Crushing Beauty (Harbingers of Sorrow MC): Vegas Titans Series (20 page)

“Oooh, Romy, I saw you with that tall drink of water,” said
Kali, a beautiful Hawaiian woman who held the informal “Best Ass” title among
the pit crew. “Look at you. Got yourself a high-roller.”

“Mmm-hmm. He’s worth staying awake for, darling,” said Annisette,
another motherly supervisor with an expensive red weave and a temper to match.
“I see you drooling.”

Romy took the affectionate ribbing in stride. They were
entitled to a bit of gossip about her personal life. While the rest of the lady
dealers and cocktail waitresses were an aggressive division of chatty Kathy’s
by nature, Romy had always been notoriously quiet about her personal life at
the casino. There’d been the single one night stand, the six months’ worth of
breaking up with Lewis, her ex...and that basically brought everyone up to date
on her “sexy Vegas back story.” Romy was private, she was wary, and maybe most
of all, she was busy—it wasn’t as if she had time to primp and fret over a boy
when there were sixty page labs due for her math and science courses every
week. Her co-workers’ concern brought the fatigue back: nothing was going to
happen with her handsome stranger. And why? Because this was Earth, not Heaven.
This was Vegas, where fortunes and the privilege of other people’s beds were
gambled, gained and lost in the quick roll of a die. Better to shake it off and
stay professional. Stop thinking about the mystery man.
Get a grip,
Adelaide,
she told herself.
Get a grip.

She saw him approaching from the corner of her eye before
the other women did. A small hush rippled through the party as he planted
himself before her. His arms still jittered, though perhaps his evening’s
winnings had gifted him the confidence to sit a little easier in his expensive
suit. “Romy Adelaide. Silver Spring High School, class of 2006. I know you,” he
said. She was speechless, until:

“Bryson. Vaughn. I
knew
you looked familiar!” The
name appeared in her mind’s eye like something from a dream, and was attended
by a flood of memory.

“I knew you knew I looked familiar,” Bryson said. He leaned
towards her, slipping what she could feel to be a fat hundred-dollar chip into
her sweaty palm with a measure of coyness. “Listen, I just won five grand. So
that’s yours to keep. Now I’ve got to run, but Romy—” and here he drew back and
looked her full in the face, his blue eyes dizzying as they seemed to suck her
in: “—how about you don’t forget about me again.” He winked once more, before
making for the exit.

The other women had already begun to fan themselves like
schoolgirls, but Romy watched Bryson’s retreat as far as her eyes could follow.
She saw him peel off his sport coat and flex his powerful body just outside the
casino lobby. She watched him don a pair of black aviator sunglasses, despite
the morning hour. She watched him pop an unlit cigarette into his mouth and
toss the coat over a shoulder, before striding away into the bright night.

TWO

He’d looked different in high school. No suits in his closet
back then.

The Bryson Vaughn of Silver Spring Secondary had been
something of a contradiction: a baseball star, a basketball forward, and a bad,
bad kid. The kind of guy mothers warned their daughters about. The unsupportive
legend went: “a  kid like Bryson could turn a valedictorian into a teenage mom
in ten minutes.” At least that’s what Romy’s foster mother had liked to say, as
she sipped her teetotaler’s soda with lime through perpetually pursed lips.

Back then, he’d worn only leather jackets and grimy t-shirts
when not in uniform. He’d yet to get his first ink, but was never without a
bona fide diamond stud in his left earlobe. Plenty of cheerleaders had harbored
secret crushes on the brutish Vaughn—his greasy hair always falling into his
eyes in
just such a dream-beau way
—but he wasn’t what any lady with self
respect would ever consider “boyfriend material.” She remembered that he used
to take girls out to the abandoned quarry on the edge of the city. The girls he
took out there would never give any juicy details about what went on at these
“dates,” but after the fact, they did tend to smile smug little smiles to
themselves—like members of an elite club.

