Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Loren, Celia

  “Don't!” came a voice thick with smoke and maybe longing. “I mean—what are the odds? Did your phone even ring?”

  Bryson! Bryson, Bryson, Bryson. Romy's heart flooded then—the dull panic, the sense of restlessness, the inability to concentrate, all flew the coop once she identified his voice. In a tone she hoped sounded cool but knew was altogether too giddy, Romy replied.

  “I wasn't so sure I'd hear from you again.”

  “Didn't I say I'd take you out, babe?”

  Bryson sounded confident, but perhaps slightly caught off-guard by the conversation's abrupt intro. This thrilled Romy a little.

  “Well, one never quite knows, with a man like you,” she said, leaning backwards, letting the tops of her hips rest easily against the kitchen countertop. “And hey—for a first date, I know that wasn't my most ladylike.”

  To her relief, Bryson laughed at the joke. It felt so good to abandon, or at least temporarily ignore, the situation's gravity. Maybe—just maybe—they could grow love from the ashes of this royal Windsor mess. Romy sighed at the thought. It was probably too good to be true.

  “I think you were just like a lady,” Bryson said now. She detected a gravelly undercurrent in his voice; the man was growling for her.

  “And that must make you the perfect gentleman,” she snapped back. Two could play at the sexy-phone-flirting game. God, it had been such a long while since Romy had even had someone to flirt with...

  “I think so. In fact, I'm calling because”—Romy held her breath, in spite of herself—“I'd like to expand my original offer, and take you out to dinner. You like dinner, Romy?”

  “I love dinner, Bryson.”

  “How about Mexican food?”

  She wasn't a huge fan of Mexican food, but the urgency in his voice was not something she wanted to impede.

  “Love it. You just tell me when.”

  “No better time than the present, right? Shall I pick you up in forty-five?”

  Romy eyed the oven clock. She did have class in the morning, and who knew how late an evening with an outlaw biker would go? But in almost the same moment it took to articulate doubt, Romy decided she didn't care. For better or worse, this was her real, adult life rolling by. She'd already allowed far too much of it to slip beyond her grasp.

  “You can say thirty,” she said, glancing down at her scrubby school garb of sweatpants and a tee. “I only need to slip into something more comfortable.” She felt his smile over the line.

  Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Romy looked up from her bathroom mirror when she heard the sound of a leaping engine. Sure enough, peering through the window, she saw long rays of red and yellow light dancing over black asphalt. Her heart lurched. How long had it been since she'd been on a bona fide date? Years?

  She'd elected to wear a dress that left slightly more to the imagination than her pasty-emblazoned work leotard: a floral, summery jersey shift that fell to her knees while still managing to hug her body in all the right places. Her blonde hair she'd allowed to fly free, for the evening. And in anticipation of a ride on the infamous motorcycle, she wore jewel-green suede ballet flats, instead of high heels. She took a final look at herself in the hall mirror: comfortable, but cool, she decided. She felt at home in these clothes.

  She heard the ripping of his engine as he pulled up in front of her apartment. Bryson didn't ring the bell, and she didn't wait for it to occur to him to do so—so with a last air kiss to her trusty partner-in-crime Goofy, Romy shut off the foyer lights and skipped out into the hot Vegas night. This was one of those desert evenings when even lifelong residents would complain of their inability to sleep. And of course, when people couldn't sleep through the night, there were only a few other things they might be up to...

  Romy approached the bike timidly, though her heart was beating fast. Looking more at ease than she'd ever seen him, and somehow much closer to his high-school age and demeanor, Bryson Vaughn sat astride his fire-engine red Harley 1200 Custom like it was a horse. Pieces of hair fell into his eyes like rain, and his aviator sunglasses—sliding just down the bridge of his Roman nose, as ever—glittered in the lamplight. A lit cigarette perched between his lips. A leather biker cut, emblazoned with a "Devils Aces Reno Nevada" patch, rested across his powerful shoulders. He was the very picture of cool.

