Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Loren, Celia

  His own allegiance to the “family business” was dappled by the fact of his parents' early loss of faith in him. Hughie and V had taken to calling their younger son a “wimp,” and a “yellowbelly,” as early as he could remember. He hadn't been able to master a bike until sometime around his eighteenth birthday, preferring to spend his days inside, practicing guitar. Their ribbing had been mostly affectionate—they were affectionate people—but he'd felt their disappointment, deep down. So when he graduated high school and was offered only the meager position of “Club Bookkeeper,” he'd taken it only on the condition that he could leave whenever he found something he preferred to do. A year later, The Prattle was born.

  He listened to his mother crooning in the kitchen, and made out the shadow of an old, familiar mop; she was cleaning and singing, something he remembered her doing often when he was young. Had his parents been mad—or even miffed—when their youngest son had refused to come home for holidays? Surely Bryson, despite his loyalty, wasn't around much. Kellan wondered what his parent's life was like out here on the prairie, by their present lonesome. Did they still entertain drifters, transients, troubadours? Or had they...in some unusual way...come to settle down?

  There was an abrupt sound of the wooden mop flopping against a linoleum floor, and before Kellan knew what was happening he was bound up in the smoky embrace of his mother, V.

  “BABY!” She shrieked, her voice like a sick toad. “MY BABY'S HERE! LET ME LOOK AT YOU!”

  V leaned back and surveyed her son; he took the opportunity to paint his own picture. She looked mostly the same—ever sun-kissed, brown as the earth she hewed. Her crackly bottle-red hair still had the texture of Brillo, though it now hung past her shoulders. What looked like fistfuls of turquoise jewelry dangled from her ears and rested atop the flared collar of her denim vest, which was itself decorated with beads, decals, stones for days. Her tattooed blue eyeliner had slid farther still from the corners of her eyes, lending her face the slight air of a perpetually sad clown. But despite all this, he saw his mother as he'd always managed to see her: beautiful, in her way.

  V was skinny and taut from a grisly lifetime, but he still felt the warmth of flesh against him when she encircled him in her arms. She seemed equally pleased with what she saw in Kellan, and hugged him the tighter.

  “I heard you singing in there. Got some nice pipes, Ma.”

  “Oh, you BASTARD,” V said, cuffing him sharply on the shoulder. “When we all know who the Elvis is around here. Get your patootie off the porch, mister! Made three loaves of zucchini bread when I heard you was coming.”

  Suppressing a premature gag (oh, how he remembered his mother's infamous zucchini bread...), Kellan followed V over the threshold and into the house. She bustled towards the kitchen, but he took a moment to consider the inside of his childhood home.

  It smelled the same. Sharply musty, like old potpourri, a thousand stale cigarettes, and new plastic. Some of the furniture had been swapped out for newer, somehow uglier replications of the originals—the old Admiral Console TV had at last succumbed to a mounted flat-screen, it seemed—but just like his mother, the world inside seemed essentially undisturbed by a long absence. Perhaps six years wasn't so long after all, Kellan thought. This was comforting and disturbing both.

  When V returned and shoved her son into the best loved armchair in the living room (a high honor), she seemed at an unusual loss for words. She rubbed her waxy lips together and watched Kellan expectantly.

  “So.”

  “So!”

  “I hear that the music thing is treatin ya alright.”

  “It is, kinda. Yeah.”

  “Oh, don't let me interrupt. Eat the zucchini bread!” If he knew his mother at all, this was less goad than direct command. She watched him like a hawk. Accordingly, Kellan took a timid bite from the corner of his...loaf.

  “Any pretty girls?” she demanded, as soon as he'd managed to swallow a shred of the product. Her cooking hadn't improved at all.

  “What's that?”

  “Any pretty—?”

  Just then, the very fabric of the living room seemed to shudder with the anticipation of a new body. The screen door clattered shut, and a shadow filled the foyer. Judging by its girth, Kellan took this interloper to be his father. An impulse deep within compelled him to sit up straighter in the armchair.

  “VALERIE? THAT YOU?”

  “HUGHIE! IN HERE!” His parents had also not outgrown their habitual shouting to one another from close proximity.

  “SOMEONE SPECIAL TO SEE YOU!” V chirped. Her voice cracked at the top of her taunt with barely suppressed glee.

  Hughie followed his shadow into the room. As he remembered, his father was a hefty man—if anything, the article in front of him was bigger than memory. He wore his customary driving goggles and black-topped helmet. The walrus drapes of his moustache were perfectly manicured, and curled at the edges of his chin. His wet-looking stubble remained the same. At once, he cracked a grin filled with gold teeth in his younger son's direction.

  “The youngest Vaughn returns. As I live and breathe.”

  “Pop.”

  Kellan rose and hugged his father, who smelled —as usual—of Evan Williams, spearmint and a freshly extinguished Black n' Mild. He was surprised at how sentimental he was finding this encounter; for a moment, Kellan could even feel the wells behind his eyes start to produce tears. He stifled these. If Hughie and V couldn't abide anything, it was crying.