Before Romy had really known what sex involved—she’d been
two grades behind Bryson in school—she’d overheard a beautiful upperclassman
girl make a befuddling remark of the swaggering Vaughn: “He was so well
endowed, I almost couldn’t. But then...a lady shouldn’t say…”

When he wasn’t deflowering homecoming queens, Bryson got
into fights with other boys. These dust-ups were often in the name of what had
then seemed like vague concepts: honor, integrity, “a man’s good name.” Then
again, this kind of behavior wasn’t so unusual when your whole family was a part
of the no-good hustling motorcycle club,
Devil’s Aces
. She remembered
him on his own first bike—a fire-engine red Ducati that used to get a lot of
complaints from the Neighborhood Watch about its conspicuous lack of a muffler.

Romy’s recollection trailed here, because by the time she
was really old enough to start paying attention to Bryson Vaughn, he’d all but
drifted off the face of the earth. At the beginning of his senior year, he was
kicked out of varsity basketball when a coach found a dime bag in his locker. A
dishonorable discharge from the baseball team wasn’t far behind. Bryson rarely
went to class, but when he did, he slept. Girls started spinning elaborate
fictions about what he stayed up all night doing that made daily life at Silver
Spring such a torture.

In two years of overlap at a tiny high school, Romy and
Bryson had taken a single class together: Chemistry 101. They’d been
lab-partnered for a single assignment on nucleotides. She’d worn her best dress
to the library on that day when they were supposed to meet after school and
work. She’d prepared a dozen veiled, nerdy come-ons...but of course, Bryson
Vaughn hadn’t shown up. She felt foolish that she’d even imagined wooing the
school hottie via homework. He was
Bryson Vaughn.
He didn’t “show up”
for chemistry labs.

And right around this incident, Romy met Kellan.

If Bryson was the bad boy, Kellan was the sensitive
artist—he was rarely spotted after sophomore year without the company of a
creaky electric guitar, which he played and sang along with in the courtyard
during lunch. Kellan’s hands were always covered with ink stains, thanks to the
doodles he fashioned through every single class. And where Bryson’s body was
athletic and ripped, Kellan’s was slender and sinewy. He wore band t-shirts and
skinny jeans as a rule. Lots of the hippie girls liked him. Oh yeah, he also
wrote poetry.

Romy had kept to a tight-knit bunch of ambitious, dorky
girlfriends while in high-school, and so Kellan was the natural object of a lot
of her friends’ affection. He was a kind of blessing: in their corner of Reno,
where a mere handful of women expected to finish college without winding up
saddled to some bum working for the city, here was Kellan: a boy who thought
about the world, had opinions, and loved art. Romy was drawn to him spiritually
before sex even factored in. The pair started having weekly meet-ups in the
courtyard during which he’d practice songs on his guitar and she’d talk to him
about all the novels she was reading. Together they hatched wild plans to
leave  Reno. Then one day, Kellan brought in a song he’d written especially for
her:

Don’t tell me you can’t feel it

with your body next to mine

wish I had you in my bedroom

wish you lived there all the time

He was no Shakespeare, but she wound up seeing the inside of
that bedroom. Though all of her girlfriends stopped talking to her once the fling
was “sealed.”

And for some reason, Romy Adelaide was the last person in
school to connect the dots. Bryson was never around, for one. Kellan, in all of
his sentimental reveries, never once mentioned having an older brother. Sure,
the boys shared a last name, a hunky jaw line and certain goading
expressions...but plenty of people were distantly related in Reno. It took two
weeks of going steady and a brief meeting with his parents to learn the
perfectly plain truth: Bryson and Kellan were brothers. Always had been.

The dalliance didn’t go much past a fumbling dash for third
base in his attic bedroom and a few more artistic courtyard meet-ups—Romy grew
preoccupied with school, while Kellan began to follow his brother’s academic
example. By school’s end, Romy was a rueful egghead whose only dream was
skipping town, while Kellan had followed Bryson all the way into the motorcycle
club’s inner circle. She hadn’t seen the younger brother in years. She hadn’t
seen either Vaughn boy, really, since graduation day.

“You
know
him?”

“My God—you
know
him?”

“Body that fine should have a nice driver.”

