Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (9 page)

Monday was strange in that everything seemed back to normal:
Romy went to class. Romy went to seminar. Romy went to the library, and made
some progress on a difficult take-home midterm. One professor noted her
distance—she'd been caught dozing in class for the first time since starting
her master's degree—but no one else cared to comment. Not even Eliza, Romy's
closest friend at school, took proper note of what she assumed were sleepless
eyes, and a manic disposition.

“Want to get pizza after lab?” Eliza asked, while the two
were puttering away on their laptops inside the campus cafe. “I'm back on carbs
this week.”

“I should probably work alone tonight.”

“What is it really? You have a big date?”

The very word 'date' brought back a series of memories that
still felt like the shreds of a dream: Bryson flaunting champagne by a bath-tub
brimming with rose petals. Bryson on his knees, his head in the vice of her
quivering thighs. Bryson kissing and cradling her naked breasts. The feel of
Bryson's throbbing cock straining through the cloth of his pants, all but
bursting toward her...

“Nope. Just think I should tackle differential equations by
my lonesome, is all.”

“Suit yourself.”

Bryson hadn't contacted her since Saturday night—which would
have been fine, were she able to stop thinking about him. But she couldn't.
Everywhere she turned, even through the halls of her safe, snug campus—all the
men in sunglasses might have been her hero. And likewise, every unfamiliar face
was an agent of Lefty DiMartino's sent to spy on her and ensure her discretion.

Sunday morning, Romy had risen early in Bryson's hotel room
at the sharp sound of knocking. While the man lay strewn through the hotel
sheets, she'd risen quietly, donned a terry cloth robe, and answered the door.
Zaida—looking simultaneously as polished as ever
and
as if she hadn't
slept—had silently passed her an envelope, before nodding up at the room
security camera. “Very lucky, you are,” she'd said through thin lips. And
then—before Romy could discern any deeper meaning in these words—she'd left.
That envelope had been book-thick with crisp hundred dollar bills.

It would have been unseemly to stay in the hotel room,
though it was hard to leave him sleeping there. His eyes fluttered through his
dreams. He yawned and stretched like an alley cat. But she'd kissed him on the
forehead, slid into her leotard and coat with not a little difficulty, and left
the casino for her car. That morning was now three days ago and counting.

In the present, Romy paced the premises of her quaint studio
apartment, listening only to the clacking of her beloved cocker spaniel's nails
on the tile and wood. This perpetrator was called Goofy, and she wasn't
embarrassed to admit that he was her truest friend and ally. Moving listlessly,
like her dog, she weighed her options. Considered her odds. When no answer to
any personal problem seemed to materialize, Romy opened her statistics book and
flicked through several pages of the current unit:

An epidemic affects 7.5% of the population. There is,
however, an inheritance factor. If one's mother experiences symptoms, the probability
that one will contract the illness is increased to 22%. What's the probability
of getting the disease when the mother hasn't been affected?

Then she fixed tea, standing upright in the kitchen as she
waited for the water to boil. She considered drawing a bath from her cramped
tub the color of avocado, but this notion only brought back visions of Bryson—particularly,
the damp curls of his snaking chest hair—and this kind of thinking was going to
drive her insane. Perhaps it had been a mistake to spend time alone this
evening, to all but sit by the phone waiting for a guy to call. In any case,
she felt the heft of the cliché on her shoulders.

Her friends at school were not quite close—and were
themselves pretty alien to the casino community—but there might yet be a way in
which they could comfort her. She imagined grabbing a slice with Eliza, and
finding some vague way to allude to her work problems. While Romy was still too
afraid to tell anyone explicitly what had happened in DiMartino's lodge, or
what had continued to happen under the scintillating gaze of
Zaida-the-Eastern-European-witch-model....surely, she could find some coded way
to talk shop. She picked up her crusty old landline then, prepared to dial her
friend's number and end this restless bullshit. Only—labored breath filled the
other end of the line.

“Hello? Who is this?” Romy panicked instantly. It hadn't
occurred to her that her phones might be tapped. “I'm hanging up....” she
began, but still lingered on the line.

“Don't!” came a voice thick with smoke and maybe longing. “I
mean—what are the odds? Did your phone even ring?”

