from winding its way across her face.
In her usual way, Paulette seemed to appear out of the ether at Romy’s elbow already equipped with an eyewitness account of recent events.
“ICK. Doll, there’s nothing creepier than that man. Not on God’s green earth. I’m surprised you let him touch you like that!”
“Plenty of creeps in here, Paulette,” said Romy, swishing her hips back towards her table.
“Yeah, but remember you had that handsome fella all but dangling from your arm last night? You could do a lot better, Ro. You remember that, sweetie.”
Romy planted herself at the table and gave her supervisor an emphatic look. Paulette truly was a great friend, but she was also a mother, and the loved, respected lynchpin of a giant family at that. There was no way she could be expected to understand Romy’s choices. Paulette had been taught to always think of other people before herself.
“Babe, I could also do a lot worse,” Romy said finally. Then she glanced up at the innocuous spot in the ceiling where she knew the security camera in Lefty’s lodge to be, and she winked.
SIX
When he heard about Romy’s enthusiasm, Lefty moved their Wednesday meeting up two days. At the beginning of her Monday night shift, Lou pulled Romy into a dark corner and informed her that the boss “would be around later to talk contracts and uniform.” If uniform seemed an odd addition for a business meeting, Romy didn’t let it show on her face. After Sunday, she’d decided to show no cards about the promotion: she was merely going to be the most determined, the most adorable blackjack dealer the VIP room had ever seen. Her heart didn’t factor; this was all about the Benjamin's.
Everyone had taken notice of her shift in attitude. Paulette, Kali and Annisette each commented on her manner with the customers. While Romy was usually known as the subtle cynic of the floor team, on Monday she was aglow with praise for winners and losers alike. She complimented the Long Islanders, in their checkered suits and greased back hair. She laughed at the un-funny jokes of all the bachelor parties, throwing her blonde hair back and showing all of her teeth. That morning in Special Topics in Probability, even Professor Hinegart had taken notice of her zeal—she’d caused the poor old man to blush when she put a hand on his knee mid-tutorial.
“What’s gotten IN to her?” Paulette whispered. For gossiping purposes, the other dealers had stolen a union break when they saw Romy was wrapped up in a heated game.
“Love-sick?”
“Nope. I know for a fact that Bryson guy hasn’t popped in again.” Kali tossed her lovely hair over a shoulder.
“Ooh, child. Body that fine should have a nice—”
“Jesus, Annisette. Listen—I’m worried about her. Seen her talking to Valentine a lot lately.”
“What’s that mean? We all talk to Valentine.”
“Something smells funny is all. Will you keep an eye out? For anything unusual?” At that moment, the trio of women looked up. Romy was play-screeching as a customer picked her up and whirled her around the floor. Everyone knew blatant physical contact with a member of the casino staff was a big no-no on both ends. It was the sort of thing Romy never used to tolerate. Yet, her friends watched her giggle the high-pitched whinny of a girl gone wild. Paulette furrowed her brow.
That night, the trip down to Lefty’s lodge was far less scary—Romy even found herself remembering some of the twists along the hallway. She kept pace with Lou, almost excited to see the inside of the mysterious room again. She wondered how many times she’d get to see the lodge now, with her new promotion. Were there long evenings of seven and sevens and business chatter in her future? Maybe they’d grow close. Maybe she’d even get the chance to bend Lefty’s ear about some of his business practices—Lord knew she’d seen plenty of mathematical fallibility in the way the house ran its tables.
Yet when they got to the lodge, the room seemed different. Everything was in its same place, but the space felt colder. Titus, the security guard, was standing just inside the door. She noticed an earpiece humming busily against his head. Lefty was pacing along the bearskin rug as he stared up at the bank of monitors. He didn’t invite either Lou or Romy to sit down, to get comfortable, to drink something.
“Zaida will be taking care of you from this point, Romy,” Lefty barked, before they were all quite in speaking distance. “She’s assembling a packet of material for you. In the meantime, I trust you remember all the financial details. My personal liaison to Accounts Payable will be handling your checks; his name is Horace LaMont. I need you polished and ready to go by four pm. The staff meets in room 607, in the hotel, before every shift for a debriefing. If you’re ever late to the meeting, you can’t stay for the shift. Clear?”
