Riding Dirty

by Abriella Blake

  “See, Guzman,” Bronson whispered, “She’s a virgin.” He lit a cigarette, aware that the glow from his zippo gave the newcomer a better view of his slow, meaningful smile.

  “No way.”

  “Yeah way. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the only one left in the whole God forsaken town. So you see, she needs some special protection. That’s where I come in. Not everyone appreciates the value of someone like her.”

  “No doubt.” Guzman licked his lips. “What…is her value, exactly?”

  “What are you asking me?”

  “What exactly would you consider a fair and decent exchange for a night with her?” When Bronson didn’t answer, Guzman took the bait. “Thirty thousand?”

  Though the offer demonstrated that Guzman was not a novice in the business of paying for top-notch female companionship, Bronson was in high spirits and wanted to milk the night for all it was worth. After all, this was only their first offer. Bronson threw back his head and laughed until tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes. “That’s a good one Guzman. You’re a funny guy. We’ll be at the craps tables, if you decide to take life seriously.”

  “Wait a second,” Guzman pleaded, laying his hand on Bronson’s shoulder to prevent him from the leaving. His eyes twinkled with greed. “Thirty five.”

  Bronson pushed back his chair and began to walk to the bar.

  “Forty?!” Guzman called after him.

  Bronson ignored him long enough to order a martini and write something on a napkin. When he crossed back to the poker table, he slid the folded paper to Guzman silently. The little rat unfolded it and gulped.

  “Cash,” Bronson said. “Up front.”

  “Alright.”

  Now Bronson did accept the handshake. “Get it, then give it to me, and then we’ll make our exchange. Your dough, our cherry. One big happy sundae.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Every detail had been reviewed and every potential scenario accounted for and weighed in the careful planning and execution of the Ruiners’ business collaboration with Rowan Thomas. Bronson, Dolce, Luther, and Smiley had spent an hour or two hashing everything out with Rowan earlier that afternoon before she’d been whisked away by the girls for the frilly stuff. There had been just enough time for the boys to get some alone time and really lay the groundwork before they had to get themselves in position.

  Now the ball was rolling. Lola and Valeria were busy distracting the Auditore henchmen that usually followed Bronson everywhere, using their wiles and some well-timed sleeping pills. Bronson and Rowan were doing their thing. Soon it would all be a memory. One big happy motherfucking family.

  Dolce tossed back another gulp of his tequila. In jeans, a black button up shirt and his new glass eye, he almost blended in with the law-abiding citizens as he leaned, bored, against a slot machine. He watched as Luther mindlessly fed the machine with quarters from a Tupperware container, resisting the urge to snatch the quarters away and dump them over Luther’s head. Waiting was not his thing.

  They were undercover, their club colors left out of the game for anonymity and safety. Above all, the Auditore brothers couldn’t find out they were here. Dolce checked his watch for the zillionth time, mentally cursing Bronson for taking his damn time finding a john. How hard could it be? Dolce only had one functioning eye, but had still seen the blonde. He’d realized in two seconds that he’d pay to pop her cherry himself if that didn’t defeat the entire purpose of the exercise.

  He rhythmically rapped his fingers on the seam of his pant pocket, aching for action. Everything was ready. The room Luther had rented in Caesar’s Palace for the night was under the name and credit card of a stranger he’d bribed at the airport, and there was absolutely no way the booking could be traced back to the club. Once the Ruiners were done using it, John Doe would get his keys back and go about his night as a regular tourist. He’d slip under the covers and be there, innocent and genuinely ignorant, to provide contradictory evidence should Bronson and Rowan’s intended victim be stupid enough to report anything to the hotel security guards.

  The layout of the room was perfect for the con; bay doors opened to a veranda adjacent to the pool area, providing an optimal emergency escape route should the necessity arise. Just a hop and a hedge away, Smiley was stretched in a lounge chair, flanked by women, sipping a gin spot and cooling his brass knuckles. He was within earshot.

