Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Loren, Celia

  Though the rest of their evening together seemed to pass quickly in a whirlwind of impressive flirting, long, lusty looks, jokes and the best beef fajitas she'd ever enjoyed. Two other remarkable things happened before the couple parted ways. For one thing, they ran into Paulette Nagle in the Guapo's parking lot, just as she was attempting to bully her two little boys back into the family station wagon.

  “ROMY!” cried the voice she would have recognized, and possibly heard, from anywhere. “DARLING! WE'D ALL TAKEN YOU FOR DEAD!”

  “Paulette!” Romy replied, steering her date towards her friend. “I'm not dead!”

  “Then praise—whoever you like to praise.” Paulette shouldered her hand-bag, and then seemed to notice Bryson. She could barely contain the look of absolute mirth on her face.

  “Why, Romy—who is this handsome, dashing young man? And wherever did the two of you meet?” She batted her eyelashes impishly. From inside the station wagon, one of the little boys made as if to punch the other—at which Paulette snarled with impatience.

  “I think you know that, P. This fine gentleman was a customer of ours a week or so ago.” Paulette nodded knowingly, though Bryson seemed to fidget where he stood. Romy put a placating hand on his forearm.

  “I see. So is this why you haven't been on the floor the past week?” Paulette—ever tacky—wiggled her eyebrows. In that moment, Romy wanted so badly to tell her friend the truth. If anyone would at least understand how she'd gotten herself into this mess—Paulette would. As if in agreement, the two children squawked some more from the back of the car.

  “Actually—,” Romy began, but just then, Bryson stepped in.

  “She's gotten a new job. A job on campus, in her field.” Romy wheeled on her date, surprised at the lie. Paulette nodded affably, as if campus jobs in statistics were a matter of course.

  “Well we miss you, peewee. You should come by and visit. No one liked to see you leave out of the blue like that!”

  Romy wondered if there was a hint of knowing in this remark. Surely, Paulette had seen blackjack dealers leave their posts quickly before—she'd worked at The Windsor the longest of all the girls. She stared into her friend's eyes, hoping to communicate across the barrier of silence Bryson had established—but there was no glint of recognition.

  “I will visit,” Romy said finally. “Well. We'd probably better leave you to it.”

  “Yeah. Got some HEADS TO ROLL,” her friend yelled in the direction of the car's tiny passengers. “You two have a nice night. And Romy—I'm so proud of you.” With that, Paulette swept her old co-worker up in a too-tight hug, and kissed both Romy and Bryson warmly, on each cheek. Bryson led them back towards the parked motorcycle. He walked quickly.

  “Why did you lie back there?” Romy called after him, struggling to keep up, suddenly cross. “Paulette's my friend, and I love her. You didn't have to make something up.”

  When Bryson wheeled on her, he had a new look in his eyes—one she'd never seen before. It was pure panic mixed with rage.

  “I'm worried that we're not taking this all seriously enough. It isn't a game,” he said slowly. “You're being brave, and wonderful—but it's like you don't see how much trouble you're in, and I worry that's my fault for being too...casual. Because if anyone finds out about you and me working together...” Bryson sat down on the curb heavily, as if too perturbed by the proposition to keep moving. “It would be really, really bad, Romy. Believe me.”

  Romy came to rest on the curb beside her lover. “I didn't know. I don't know. I'm only trying to stay positive because I'm really in the dark here, Bryson. And—well, like you said—I wanted to go out on a normal date with you.”

  “Well, I really wanted to be able to protect you. And I wanted this to be a normal date, too. The kind where we talk and flirt and think about each other...” He put a wistful hand on Romy's knee. “Too much to ask for Vegas, huh?”

  “I should think so, Romeo.”

  Bryson turned to face her. “God, you're cool.”

  “All it takes is one Coors with you, huh?”

  “No, really. I've never met another woman like you.” And for a moment, he looked as if he might kiss her—urgency crossed his face just as it had in the hallway the other night, before he'd pressed her into his hotel room. But he was more reserved tonight. Romy had made all the moves herself.

