by Loren, Celia
“Romy, what I'm trying to tell you is: there's a security camera in this room. There are systems in place to make sure that the high-rollers get their prize. And if the women don't please their customers, Lefty will have them...disposed of. I've seen it before. Now, please don't cry. And whatever you do: don't look up.”
She didn't have to. She knew just where she'd find that incriminating, invisible patch of ceiling—she was good at sensing their whereabouts, by now. The camera was likely resting in the near corner, just above the door. Where Bryson had been staring a moment before. Romy imagined a careful Lefty, watching her every move from his lodge below as Zaida fixed him another gin and tonic...
“I'm going to get you out of this, Romy. I swear to God. And I—all the Devils Aces—we're going to make sure DiMartino and the rest of his pathetic slice of the Mob pay dearly for what they've been doing. This is a sick, sick prostitution ring, it's illegal gambling, its...well, enough to put him away for a long time. But from here on out, what I need most is for you to play your cards right babe.”
She couldn't withhold a snort. For the first time that evening, Bryson smiled his melting smile up at her. His familiar smirk put her at instant ease. Of course, she'd connected the dots hours before, she knew that she'd been sold into something as soon as she realized what the stakes were for the blackjack tournament. Somehow Romy had held her composure during the game, she dug deep and it wasn't easy to hold back the tears, but she knew her situation would become much worse if she didn't keep it together now.
“So what are my cards, Bryson?”
“Well—,” he began. And for a moment, he looked flustered. I have flustered Bryson Vaughn, Romy thought to herself. Her inner abandoned-in-the-library tenth grader did a little victory dance, in her head. But before she could fully rejoice in the moment, a new thought occurred.
“So you'll need to fuck me,” she said.
Bryson was silent. He continued to stare straight into her barely-sheathed crotch, as if hypnotized.
“I'm not going to fuck you,” he said at last. “Not like this. But Lefty will be expecting something. Do you understand what that means?”
She nodded dully, though the power of comprehension might as well have flown the coop. In only the past hour, Romy had been tossed along a whole gamut of emotions—terror, disgust, self-loathing, shame, and now—impossibly—a steady, burning hunger for the man before her. But desire couldn't win out. It was all simply too much. She didn't want to fuck him either...not like this.
“I'm just so tired,” Romy said, collapsing back against the sheets. His eyes were still hunting towards her center. She felt them break contact, at last.
Bryson stood up slowly. He put a finger to his lips, in echo of his earlier gesture, and retreated to the bathroom. Romy listened for a moment while the water ran. She grew accustomed to its thrum before allowing herself to give in to the soft, several-hundred-count thread sheets. Her eyes slid closed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She didn't know how long she'd been asleep before she woke with a jolt, to a hand on her face. The hand was Bryson's. In a moment of surveillance, Romy determined that they were still in the hotel room, it was still night, and no—her disastrous first shift at the Needle had not been a dream.
Bryson didn't speak; he merely held out his other hand for her to grasp. Still in a waking state, she took it, and allowed herself to be led. He was picking their way towards the bathroom.
All “Basic Luxury Package” suites at The Windsor were equipped with state-of-the-art Jacuzzis and marbled countertops; the management presumed that most couples on Vegas vacations would be looking to have elaborate sex in glamorous locations and furnished rooms accordingly. So the bathrooms were romantic. The tubs were large and the towels were especially fluffy, and most suites supplied between four and twelve fat votives. Stepping into Bryson's bathroom, she saw that the only lights available were these.
Indeed, more than twelve fluttering candles gathered in a circle around the bath-tub, which was filled to the brim with aromatic bubbles. A glaze of rose petals presided over the water, like a sheet. Two matching sets of terry cloth slippers were waiting at the foot of the short staircase required to enter the Jacuzzi. A fresh towel hung on the towel rack.
Still soundless, Bryson made a big show of covering his eyes with his hands. With a nod of his head, he motioned Romy towards the tub.
