Riding Dirty

by Abriella Blake

  Gathering herself, Lacy struggled up to her feet again, clutching the letter and postcard to her chest as she shuffled back to her bedroom. Even though she was alone in the silent house she deliberately closed her door behind her for privacy. She went to her mirror and drank in her reflection, happy to see that even though she was too skinny and too pale, she still looked a lot like her big sister. Rowan was so pretty. If Lacy got better, she might be beautiful like her someday. Her new necklace was a start, and it brought a smile to her face.

  Turning, she surveyed her little retreat. Here, she had some control over her life. Some space. There was the Alabama State University poster that Rowan had given her to keep her motivated, the world map from her kindergarten teacher for inspiration, the Indian dream catcher she bought herself at the State Park for hopes. There was a Justin Bieber poster too, for no good reason. Moving slowly, Lacy knelt on her bed and held up her new treasures, moving Rowan’s letter and postcard around the wall until she picked the perfect place for them. Satisfied, she reached to her nightstand for tape and fixed them up on the wall over the head of her bed. That way, she could read them as she was falling asleep.

  Sleep. That sounded wonderful. Curling up, Lacy rubbed her fingers over her new necklace and let her eyelids flutter shut. As consciousness faded, she could almost hear Rowan and her laughing together, running down a sun mottled path in the prairie grass, the remembered sound mingling with birdsong and wind in the pines and the faint beating of tiny wings.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Miles and worlds away the older Thomas girl was also staring at her reflection in disbelief, not only utterly powerless to detect the comforting family resemblance to her little sister but also at a complete loss to find even a resemblance to herself. The image she saw before her in the looking-glass was not the scrappy daughter of alcoholic, codependent parents from a trailer park in the southern coastal boonies of Alabama; she was not an overscheduled, high-performing academic in a competitive graduate program; she was not even a polished, professional casino dealer.

  The woman before her in the mirror was a total stranger, glamorous and mysterious, of whom one could believe just about anything. It was as if she had stepped out of a poster for a spy film. She was a construct of hours of group effort; Lola and Valeria, pressed by their loyalty to the Ruiners, had grudgingly set up camp in Bronson’s suite at the Encore and waxed, plucked, powdered, and pulled as only master shape-shifters can. Hours later, Rowan was somewhat exhausted but amazed with the results of their expertise.

  Now, as the biker women stood behind her to assess and complete the final touches, Rowan for the first time believed that this crazy, dangerous plan of theirs was going to work. It would work because now she wasn’t just Rowan Thomas recklessly throwing herself at fate; now she had the benefit of a partner who could offer his street smarts, worldliness, and best of all, protection to the venture.

  Bronson Ramsey’s intersection into her life just might be the turning point. For the first time, as Rowan looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a woman whose poise and appearance promised she would get away with any crime, bring all men to their knees, and even pull a trigger if push came to shove. Rowan smoothed down the tightly fitted dress and couldn’t help admiring the way it clung. She had never worn anything so expensive or sexy. The sight filled her with confidence and another feeling even subtler, more delicate, more important: hope.

  In her bumpy life, Rowan had learned through bitter disappointment after disappointment that there was no one to catch her when she stumbled, no safety net; it was all up to her. The support that is the natural duty of all parents had never existed for her. She had matured quickly, aware of the dual need to protect her baby sister and push herself forward out of a bad situation. She could barely remember a time in her childhood that she wasn’t worried about stretching food stamps, the cost of gasoline, or applying for government programs. She never really had new shoes—last year’s flip-flops always had to work until they fell apart.

  Of course, there had been pockets of kindness and encouragement here and there—once in a blue moon a teacher, a classmate, or a co-worker had turned up to offer her guidance and support. People like Professor Weller and Nila had been instrumental in propping her up in her relentless pursuit of escape and success. Ultimately, though, she had always known such encounters were the exception and not the rule. She never came to expect help.

  The world was mostly harsh, uncaring. What did it matter to others whether or not one more white chick finished high school, made it through college, got a good job? Nobody else really cared. She knew that, and she didn’t blame the world. It wasn’t its fault.