  “So you'll come over tomorrow, and start teaching me how you count cards?” she finally asked. Bryson continued to rub her knee.

  “Okay.”

  “And you'll tell me all about Lefty DiMartino, and his vicious ring of ne'er do wells?”

  “Will do.”

  “And you'll trust that I can handle the truth, because I'm a grown-up? And because I've been looking out for myself just fine all these twenty four years?”

  Bryson nuzzled her neck with his head—a surprisingly childish gesture, given his manly status. But as soon as he'd done this, he slid his sunglasses down from the ridge on his forehead where they'd perched throughout dinner. “Well yes, and no,” he started. “Just know that a new body's gonna start looking after you now.”

  She couldn't see it through the opaque glass, but she guessed that his eyebrows were wiggling.

  The second notable thing about their not-quite-a-first-date was the fact that Bryson didn't come in for a nightcap. Didn't even try. Rather, he bade her a sweet goodbye at the curb—all gentleman.

  “I had a nice night.” He said first.

  “Me too.”

  “I would play coy, but I hope you know I'm going to call you again way before it seems socially appropriate.”

  “Plus there's the whole 'dismantling-a-mob-ring' stuff to consider. That will make for a lot of play dates.”

  “True story.” And then, he seemed to hover over his next words. “Have a good night, Romy Adelaide. Be safe.”

  “You too, Bryson Vaughn,” she replied. And yet again, when it hadn't seemed like he would dive in for the goodnight kiss—Romy took it upon herself. With steady hands, having grown acclimated to the once-frightening bike, she pushed Bryson's sunglasses up over his forehead, so as to see into his eyes. Then she bent low, and kissed him fiercely. She kissed him with all the guts and gumption she wished she could have summoned in Lefty's lodge, or in Zaida's company. She kissed him the way she'd have liked to slap The Dap, the way she'd have liked to grab and hold high her diploma, the way she'd have liked to do a million things. And in response, his cracked, moist, eager lips felt like victory. Kissing Bryson Vaughn felt endlessly right.

  “Good night,” she said, breaking their embrace after what felt like a long while. She expected he'd come after her—kick the stand on his bike, and follow her swinging hips up the walk, through the foyer, and into the bedroom. She wished for it. That “right way” of making love which he'd spoken of in the hotel room—that felt like it was happening now. Filled with lust, she imagined his thick member engorging in her presence, and the look on his face as he sized up her naked body. The love they could make tonight was bound to be electric, filled with all the pent-up passion and the unabashed screams of pleasure she'd contained under the watchful gaze of a security camera.

  But—ever the gentleman—Bryson Vaughn didn't come inside. He threw Romy a last meaningful look and waited for her to dim the porch light. In the foyer, she leaned against the wall and tried to quiet her pounding heart until she heard the lingering Harley start its engine, then roar away into the burning Western heat.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next day, as soon as her early morning class had released her back into her humble first floor apartment, Bryson's bike was humming outside her foyer once more. Only this time, he'd brought a picnic basket filled with goodies.

  Of course, the “goodies” were six decks of KEM cards, an automated shuffler machine, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a mason jar filled with discarded pieces from games of Connect Four. “Practice props,” Bryson called these. “Well, except for the Jack. That's just for authenticity p
urposes.”

  Romy—who hadn't been able to concentrate through this latest Statistics lab, for all the usual reasons—greeted Bryson at the door in a thin cami and jean shorts. In part, for the heat, and in another part, for the fact that she hadn't been able to stop thinking about how badly she wanted his perfect body inside of hers. They were going to practice card counting and it was going to be serious and gripping, but afterwards...as God was Romy's witness...they were going to rekindle some of that fabulous physical chemistry. Though she'd tried to take the gravity of their situation seriously to heart, Romy couldn't quell her desire any longer. She wanted to fuck his brains out, end of the world be damned.

  Bryson entered her house cautiously, like a man who wasn't invited into many personal homes. He bent a little too low under the archways. He seemed afraid to touch surfaces. In fact, the only thing that seemed to make him at ease was Goofy, who trailed the visitor faithfully through all three rooms of the house.