  “You're very punctual,” Romy stammered, as she drank the man in. It was almost hard to reconcile this easy rider before her with the attentive, sublimely sensitive lover lolling by her side in a posh hotel room bed. Almost...

  “Time flies when you're having fun,” Bryson said, “Or when you've got somewhere important to be.” The pair of them tittered a little at this not-so-smooth delivery.

  “Ever been on a bike like this, Miss Adelaide?” her date said now, flicking a full half of his smoke away, into the street.

  “Never. But I'm good at trying new things.”

  “Well I knew that. You're a brave girl, right?” He prodded her ankle with the tip of his dusty motorcycle boot. “So hop on.”

  With not a little trepidation, Romy sauntered up to the side of the bike. She'd been on a horse before—just once, as a child—and there was something about the powerful hum of the vehicle before her that was like an animal's breath. Gingerly, she scooted ass-first onto the backseat—and was surprised at how wobbly and uncertain she felt there. She inched forward along the padded leather, allowing her own thighs to clamp over Bryson's. With shaking fingers, she slid her arms around his taut stomach.

  “Not quite so hard, ballerina,” Bryson called over the engine's rev. “I need to be able to move my legs a little.”

  Romy considered cooing a joke into her date's ear—something about how he hadn't been so considerate with her thighs in the hotel room the other day—but instead kept her silence. The bike, and its owner, continued to make her nervous, to throw her for a loop. Here before her was a man of action, equipped with the ability to charm and render powerless not just women, but machinery, too. Bryson kicked the kickstand as the bike lurched forward. The bike now stood upright amidst the force of the throttle. In response, she burrowed her face into the nape of his neck, letting her forehead be tickled by the flyaway strands of mane moving over his shoulders. He smelled like Old Spice Classic and engine grease, like all the men in all the old movies she'd never met in real life. Into the single swatch of bare skin visible below his hairline but before the dip of his collar, she whispered: “Go.”

  The engine ripped and the muffler roared as they tore down the street toward the freeway. Romy held on for her life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They alighted outside a colorfully garnished restaurant on the South Side of Vegas; a place Romy had passed by several times without ever having been inside. This might have been because the place was bawdy and indiscreet—which she got enough of, working at a casino. It might also have been because it was Mexican food, which had never been her bag. More likely, though, it was because Guapo's was a restaurant typically lousy with couples. So she felt a little burn of pride at his choice in venue: Bryson had definitely taken her to a place where she might be shown off.

  The bike ride over had been both more treacherous and more exciting than any moment she could recall in her recent life—even including the awful events of Saturday night's tournament. Riding the bike felt like flying. She'd suppressed the urge to scream as he'd nudged them, reeling, up to higher and higher speeds on the freeway. Crossing an especially flat strip of land, he'd yelled to her over his shoulder: “We're parallel to the Hoover Dam right now.” The sense of oceanic space and noise that this evoked had somehow made Romy's stomach plummet even further.

  Yet, Bryson knew what he was doing. As fast and as loose as he handled the bike, the pressure he applied to her knocking knees was soft. Tender. Even the small of his back had had a way of arching into her abdomen; the muscles sculpted there had given her whole body a place to take root. As accustomed as Romy was to being fiercely independent, to making her own luck
and opportunities...there was something about Bryson. She felt like a beguiled housewife by his side—a woman compelled and utterly cared for.

  Helping her off the Harley's back with a firm but gentle hand, Bryson grinned unabashedly—like a little boy. “You like the bike?” he asked.

  “It was really something.” Romy patted down her hair, hoping the wind on the road hadn't completely wrecked her evening preparations. But one look into Bryson's face restored her faith: here was a man who cared only for her well being, her satisfaction. He looked at her with a face meted and made humble by adoration. She returned the look in kind. It came from nowhere, but at that moment Romy felt the urge to whisper, I love you, at this man before her...this dark hero with a boyish smile. Instead, she laughed a little to herself.

