Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Loren, Celia

  But he tried not to think about Romy.

  The days of the week passed like this. He slept in the sewing room. Rather than honing his game on the Strip, Kellan spent his evenings in, watching her children when she shuffled off to evenings at work. Paulette wouldn’t change into her bustier until she was far clear of the house, and the children seemed to have no clear idea what it was that their mother did for a living. Something about this made Kellan sad.

  He made a single trip back into city limits, to fetch his guitar and resolve the outstanding bill with the motel. While the mini-fridge sprawled open on his entrance, he didn’t reach for booze. Paulette had instilled in him a fresh sense of confidence. Motoring by a block of particular music clubs, he also resisted temptation. As strong as the pull towards the stage was, he was determined to meet the challenge to perform again on his own terms. No sappy, sad odes to the one that got away, unspooled drunkenly before an audience of mobsters and teenyboppers.

  When Lefty came for him again, he’d meet him as an equal. As a man with replenished self-respect.

  Bryson moved his headquarters directly into The Windsor, proclaiming it prudent to stay closer to his enemies. He hid any evidence of his card-counting practice, behaving just as he imagined a wealthy playboy on holiday might. He frequented shows, he danced (just danced) with other women, he rode his bike around the streets. He fed the hotel concierge an elaborate whopper about the terms of his visit. He paid in cash.

  And well aware that he was being watched, he hosted Romy in the afternoons. She hated to meet him in the cold, prison-semblant place of her employment, but relished their hours together just as she had the week prior. Without the additional pressure of practice—which they’d now deemed it too risky to do together—the pair could simply relax into a kind of coupledom. They watched movies. They ordered room service. And every few hours, Bryson moved over her body tenderly. Somewhat conspicuously, there was no more talk of love.

  All too soon, it was Saturday again. After whiling away a few hours at her apartment (and giving the same instructions to the neighbor boy about Goofy’s care, in-the-event-of-an-emergency), Romy donned her newly-repaired leotard and prepared for what had now become a sickening routine. She scraped her hair into the requisite ponytail. She pearled her lips with the fire-engine red gloss. She pressed her dog to her chest in a final, desperate gesture, and then drove to The Windsor.

  That night, they fell against one another in the hall beyond the bedroom. As planned, Bryson had won the final tournament with Kellan coming in second, after a prolonged and testy battle with a mid-level executive who’d won big at the Sands the night prior. Romy had flicked her hair and sifted imaginary gold all to a tee. Their routine had the easy quality of a well-rehearsed play by now. It had almost been fun.

  Fresh from another week spent in Bryson’s bed, it had been easier to fend off images of Kellan. So far, the two of them hadn’t even had cause to speak alone. As per Bryson’s implied request, Romy had made no move to contact the other Vaughn brother over the past few days. The brief thrill of remembered longing, the memory of his sweet baby-face, even the lyrics of her song were falling away. So what if he’d looked especially clean-cut this evening, in a new tailored suit, his hair slicked back? She’d given her time to Bryson. She was preparing, really, to give Bryson her heart completely.

  “You were wonderful out there,” the older brother murmured now, breath hot against her ear. His hands shivered as he groped about her middle, as if unable to find a resting place. His fingers resolved in the crotch of her leotard, where they pressed up. She felt like she might spin away down the hall.

  “I’d be nowhere without you, Clyde.”

  “Well then, Bonnie,” he murmured. They’d made a not-so-secret language together this week; also, Bonnie and Clyde had been playing on the hotel network, and it’s prescience to the current situation tickled them both. “Then let me show you my appreciation.” Bryson turned Romy around firmly, pressing her pelvis against the flat of his hotel room door. She felt him behind her, as he rubbed himself between the crevice made by taut fabric. Her ass quivered in anticipation. He reached up and slowly pulled her hair back, by the ponytail—there, he began to carve a trail of kisses down her exposed neck. He sucked harder and harder.

  “Bryson, the door.”