  “Valerie, get that shit out of his hand,” Hughie instructed, on seeing the zucchini bread. “Baby boy's in town, we go out. Get your bike.”

  His mother didn't even look briefly hurt; she was surely used to this sort of casual cruelty by now. Instead, she followed her already retreating husband back outside the house and onto the lawn. Kellan scrambled to follow only when he heard the whirring of two motorcycles, already prepped to make tracks.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Over a heavy dinner at the local pub Flanagan's, Hughie and V began to speak with the same fluidity Kellan remembered from childhood. The club was doing well, they informed him. Various business pursuits were being managed by top men and women, to the extent that the king and queen of the castle had been allowed to sit back and relax for the past few years. Bryson was doing a great job of intimidating the unsavory. Various promising lost women had wormed their way under V's wing, and if Kellan was willing to stick around through the weekend she'd be all too happy to introduce him...

  “I want to talk about Bryson some more,” Kellan said at last. Several beers and a hot bowl of chili had booned him the courage to speak to his parents about why he'd come back in the first place.

  “What about 'em?” Hughie asked. It was difficult to make eye contact with his father—for, like Bryson, it was a rare day when the leader of the Devil's Aces took off his motorcycle helmet and dark glasses, indoors be damned.

  “He came out to my show the other weekend and mentioned a long con you're all working. On the mob.”

  With many fanning gestures of her long red nails, V urged her son to be quiet.

  “You can't talk about that in a place like this!” she whispered.

  “Well, is it true?”

  Hughie chewed thoughtfully, taking his time. “Yeah. Yeah, it's true. What do you care?”

  “Sounds awful dangerous is all, Pop.”

  His father's eyes sparked. For a moment, Kellan felt the same fear he'd known whenever Hughie would get angry. Though his father wasn't a recklessly violent man, the way he could raise his voice and dole out an insult had historically been enough to shut up some very big men.

  “Bryson knows what he's doing.”

  “Well, won't you tell me about it?”

  “What do you care, Kelly?” his mother pleaded. She put a dry palm on his hand. “You've got your music, your brother has this. We're proud of both of you.”

  “He asked me to come in on it,” Kellan said. He took a little satisfaction from his parent's
faces when they saw this news. For why should they think he wasn't tough enough for Bryson's line of work? “He said he needed me.” The table remained shell-shocked, and Kellan found himself grasping for reasons—had he really come all the way to Reno to boast to his parents? Was he craving not only their validation, but also their shock?

  “I guess I wanted to know...from your end...what it is...I should know.”

  Hughie set his fork down, and peeled the goggles off his face with much gravitas. “Well, well, well. Valerie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Looks like we have a new addition. A new Devil's Ace to account for. You happen to have any spare leather cuts in the store room?”

  “Dad, if you're yanking my chain...”

  Hughie leaned across the table, which shifted distressingly on receiving his weight. “I don't yank chains, kid. We're thrilled to have you aboard.” He cracked the golden grin again, and then arched an eyebrow at his son.

  “This is a very dangerous assignment, baby,” V murmured. She, unlike his father, seemed less than thrilled with her son's announcement. “We have Bryson counting cards and casing a high-rolling VIP joint at a top casino on The Strip. Trying to break up a big scandal...prostitution, serious house cheating...I just want you to be prepared.”

  “He's prepared, Valerie,” Hughie boomed. “He's a goddamn Vaughn. He was born prepared.” At this, his father motioned for the check. His mother chewed her lip.

  Kellan slept uneasily that night, snug in his childhood bed. Visions of Bryson's assignment drifted through his dreams—mobsters, guns, the dark basement rooms in casinos where who knew what went on. Now that he had a firmer grasp on the elusive Vegas plan—courtesy of a night session of elaborate planning with Hughie—he was only the more afraid.

  What's more, he hadn't elected to tell his parents about Romy, fearing they'd further question his motives. Romy, who this room dredged up. He remembered sitting on this very bed with her in high school, crooning his terrible odes and trying desperately to get into her pants. It wasn't as if he'd been pining for the girl all these years, but something about the way Bryson had spoken her name in the Vegas club had ushered in a flood from his memory, and thence his imagination.

  She'd been a smart, slightly nerdy girl in high school—one of those beauties who hid behind her glasses, fending off the attention of creeps in the process. But regardless, Kellan had fallen for her personality. She was simultaneously independent and warm; cynical, but trusting. A miserable home-life had shaped her drive to leave Reno as quickly as possible (they'd had that in common), but he likewise remembered the utterly pure, earnest look in her eyes when she sat on his bed, listening to the song he'd written for her. Romy Adelaide was the type of woman who hadn't let wound ruin her capacity to love and believe. He hoped that much was still true.

  Their courtship had dissolved almost before it began for the usual reasons things had dissolved in high school: Kellan had grown shy and distant, and Romy had probably connected Kellan and Bryson as brothers. Despite the former's best efforts, Bryson—hangdog handsome man that he always was—had a built-in knack for stealing the girl. And even if he hadn't known it then (and didn't know it now), he had stolen Romy Adelaide from his younger brother, who hadn't been able to measure up to the man his teenage girlfriend had glimpsed on a motorbike weaving in and out of suburban Reno whenever was convenient for him.

