by Loren, Celia
“But Bryson—,”
“No, Romy. I'm serious. Listen to me: For centuries, people like Lefty DiMartino have been taking advantage of trusting, good people like yourself—people who might need a bit of an extra break in life, and so they've been taught to follow opportunities when they knock. The country's built on the backs of men and women who are too honest to get what they want. And men have been taking advantage of women since the fucking dawn of time. And it's never a woman's fault, it's never a victim's fault. Because even if you're smart, hell, even if you're dumb, no one deserves to be tricked, or used. Better yet: absolutely no one deserves to be bought or sold. It's not your fault. I never for a minute thought you wanted to be part of this mess. I know that you didn't want it.” Bryson fell silent, looking suddenly sheepish about his impassioned speech.
It was funny: he wasn't the most eloquent of men, but there was something so fiery, so knightish about her lover. At different points over the last week, it had crossed Romy's mind that she'd always pictured herself ending up with a man who was a little more intellectual. A man who was sensitive enough to profess love, but eloquent enough to structure an argument. A man who was less a brutish knight-in-shining armor, and more a partner, someone who'd respect her and challenge her and let her be independent. Perhaps someone with an artistic sensibility, to complement her own math smarts.
Bryson watched Romy lose herself in thought for a moment. Her pensive face was stunning to him; the furrow in her brow so deep, serene. He'd never quite imagined himself with a woman like her. The ladies he'd met on the road and through the Devil's Aces club tended to bounce along a spectrum of deliberately meek, soft-spoken types with few deep thoughts to share or, on the flip side, aggressive, independent loudmouths with lots of nothing to say. He loved the biker women, like his mother, for their toughness, their refusal to take shit from the wrong people. The Ace's women could kill prairie snakes with hatchets, fix carburetors, build fire and shelter. They could feed fifteen men with three cans of beans and a flank of meat; they could raise boys, they could break up fights. The sadder beauties of Vegas clubs were wounded, in need of strength, sweet, and perpetually simpering.
But Romy wasn't quite like either of these “types.” She fell somewhere in between: she was cautious, private, and slightly dreamy but also witty, self-deprecating and fiercely independent. Her intelligence lifted her away from either camp. He imagined spending months, years, in her company—saw them sitting across the table from one another, like so. Their mind-blowing sex notwithstanding, would he ever be able to really know this woman? Was he good enough to be in her life for good?
“I have one more question,” she said suddenly. “We haven't talked about this partner you're bringing. This other Ace. What's his story?”
Bryson felt his stomach flip. Here was something he hadn't accounted for. A part of him was angry with Romy for never once mentioning a high-school dalliance with his brother, but the other half figured that her refusal to address this subject meant that the affair hadn't meant very much to her. It wasn't impossible that she'd forgotten Kellan in the interim years; Bryson wished for this, in spite of himself. And as much as he didn't want to shock her at the table with a familiar face, having the ghost of his rock star brother hanging over their last two glorious days of freedom and practice was too threatening an idea to bear. For what if she did still care for him? What if there was something there after all these years? Better to keep the possibility at bay.
“I hope you can understand this, but the party involved wants to maintain...anonymity.”
“Anonymity? He's going to be a contender to sleep with me.”
“He's not going to sleep with you. I'm going to win. And even if he wins, he'll chose the money.” God, Bryson couldn't even begin to imagine that situation.
“You're so cocky.”
“You love it.”
Romy enjoyed the banter. She decided in that moment to not let the odd look in Bryson's eyes at the mention of the invisible third party throw her game. There was simply too much else to be concerned with, too much else that could go wrong. So what if some thuggish biker would be in the running on Saturday? If Bryson trusted the man, so would she. She owed him that much.
“Burn one, and flip the river,” Bryson pronounced, turning over a final card. It was a Joker. They laughed at this gaff, a little tensely.
CHAPTER TWENTY
All too soon, it was Friday morning. Romy woke to Goofy's frantic barking at the front door.
She dressed hastily, throwing on one of Bryson's discarded white t-shirts and a pair of Sofis, and followed the noise to the door.
