by Loren, Celia
CHAPTER TEN
After an hour of play, four men remained in the tournament.
Earlier, Romy had watched another female blackjack dealer finish her games. A skeletal man with a laugh like a donkey's bray had gripped the woman by her shoulders and all but pushed her towards the elevator. A trail of other high-rollers had high-fived the creep on his way to the exit.
It must've been early, but Romy could spare no attention for the time. All she could concentrate on was the game before her. The outcome, it seemed, would decide her fate. She could feel Lefty and Zaida's eyes on her, during different moments of play. So as not to be distracted, she kept her own gaze all but pinned to the green felt.
To make matters worse—after Blonde Businessman Number One had made his outburst, a small crowd of hanger-ons had come to watch the rest of the game. Like a movie audience they clapped and booed at each elimination, leaving Romy feeling like a chained lion in a ring full of gladiators.
“Black. Jack.” This was the old-school rapper, who'd been silent up to now. He seemed respectful enough, if worse came to worse—but then, worse couldn't come to worse. Romy reminded herself: she wasn't just being ogled, she was being auctioned off. And the idea of being anyone's—even Bryson's—glittery sex prize from a game of chance made the bile rise in her throat. She never agreed to this.
The rapper's win had seen the elimination of the ancient businessman—who'd busted after splitting 8's and not getting the cards he'd needed to beat Romy's 9 up-card—in the same round, and this left two remaining adversaries: Bryson, who'd broken a small but perceptible sweat in the space at Romy's right hand, and...The Dap.
“Hot dog!” The Dap shouted now, with unrestricted glee. “Gonna get me some lovin in the oven tonight!” The more he drank, the more grotesque the man became. He'd managed to alienate the whole table with remarks variably rude, bigoted, and generally disgusting. Still, security had not been summoned to remove him from play. Romy took note—as she supposed both Lefty and Zaida did, hovering elsewhere around the Needle—of the man's fat stack of chips he'd initially brought to the table. He may well have been the wealthiest client at the casino that night. If this was the case, Romy knew his wishes would be placated—no matter what the cost.
“You know the rules, gentlemen,” Romy stuttered to the table. She shuffled her KEM cards. Sent up an anonymous prayer: please oh please, God—let Bryson stay in. She dealt swiftly. The men eyed the cards in front of them and seemed to settle deeper into their seats, with new conviction.
The Dap let out a belch mixed with a chuckle. And for an instant, Romy let herself imagine this man moving violently inside of her, a lecherous grin on his face, his sweaty belly rolling across her body. To love The Dap would be her rock bottom, surely. In no uncertain terms, she would rather die. And so she dealt the cards.
“AND, SUCKS TO BE YOUR ASS-MAR, Dr. Dre!” the monster slurred. The rapper was slinking away from the table with an amount of apology in his tread; he'd been third to last to be eliminated. Had she imagined it, or had a player who'd just lost $50,000 shot her a look of pity above his own black sunglasses? In any case, his shoulders swung low as he moved beyond her sight.
The two remaining contestants faced each other: Bryson to her right, The Dap to her left. Zaida was walking slowly towards the table. She spoke in a low voice, but the crowd of onlookers didn't crane to hear her speech. They all seemed to have heard her words before.
“For two remaining, there is new stake. New buy in is fifty-thousand, minimum bet is $2,000 per hand. Winner takes all, but both of you reap reward,”—with a sweep of her hand, she invoked Romy—“which is to say, winner take other players' money—$150,000 after casino's take. If he want. But if he want dealer, as prize, and chips in front of him—then loser will have what winner discards. Understand?” The Dap chuckled. Bryson clutched the table felt tighter. Zaida bent low over the players, like a matador. A new, malicious smile curled across her lips.
Bryson had been playing well all night, but he lacked the ease of his current opponent. He was hyper-attentive, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense, his eyes scarcely left his cards. Romy kept glancing his way for confirmation, encouragement, a grin...anything—but the biker's concentration wouldn't break. It made the match seem all the more frightening—what was he up to? What would really happen at the end of this game? What if her dark knight couldn't—wouldn't—save her?
