Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (12 page)

The next few days proceeded in a whirlwind of activity and
new routine: Bryson would zoom over to Romy's house early, the pair would
practice all manner of complicated card counting techniques, and punctuate
their breaks with long, soulful bouts of love-making. As she learned his
playing style, his mannerisms, all the little pieces making up his demeanor—so
too did Romy learn her new man's body. They fucked on the futon, over the back
of the futon, flush against the wall, on the table, on the floor, and—at long
last—in her bed. On one of the last practice days, Bryson made a risky move and
stayed the night. Sleeping beside him in her own bed was far better than their
sordid evening at the Windsor, and waking to his snoring frame, Romy let
herself indulge in the vision of this life becoming habit.

She could be a biker girlfriend. She could be a biker wife,
even. She could balance the books and run the household. Teach math by day, and
spend her evenings on some prairie porch, waiting for the comforting sound of
her lover's roaring engine. They'd pass their evenings playing card games—but
not blackjack or poker. She'd cook in this alternate life, and they'd eat
lavish meals and have long talks and end every day entwined together, screwing
in the direction of the sunset.

It was getting harder to stay focused on the task at hand,
even though Romy was making progress with her game. Bryson remained a patient
but stern teacher; though their “study breaks” were a difficult distraction to
skirt. Romy was abstaining from classes all week—which left an unpleasant pit
of guilt in her stomach—but, as Bryson reminded her, if all went well on
Saturday she'd be in the position to resume her studies with incredible ease.
That was a secret lynch-pin to the master plan: if they all made it out of
Lefty's scheme alive, not only would Romy be able to flee her job, but she'd be
part of a three-way split of serious casino cash. All she had to do was ensure
that Bryson, and his still as-yet-unmentioned partner, made it to the final
round of a tournament.

On Thursday, the fourth day of their practice sessions, Romy
squared off against her partner in a lazy game of Texas Hold'em. Bryson was
going over a basic card count on a single deck game. His shirt was off and his
skin was sticky from earlier in the day, when he'd all but jumped across their
game and interrupted her mid-question with a kiss that led to more...and then
more. She herself was naked from the waist up, flushed and glowing. His skill
in the bedroom remained unparalleled. From the unexpected softness in his lips
to the firm hold of his muscular arms around her small body...she'd never been
treated so well.

“I'll thank you to stop looking at my tits, sir,” Romy said
archly.

“And here I was thinking you meant to distract me with your huge
boobs.” Bryson's eyes didn't lurch from her round, perky breasts. He licked his
lips hungrily.

“I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a professional.”

“I'll bet you are.”

“Hey!” Romy said sharply. “Not funny!” Bryson met her eyes,
suddenly humbled.

“Not sorry.”
They played in silence for a moment.

“Do you really think I'm—?” Romy started. She didn't quite
know how to finish this question, so she let it hang in the air for a moment.
Bryson paused in his dealing; they were just at the turn card. He set the deck
down, giving his lady full attention.

“What?”

“It's just...I know you think I'm this sweet, innocent
woman, but I can't help feeling so stupid about this whole thing. Like it's
kind of my fault, at the end of the day.”

“Disagree.”

“But Bryson—,”

“No, Romy. I'm serious. Listen to me: For centuries, people
like Lefty DiMartino have been taking advantage of trusting, good people like
yourself—people who might need a bit of an extra break in life, and so they've
been taught to follow opportunities when they knock. The country's built on the
backs of men and women who are too honest to get what they want. And men have
been taking advantage of women since the fucking dawn of time. And it's never a
woman's fault, it's never a victim's fault. Because even if you're smart, hell,
even if you're dumb, no one deserves to be tricked, or used. Better yet:
absolutely no one deserves to be bought or sold. It's not your fault. I never
for a minute thought you wanted to be part of this mess. I know that you didn't
want it.” Bryson fell silent, looking suddenly sheepish about his impassioned
speech.

