Riding Dirty

by Abriella Blake

  Dolce shook his head and stared at the floor.

  Axle smiled, and put his clean pliers back in the toolbox. “I know blood is coming, Dolce, I know it’s only a matter of time. Until that happens, I want to insult the Auditore brothers. I want our name whispered in their casinos and their money in our coffers. I want retaliation for last spring and I don’t care if they realize it’s happening or not. That’s not the point. The point is that by the time they try to scratch the itch, I’ve already got them by the balls. That is the beauty of Bronson’s idea. It’s a win-win situation, which happens to be my favorite kind. We voted. Majority rules. Do your fucking job, leave the thinking to me, and shut up for now. And, Dolce, you’ll be there ringside on Saturday. This bullshit fight the Auditores have arranged for Ramsey is going to be the beginning of the end. I can feel it. We’re putting all we got on Bronson. Make the withdrawal, and place the bet.”

  Axle watched Dolce as the younger man nodded, fuming. He knew as he watched his treasurer leave that he had only temporarily postponed the time bomb. But it would go off, soon enough. All he could do for now was nod commandingly at the Prospect sweeping the floor.

  “Follow him,” rumbled Axle. “I got a feeling they may need an extra pair of fists tonight.”

  “Yes sir, ” said the Prospect, dropping his broom.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  An almost visible aura of energy radiated from the young couple as they giggled, whispered and touched their way across the mock bridges of The Venetian’s impressive indoor canals, brushing the noses of their festival masks and chasing each other. Except for their starkly modern clothing, they might have been ripped from the pages of history; young lovers at Carnival, seeking out a friendly cove to hide their affectionate tryst from prying eyes. His powerful build, leonine strut and carnal appeal complimented her delicate, vibrant femininity, and their chemistry drew smiles from tourists snacking and shopping along the fake palazzo.

  Tonight Rowan’s dress was short, tight, and as neon blue as the over-chlorinated waters, her hair moving in primal waves about her bare shoulders. Her glowing skin peeked through artful gaps at her waist and back, her lean thighs spilling out of the miniskirt. Though she was not a virgin anymore and the dress was bold, she still looked the part—young, vivacious, clear-eyed, and blushing on the arm of her first lover, her cheeks flushing with pleasure each time his hand brushed hers. Her “work” with Bronson Ramsey had become playful and easy since consummating their relationship, each con a game and every victory another secret for them to share. Rowan had spent almost every night in his enormous bed in the Wynn under the watchful eyes of his mafia guards. Whether or not her presence was requested for Ruiners business, she couldn’t find it in herself to stay away from her dangerous partner for long.

  But all new lovers have to come up for air sometime, and the MC had planned their next strike at the cheerful, grandiose Venetian. Lola and Valeria had exceeded themselves this time, and their expertise with the makeup and hairbrushes had only increased Rowan’s natural, wholesome radiance. No one who saw her would believe she was wearing any makeup at all—or that she was a day over seventeen. Tonight, they were fishing for a particular clientele: the kind that liked underage yum-yum and paid big bucks.

  The routine was growing easier each time and at number five, the club had it just about down to a science. Lola and Valeria and Rowan met hours early to prep—an essential component of the night that was unsavory to each of the women. Lola couldn’t stand the blonde, and Rowan had given up trying to make inroads at conversation. Their silent preparation together included not only the makeover, but also some seductive maneuvering and drugging of the mafia guards that tailed Bronson. This element evolved each time. Sometimes, the biker chicks enticed the enforcers to a bed or party. Other times, it was straight up ghb and vodka. At any rate, the men were too dazed and confused and pleasured to ever think of resisting the women’s charms. That, or perhaps they were too embarrassed to say anything about it.

  Rowan had grown leaps and bounds in her acceptance of her newfound criminality over the last fortnight. Her vocabulary of shy, enticing smiles exponentially increased, as had the quickness of her conquests. Perhaps it was the real sensual hunger that lingered under her heart-shaped lips, her newly discovered sex drive barely sated by the nights she spent with Bronson. Men sensed her appetite, probably smelled it on her. They gravitated toward it like stray dogs after a bitch in heat.