  “I don’t care who sees.”

  Despite his fervent protests, Romy fumbled for the door handle. Her palm was sweaty. It was amazing; they’d been having consistent sex for two weeks now, and she still wanted this man with an unparalleled hunger. Her body craved him, like food.

  Barreling past the foyer, they fell short of the bed. He grasped her breasts through her leotard, peeling the fabric away like petals of a flower. Falling to the floor, they felt victorious. For the first time, Romy could imagine fucking Bryson with the fresh abandon of a free person. In hours, they’d be whizzing by her apartment, picking up her dog, and high-tailing for Northern California. They’d engineer a whole new life.

  Shimmying frantically out of the foul leotard—and balling it with fury, certain she wouldn’t need to wear it again—Romy gave herself to Bryson. She lay stripped on the carpet. He gathered her tiny body in rough hands, positioning her on all fours. Then, he unbuckled his pants and slid into her slowly, from behind. Romy gasped suddenly and exhaled with a deep groan as his hugeness filled her; she felt the top of her body bearing down on the tip of his cock. She felt every contour, every piece of him.

  “Give it to me,” she commanded, through gritted teeth. They’d never made love—no, fucked—quite like this before. His power thrilled her. With groping palms, he massaged her ass as he moved swiftly in and out, in and out, pumping his way towards an epic climax…

  At the crest of their simultaneous orgasm, the hotel room suddenly filled with a strange sound: feedback. Bryson, oblivious, shuddered with finality against her ass. Romy felt him trickle against the insides of her hot thighs. Her lover gasped for breath.

  “Did you hear that?” she croaked, voice hoarse from screaming. Bryson reached a lazy hand down, fondling her breasts loosely.

  “Hear what, Bonnie?”

  “I’m serious, Bryson. I heard a noise.”

  “What kind of noise?”

  “A microphone kind.”

  Instantly, her lover sprang to attention. Bryson scanned the walls of the hotel room with his familiar spy-catching span. And then, as if in response, the sound arrived again. The muffled sounds of voices, perhaps. The conferring of a small congress.

  “Where is that coming from?” Romy demanded to no one. For fear of being watched, she moved to cover herself in the hotel sheets. She pushed sweaty hair from the center of her face, suppressing a panic. In their passion, she and Bryson had forgotten to scan the hotel room for fresh bugs, as was their usual habit.

  In the far corner, Bryson stopped short. He held in his fingers a frayed cord, which burrowed straight into a small hole in the wall, just below the TV. He looked stricken. His face had gone pale.

  “You had to know you were being monitored, Mister...Weller, was it?” boomed a voice. Romy nearly screamed. The sounds seemed to be coming from all around. It was as if the whole hotel room were an amplifier for sound, transmitting the voice of, she knew it immediately, Lefty DiMartino. The goddamned pervert, smuggled away in his hidden fortress. He’d been listening to everything; likely watching them, too.

  “What do you want, sir?” Bryson managed, with as much dignity as he could muster having just been caught with his pants down. “As you’ve probably gathered, me and my lady were just having a little…”

  “Yes, yes I see that. And good job! I like it when you give it to em rough.” A horrible, lingering cackle rang throughout the room. Romy gathered herself in the blanket. “Very, very nice. And I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “So why have you?”

  “Tsk, tsk. You’ve really got to work on your bedside manner, son.” A vein jumped in Bryson’s furious cheek. He looked as if
he might punch through a wall.

  “Now listen up,” drawled her boss’ disembodied voice, “I’m not especially intrigued with the way things have been going up on the Needle. This whole, he-takes-my-money, he-takes-the-girl business...it’s frankly a bit dull for Vegas, don't ya think?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  “I think you do, Mr. Weller.” A cold shock rang down Romy’s spine. The skepticism in his voice said it all—had they finally, terribly, been caught? So close to the end?

