Breaking Beauty: Devils Aces MC Part 10

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 o.r.g.a.s.m. 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 gla.s.ses, 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 cus.h.i.+on 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..."

"s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. 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."

"s.h.i.+t."

"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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sume 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 Sat.u.r.day but still bring all the cash, roll high, high, high. I'll tell Zaida, even. I fell for my first forced 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."

"d.a.m.n babe you're a f.u.c.king 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 p.r.o.nounced when erect. The cool cups of those perfect, perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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.

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, pus.h.i.+ng 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-s.h.i.+rt, 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 cus.h.i.+on out from below his t-s.h.i.+rt 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 a.s.s 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 a.s.s 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 ma.s.sive erection.

"Take me here. Please, G.o.d, 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 c.o.c.k. 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 f.u.c.king 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 a.s.sume 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.

"h.e.l.lo 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 a 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.