Bryson!
Bryson, Bryson, Bryson.
Romy's heart flooded
then—the dull panic, the sense of restlessness, the inability to concentrate,
all flew the coop once she identified his voice. In a tone she hoped sounded
cool but knew was altogether too giddy, Romy replied.

“I wasn't so sure I'd hear from you again.”

“Didn't I say I'd take you out, babe?”

Bryson sounded confident, but perhaps slightly caught
off-guard by the conversation's abrupt intro. This thrilled Romy a little.

“Well, one never quite knows, with a man like you,” she
said, leaning backwards, letting the tops of her hips rest easily against the
kitchen countertop. “And hey—for a first date, I know that wasn't my most
ladylike.”

To her relief, Bryson laughed at the joke. It felt so good
to abandon, or at least temporarily ignore, the situation's gravity. Maybe—just
maybe—they could grow love from the ashes of this royal Windsor mess. Romy
sighed at the thought. It was probably too good to be true.

“I think you were just like a lady,” Bryson said now. She
detected a gravelly undercurrent in his voice; the man was
growling
for
her.

“And that must make you the perfect gentleman,” she snapped
back. Two could play at the sexy-phone-flirting game. God, it had been such a
long while since Romy had even had someone to flirt with...

“I think so. In fact, I'm calling because”—Romy held her
breath, in spite of herself—“I'd like to expand my original offer, and take you
out to dinner. You like dinner, Romy?”

“I love dinner, Bryson.”

“How about Mexican food?”

She wasn't a huge fan of Mexican food, but the urgency in
his voice was not something she wanted to impede.

“Love it. You just tell me when.”

“No better time than the present, right? Shall I pick you up
in forty-five?”

Romy eyed the oven clock. She did have class in the morning,
and who knew how late an evening with an outlaw biker would go? But in almost
the same moment it took to articulate doubt, Romy decided she didn't care. For
better or worse, this was her real, adult life rolling by. She'd already
allowed far too much of it to slip beyond her grasp.

“You can say thirty,” she said, glancing down at her scrubby
school garb of sweatpants and a tee. “I only need to slip into something more
comfortable.” She felt his smile over the line.

Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Romy looked up from her
bathroom mirror when she heard the sound of a leaping engine. Sure enough,
peering through the window, she saw long rays of red and yellow light dancing
over black asphalt. Her heart lurched. How long had it been since she'd been on
a bona fide
date
? Years?

She'd elected to wear a dress that left slightly more to the
imagination than her pasty-emblazoned work leotard: a floral, summery jersey
shift that fell to her knees while still managing to hug her body in all the
right places. Her blonde hair she'd allowed to fly free, for the evening. And
in anticipation of a ride on the infamous motorcycle, she wore jewel-green
suede ballet flats, instead of high heels. She took a final look at herself in
the hall mirror: comfortable, but cool, she decided. She felt at home in these
clothes.

She heard the ripping of his engine as he pulled up in front
of her apartment. Bryson didn't ring the bell, and she didn't wait for it to
occur to him to do so—so with a last air kiss to her trusty partner-in-crime Goofy,
Romy shut off the foyer lights and skipped out into the hot Vegas night. This
was one of those desert evenings when even lifelong residents would complain of
their inability to sleep. And of course, when people couldn't sleep through the
night, there were only a few other things they might be up to...

Romy approached the bike timidly, though her heart was
beating fast. Looking more at ease than she'd ever seen him, and somehow much
closer to his high-school age and demeanor, Bryson Vaughn sat astride his
fire-engine red Harley 1200 Custom like it was a horse. Pieces of hair fell
into his eyes like rain, and his aviator sunglasses—sliding just down the
bridge of his Roman nose, as ever—glittered in the lamplight. A lit cigarette
perched between his lips. A leather biker cut, emblazoned with a "Devils
Aces Reno Nevada" patch, rested across his powerful shoulders. He was the
very picture of cool.

“You're very punctual,” Romy stammered, as she drank the man
in. It was almost hard to reconcile this easy rider before her with the attentive,
sublimely sensitive lover lolling by her side in a posh hotel room bed.
Almost...

“Time flies when you're having fun,” Bryson said, “Or when
you've got somewhere important to be.” The pair of them tittered a little at
this not-so-smooth delivery.

“Ever been on a bike like this, Miss Adelaide?” her date
said now, flicking a full half of his smoke away, into the street.