  “Are you a dog person?” Romy asked.

  “Absofuckinlutely. I love these little suckers,” Bryson said, bending low to wag her pet's ears. He scanned her sideways, from the legs up. She stood her ground.

  “Show me the kitchen table. It's time we practice.”

  In anticipation of his visit, Romy had cleared away all of her schoolbooks and general crap—but Bryson had her replace the vacant seats around the table with pillows from the living room couch. These he covered with additional pairs of sunglasses, which he pulled from the picnic basket. “Okay, to begin with: pretend Mr. Tartan Sectional is The Dap. He's to your right. He'll have the advantage, because he's dealt his cards first. Remember that.”

  “Do pillow people help you learn?” Romy asked.

  “Focus,” Bryson told her. Then, he unwrapped his new packs of KEM cards and fanned them expertly between his fingers. She was impressed with his shuffling technique; it rivaled many dealers she knew.

  “Now, most card counting systems begin with a count of zero. You understand why, right?”

  “Yes, Bryson. We cover a lot of this in basic dealer training, not to mention my classes. Among others, there's the Hi-Lo Count and the KO count. We're trained to watch for any players who keep their eyes on the cards and rarely look up, and who don't drink or talk to anyone at the table.”

  “Okay, smarty pants,” Bryson puffed, withdrawing a small whiteboard from his picnic basket.

  “But have you heard of the Hi-Opt II?” With a felt tip marker, Bryson drew the following chart on his little board:

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  J

  Q

  K

  A

  1

  1

  2

  2

  1

  1

  0

  0

  -2

  -2

  -2

  -2

  0

  “This method is unusual—and a little more complex—because we don't keep track of the Aces. But it's also a balanced system because if you count through an entire deck of 52 cards, you should end with a count of zero. Otherwise, you're keeping the count wrong.”

  Romy took in the numbers, the wheels of her mind churning slowly. Bryson instructed her that she'd need to memorize this chart, and work as his check whenever she could at the table. An effective card counter—and their foil—would assign particular point values to a particular card once it was played, thereby creating the ability to estimate perfectly what was left in a deck.

  For the rest of the afternoon into evening, Bryson drilled her. They started with smaller, simpler card games—Texas Hold 'Em, Omaha, Five Card Draw. But Bryson was an expectant teacher. They moved quickly through the ranks of poker and on to Single Deck Blackjack, Double Deck, European and Atlantic City variations purely for practice. They landed on Vegas. Bryson reminded her that certain casinos on the South Side played with six decks; others eight. Their practice called for more spontaneous statistics than even her degree had demanded in months, and by the sunset, Romy still felt only shakily capable with her new skills. She was impressed with Bryson's fluidity with all the games. For someone who hadn't finished high school, he was incredibly intelligent.

  “I know it's a lot to take in,” he said finally, after a particularly exhausting rep of Follow the Queen. “But you've got the technique down. You just need to get faster.”

  Romy collapsed against one of the Pillow People they'd designated as other players on the floor.

  “And be able to keep a poker face while Zaida watches me like a hawk. And while Lefty watches me, from HD security cameras. And while men ogle me, and grope me, and...” She bit her lip.

  “Remember that you'll be leaving most of the leg work to me,” Bryson said, coming around the table to massage her shoulders. “I just need you to be aware of how I'm counting, so you can give me hints as you deal. Maybe tomorrow, we can practice tells and signals for your hole-card.”

  “What if they find out? What if they catch me before the tournament ends, and take me back to the cellar, and...” Here, her imagination stopped short. Once again, the evils they were dealing with seemed irreconcilable with the peaceful atmosphere of her apartment, their banter, the picnic basket filled with games.

  “Romy, I told you. Be on your toes, but don't panic. All of the Aces will be helping. In whatever ways they can.” Behind her, Bryson's voice had taken on that throaty quality she recalled from yesterday's phone conversation. He applied more pressure to the tops of her shoulders, letting his fingers grind harder and harder into her tense muscles.

