Breaking Beauty: Devils Aces MC Part 12

When he picked up the guitar-not the Fender, not the wannabe fender, but the rickety twelve-string acoustic he claimed to have bartered a Crow Indian man for-Romy had felt another unusual trill of feeling. His bedroom had been Spartan. No posters on the walls or photos in frames, everything just so. The only thing that gave the circ.u.mstance away was the pervading odor of teenage boy. A smell that bothered plenty of girls (corn-chip-y, composed of all the wrong deodorants...) but one that Romy had loved. Still loved, to this day.

Kellan had played his song with little fanfare. He hadn't introduced it. He hadn't even looked into her eyes, really; had preferred to mumble his chorus to the floor. But at the spastic end-when he'd looked up through his greasy hair to gauge her interest, a face full of hope-she'd been so compelled that she'd leaned forward on the bed and told him straight, "I love you."

And for a split second, that had hung in the air: the you dangling, dangerous. Romy realized her mistake in the split second, and tried to repair the damage: "It. I love it. I mean I love it, Kellan, that song-I love it so much."

If he was crestfallen, if her words had broken him-a Vaughn man wouldn't show it. Instead, he'd set his guitar aside, and planted an earnest, sloppy teenage boy's kiss somewhere to the right of her mouth. He'd been Romy's first. Sure, she'd kissed plenty since that day-the Pomegranate and Song day-but she could still recall the inviting, spongy feel of his warm mouth. The thirst behind it. The youth...

"What in h.e.l.l is going down here?" called Zaida, in her limping English. Romy was so startled that a sleek bottle of Skyy began to slip through her fingers. With cat-like reflex, her mentor seized the gla.s.s before it shattered on the floor.

"Your table is needing you! What in h.e.l.l..."

Romy stood quickly, and re-composed her features with haste. Looking up, she saw that the Needle floor had rearranged itself into top tournament form. All the window tables were taken up by sprawling games. Millionaires and B-Listers, hotshots of all colors...they were ready to gamble their money, hoping to make something from nothing.

She cast about for Kellan and Bryson, who were doing a good job pretending to be strangers. Kellan was nursing a tall pour of what-looked-like-whiskey, while Bryson was glad-handing a bartender. Yet they were zeroing in on their allotted s.p.a.ces, feigning casual.

Zaida gave Romy a sharp flick at the base of her neck, and a last withering glance. So, she straightened her spine. Made for the table which would determine her fate.

But suddenly, Romy felt another hand on her body-and this grip was somehow even less pleasant than the bony rattle of her supervisor. The pressure behind this hand was harsh, insinuating a large man. She could feel slightly sticky fingers through the patches in her leotard.

"Remember me, sweet-cheeks?" appealed a voice by her ear with hot, rank breath. The. Dap.

"No need to say anything to a supervisor. Won't be but a minute."

Romy tried to wriggle away from what was quickly becoming a firm grip on the skin of her waist, but to no avail. She tried to hold perfectly still. Perhaps Zaida would turn around and make mention of this foul conduct.

"Just wanted you to know that you've got a fine luxury coming to you this eventide. Because I'm going to tear that fine a.s.s to shreds." There was so much malice in his ugly words that Romy fought the urge to spit on him-do anything to make him recoil. On seeing her face, The Dap merely broke into a dark chuckle.

"Oh, and don't worry. Your boyfriend won't be able to do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing about it, princess." With a final squeeze and a conspicuous wink, he released her and made his own ambling way towards the game table.

Freshly terrified, Romy considered the room again. From a far corner, Zaida seemed to be grinning her way. So much for supervisor's protection. Bryson, locked by the same corner of the bar, seemed to have his lady love in peripheral mind; his body was agitating towards her. Nearest the table now, Kellan was landing his slos.h.i.+ng tumbler square onto the green felt.

"LET THE TOURNIE BEGIN!" The Dap bellowed, sparking a cry around the room which made Romy think of gladiator games.

So there was a way in which she was alone here. A way in which she'd need to sc.r.a.pe her own self out of this heaping, G.o.d-awful disaster.

She set her chin. Nothing that hadn't been done before.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

Because there was, apparently, a G.o.d, The Dap was the second player busted out of the tournament in the first round. After making a fuss equal to his tantrum the week before, he'd been removed from the floor. That left only Lefty's, Zaida's, Bryson's, and Kellan's eyes on their dealer.

