Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Loren, Celia

  Romy could see the hunger in his eyes, and met this expression with a cool giving-in. She stood up and crossed the patio in two neat strides, landing in front of her beloved. He pressed his head into her stomach, and held fast to the sharp bones in her hips.

  “Romy Adelaide...I can't get enough of you,” he said to her body. She bent to his words. She wilted, collapsed into his lap. He scooped her toppling body up and held her on his lap, so his eyes were square with the fork of her cleavage. She met his eyes as she glanced down and uttered softly, “I feel the same way.”

  He kissed across her arms, and over the constellation of small freckles on her chest. He pressed his wind-brushed lips into the base of her throat; she held his head in place there. Then, Romy started to rock her thighs against her bad boy lover, pushing herself down over his rising member. Bryson threw his head back in a kind of rapture. Romy hunched over and began to return his kisses, working her way along the stubble of his jaw and landing on his lips. Her ardent kisses forced his mouth open; she sucked and scooped up the flesh of his tongue biting him playfully.

  Bryson's hands worked their way down Romy's back, and on finding the rim of her t-shirt, he worked frantically. The garment rolled over her head, exposing the whole of Romy's upper torso—she hadn't put on a bra this morning. One hand fondled her left breast, squeezing harder and harder, as the other worked its way below the rise of her sweatpants. He grasped at the soft, supple flesh of her, grateful and deeply aroused.

  Romy took her own hands and snaked them down Bryson's torso, where they paused at Gunther Willoughby's fake potbelly. She laughed into his mouth as she slid the cushion out from below his t-shirt and tossed it aside. Once her hands found the tense, carved flesh of her lover's pecs, his abdomen, the fine and glorious parcels of his six pack, they ran wild. She tangled her fingers in the strands of his chest hair. She worked two fingers over and across an erect nipple, at which Bryson growled hungrily.

  They were moving faster now, as the dark possibility that this might be their last dalliance wormed its way through both of their minds. Bryson began to suck feverishly on Romy's nipples, roving with abandon between her right and left sides; she humped him harder and harder through his jeans. Bryson was squeezing her ass so hard that it nearly hurt. One palm drew back and spanked her right cheek. Romy was surprised at the wave of pleasure this contact brought. The squawk she made in response was loud and about as ladylike as the unidentified bird's call from around the way.

  “You like that, baby?” Bryson whispered urgently. She could only nod her head. He pulled a palm back and spanked her ass again, letting the ripple of painful-pleasure flood through her lower back, and move down her thighs.

  “Should we go inside?” Romy ventured, not really wanting to. Bryson didn't respond. He just took as much of her right breast as he could into his mouth, and sucked hard. Romy's breath came harder and faster now as she bore down on her partner's massive erection.

  “Take me here. Please, God, take me here,” she cooed. With fumbling motion, Bryson peeled down his trousers just far enough so his manhood rose out of them. He nodded at Romy, who lifted her own hips, snaked her shorts off, and slid slowly over her lover's throbbing cock. She cried out in pleasure as he filled her up completely. Her body was slick and inviting, and she began to ride him slowly, moving from his tip all the way down to the base of his shaft.

  “You feel so fucking good baby,” Bryson moaned, locking on her gaze. He clutched her tighter. She swiveled her hips against his.

  “Oh, Bryson,” Romy said.

  Bucking and bucking, they came together; their muscles spasming in tandem as they each went over the edge. Bryson collapsed against the lawn chair and Romy fell against his heaving chest. She felt the most peculiar mixture of adoration, terror and absolute victory.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  With time to kill, and with no proper partner to practice with, Kellan began spending his days on the Strip. Hughie and V had wired their younger son a hefty hunk of “practice cash,” with the strict admonition attached: do not lose this.

  And Kellan found he was good at following instructions, so far at least. To his surprise and delight, he also discovered he was as even better at blackjack than he remembered. Many, many summers had the Vaughns spent teaching their children, their cohorts and their guests the ins and outs of basic strategy. Hughie himself was such a master at poker that a suspected third of the club's income came directly from Vegas card tables. He'd taught Kellan to count cards on one-deck games (which set him behind his brother, who had mastered multi-deck games), but Kellan had always been better at reading human behavior. He never quavered and he never rattled. He also wasn't especially social or charismatic on the floor, and so rarely gave anything about his style away. He had Bryson bested there.

  Fans of The Prattle would sometimes come up to him, as he ambled from casino to casino. He began with small potatoes of course, but by the end of the week, the younger Vaughn was raising eyebrows at the Bellagio, having made himself a cool ten grand off his first three stops. Before he quite knew it, doormen were being solicitous—offering him the ins on VIP rooms. Kellan had managed to make Vegas assume that he was a rock star, and so, it seemed, he was.

  Most nights that week he'd frequented a few of the music clubs; Cellar Lounge, House of Blues. On one of these visits, an old Prattle drummer was playing with her new band HexxMonster and called Kellan onto the stage. An unexpected sea of fans called out his name, swooning.