“What's wrong, puppy?” she asked her pet, stooping to ruffle his ears and squinting out at the hazy early daylight. Sure enough, there was an unfamiliar beige Sedan parked across the street from Romy's driveway. It wouldn't have been comment-worthy, but Goofy had an established knack for detecting unsavory strangers. He snarled in the direction of the car.
“You stay here, little guy,” she said, rising. Wary, Romy cracked the door—thankfully the morning paper was situated on her stoop, furnishing her with a perfect excuse to sneak outside. Though it was officially light out, the Sedan still wore its headlights. Its idling engine murmured on the quiet street.
Stooping to pick up her paper, Romy shielded her eyes from the Eastern sun and saw for a flash a driver in dark sunglasses, speaking into what looked like a walkie-talkie. He noticed her gaze almost instantly, and just like that the Sedan lurched out of park and began to amble down the street. She watched the vehicle until it rounded a corner. Then, despite the desert heat, Romy shivered.
The phone rang from inside her flat, jerking her out of the stoop reverie. Romy snatched up the paper and walked back to her door. Who was that mysterious stranger? A DiMartino-sanctioned spy?
“Hello? Who is it?”
“Well I'm glad you're BREATHING over there at least. Sheesh! Don't answer any of your phone calls anymore, seems like.”
It was Paulette. Romy might've figured, not many other people of her acquaintance were up and about at seven a.m., even her classmates at the college.
“Morning, sunshine.”
“And good morning to you, Daisy. We sure miss you on the floor! Just wanted to see how your new gig's going.”
Romy thought back to the undercover car on her street. “Fine. I miss you all, but...”
“Money. Don't have to tell me twice.” Paulette made a noisy exhale. “So really, Ro. Why haven't you been picking up your phone? You had all of us worried, you know. One of your Professors called me.”
Romy furrowed her brow. Trouble with the phone? Even though she was one of the last few trendy youngsters still equipped with a landline, Romy rarely used the house phone. She thought back: Bryson had called her, earlier this week. And...that was it. Yes, come to think of it, there'd been no haranguing from the bursar's office, no fellow students or study buddies calling to inquire after her health. For all she knew, Zaida had tried to contact her—but then again.
The man in the town car.
It was as Bryson had cautioned: she was being watched. But did Lefty really have the power and prowess to disconnect her phone without her noticing? Had he been keeping track of all of her calls? If he knew about even the Monday night call, there was trouble afoot. If he'd been a diligent spy, he would already know about Bryson...
“Paulette, I have to call you back. Something just came up.”
“But—,”
“I love you, truly. I promise I'll call you back.” Romy clicked off, setting the phone back in its cradle. After thinking a moment, she picked it up again.
Sure enough, where she should have heard a dial tone immediately, there was a strange rustling noise on the line. Like someone scrambling through a sheaf of papers. After a few beats, a dial tone resumed on the line. Romy hung up.
Bryson. Bryson. Did they have him already? Were they busted? Romy sat heavily in a kitchen chair, trying to think. Last Saturday,
what had Bryson done to ensure they were alone? He'd hunted for bugs. Video feeds. She needed to scour her place, and fast.
Moving quickly and with the incidental aid of a flustered Goofy, Romy bent low and stood on chairs in search of those eerie patches of disturbed wall or ceiling which might contain a camera. She moved through the kitchen, removing all of her dishes from the cabinets. She crawled along the baseboard. In her bedroom, she took down the few framed photographs and posters. Thank heavens right now for her ascetic décor. After an exhaustive few hours that carried her right to the lip of midday, she stopped her search. The house was clear.
But Bryson was late. Every other day of the week, he'd come over far before noon. Then, perhaps his tardiness was a good sign: he might've been tipped off about the spies but she had no way to contact him without the phone.
As the minutes ticked by, her mind roamed towards darker possibilities. Maybe he'd been caught. Maybe the Sedan had been parked outside the evening before, and the spy had seen him leave her place. The spy might've followed her lover all the way to the highway, before pulling him over, dragging him to some terrible basement interrogation room, doing who knows what...
