Crushing Beauty (Harbingers of Sorrow MC): Vegas Titans Series (21 page)

FOUR

“Come
onnnnnn
, Brysy. Give mama a little coin for the
juke box!”

Bryson turned his head towards his whiny “date” (Tiffany?
Amber? Who remembered?). He cursed himself silently. This evening, he’d broken
a cardinal Vaughn family rule: never boast in the strip club about heavy
pockets. He could perfectly picture his father, Hughie .V, leaning forward in his
beloved rocking chair to dispense his typically (unsolicited, nonsensical…)
sexual advice: “Broads are like dogs. They can smell fear, and they follow
money.”

“
Baaaaaaby.
I know you want to dance with me. Just a
couple bucks, eh?” Tiffany was grinding her slender hips against his groin, but
Bryson couldn’t summon the energy. He looked up at this incidental companion:
she was a tawny, scrawny redhead with close-cropped hair and long eyelashes.
Amber was pretty enough, but for once in his life, he found that his mind was
haunted by another woman: Romy Adelaide. He liked rolling her name around in
his head—
Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide…

“Here, just take fifty,” Bryson said. “And why don’t you go
get yourself some dinner?” He kissed his date on the cheek. “I’m really not
feeling up to a long night.” The woman’s face hardened at the insult, but when
he handed her the cash he could see that she wouldn’t protest further. She shot
him a last rueful smile before leaving the honky-tonk.

“AS I LIVE AND BREATHE!” hollered Rigel from down the bar.
Whenever he came through Vegas, Bryson was obliged to stop in at ‘Ricky Dee’s,’
off the boulevard. Rigel Mathers (a.k.a., Ricky Dee, “in the country parlance”)
was a longtime friend to the Devils Aces, and as good as a Vaughn brother from
back in the Reno days. Though Rigel’d left the club to start a business in the
big city, the Aces considered Ricky’s a special haven. Even if the
establishment’s proprietor was a consistent loudmouth busybody.

“You’re in no position to be shunning tail so fine,” Rigel
said, still several decibels above an indoor-voice. “That’s not the Bryson
Vaughn I know.”

“People change, Ricky.”

“You know you don’t have to call me that. What’s gotten in
to you?”

Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide…
“It’s
nothing. I just have a lot of work to do.”

Rigel snorted. “Since when have you ever had work to do,
son?”

“Since the Big Man put me on a casino case.”

“A CASINO CASE?!”

“Lower your voice!” Bryson flicked his bottle top in the direction
of his friend. “Can you keep a secret, Rick? For real this time?”

Rigel’s face readjusted. Loud though he might be, Bryson
knew a good friend when he had one. “You can trust me. I won’t breathe a word.”

Bryson swallowed. “The Devils’ have got wind of something
strange going on up at The Windsor.”

“Funny money changing hands?”

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be one of Lefty DiMartino’s joints?
Guy is B-A-D.”

“Yup.”

“Guy’s like a modern day Al Capone.”

“Yup.”

“So what are you gonna do to him?”

“Get as close as possible,” Bryson said. He lifted a
cigarette from the inside of his jacket and placed it between his lips. “Suss
out the scene. Went by there today to get a lay of the land. See if I still
remember how to...well, shall we say ‘
improve my odds with astute
mathematics
.’”

“Goddamn card-counting sonofabitch!” Rigel yelled. Several
customers glanced up from their beers. “And I’m guessing your little feathery
fixture, she’s just a perk? Of this so-called JOB?”

“I didn’t even know the lady’s name, sir.” Bryson inhaled
deeply. A moment of silence passed between the friends.

“You do seem preoccupied.”

“Well…”

“I mean, outside of
work
. You should get back out
there, find yourself a nice woman. Or two. Or three,” Rigel started a titter
which evolved quickly into a guffaw. Then he fondled his wedding ring. “Don’t
know what
I’d
do without Stacy. Just remember, B, when you’re chasing
road and toppling the mafia—love of a good woman. That’s the
hardest
thing
to find.”

Bryson stubbed out his cigarette in a lone glass ashtray. He
placed several crisp bills on the bar, picked up his coat and slid on his
sunglasses before grinning at his friend. “I know it,” he said. “Or in any
case, I’m beginning to.”

He’d recognized her immediately, of course—but the look on her
face as she’d searched to place him in her memory had been too much to pass up.
That was the same face she’d made the day after he hadn’t shown up for some
stupid science class project back in high school: a face full of longing and
intelligence and confusion. He’d never once been with a woman who made faces so
complex, who allowed the world to keep them so very puzzled.

Of course in high school he’d been a cad of the highest
degree—but he had noticed her. He’d noticed her blonde hair, natural and shining
while the other girls’ were mini-Marilyns, made from a bottle. He’d noticed her
full pink lips which never seemed to smile (again, the world was likely too
puzzling a thing for a girl like her to smile about). He’d been distantly aware
of her tragic childhood, which seemed to make her brains and guile the more
impressive. He could also recall now plenty of time spent staring at the
heavy-looking scoops of her breasts.

He didn’t date complicated girls. He didn’t really date at
all. He was Bryson Vaughn, of the Devils Aces: women came his way freely, and
he loved them in equal measure the way he loved bodies in general. But there
was something about Romy Adelaide, the blackjack dealer at The Windsor. There
was something about her inquisitive eyes the color of lake water, and her trim
hips wobbling nervously above a thick ass and long, long legs. He wanted her
for longer than a single night. He wanted to smell her and taste her and lick
her and tease her through mornings and afternoons and evenings uncountable,
because something about her face said he’d never be bored with a woman like
her. And so, with a grand new resolution, Bryson Vaughn pledged to topple The
Windsor. He wanted to save beautiful Romy Adelaide from all her tortures, and
then he wanted to have her, and then he wanted to keep her.

Bryson kicked away his bike’s kickstand, and let the revving
engine soothe what had become a massive erection pushing against his slacks. He
took a deep breath of the dirty city air before shoving off into the night.

FIVE

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 a wish 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.