Vegas Knights

by Maddix, Marina

  Contents

  Title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Knight Fall

  VEGAS KNIGHTS

  Marina Maddix

  Vegas Knights is the much-anticipated novel-length sequel to Knight Fall, available for just 99 cents. The books can be read on their own or in sequence. An excerpt from Knight Fall can be found at the end of this book.

  About This Book:

  After a passionate public encounter with a mysterious and very sexy biker, big girl Kelly Saunders finds herself on the ride of her life. Her 'Knight on shining armor' — Rick Knight, heir to a motorcycle legacy — whisks her away from her soul-sucking corporate job to Las Vegas, where she finds the road to love is treacherous.

  As urgent business matters demand more and more of Rick’s attention, Kelly is left to wonder about the future of their relationship. A ruthless betrayal throws her life into turmoil, and a devastating discovery threatens to pull them apart. Is their love just so much Vegas glitter or is it strong enough to survive beyond the dazzling lights of Sin City?

  Chapter One

  A ray of sunlight warmed Kelly's cheek, waking her from a deep slumber. Her half-closed eyes drifted to the room's ancient pull-down window shade, pinholes and cracks allowing dust motes to dance and swirl in laser beams of sunlight. She sighed with contentment and snuggled deeper under the bed's faded comforter. A stray beam of light eventually found her right eyelid, waking her up for good.

  Keeping her eyes closed and moving slowly, cautiously, she stretched each limb as far as it would go, testing its limits. Muscle groups she didn't even know existed grumbled in protest but she relished the discomfort, knowing she was getting stronger every day.

  Her left arm found no resistance as she stretched. He was up, probably out for his morning jog. A slow smile curled the corners of her mouth as she thought about his favorite way to cool down from his daily workout. Judging by how cold his side of the bed was, he'd be back soon. She didn't have much time to ready herself for his attentions. She threw back the covers and took the two-step journey to the motel room's tiny bathroom.

  As she watched herself brush her teeth in a cracked and grimy mirror, she again wondered at the turn of events that had landed her here in this seedy roadside motel. Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined having sex with a total stranger behind a gas station but that's exactly what she'd done four days earlier. And if that wasn't crazy enough, she'd actually accepted the stranger's spontaneous invitation to join him on a two-week trip to Las Vegas — on his motorcycle!

  That's not to say she hadn't questioned her decision after hopping on the back of Rick's Peterson-Knight touring bike. Her entire life had been spent taking the safe and cautious road, and an impulsive decision like that was completely out of character for her. Sure, she was an artist, but she'd always made sure to find jobs that would pay her enough to survive comfortably. Perhaps not comfortable by society's standards, but she never went hungry, as her plump rear end could attest.

  Even in her art, Kelly played it safe, held back. She longed to really open herself up and pour her soul into her paintings, but she was afraid of what might come out. Instead she made beautiful paintings of cheery scenes and sold prints at art festivals and farmers markets. She enjoyed making them, but they meant little to her because they weren't drawn on her experiences or emotions.

  Meanwhile, her friends were taking risks, exploring their darkest inner recesses, and splattering them on the canvas for the world to see. Kelly found it difficult to be that honest, that raw, but at the same time she envied their courage — and success. As she puttered away in her little co-op studio producing dreck for the masses, her friends, one by one, were plucked from the gutter by snooty art gallery owners, never to be seen in the trenches again.

  She knew she was just as talented as her friends, but gallerists seemed to have a profound disdain for her style. They all commented appreciatively on her technique but they were looking for pieces that evoked darker emotions. They seemed to want only angst, fear, hatred, desire — anything but joy.

  Desperately wanting to be accepted and praised by the art community, Kelly tried digging deeper into her psyche. It was tough going emotionally but she finished a series of abstracts inspired by her tumultuous relationship with her father. The process was painful and cathartic, and the results were amazing. This was what the gallery owners — and more importantly, art critics — wanted. It was pure, raw emotion, and she was proud of the work.

