Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (6 page)

Zaida had the power and presence of a horsefly—she could be
both everywhere and invisible at once, and bite your ass when you least expect
it. For the opening moments of Romy's tournament, her boss was all instruction:
“Fifty thousand dollars buy-in!” she'd declared, eyeing Bryson's end of the
table like day-old fish. “Only
real guest.
” But before Romy could ask
for clarification on these strange new rules, Zaida had disappeared. Turning,
she'd seen Bryson grimacing up at her from behind a fat stack of orange chips.

Finding Bryson at her blackjack table once more was mostly
wonderful, but not a little humiliating. Whatever he'd been thinking before
about her dubious night-job was surely spiked with the new, untoward facts of
this “promotion”—namely, her salacious body sleeve. Romy now felt deeply
self-conscious of all the flesh her uniform exposed. In fact, she had a
difficult time meeting the leery gaze of all the other men here in the Needle,
who stared at her body freely, and with unabashed imagination.

She'd of course have preferred that Bryson not see this.
What great relationships have ever started with a
skankily
clad
blackjack dealer and a monied drifter? Then, of course, she was getting ahead
of herself: there was a whole volley of neurotic, girly questions still
demanding response. Like, what was he doing up here? How did he have this kind
of cash to begin with? Why did Zaida refer to him as “not a real guest”? And
mainly, was his presence a coincidence of tourism, or had he really put in an
effort to track her all the way up to the Needle?

She decided, at last, to be glad of his presence—she felt
safer knowing he was by her side. Bryson's muscles seemed as uncontainable as
ever. Today, he was pillowing out of a light blue button-down. No reason she
couldn't enjoy herself a little tonight too.

And was it her imagination, or did something about him seem
protective? Though he wore the sturdy black sunglasses as usual, something in
his manner was decidedly more severe than as in their previous encounter. He
didn't jiggle his arms. He didn't joke. His jaw was set. And whenever she
leaned across the table to place cards, Bryson leaned forward as well—as if to keep
her dangling neckline beyond the watch of the other players.

The tournament began with six men, who would winnow their
number down to two before a final take-all round. Taking brief stock of the
table, Romy noticed an older Asian businessman with a crooked grin and many
gold rings; a has-been eighties rapper with the weatherworn face of a drug
addict; two bland, blonde American businessmen who might as well have been
twins for all their similar mannerisms and...a particularly grisly brand of
high-roller; an obese, freckled, older man who referred to himself in third
person as, “The Dap.”

“Very good,” Zaida muttered from the shadows, as soon as the
table was assembled and purchased. “Very much money here. Very good.” She was
right, there was $300,000 on the table in front of these men, and that was just
for the first round of
one
tournament.

“Let's get this hootenanny on the road, doll,” The Dap
bellowed, sloshing some of a martini down his maroon velvet suit. “Papa wants a
peep-show
.” Though she was miffed at this remark, Romy took it in
stride—even as she felt Bryson's whole body constrict with rage beside her. She
pressed on. She dealt the first hand. And the men applauded, each in various
degrees of intoxication.

There were no amateurs here: once the cards were played, the
men grew silent. Serious. The older businessman murmured under his breath in
Cantonese as the gentlemen rounded the table, hitting, staying, splitting, and
doubling-down appropriately. To quell the silence, Romy repeated a hunk of
Zaida's vague instructions:

“We'll continue like this, eliminating a player as soon as
he busts his bankroll, until there are two of you left. Table minimum is $1000
per hand, natural blackjack pays 3:2, dealer stands on soft-17, you can split
pairs up to four times, Aces once, and double-down on any first hits. The top
two players in the first round get to keep any profits they might make from the
house in the first round. Bet big, win big, and manage your risk gentlemen...”
Romy cast her eyes about for Zaida, briefly flustered. She still didn't know
how the tournament concluded. Bryson spoke quietly in her direction: “It's
okay, Romy. You just deal, alright?
All you have to do is deal
.”

Something in the heft of his voice startled her anew. Gone
entirely was his playful banter from the week before, his talk of high school.
And though she wasn't thinking of money, Romy noticed that Bryson was holding
tight to his chips this game; and betting only the table minimum. She surmised
that there would be no coin flicks of twenty-five dollar tips; she didn't care.
He didn't size her up, either—he seemed utterly concentrated on the game. Romy
took a deep breath and pressed on.