  “That feels nice,” Romy murmured. Her sleepy pulse quickened. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

  “How about this?” Bryson growled, letting his joints dance down her back. Gently, his hands slunk below the straps of her cami. The thin shirt seemed to melt away at his touch.

  “That feels nice, too,” Romy said, her voice pitching up. She felt her face grow hot.

  Without a sound, Bryson continued his massage. He came to a squat behind her, letting his arms work tirelessly on the bare muscles of her upper back and down, down, farther down, kneading hard at the folds of her shirt. When he reached the base of her spine, a loosened Romy made a bold move: she reached down and peeled off her cami, exposing her bare back to him. The apartment's cool air tingled across her dampening skin.

  “Romy,” Bryson said, a note of plea in his voice. “You are so fucking beautiful...”

  But before he could complete the thought, Romy took his calloused hands and placed them over her heaving breasts. His fingers found her erect nipples; he rolled them between his thumbs and forefingers. Her lover shuddered.

  “Fuck it. I want you...so fucking bad.” he murmured into her hair.

  “I want you,” she responded, swiveling around then. She gathered Bryson's torso between her legs, and drew him towards her on the chair. With a look of animal intensity, he bent lower, picked Romy up, and carried her towards the pillow-less futon in the center of the small living room. He rolled her down gently there, as if he were draping a blanket over a chair.

  Romy tugged Bryson's shirt up and over his stomach, resting her palms briefly on the flat of his abdomen. As he raised his arms to peel the garment over his face and toss it casually to the floor, Romy pushed her lips into the trailing fur along his belly, sucking and tasting the salty skin there. She wrangled a quivering hand below the belt of his jeans, and very nearly reeled backward when her fingers connected with his ram-rod cock. His shaft was smooth, long, and her encircled fist barely fit around it. Looking up, she saw that Bryson's eyes had rolled backward in his head at the contact. He thrust his pelvis towards her, utterly supplicant.

  While one hand worked his body, the other groped to unbutton his belt, and unzip his jeans; these fell to the floor with a clatter. Bryson didn't wear underwear and to he
r pleasant surprise, his exposed body unveiled only more of the sweet smell of his skin. She was thirsty for him now. Forcing contact as he bucked with pleasure, she positioned her arms around the neat, symmetrical scoops of his ass and slid her mouth across the tip of his cock.

  He arched his back towards her and groaned softly. Romy's kisses grew more ardent—she sucked on her lover's flesh, feeling him grow harder and harder in her mouth. Bryson rocked his hips as she took him deeper and deeper into her throat. Just when she thought she'd brought him to the edge of orgasm, he eased himself away from her lips.

  “Lie back,” he commanded, in a voice thick with needing. His erection quavered. Romy pushed herself against the stripped frame of the couch, and snaked a hand down her body, under the rise of her own shorts. She rubbed herself slowly, holding Bryson's gaze.

  The muscular man before her eased his naked body down over hers, never once breaking eye contact. A strand of sweaty hair had fallen into his eyes. His breath was ragged. Slowly then, he continued to slide himself across her exposed torso, in a rhythmic motion. With a free hand, he joined Romy's moving fingers in the crotch of her jeans. He pressed up, against her fingers and she cried out in ecstasy.

  “Romy Adelaide,” Bryson whispered, in the growling voice from before. But there was a tenderness in his timbre. He moved his mouth closer to her ear, and then down to the patch of skin just below her lobe. He kissed her there—softly at first, but then with more vigor. Soon, he was sucking greedily on her neck.

  Romy was wetter than she could ever remember being, and her skin felt electric to the touch. “I need you inside me,” she murmured into Bryson's thick mane.

  And he followed her command. Bryson rose off her chest to survey her body again. Romy recalled that near-pious look of worship on his rapt, beautiful face. She also sized him up from her prone angle: all that rippling, tight flesh, stretched like a drum over his thick muscles. With both hands now, her lover was fussing frantically with the buttons on her shorts; when he'd finished, he eased them gently down over her legs. He stood again, bent low, and proceeded to kiss her dripping center through the silk of her underwear. Romy bucked at the contact and she let herself cry out.