Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (5 page)

Kellan Vaughn looked out at the bright world. He could
distinguish no faces, only the shadowed outlines of fifty plus screaming souls.
The thump of the bass guitar beside him onstage was the only thing keeping him
grounded, his only anchor to the earth. It sure was funny, he figured. How
rocking out never got old.

Kellan leaned forward, letting his long brown bangs brush
the tip of the microphone. He crooned the sweet words of The Prattle's most
popular ballad:

I said I'd be yours forever

you said that you'd stay with me

But when we make promises

it's hard to see, yeah it's hard to see...

The rest of the band continued behind him, wailing away on
their various instruments: Kimya on the drums, Art on the rhythm guitar, J.C.
on bass. Kellan was The Prattle's front man, as well as the effective source of
all the screaming—it was his creaky electric guitar, and his radio-friendly
lyrics that had captured the hearts of certain diehard club girls throughout
the Pacific Northwest. Well the lyrics, the guitar, and his uncanny resemblance
to an early 70s Mick Jagger—full pink lips, stringy hair and all.

The Prattle wasn't technically on the radio yet, but their
following was devoted. And hey—Kellan was enjoying the climb. All he really
wanted to do was make music.

As he prepared for the ending chords of their final song,
Kellan scanned the crowd once more, out of habit. Wailing teenyboppers screamed
as his eyes flickered over them all in turn. While he loved the groupies, this
band leader had learned long ago to search for meaningful relationships off the
road. That truly special woman, he knew, would be harder to find.

Just as he supposed he'd seen all there was to see in the
crowd, Kellan noticed something unusual: a tall figure wearing sunglasses in
the back row. An unlit cigarette dangled from the man's lips, and there was
something familiar about the illuminated outline of his helmet-hair. Then,
Kellan's face cracked a grin in recognition: he ought to have known this fool
anywhere. The enigmatic Bryson Vaughn, older brother and general badass, was
here to see the rock show. This was a first.

The group hurried through their outro, sensing that Kellan
was atypically distracted. As soon as the last song had ended, the frontman
leapt into the crowd and made for the bar. Bryson was sitting there, his back
now turned to the stage. He nursed a bottle of Coors.

“What the hell, man?” Kellan said, giving his brother a
playful shove. “Let a guy know next time. Surprising a musician is like
distracting a driver on the highway.”

“With about as much at stake, I take it,” said Bryson,
peering down his sunglasses. “Though you did sound good up there. I must say.”

“Glad you enjoyed the show,” Kellan said. At this moment, a
tall woman with soft-looking waves of kinky hair sidled up to his elbow:
“Umm...Mr. Vaughn? Can I...can I have your autograph?”

“Can you give me a minute, sweetheart?” Kellan turned back
to his brother, and the girl skulked away.

“That didn't even look
hard
for you,” said Bryson,
sucking on his teeth as he watched the pretty girl saunter away. “Gotta love
the rock star life.”

“I'm guessing it's a bit like being a biker badass,” laughed
Kellan. He signaled the bartender for a round.

“Funny you should bring that up,” Bryson said slowly. Kellan
glanced up at his companion just then. For all of his enigmatic,
tall-dark-and-handsome nonsense, he had always been able to read his older
brother. The trick was—when Bryson showed up out of the blue, he usually wanted
something.

“What is it, Bry? You in some sort of trouble?”

“It's not me! And I take offense at your assumption.”

“Then what? I don't have a lot of time for your shenanigans
these days.”

“
Shenanigans
?” Bryson touched his chest in mock hurt.
“Since when have I ever had a
shenanigan
? Do you
shenanigan
?
Doesn't 'The Prattle'
shenanigan
?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. You know the name wasn't my idea.”

At long last, Bryson lit his cigarette. The two men sipped
for a moment in silence.

“It's Dad's plan, actually. There's this casino on the
Strip—say, does the name 'Lefty DiMartino' mean anything to you?”

Kellan pinched the center of his forehead between two
fingers. “Maybe. He's a real nasty piece of work, something like that?”

“
Very
nasty. And the Aces want him out of the
picture.”

“I see. But Bry—” Kellan turned to look his brother full in
the face. “Why would you need me for something like that? I mean, why are you
here?”

Bryson took a drag of his smoke. “I do need you, Kel.”

