Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Loren, Celia

  “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 7 p.m. 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. 7 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 keep speaking 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 Zaida 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.

  “It's perfect.”

  “Good. Very good,” Zaida was briefly pleased. Then her eyes oozed down Romy's body with that same look of cool appraisal that Lefty had first used. Romy was frightened, but she wouldn't show it here. After all—wasn't her incredible gumption, her fearlessness, all a piece of the drive that had gotten her to where she was now? She'd done the unusual before. She led an unusual life, after all.

  As they clambered back towards the lodge, Zaida prattled on about more job details: “You will have wax, twice a month at least. You will be beautiful, and you will be silent—deal cards, smile, look sexy. This is job. You be paid in cash bonus every evening, plus paycheck every Saturday before shift. You are on time, you are comported, you keep mouth
shut. Yes?” She slid the faux-door shut behind them. They were back in the lodge once more.

  Romy gripped her uniform by the hanger. There it was again: this condition of silence. Why was it so important that her job be secret? She felt strange, but there was no turning back from here. An unusual life, an unusual life...she murmured this to herself like a mantra. To Zaida, she said:

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  The woman whirled on her heels, leading them up and out of the tunnel once more.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kellan Vaughn looked out at the bright world. He could distinguish no faces, only the shadowed outlines of fifty plus screaming souls. The thump of the bass guitar beside him onstage was the only thing keeping him grounded, his only anchor to the earth. It sure was funny, he figured. How rocking out never got old.

  Kellan leaned forward, letting his long brown bangs brush the tip of the microphone. He crooned the sweet words of The Prattle's most popular ballad:

  I said I'd be yours forever

  you said that you'd stay with me

  But when we make promises

  it's hard to see, yeah it's hard to see...

  The rest of the band continued behind him, wailing away on their various instruments: Kimya on the drums, Art on the rhythm guitar, J.C. on bass. Kellan was The Prattle's front man, as well as the effective source of all the screaming—it was his creaky electric guitar, and his radio-friendly lyrics that had captured the hearts of certain diehard club girls throughout the Pacific Northwest. Well the lyrics, the guitar, and his uncanny resemblance to an early 70s Mick Jagger—full pink lips, stringy hair and all.

  The Prattle wasn't technically on the radio yet, but their following was devoted. And hey—Kellan was enjoying the climb. All he really wanted to do was make music.

  As he prepared for the ending chords of their final song, Kellan scanned the crowd once more, out of habit. Wailing teenyboppers screamed as his eyes flickered over them all in turn. While he loved the groupies, this band leader had learned long ago to search for meaningful relationships off the road. That truly special woman, he knew, would be harder to find.

  Just as he supposed he'd seen all there was to see in the crowd, Kellan noticed something unusual: a tall figure wearing sunglasses in the back row. An unlit cigarette dangled from the man's lips, and there was something familiar about the illuminated outline of his helmet-hair. Then, Kellan's face cracked a grin in recognition: he ought to have known this fool anywhere. The enigmatic Bryson Vaughn, older brother and general badass, was here to see the rock show. This was a first.

  The group hurried through their outro, sensing that Kellan was atypically distracted. As soon as the last song had ended, the frontman leapt into the crowd and made for the bar. Bryson was sitting there, his back now turned to the stage. He nursed a bottle of Coors.

  “What the hell, man?” Kellan said, giving his brother a playful shove. “Let a guy know next time. Surprising a musician is like distracting a driver on the highway.”

  “With about as much at stake, I take it,” said Bryson, peering down his sunglasses. “Though you did sound good up there. I must say.”

  “Glad you enjoyed the show,” Kellan said. At this moment, a tall woman with soft-looking waves of kinky hair sidled up to his elbow: “Umm...Mr. Vaughn? Can I...can I have your autograph?”

  “Can you give me a minute, sweetheart?” Kellan turned back to his brother, and the girl skulked away.

  “That didn't even look hard for you,” said Bryson, sucking on his teeth as he watched the pretty girl saunter away. “Gotta love the rock star life.”

  “I'm guessing it's a bit like being a biker badass,” laughed Kellan. He signaled the bartender for a round.

  “Funny you should bring that up,” Bryson said slowly. Kellan glanced up at his companion just then. For all of his enigmatic, tall-dark-and-handsome nonsense, he had always been able to read his older brother. The trick was—when Bryson showed up out of the blue, he usually wanted something.

  “What is it, Bry? You in some sort of trouble?”

  “It's not me! And I take offense at your assumption.”

  “Then what? I don't have a lot of time for your shenanigans these days.”

  “Shenanigans?” Bryson touched his chest in mock hurt. “Since when have I ever had a shenanigan? Do you shenanigan? Doesn't 'The Prattle' shenanigan?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. You know the name wasn't my idea.”

  At long last, Bryson lit his cigarette. The two men sipped for a moment in silence.