  She summoned up her courage and called a curator who'd once told her she had promise, if only she could be honest in her work. They set up an appointment for a viewing, and she spent the rest of the week tidying up her space in the co-op, arranging and then rearranging the order of the paintings, and working on her bio for the show she knew he would offer.

  Mr. Franklin stood staring at the series for a long time. He'd gaze at one, then shuffle down to the next, then back the other way, analyzing her soul. Her nerves buzzed in anticipation and fear, but she didn't say a word, not that she could have if she'd wanted to.

  Finally he turned to her. "This is some of the most powerful work I've seen in months, Ms. Saunders. There's a duality that's difficult to verbalize but you've done an admirable job of expressing your inner narrative."

  "Thank you." A surge of relief whooshed through Kelly. She'd given up several offers to design company logos over the last few months so she could finish this series and she was in dire straits. It didn't help that her latest crazy roommate had just moved out. She needed this show, both for her bank account and her pride. She wanted to cry and laugh and shout, but she managed to maintain her composure in front of the tightly wound Mr. Franklin.

  "I just wish I could offer you a show." He started moving toward the door, apparently believing she needed no other explanation. She was paralyzed with shock. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. He'd loved the paintings, so what was the problem?

  "Um, I don't understand. I thought you liked them."

  He turned back to her. "Oh, please don't misunderstand. They're quite good. But these days art exhibits are about so much more than the art alone." He gave her a long, scrutinizing look up and down, settling for a moment too long on her abundant chest.

  Embarrassed and confused, Kelly crossed her arms, which forced his gaze up to meet hers. "I still don't understand."

  He looked away and cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "The simple fact of the matter is, Ms. Saunders, that you just don't give the appearance of being a serious artist. As we both know, art is about transporting the viewer to new planes of consciousness, and I believe that your...appearance...would put off this city’s aficionadi."

  "My appearance?"

  "You're forcing me to be blunt, Ms. Saunders," he said irritably, as if it was her fault he was such an asshole. "You don't look like an artist. Your size is intimidating, and you don't have a sense of style that 'says' artist. You seem more likely to be found behind a cosmetic counter at a department store than a renowned art gallery. Now more than ever, buyers are as interested in the artists as they are the art. They're looking for unique individuals, characters. They want Basquiat, not Beyonce."

  The pain and confusion that sh
ot through Kelly must have shown on her face. Her dream was being shut down because of her butt?! "Oh, don't feel too badly, Ms. Saunders. I mean, I truly believe Jackson Pollack wouldn't have made it today simply because he looked too...normal."

  Taking pity on her, Mr. Franklin put a hand on her shoulder. She could barely breathe, much less shrug off this man's hand, as much as she wanted to. "Listen, I'm certain you could have great success in a smaller, perhaps midwestern market, but I'm afraid serious buyers here will dismiss your work because of your common appearance. There's been a shift recently, moving away from the art alone to including the artist as part of entire experience. I know it's unfair, but I simply must be sensitive to my clients' desires. I am a businessman, after all."

  With that, he gave her shoulder a final squeeze and her tits one last ogle, and swept out of the room without looking back. Kelly swayed in place, unable to move, to feel. She'd done what he'd asked. She'd mined her inner despair and exposed herself — metaphorically anyway — to him, and then he cast her aside because of her resemblance to an Amazon. She'd never heard of such a thing before. But the truth of the matter was that he was one of the most respected curators in the city. If he wouldn't have her, even though he loved her work, then what hope did she have of finding a show anywhere else in town?

  The rejection sent Kelly into a downward spiral of depression. She locked herself in her apartment, turned off her phone and refused to answer the door. She dragged herself out of bed only to use the bathroom and occasionally nibble on some dry ramen noodles before returning to bed. This went on for a few days, maybe a week; she lost track.