No.
Romy tried to focus. She shuffled a few decks of KEM cards and cut the decks over one another, just for something to do with her hands. She paced the floor. She removed her clingy leotard from its dry-cleaner's sheathe, laying it flat across the bed in anticipation of tomorrow's work.
But she couldn't fight off the bad thoughts. An even more sinister notion was working its way into her head—there were holes in Bryson's story, weren't there? He hadn't told her about his ally on the table. He'd clearly spied on her himself; sometime in between their first encounter on the floor and the second night's festivities on The Needle. Just why had he come to Vegas, again? If he was really an emissary of the Aces sent to topple Lefty DiMartino, wouldn't his club have sent him with more help?
And the first time he'd called her, the very first time, hadn't the phone clicked on strangely? It hadn't rung. What were the odds? He'd even said that to her: what were the odds?
It was too unbearable to stomach—there was just no way Bryson Vaughn was working against her. She'd seen the plaintive look in his eyes as she brought him to the brink of orgasm. She'd held his tossing body as he slept. And what's more, though it had only been two weeks, well, six years and two weeks...she cared for him. She was willing to stake it all on Bryson Vaughn.
Just as Romy was sapping comfort from this inner proclamation, she heard the squeal of tires on asphalt. Running to the window and peering through the shades, she saw an unfamiliar figure exiting an unfamiliar car. This man was tall, stooped, and bearing a pronounced potbelly. A flapping seventies moustache seemed just-barely affixed to his face. He coughed unpleasantly into the dust near her car, then began a weary trudge towards her front door. Romy braced herself. Jehovah's Witness? Knife salesman? Either way, this person wasn't coming in.
The doorbell rang, and Romy opened her front door but kept the screen locked tight.
“What is it?” she quipped.
“My name is Gunther Willoughby,” rasped the stranger. “And I'm here to talk to you about the Good Word of...”
“I'm sorry, I'm not interested,” Romy began, moving to close the door. But the stranger made a frantic gesture with his hands. There was something odd about his fingers; they seemed roughly hewn, tougher than their owner. She squinted harder at the intruder through the screen.
“Please. Just take a look at some of our materials,” Gunther said. “Look, I can slide this one under the door. You don't like what you see, I'll be on my way. Honest to—,”
“I'm very busy.”
“Ms. Adelaide.” Suddenly, Gunther's eyes flashed with meaning and caution. She stared at him for a moment, her eyes widening as she put the pieces together.
“Please just read the pamphlet,” the man said slowly. “And look at it very skeptically. I'm going to say a few more things to you, and then you're tentatively going to let me in. And don't say anything but what I tell you, alright?”
“Okay. Mr...Willoughby.”
“Now pick up the pamphlet.”
Romy did as told, bending low to inspect the familiar face of a popular Christian Weekly magazine. She slid her finger between the first two pages of the journal, and opened it where she was:
I'M BRYSON (IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T FIGURED THIS OUT), AND THEY'RE WATCHING US. LET ME IN, AND I'LL EXPLAIN. DID YOU LOOK FOR BUGS? NOD YES OR NO.
Romy nodded her head: yes. She smiled up at Gunther Willoughby, hoping to telegraph the fact that her house had come up clean.
“Won't you come in for some lemonade, sir? My father was a Christian.” Bryson nearly snorted inside his disguise at this. Of course he knew that Romy's father's name was Christian.
They made a big song and dance of Romy unlocking the screen door and stepping aside to admit the guest; in the process, she took a quick scan of the street. The beige Sedan was nowhere to be seen, but she was smart enough by now to know that this didn't necessarily imply safety. If they were really being watched, they were probably always being watched.
Once they were inside, Bryson led Romy through the house to the back patio. He was quick-moving and terse, as he'd been the night of the tournament at the Windsor. She could see he was making his own expert sweep of her place now, scanning nooks and crannies for a camera she might have missed.
“Get lemonade. Just in case.” Romy did. She took a carton of orange juice from her fridge and two mismatched glasses, guiding their way to the backyard.