  “It's Dad's plan, actually. There's this casino on the Strip—say, does the name 'Lefty DiMartino' mean anything to you?”

  Kellan pinched the center of his forehead between two fingers. “Maybe. He's a real nasty piece of work, something like that?”

  “Very nasty. And the Aces want him out of the picture.”

  “I see. But Bry—” Kellan turned to look his brother full in the face. “Why would you need me for something like that? I mean, why are you here?”

  Bryson took a drag of his smoke. “I do need you, Kel.”

  “Little old me?”

  There was something of an ancient wound between the two brothers, though neither would have ever admitted to this. Bryson, golden boy that he was, had been culled early as his father's eventual replacement in the Devils Aces motorcycle club. Bryson had been allowed to leave school and start working in the club body shop, all while learning how to navigate and manage the various businesses taken out in the Ace's name. Hughie V had never granted Kellan—skinny and sensitive as he was in high school—the chance to prove his mettle, calling him always “the artist.” It was true, Kellan had neither the gift of muscle nor the impulse to harm so much as a butterfly, but he was smart, and he loved his family. Though he loved his band, he could never pass up the chance to do something for the family.

  “There's also...well, there's a complicating factor,” Bryson was saying now, his lips wrapping around the bottle of beer. “And before you say anything—yes, it's a woman.”

  “A woman? Not plural? One in a million? That doesn't sound like you!”

  “It isn't like me, Kel. But she's—” ...Romy Adelaide Romy Adelaide Romy Adelaide...

  Bryson had half-expected to wake up Sunday morning the same man. Okay, Romy had been pretty, intelligent, and kind, but there were women like her in every city, weren't there? He managed to forget them all, when work took priority. But in this case, his brain wouldn't believe—sure enough, waking up that morning in the cruddy motel room where the Aces had put him up, far off the Sunset Strip, he'd rolled over into the cool expanse of untouched sheet and felt deeply alone.

  The night before, in his dreams, he'd brought Romy back to his room. They'd exchanged no words. He'd begun by kissing the flesh rising out of her leather bustier, letting his cracked lips dwell in the softness of her skin. He'd snaked his tongue down between the fork of her cleavage while his hands had reached up to untie the stays of her corset. In three neat weaves, her top had found its way to the floor.

  In the dream, Romy had been shivering with nerves; he'd gathered her body into his with tender arms until she leaned into his touch. Then he'd laid her across the bed and gazed down at the soft, exposed expanse of her chest. He'd nuzzled her ear, kissing his way along the skin of her neck, moving down. At last, she'd cooed his name softly, elongating the first syllable: Bryyyyyson. Bryyyyyyyson. Ohhh, Bryyyyyyyson.

  He'd mounted her then, gripping the cage of her slim waist between powerful knees. She'd reached up to unbutton his own shirt, her fingers feverish, fast. Then she'd tilted her beautiful blonde head forward and sucked hard on the muscles and hair trailing downwards, towards his heavy member. He'd arced his back into her kisses, barely able to keep from bursting. He'd reached down to rub the base of her neck, then further, further...until he was grasping at her swollen breasts again. “Baby...” she' d murmured, right into his pecs. And then...

  He'd woken up.

  “BRY? BRY?
COME IN, BRY? Jesus!”

  “What? I'm here!”

  “So there's a girl, huh?” When Bryson turned his head, he saw that several other bar patrons—including most of The Prattle—were giggling at his starry-eyes. “So, throw us a bone. What's her name?”

  He probably shouldn't say, he figured. The mission to come would necessitate discretion and secrecy. But for some reason, Bryson couldn't quell the urge to form the letters and sounds of her name just then. Perhaps the others before him could be made reverent, hearing the name he'd come to find so exquisite.

  “Romy Adelaide. She's a blackjack dealer at a Lefty joint, and she's in particular trouble.” Speaking her into truth, Bryson smiled to himself. Imagining her at work was almost enough to pull her from the lip of his dreams into reality. He took a jolly sip of his drink, before turning to his brother.

  “So, my brother. In the name of love and justice: are you in, or are you out?”

  If the look on Kellan's face was peculiar now—and he did seem slightly pinched, somehow taken aback—Bryson didn't think too much of it. His brother had always been the unusual sheep in the family; no amount of rock star success was bound to change this. Kellan kept the furrowed brow on his face perhaps a beat too long for comfort, until he said: “Let me just go tell the band. I'm in.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At 7 p.m. sharp that Saturday, Romy Adelaide rapped on the door of hotel room 607. Her hair was plastered flat with gel and sheer willpower, and the rest of her blonde waves fanned from the top of her head in a cheerleader's ponytail. It had been awhile since she'd made the time to straighten her locks—Romy was surprised to learn that her mane was now long enough to brush the tip of her “skirt.”