The first man to bust out was one half of the set of blonde
business twins. When he lost, the man slammed two hands down on the green
felt—a surprisingly violent gesture, considering his previously composed
demeanor. “FUCK. ME!” the man yelled. “And fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and
fuck
you—
” he began, pointing at each man along the table in turn and
landing on Romy. His finger hung in the air inches from her face, quivering and
furious—though soon the stealthy security guard Titus materialized, and began
to guide the man towards the doorway.

Still, over the uproar, Romy heard The Dap yell: “You
wish
,
asshat!” When he turned back towards the table, The Dap's eyes adhered closely
to Romy's figure. She felt his eyes on her skin like a hand on her throat.

“Romy. Romy. Focus, Romy,” this was Bryson again. “Don't
listen to a thing they say, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?! What're you, her father?” The Dap rose and
leaned across the felt. His shirt rose above his belly, exposing a dirty
wifebeater and a fleshy underside.

“I just think we should be polite to a lady, is all,” Bryson
said. He gripped his beer—a Coors—tight. There was the subtlest sort of menace
in his voice.

“Lady? Lady?” The Dap made a show of squinting through the
darkness. “I don't see a lady. You fellas see a lady?” The rest of the table
snorted, a small spectrum of liking-the-joke. Bryson was silent. Romy was
still.

“You're right, guy. We should be polite to a lady,” said The
Dap, sitting down at last. “But we should be ruthless...with a
whore
.”
He folded pocked arms across his suit and leaned back, a satisfied smile on his
twisted lips. He grinned up at Romy then with a look more galling, even, than
Lefty's or Zaida's original appraisals in the cellar. The Dap saw neither
object nor animal when he looked at Romy—he saw a victim.

In another cold flash of instinct, Romy followed the feeling
of a set of eyes penetrating deep into her back. She scanned the room and saw
Lefty DiMartino himself stepping out of the elevator. He smirked idly her way,
appearing to drink in the scene of her tournament. He wiggled his eyebrows.

Romy suddenly felt short of breath. Her fingers trembled.
“Just a moment,” she managed, before locking her chip box down and lurching
away from the table.

She found Zaida spying on the bar, prepared to pounce on a
young server whose hair was sliding precariously away from the mandated
ponytail. Romy gathered her courage and stepped forward. She tapped her boss on
the shoulder.

“Hi, Zaida...I'm sorry to bother you, but—”

“Where is your table?”

“I'm just taking a quick breather. I have...I have a
question.”

“NO BREATHER!” her boss screeched. “NO QUESTIONS, NO
TALKING!”

“I just need to know,” Romy pleaded. “Please tell me—what
are the stakes in the tournament's last round?”

Zaida seemed to cool and set her perfectly polished face.
Then, the strained grimace from before reappeared. The two women stood for a
moment like that, regarding one another.

“Please,” Romy begged. She knew her table's—Lefty's—
security's
—eyes
were all on her. If she could imagine what Zaida would say, she couldn't
imagine what to do with the information. She'd given her word, hadn't she?
She'd seen the casino's secret rooms! And most of all, a reasonable part of her
recalled the casual haunt in Lefty's early caution:
this conversation never
happened.
What else would have
never happened
, were she to leave the
Needle now? If she ran for the exits now, what would they do to her?

Abruptly, and with an unusual affection, Zaida curled her
talons down and cupped the bottom halves of Romy's full breasts. She bounced
them for a moment in her palms, grinning her grimace at the attention this
garnered from several bar patrons. Then she leaned in to Romy's ear and
whispered, with not a little tenderness: “You smart girl, I think.”

After an hour of play, four men remained in the tournament.

Earlier, Romy had watched another female blackjack dealer
finish her games. A skeletal man with a laugh like a donkey's bray had gripped
the woman by her shoulders and all but pushed her towards the elevator. A trail
of other high-rollers had high-fived the creep on his way to the exit.

It must've been early, but Romy could spare no attention for
the time. All she could concentrate on was the game before her. The outcome, it
seemed, would decide her fate. She could feel Lefty and Zaida's eyes on her,
during different moments of play. So as not to be distracted, she kept her own
gaze all but pinned to the green felt.

To make matters worse—after Blonde Businessman Number One
had made his outburst, a small crowd of hanger-ons had come to watch the rest
of the game. Like a movie audience they clapped and booed at each elimination,
leaving Romy feeling like a chained lion in a ring full of gladiators.

“Black.
Jack.
” This was the old-school rapper, who'd
been silent up to now. He seemed respectful enough, if worse came to worse—but
then, worse
couldn't
come to worse. Romy reminded herself: she wasn't
just being ogled, she was being auctioned off. And the idea of being
anyone's—even
Bryson's
—glittery sex prize from a game of chance made the
bile rise in her throat. She never agreed to this.