  The last time the Ruiners ran their con it was at The Bellagio. Rowan had worn a white Grecian-style dress that emphasized her cleavage and tiny waist, and men had actually approached her directly to beg for sex. Bronson hadn’t even had to drop the hint that she was a virgin—a lie that he now took intense delight in propagating. Before he’d had a chance to breathe his favorite line to those horny bastards, Bronson had been forced to step in and take bids, his smirk betraying his pride in Rowan’s desirability. She was his! Their victims would never know what they were missing.

  Before that they had hit the Mirage. Bronson had picked out the dress that time. Rowan felt like a ridiculous porn parody of The Little Mermaid in the green chiffon number, but the results had been impossible to deny. A Russian businessman had propositioned them in the restaurant before they even made it to the high-roller room. Catching eyes over their sushi, she and Bronson had almost burst into hysterical laughter and ruined their luck. Willing sacrifices for Eros hurled themselves on their laps from every direction, it seemed, and the lovers laughed about it together after every success. They laughed themselves all the way to the bed, or to the kitchen floor, or to the table or hallway—however far they could make it before their hands and hormones got the best of them and they lost control.

  Tonight, more confident and relaxed than ever, Rowan was gratified to see everything going like clockwork. The edginess that had plagued her throughout her first weeks in Vegas was long gone now, to be replaced by the cool, low mental buzz of efficient professionalism. When she left Bronson shooting craps in the high stakes room to touch up her lip-gloss and kill time in the ladies’ room, she found herself grinning and humming “Smooth Criminal.” The sting of conscience hadn’t bothered her recently, and she was swept along in the cinematic glamour of the outlaw life. She was—bizarrely—enjoying herself.

  Adjusting her bra, checking her Beretta, and reapplying her perfume ate up a few more minutes. She remembered to text Chitto the now standard “Won’t be home tonight.” Then she sat and waited. When she was sure enough time had passed for Bronson to work his magic, she languidly strolled back to the table and laced her arms around his waist.

  “How’s it going?” she chirped, smiling.

  “Hey baby,” he greeted her, kissing her lightly on the lips. “I know I said no business tonight, but I want you to meet someone. Mr. Kang, this is Vicky. Vicky, say hello to Mr. Kang.”

  Rowan’s eyes widened and she held her hand out to be kissed by the well-dressed, young and virile looking Asian man.

  “Hello Mr. Kang,” Rowan simpered obediently, beaming and rocking her body closer.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Vicky,” said Mr. Kang. He bent over her hand solicitously, flashing a charming smile. “Please call me Charles. I have to admit I met your friend here quite on purpose, as I was overcome by curiosity about you. May I say that you look astoundingly lovely tonight?”

  Rowan felt a wave of sadness flow over her. Why would someone like Charles Kang feel the need to buy sex? Why did people have to be so gross? This man was different than their usual targets. Aside from the obvious absence of mouth-breathing and nervous twitches, he was in the prime of his life and evidently capable of normal social interactions. Surely all he had to do was go dancing in a club, meet someone the old-fashioned way. He could get lucky without breaking the law or treating a woman like property if he wanted.

  It was a warped, weird world.

  “Thanks so much Charles,” she giggled, burying the part of herself that wanted to scold him
and set him straight before it was too late. Her acting skills had been improving, and she managed a shy tremor as she reached for his hand. “I’m glad you like me. I hope I can make you like me even more.”

  “I want you to be real nice to him, sweetheart,” said Bronson, touching his hand to the small of her back, a cue. “Why don’t you two get to know each other better? Use Vicky’s suite, have a cocktail on me.”

  Rowan giggled and accepted the key that Bronson held out to her. Their eyes locked for a sweet moment and pulsing warmth sprang between her legs, catching Rowan’s breath. All she had to do was look at Bronson, and her body got excited. She could hardly wait to get rid of the rest of the world and get him alone again.

  “That’s a great idea,” she said aloud. “Why don’t you come with me, Charles? You’ll love the view, my goodness. It’s my first time in Las Vegas. Can you believe it? It’s all so exciting isn’t it?”

  “Welcome to Las Vegas,” Charles smiled, and followed her lead toward the elevators.

  Rowan prattled air-headed nonsense all the way to the hotel room, and paused dramatically when she reached the door as if afraid to go in. Her hand trembled with practiced affectation, and she bit her lip before turning wide blue eyes on the stranger at her elbow.