“Deal me in, cutie,” The Dap said. He oozed back in his chair. No, Romy told herself. Bryson wouldn't just be here for the money. He's going to win. She inhaled sharply through her nose, and laid out the first hand.
The men were silent for a long spell. Bryson doubled-down on his 3, 6 against Romy's 5 up-card. She dealt him an Ace to make a soft 20, and he waved his hand to stay. The obese buffoon wanted in on the action, the alcohol clearly clouding his judgment. He also called to double-down on his pair, a 2 and a 10 against Romy's 5, a foolish move. The man stared at Bryson as he moved two more orange chips onto the table behind his first bet; and Bryson met the man's gaze with steely resolve. They regarded each other like lions in a pit, like fighters circling...
“Twenty. One.” the slovenly man said smugly, as Romy dealt him the 9 he needed to clinch his Hail-Mary play. She dealt herself a 10, and a 2 and stood on 17—both players won. Bryson was visibly pissed, the man just made a fucking stupid play and came out on top anyway.
“What d'ya say, young fella, we up the minimum bet to get this thing over with fast? A gentlemen's agreement?” he said, gulping the last of his drink and taking the ice and sliver of lime down as well. “If I don't fuck soon, it's not gonna happen.” he chuckled, patting his bulbous belly. Romy's skin felt like it was about to crawl off her body.
“Sure, $5,000 minimum bets.” Bryson agreed, shaking the fat man's hand.
Bryson placed five orange chips in the circle in front of him. The other man placed ten, and sat back with hands folded on his belly smirking at Bryson. Bryson upped his bet to $10,000 as well and Romy dealt the cards. Two 7's to Bryson, two 10's to the fat man, and a 3 up-card to herself. She peeked at her hole card, an Ace. Bryson made the appropriate move in this situation and split his 7's, offering up another $10,000 to see two more cards at least. Romy dealt a 4 to his first 7 to make 11 all together, he offered up another $10,000 to double-down. Her heart was racing and she fought to steady her hands as she dealt the next card. Bryson had $30,000 on the table, he was about to gamble it all on this hand. With a great sigh of relief she dealt him a Queen to make it 21. As long as she didn't deal herself 21 he'll have made at least another $20,000 to pad his bankroll.
She dealt a 3 to his second 7, and he pushed another $10,000 up to double-down. Romy pulled a Jack out of the shoe and placed it sideways on top of Bryson's 3, 7 cards to make 20. Her dark knight had $40,000 sitting on the felt, not leaving much of a buffer if he were to lose these hands.
The fat man was getting upset now, and had already worked his way through two more Johnny and Cokes while Bryson was taking all the action. In his inebriated state, he decided to take a gamble. “Fuck you kid, you think you can push me around with a couple lucky hits? Well I can get lucky too, this bitch'll see just how lucky I can get soon enough.” And with that he pushed another $10,000 beside his original bet to split the 10's in front of him.
Romy knew that any self-respecting blackjack player knows to never ever, ever split 10's, no matter what—unless you're counting cards, which this man clearly was not. She split the man's cards and dealt him a 6 on top of the first 10. “FUCK” the man screamed, clearly unhappy with his 16. He pushed another $10,000 to double-down, an impossibly stupid move, and Romy dealt him an Ace to make a hard-17, and knowing he'd pushed his luck to the limits, The Dap was satisfied with the draw.
Romy dropped a Jack on top of the man's second 10, and much to her surprise he chose to split these again. She dealt a 2 on his second 10 and he doubled-down to receive a 6 to make it 18. She dealt a 3 on his Jack and he tried
to double-down but had no more chips left, and still took a hit receiving a 4 to make it 17. The man seemed quite happy with himself, even though his entire bankroll was on the table at this point. It was all up to the dealer now.
Romy flipped her hole card over, she knew it was an Ace, giving her a 4 or a soft-14 with her 3 up-card. She dealt another card from the shoe, a King, giving her a hard-14. She looked in Bryson's direction, she could tell by the look on his face that the anticipation was killing him as much as it was her. She closed her eyes as she pulled another card from the shoe and flipped it over.
