Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (4 page)

In the locker room before shift the next day, Paulette
hovered around Romy like a butterfly. While she wouldn’t come right out and ask
what had taken place the night of Lefty DiMartino’s secret proposition, she
made a big show of asking Romy if she needed anything. As if the trade of
information was to be quid pro quo:

“Ro? You hungry? Because I made a pot roast big as I am the
other morning, and if you’re hungry, I can give you half. Happily.”

“Romy, you look sleepy again, doll! Want me to cover for you
on the floor tonight? I’m sure we can get you out early!”

“Ro—I got my sister tickets to Cher for next month at the
Bellagio. Want to come with?”

As much as she wanted to tell her friend all the down and
dirty details, Lefty’s words would not leave her head:
This conversation
never happened.
What was that supposed to mean? Was it a threat?

And why was the VIP room such a secret endeavor, anyways?
Plenty of other casinos had “secret” VIP rooms, for those celebrities, CEOs and
politicians who preferred to keep their gambling addictions under wraps. She
knew of girls who worked those tables—their salaries were higher and they were
expected to keep quiet about whatever personal information was divulged around
the table, but their very
jobs
weren’t a secret.

Perhaps Lefty had meant to tease her, with the whole silent
treatment. Perhaps this was a form of hazing. Romy turned the evening’s events
over and over in her mind, still flummoxed.

Sunday was a slow day at the casino, typically—businessmen
were headed home, and locals had to turn in early for work. The biggest clients
this night were usually what the floor referred to as “industry
people”—casino-workers from other spots on the Strip out for a change of
scenery, or sex workers and hustlers looking to spend a little of the weekend’s
hard-earned dough. The Windsor was well loved on this inside track, because it
was one of the more low-key spots overall. A high-roller on their blackjack
floor was Bryson, as opposed to a traveling CEO paying his way through games
with gold bullion.
I guess everything would be different in the VIP room
,
Romy thought to herself. Life would likely be a lot less “low-key” if she took
Lefty's offer...

Though Romy was grateful to have a quiet night to consider
her options, the empty spaces on the table only served to remind her of Bryson.
She would probably never see him again. He was a conjured mirage, surely—the
kind of man who appeared to lonely women only in their dreams.
He probably
pulls that “remember me” line on everyone
, Romy thought. As the hours
ticked slowly by and no sign of Bryson appeared, she grew only more convinced:
I
need to think practically. There’s no knight in shining armor coming to save me
from this life.

On her first union break of the night, Romy pulled out her
checkbook. A grim, familiar list of responsibilities snaked its way down the
page. First, a hunk of fall tuition was due at the end of the month. Student
loan payments from her undergrad in Arizona were also just around the river
bend, set to spike in January into the triple digits. There was the credit
card, there was rent, and to boot, the cranky old Thunderbird had started
making a highly distressing noise whenever she changed gears. More likely than
not, she’d need to replace the car’s transmission in a month or so...perhaps
even invest in a less-shitty car altogether.

Looking at the bills listed together like this made her
sick. She felt impotent, and out of control—the only thing that kept the
fiction of fine-ness intact was the predictability of the blackjack floor,
where her money was stable and her days were bland. Romy glanced up at all the
other industry people—bitching at the bar, grinning at the slot machines. She
wasn’t even allowed these kinds of miniature indulgence. Not with lab papers to
write and a future to plan for.

It occurred to Romy that last night’s brief encounter with
Bryson Vaughn had been the sexiest thing to happen to her in a year or more.
The un-special one night stand with the Silver Fox had been months ago, and
before that she hadn’t had sex in two years. Her whole body ached almost
constantly with yearning to be touched, to be held, to be wooed—and yet she
couldn’t even begin to address sex or love as a concern, not when there was so
much else to think about. Money was silly at root, but it sure could make a
difference in her day to day. With money, she could make time to eat. She could
eat more than the occasional snatched granola bars. She could extend her days
at school, take an extra semester to finish all the coursework. She could start
a savings account.