“Never. But I'm good at trying new things.”

“Well I knew that. You're a brave girl, right?” He prodded
her ankle with the tip of his dusty motorcycle boot. “So hop on.”

With not a little trepidation, Romy sauntered up to the side
of the bike. She'd been on a horse before—just once, as a child—and there was
something about the powerful hum of the vehicle before her that was like an
animal's breath. Gingerly, she scooted ass-first onto the backseat—and was
surprised at how wobbly and uncertain she felt there. She inched forward along
the padded leather, allowing her own thighs to clamp over Bryson's. With
shaking fingers, she slid her arms around his taut stomach.

“Not quite so hard, ballerina,” Bryson called over the
engine's rev. “I need to be able to move
my
legs a little.”

Romy considered cooing a joke into her date's ear—something
about how he hadn't been so considerate with
her thighs
in the hotel
room the other day—but instead kept her silence. The bike, and its owner, continued
to make her nervous, to throw her for a loop. Here before her was a man of
action, equipped with the ability to charm and render powerless not just women,
but machinery, too. Bryson kicked the kickstand as the bike lurched forward.
The bike now stood upright amidst the force of the throttle. In response, she
burrowed her face into the nape of his neck, letting her forehead be tickled by
the flyaway strands of mane moving over his shoulders. He smelled like Old
Spice Classic and engine grease, like all the men in all the old movies she'd
never met in real life. Into the single swatch of bare skin visible below his
hairline but before the dip of his collar, she whispered:
“Go.”

The engine ripped and the muffler roared as they tore down
the street toward the freeway. Romy held on for her life.

They alighted outside a colorfully garnished restaurant on
the South Side of Vegas; a place Romy had passed by several times without ever
having been inside. This might have been because the place was bawdy and
indiscreet—which she got enough of, working at a casino. It might also have
been because it was Mexican food, which had never been her bag. More likely,
though, it was because Guapo's was a restaurant typically lousy with couples.
So she felt a little burn of pride at his choice in venue: Bryson had
definitely taken her to a place where she might be shown off.

The bike ride over had been both more treacherous and more
exciting than any moment she could recall in her recent life—even including the
awful events of Saturday night's tournament. Riding the bike felt like flying.
She'd suppressed the urge to scream as he'd nudged them, reeling, up to higher
and higher speeds on the freeway. Crossing an especially flat strip of land,
he'd yelled to her over his shoulder: “We're parallel to the Hoover Dam right
now.” The sense of oceanic space and noise that this evoked had somehow made
Romy's stomach plummet even further.

Yet, Bryson knew what he was doing. As fast and as loose as
he handled the bike, the pressure he applied to her knocking knees was soft.
Tender. Even the small of his back had had a way of arching into her abdomen;
the muscles sculpted there had given her whole body a place to take root. As
accustomed as Romy was to being fiercely independent, to making her own luck
and opportunities...there was something about Bryson. She felt like a beguiled
housewife by his side—a woman compelled and utterly cared for.

Helping her off the Harley's back with a firm but gentle
hand, Bryson grinned unabashedly—like a little boy. “You like the bike?” he
asked.

“It was really something.” Romy patted down her hair, hoping
the wind on the road hadn't completely wrecked her evening preparations. But
one look into Bryson's face restored her faith: here was a man who cared only
for her well being, her satisfaction. He looked at her with a face meted and
made humble by adoration. She returned the look in kind. It came from nowhere,
but at that moment Romy felt the urge to whisper,
I love you,
at this
man before her...this dark hero with a boyish smile. Instead, she laughed a
little to herself.

They walked up to the entranceway together, she still
aquiver from the trip. At the host stand, Bryson gave his name to a blushing,
young waitress, and Romy again felt dominant: he was a man to be seen with;
they were a couple to see. The maitre d' led them outside the restaurant again,
into a backyard festooned with chili lights and candles depicting the Catholic
saints. A gurgling fountain lay just beyond their table, flanked by a wall
drenched with imported bouganvillea and plastic ivy.

“This is very romantic,” Romy said, sitting down.

“Well, it's very technically our first date. First dates set
the template.” Bryson waited to sink into his own chair until Romy was
comfortable. He then thanked the maitre d'.