“Why didn’t you ask for his number?”

“Why didn’t
he
ask for
your
number?!”

“Trifling.”

“Men are scum.”

“But did you see his—”

Romy secured a moment to drift away from her “union break.”
The other women would be content to talk about Bryson for the rest of the
night. Truth was, Romy couldn’t stand to be the subject of their motherly pity
and unsolicited advice. She didn’t need another mother—mothers, in her
experience, were nothing but coincidental baggage. She far preferred to
navigate romantic waters alone.

Though then again, why
hadn’t
Bryson asked for her
number? What would be the point of his whole “remember me” act if he didn’t
want to see her again? Romy felt a feeling she hadn’t allowed herself to feel
for years: neglected. With a heavy heart, she began her binding trudge back to
the pit. At least her shift was almost over.

Before she reached her table, Romy felt a hand on her
shoulder. For an eighth of a second, she imagined it was Bryson—come back to
kiss her, to carry her out of the casino onto some waiting Harley, a madcap
adventure unspooling before them...but when she turned around, she saw only the
rodent-y little face of the pit boss. Lou.

“Where you going, sweetcheeks?”

“Back to work, Lou. I’m just off break.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ugh.
Lou Valentine was among the creepier of Romy’s
immediate employers. He ogled and pinched freely, and had uncanny skill when it
came to trapping people in unpleasant conversations. He was also a round little
man with a preposterous toupee and breath like the devil’s dog. “I’m taking you
somewhere.”

“I’m not in the mood,
sir,
” Romy said. She began to
pull away from him, but Lou merely tightened his grip on her forearm.

“And
I’m
not playing around. Seriously, Adelaide.
Boss wants to see you. Follow me.”

Romy’s stomach tightened. The boss? She knew of no boss
beyond Lou. She turned towards her co-workers, but the unofficial break party
had broken up at the manager’s approach. She imagined that Paulette and Kali and
Anisette were each furtively avoiding her gaze at their own tables, already
aware of some horrible truth in her future. Was she getting fired? Had the
mystery bosses been taking note of how tired she seemed on her feet lately?
Helluva
way to go
, Romy thought to herself, while Lou scurried through the crowd
before her.
Meet dream guy.
Don’t
get asked out. Lose job. Sounds
about right for my luck.

THREE

Lou lead her first to the bank of elevators in the casino
lobby, which—as a function of the hotel—Romy had only used the one time. Once
inside the car, he swiped a key card from his belt, unlocking a floor below the
basement galley. The button had no marking number.

“May I ask what’s this regarding?” Romy tried, though she
couldn’t quite keep the quaver from her voice. Her head was spinning. She was
suddenly terrified: if she lost the casino job, she’d lose her space in the
Masters program—her academic scholarship only covered half of her tuition. Without
school, she’d probably have to abandon Vegas (and subsequently, the closest
things to friends she had) for some cheaper city. News of her release would
prevent her from getting another casino job, which would make her fit for very
little else outside her unfinished field. She’d have to go back to Reno. She’d
have to face the chilly horror of her foster parents, and all the bad memories
she’d tried to leave behind in that town. These possibilities were ruinous.
Life-ending. Romy looked at the floor and tried not to cry.

“Can’t tell you, kid,” Valentine sang, clearly relishing his
secret knowledge. “Who doesn’t love a surprise?”

The elevator opened onto a part of the casino Romy had never
seen before. They’d landed in a brightly lit atrium space, off which three long
hallways forked in different directions. She felt in her belly a quick,
guttural fear: she could get lost very easily in a place like this.

“I don’t have all day, buttercup,” Lou wheezed. He was
already a ways down the central hallway. The only sound she could hear, even
straining, was the squeak of her boss’ rubber soles on perfectly polished tile.
She hewed closely to him, though she was sorely tempted to sneak a peek into
the few rooms along the hallway with windowed doors. Working at a casino, one
heard all kinds of stories about things that went on in secret basements—but
were the rumors true?