There were plenty of women working the Strip who did wild,
humiliating things in the name of financial freedom. Romy wouldn’t judge them.
And what, a two-bit gangster wanted her to prance around a VIP room dealing
blackjack and flirting with the one percent? Things could be a lot worse. Hell,
they
were
.

Romy rose as if bitten, and scanned the pit quickly for Lou
Valentine. Her boss was leaning casually against a bank of slot machines, his
arm curled around an unwilling-looking young woman Romy recognized as a
door-girl at The Venetian. As she got closer, she overheard Lou’s sloppy
come-on:

“Really, baby. You want what I got. I can make you feel
better than any slob in this place.”

“Hey Lou! I bet you can!” Romy sidled up to her boss and
placed a hand on his chest. He looked baffled at the attention—and, saved by
the diversion, his conquest scurried away.

“That’s right, cutie. I want another meeting with Lefty. Can
you make that happen for me, stat?” Romy batted her eyes. If her new job
demanded that she schmooze with high-level creeps, what better way to practice
than on Lou?

“Look at you, Miss Moneypenny. Want a little more change in
your pocket?”

“I just like to make a good man happy,” Romy said. “I want
to do that for Lefty. For all of you fine fellas.”

Lou glanced down at her hand on his chest, seeming to size
her up. “I thought you were a bit too
shee-shee
for this line of work,”
he said finally, pressing his own greasy paw against her lower back. “I’m very
glad you decided to see reason.”

“So you’ll tell him? You’ll tell Lefty?”

“Will I, baby. Will. I.” And with a twisted smirk, Lou
lifted himself off the slot machine and made for the edge of the floor. He
squeezed Romy’s ass in farewell. It took a heft of professional willpower to
keep a horrified grimace from winding its way across her face.

In her usual way, Paulette seemed to appear out of the ether
at Romy’s elbow already equipped with an eyewitness account of recent events.

“
ICK.
Doll, there’s
nothing
creepier than that
man. Not on God’s green earth. I’m surprised you let him touch you like that!”

“Plenty of creeps in here, Paulette,” said Romy, swishing
her hips back towards her table.

“Yeah, but remember you had that handsome fella all but
dangling from your arm last night? You could do a lot better, Ro. You remember
that, sweetie.”

Romy planted herself at the table and gave her supervisor an
emphatic look. Paulette truly was a great friend, but she was also a mother,
and the loved, respected lynchpin of a giant family at that. There was no way
she could be expected to understand Romy’s choices. Paulette had been taught to
always think of other people before herself.

“Babe, I could also do a lot worse,” Romy said finally. Then
she glanced up at the innocuous spot in the ceiling where she knew the security
camera in Lefty’s lodge to be, and she winked.

When he heard about Romy’s enthusiasm, Lefty moved their
Wednesday meeting up two days. At the beginning of her Monday night shift, Lou
pulled Romy into a dark corner and informed her that the boss “would be around
later to talk contracts and uniform.” If
uniform
seemed an odd addition
for a business meeting, Romy didn’t let it show on her face. After Sunday,
she’d decided to show no cards about the promotion: she was merely going to be
the most determined, the most adorable blackjack dealer the VIP room had ever
seen. Her heart didn’t factor; this was all about the benjamins.

Everyone had taken notice of her shift in attitude.
Paulette, Kali and Annisette each commented on her manner with the customers.
While Romy was usually known as the subtle cynic of the floor team, on Monday
she was aglow with praise for winners and losers alike. She complimented the
Long Islanders, in their checkered suits and greased back hair. She laughed at
the un-funny jokes of all the bachelor parties, throwing her blonde hair back
and showing all of her teeth. That morning in Special Topics in Probability,
even Professor Hinegart had taken notice of her zeal—she’d caused the poor old
man to blush when she put a hand on his knee mid-tutorial.