  She had always been on her own, until now.

  The only way she had managed to get herself as far as university in Montgomery was through the sheer force and persistence of her own willpower. Since grade school she had trained herself, never pausing for breath or rest as she painstakingly climbed the ladder of the American Dream. Each day and each college credit was one step closer to securing a brighter future for her and Lacy. It was always about both of them. Rowan had always felt the pressing responsibility of her birth order, knowing she alone held the potential to change her family’s trajectory. In the cold light of pessimism and loneliness, she had become a survivor.

  But even that strong, ambitious Rowan Thomas, the one who had scraped her way up to be a masters candidate at Alabama State University, had limitations. Her weaknesses had become clear to her once she arrived in Las Vegas and had to face the fact that she didn’t know the first thing about tracking down a human organ on the black market. She couldn’t tell poor Chitto the real reason she had set up camp in the living room of his tiny apartment, as she didn’t want to put him in any danger. She had tried to do it all on her own, like she always did, but couldn’t. Just yesterday she had failed at the simple task of robbery she had set for herself, succumbing to the superior strength of Bronson Ramsey.

  This new woman she saw in the mirror, though, couldn’t possibly fail.

  There was a firm knock at the bedroom door and Bronson’s voice bellowed through the flimsy barrier, ripping Rowan from the spell of her thoughts and back to the present task at hand.

  “Just about finished? It’s time to go.”

  “Yeah,” Lola shouted back. “One second.” She licked her fingers and smoothed a rebellious strand of Rowan’s hair back up into the flawless chignon she had fashioned and a frown of concentration flickered across her flawless oval face. She contentedly admired her achievement for a brief, sweet moment before a stab of envy flashed through her mind.

  Who the hell was this cracker chick and why was the club bending over backwards for her? Women didn’t usually get involved in anything more serious than the legitimate business covers. Why was Bronson singling out this schoolgirl, spending so much energy on her?

  Lola’s stomach sank, anticipating how much Bronson would like what he saw when the makeover was revealed. She knew he was a womanizer, that he wasn’t her man anymore, but that didn’t soften the sting.

  Lola shook her head, reminding herself that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really. This was for the Club. All those questions she wanted to ask—off limits. “Alright babydoll,” she said with a reassuring wink at Rowan. “It’s all you now. Make it count.”

  “Thank you both so much for your help.”

  Rowan masterfully stilled her capsizing mind, gained full composure, and committed herself to her maiden voyage into organized crime. The knowledge that what she was about to do with her night directly played toward the endgame of securing Lacy’s transplant gave Rowan a surge of determination that unlocked an inner reservoir of courage. Go big, or go home.

  With her head held high she walked slowly and methodically to the door. She had to move carefully, as she was still adjusting to what she mentally referred to as her hooker shoes—there hadn’t been much of an opportunity for her to practice the art of 4-inch-high-heeled locomotion in clinical
s at ASU. Now, she wished she had been less practical about footwear in the past.

  Rowan opened the bedroom door and found herself face to face with her new pimp and protector, Bronson Ramsey. She breathed him in, seeking his reaction to her new style. It would give her a sense of how hard she would have to work on other men tonight.

  Jaded as he was, Bronson couldn’t help but drink Rowan in with an openly admiring and hungry stare that started at her shapely calf, exposed by a long slit in her gown, and roamed the whole delicate length of her. The girls had selected a dress perfect for Rowan’s role of the enticing ingénue, both classic and sexy. It was a contoured, floor-length design threaded with gold sequins that feverishly embraced her tight little body like scales, wrapping intimately around her breasts and hips before swooping in a glimmering waterfall to the ground. She looked precisely like a siren Venus rising from a golden sea.

  Bronson saw the dress had no back to speak of, and when Rowan turned for him, he could see her lean muscles gracefully stretching under her alabaster skin. When she came back to stillness her skirts shifted about her like a radiant aura, the high slit exposing one leg at a time, tantalizingly, as it angled dangerously far up to expose a perfectly kissable portion of her inner thigh.