At first, Romy struggled to remember some of the week's training, especially with the multiple decks in play. It was too much pressure, what with everyone watching the table so closely for signs of favoritism. But-to her great relief-The Dap's being peeled away from the table proved ample distraction; Bryson had pulled in to a strong lead by halfway into the first round of the game, and at a packed table, too. As they'd rehea.r.s.ed, Romy flicked her ponytail ever-so-slightly when her dealer's hole card portended a favorability. After a few turns had pa.s.sed like this, she s.h.i.+fted her tell to fend off suspicion; when a player's hand was good enough to double down for, Romy rubbed two fingers together on her left hand. In this way, they plodded toward a mutual victory.

As soon as the ugliest threat was gone from the table, Bryson began to play with ease-most of the other players this night were of the washed-up variety. There was one imposing-looking ex-movie star in wraparound Ray Bans, but he left the table abruptly mid-round, breaking his bankroll by foolishly splitting a pair of 5's.

It took all of Romy's willpower not to stare at the brothers. They were seated idly across from one another: Kellan closer to the windows, Bryson towards the floor. Romy noticed inadvertent similarities in their mannerisms-the way they held their chip pile close, the way they flicked that same sandy mop of hair away from their eyes, as if irked. Kellan, Romy was gathering, was a player no less strong than his brother-but his style was different. He was less cautious than Bryson, and through no direct errors had managed to create the air of a sloppy player. As a result, everyone at the table kept underestimating him.

"Look at that," whistled Lefty, as the tournament approached its close. He'd pried himself away from that evening's hot-ticket B-lister to monitor Romy's game. He paid special attention to Kellan, who-despite what now appeared to be his sixth whiskey-was still coolly playing large hands. Romy was then aware of that calculating look in her employer's eyes, as he pushed his gaze over the newcomer. That look that was such an obvious appraisal, an attempt to figure out how much another person was worth.

In a near effortless turn of events, the game boiled down to Kellan and Bryson: the brothers Vaughn. Romy took a moment to pause and wonder at this good fortune. All their preparations had truly come to fruition-she'd be sleeping with Bryson tonight, all according to plan. Her knees felt weak with the sudden relief, and she was proud of her own performance. Despite all these stupid curve-b.a.l.l.s, they would all come up victorious.

Suppressing a grin, she dealt the final round.

"You must love getting your money took, traveler," Kellan drawled, in a mock hill-billy affect. "It seems clear to me that you're in well over your hoity-toity head."

Bryson just smiled. He hadn't spared his brother a word throughout the compet.i.tion; had only, in fact, lent him angry looks. Romy a.s.sumed this was all part of whatever secret consensus they'd come to, plotting behind her back. However, Bryson was down to his last orange chip in the felt circle, and Kellan still had a healthy stack in front of him.

"Stay," Bryson was saying slowly now, waving his hand flat over his cards; a 7 and 10.

"Not upping the ante? Tsk, tsk. I'll double." With a lazy flick, Kellan pushed two fat orange chips towards the betting circle in front of him-doubling down on his cards; a 4 and 5. Bryson looked fl.u.s.tered. For a split second, he glanced up at Romy. She saw a flicker of panic in his gaze.

Romy had a 7 card showing, and she knew her hole card was a 4. She dealt Kellan a third card. It was a 10-he stood on 19. She flipped her hole card over, revealing a 4, making her hand a dangerous 11 altogether. She drew a card from the shoe; a 3, to make her hand a 14. Kellan and Bryson both held their breath as she drew another card from the shoe...a 4, to make her hand an 18.

The table got rowdy at this. Kellan gave off a theatrical whoop, and the crowd of onlookers jeered. They were pleased to see that the alleged boyfriend hadn't won; there was something salacious in his having to lend his woman to another man. Lefty looked as if he might burst with glee.

"You know the tournament rules, yes?" Zaida called over the din. She had clearly not forgiven Romy for her misconduct earlier that day. "You take money, or woman. Choose."

All of the Needle seemed to grow quiet at this, even though a dozen other dealers had already been escorted from the floor that night. Though she knew what would transpire from here-of course she did-Romy felt her skin tingle when Kellan stood, pretending to consider his options.