After what felt like a good half a mile (Lou Valentine was
gasping as he strode), he led Romy into a second elevator. This one all but
blended into the wall, and Lou had to use both his keycard and a six-digit pass
code to summon the car. It was a tight fit, and a creaking, lengthy ride. At
last, the car doors opened right into a room. This place looked like no part of
the casino she’d worked at for two years—or for that matter, any casino she’d
ever seen. It was more like a hunting lodge.

The ceiling was high, especially considering the fact that
they were several floors below the earth. The room was paneled with a dark,
lovely wood. Every few paces, there were old-timey portraits on the walls
depicting historical figure-types, though Romy didn’t recognize any of the
names. Candelabras lit the space—this was easily the dimmest room she’d ever
seen in Vegas. There were wall shelves also, each carting casino memorabilia:
antique decks of cards fanned out in glass cases, dusty stacks of chips. An old
slot machine.

They were walking towards a long table, which rested on a
bearskin rug. There were three people huddled at the far end, by the former
bear’s feet: a thin, blonde woman perched on the tip of an armchair, a
corpulent man in a velvet sporting jacket, and a muscular black man in
sunglasses. Sunglasses at night...that reminded her of Bryson. He seemed so far
away down here.

“Romy. Adelaide,” pronounced the corpulent man. His voice
was scratchy and crass; he sounded like a heavy smoker. “I’ve heard such
wonderful things.”

“Got her to ya just the way you asked, eh Lefty?” said Lou,
practically falling onto a lush green velvet chaise. Through an almost
imperceptible shift in the room’s atmosphere, Romy could tell the large man
didn’t care for Lou either. That fact made her smile.

“Just look at you,” the man called Lefty said, addressing
Romy once more. His eyes oozed over her skin, starting at the top of her head
and working down. It was an almost sexual appraisal, but there was something
even stranger about his gaze: she briefly felt like an object, or an animal at
auction. The large man was looking at her the way you look at something you
use, or buy. She bristled in her skin. Felt the same original wave of
nausea/terror she’d felt when the first elevator had released them into the
casino’s bowels.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, my dear,” said
the man again. The room was silent but for his resonating crackle. “And let me
be the first to say: you aren’t fired.” That should have been a great comfort,
but it wasn’t. Everything about this secret lair made Romy feel more and more
like a Bond villainess. Or better yet, a hostage.

“My name is Edwin DiMartino, ‘Lefty’ for short. But maybe
you already knew that.”

“No. I have no idea who you are.”

“Oh, smashing! Lou, you’ve brought me a firecracker!” Lefty
DiMartino seemed delighted at this. He tilted forward in his chair and laughed
a deep belly laugh, which the blonde at his right-hand echoed with a faint
snort.

“Romy Adelaide, I know
you
because I know
everything,” Mr. DiMartino said, inclining his head towards the far wall.
Though she hadn’t noticed this coming in, a bank of HD TV monitors were
flickering quietly above the door. Each displayed scenes from the different
corners of the casino floor. Quickly, Romy confirmed Paulette’s suspicion about
the innocuous spot in the ceiling: it was a security camera, all right.

“I own The Windsor,” Mr. DiMartino was saying, “as well as
seven other properties on the Sunset Strip. Though we’ve never met, I like to
keep a close, close watch over all my employees. I know you’re something of a
math whiz, for instance. I know you’re a veteran of the broken American
orphanage system, and the estranged foster daughter of Carl and Joanne Dickman.
I know they were cruel to you.”

“What are you getting at, sir?”

“Easy, easy. I just wanted you to realize how deep my
interest in your well-being goes. I am pure of heart—” here, Mr. DiMartino
placed a thick hand over his chest, “—and I want my workers to be pure of heart
as well. Do you know what I mean?”

Lou Valentine tittered. “Look at her. 'Sposed to be a smart
cookie, standing there all slack-jawed…”

DiMartino visibly bristled. “Mr. Valentine, please. Ms.
Adelaide is my guest.” He made a small motion in the direction of the black man
in sunglasses. “Perhaps you’d like to hold off your commentary. Unless you
think my friend Titus here would enjoy your jokes? The two of you could maybe
go somewhere private, laugh it over?”