The rapper's win had seen the elimination of the ancient
businessman—who'd busted after splitting 8's and not getting the cards he'd
needed to beat Romy's 9 up-card—in the same round, and this left two remaining
adversaries: Bryson, who'd broken a small but perceptible sweat in the space at
Romy's right hand, and...The Dap.

“Hot dog!” The Dap shouted now, with unrestricted glee.
“Gonna get me some
lovin in the oven
tonight!” The more he drank, the
more grotesque the man became. He'd managed to alienate the whole table with
remarks variably rude, bigoted, and generally disgusting. Still, security had
not been summoned to remove him from play. Romy took note—as she supposed both
Lefty and Zaida did, hovering elsewhere around the Needle—of the man's fat
stack of chips he'd initially brought to the table. He may well have been the
wealthiest client at the casino that night. If this was the case, Romy knew his
wishes would be placated—no matter what the cost.

“You know the rules, gentlemen,” Romy stuttered to the
table. She shuffled her KEM cards. Sent up an anonymous prayer:
please oh
please, God—let Bryson stay in.
She dealt swiftly. The men eyed the cards
in front of them and seemed to settle deeper into their seats, with new
conviction.

The Dap let out a belch mixed with a chuckle. And for an
instant, Romy let herself imagine this man moving violently inside of her, a
lecherous grin on his face, his sweaty belly rolling across her body. To love
The Dap would be her rock bottom, surely. In no uncertain terms, she would
rather die. And so she dealt the cards.

“AND, SUCKS TO BE YOUR ASS-MAR, Dr. Dre!” the monster
slurred. The rapper was slinking away from the table with an amount of apology
in his tread; he'd been third to last to be eliminated. Had she imagined it, or
had a player who'd just lost $50,000 shot her a look of pity above his own
black sunglasses? In any case, his shoulders swung low as he moved beyond her
sight.

The two remaining contestants faced each other: Bryson to her
right, The Dap to her left. Zaida was walking slowly towards the table. She
spoke in a low voice, but the crowd of onlookers didn't crane to hear her
speech. They all seemed to have heard her words before.

“For two remaining, there is new stake. New buy in is
fifty-thousand, minimum bet is $2,000 per hand. Winner takes all, but both of
you reap reward,”—with a sweep of her hand, she invoked Romy—“which is to say,
winner take other players' money—$150,000 after casino's take.
If he want.
But if he want dealer, as prize, and chips in front of him—then loser will have
what winner discards. Understand?” The Dap chuckled. Bryson clutched the table
felt tighter. Zaida bent low over the players, like a matador. A new, malicious
smile curled across her lips.

Bryson had been playing well all night, but he lacked the
ease of his current opponent. He was hyper-attentive, the muscles in his neck
and shoulders tense, his eyes scarcely left his cards. Romy kept glancing his
way for confirmation, encouragement, a grin...anything—but the biker's
concentration wouldn't break. It made the match seem all the more
frightening—what was he up to? What would really happen at the end of this
game? What if her dark knight couldn't—wouldn't—save her?

“Deal me in, cutie,” The Dap said. He oozed back in his
chair.
No
, Romy told herself.
Bryson wouldn't just be here for the
money. He's going to win.
She inhaled sharply through her nose, and laid
out the first hand.

The men were silent for a long spell. Bryson doubled-down on
his 3, 6 against Romy's 5 up-card. She dealt him an Ace to make a soft 20, and
he waved his hand to stay. The obese buffoon wanted in on the action, the
alcohol clearly clouding his judgment. He also called to double-down on his
pair, a 2 and a 10 against Romy's 5, a foolish move. The man stared at Bryson
as he moved two more orange chips onto the table behind his first bet; and
Bryson met the man's gaze with steely resolve. They regarded each other like
lions in a pit, like fighters circling...

“Twenty. One.” the slovenly man said smugly, as Romy dealt
him the 9 he needed to clinch his Hail-Mary play. She dealt herself a 10, and a
2 and stood on 17—both players won. Bryson was visibly pissed, the man just
made a fucking stupid play and came out on top anyway.

“What d'ya say, young fella, we up the minimum bet to get
this thing over with fast? A gentlemen's agreement?” he said, gulping the last
of his drink and taking the ice and sliver of lime down as well. “If I don't
fuck soon, it's not gonna happen.” he chuckled, patting his bulbous belly.
Romy's skin felt like it was about to crawl off her body.

“Sure, $5,000 minimum bets.” Bryson agreed, shaking the fat
man's hand.

