Breaking Beauty: Devils Aces MC Part 13

"I'm Paulette," said the woman cheerfully. "Owner and proprietor of this here lovely ranch house. And you, my friend, are a drunk I took in. Y'hungry?"

The thought made him sick again. But Kellan forced the nausea away; now he was too curious.

"Why did you do that?" he whispered, grasping again for the water. Paulette grinned down at him.

"You reminded me of a man or two, after my own heart." Her voice seemed so utterly sans malice. And could it be true? Had he been saved by the last wholesome person in this whole G.o.dforsaken city?

"Thanks, Paulette. I really appreciate it."

"Is it a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

Paulette pulled up a pile of mismatched prints and sat down heavily. "You were in a real state last night, champ. I just wondered...was it about a girl?"

It hurt too much to think about, and with a hefty hangover, the ache seemed to double. Skittering visions of Romy kissing his older brother raced through his mind, tripping over and across flashes of her face in high school. Seeing Paulette's waiting, open face, Kellan elected a response: "Yes. There's a girl involved."

"You want some advice?" Gosh, she moved quick. There was a spitfire intelligence to this mystery angel. Kellan realized how long it had been since he'd spoken to anyone intimately. With an unsourced pang, he thought of The Prattle. He had only been a week away from their company, but he already missed his friends on the road.

"Sure."

"You have to move on," she said now, slowly, in a dulcet, soothing Mom voice. "Any woman who makes you feel this way-like you've got no control over the world, no reason to make meaning in it-she's no good for you. And wait, I take it you're something of a romantic?"

"Why do you say that?" Kellan snapped. He tried to keep the edge from his voice, but the hangover was descending like a zeppelin over all his thoughts.

"Your hippie hair, sweet pea," Paulette said. She leaned forward to ruffle his damp forehead. Her touch was cool and careful. "And all the calluses on your fingers. I'm guessing...a musician?"

Without waiting for a reply, she cackled at her rightness. So, Paulette was a woman who liked to be right. Good to know.

"I guess I'm a little romantic, sure. Who isn't?"

"Well, that can be a burden. People very rarely live up to a romantic's astronomic expectations. We're all just humans, crawling around in the muck, wanting the things it occurs to us to want."

She stood then, and regarded her charge with a steely gaze. "So don't fly off the handle for a single human, okay? No right-thinking woman will respect a guy who can't take care of himself, anyways. Who can't hold his liquor." She smirked, as she turned to walk out of the room. Kellan was left to contemplate her words.

"When do you need me out of here?" he thought to yell at her retreating back. This was the first of a dozen more questions that sprang to mind; who was she really? How had she found him? What had he said last night that enabled her to be so magically perceptive this morning? He was disappointed that this practical inquiry was the first thing to fly from his mouth. But Paulette just grinned again.

"Stay as long as you need to. Company's just fine with me."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

It was just as before: Romy rose in the morning to Zaida's ferocious knock, and took the money. She contemplated her sleeping lover, tangled up in the expensive sheets. It seemed too good to be true. Were they possibly...free?

"Bryson?" Romy whispered, shaking his plush arms. "Wake up. Bryson!"

"Mmm."

"Shouldn't we be getting our things? Hightailing it out of here? Bryson?"

He creaked his eyes open. They were caked with well-deserved sleep. "Romy," he said slowly, reaching for her.

She recoiled. "I should have known. G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Bryson!"

"What should you have known? You don't even know what I'm going to say!"

"I know that-" Romy found herself blinking back angry tears. "-I know that I've just spent this whole week being manipulated. Not just by Lefty, or Zaida, who I knew I couldn't trust...but you. And your brother. Jesus." She sat heavily in a far armchair. Bryson rolled up, fully awake.

"Shhhhh, keep it down!" he hissed, whispering now. "Remember we're in their hotel." I didn't mean to manipulate you," he said quietly. His voice betrayed his shame.

"You come over to my house, you teach me how to count cards, of all things! You tell me this is all this big escape plan, to get me out of here, to save my life and then you throw all these curveb.a.l.l.s! When are we really leaving?"

"Another week, okay? We can leave right after that...just one single week!"

"Why? WHY? Is this just about the money to you?" A grim silence landed in the s.p.a.ce between them. Romy failed to suppress a noisy sob. She hid her face.

But Bryson had enclosed her in his arms-his huge, strong arms. He rocked her as she cried, slowly sapping her of energy, the will to fight with him. How was it that he had this calming effect, always?