“Little old
me
?”

There was something of an ancient wound between the two
brothers, though neither would have ever admitted to this. Bryson, golden boy
that he was, had been culled early as his father's eventual replacement in the
Devils Aces motorcycle club. Bryson had been allowed to leave school and start
working in the club body shop, all while learning how to navigate and manage
the various businesses taken out in the Ace's name. Hughie V had never granted
Kellan—skinny and sensitive as he was in high school—the chance to prove his
mettle, calling him always “the artist.” It was true, Kellan had neither the
gift of muscle nor the impulse to harm so much as a butterfly, but he was
smart, and he loved his family. Though he loved his band, he could never pass
up the chance to do something for the family.

“There's also...well, there's a complicating factor,” Bryson
was saying now, his lips wrapping around the bottle of beer. “And before you
say anything—yes, it's a woman.”

“A woman? Not plural?
One in a million
? That doesn't
sound like you!”

“It isn't like me, Kel. But she's—”
...Romy Adelaide Romy
Adelaide Romy Adelaide...

Bryson had half-expected to wake up Sunday morning the
same man. Okay, Romy had been pretty, intelligent, and kind, but there were
women like her in every city, weren't there? He managed to forget them all,
when work took priority. But in this case, his brain wouldn't believe—sure
enough, waking up that morning in the cruddy motel room where the Aces had put
him up, far off the Sunset Strip, he'd rolled over into the cool expanse of
untouched sheet and felt deeply alone.

The night before, in his dreams, he'd brought Romy back
to his room. They'd exchanged no words. He'd begun by kissing the flesh rising
out of her leather bustier, letting his cracked lips dwell in the softness of
her skin. He'd snaked his tongue down between the fork of her cleavage while
his hands had reached up to untie the stays of her corset. In three neat
weaves, her top had found its way to the floor.

In the dream, Romy had been shivering with nerves; he'd
gathered her body into his with tender arms until she leaned into his touch.
Then he'd laid her across the bed and gazed down at the soft, exposed expanse
of her chest. He'd nuzzled her ear, kissing his way along the skin of her neck,
moving down. At last, she'd cooed his name softly, elongating the first
syllable: Bryyyyyson. Bryyyyyyyson. Ohhh, Bryyyyyyyson.

He'd mounted her then, gripping the cage of her slim
waist between powerful knees. She'd reached up to unbutton his own shirt, her
fingers feverish, fast. Then she'd tilted her beautiful blonde head forward and
sucked hard on the muscles and hair trailing downwards, towards his heavy
member. He'd arced his back into her kisses, barely able to keep from bursting.
He'd reached down to rub the base of her neck, then further, further...until he
was grasping at her swollen breasts again. “Baby...” she' d murmured, right
into his pecs. And then...

He'd woken up.

“BRY? BRY? COME IN, BRY? Jesus!”

“What? I'm here!”

“So there's a
girl
, huh?” When Bryson turned his
head, he saw that several other bar patrons—including most of The Prattle—were
giggling at his starry-eyes. “So, throw us a bone. What's her name?”

He probably shouldn't say, he figured. The mission to come
would necessitate discretion and secrecy. But for some reason, Bryson couldn't
quell the urge to form the letters and sounds of her name just then. Perhaps
the others before him could be made reverent, hearing the name he'd come to
find so exquisite.

“Romy Adelaide. She's a blackjack dealer at a Lefty joint,
and she's in particular trouble.” Speaking her into truth, Bryson smiled to
himself. Imagining her at work was almost enough to pull her from the lip of
his dreams into reality. He took a jolly sip of his drink, before turning to
his brother.

“So, my brother. In the name of love and justice: are you
in, or are you out?”

If the look on Kellan's face was peculiar now—and he did
seem slightly pinched, somehow taken aback—Bryson didn't think too much of it.
His brother had always been the unusual sheep in the family; no amount of rock
star success was bound to change this. Kellan kept the furrowed brow on his
face perhaps a beat too long for comfort, until he said: “Let me just go tell
the band. I'm in.”

At 7 p.m. sharp that Saturday, Romy Adelaide rapped on the
door of hotel room 607. Her hair was plastered flat with gel and sheer
willpower, and the rest of her blonde waves fanned from the top of her head in
a cheerleader's ponytail. It had been awhile since she'd made the time to
straighten her locks—Romy was surprised to learn that her mane was now long
enough to brush the tip of her “skirt.”