No man had ever made such a display for her—no silver foxes, no ex-boyfriends, no one. At first, Romy was so overwhelmed she felt the urge to giggle. But then she decided to admit to the pleasure in a fantasy—there were cameras watching, after all.
She slowly pulled down the straps of her constricting leotard, feeling the places along the elastic where the clothes had left imprints in her skin. She stepped out of the garment at her feet, entirely nude, and walked towards the tub. She took a quick glance back over her shoulder to confirm Bryson's covered-eyes—and could've sworn she caught him peeking through his left fingers.
“Ahhhhhh,” Romy said, descending into the tub—because she likewise couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this good. The water was a perfect temperature—hot, but not too hot. The bubbles were sweet, but not overpowering. The rose petals lingered like lily pads, and graciously covered her sex, her bobbling breasts, her nipples. “Come here,” she coaxed softly, in the voice of (she figured) a different woman—a confident woman, a sexy woman, a woman who had not just been through hell. Bryson opened his eyes. He looked at her for a long time, floating there in the water. He seemed to concentrate on her exposed flesh the way he concentrated on a deck of cards.
“Thank you,” Romy mouthed. In response, her hero approached the basin, slowly unbuttoning his shirt as he moved. The swatch of chest hair she'd noticed before was damp with his sweat; likewise, his sculpted pectorals. She followed his fingers down on their journey, until they rested at the top of his trousers. A small trail of curls led down, further down, further down...
Now Bryson indicated that Romy should turn around, with a swirl of his index finger and a wry smile.
She did. But she peeked—and got a glimpse of how enormous his manhood was, even in its partially-aroused state.
Bryson lowered himself slowly into the tub, his descent creating slight ripples in the water. These crested across Romy's skin, pushing bubbles over her body. Once he'd come to a resting place, he tilted his head back into the water with a deep sigh. His long black hair grew slick.
They sat like that for a few moments. Romy eventually leaned back also, letting the water weigh on her blonde ponytail. She closed her eyes. Daydreams slid by, but none were better than this. She could nearly forget the day. Nearly.
When she opened her eyes again, Bryson was gone. That man has an amazing ability to disappear on me, she thought. His vanishing act threw her; if they were to ever really date, they'd need to have a long, serious talk about surprises...
Just as she began to fume, a towel-clad and sweet-smelling Bryson emerged from the hotel room bearing a tray, like a waiter. On this rested a steaming bottle of Dom Perignon and two frosted champagne flutes.
“Drink?” he asked, his voice low.
“When did you get this?”
“When I knew I was going to win tonight.” Then came that melting grin.
And again, Bryson turned around as she rose from the tub, playing some kind of gentleman. In spite of herself, Romy felt antsy. If this was his plan to satiate the creepy onlookers, they might still be in trouble. Plus—going by her glimpse in the bathtub—making love to Bryson Vaughn would not be the worst way to lose her last shred of dignity. Her thinking glazed over again—it was so difficult to remember the reasons for her being in this room, alongside her overpowering lust for this man.
But Romy thought of Paulette, fretting down in the lobby below. She was likely wondering where her friend was. Throughout their tenure together, Paulette had dreamed a dream for Romy that included a handsome hot-rod who would care for her, believe
in her, support her, hold her up—in a way that the elusive Mr. Brownstein never had. In the way that Romy's own father (Christian, she knew) had never been strong enough to carry her mother.
Despite seeing some of the worst things in the world, despite working along one of the more sinful American avenues, people like Paulette managed to sustain a belief in love, redemption, happily ever after. And Romy was shocked to learn—here in the hotel room, now—that some of that optimism had worked its way into her own philosophy. Then and there she knew in her heart that she wanted Bryson, but for longer than a single night; and to take him now, this way...it would represent a final besmirching of everything she'd attempted to believe in. If she fucked him here—no matter the attraction—she might really be Lefty's whore.
“I know what you're thinking,” Bryson said, pouring out a tall glass of bubbly.
“How could you possibly?”
“Let me take a crack at it, at least.” In answer, Romy took a pensive sip of her drink. She looked up at Bryson's intelligent face—but he didn't seem about to speak.