“You'd really call this our first date, huh?”

“Yes.” And then Bryson affixed her with a steely look. Romy
let herself wonder if they were going to talk about the elephant in the room:
or, her present entanglement with a mafia boss. But before she could figure out
how to make this worry into a question, Bryson spoke.

“Listen, Romy,” her date began. “I want you to know—this is
obviously very unfortunate timing.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I
know you must have a lot of questions about me. But I'd like to get all of
those out of the way now, so we can proceed...honestly. Like we would on an
actual date.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.” He spared her a corner of his trademark grin.
“So, shoot. What do you need to know?”

She was, once again, caught off-guard. However Romy had
imagined either their serious business brass-tacks-discussion or even their
first date...it hadn't been like this. Bryson was still treating every piece of
their liaison like an incidental courtship, even as he knew they both were in
serious trouble. The contrast between situation and information nearly made her
laugh.

“Well, first. What are you really doing here? In Vegas, I
mean?”

Bryson sat back in his chair. A waiter approached them from
across the patio, but Bryson indicated that they weren't prepared to place
orders with only a slightly menacing incline of his head. A small silence
lapsed.

“Well, as you may recall from high school, I work with an
organization called the Devil's Aces. We are independent business owners,
entrepreneurs...”

“...And bikers. Legally dubious, but pure of heart. Of
course I remember!” Romy took a sip of her water, letting her head swim briefly
with memories of bikers drag-racing up and down her hometown Reno side streets.
The Devil's Aces boys—and few girls—had been among the coolest and most
terrifying people in the neighborhood. Though their manner and their parties
were pure bacchanalia, the Ace's had always seemed above the reproach of the
law. Of course it had taken until much later for Romy to connect these
dots—like a benevolent mafia, the Aces were merely a compendium of organized
outlaws who sought justice and peace for their own. There was an uncomfortable
confirmation implied to Bryson's admission here: no matter how wonderful her
new beau might be, Bryson was undoubtedly a criminal. Of some kind, at least.

“So you're a full-fledged Devil's Ace,” she repeated slowly.
“And this latest mission of your...club...concerns Lefty DiMartino?”

“Bingo,” Bryson said. He seemed relieved that Romy was able
to keep up so quickly.

“We've had far too many girls come crying at our doors,
claiming that they just barely escaped that monster's ring. So my father and I
decided to topple the bastard. I've spent the last five years learning
everything I can about his organization, churning tens of thousands of dollars
in Lefty's casino, all while honing my skills at card-counting...in other words
I'm a blackjack dealer's worst nightmare.” Here he chuckled, before looking at
Romy again. She was wan. “Romy? Oh, Jesus. Romy—I didn't mean to upset you.”

Her mind had snagged on the beginning of his speech, in the
image of weeping girls who had 'barely escaped.' Bryson had emphasized her
present danger before, when they'd been in the middle throes of adventure and
sex—but something about his caution now was different. They were sitting side
by side in the kitschy backyard of the city's most romantic restaurant, and the
fact of Lefty's influence reaching this far into her life made her tremble with
fear all over again. She willed herself not to cry. To not ruin this one good
thing.

“That's the rub, though,” Bryson was saying now, as he
leaned emphatically across the table to gather her small hands in his. “It's
already happened for the last time. We're going to get you out. We're getting
all the girls out, for good.”

The waiter reappeared, and speedily took their drink orders.
Bryson called for his customary Coors, and Romy decided in a blink to splurge
on a Cosmopolitan. If she was going to live the next few however many weeks
under the lock and gaze of a frightening mob boss, she could sure as shit order
a cocktail on the world's most unseemly first date. That was simple
probability.

“I respect that,” Bryson teased, as soon as she'd turned
away from the menu. “A woman with good taste –”

“You said 'we.' Who's 'we'?”

“Well, you and me, mainly. I understand you're not the worst
at fixing games, being a statistics whiz and whatnot.” Bryson—damn him—grinned
his specialty melting grin.

“That's completely unethical. I'd lose my job.”

“Romy,
ethics?
Your
job
? Are you serious?”

Another uncomfortable moment passed, while Romy once more
regarded her date. It hadn't occurred to her that he might be lying; that
Bryson Vaughn might want something. Of course, this made even less sense than
anything else, but Romy felt feckless from this vantage point. She drew breath.
She thought to test him, somehow.