Though she was swaddled in a heavy winter coat for commuting
purposes, below this, she'd poured herself into the glittery skintight leotard
which clung to her body—obscenely, she thought—in all the right places. After
Zaida's influence, she wore thigh-high leather boots polished to shine. Her
lips were cherry red, her lashes spread wide and painted coal black. Glimpsing
her reflection in the shiny walls of the casino lobby, Romy had stopped short:
she hadn't recognized herself.

Zaida answered the door with very little fanfare. “Late,”
she pronounced. “Unacceptable.”

Romy glanced at her watch:
7:01pm.
So
this
was
how it was going to be.

“I'm sorry, it won't happen—”

“Don't. Wear. Watch.” Zaida held out her extended palm, an
eyebrow raised. “No need.”

Begrudgingly, Romy removed the wristband and handed it to
Zaida. She hated to take it off—this fusty old piece of jewelry was the only
remaining token from her birth parents. Like the Little Orphan Annie with her
locket, she'd kept the watch on her person as long as she could remember. She
watched carefully as Zaida slid the timepiece into a small clutch at her side.

“How will I know when I'm late, if 'no watch'?” Romy said,
trying her hand at a joke. Zaida rolled her eyes so viciously, Romy worried
they'd fall out of her head. Then she watched as her new boss strode back into
the hotel room. Only the sharp twist of Zaida's ponytail indicated that Romy
should follow.

Romy saw quickly that Suite 607 was unlike other hotel rooms
in The Windsor—for one, it was entirely unfurnished. There wasn't so much as an
end table in the whole space. Chandelier light fell from overhead and
languished in the patterned carpet, while a panoramic window framed a brilliant
slice of the Strip. And just as she had in the corridor the night before, Zaida
strode to the back of the space with an eerie confidence—though there didn't
seem to be an exit, where she was headed.

“Where are the other dealers?” Romy asked, timid. She tried
to gracefully readjust herself inside the sleeve.

“I tell you already: 7
:01.
” Zaida pursed her lips.
“No one has ever say to you, 'to be on time is to be late?'”

Before Romy could formulate so much as a snappy retort,
Zaida had led her to the far corner of the hotel room. The woman proceeded to
place her green-taloned palm flat against the wallpaper: an LED glow
materialized below her hand.

“
Another
secret door?!” Romy gasped. A panel of wall
had already slid open to reveal what appeared to be an elevator—still, Zaida
snapped:

“ONLY. OTHER. RULE. IS.
BE QUIET.
”

A chastised Romy climbed aboard. The inside of the elevator
was chrome-sleek, and death silent. The women's ascent was ear-popping fast.
Though she was disoriented, Romy attempted to map in her head where in the
casino she figured them to be headed: how far above the floor were they
rocketing? And why wasn't the high-roller room in the secret basement, like
Lefty's lodge? She grew more insecure, not quite knowing where in the building
she was—Romy resolved to take strong mental notes of every part of her evening.
She didn't like the idea of being lost in the labyrinthine passageways that
apparently made up this place she thought she knew well.

The Windsor's Needle was an impressive sight, even for the
Sunset Strip—its bright blinking eye was one of the first things travelers saw
from the highway as they came in to Vegas. Rising some sixty stories above the
main hotel, the Needle floor wasn't officially habitable—guests weren't allowed
up here—but Romy had entertained the occasional rumor of secret hook-ups
happening in the tippy-top of the hotel. People said you could see all of
Nevada from up there. Though she figured there was no way this was true, Romy
had always been curious. Had even tried, in vain, to find the service elevators
on the main floor which might lead to the first of several roof decks.

And so Romy gasped again, as the elevator doors opened. The
panoramic windows of this floor fully circled and enclosed a small space,
creating the illusion that there were no walls at all. All of Vegas was spread
out below this room, this place that was quite obviously the Needle
itself—though the city was visible only from the low lip of pulsing neon light
hovering beyond the sills. The street below made the Needle look like it was
burning slowly, from the feet up.