  They walked up to the entranceway together, she still aquiver from the trip. At the host stand, Bryson gave his name to a blushing, young waitress, and Romy again felt dominant: he was a man to be seen with; they were a couple to see. The maitre d' led them outside the restaurant again, into a backyard festooned with chili lights and candles depicting the Catholic saints. A gurgling fountain lay just beyond their table, flanked by a wall drenched with imported bouganvillea and plastic ivy.

  “This is very romantic,” Romy said, sitting down.

  “Well, it's very technically our first date. First dates set the template.” Bryson waited to sink into his own chair until Romy was comfortable. He then thanked the maitre d'.

  “You'd really call this our first date, huh?”

  “Yes.” And then Bryson affixed her with a steely look. Romy let herself wonder if they were going to talk about the elephant in the room: or, her present entanglement with a mafia boss. But before she could figure out how to make this worry into a question, Bryson spoke.

  “Listen, Romy,” her date began. “I want you to know—this is obviously very unfortunate timing.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I know you must have a lot of questions about me. But I'd like to get all of those out of the way now, so we can proceed...honestly. Like we would on an actual date.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.” He spared her a corner of his trademark grin. “So, shoot. What do you need to know?”

  She was, once again, caught off-guard. However Romy had imagined either their serious business brass-tacks-discussion or even their first date...it hadn't been like this. Bryson was still treating every piece of their liaison like an incidental courtship, even as he knew they both were in serious trouble. The contrast between situation and information nearly made her laugh.

  “Well, first. What are you really doing here? In Vegas, I mean?”

  Bryson sat back in his chair. A waiter approached them from across the patio, but Bryson indicated that they weren't prepared to place orders with only a slightly menacing incline of his head. A small silence lapsed.

  “Well, as you may recall from high school, I work with an organization called the Devil's Aces. We are independent business owners, entrepreneurs...”

  “...And bikers. Legally dubious, but pure of heart. Of course I remember!” Romy took a sip of her water, letting her head swim briefly with memories of bikers drag-racing up and down her hometown Reno side streets. The Devil's Aces boys—and few girls—had been among the coolest and most terrifying people in the neighborhood. Though their manner and their parties were pure bacchanalia, the Ace's had always seemed above the reproach of the law. Of course it had taken until much later for Romy to connect these dots—like a benevolent mafia, the Aces were merely a compendium of organized outlaws who sought justice and peace for their own. There was an uncomfortable confirmation implied to Bryson's admission here: no matter how wonderful her new beau might be, Bryson was undoubtedly a criminal. Of some kind, at least.

  “So you're a full-fledged Devil's Ace,” she repeated slowly. “And this latest mission of your...club...concerns Lefty DiMartino?”

  “Bingo,” Bryson said. He seemed relieved that Romy was able to keep up so quickly.

  “We've had far too many girls come crying at our doors, claiming that they just barely escaped that monster's ring. So my father and I decided to topple the bastard. I've spent the last five years learning everything I can about his organization, churning tens of thousands of dollars in Lefty's casino, all while honing my skills at card-counting...in other words I'm a blackjack dealer's worst nightmare.” Here he chuckled, before looking at Romy again. She was wan. “Romy? Oh, Jesus. Romy—I didn't mean to upset you.”

  Her mind had snagged on the beginning of his speech, in the image of weeping girls who had 'barely escaped.' Bryson had emphasized her present danger before, when they'd been in the middle throes of adventure and sex—but something about his caution now was different. They were sitting side by side in the kitschy backyard of the city's most romantic restaurant, and the fact of Lefty's influence reaching this far into her life made her tremble with fear all over again. She willed herself not to cry. To not ruin this one good thing.

  “That's the rub, though,” Bryson was saying now, as he leaned emphatically across the table to gather her small hands in his. “It's already happened for the last time. We're going to get you out. We're getting all the girls out, for good.”