In lieu of saying anything, Bryson set his glass down on the rim of the tub, and with two strong hands lifted her out of the diminishing foam. Then, he picked up Romy's naked body—cradling her tight between his taut chest and the underside of his arms. His towel barely mussed, he carried her across the bathroom and back towards the bed. She let her head loll in the crevice his neck and shoulders made.
At the bedside, Bryson laid her gently down across the pillows. When she shivered in the cold, he lifted two corners of the comforter and tented them about her body, wrapping her form tight. Then he knelt on the floor, as before, in a position just before the parting of her legs. A tuft of his hair rose up from the parting in the sheets; Romy placed a hand in his hair.
Below the sheet, she felt him moving. She felt the firm grip of his ten fingers as they massaged first her outer thighs, then moved across her hips. His hands finally rested as cups, on the twin swells of her slick breasts. She cooed softly at his dry, warm touch.
As his hands landed, Bryson nudged his face deep between the folds of her knees. She felt his breath first, recalling its taste of whiskey and smoke from their brief kiss in the hall. She jolted when his mouth pressed first against the inside of her left knee, but breathed deep: she resolved to be still. She resolved to feel every inch of Bryson Vaughn's touch, so long as he was touching her so tenderly, like this. She wouldn't think about it today. She would think about it tomorrow.
His mouth moved upward, with intention. He sucked long and slow, making trails along her thighs, perhaps sweet bruises. She moaned deeper, beginning to buck in his hands. He squeezed her breasts hard in response.
When his mouth reached the outside of her center, Bryson exhaled for a moment, letting a cool trickle of air dance across her aching clit. Then—quite suddenly—his tongue reached out. He licked the span of her wet heat in a long, sensitive lap. Romy cried out, and he squeezed the soft flesh of her tits harder.
His strokes came faster and harder against her throbbing mound; his tongue was hungry and confident. Romy felt herself begin to drip against the linen. At this, Bryson only burrowed further into her. He pushed his tongue deep between her lips and began to thrust up, against her walls.
Growing hot, Romy tore the sheet aside—though her body was still damp from the bath. She pressed both hands over Bryson's moving head, allowing her fingers to trace along his neck tattoos.
She couldn't form words. The pleasure was so intense, her body would only move with instinct. She gripped him, she pressed him—he sucked at her the more.
Moments before she climaxed, Bryson pulled his mouth away from her with visible effort. “You've got me so fucking hard, Romy Adelaide,” he said. He placed a rough finger against her soaking flesh and began to rub. It didn't take long. He looked straight into her eyes as she seized against him, coming for a long, long minute.
Afterwards, she couldn't be touched. She rolled away from Bryson, onto the cool part of the bed untouched by her sweat, her moisture. She lay flat and heaving, and stared up at the ceiling—even letting her eyes rest on that horrible patch above the door where she imagined the security camera to be.
Bryson crawled up onto the bed, coming to rest in the pools of Romy's ecstasy. He reached over and slowly stroked her hair, moving a rugged hand across her scalp. “You're okay, baby,” he whispered, over and over. When she'd cooled, Bryson moved the comforter back across her body, tucking her snug. He rose and turned off the lights, though Vegas still glittered through the windows behind them. He settled into bed finally, gathering her as a little spoon. He spoke into her hair.
“Hey Romy. You awake?”
“Hey Bryson,” she managed, faintly. “Yes.”
“So I have an important question. It's a matter of life and death.”
Romy turned towards her lover, suddenly startled. “What? The camera? What is it?”
“Shhh, no. Don't think of the cameras. It's this: will you get a drink with me sometime?”
Romy smiled into the darkness.
“Bryson Vaughn, I'd like nothing more.”
“You've made me very happy, Miss Adelaide.”