  “I don’t know who you are,” DiMartino continued. “and I could give a rat’s ass, frankly. But I do know that if you want to screw a nubile blonde, the Strip is lousy with candidates. Ms. Adelaide just so happens to be taken.”

  “So I can’t date, Lefty?” Romy ventured, her voice lurching with fear. “You never said I wasn’t allowed to date. That wasn’t part of our agreement.”

  “Oh, date all you want, sweetheart! Date away! Date all the schmoes you can find, with that sweet, firm ass of yours.” There was the sound of a cigar being sucked on. Romy recoiled. “I just don’t like you dating a mysterious high-roller who comes in every weekend to sweep you off to paradise and take my good money. That’s just plain no fun, as games go. Who wants to play in a game like that, huh? Game you can’t win?” He was winding up for a cackle again, she could feel it.

  “Now, because we all hate being bored, and we all want to make sure everything’s fair and square, I’m officially inviting you two to a surprise tournament. Tomorrow. On the Needle Point.”

  “Tomorrow?” Bryson cried. “That’s Sunday! Who’s going to come to your tournament tomorrow?”

  Lefty didn’t even bother to answer this, so evident it was that he had friends in high places willing to bend to his whims. “I’ll need you both there. We’ll call it a big rematch, for fair and square’s sake. A little double downing. A little all or nothing. A little winner takes all. Either way, it should be the social event of the season.” And then it burst forth: that mad cackle, like a donkey’s bray mixed with something utterly diabolical. “Now night, night, lovebirds. And remember—Lefty’s watching you.” Then, the machine tapered off with a click.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Downstairs on the main floor, Kellan Vaughn was making a splash on the slot machines. Paulette was working, and after a convincing loss in the high roller’s room, he’d decided to idle away the rest of his hostess’ shift. She kept coming around and slipping him free drinks from the bar, passing festooned glasses his way with a wink, but to Kellan’s surprise, and Paulette’s mirth, these were all mocktails.

  “Super funny, P,” he joke-yelled to her across the floor, to her retreating back. “Don’t think I won’t report this kind of crap to a supervisor. Service Industry!” At this point, a starry eyed young woman toting a gentleman easily twice her age mosied up to his seat: “Excuse me, will you sign an autograph for me? Aren’t you the guy in The Prattle?”

  Across the floor, Paulette Nagle-formerly-Brownstein watched this interaction with interest. Kellan had been tight-lipped about whatever it was that had brought him to Vegas. In fact, he’d been tight-lipped about everything personal. She didn’t goad; something about his manner was too sad to demand inquiry. But she’d pegged him rightly for a musician of marginal fame, and a heartsick one at that. Then there was the strange incident from the evening she’d peeled him off the lobby floors and foisted him into the front seat of her Coupe de Ville:

  “Where do you live, baby? Where can I take you?”

  “Roooooooomy.”

  “Yes, it’s a big car. So a motel? A friend’s house?”

  “Rooooomy. Roooomy.” He’d released a few fat tears onto her passenger window. “Adelaide. Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide.”

  The rest of this nonsense-reverie had descended into rhyming words, things she couldn’t quite remember. Song fragments.

  But the important bit, that had stuck.

  Whatever his connection to Romy, Paulette figured the boy’s infatuation proved two things: for one, contrary to what she’d said in the restaurant parking lot, she was still working somewhere on the Sunset Strip, perhaps even inside The Windsor. And for two, which she gathered from the boy’s mounting tears and later his distressed, overly focused expression; as she’d allowed herself to fear in the past week, Romy was in trouble. Wherever she was.

  Yet it hadn’t seemed prudent to bring her friend up the next day, as Kellan sat up straight in bed for the first time in who knew how long. She’d known enough alcoholics in her life to recognize the earmarks of the disease, and understand it’s triggers. He’d talk when he was good and ready. In the meantime, Paulette trusted that in keeping Kellan close, she was that much closer to her missing co-worker. And of course it didn’t hurt that her new boarder was kind, intelligent, and a dead ringer for Mick Jagger in 1975.