Bryson placed five orange chips in the circle in front of
him. The other man placed ten, and sat back with hands folded on his belly
smirking at Bryson. Bryson upped his bet to $10,000 as well and Romy dealt the
cards. Two 7's to Bryson, two 10's to the fat man, and a 3 up-card to herself.
She peeked at her hole card, an Ace. Bryson made the appropriate move in this
situation and split his 7's, offering up another $10,000 to see two more cards
at least. Romy dealt a 4 to his first 7 to make 11 all together, he offered up
another $10,000 to double-down. Her heart was racing and she fought to steady
her hands as she dealt the next card. Bryson had $30,000 on the table, he was
about to gamble it all on this hand. With a great sigh of relief she dealt him
a Queen to make it 21. As long as she didn't deal herself 21 he'll have made at
least another $20,000 to pad his bankroll.

She dealt a 3 to his second 7, and he pushed another $10,000
up to double-down. Romy pulled a Jack out of the shoe and placed it sideways on
top of Bryson's 3, 7 cards to make 20. Her dark knight had $40,000 sitting on
the felt, not leaving much of a buffer if he were to lose these hands.

The fat man was getting upset now, and had already worked
his way through two more Johnny and Cokes while Bryson was taking all the
action. In his inebriated state, he decided to take a gamble. “Fuck you kid,
you think you can push me around with a couple lucky hits? Well I can get lucky
too, this bitch'll see just how lucky I can get soon enough.” And with that he
pushed another $10,000 beside his original bet to split the 10's in front of
him.

Romy knew that any self-respecting blackjack player knows to
never ever, ever
split 10's, no matter what—unless you're counting
cards, which this man clearly was not. She split the man's cards and dealt him
a 6 on top of the first 10. “FUCK” the man screamed, clearly unhappy with his
16. He pushed another $10,000 to double-down, an impossibly stupid move, and
Romy dealt him an Ace to make a hard-17, and knowing he'd pushed his luck to
the limits, The Dap was satisfied with the draw.

Romy dropped a Jack on top of the man's second 10, and much
to her surprise he chose to split these again. She dealt a 2 on his second 10
and he doubled-down to receive a 6 to make it 18. She dealt a 3 on his Jack and
he tried to double-down but had no more chips left, and still took a hit
receiving a 4 to make it 17. The man seemed quite happy with himself, even
though his entire bankroll was on the table at this point. It was all up to the
dealer now.

Romy flipped her hole card over, she knew it was an Ace,
giving her a 4 or a soft-14 with her 3 up-card. She dealt another card from the
shoe, a King, giving her a hard-14. She looked in Bryson's direction, she could
tell by the look on his face that the anticipation was killing him as much as
it was her. She closed her eyes as she pulled another card from the shoe and
flipped it over.

For a dizzying moment, she couldn't register what had just
happened. Romy kept her eyes shut tight. She waited for the room to tell
her—she listened for the inevitable groans of pleasure an audience might make,
imagining a man like The Dap and a woman like her in bed. Then:

“You. God. Damn.
Sonofabitch
!” roared her vision's offender.
Romy opened her eyes. She'd dealt herself a 6 to make 20, beating all of The
Dap's hands, but Bryson's 21 still won, and he pushed on his 20. Bryson was
standing, The Dap jumped out of his seat to standing: they squared off toe to
toe. Titus and another security guard had materialized from the room's sides;
both now flocked towards The Dap. They pinned his arms to his side.

“Why dontcha pick, ya goddamn HUSTLER? He was CHEATING!
Sonofabitch was counting CARDS! I
saw
it!” The tattoos on Bryson's neck
were bulging with his muscles. He looked as if he was about to say something,
but a quick glance at Titus stopped his voice.

“I said PICK, motherfucker! You want the money, or the
whore?” The Dap leaned toward Romy again. “Look at her. She's not so special.
Why don'tcha take the cash, filthy no-good Chris Angel-looking creep? Everyone
can see that's what you're here for! You probably
need
it!” He spat in
Bryson's direction, though his aim was wild. “Walking like you belong in here,
fucking white trash motherfucker. When we can all see who you are.”

With a well-turned flick, Bryson moved the dark sunglasses
off his face. For the first time, Romy could see that his eyes were moist. His
face was sweatier than she'd imagined. He was trembling. Engraged.

“I want the dealer,” her hero spoke. Then he shot The Dap a
look so hateful that the man looked briefly startled. “Why don't
you
take
the money, you fat piece of shit? Spend it on some fucking liposuction or a gym
membership for Christ's sake. Better hope I don't see your fat fucking ass out
in public.”