  The waiter reappeared, and speedily took their drink orders. Bryson called for his customary Coors, and Romy decided in a blink to splurge on a Cosmopolitan. If she was going to live the next few however many weeks under the lock and gaze of a frightening mob boss, she could sure as shit order a cocktail on the world's most unseemly first date. That was simple probability.

  “I respect that,” Bryson teased, as soon as she'd turned away from the menu. “A woman with good taste –”

  “You said 'we.' Who's 'we'?”

  “Well, you and me, mainly. I understand you're not the worst at fixing games, being a statistics whiz and whatnot.” Bryson—damn him—grinned his specialty melting grin.

  “That's completely unethical. I'd lose my job.”

  “Romy, ethics? Your job? Are you serious?”

  Another uncomfortable moment passed, while Romy once more regarded her date. It hadn't occurred to her that he might be lying; that Bryson Vaughn might want something. Of course, this made even less sense than anything else, but Romy felt feckless from this vantage point. She drew breath. She thought to test him, somehow.

  “Next question: did you really remember me from high-school? Like, honest to God?” She asked.

  Bryson twisted his face up in mock consideration. He even scratched his shaggy head.

  “Was it a chemistry lab? You were the adorkable blonde with a pensive expression and a great...sense of humor?”

  “Did you mean to say 'rack' just then?”

  “Maybe a little. ” He smiled as he continued. “And we had an...assignment...”

  “Lab report. Yes.”

  “And you wore these tight white Tawny Kitaen jeans to the library, where I was supposed to meet you. And this incredible I wanna-call-it-a-peasant top, with fringe and beads, the whole hippie girl shebang. You'd feathered your hair like someone in an old TV show, and though you probably couldn't see a damn thing, you hadn't worn your glasses.

  “And I watched you working, and waiting for me there, from behind a shelf in the library. Non-fiction periodicals, I think? And you looked so beautiful, and so serious, that I was afraid of you in a way no girl before or since has made me afraid. Because I saw that girl in the library—this woman, sitting in front of me now—and could crazily imagine spending a whole bunch of time with her. With you. And making you smile, and making you feel good, and never making you hurt...that would be enough for me to exist on.

  But I knew that wasn't possible, I knew I would be the worst thing to happen to you in a very long line of bad things already happening in your life. Figuring that the best thing I could do for you was to leave you alone completely...I didn't normally stop to think about consequences or forevers, because I was just an idiot seventeen year old, and I k
now it sounds dumb and probably concocted, but. Yeah. Honestly.”

  Bryson took a speedy gulp of water just then, refusing as he did so to meet her eye. Romy stared at his face, forcing the issue. In his lake blue coronas she detected nothing but a pureness of heart.

  “Bryson Vaughn,” she said slowly. “That was the worst explanation I've ever heard for standing someone up.”

  Her date tittered, with the force of an exhale. And then—in a move as instinctual as breathing—Romy stood, leaned over the table, bent low, and kissed Bryson softly on the lips. His wet mouth grasped hers gratefully. She suddenly wished that the table would vanish, that the world would vanish, leaving the pair of them here in this Vegas-styled Garden of Eden with only all the time and imagination in the world.

  “Wait,” Bryson murmured against her teeth.

  “The grisly details portion of this interview is now done for the evening,” Romy murmured right back. “We can talk grand mafia card-counting scheme a little later.”

  “But there's something—one last thing—I should tell you.”

  “That's not your real hair?” She laughed.

  “Truly, Romy—it's about the 'we' you mentioned. In the scheme? There's another Ace involved. It's um...well, it's someone you might know.”

  “Bryson Vaughn of the Devil's Aces, I trust you and you alone with all my crazy heart,” Romy pronounced. It sounded true, on her tongue. “Now please just let me kiss you.”

  “But—”

  It was then that the waiter brought their drinks. And from one distraction to another, the “first date” proceeded without ever revealing Bryson's co-conspirator. A dizzy, smitten Romy couldn't have cared less.