  Bronson’s mouth watered at the glimpse of pale skin so close to her hips before he let his eyes travel up over her flat stomach and to the bountiful swelling of cleavage exposed by the gaping keyhole cutout of her bodice. The gown, as if embarrassed by its boldness, recovered itself by lifting into a high halter collar. Rowan’s ample breasts, shapely shoulders, and delicately sculpted arms were on full display.

  She stared back at him with that sphinx-like challenge that had so aroused him from the beginning, seeming to declare that she was beyond his reach and equal to his passion at the same time. His pulse raced as he recalled the clause of their agreement that entitled him to enjoy that body…at some point. Wine-red lips and smoky eyes added to her sensual charm but did not diminish her dewy innocence.

  Part of Bronson wanted to order Rowan back to the bedroom to change into her jeans and t-shirt, to cancel the whole thing. Something soft in him wished he could write her a check, buy her a bus ticket back to Alabama, and get her the hell out of Vegas while she was still intact. This Disneyland for degenerates was no place for the quiet, centered girl he saw beneath the glitz, and he felt a stab of regret knowing he would be instrumental in muddying the pristine waters of those clear blue eyes.

  The larger part of Bronson, however—the fighter and alpha male who was used to having his way—wanted to rip off that incredible dress himself and satisfy his spiking libido by ravaging her. He’d start with tearing his hands through her primly upswept hair before forcing her by his kisses to return his desire, and then…Bronson blinked away the image of his body twisting around Rowan’s, then grinned as he had the pleasing realization that every man in the casino was likely to have the same fantasy the moment they saw her. There was no way he was going home empty-handed tonight.

  With a jolt, Bronson realized that too much time had passed without anyone speaking and so he cleared his throat with finality. “Let’s go.”

  Rowan glared at him. “That’s it?”

  Bronson had already started toward the front door and half turned back, raising an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  “We’re about to begin an important partnership, and from now on we’ll have to rely on each other closely. We’re high-rollers now Ramsey, playing a game that requires tact, timing, and sophistication.” Rowan took a gliding step toward him, her hips swaying hypnotically like the pendulum of a clock, but her eyes were as clear and guileless as a child’s. “You might at least attempt to show some class, and compliment my appearance. If it’s not too much of a strain.”

  Bronson worked hard to keep his features blank. “You look adequate.”

  Rowan’s brow wrinkled. It was the look she used on people when they tried to count cards, and revealed a harsh and final condemnation. “Adequate?”

  “Yeah.” Bronson shrugged. “Sellable. I’d bang you.”

  Rowan’s head shook unconsciously, incredulous. “I give up. You’re a total fucking animal.”

  “You have no idea, blondie.”

  “Rowan, damn it. Call me Rowan.”

  “Let’s go, blondie.”

  Gritting her teeth, Rowan accepted Bronson’s arm and stepped into character.

  Phase one was on, and the pair set about creating the illusion of a normal evening between a celebrity and his expensive escort. Rowan and Bronson were ushered attentively by the Encore’s staff into a taxi, and within minutes disembarked at the grand entrance of Caesar’s Palace. The white façade stretched into the night sky with all the majesty of ancient Rome with the added benefit of multi-millions of dollars’ worth of lighting effects, landscaping, and air conditioning. Though they were nowhere to be seen, Rowan knew that the other three Ruiners men were somewhere close.

  As the pair made their way through the casino floors and shopping centers, Rowan found herself swept away in the glittering ebb and flow of how the other half lived. Ramsey’s celebrity gained them instant attention and access to the finest amenities. There were no waits, no questions, and no limits.

  To set the stage for their heist, Ramsey treated his lady friend to a cocktail at the most exclusive club on the casino grounds. Heads swiveled in the VIP lounge to inspect the Heavyweight Champion’s new arm candy when they arrived, and interested parties of all genders watched hungrily as the attractive couple wound to the dance floor. The DJ was on fire, sending pulsations of energy through the bodies of everyone in the room as flicks of silver light flashed through the mob.