  She understood Brutus, her ironically named best friend, would be concerned, but nothing outside of herself seemed to matter any more. It wasn't until Brutus sweet-talked her landlady into letting him into her apartment that she realized, in retrospect, how worried he must have been.

  "It's okay, Mrs. Curtis," Kelly heard him say through her haze of self-pity. "She seems to be breathing. No need to call the cops." There was an irritated mumble from the other room to which Brutus replied sweetly, "Yes, I'm sure you do have better things to do. Why don't you go ahead and do them while I stay here with our girl?"

  A door slammed, then her bedsprings creaked as Brute sat down next to her. "Sweetie, I've been out of my mind these last few days. What's going on?"

  He petted her greasy, matted hair like she was a puppy, doing his best to be comforting. Normally she would have brushed his hand away but the attention was drawing her up from the depths in which she seemed mired. He'd stretched out his hand to a drowning woman and she intended to hold on for dear life.

  "The last I heard, Mr. Franklin was coming over to check out your new series. I'm guessing it didn't go well? What an idiot. Those are some of the most heartbreaking pieces I've ever seen. He should be run out of the business if he didn't respond to them."

  Kelly mumbled something Brutus didn't catch. She cleared her throat and repeated, "He loved them."

  "Omigod!" Brutus squealed. "That's absolutely fantastic! So then what's going on with you? You should be on top of the world, over the moon, walking on air and all those other crappy-sappy cliches. A show at Franklin Gallery is really going to put you on the map, my darling. What gives?"

  Kelly rolled onto her back to look at him. He was smiling, but she could see his concern lying not far underneath. The crinkled brow, the twitching cheek. He knew the news wasn't good.

  She could feel the tears she'd been unable to shed all week rising to the surface. As the first one spilled down her cheek, she poured out her tale of woe as her patient and supportive friend listened, silently stroking her head.

  "Girl, the guy's a Grade A asshole," he said when she'd finished. "But as much as he might like to think so, he doesn't run the city's art world. You'll just move on to the next gallery. They'd be fools not to take you on, especially if Franklin loved the work."

  "You think?" Kelly sniffed.

  "Psh! Absolument!" Brutus' use of French brought a smile to Kelly's face for the first time in a week. He hated the posers who pretended they knew the language but really only knew a couple of key words they thought would impress people. He himself was fluent, having spent two years studying in Paris, but he never used it unless he was speaking to a French person.

  "That's better, princess. Now let's get you in the shower before my devilishly handsome nose falls off, shall we? I'll go see what I can scrounge up for food while you get yourself beautiful."

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Over a gourmet fritatta that Kelly didn't even know she'd had the ingredients for, she and Brutus discussed her future. They'd known each other since art school, and he had a way of encouraging her that wasn't forced or condescending. She knew he believed in her and her talent, so she took his advice seriously.

  "First off, we need to go through this stack of bills and figure out what gets paid first," he said, flipping through a pile of mail so fat Kelly was tempted to crawl back into bed. He must have sensed her dread because he reached out and patted her hand.

  "The sooner we tackle this, the sooner we can move on to Phase Two: Getting Kelly a Show."

  Over the next few hours, they sorted out her finances and came to the mutual conclusion that she would either need to get another roommate — something that had not worked out well for her in the past — or get a regular job to pay the bills and possibly save up a few pennies. "And you happen to be in luck because Auntie Brutus knows someone who knows someone at a big corporation who needs a desk jockey." Kelly had held plenty of odd jobs — retail sales clerk over the holidays, cocktail waitress, dog walker, telemarketer (that one had only lasted two days because she hated herself for doing it) — but she'd never worked in a big office. The thought of becoming an office drone, even if for only a short time, scared her a little.

  Proving once again that he knew her better than she knew herself, Brutus suggested looking at the job as research for her art. "I can totally see your next series: Dystopia, A Life." He spread his hands in a 'I can see it now' pose, gazing into the air at an invisible marquis.