  Even Dolce had to admit to himself that Luther had done a good job in spite of being a complete boob and lacking any trace of good taste in cruisers. Axle would be prouder than a peacock. The old man had a weak spot for underdogs. Watching Luther waste his pocket change in the one-armed bandit, it was painful for Dolce to acknowledge that the newbie had a brain. At least he could delegate logistics to Luther for the rest of the play and have one less thing to worry about.

  On the inside, the plan was simple. Luther and Dolce lurked in the casino until they saw their targets head up to the room. Then, they would follow Bronson, Rowan, and the john at a distance and wait for Bronson’s cue to bust in the room and do the dirty work. Rowan wouldn’t be alone for more than two minutes, so the likelihood of her needing to use the unregistered Beretta BU9 Nano 9x19mm Parabellum in her clutch was unlikely. Nevertheless Bronson had insisted it be loaded, just in case. After all, he was the MC’s Sergeant at Arms and muscle was his area of specialty. Perhaps that’s why Bronson was acting like such a meticulous pain in the ass, but Dolce doubted it.

  After all, he’d seen the blonde.

  “Let’s go,” Dolce said, kicking the stool out from under Luther and pointing to the elevator lobby.

  Luther followed the trajectory of Dolce’s finger and spotted Bronson and Rowan and their mark stepping out of view. “I’m about to win,” he whined.

  “Oh I’m so sorry, take your time.” Dolce screwed his face up in false apology. “It’s not like we’re here working or anything. Unbelievable. Moron.”

  Muttering to himself, Luther had to skip to catch up to his buddy. Glancing longingly back at his vacated machine as he walked, he witnessed a gray-haired little old lady swoop in, pull the handle, and win. He kicked the wall, cursing. Of course. Hating his luck, he followed Dolce up one flight of the utility stairs.

  They barreled down the hallway and saw Ramsey a few paces away. Before they had a chance to think, Ramsey held up his hand in an unmistakable order for silence and patience. Nodding their understanding, Dolce and Luther closed the distance between them and waited.

  A minute ticked by in tense silence. Dolce reached for his gun when a low rattle approached, but when the source of the noise appeared around the corner he relaxed. It was only a maid with a cart. To justify their presence, Luther pulled out his phone and pretended to be texting. The maid rolled quietly off and disappeared around a corner. Her footsteps padded away and faded to silence.

  Bronson double-checked the hall in both directions before taking a giant step and unleashing all his pent up strength, frustration, and hope in one epic kick that splintered the door handle. The door thudded open, revealing a scarring sight—Ron Guzman in his boxers. Rolls of fat popped over the waistband, and it was a truly difficult dilemma to decide which detail was the most hilarious aspect of Guzman’s current appearance. Vying for number one was the chintzy pattern of joker cards all over the cheap green polyester garment that was a size or two too big for Guzman’s goods. Then again, that was eclipsed by the fact that Guzman literally had his dick in his hand.

  The real clincher, though, and the absolute best part was the fact that Guzman had already been knocked to the floor and was lying on his belly, pinned beneath Rowan’s pedicured, well-heeled foot. Her hair was loose and her cheeks flushed, the barrel of her Beretta leveled at Guzman’s head.

  “Took you long enough,” was her only greeting, and Bronson couldn’t help himself. At the sight of her dominating the worm they had picked out for sacrifice, he gave up the futile battle to keep his cool. Clutching his sides, he collapsed against the
wall laughing, unaware that his reaction to her had inspired a proud and defiant smile to spread across Rowan’s face. She felt vindicated, somehow, proving to him that she was capable of pointing a gun without wavering.

  When Luther pushed in the room and saw what was going on, he snickered too, but the joyful moment was short-lived. Dolce crashed past Luther with a grunt of disgust and elbowed Ramsey. “Bunch of hyenas. Can we get on with this please?”

  With an effort Bronson stifled his genuine amusement and refocused. “Guzman,” he growled, the sharp authority in his voice causing a shiver to run up Rowan’s spine. “Before we proceed any further, I think you owe the lady a tip. The rest of your money and whatever you put in our safe will do. Get up.”