  “Mr. Kang,” she whispered, leaning in close. “I don’t know if he told you, but, well…” She took in a shaky breath, and beckoned with her finger for Charles to incline his ear. When he did, she made sure her lips brushed his skin just a little. A partially aroused man was easier to surprise. “This is my first time, Mr. Kang, I’m sorry. I really hope it’s ok. I’m just a little nervous.”

  He placed firm, warm hands on her shoulders and drew back to look at her with open desire. “Vicky, please, it’s Charles. And I know. I’ll tell you what. I promise, if you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you too. Alright?”

  She grinned with teenage relief. “Alright! I knew I liked you. You’re a sweet guy.” She kissed his cheek impulsively, then stammered and fumbled with her key. Just as she had hoped, he reached out a hand to still her, cupped her chin and made her look up at him. He stroked her cheek with his knuckles and let them trail down to her neck, lightly caressing up and down, and brought his surprisingly full lips down to hers. It was a tender, gentle kiss, and Rowan believed that he had actually meant his declared intention to be kind to her.

  Too bad she hadn’t meant it.

  Rowan kissed him back, pretending more excitement than she felt, welcoming every opportunity to dawdle in the hallway. Strategy dictated she minimize the time with her Beretta pointed at half-naked men as much as possible—less potential for any accidental messes. But once Charles’ hands started to explore the north peaks of her ample décolletage, she had to draw back in mock surprise.

  “Charles, hang on a second,” she breathed, playfully slapping his hand and gulping. “We’re not inside yet, silly. And I need to go to the bathroom. Hang on. Where’s my key?”

  Fumble, fumble, and another twenty seconds burned. Bronson was surely in place by now. She threw her body to open the door, beckoning Charles after her. She playfully pecked his lips before erupting in a girlish peal of giggles and shutting herself in the bathroom.

  “I’ll be right out,” she shouted.

  “I’ll be waiting!”

  Rowan twisted the faucet, letting the running water mask the sound as she carefully drew her micro compact carrying pistol out of her purse and triple-checked the magazine. Sure her timing was right, she burst into the room, scampering toward the window with the gun concealed behind her back in a playfully shy gesture. Finding a position where she could see the door clearly, she smiled and tried to think of another way to stall without teasing this poor schmuck any more than necessary. Where the heck was Bronson?

  Charles was on the bed loosening his tie, and let his eyes drift over the sizzling young body he was about to enjoy. She was reaching behind herself to unzip her dress, and an eager smile spread across his face. But the smile froze and twisted in confusion when she whipped her arms back in front, the barrel of a tiny pistol leveled at his chest. Charles’ brain felt like it was a little slow to process and catch up, but his heart hammered a warning sign.

  “Vicky,” he said, dropping his tie and raising his arms over his head. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t move, Mr. Kang, and don’t try anything please. It’s not worth it. I’m sorry, but, you’ve brought this on yourself.”

  A possible explanation presented itself and Charles groaned in defeat. “You’re a cop aren’t you? You entrapped me. Shit. I’m an idiot. But why didn’t you just arrest me downstairs when the money changed hands? I don’t understand.”

  Rowan was spared the need to invent an explanation. Before she could answer there was a pounding and splintering from the doorway, and suddenly the room was crowded with the tumult of burly armed men in plain clothes. Dolce and Luther ripped their tactical Glock 41 Gen 4s out of their concealed carry clothing pockets, the unblinking black holes of death seeking a target and locking on their resigned quarry.

  Luther yawned long and broad, and Dolce smacked him with his free hand.

  “Jesus,” Dolce muttered. “You with us lumpy?”

  “Sorry,” Luther yowled through his yawn. “I need coffee.”

  “You need a lobotomy.”

  Charles Kang felt his brow furrow as the man he had believed to be Vicky’s pimp entered the room and smiled grimly down at him.

  “Brilliant,” muttered Charles, extending his arms in front of him to receive handcuffs. “I can’t believe I was the one that approached you. So. What are my rights?”

  “Rights? Sorry to disappoint you twice, Mr. Kang,” Bronson chuckled. “But you got the wrong idea. We ain’t no boys in blue.”

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Kang’s face was a contortion of confusion.