  Kelly gave him a weak smile. "I dunno, Brute. Do you think I could survive corporate life?"

  "Honey," he said gently, again patting her hand, "you don't have much of a choice. You need a paycheck, and you need it now. But it doesn't have to rule your life. You won't even have to be there all that long because we're going to get you a show and make Franklin regret he didn't sign you when he had the chance."

  Of course it didn't turn out exactly as they'd planned. Nothing ever does.

  Kelly got the job, but instead of inspiring her to create art, the dismal environment and the miserable people she worked with sucked every ounce of creative energy right out of her. Then Brutus — her rock, her north star — had been offered a show at Galerie du Luminaire, a prestigious gallery in Manhattan, leaving her alone.

  "I swear, Kell, I'll send for you soon," he'd promised when she dropped him off at the airport. Since his departure five months earlier, she'd received a grand total of two phone messages — both in the first week detailing how things were going for his show — and one postcard of the Manhattan skyline, which simply had the word "Soon!" scrawled on it.

  She kept the postcard in her desk drawer at work and pulled it out about sixteen times a day for the first couple of months, dreaming about Brute's life in the Big Apple. No doubt his days were filled with high-powered lunches at fancy restaurants with even more high-powered people, all wanting to represent him. He probably had a series of devastatingly handsome lovers who kept his nights interesting. Maybe even a new best girlfriend with whom he could dish on his latest conquest and who would rave over the delicious meals he'd cook for her. Maybe this girl would be far less needy than the one he'd left behind. Maybe this one wasn't a frightened little girl hiding in a plus-sized body.

  Over time, Kelly looked at the postcard less and less, until one day she realized it had been a week since she'd even thought about Brutus. She p
ulled the card out for one last look before she tossed it in the recycling bin. She didn't begrudge her friend his success — she was thrilled for him — but she understood that as long as she held on to the fantasy that he would swoop down to save her from her depressing life, she would never do what it would take to become her own savior.

  Mr. Franklin's rejection had hurt her pride and broken her confidence, but he had liked her work. There were other galleries in town she could talk to, but after Brute left, Kelly had no fire, no drive. She was merely surviving, not truly living. She kept thinking, "Someday..." but that day never seemed to come. Instead, box wine and Must See TV filled her spare time.

  The morning after she'd thrown away her friend's postcard, Kelly vowed to change. She'd stop feeling sorry for herself and start working toward a goal. The first was to save enough to quit her miserable job.

  That was the day she was late for work because of a blown-out tire, which meant she had to stay late, which is why she was in the room when her boss was berated by his superior, which is how she was given an impossible task to finish over the weekend, which meant she needed gas to drive back and forth, which is how she ended up at the gas station where she spotted a hot biker in black leathers who fucked her silly behind the station and asked her to go to Vegas with him. She'd been thiiiiiiiis close to saying no, but Brutus' voice kept screaming in her head, "Are you insane?! Look at him! Go! Go! GO!" The moment she realized her skeevy boss had been watching them have sex, the decision was made.

  Still riding a wave of euphoria from their hot lovemaking session, Kelly lived every office worker's dream of taking revenge on her sadistic and perverted boss, which made her feel as if she was finally in control of her life again. She was no longer a slave to corporate America; she was free again. Free to do whatever she wanted, as frightening as that notion might be.

  As they flew down the highway, Kelly envisioned what she looked like on the back of Rick's bike. She felt like a goddess of great proportions — seriously great proportions. Her long blond hair flowed out from under an iridescent black helmet. The heat between her full thighs was cooled by the wind, which also whipped her loose skirt around her rounded hips. She pressed her considerable assets into Rick's leather covered back, her wind-chilled nipples transmitting her excitement to him silently. She was a verifiable sex goddess. Not only had a seriously sexy biker taken her to new levels of ecstasy, but he'd practically begged her to go on a road trip with him. And now they were literally riding off into the sunset together.