Then he looked at her with a longing so plaintive, so pure, that she pressed her own gaze straight to the felt. What would happen, were she to look up and meet that imploring teenage boy face? If he were to take her in his gangly arms, sweep her down the elevator, serenade her, kiss her wetly, this...other Vaughn brother?

She absolutely, positively, one hundred percent could not let herself think about it. Instead, Romy sought Bryson's hand unthinkingly-his firm, dry grip like a life raft.

"She's awfully lovely," Kellan said slowly. "But I've got some debts to see to. All over this f.u.c.king town."

This response was, miraculously, the right one. Lefty guffawed. The back-slapping continued. And as Kellan wove his way on wobbling feet towards the center of the table, scooting chips upon chips towards his waiting pockets, Bryson stood beside Romy. He gathered her small frame in his beefy arms and pressed his mouth onto hers. She sank at the touch.

"In hotel room," Zaida muttered fiercely, as she herded the young couple towards the elevator. There was no drama in two mutual lovers going off to screw. Accordingly, no heads in the Needle turned. For the first time all evening, Romy felt the pleasing sense of lapsed scrutiny, of not-being-watched. She let herself lean against Bryson's figure as the shaft rode down through the floors. She was suddenly exhausted.

"I'm sorry," Bryson said, once they were outside his familiar room. "I should have mentioned Kellan. I know that."

"You should have," Romy said, trying to muster the energy to be furious. She should have been furious. "It could have thrown my game."

"I know."

"I could have recognized him by myself. Gotten us all killed."

"I know."

"Why did you do it?" she asked, lying back along the downy comforter. But she knew why. Romy turned her face toward a waiting pillow, away from Bryson.

"I was worried. I shouldn't have been. I figured this hadn't occurred to you, because you didn't even mention my brother-but he had a really big thing for you back in high school."

"That was so long ago."

"You're right! It was! It was so long ago. But Romy-" he sat on the bed "-there's already so many reasons, so many complications keeping us apart. And I know it sounds stupid..."

"And petty, and jealous, and dangerous..."

"Yes, yes, yes. But I wanted to be the one who rescued you. I want you...all of you, baby...to myself." Bryson gulped. Then he closed his eyes, and said speedily: "Because I think I'm falling in love with you."

Romy looked up at her hero's face. It was as if something had cracked open, below his skin: his expression glimmered with a weakness that was unusual. Bryson Vaughn always looked so confident, and now, here he was: in this posh hotel room. Offering himself so wholly up to a woman.

Romy leaned forward and kissed him-slowly and sweetly at first, then with a kind of violence. She felt her body relax; her very cells began to comply with his now-familiar touch. He reached down and cradled the base of her head, letting his fingers race and sift through her soft, blonde hair.

Her pecks moved down, until she was sucking urgently on the taut flesh of his neck just below his tattoo. Bryson's eyes rolled back into his head with pleasure. He moaned. He began to curve into her. Romy slid a roving hand down and felt the straining fabric of his tuxedo pants mounting to conceal a throbbing, stiff organ. When she touched him through the fabric, he moaned unabashedly.

Taking control, Romy rolled across her lover and straddled him on the bed, gripping his slim hips between her thighs. Bryson pressed his palms flat over her exposed legs, and began to rub vigorously, ma.s.saging her. In response, Romy ground herself over and against his erection, until she was moving rhythmically, until she could feel a damp patch begin in his trousers, until she felt her own center grow hot and slick. She tossed her fine, blonde hair back-letting it graze the tips of his knees. Bryson reached up and took two firm handfuls of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the pressure of his strong hands on her soft flesh.

He rocked her into sitting then, and quickly peeled down a corner of her tight leotard. They were becoming frantic, animal-like in their movements. He sucked at her exposed shoulder, and when the cloth of her uniform wouldn't bend to his will fast enough, he tore it-exposing the quivering flesh of Romy's right breast. He gathered her in his palm, then began to suck and suck on her pointed pink nipple. Romy grappled for her lover's zipper, the b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt, anything she could remove.

"I wanted you so f.u.c.king bad all day," Bryson whispered into her hair. His fingers still toyed with her nipple, pinching it and tweaking it with an almost adolescent abandon. By now, Romy had found an entry point into his pants, and now lifted herself from his crotch in order to position herself before his wall of flesh. And Bryson's member was beautiful-thick, long, so perfectly engorged. She knelt on the carpet and took him greedily in her mouth.