  “Hello Las VEGAS!” he cried, briefly enjoying the attention. A roadie slipped him a fine axe—one of the new Reverend guitars, a dainty, beautiful instrument. And Kellan broke into a new ballad he'd been working on through late nights and early mornings in his hotel room:

  “This is for a girl that got away. I know we all have one of those.” The crowd screamed back. Some of the young women scrunched their faces up in disapproval, as if wounded by the notion that their hero had once had other lovers.

  “Goes a little something like this,” Kellan started. He launched into the first G-chord:

  “If you were to turn my way,

  after all this time,

  I'd lay down my life,

  I'd let you be mine.

  I would take your hand,

  we could run away,

  it'd be nothing like

  it was yesterday.

  Yeah, yesterday.”

  The band kicked in. The room fell quiet.

  “You were sweet to me

  back when we were young

  and the game was fun,

  yeah, the game was fun.

  I'm a grown man now,

  you won't know my name,

  doesn't stop me from praying on

  yesterday.”

  The audience was swaying, completely mesmerized by his impromptu performance. A few lighters lurched back and forth across the sea of heads. It was a strange and inexact science, but there was this way to determine a hit. He could hear his choppy new soul song resonating with people, slicing its way into their hearts. But even the crowds and the success they might represent were distant to Kellan, who closed his eyes as he murmured his way through an improvised last verse:

  “I dream of you

  wearing white somewhere

  and I dream your face

  and your long, blonde hair.

  If I called you now,

  could you know my name?

  Could you come running back to me –

  yesterday?”

  When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find his lashes gummed together with moisture. On impulse, he scanned the crowd for the face behind this soliloquy, but for all he knew, Romy Adelaide and his own dear brother were making the walls shake in some crummy hotel room at this very moment. The cheers were deafening, but Kellan accepted the praise humbly. He placed the guitar on its rack and wandered off stage and back towards the bar, where an invested-looking bartender set a Jack on the rocks in front of him.

 
“I don't usually say this kind of thing, but that was really beautiful, man. You're super good.”

  Kellan smirked. “Hey, thanks, guy.”

  “That's on me.”

  “No...”

  “Really.”

  “I think not,” spoke a voice from over Kellan's shoulder. He swiveled slightly, and made out a hefty figure, a real Goodfellas type. The man was swaddled in a red velvet smoking jacket (straight from a Bond movie), and flanked by a tall, black personal security guard. He grinned at Kellan, showing off two neat rows of yellowing teeth.

  “It's on me, champ. That was really something, kid. Can I sit down?”

  Kellan gulped a good half of his whiskey. There was something off-putting about this figure, but something else told him it would be a bad idea to deny this man his attention. He was clearly important, and on the Strip that could mean anything.

  “Sure,” Kellan said, indicating the stool beside him. The man slid into his seat and merely nodded at the bartender, who scurried off in the direction of the gin shelf. So he was well-known around these parts, this mysterious stranger.

  “Do you know who I am, kid?”

  “I'm actually new in town. Just taking a kind of...personal vacation.”

  “Ahhh.” The man leaned back, though there was no support affixed to his stool. The bodyguard stepped forward, as if in case his charge should fall.

  “Everybody in this town knows me,” the benefactor proceeded. He let these words dangle in the air a moment. Meanwhile, the bartender had whipped up a Sapphire martini in what felt like a matter of seconds. “Dirty, dirty, dirty...as you like it, boss.” Before waiting for money, the keep scurried away. Was it just Kellan, or was the bartender terrified of this high-rolling tub-o-lard?

  “I'm Kellan Vaughn.”

  “I know who you are. And I like your style up there.” The man still wouldn't come right out and say his name. The pomposity. “Listen, Mr. Vaughn let me cut to the chase. I own a string of casinos around here. Mainstay is The Windsor. You know it?”

  Kellan gulped. He hoped the man hadn't seen this.

  “Everybody knows it, kid.”

  “I know it,” Kellan admitted. He fought to keep the movement out of his voice. “So, wait. That makes you...Lefty DiMartino.”

  Lefty tilted his head back and laughed a hearty, dangerous laugh. The bodyguard followed suit with a series of snorts.

  “Well, I ain't Righty,” Lefty said, thumping the table. “Bless me. Good for you, traveler.”

  After what felt like too long a time, Lefty regained his composure and took a thick sip of his drink. Kellan sized up his bar mate's face for any shred of recognition, any hint of warning...

  “We've got a nice entertainment program over at the Windsor right now,” the big man finally ventured. “Lotsa cool guys like you. My sources say you've been tearing it up at the big casinos. Say you're a pretty serious hand at poker.”

  “I play blackjack almost exclusively these days,” Kellan said quickly. Wherever this was going, he had to see it out.

  “Blackjack, then,” Lefty repeated softly. “Well. We've got a nice game up at our rooftop...lounge. Meets every Saturday. You like beautiful women, kid?” He seemed to think better of this before waiting for a reply. “Nah, of course you do. Big-titted blondies, like in the song.”

  The bile was beginning to rise in Kellan's throat. It would be easy to punch Lefty's lights out right here, right now. Though, he'd pay a large price; probably see the business end of a glock from the security guard, but it was a thought worth contemplating for a moment. To see this twisted, miserable criminal who was behind Romy Adelaide's enslavement squirming on the floor like a fish out of water...