“Next question: did you really remember me from high-school?
Like, honest to God?” She asked.

Bryson twisted his face up in mock consideration. He even
scratched his shaggy head.

“Was it a chemistry lab? You were the
adorkable
blonde with a pensive expression and a great...sense of humor?”

“Did you mean to say 'rack' just then?”

“Maybe a little. ” He smiled as he continued. “And we had
an...assignment...”

“Lab report. Yes.”

“And you wore these tight white Tawny Kitaen jeans to the
library, where I was supposed to meet you. And this incredible I
wanna-call-it-a-peasant top, with fringe and beads, the whole hippie girl
shebang. You'd feathered your hair like someone in an old TV show, and though
you probably couldn't see a damn thing, you hadn't worn your glasses.

“And I watched you working, and waiting for me there, from
behind a shelf in the library. Non-fiction periodicals, I think? And you looked
so beautiful, and so serious, that I was afraid of you in a way no girl before
or since has made me afraid. Because I saw that girl in the library—this woman,
sitting in front of me now—and could crazily imagine spending a whole bunch of
time with her. With you. And making you smile, and making you feel good, and
never making you hurt...that would be enough for me to exist on.

But I knew that wasn't possible, I knew I would be the worst
thing to happen to you in a very long line of bad things already happening in
your life. Figuring that the best thing I could do for you was to leave you
alone completely...I didn't normally stop to think about consequences or
forevers
,
because I was just an idiot seventeen year old, and I know it sounds dumb and
probably concocted, but. Yeah. Honestly.”

Bryson took a speedy gulp of water just then, refusing as he
did so to meet her eye. Romy stared at his face, forcing the issue. In his lake
blue coronas she detected nothing but a pureness of heart.

“Bryson Vaughn,” she said slowly. “That was the worst
explanation I've ever heard for standing someone up.”

Her date tittered, with the force of an exhale. And then—in
a move as instinctual as breathing—Romy stood, leaned over the table, bent low,
and kissed Bryson softly on the lips. His wet mouth grasped hers gratefully.
She suddenly wished that the table would vanish, that the world would vanish,
leaving the pair of them here in this Vegas-styled Garden of Eden with only all
the time and imagination in the world.

“Wait,” Bryson murmured against her teeth.

“The grisly details portion of this interview is now done
for the evening,” Romy murmured right back. “We can talk grand mafia
card-counting scheme a little later.”

“But there's something—one last thing—I should tell you.”

“That's not your real hair?” She laughed.

“Truly, Romy—it's about the 'we' you mentioned. In the
scheme? There's another Ace involved. It's um...well, it's someone you might
know.”

“Bryson Vaughn of the Devil's Aces, I trust you and you
alone with all my crazy heart,” Romy pronounced. It sounded true, on her
tongue. “Now please just let me kiss you.”

“But—”

It was then that the waiter brought their drinks. And from
one distraction to another, the “first date” proceeded without ever revealing
Bryson's co-conspirator. A dizzy, smitten Romy couldn't have cared less.

Though the rest of their evening together seemed to pass
quickly in a whirlwind of impressive flirting, long, lusty looks, jokes and the
best beef fajitas she'd ever enjoyed. Two other remarkable things happened
before the couple parted ways. For one thing, they ran into Paulette Nagle in
the Guapo's parking lot, just as she was attempting to bully her two little
boys back into the family station wagon.

“ROMY!” cried the voice she would have recognized, and
possibly
heard
, from anywhere. “DARLING! WE'D ALL TAKEN YOU FOR DEAD!”

“Paulette!” Romy replied, steering her date towards her
friend. “I'm not dead!”

“Then praise—whoever you like to praise.” Paulette
shouldered her hand-bag, and then seemed to notice Bryson. She could barely
contain the look of absolute mirth on her face.

“Why, Romy—who is this handsome, dashing young man? And
wherever did the two of you meet?” She batted her eyelashes impishly. From
inside the station wagon, one of the little boys made as if to punch the
other—at which Paulette snarled with impatience.

“I think you know that, P. This fine gentleman was a
customer of ours a week or so ago.” Paulette nodded knowingly, though Bryson
seemed to fidget where he stood. Romy put a placating hand on his forearm.