"I know you're strong. I know you're smart. The reason I didn't tell you about the whole plan is because-well, I'm figuring out a lot of it as we go along. There's not as much of a plan as you'd think." He took her dewy face between his hands. "And I wasn't lying about the most important thing, Romy. I am truly, truly, falling for you. I want to be with you. In the daylight, away from this town. I want to wake up beside you every single day."

"You don't even know me," she sputtered, hating the petulance in her own voice. But wasn't that a little bit true? It had been two weeks. A dramatic, crazy two weeks, sure, but 14 days nonetheless.

"I think I do," Bryson swaggered. She fought an urge to seek out his by-now familiar, easy grin. She had to be smarter. She couldn't fall so easily into the trap of a handsome face.

"Let me tell you all I know," he crooned. "Okay?"

Romy nodded dully. Her lover drew breath: "Okay. So Lefty DiMartino, proprietor of the Windsor and resident evil, is a real nasty piece of work. But you already knew that. What you don't know is how deep his operation goes. The man's got his fingers in Mexican drug cartels, some highly dubious s.h.i.+pping operations on the Eastern seaboard, human trafficking, and he can be connected to at least sixty murders in the past ten years alone. Following so far?"

Romy moved to perch at the edge of her armchair. She blinked rapidly, indicating he continue.

"...Great. So what I mean to say is: making a significant dent in his operation is going to require a lot of trust. A lot of confidence. And most of all, a lot of money.

Now the Aces have lent me and Kelly the sizable nest egg we've been gambling with so far, which we've managed to make some nice returns on. Though if I know my brother, half of what we won last night is being peeled off the Needle's floor this morning...regardless. So now there's all this money at stake. My family's, my club's, mine-basically the life savings of a dozen operations are in play. And we wouldn't take a risk like this, Romy, unless we fully expected to make a difference. To topple DiMartino to the best of our ability. Now to pull off a stunt like that, we'd need: a woman on the inside. Check, that's you."

"So you USED me?" Romy blurted. She made to stand, but Bryson rushed to her side again.

"Absolutely not," he said firmly. "You've got to understand that my family, with its connections, could hurt a man like Lefty DiMartino in far less, shall-we-say expensive ways. Falling for you, even recognizing you as an employee at the Windsor...none of that was part of this. I swear to G.o.d."

She resumed her position in the armchair. At this point, what choice did she have but to believe in Bryson? And their sweet week of bliss, of l.u.s.t...that all had to mean something, didn't it? Even as a liar, he was still the best man she'd known in who-knew-how-long.

"I. Swear. To. G.o.d," he repeated ardently. "But you can see the appeal of the amended plan. Instead of hurting Lefty like a bunch of thugs, we can take from him what he cares about most: power. Credibility. Money.

My brother is involved, namely, because he's the best card-counter I've ever met. Games come naturally to him; it's his inner performer. Plus, people like him, and I can trust him. Lefty has taken an unexpected s.h.i.+ne to him, which ended up being helpful last night. Took lots of the heat off me and you. And I didn't tell Kellan about us, didn't tell you about Kellan, because, like I said, I got scared. I know you two used to have a thing together, and even if it was small and ancient...I didn't want to risk a rekindling. It was selfish."

"Yes, it was."

"Yes. That was a mistake. I admit it. But I want you to myself," He took another heavy, inflating breath. "And now here we are, right? Last night we took the casino for another cool three hundred, four hundred grand. That's a big hit. But more importantly, we've gained the trust of the target himself. If we barter on that and wait a week...just one more week...we could sink him hugely, Romy. Walk out of there with enough money to hobble his empire, without raising an eyebrow."

"He's not an idiot, Bryson. I'm sure he'll be watching both you and Kellan hyper-closely the rest of the time you're in Vegas. He'd already traced you to my house."

"And he's already seen us make love like animals, all throughout his hotel. He knows you're terrified of him. He only knows me as a nameless suit. Why should he be more suspicious of us than any of the other slime bags up in the Needle?"

Though her mind tripped on this bit of logic, Romy nodded her head. The rest of the plan-laid out like so-made enough sense to keep her listening. She urged him on, with another dainty incline of her head.

"So what happens when we walk out of here, then? Next week? With more money?"

"Well first, we skip town. Fast, fast, fast."

"Sure."

"And a week will give us enough time to make the right arrangements. You can withdraw from school, we can get your dog to a safe place, et cetera. We get far enough away with enough money, you call in an anonymous tip to the Feds and tell them everything you can about DiMartino. We sink him like a submarine. Presto!"

"And Kellan?"