Bryson lifted himself from the mattress with the flats of his palms, so as to thrust himself the better into her waiting mouth. He pumped for a vigorous stretch before finding Romy's arms and pulling her up to the bed beside him. She clung to his c.o.c.k, working her fingers up and down the shaft as he made for the remainder of her uniform. When she'd wiggled free from the sheer fabric, Bryson grabbed her and threw her onto the bed. He leaned his ma.s.sive frame over her pet.i.te body, as Romy clawed into the meaty palate of his muscular a.s.s. She teased him slightly, pressing his c.o.c.k towards her p.u.s.s.y and then s.h.i.+mmying away.

Bryson grinned. He knew she couldn't withstand it any longer.

In one fluid arc, he filled her up. She arched her back into the source of the overwhelming sensation, and cried out. She felt the thickness of him in the pit of her stomach, and clenched his member with her warm, silky flesh. It was Bryson's turn to cry out. He grabbed frantically for her heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s, ma.s.saging them hard between sweaty fingers. And Romy looked up at the man...this man who was falling in love with her.

His thrusts came faster. Harder. As usual, she relaxed into his quick, heavy rhythm and gave herself over to being pounded. With one hand, he reached down and began to manipulate her c.l.i.t in frenzied but tender strokes. Romy gripped him harder, clutching fast to his rock-like muscular arms. Rising together to a mutual heat, at last-she came.

She felt a flood of ecstasy as she spasmed around her lover's c.o.c.k. Shortly thereafter, Bryson pushed the small of his back deep towards her own, and released with a shudder. Then, he collapsed across her body. She felt his rattled breathing, the thin flecks of his chest hair, pearls of his sweat...the fast beating of his heart.

They lay together, entwined. for a long while, listening to the bustle of the Las Vegas strip below. Though certain she was the more exhausted, Romy heard the thick snores of her lover beside her first. Bryson fell fast into a rest she hadn't seen him enjoy before-then again, their week of training had been sapping, and neither of them had gotten much sleep.

She made herself small in the yawning crevice between his thick arms and tapering chest. She knew she should have been thrilled. The plan had worked, hadn't it? As soon as tomorrow, they could ostensibly skip town together, make hand in hand for the sunset. She could resume her studies at some other school. Plus, there was enough cash from last weekend alone to absolve her immediate debts, and as for everything else...well, she presumed she could rely on Bryson's big winnings for that. And she would finally be safe. She wouldn't ever be wrapped in the claws of a monster who'd won her at auction.

But yet...there were so many yets. Her lover looked so handsome in the twilight of the Vegas strip. He had saved her, hadn't he? But hadn't she always figured that in her life, she'd be her own savior? Hadn't everything taught her that she didn't need to rely on people-men-the way everyone else did? People all seemed so hasty to give themselves away to another, but Romy saw no fundamental appeal in owners.h.i.+p. When Bryson had said he was falling for her, most of her heart had opened wide with glee (this was what she wanted, wasn't it?), but another part had erupted with an unfamiliar fear.

And yet another part of her heart was whispering stranded lyrics, over and over again. The words to a song she'd mostly forgotten, referred to now after years. A song a floppy-haired boy had wooed her with, in a teenaged bedroom: Don't tell me you can't feel it with your body next to mine wish I had you in my bedroom...

Bryson emitted a rattling, pleased snore. Romy cozied herself further into his nook. She let her tired eyelids flutter.

She'd think about it-everything-tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

After collecting his winnings, Kellan remained on the Needle-as a means of keeping up the team's ruse. He wandered in and out of a few mid-level poker tables, losing by hairs to other high-rollers. Lefty looked on affably, without a shred of suspicion: a drunk rocker throwing cash around was par for the Sat.u.r.day night course.

As the sun began to peel over the tops of neon buildings at street-level, making the rooftop lounge look especially like a mounted h.e.l.l, Kellan downed his last drink of the evening. He didn't make a habit of counting his intake, but could tell from the bartender's imperious raised eyebrows that he'd had...a fair amount. Whatever. He sloshed towards the exit, leaving a small bread-crumb trickle of spilled chips. His brother wouldn't appreciate this lack of...conduct. Well, f.u.c.k his brother.

"Is there a hotel room where we could store Mister...um, Mr. Vaughn?" a pretty waitress asked the room at large. He appeared to be clutching her arm. Why was he clutching her arm? Now he was on all fours...oh, boy...