For a dizzying moment, she couldn't register what had just happened. Romy kept her eyes shut tight. She waited for the room to tell her—she listened for the inevitable groans of pleasure an audience might make, imagining a man like The Dap and a woman like her in bed. Then:
“You. God. Damn. Sonofabitch!” roared her vision's offender. Romy opened her eyes. She'd dealt herself a 6 to make 20, beating all of The Dap's hands, but Bryson's 21 still won, and he pushed on his 20. Bryson was standing, The Dap jumped out of his seat to standing: they squared off toe to toe. Titus and another security guard had materialized from the room's sides; both now flocked towards The Dap. They pinned his arms to his side.
“Why dontcha pick, ya goddamn HUSTLER? He was CHEATING! Sonofabitch was counting CARDS! I saw it!” The tattoos on Bryson's neck were bulging with his muscles. He looked as if he was about to say something, but a quick glance at Titus stopped his voice.
“I said PICK, motherfucker! You want the money, or the whore?” The Dap leaned toward Romy again. “Look at her. She's not so special. Why don'tcha take the cash, filthy no-good Chris Angel-looking creep? Everyone can see that's what you're here for! You probably need it!” He spat in Bryson's direction, though his aim was wild. “Walking like you belong in here, fucking white trash motherfucker. When we can all see who you are.”
With a well-turned flick, Bryson moved the dark sunglasses off his face. For the first time, Romy could see that his eyes were moist. His face was sweatier than she'd imagined. He was trembling. Engraged.
“I want the dealer,” her hero spoke. Then he shot The Dap a look so hateful that the man looked briefly startled. “Why don't you take the money, you fat piece of shit? Spend it on some fucking liposuction or a gym membership for Christ's sake. Better hope I don't see your fat fucking ass out in public.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Everything happened quickly after that. Zaida, the grin still strung across her lips, took Romy's sweaty hand and joined it with Bryson's. His hand was also moist, but his grip was surprisingly strong. She allowed herself to relax into this.
Her last vision of The Dap was of him scooping chips into a leather purse, like someone robbing a bank might. Security still flanking him on his way out.
Men high-fived Bryson on his way out, just as they had when the other winners went off with their prizes. Zaida bade them farewell at the elevator. She leaned in to Romy, and breathed into her ear—“Is easy tonight. He handsome, this one.” With one hand, she extracted Romy's watch from her clutch and slid it back onto her wrist. “Next Saturday. You do well, tonight, we watch. We know.” With a lingering cackle, the doors slid shut in front of her face. Romy hadn't even had a chance to pan the room for Lefty. She wondered if he'd snuck his way back downstairs, to his lair.
Once they were alone, Romy collapsed against the elevator walls, suddenly exhausted. Her body ached with the strain of prolonged tension. She could feel tears coming on; she didn't have the strength to keep them at bay.
“I'm so stupid,” she murmured, letting her body slide down the elevator wall. They were shooting down rapidly, bound for room 607 again. It would be like The Needle had never happened. Perhaps she could dream this nightmare back into fiction.
“Hey. Hey, girlie, get up,” Bryson knelt before her. He gripped her fingers tight in his. She took him in again from this angle: the juts of his knobby knees opening, muscular thighs trailing to a central place. His nails were cropped short, and clean. Up close, the pools of his eyes were no longer frightening, but connoted his strength. She thought of waking up to this face.
Close quarters with Bryson Vaughn would have been romantic in any other situation, but presently Romy only felt shame. She wanted to get as far away from this man as possible. He'd saved her, yes. She felt deep things, things it hadn't occurred to her to believe in, while held in his sight. But all too soon in their “courtship,” he was seeing her at her worst. She shuddered against him. Began to full-on weep.
“Romy,” Bryson spoke firmly to her now. “You're not stupid. Anyone might have been fooled by that proposal. You're a special, intelligent woman, and your only crime is trusting the wrong people. They took advantage of you.”