  “Consider us vigilantes for justice. You tried to do a bad thing tonight, and so, you get a bad thing done back. Just try and squeal about this to any friendly looking officers of the law, security guards, interested unsavory types, or your grandma, whoever. You breathe a word about us, you’re gonna wish we had put you in the can. See these friends of mine?” Bronson tossed a thumb in the direction of Luther and Dolce. Luther waved, grinning. “They’ll kill you if you say anything to anyone. Clear? My lady here is not actually for sale, it turns out, so we’re changing tonight’s program. You’re still gonna get fucked, don’t worry. It’ll just be…in a different sense of the word.” Bronson stepped blithely over to Rowan, kissing her full on the mouth. “Sorry we took so long baby. Miss me?”

  “Terribly.” Rowan pressed a long, rapturous kiss on Bronson’s neck before remembering where she was and what she was doing. She blushed, and re-aimed her gun. “Let’s get out of here so we can get reacquainted.”

  Luther, Dolce, and Charles gaped open-mouthed at the untimely display of affection.

  “You two,” giggled Luther. “You’re hooking up now? It's like Bonnie and Clyde!”

  “Holy shit. Figures. Fuck me.” Shaking himself, Dolce impatiently turned back to their forgotten mark sitting on the bed. “Let’s cut to the chase here, it’s been a long day. Empty your pockets, Ping Pong, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

  Bronson watched as Mr. Kang’s face changed color from blanched powerlessness to white-hot fury, his intelligent eyes registering both the personal insult of being robbed and the broad disrespect of the racial slur. Kang’s eyes narrowed, mentally cataloguing their faces, and one corner of his mouth curled in an almost-grin. Bronson didn’t like that look at all. It was oddly familiar, and cold.

  “I would be most happy to facilitate your departure,” said Charles. He reached slowly into his pocket, tossing a money-clip, cell phone and car keys on the pristine white bedspread. Luther caught Charles’ wrist and deftly removed his Omega Seamaster watch, pocketing it and the money-clip with a wink.

  Charles turned to Rowan. “You’re making a mistake, my dear.” He said with chil
ling calm. “I’m sorry for you. You’d be better off as an honest whore. The rest of you, when we meet again, I will not be so sorry to settle my account.”

  Bronson punched Charles hard, blood crushing out from his split lip. “You, shut up. Permanently.” He wrapped an arm possessively around Rowan’s waist, and headed for the door. “We’re done here, everybody. Vamanos.”

  Luther whipped out his phone, texted Smiley that they were heading back to the clubhouse, and traipsed after Bronson and Rowan. Dolce lingered a second, eyeballing Kang. On an instinct, he stepped forward and snatched Kang’s cell, breaking it in two.

  Charles stood silently as Dolce’s form faded into the distance of the hall. Finally alone and seething, he methodically re-knotted his tie, gathered his car keys, and picked up the hotel phone. Punching in a long number, he waited until a familiar voice manifested through the connection.

  “Cosmo,” he said, “It’s Charles. You promised safe conduct but there has been a violation. You have one week to correct the insult before I do so myself. Consider our negotiations suspended.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The night was young and love was free. Bonfires crackled, open pits smoldering under the slow rotation of whole spitted pigs in the parking lot. In laughing, whooping clumps, the leather-clad denizens of the Ruiners Motorcycle Club were cutting loose, mixing it up, and enjoying each other’s company. On a small raised platform a live band comprised of members and relatives played cover tunes, sweating and dancing in their bandanas.

  It was family night for the Las Vegas mother chapter, a morale-building carnival that typically happened at least once a month, thanks to the relentless organizational skills of the motorcycle club’s matriarch. There were kids and teenagers moshing around sporting temporary tattoos and smiles, getting their faces painted, proud of their cool dads and fast-talking moms. Couples milled around, drinking and talking. But the singles were included as well, as every self-respecting club had a large population of ravenous, unattached hunters. Women in miniskirts and leather bras passed around red plastic cups filled with beer, laughing raucously and either choosing or being chosen by the unattached men of the club. Lots of the guys carried their own bottles of Jack Daniels or Cuervo, banking on the fact that eventually the kids would go home to bed and the night could really get going. There was school tomorrow, after all.