It was funny: he wasn't the most eloquent of men, but there was
something so fiery, so knightish about her lover. At different points over the
last week, it had crossed Romy's mind that she'd always pictured herself ending
up with a man who was a little more intellectual. A man who was sensitive
enough to profess love, but eloquent enough to structure an argument. A man who
was less a brutish knight-in-shining armor, and more a partner, someone who'd
respect her and challenge her and let her be independent. Perhaps someone with
an artistic sensibility, to complement her own math smarts.

Bryson watched Romy lose herself in thought for a moment.
Her pensive face was stunning to him; the furrow in her brow so deep, serene. He'd
never quite imagined himself with a woman like her. The ladies he'd met on the
road and through the Devil's Aces club tended to bounce along a spectrum of
deliberately meek, soft-spoken types with few deep thoughts to share or, on the
flip side, aggressive, independent loudmouths with lots of nothing to say. He
loved the biker women, like his mother, for their toughness, their refusal to
take shit from the wrong people. The Ace's women could kill prairie snakes with
hatchets, fix carburetors, build fire and shelter. They could feed fifteen men
with three cans of beans and a flank of meat; they could raise boys, they could
break up fights. The sadder beauties of Vegas clubs were wounded, in need of
strength, sweet, and perpetually simpering.

But Romy wasn't quite like either of these “types.” She fell
somewhere in between: she was cautious, private, and slightly dreamy but also
witty, self-deprecating and fiercely independent. Her intelligence lifted her
away from either camp. He imagined spending months, years, in her company—saw
them sitting across the table from one another, like so. Their mind-blowing sex
notwithstanding, would he ever be able to really know this woman? Was he good
enough to be in her life for good?

“I have one more question,” she said suddenly. “We haven't
talked about this partner you're bringing. This other Ace. What's his story?”

Bryson felt his stomach flip. Here was something he hadn't
accounted for. A part of him was angry with Romy for never once mentioning a
high-school dalliance with his brother, but the other half figured that her
refusal to address this subject meant that the affair hadn't meant very much to
her. It wasn't impossible that she'd forgotten Kellan in the interim years;
Bryson wished for this, in spite of himself. And as much as he didn't want to
shock her at the table with a familiar face, having the ghost of his rock star
brother hanging over their last two glorious days of freedom and practice was
too threatening an idea to bear. For what if she did still care for him? What
if there was something there after all these years? Better to keep the possibility
at bay.

“I hope you can understand this, but the party involved
wants to maintain...anonymity.”

“Anonymity? He's going to be a contender to sleep with me.”

“He's not going to sleep with you. I'm going to win. And
even if he wins, he'll chose the money.” God, Bryson couldn't even begin to
imagine that situation.

“You're so cocky.”

“You love it.”

Romy enjoyed the banter. She decided in that moment to not
let the odd look in Bryson's eyes at the mention of the invisible third party
throw her game. There was simply too much else to be concerned with, too much
else that could go wrong. So what if some thuggish biker would be in the
running on Saturday? If Bryson trusted the man, so would she. She owed him that
much.

“Burn one, and flip the river,” Bryson pronounced, turning
over a final card. It was a Joker. They laughed at this gaff, a little tensely.

All too soon, it was Friday morning. Romy woke to Goofy's
frantic barking at the front door.

She dressed hastily, throwing on one of Bryson's discarded
white t-shirts and a pair of Sofis, and followed the noise to the door.

“What's wrong, puppy?” she asked her pet, stooping to ruffle
his ears and squinting out at the hazy early daylight. Sure enough, there was
an unfamiliar beige Sedan parked across the street from Romy's driveway. It
wouldn't have been comment-worthy, but Goofy had an established knack for detecting
unsavory strangers. He snarled in the direction of the car.

“You stay here, little guy,” she said, rising. Wary, Romy
cracked the door—thankfully the morning paper was situated on her stoop,
furnishing her with a perfect excuse to sneak outside. Though it was officially
light out, the Sedan still wore its headlights. Its idling engine murmured on
the quiet street.