  “...you're welcome to play a few sets in the lounge, too. Good exposure. You scratch my back, I scratch...well, you know.” Lefty cracked a grin. Without finishing his martini, he suddenly lifted himself off the stool, making for the exit. It was now or never.

  “Think about it, Kellan. Play some cards...with some big-titted blondies.” The boss wiggled his eyebrows diabolically, and gestured at his security. “Saturday night 7 p.m. Just come. Tell 'em I sentcha from the Cellar, at the door.” With a last smirk and scintillating look, Lefty DiMartino motored out of the lounge. Kellan hadn't realized he'd been gripping his glass near-maniacally throughout the whole conversation, but once the monster had cleared the door he let his whole body relax.

  The bartender rematerialized.

  “Lord. That guy...” he seemed to think better of whatever he'd been about to say, and looked at Kellan with different eyes now. “Anyways. Good for you, high-roller.” Then he raised his eyebrows at the whiskey. Thinking quickly, Kellan coughed up a crisp twenty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bryson slept late, having tossed and turned through much of the previous night. He'd reluctantly left Romy's embrace around 9 p.m., after carefully re-applying his disguise as Gunther Willoughby. He'd driven the rented car back to his shitty motel, watched one and a half shitty Pay Per View movies, and fended off nightmares by chain-smoking. He took a long shower in the afternoon light, before doing a quick check of his high-roller demeanor. He put on the uncomfortable suit and practiced moving around in it. He styled his hair. He clipped and cleaned his fingernails, he shaved. Just as the sun began to set, he was rubbing down his beloved bike with all the tenderness he could muster.

  Kellan had rolled uncharacteristically hard the evening before, even following some of his newfound band friends to a few underground parties. While he'd been a little rough and tumble in his younger days, he'd all but put his partying days behind him. Regardless, the younger Vaughn awoke in a headache-y cloud of cocaine, his mouth sooty and dry, draped around a woman who had seemed a little more beautiful in darker light. She was young and blonde, his unknown companion. They hadn't slept together. A brief flicker of memory surged up like a dolphin on water: Kellan had at some point in the previous night made out with the girl, but passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  He tiptoed out of the apartment he didn't remember coming to, and made for his own shitty motel on the opposite side of town from his brother. He took a brief nap, and then set out into the Vegas streets in the same clothes as the night and day before. He wore his father's sunglasses and carried only a wallet fat with crisp hundreds.

  Romy, unable to sleep, rose early Saturday morning. She cleaned every surface of her house. She blew out her hair, and fixed it into an elaborate up-do so it might be curly later on in the night. She played with Goofy for a few tense moments on the carpet, not allowing herself to think what would become of her pet were something to happen to her. But, ever practical, she called on the little boy who lived across the street and gave him a key and explicit dog feeding and walking instructions, informing him she'd be back late on Sunday afternoon.

  As the hour approached, Romy slid into her leotard; it was as constraining and awful as memory served. She took a last glance at the many charts around her apartment, the game plans, the foils...then she turned.

  They were as ready as they were ever going to be.

  Making a beeline for the hotel elevators, Romy avoided the gaze of her friends while scanning quickly to see they were all in place. Paulette was haggling with Lou over something by the union break table. The other ladies were in various states of play at their own tables, wearing that familiar look of boredom mixed with dutiful and feigned enthusiasm. She wished with a pang that she could be with the old gang now—gossiping, bitching, and fighting off the half-hearted advances of schlubs and dweebs. But she thought of Bryson, and pressed on. Her teetering heels clicked against the lobby floor.

  At the door of the secret hotel room, Zaida smiled. “You look ready, today,” she simpered. “And early! And NO WATCH!” She seemed uncharacteristically delighted. Was there anything to find suspicious in this friendly attitude? Romy decided it was too early to be second-guessing every step of the plan. At this point, they could only proceed.

  “Well
I had a lot of fun this week. With all my cash money.” Romy offered. Surprisingly, Zaida cackled at the joke, then ushered her charge into the room like a solicitous neighbor.

  Though she'd made a point to arrive ten minutes earlier than last week, Romy was surprised at the difference a few minutes made. The room was filled to bursting with girls; all the other blackjack dealers from the Needle. Romy recognized the woman from last week, the one who'd been led back into the hotel just before she had. She tried not to think about what terrible things this dealer was forced to endure that night with her “winner.”

  The other women had an element of cold beauty, much like Zaida herself. Some of them, Romy discerned through eavesdropping, did not even speak English. In fact, they were all mostly quiet with one another, there was no gossiping, no chit-chat going on here. The ladies were each adjusting their uniforms or make-up with severe, efficient gestures. As if they knew what they had to do, and needed to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  “OKAY!” Zaida screeched. “Now is time! Take shifts in the elevator!” She began to move among the crowds like a shepherd, pushing clumps of dealer-hookers together like sheep. After much pointing and puffing, an order was secured. Romy would be among the last to enter the Needle that night. She closed her eyes. Though she wasn't an especially religious person, she sent up a small, urgent prayer: Please. Please let this go alright.