“What’s gotten IN to her?” Paulette whispered. For gossiping
purposes, the other dealers had stolen a union break when they saw Romy was
wrapped up in a heated game.

“Love-sick?”

“Nope. I know for a fact that Bryson guy hasn’t popped in
again.” Kali tossed her lovely hair over a shoulder.

“Ooh, child. Body that fine should have a nice—”

“Jesus, Annisette. Listen—I’m worried about her. Seen her
talking to Valentine a lot lately.”

“What’s that mean? We
all
talk to Valentine.”

“Something smells funny is all. Will you keep an eye out?
For anything unusual?” At that moment, the trio of women looked up. Romy was
play-screeching as a customer picked her up and whirled her around the floor.
Everyone knew blatant physical contact with a member of the casino staff was a
big no-no on both ends. It was the sort of thing Romy never used to tolerate.
Yet, her friends watched her giggle the high-pitched whinny of a girl gone
wild. Paulette furrowed her brow.

That night, the trip down to Lefty’s lodge was far less
scary—Romy even found herself remembering some of the twists along the hallway.
She kept pace with Lou, almost excited to see the inside of the mysterious room
again. She wondered how many times she’d get to see the lodge now, with her new
promotion. Were there long evenings of seven and sevens and business chatter in
her future? Maybe they’d grow close. Maybe she’d even get the chance to bend
Lefty’s ear about some of his business practices—Lord knew she’d seen plenty of
mathematical fallibility in the way the house ran its tables.

Yet when they got to the lodge, the room seemed different.
Everything was in its same place, but the space felt colder. Titus, the
security guard, was standing just inside the door. She noticed an earpiece
humming busily against his head. Lefty was pacing along the bearskin rug as he
stared up at the bank of monitors. He didn’t invite either Lou or Romy to sit down,
to get comfortable, to drink something.

“Zaida will be taking care of you from this point, Romy,”
Lefty barked, before they were all quite in speaking distance. “She’s
assembling a packet of material for you. In the meantime, I trust you remember
all the financial details. My personal liaison to Accounts Payable will be
handling your checks; his name is Horace LaMont. I need you polished and ready
to go by 7 p.m. The staff meets in room 607, in the hotel, before every shift
for a debriefing. If you’re ever late to the meeting, you can’t stay for the
shift. Clear?”

Romy was disappointed that staff meetings would be taking
place in the hotel—wasn’t there something a bit unseemly about that? But she
muttered a quick, “Clear,” at the sight of Lefty’s expression. Any jolly warmth
she’d remembered from the other night had drifted out of his voice.

“I need you next Saturday.
7 p.m
. In something very
sexy. I assume that’s alright with you?”

Romy nodded. Lefty shot her a tight little smile before
striding off the rug and past her, back toward the hallway.

“Good. Great. This is going to be swell, darling. Now
Zaida—” he gestured towards the back wall—“will take
excellent
care of
you. You speak to her about everything from now on.”

Lefty motioned to Lou Valentine, indicating that his
henchman should follow. He nodded to Titus at the door, and all three men left
the room. Romy was left in aggressive silence, in a seemingly empty space. Who
was this Zaida? And where was she supposed to be? Romy glanced up at the security
camera footage. In one close up monitor, she could see Paulette giggling
something to Kali by the bar. Romy smiled at the image.

“You no need to speak with those women, anymore,” spoke a
cold voice from behind. Romy rotated. So this was Zaida: the icy, silent blonde
from the meeting the other day. Her accent said Eastern European. Her hair was
scraped back into a severe ballerina’s bun. She was model-thin, lacking all
curve. Zaida wore a pinstriped women’s suit with a plummeting neckline, and
black leather boots laced past her thighs. Delicate silvery earrings spiraled
down her neck, emphasizing its swan-length. She did not smile.

“Those women are my friends.”

“Hmm.”

“...so I’d
like
to keep speaking with them.”