  Trembling, Guzman obeyed. “Wait a second, you guys, I already paid you. Cash. Upfront. Remember? Everything you asked for. This crazy bitch—”

  Bronson reacted to the insult instantaneously, his southpaw cross hook almost unhinging Guzman’s jaw. “Are you going to get the lady her tip, or do I have to melt the gold fillings from your fucking teeth?”

  Whimpering like a kicked cur, Guzman stumbled to pull his billfold from the pocket of his discarded jeans. Dolce snatched it from his hand, then shoved him bodily over to the closet and supervised as he entered his combination. Inside the box were a Rolex, a gold ring, and a small stack of benjamins.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” Dolce crowed, pocketing the jewelry and waving the money like a paper fan in front of his face. “Beginner’s luck, eh Ramsey? I’ll take it.”

  “We’ll count it later.” Bronson jutted his chin at Guzman. “You. Silence. Understood? Or we find you and you die.”

  Dolce cocked his head to the side pensively. “I mean, dumbass here might say it’s lacking finesse or wit as a parting monologue, but you covered the major points. Right Lu?”

  It took Luther a moment to realize he was being addressed. “Right.”

  Dolce rolled his eye. “Unbelievable.”

  Still waiting for an answer, Bronson raised his fist and took a step toward Guzman. “I didn’t catch your reply. I asked you if you understand?” Guzman nodded wretchedly. “And will you keep your mouth shut about what went down here tonight, what we look like, what sleazy shit you tried to pull? Or will we have to kill you?”

  “N-no, no,” wailed Guzman, “Don’t kill me, I understand. I’ll be quiet.”

  “Good,” said Bronson. “That was easy.” He stretched out his hand for Rowan, helping her to balance as she stepped around the kneeling and sniveling form of Guzman. “Come on baby, you’ve worked hard enough tonight.”

  “Kind of you to notice,” Rowan quipped. She paused in the doorway and reached in her purse for something, pulling out a crumpled napkin. Smiling faintly, she held it out to Guzman. “Oh, I almost forgot, you paid for my cherry didn’t you? I’d hate you to think I was a tease, so, here you go.” Untwisting the napkin, she shook it until something dropped out and landed on the floor in front of Guzman’s nose: a red, rumpled maraschino cherry. “Enjoy.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  All Rowan wanted to do was crash on Chitto Miller’s secondhand pleather couch and sink into the delicious oblivion of sleep. It had been at least a million years since she'd slept last. Her body felt like it was about to come apart at the seams like an over-used rag doll. She was a total wreck—a sore, grumpy wreck.

  It was all that Rowan could do to manage a weary grunt of greeting when her roommate and temporary host met her at the door, his face stoic but weary. Yikes, when was the last time she had seen him? Today was...Thursday. So Tuesday night?

  “Where you been, little hoktuce?” Chitto asked. He had shaved away his goatee since the last time she’d seen him, and the clean planes of his striking, high-cheek boned face brought her comfort and a stab of guilt. He looked exactly like his relative Nila minus the eye shadow and lipstick, of course, and with the lean hard body of a disciplined military veteran. The same cheerful glow of Nila’s was in his eyes and the same self-assured poise buoyed his spine. Rowan admired and secretly envied both of their easygoing natures.

  Rowan didn’t know Chitto very well, but his face so resembled many of the Creek natives she had grown up around, bought candy from at the general store, gone to grade school with. She felt herself relax instinctively in his presence. He looked so much like a friend, and indeed had already made huge strides in making her feel comfortable around him during their short acquaintance and in spite of her natural shyness. He had already done so much for her, sheltering her, vouching for her at the casino. She so wanted to unburden herself to him, but that would be unfair—and dangerous. It was better safe than sorry.

  Rowan could only shake her head.

  “Something came up,” she said. “Sorry I forgot to text you yesterday. I crashed with a friend right by the casino. It’s just so much easier. I’ll probably start doing it more.”