"When I win at the final tournament, we'll all divvy up the profits fairly. And Kellan will go back to his band, I guess." Bryson's brow furrowed. They sat in silence for a moment. It'll work, Romy. It'll be so great, his eyes seemed to say.

Her whole life, Romy realized, was centered about intelligent gambling. She studied probability, the likelihoods of certain outcomes. She measured actions on the probability of their positive outcome. But the past week felt like an outrageous departure from all that structure; she'd p.a.w.ned herself along on the basis of other people's a.s.sessments of danger. It was a precarious place to be, but she had to admit; it was also a thrilling one.

"I understand why you wouldn't want to believe me," Bryson was saying heavily. "Everyone's lied to you. For so long." But not me. Not my brother. "And I don't want you to think this is your only choice. If you go to the police, if you walk away now-the Devil's Aces will do everything in their power to protect you. I swear that on my life."

Feeling the crumpled cash growing damp in her fist, Romy finally availed herself of her lover's eyes. They told stories. Here was a man who'd been everywhere, who'd seen everything, who'd always said yes to adventure. Building a life with him would demand her acceptance of uncertainty, of not-always-knowing. She couldn't yet contemplate the choice in terms of forevers, but in that d.a.m.n impish grin, she read one word: yes.

"Bryson," Romy said slowly. "About what you said last night. It was very..." But he rushed forward then, pressing a thick finger to her lips. "Wait," he told her. "We have plenty of time for that."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

On Monday, Romy met with her advisor and requested an official leave of absence from the University of Nevada. She walked through campus gamely, hoping not to run into anyone she recognized. Thankfully, it was a dead week-spring break was just around the corner, and everyone was in the library.

"We'll miss you, Ms. Adelaide," stuttered Mrs. Datsun, one of the few friendly elders who oversaw the Statistics program. Her concern seemed genuine. "I hope this isn't in pursuit of some kind of M-R-S degree."

Romy snorted, psuedo-heisting a casino was about as far from marriage as humanly possible, she thought to herself. "No, ma'am," she said instead. "I just need a bit of time to sort through my personal life. I'm not leaving the field, and have every intention of finis.h.i.+ng the program as soon as the stars align."

Mrs. Datsun regarded her warily over horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. "Wouldn't always wait for the stars, m'dear," she crowed, stamping a few doc.u.ments with a creaky paw. But she smiled on standing. They shook hands. Romy felt more stranded than ever before; Bryson's not-quite-a-plan was materializing in real terms all around her and there was no turning back now.

Also on Monday, in a different part of town, Kellan Vaughn took Paulette and her two pesky offspring to the Bellagio Conservatory and Botanical Gardens. He'd spent the rest of the weekend p.r.o.ne in her sewing room, and figured, what with the heavy heaps of cash he kept finding in his socks, that it would be nice to pay it forward, for once.

While her children marveled at the mounted ceilings, the giant plush animal recreations loitering through the greenery, Kellan walked with Paulette around the cavernous lobby. They spoke no more of his ugly Sat.u.r.day evening, or the anonymous girl culprit behind his bingeing. Rather, Paulette talked about her children, and her dreams away from the Sunset Strip.

"I always wanted to be a dancer. Like a Rockette, something like this." She swung her purse to and fro as her children ran amok. "Fell short, I guess."

"In this town? It's never too late."

"No, I'm physically too short. See?" She drew herself up besides an enormous raffia ladybug that was milling around the fake-landscape. "No taller than a lady bug. Try to do a high kick with stubs sometime."

They laughed together at this. Kellan had the peculiar, warm sense of being in recovery when he was with Paulette. Her sweetness was so distant, so anathema to the Strip that he could almost all-the-way escape into the folds of her life. He felt no romance towards her, and especially none towards her tow-headed monsters, but he was immeasurably grateful for the new friend. And in a strange way, she reminded him of Romy. She had the same empathy, behind her eyes-a perceptiveness that let her see the world just as it was. She let him exist just as he was, never challenging his secrets, the bits of him he wished to keep private.

But he tried not to think about Romy.

The days of the week pa.s.sed 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 sc.r.a.ped 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-rehea.r.s.ed 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 a.s.s quivered in antic.i.p.ation. 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 s.e.x 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 f.u.c.king 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.

s.h.i.+mmying 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 c.o.c.k. She felt every contour, every piece of him.

"Give it to me," she commanded, through gritted teeth. They'd never made love-no, f.u.c.ked-quite like this before. His power thrilled her. With groping palms, he ma.s.saged her a.s.s as he moved swiftly in and out, in and out, pumping his way towards an epic climax...

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