“I just can't believe I—”
He put a steady finger to her lips. “You're being watched, remember.” He pulled Romy slowly to her feet. With a roll of his eyes, he indicated a spot on the elevator's ceiling somehow eerily similar to that hunk of wall on the casino's main floor. Without knowing quite why or how, Romy felt sure this patch of sky reported directly to a security camera. That security camera, she knew, was probably fluttering its feed high in Lefty DiMartino's secret lodge.
The elevator landed, finally, at its destination: the silent abyss that was room 607, now dark and shadowy in the moonlight. Vegas still glittered below, but closer to the ground Romy felt safer. More at home. After all, Paulette and the others were presumably puttering just a few floors below their feet.
“Why do you think we're 'being watched?'” Romy whispered. But Bryson was already pulling her along the sixth floor corridor. He moved fast, making it difficult for Romy to follow in her teetering leather boots. She was too drained by this point to protest. They stopped after a short trot in front of the largest suite on the sixth floor—room 668.
“This is my room,” Bryson said. He sounded confident. For a moment, Romy might have laughed—in any other situation, this would be the romantic before-the-door-shuts-goodnight-kiss moment. Would she ever have the chance to date her hero? He was surely all business, playing his blackjack cards in The Needle. Beautiful women had tottered all around him up there, shoving breasts and ass and leg in his face—he'd taken no notice of any of them. She felt foolish again. Like a girl on prom night. It was still too much to stomach—how she, a smart girl with going on two advanced degrees—had been bamboozled by human-trafficking gangsters.
Suddenly, Bryson kissed her. He lurched forward like an exhausted man, letting his lips press fast and hard against her own open mouth. Romy nearly protested, but the words wouldn't quite form. She was dazed.
And for a second, there came the smell of him—thick and musky, like how she imagined the scent of great warriors of an ancient world...a medieval knight or a conquering Roman Praetorian Guard returning from battle. His stubble tickled but his kiss felt amazing...with all the passion and urgency of a young man, but the care and attention of someone with practice. He reached up to hold the back of her head, tilting her blonde ponytail playfully to the side. Romy sank into his arms, giving in.
But as soon as it had begun, the kiss was over. Bryson was glancing furtively up and down the hallway, little shreds of panic moving in his eyes. Romy heard footsteps. Quickly, her hero removed a key card from a pocket below his lapel. He pushed her first into the dark suite, then followed fast behind. The door clanged shut behind them.
“I need you to walk around while you talk to me,” Bryson was saying as he paced the room. “They could be watching us from anywhere.” With his fingers, he probed along the walls. His eyes moved fast across every cranny in the room.
“Why? What are you looking for?”
“Romy, please.”
And so she paced.
“Try to look...sexy. Look like you're seducing me.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Bryson.”
“JUST DO IT.” The edge in his voice was menacing. He paused for a beat and stared point-
blank at a spot over the door, as if propelled by animal instinct.
“What are you so afraid of now? You have me. You won, right?”
Bryson wheeled about, inches from her face. His own body was shiny with the effort of his hunt, the speed of their walk. She'd never seen him so serious. “Let's get one thing straight: I'm not afraid of anything. But nobody's won yet. Listen to me. You're in a great deal of danger. Sit down on the bed.”
Still dazed, Romy did. He kept murmuring.
“They know you're smart. Lefty DiMartino knows he took a chance, hiring a statistics major to be his prostitute du jour. Now spread your legs.”
“How did you—? Bryson!”
“Look at me,” he said, holding her gaze once more in that safe, consoling way he had. His voice was plaintive now. “I wouldn't do this to you. Please know that I wouldn't do this to you, ever. I wouldn't do this to any woman who didn't want it.”
Yet he moved closer. The pads of his feet on the carpet were silent. Romy felt a new fear now, one similar to the repulsion she'd known when she imagined making love to The Dap. But if Bryson was going to force her into anything...which he couldn't possibly be about to do...well, that changed everything again, didn't it? Who exactly was she supposed to trust?
Now, he was kneeling before her, speaking straight into the open expanse between her legs. She trembled. The leotard was especially snug about her nether regions, and sheer—with moisture, more so.