  As she watched him reluctantly sign an autograph, a new piece of the puzzle shifted into place. He’d just come from upstairs, hadn’t he? Maybe…

  Suddenly, there was a commotion on the floor. Barely-Important-Lou sprung to attention like he’d been pinched. A man wearing nothing but a terry cloth robe was hurtling straight for Kellan, propelled by a visible panic. When he reached his target, Kellan’s face betrayed shock, then recomposed into a kind of anger.

  “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said loudly to the room. “Please move away from me.” Yet strangely, the man looked appeased, even a little relieved. He looked down at himself in the robe, as if for the first time, and then made a big show of apologizing to the casino floor at large: “I’m sorry for the disturbance, everyone. I’ll just be back in my room now.” This last remark was clearly meant to preempt security, who had already started picking their way around blackjack tables to sedate what they’d taken for fresh crazy.

  But Paulette kept watching Kellan. Though he’d feigned an innocence, he looked highly disturbed after the encounter. And was there something about those two standing next to each other, under the scrupulous light of the main floor? Perhaps it was her imagination, but there’d been something familiar about both men, side by side. Or particularly the man in the terry-cloth robe...she knew him, she was certain of it. She moved towards his fleeing figure, hoping for a good angle.

  “Paul-ETTE,” carped Lou. “Nothing to see here. Get back to your tasks, please.” But she craned her neck regardless, hoping for...and there it was. The thick outline of a neck tattoo! This man was Romy’s gentleman friend, the one from the tables, the one from the restaurant…and staying here, at The Windsor.

  She made for Kellan, whose mounting distress was affecting his game. A row of tomatoes sprouted across his slot machine. Placing a firm, warm hand on his shoulder, she bent low:

  “I need you to tell me everything,” Paulette said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  That night in the Needle was to be the most terrifying of Romy's tenure at the Windsor.

  After a sleepless night plagued with an imagined soundtrack of Lefty’s grating voice, piped in from some anonymous place and an even more anxious morning spent away from Bryson; Romy dressed for work as if she were headed for the gallow’s pole. Everything she saw, she saw as if it might be for the last time. Her apartment. Her piles of statistics books. These were things that belonged to an innocent person, a stranger, some young midwestern girl who’d managed to remain abreast of corruption in a city like this.

  She didn’t know everything Lefty knew—how could she? It wasn’t impossible that this whole evening was just a prolonged death sentence, a cat dangling a mouse before finally chomping down. She didn’t dare to hope that it was merely her public relationship that now stood on trial. She knew that Lefty would do everything in his power to pair her with some scum of the Earth scuzzbag this evening—and many evenings thereafter. The knowledge of this fell hard on her shoulders, like a fate worse than death.

  After multiple, shaky attempts at make-up, Romy re-donned the miserable
leotard she’d been so thrilled to leave behind. It clung to her shoulders, a tidy little cage.

  She’d left Goofy with the neighbor boy, perfectly prepared to never see her beloved pet again. And finally, she entered her car. It was truly amazing; she felt she’d experienced the peak of all emotions in the past two weeks. Joy, pain, pleasure, terror. Love? Finally, here at what felt like the end of everything, did she dare admit to herself what she truly felt for Bryson? It felt almost beside the point. Moreover, to call anything Love in this miserable wasteland seemed unfair.

  She started the engine. And with rising dread, Romy drove to The Windsor on a Sunday afternoon.

  The casino was Sunday-crowded; which was to say, largely empty. Businesspeople were headed home from their travels. Locals were gearing up for another week. It was a tad too early for industry types, so in total the whole floor gave off a whiff of loneliness. Only two dealers were circulating through a wide area. Romy recognized neither of them.

  Get out while you still can, she found herself thinking. You don’t want anything to do with a guy who runs a business like this. But the words would have meant nothing. If she’d learned anything these past few weeks, it was that money held an unparalleled allure. People would forget all manner of important things in order to get some more.