Zaida fixed Romy with a confused look: her drawn-on eyebrows
skyrocketed and rejoined at the top of her forehead. But then abruptly, she
seemed to lose interest. “Whatever. You follow.” The woman turned on her patent
leather heel and strode backwards, past the bearskin rug. There didn’t seem to be
a door where they were headed.

“Where are we—”

“You HUSH.” Zaida pressed a long, envy-green nail against a
negligible spot on the wall. A slice of wall slid silently past, presenting the
two women with a brightly lit dressing room of sorts. There were several
standing mirrors, and various carts full of women’s make-up. Though the room
was empty, it reminded Romy of all the pictures she’d seen in lady magazines of
backstage life at runway shows.

For all the white, it was difficult to tell where the edges of
the room were, or where the floor ended and the wall and ceiling began. Zaida
strode ahead, picking her way along the aisle the mirrors made.

“You will be weighed. Weekly. One hundred and nine pounds is
best.”

“What?”

Zaida glanced over her shoulder at Romy. “For uniform, yes?
Must be very small. Maybe for you—one twenty, one twenty two. But no more.”

“I don’t think you can legally do that,” Romy said. She
regretted this almost instantly, but Zaida had already skated past the remark.

“You will wear make-up,
finally.
A professional, each
day for you.” Then Zaida stopped moving for no discernible reason. The two
women stood—awkwardly, Romy thought—in the center of the dressing space, before
the largest mirror. Zaida began to circle her slowly.

“Your breasts—” Zaida extended her two green-painted claws
and gently cupped Romy’s chest “—must take focus. Beautiful breasts, is true.”
As bewildered by the groping as the fact that Zaida had given her a compliment,
Romy didn’t move. She drew herself up another inch and glanced at her figure in
the mirror.

“Stand just like this,” Zaida said, shuttling away from the
mirror. She ducked behind a dressing table and held up an envy-green fingernail
once more. “Wait! There!” In another moment, she was striding back towards
Romy's side, holding a garment before her like a tray of drinks.

“What
is
that?” Romy asked, taking in a glimpse of
the sheerest material she'd ever seen. It couldn't possibly be clothing. Up
close, the item on the hanger looked like a see-through trash bag, albeit one
speckled with Swarovski crystal.

“Your uniform, yes?”

“I don't—” but Zaida was already draping the “fabric” across
Romy's shoulders. Further investigation proved that the object was of the
leotard family, snug and skintight, made of some stretchy material. But except
for two artful swirls of crystal appliqué which might as well have been
pasties...it was completely invisible from the waist up.

“You like?” her new boss asked. Zaida was staring at Romy
expectantly. Clearly, this was some sort of test. If she admitted to hating her
new lingerie
uniform
it would likely get back to Lefty. He'd made it
plain that only the casino's most brazen women were equipped for the VIP room.
I
made my decision when I let Lou squeeze my ass
, Romy told herself. So she
nodded.

“It's perfect.”

“Good. Very good,” Zaida was briefly pleased. Then her eyes
oozed down Romy's body with that same look of cool appraisal that Lefty had
first used. Romy was frightened, but she wouldn't show it here. After
all—wasn't her incredible gumption, her fearlessness, all a piece of the drive
that had gotten her to where she was now? She'd done the unusual before. She
led an unusual life, after all.

As they clambered back towards the lodge, Zaida prattled on
about more job details: “You will have wax, twice a month at
least
. You
will be beautiful, and you will be
silent
—deal cards, smile, look sexy.
This is job. You be paid in cash bonus every evening, plus paycheck every
Saturday before shift. You are on time, you are comported, you
keep mouth
shut
. Yes?” She slid the faux-door shut behind them. They were back in the
lodge once more.

Romy gripped her uniform by the hanger. There it was again:
this condition of silence. Why was it so important that her job be secret? She
felt strange, but there was no turning back from here.
An unusual life, an
unusual life...
she murmured this to herself like a mantra. To Zaida, she
said:

“Yes, ma'am.”

The woman whirled on her heels, leading them up and out of
the tunnel once more.