  Chitto’s stony face and deep intake of breath as he took in her incongruous, red carpet outfit showed that he didn’t really accept her explanation. Lying was something Rowan would definitely have to learn to do better if she was going to make it in this town. Luckily Chitto was a thorough gentleman, raised between two strong cultures that stressed a man’s innate responsibility to protect and respect the fairer sex. And even though he knew his young guest was hiding something, knew she had come here for reasons other than what Nila had explained, he sensed that Rowan didn’t want to talk. And that was where it had to end.

  Chitto hoped to God that Rowan wasn’t doing anything stupid. She didn’t seem the degenerate type, but then again he’d seen Vegas chew up and spit people out in ways that never ceased to surprise him. Considering he was a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, that was no small feat. Even seemingly smart, moral people couldn’t always handle Sin City.

  “A’ight,” he sighed. “You be careful honey bun. If anything happens to you, I’ll have a hundred and sixty pounds of angry cousin on my case.”

  Having placed the ball in Rowan’s court, he did the only thing that seemed appropriate: gave her a light hug and shuffled off to bed.

  Rowan smiled wanly as she watched Chitto’s bedroom door close, silently thanking Nila once again for hooking her up with a solid, reliable dude. There were precious too few of them in the world, as far as she could tell. Leadenly, Rowan propelled herself into the bathroom. In seconds she was undressed and standing under the healing flow of a hot shower. The steaming lather of shampoo eased some of her throbbing headache and Rowan leaned gratefully against the cool tiles with a sigh of relief, letting the streams of water caress every crevice of her tired body.

  It had been one of the longest, most emotionally draining days of her life. From that first adrenaline-soaked moment yesterday when Bronson Ramsey had first wrapped his relentless arms around her waist in a back alley, to the dawning dread of seeing the Ruiners’ clubhouse and criminal lifestyle; from the frustration of trying to communicate with the biker chicks who clearly resented her presence, her face, and her existence, to the elation of wrapping up the motley crew’s first successful robbery, Rowan hadn’t had a moment to herself. Not a moment’s peace.

  That’s why after the group had abandoned Guzman, bloody and sniveling, in the hotel room and safely disbursed in the lobby of Caesar’s, Rowan had slipped away at the first opportunity. While Bronson and Dolce argued about God knows what, Rowan had quietly hailed a taxi. The boys had said something about plans to party at the Ruiners’ clubhouse, but that was the last place Rowan wanted to be right now. Now, finally in the safety of Chitto’s walls with nothing but the faint outdoor sounds of traffic and crickets for company, she felt as if she had passed through the fires and emerged reborn, clean, and utterly exhausted. This day had run the gauntlet from despair to joy.

  If this sort of routine was going to be her new status quo, Rowan was going to have to find a way to get more energy. Naps? Maybe it was time to start taking vitamins. Or drugs.

  Rowan couldn’t believe that in a mere 2
4 hours, her life had changed so dramatically. She had crossed from being totally lost in the weeds of a dark city to flying on the wrong side of the law. It was shocking to think that one failed attempt at cheating at cards last night had morphed so quickly into a partnership with Bronson Ramsey and all the packaging that came with him. UFC champion fighter, gangster, joker, charmer, biker…he frightened the hell out of her with his scars and impassive, world-weary eyes. Whenever he leveled that cutting gaze at her, it summoned the memory of what it had felt like to be naked and at his mercy. His was a ruthlessness and hardness she had never encountered before. He would probably trade his own mother for money, if he had a mother. Rowan was painfully conscious of how little her comfort—or life—must matter to him.

  Shaking out her hair and sputtering water out of her mouth, Rowan grudgingly had to admit to herself that in spite of being a hard-hearted badass, Bronson was currently acting as her guardian angel. Lacy had a shot because of him. Why was he helping them? She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. His scheme was working, and Rowan couldn’t believe they had really pulled off tonight’s sting operation.

  Mingling pride and repulsion filled her belly as the reality of her new life sank in. Prostitution was legal in many parts of Nevada, but somehow not in Clark County—and ironically not in Las Vegas, Sin City itself. Which meant that not one single aspect of what Rowan was doing was legitimate. If she was caught soliciting johns there was no chance at talking herself out of it, and it would be the end of any potential career as a counselor. She was betting all she had on this crazy scheme.