Romy was disappointed that staff meetings would be taking place in the hotel—wasn’t there something a bit unseemly about that? But she muttered a quick, “Clear,” at the sight of Lefty’s expression. Any jolly warmth she’d remembered from the other night had drifted out of his voice.
“I need you next Saturday. Four p.m. In something very sexy. I assume that’s alright with you?”
Romy nodded. Lefty shot her a tight little smile before striding off the rug and past her, back toward the hallway.
“Good. Great. This is going to be swell, darling. Now Zaida—” he gestured towards the back wall—“will take excellent care of you. You speak to her about everything from now on.”
Lefty motioned to Lou Valentine, indicating that his henchman should follow. He nodded to Titus at the door, and all three men left the room. Romy was left in aggressive silence, in a seemingly empty space. Who was this Zaida? And where was she supposed to be? Romy glanced up at the security camera footage. In one close up monitor, she could see Paulette giggling something to Kali by the bar. Romy smiled at the image.
“You no need to speak with those women, anymore,” spoke a cold voice from behind. Romy rotated. So this was Zaida: the icy, silent blonde from the meeting the other day. Her accent said Eastern European. Her hair was scraped back into a severe ballerina’s bun. She was model-thin, lacking all curve. Zaida wore a pinstriped women’s suit with a plummeting neckline, and black leather boots laced past her thighs. Delicate silvery earrings spiraled down her neck, emphasizing its swan-length. She did not smile.
“Those women are my friends.”
“Hmm.”
“...so I’d like to speak with them.”
Zaida fixed Romy with a confused look: her drawn-on eyebrows skyrocketed and rejoined at the top of her forehead. But then abruptly, she seemed to lose interest. “Whatever. You follow.” The woman turned on her patent leather heel and strode backwards, past the bearskin rug. There didn’t seem to be a door where they were headed.
“Where are we—”
“You HUSH.” Zaida pressed a long, envy-green nail against a negligible spot on the wall. A slice of wall slid silently past, presenting the two women with a brightly lit dressing room of sorts. There were several standing mirrors, and various carts full of women’s make-up. Though the room was empty, it reminded Romy of all the pictures she’d seen in lady magazines of backstage life at runway shows.
For all the white, it was difficult to tell where the edges of the room were, or where the floor ended and the wall and ceiling began. Zaida strode ahead, picking her way along the aisle the mirrors made.
“You will be weighed. Weekly. One hundred and nine pounds is best.”
“What?”
Zaida glanced over her shoulder at Romy. “For uniform, yes? Must be very small. Maybe for you—one twenty, one twenty two. But no more.”
“I don’t think you can legally do that,” Romy said. She regretted this almost instantly, but Zaida had already skated past the remark.
“You will wear make-up, finally. A professional, each day for you.” Then Z
aida stopped moving for no discernible reason. The two women stood—awkwardly, Romy thought—in the center of the dressing space, before the largest mirror. Zaida began to circle her slowly.
“Your breasts—” Zaida extended her two green-painted claws and gently cupped Romy’s chest “—must take focus. Beautiful breasts, is true.” As bewildered by the groping as the fact that Zaida had given her a compliment, Romy didn’t move. She drew herself up another inch and glanced at her figure in the mirror.
“Stand just like this,” Zaida said, shuttling away from the mirror. She ducked behind a dressing table and held up an envy-green fingernail once more. “Wait! There!” In another moment, she was striding back towards Romy's side, holding a garment before her like a tray of drinks.
“What is that?” Romy asked, taking in a glimpse of the sheerest material she'd ever seen. It couldn't possibly be clothing. Up close, the item on the hanger looked like a see-through trash bag, albeit one speckled with Swarovski crystal.
“Your uniform, yes?”
“I don't—” but Zaida was already draping the “fabric” across Romy's shoulders. Further investigation proved that the object was of the leotard family, snug and skintight, made of some stretchy material. But except for two artful swirls of crystal appliqué which might as well have been pasties...it was completely invisible from the waist up.
“You like?” her new boss asked. Zaida was staring at Romy expectantly. Clearly, this was some sort of test. If she admitted to hating her new lingerie—uniform—it would likely get back to Lefty. He'd made it plain that only the casino's most brazen women were equipped for the VIP room. I made my decision when I let Lou squeeze my ass, Romy told herself. So she nodded.