“Okay,” Bryson said at last, shutting the screen sharply behind him. He stripped off Gunther Willoughby's wig and moustache, but left the cushion of potbelly in its place. He sighed heavily.
“I didn't think they'd catch on so fast. You said you checked for bugs?”
“Yes. Everywhere. I saw a beige Sedan this morning on the street. My dog was barking...”
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And did you try the phone?”
“Bugged. Plus, apparently no one's been able to contact me all week. It's been disconnected, or the calls were routed elsewhere...something.”
“Shit.”
“What does it mean? They didn't see you, right?”
“I don't think I was followed, but I needed to be double sure.” Bryson leaned forward and poured himself a pulpy glass of orange juice; this he downed in two swift gulps. “This isn't lemonade.”
“Clearly. I don't know if you've noticed, but I've been sort of busy.”
Bryson smiled a little at this, and Romy tried to return the favor. An ineloquent bird squawked from a yard a few houses down. Bryson jumped.
“We just might have made it. If you're only seeing a spy today for the first time...we just might. I don't know, is the problem.”
“How will we know? I mean, would they let on if they knew we were conspiring?”
“That's going to depend on what kind of reception I get, walking up the Needle tomorrow.” Bryson took his head in heavy hands.
“But it's alright if they think we're dating, right?” Her lover looked up at her, slightly incredulous.
“I mean, I'm sure it's not ethical. But it can't be against the rules, right?”
“Are you joking?”
“What, do you have a better idea?” Romy snapped. “Look at it this way: if you've been recognized with me in any way—and we'll be optimistic and assume they haven't overheard any conversation which could connect us both as co-conspirators—what are they going to think if you saunter into the Needle and pretend to ignore me?”
“They know we slept together.” he reasoned, grabbing his chin.
“Of course. But they must also know I've been seeing you all week. And the worst thing they'll think is that we're scheming to take the Windsor down, which would get us both killed. Say you're all lovey-dovey with me this Saturday but still bring all the cash, roll high, high, high. I'll tell Zaida, even. I fell for my first for
ced casino lay,” Romy gulped. “They'll watch our game much closer to look for equal treatment, but that's better than the alternative, right? It just means we'll have to be invisible. If there's one thing I know about these people: they don't turn down money.”
Bryson took a thoughtful pause. “And what kind of man would I be, if I were willing to sit through a game at the end of which you might have to sleep with someone else?”
Romy shrugged. “The Vegas kind?”
“It'll draw attention.”
“Lots. Which Lefty will like.”
“Damn babe you're a fucking genius.”
“You've got to lose somewhere first, though. Get there early and lose, but by just a little. It'll make it more realistic when you win at my table.”
Bryson bit his lip, and then he whistled slowly. His eyes flickered over Romy. She suddenly seemed even stronger and more capable than the woman he'd been working with all week. Could he afford to be a little confident?
“Was this all just your sneaky way of getting me to call you 'girlfriend'?” he ventured. Jokes in the apocalypse, right? After a painful-seeming beat, Romy smiled. Then she exhaled. Then she laughed, in thick guffaws, making the kind of noise that starts in your belly and works its way slow to the surface of your skin.
She was so beautiful, then, in the patio light: her blonde hair wispy like corn silk, and musky mixed with a fragrance like sugary tea. Her face was clear, her skin soft and supple. He'd had this woman so many times this week; two, three, four times in a day. But there was still something about her that managed to make him insatiable. Her slender neck. The fussy jut of her chin. Her pale pink lips, moist, puckered. And then, there was the trimness of her waist, her rib cage molded to his hands as if the trio of parts had been made for each other. Her light, pink nipples, so pronounced when erect. The cool cups of those perfect, perfect breasts. The muscular turn of her calves, and the quivering softness between her thighs. And finally, there was the sweet, slick center of her, and the soft flesh to be found there. Bryson groaned. In spite of the mafia, in spite of his brother, in spite of the world, he wanted her now as he'd never wanted before.