Though he might have been kidding, once again Romy felt the
air in the room constrict. Lou Valentine shut his mouth tight.

“As I was saying. What I know about you could—
does
—fill
a dossier. But mostly, I know you’re the most capable female dealer on my blackjack
tables. I know you’re well-liked. I know you’re intelligent. I know you're
trusted. And I know you’re beautiful. I think all these things and more would
make you an excellent addition to a sort of secret project I’ve been running at
the casino for years now. And where are my manners? Would you like a drink?”

The sun was coming up out on the Strip, and here she was in
a secret casino room being propositioned by the head honcho. This was weird—but
then again, what
wasn’t
weird about this town? Romy thought back to
Bryson’s exit. He’d seemed so calm yet so brazen walking off the floor with a
tidy five grand. All her life, she’d been wishing for moments like that—moments
that felt free, that made the job of living look effortless. Without quite
articulating a decision, Romy sunk into an armchair. “I’ll have a seven and
seven.”

“Good. Great. I’m delighted. Now Ms. Adelaide, because
you’re intelligent, I’ve no doubt you’re curious about the details. These are
they:

My ‘VIP’ dealers work with the top of the line clients
exclusively. These men—and some women— play strict, serious blackjack in the
club private quarters; rooms very much like these. They meet only on Saturday
nights. If you agree to the position, this means you’ll only work on
Saturday
nights
—leaving you a great deal more time to study for school.” Mr.
DiMartino passed her the cocktail. “Because the position demands high levels of
precision and discretion, the casino is prepared to contribute 20% of your new
income to a 401K account. Your health insurance plan will be re-evaluated. We’ll
match any and all contributions to retirement, any and all contributions to
charity, and ditto to college funds. We consider non-indentured tuition
assistance as well. You with me so far?”

Romy could only nod. She took a gulp of her drink.

“Here’s the number for your new salary, which is open to
negotiation. Titus, show her.” A stone-faced Titus drew a casino cocktail
napkin from the folds of his jacket and deftly slid this across the table.
Opening the folded message, Romy almost yelped. The figure was her current
salary times
four.

“Room for growth. Nightly bonuses in the five, six figures.
And, of course I’m sure you know how well high-rollers like to tip a pretty
face.” Mr. DiMartino nodded again at the bank of monitors. So they had been
watching her all night down here—they’d seen the whole flustery Bryson
encounter. She began to blush.

“I wouldn’t be embarrassed, if I were you,” said Mr.
DiMartino. His omniscience was beginning to startle—it was like he knew what
she was thinking before she’d even articulated it to herself. “Having that kind
of power over a man is something to be cherished, if not painfully squandered.
So, Romy. Does any of this sound interesting?”

The room was silent again. Feeling the urge to make noise,
Romy shifted in her chair. She clinked the ice cubes from her drained cocktail
together in the glass. She tried to reconstruct just what had happened here,
just who these people were and what they wanted her to do.
Breathe,
Adelaide,
she willed herself.
Don’t be foolish.

“It’s a bit much. I can see that. So listen,” Mr. DiMartino
said. He was easing back into his puffy chair. “How about you take three days
to think it over? I’ll be back on site this Wednesday, and we can talk more details
then.”

“That would be great,” Romy breathed. She felt like she was
speaking for the first time upon waking in the morning—the desperation in her
voice surprised her. “I—I need to think about all this.”

“Yes. Think. You’re a smart girl.” Mr. DiMartino shot her a
meaningful look, and then nodded at Lou, who leapt quickly to his feet.  She
was being whisked away again. “Oh, but Romy? Do remember. Whichever decision
you come to, this conversation
never happened.
You have a nice day,
sweetheart.”

He may as well have spun around in his chair, or removed a
sinister white cat from the folds of his cloak. A panting Lou shuttled them
back down the hall, up the elevator, and down the other hall, while Romy
gripped the folded cocktail napkin with the neat sum imprinted on its surface.
She had to hold on to the napkin, she knew that much. It might very well be the
only proof that tonight had ever happened.