  Of course, Kellan had moved on—there were many cities, many women. He'd had girlfriends for short spells and long spells. He'd written songs for plenty of beauties. But something about Romy had definitely stitched its way under his skin. Imagining her now—as a soft, supple blackjack dealer with the sexual power to render his own brother starry-eyed—was enough to pique every curious bone in his body. Was her brilliant mind intact, improved? Would she even remember him, and their fumbling kisses as children? No matter what happened, he had to see her; and if she was in trouble the way Bryson implied she was, he had to have some hand in her saving. And if he looked a little more like her typical hero—in a leather cut and black sunglasses—well, so much the better. Now besieged by new images of himself peeling away from the Strip on a bike, his lady love harnessed to the back of him, his brother calling lamely into their dust...Kellan bade his soul to calm down, to attempt sleep.

  Yet he found that his body—humming with visions of Romy in a snug casino girl's ensemble, but bearing the same deep intelligence behind her kind eyes—was unwilling. Despite the nearing danger, despite the sounds of his parent's snores across the hall...he'd gotten massively hard just thinking about Romy Adelaide. There was nothing for it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Monday was strange in that everything seemed back to normal: Romy went to class. Romy went to seminar. Romy went to the library, and made some progress on a difficult take-home midterm. One professor noted her distance—she'd been caught dozing in class for the first time since starting her master's degree—but no one else cared to comment. Not even Eliza, Romy's closest friend at school, took proper note of what she assumed were sleepless eyes, and a manic disposition.

  “Want to get pizza after lab?” Eliza asked, while the two were puttering away on their laptops inside the campus cafe. “I'm back on carbs this week.”

  “I should probably work alone tonight.”

  “What is it really? You have a big date?”

  The very word 'date' brought back a series of memories that still felt like the shreds of a dream: Bryson flaunting champagne by a bath-tub brimming with rose petals. Bryson on his knees, his head in the vice of her quivering thighs. Bryson kissing and cradling her naked breasts. The feel of Bryson's throbbing cock straining through the cloth of his pants, all but bursting toward her...

  “Nope. Just think I should tackle differential equations by my lonesome, is all.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Bryson hadn't contacted her since Saturday night—which would have been fine, were she able to stop thinking about him. But she couldn't. Everywhere she turned, even through the halls of her safe, snug campus—all the men in sunglasses might have been her hero. And likewise, every unfamiliar face was an agent of Lefty DiMartino's sent to spy on her and ensure her discretion.

  Sunday morning, Romy had risen early in Bryson's hotel room at the sharp sound of knocking. While the man lay strewn through the hotel sheets, she'd risen quietly, donned a terry cloth robe, and answered the door. Zaida—looking simultaneously as polished as ever and as if she hadn't slept—had silently passed her an envelope, before nodding up at the room security camera. “Very lucky, you are,” she'd said through thin lips. And then—before Romy could discern any deeper meaning in these words—she'd left. That envelope had been book-thick with crisp hundred dollar bills.

  It would have been unseemly to stay in the hotel room, though it was hard to leave him sleeping there. His eyes fluttered through his dreams. He yawned and stretched like an alley cat. But she'd kissed him on the forehead, slid into her leotard and coat with not a little difficulty, and left the casino for her car. That morning was now three days ago and counting.

  In the present, Romy paced the premises of her quaint studio apartment, listening only to the clacking of her beloved cocker spaniel's nails on the tile and wood. This perpetrator was called Goofy, and she wasn't embarrassed to admit that he was her truest friend and ally. Moving listlessly, like her dog, she weighed her options. Considered her odds. When no answer to any personal problem seemed to materialize, Romy opened her statistics book and flicked through several pages of the current unit:

  An epidemic affects 7.5% of the population. There is, however, an inheritance factor. If one's mother experiences symptoms, the probability that one will contract the illness is increased to 22%. What's the probability of getting the disease when the mother hasn't been affected?

  Then she fixed tea, standing upright in the kitchen as she waited for the water to boil. She considered drawing a bath from her cramped tub the color of avocado, but this notion only brou
ght back visions of Bryson—particularly, the damp curls of his snaking chest hair—and this kind of thinking was going to drive her insane. Perhaps it had been a mistake to spend time alone this evening, to all but sit by the phone waiting for a guy to call. In any case, she felt the heft of the cliché on her shoulders.

  Her friends at school were not quite close—and were themselves pretty alien to the casino community—but there might yet be a way in which they could comfort her. She imagined grabbing a slice with Eliza, and finding some vague way to allude to her work problems. While Romy was still too afraid to tell anyone explicitly what had happened in DiMartino's lodge, or what had continued to happen under the scintillating gaze of Zaida-the-Eastern-European-witch-model....surely, she could find some coded way to talk shop. She picked up her crusty old landline then, prepared to dial her friend's number and end this restless bullshit. Only—labored breath filled the other end of the line.

  “Hello? Who is this?” Romy panicked instantly. It hadn't occurred to her that her phones might be tapped. “I'm hanging up....” she began, but still lingered on the line.