Stooping to pick up her paper, Romy shielded her eyes from
the Eastern sun and saw for a flash a driver in dark sunglasses, speaking into
what looked like a walkie-talkie. He noticed her gaze almost instantly, and
just like that the Sedan lurched out of park and began to amble down the
street. She watched the vehicle until it rounded a corner. Then, despite the
desert heat, Romy shivered.

The phone rang from inside her flat, jerking her out of the
stoop reverie. Romy snatched up the paper and walked back to her door. Who was
that mysterious stranger? A DiMartino-sanctioned spy?

“Hello? Who is it?”

“Well I'm glad you're BREATHING over there at least. Sheesh!
Don't answer any of your phone calls anymore, seems like.”

It was Paulette. Romy might've figured, not many other
people of her acquaintance were up and about at seven a.m., even her classmates
at the college.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“And good morning to you, Daisy. We sure miss you on the
floor! Just wanted to see how your new gig's going.”

Romy thought back to the undercover car on her street.
“Fine. I miss you all, but...”

“Money. Don't have to tell me twice.” Paulette made a noisy
exhale. “So really, Ro. Why haven't you been picking up your phone? You had all
of us worried, you know. One of your Professors called me.”

Romy furrowed her brow. Trouble with the phone? Even though
she was one of the last few trendy youngsters still equipped with a landline,
Romy rarely used the house phone. She thought back: Bryson had called her,
earlier this week. And...that was it. Yes, come to think of it, there'd been no
haranguing from the bursar's office, no fellow students or study buddies
calling to inquire after her health. For all she knew, Zaida had tried to
contact her—but then again.

The man in the town car.

It was as Bryson had cautioned: she was being watched. But
did Lefty really have the power and prowess to disconnect her phone without her
noticing? Had he been keeping track of all of her calls? If he knew about even
the Monday night call, there was trouble afoot. If he'd been a diligent spy, he
would already know about Bryson...

“Paulette, I have to call you back. Something just came up.”

“But—,”

“I love you, truly. I promise I'll call you back.” Romy
clicked off, setting the phone back in its cradle. After thinking a moment, she
picked it up again.

Sure enough, where she should have heard a dial tone
immediately, there was a strange rustling noise on the line. Like someone
scrambling through a sheaf of papers. After a few beats, a dial tone resumed on
the line. Romy hung up.

Bryson. Bryson. Did they have him already? Were they busted?
Romy sat heavily in a kitchen chair, trying to think. Last Saturday, what had
Bryson done to ensure they were alone? He'd hunted for bugs. Video feeds. She
needed to scour her place, and fast.

Moving quickly and with the incidental aid of a flustered
Goofy, Romy bent low and stood on chairs in search of those eerie patches of
disturbed wall or ceiling which might contain a camera. She moved through the
kitchen, removing all of her dishes from the cabinets. She crawled along the
baseboard. In her bedroom, she took down the few framed photographs and posters.
Thank heavens right now for her ascetic décor. After an exhaustive few hours
that carried her right to the lip of midday, she stopped her search. The house
was clear.

But Bryson was late. Every other day of the week, he'd come
over far before noon. Then, perhaps his tardiness was a good sign: he might've
been tipped off about the spies but she had no way to contact him without the
phone.

As the minutes ticked by, her mind roamed towards darker
possibilities. Maybe he'd been caught. Maybe the Sedan had been parked outside
the evening before, and the spy had seen him leave her place. The spy might've
followed her lover all the way to the highway, before pulling him over,
dragging him to some terrible basement interrogation room, doing who knows
what...

No.

Romy tried to focus. She shuffled a few decks of KEM cards
and cut the decks over one another, just for something to do with her hands.
She paced the floor. She removed her clingy leotard from its dry-cleaner's
sheathe, laying it flat across the bed in anticipation of tomorrow's work.

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 orgasm. 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 pronounced 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 glasses, 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 cushion 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...”
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 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.”

“Shit.”
“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 glass 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 assume 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 Saturday 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.”

“Damn babe you're a fucking 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?