Though she should have been afraid, or worried, or angry, or confused, or sad... Romy could think of nothing but the sound of Bryson Vaughn breathing. The smell of Bryson Vaughn's skin, the warm comfort of his touch. The way he'd spoken her name, as if it was the most beautiful thing in the world. The world might have been dark and dangerous, but here was a man who might save her. Here—she dared to hope—was her knight rider, come to rescue her on his revving motorcycle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dismounting from his own electric blue Ducati, Kellan Vaughn removed his helmet and let a cool gust of prairie air push through his damp locks. He shook his head to and fro, sweaty from the drive. He squinted up the half a mile's worth of dirt road that unspooled before him.
A ways up the trail, two fusty cacti bent from the waist to create a kind of archway. Across their touching tops, someone had—long ago—draped a tin box sign, inscribed with faded wood block letters. What remained of this dubious “Welcome mat” spelled out DE IL'S A E'S—LLC.
It had been a long time since his last visit home.
Shaking highway grime from his motorcycle boots as he strode, Kellan took in more of his childhood home. Coming up the bend, he could see the sagging wraparound porch, covered with its typical film of detritus: rusty bike parts, card tables, spent propane tanks. Dirt began to give way to granite pebbles, and the sun dipped behind a shadow of the old house. Now he could see the corrugated rooftop, coppery with age and water's influence. The filthy, cheap windows. Now that same dry wind carried his way an old Charley Pride tune, which seemed to be sifting out of what he took to be the kitchen window. Not long after, he heard the twanging echo of his mother's voice, singing along to the radio.
Kellan paused when he reached the first step of the porch. A feral cat took the opportunity to scurry out from behind a dilapidated red pick-up truck towards the briar-y tundra he'd actually mistaken for a yard in his youth. Tallying quickly, Kellan realized: six years. Six years since he'd sat on this porch from dusk until dawn, nervously pacing until he heard the comfort of his brother's revving bike. Six years since he'd last entertained the scratchy voice of Valerie Vaughn (or, “V”), his mother and the de facto matriarch of every Devil's Ace. So many evenings had he spent forcing down her sinful cooking, or listening to her bawdy stories of the old days while she smoked in her rocking chair, affixed rhinestones and doodads to all the club members' leather jackets. It had taken two year's worth of a tour with The Prattle for Kellan to fully realize how strange his own upbringing had been—other members of the band spoke of estranged parents, boring parents—whereas his were all but the leaders of a cult.
When he was a kid, this porch had been lousy with the comings and goings of frightening men—loud men, bearded men, and all were heavy drinkers. He'd grown accustomed to
falling asleep through the sounds of dust-ups, either verbal or physical. He'd seen his first naked women at the tender age of nine, when he walked in on the aftermath of a rowdy orgy in the early morning. His parents were permissive with drugs (to a degree), sex, booze, loud talk of any kind—their jurisdiction began and ended only with their vague “enemies,” to which they swore swift and fast retribution. Or, of course, the law.
Bryson had once tried to describe to his kid brother just what the motorcycle club represented, how it operated. While strumming his Stratocaster knock-off, Kellan had strained to understand a story filled with the stuff of gangster movies: his parents had been painted as benevolent Robin Hoods, content to usurp and extort vehicles of organized crime for the benefit of an anonymous public good and...of course...the Devil's Aces themselves. Money was made (or, laundered) through several venues—among these, four or five Reno body shops; a dry-cleaner's on the main road, and—most bizarrely—a McDonald's out by the airport. All of these places were staffed by club members, all of whom drove Harleys and loved to celebrate almost everything on the crowded expanse of his childhood lawn.
And Bryson had looked at the family legacy with a glow of pride in his eyes from high school on. It had been easy to see that Kellan's older brother wasn't suited to a typical education; classes bored him. The girls at their school he'd found tedious, if only because they were so willing, so gullible and expectant of his cool-guy persona. Kellan supposed his brother might have craved a meaningful connection all this time, but that didn't make the I'm-in-love-with-Romy news any easier to swallow—especially since Bryson's journey away from regular school and regular friends and regular women had lead him to a fast, loose, unknowable life on the road. His main function as a badass had consolidated, and blossomed him into the official club muscle. Loneliness notwithstanding, his brother didn't seem to be afraid of anything. Which of course Kellan always admired, if he couldn't understand.