Suddenly, Kellan perceived the sc.r.a.pe of what-felt-like talons on his back. Looking up, he noticed the severe Eastern European woman who'd been running the tournaments all evening. She did not look pleased.

"Special guest of Mr. Lefty's?" she simpered. He fl.u.s.tered to recall her name; Lisa? Vita? Dom Deluisa? This took too much energy. Kellan leaned heavily against the bar, instead. The room was spinning, now.

Scary-Bond-Villain-Woman was now motioning to the ghostly set of bouncers flanking the elevator. They approached like stealthy bears: all muscle, full of foreboding. Kellan scrambled to stand.

"Please escort Mr. Vaughn," she drew out the syllables of his name with disgust "to main casino floor. I am sure he can find his way back to whichever rat hole he came from, down there." Looking especially witchy, Zaida flicked her cold eyes about the room, as if to ensure Lefty was not listening in. When she ascertained that her boss had left the premises, she shoved Kellan sharply in the back. A wave of nausea propelled him forward.

"Get out, garbage man!" she yelled, in a ferocious, accented English. The bouncers hemmed him in on both sides.

After two sickening elevator rides, Kellan found himself back on the main floor. The world was blurring about the edges. He felt cool marble against his cheek. He heard the gruff sounds of the security guards, as they exchanged flat, stupid noises he took to be laughter. And then: nothing. A seeping, silent nothing.

Upon waking, Kellan immediately sensed an unfamiliarity in his surroundings. The air smelled sweet-like pancakes and lavender lotion, with undercurrents of something he recognized but couldn't place. Old Spice? Dirty laundry? A pairing of both?

He was bound in a quilt, pinioned flat as hospital corners in a twin bed. The room he was in contained a sewing machine and heaps of multi-colored fabric. The blinds and curtains were drawn, so he had no means of knowing what time of day it was-much less where he'd landed. A shooting, crystalline clarity came: it was Sunday. Sunday, the day after the tournament. Yesterday, he'd finished the evening...well, somewhere on the Sunset Strip.

But this wasn't the motel he'd checked into. His guitar was nowhere to be seen. It was very clearly a person's home he'd landed in-though from the looks of it, this wasn't the s.e.xy boudoir of an obliging lady of the night. Abruptly, he placed the smell that had evaded him before-teenage boy.

There was a clattering noise from beyond the closed door, then a muttered, "Oh, s.h.i.+t." Kellan struggled to place the voice. For an unthinking second, he imagined it was Romy Adelaide outside the room, cooking him breakfast. He might've died and gone to heaven! But no, heaven would surely be free of the splitting, thumping headache that he was slowly waking to, the flat, sickening pain of an impending hangover that now strode across his mind. He felt sloshy and precarious, like the inside of an uncooked egg. He hadn't been this hungover in years.

The feeling reminded him of those earliest days on the road with The Prattle, before he'd made the resolute decision to clean up his act. That life-his life-seemed so laughable now. Distant. The stuff of someone else's memory. To the current Kellan, there was only the immediately tangible: the frightened look in Romy's eyes. The flick of her elegant wrists as she pa.s.sed him cards. The Sunset Strip.

The door burst open. Though the figure on the threshold was flanked by an upsetting light, Kellan determined 1) "it" was a lady and 2) she was older. Warm. Probably a Mom.

"Rise and s.h.i.+ne, sleepyhead!" the woman trilled, proving his second theory to a tee. Adjusting his eyes to the light, Kellan drank in the full spectacle of her-she was tiny, but trim. Someone who worked out, who took great care of a pet.i.te but lovely figure. Her eyes were moist and large. Her hair was a crackly bottle auburn-not unlike his own mother's-but she wore it high and tight on her head, in a bun. She had the effervescence of a former beauty queen. And on closer inspection, his hero wasn't so old. Perhaps early forties. Time had done a number on her posture, that was all.

"Where am I?" Kellan managed, feeling the iron-y taste of yesterday on his tongue. In answer, the woman procured a gla.s.s of water from a bedside table and pa.s.sed it to him. He drank quickly.

"Don't go so fast. Can't have you getting sick again, can we?" Kellan's cheeks flushed-again?

"Where am I?" he repeated slowly, chugging all the water in one gulp and pa.s.sing the gla.s.s back. "And who are you?"