Scores of women trailed by like parade floats, each wearing
slight variations on Romy's glittery sleeve. They were razor-thin, glamorous,
perfect beauties—the women of magazine spreads. She took them to be a
combination of servers and dealers, though who could tell the difference in
these clothes? Romy didn't recognize a single face from the main floor.
Imagining Paulette and Kali and Annisette giggling into their bustiers a mile
below was all but impossible. Drawing breath, Romy knew innately that there
were to be no “unofficial union breaks” up here, at her new job.

If she hadn't seen any of the women servers before, Romy
thought she
did
recognize certain faces among the clientele—though they
were masked as often as not behind thick, black sunglasses. Certain athletes,
perhaps. A well-known comedian. Two or three reality TV stars, divvying up a
rock of cocaine on a glass table just in front of a window. All of the players
were men. All of them wore expensive suits, cologne, and shiny shoes.
So
these
are the high-rollers,
Romy thought. Suddenly bad boy Bryson—for all his
bravado—looked
down-to-earth
.

There was a circular bar in the room's center; this served
as a central hub. Zaida gripped Romy's wrist and led her briskly around the
elaborate set-up, where there looked to be a hundred kinds of top-shelf liquor
rising across many shelves. Zaida was all-business. She didn't allow Romy so
much as a moment to ponder her new surroundings as it all shot past her gaze in
a blur. Whirling towards the side of the Needle farthest from the elevator
bank, finally Zaida paused at what appeared to be the room's only vacant
blackjack table. “Here,” she said. “This table yours, Adelaide.”

The blackjack table was pristine. The felt looked brand-new,
and the cards were slippery-sleek in her fingers. Zaida contemplated Romy with
the condescending gaze of an impatient teacher: “You know how to do from here,
I hope?” Grasping her new station for support, Romy managed a nod. This seemed
to satisfy Zaida, who vanished back into the darkness with a flick of her
ponytail.

A few heartbeats passed. Romy attempted to catch her breath,
though her uniform made it difficult. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the erratic
light.

As she finally began to shuffle the cards—from habit, if
nothing else—men began to move her way. A few of them lurched away from their
other tables, apparently mid-game. Romy heard a few cat-calls above the bass-y
thump of house music, which she determined was moving across the room in pulses
from a DJ booth mounted high in a corner. Several men made a show of peeling
their sunglasses down their faces and waggling their eyebrows her way. She was
the newcomer, clearly. They set on her like a wounded gazelle.

I can do this
, she whispered to herself, gaining
confidence as she moved her fingers around the decks. These were, after all,
nothing but the KEM cards her memory knew well. This was nothing but a game she
already knew how to deal. And if the crowd up here was less Jersey, more
B-Listing actor, well...men were a game she knew how to play, too. There was a
safety, a comfort to be had in the sameness.

“Gentleman, please,” Romy said, feigning a blush just like
the one she'd given Lou Valentine earlier that week. “We have all night!” This
secured a few laughs. Several men sat down, setting high stacks of black
($100), purple ($500), and orange ($1,000) chips on the table. A small army of
cocktail waitresses glided across the room to Romy's corner and began to take
drink orders. It was happening so fast!

“The name of the game is Blackjack,” Romy said, a little
lamely. “Place your bets now gentlemen. And good luck.”

Appearing suddenly, and from the shadows (her m.o., it
seemed...) Zaida was once again at Romy's elbow: “Wait. You get attention. Is
very good,” she whispered. “I think now is good time for tournament.” The four
or five men seated at the table leaned towards their dealer at these words, as
if they'd been waiting for the word:
tournament.
Blackjack tournaments
weren't so frequent on the main floor. Romy furrowed her brow.

“I'm not sure I remember all the ins and outs. Of a
tournament, I mean.”

“Is like bicycle,” Zaida said. Then, for the first time, she
grinned. Her whole face seemed to strain with the effort. “You do once, you
never forget.” Before Romy could ask another question, her supervisor had
glided away. By now, the three or four men seated and the several circling were
chanting the word in drunk mirth:
Tournament! Tournament! Tournament!

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Romy
Adelaide,” came a scratched baritone from her right hand. It took a moment to
pair voice with face. He was seated by the windows, for one, and therefore
rimmed with that hellish light. But she felt the recognition first from a heat
in her chest that spread across her arms, seeming to loosen her joints, relax
her skin. Meaning arrived in her mouth first. “Bryson?” she asked, trembling.