  Eager to do her part to build buzz, Rowan coquettishly pressed herself against Bronson’s body as they swayed to the music, boldly smiling into his eyes. Her proximity and appeal were not lost on anyone, least of all Bronson. Seizing the opportunity, he let his hands wander to the nape of her neck as he ensnared her in a kiss. His pulse hammered when her lips softened against his, the scent of her perfume intoxicating him.

  This was the precise mix of business and pleasure that Bronson Ramsey liked the best.

  Content that they’d made the requisite splash and careful not to allow himself to get too wild, Bronson deliberately lifted his lips from Rowan’s delicious mouth. With a wry smile, he let his calloused hand slide to the bare small of her spine, applying a light pressure to steer her off the dance floor. Rowan stifled a gasp of shock at the intimate touch and obediently followed his lead, aware of the way men looked at her as she moved.

  They meandered together out of the lounge door and past the long line of waiting patrons, Rowan laughing and flirting and resting her head on Bronson’s shoulder as they walked. It wasn’t hard for Bronson to show everyone that he was enjoying her company. Even idle passers-by found themselves briefly wishing that they were one or the other of the glamorous pair. They took their time strolling through the casino, and soon enough they were situated in the high-roller room.

  Phase two of the plan was kicking into high gear. Bronson ordered bottle service, played cards, and kept Rowan in physical contact at all times. Her hand was in his hair, her lucky breath on his cards. His arm around her hips, his hand seeking out hers. As she had been instructed, Rowan was sociable and friendly with the other gamers, but made a point of continually glancing at Bronson to make sure to receive his nod of encouragement. This effectively established their alleged power dynamic to observers that believed themselves astute, and served a secondary purpose of raising curiosity.

  When Rowan eventually excused herself to the ladies’ room and disappeared in a gossamer swirl of satin skin and tight curves, Bronson found himself the subject of a frank inspection from a new face across the poker table. He recognized the middle aged man from the dance floor earlier, and met the dull brown gaze with a challenging frown.

  Bronson waited until the dealer stepped away briefly to get a fresh deck of cards to speak. “Got some
thing in your eye brother?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow in challenge.

  The other man emitted a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “No, no, not at all, didn’t mean to stare, I’m just curious about something. Uh, Ronnie Guzman, real-estate agent,” he introduced himself, blanching when Bronson didn’t accept his outstretched handshake. A muscle in his face twitched, but he forged ahead anyway on shaky ground. “I’ve got to ask you, man,” he wheezed, “where did you find that grindstone?” He sucked in his breath and shook a hand in the air for emphasis. “Damn, those tits!”

  Bronson gazed at Guzman idly out of the corner of his eye, noting the shiny polyester blend of the man’s suit, the ungodly white of his teeth and the unforgivable artificial orange tint to his tanned skin. He looked like just the kind of moron Bronson would love taking for a ride. Bronson painted on his best blank expression. “You saying you like my girl’s tits?”

  Guzman was probably forty-five, balding, and sweating. At Bronson’s ambiguous tone he paled, removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his blazer and dabbed at his dramatically beaked nose. “Uh, yeah, well, I do, she’s—look, I mean no disrespect, that’s a real hot meal you have there is all I’m saying.”

  “I’d noticed.” Bronson allowed his voice to warm with amusement. “That’s why I’ve decided to represent her.”

  “Represent her?” Encouraged by Bronson’s wink, Guzman turned a few shades oranger. “A guy would give just about anything for that kind of companionship. I’d just about die for a night with her.”

  Somewhere behind his shielded black eyes and low, suave laugh, Bronson was thinking Guzman’s death would be a nice bonus when they closed the deal. But he shrugged the thought away for now. “She don’t come cheap,” Bronson returned. “I’m afraid she’s rather special. Maybe even one of a kind.”

  “Obviously.”

  Guzman’s laugh grated on his nerves, but Bronson was too aware of his goal to let himself lose any patience. Instead, he shifted chairs to sit next to Guzman. When the older man leaned in eagerly, his sweaty nose inches from Bronson’s face, Bronson almost laughed out loud at how easy it was to manipulate him. He almost felt sorry for the twit.