Breaking Beauty: Devils Aces MC Part 9

Now it was Kellan's turn to take off his protective shield. He stared his older brother down, and then took a slow sip of his steaming coffee. Bryson racked his brain-and then, of course, it all clicked. High school. Same grade.

"No need to get all macho-protective, Ace," Kellan said, through a slurp. He was still sizing his brother up, in the cold, clear manner of a practiced gangster. He was willing him to remember more. Bryson tried.

He remembered Romy in the library, naturally-but much of the rest of his secondary education was cloudy at best. As much as he'd loved his brother, they'd never been close as friends; Kellan had all but married his guitar as soon as he'd mastered a basic chord progression. And his brother-he'd certainly been vague about women, and infrequently circled by his own buddies.

But hadn't there been one girl, one apple of his brother's eye? Yes. He knew that for a fact. One pretty, young thing who'd been the subject of many painstaking adolescent emo-songs, at least a few of which Kellan had made him listen to. A few strands of lyric worked their way through the fog of memory: Don't tell me you can't feel it/ with your body next to mine...something something...think that you should be my homie, now and always, sweet, sweet...

Jesus.

Bryson steeled off against his brother, trying to read all the folds of his face. It had been Romy. Romy had been his younger brother's high school sweetheart, the object of his single-minded affection. And while they were all some six years out of Reno, the look on Kellan's face now told the whole, miserable story: he still had a thing for her. At the very least.

"Wow. You know, I completely forgot you guys' whole...history."

"I thought you might've. Well. It wasn't really such a big deal."

"No, Kelly-I mean, it's just that we've never really talked about women before."

"Not particular women, no."

A waitress sailed by with a mug of coffee, sloshing this down in front of Bryson. He stared at the spot on the table where a small pool of spilled contents now formed. This was awkward; awkwardness was ringing down around this breakfast.

"Look. I'm an adult. And I know high school was a long time ago." Bryson started.

"Forever ago."

"Ages."

"So, bygones. Of course."

"Of course."

"Great." Kellan wanted the conversation ended.

They took labored sips of their drinks.

"And this doesn't affect the plan," Bryson ventured. "We'll get to the table together, and..."

"No. Of course not. Look, I'm just invested for, like-old time's sake. That's all."

"Well, great. G.o.dd.a.m.n. I'm amazed I didn't remember."

"I'm not," said Kellan, with a wry smile. Bryson searched his kid brother's face for tells; just how hurt would Kellan be if he knew about the previous evening's "study session"? But the younger Vaughn was playing with a poker face. He downed the remains of his coffee, stood up, and offered a hand.

"See you Sat.u.r.day, then. Mr. High-Roller." And with a cool incline of his s.h.a.ggy head, kid brother flew the coop.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The next few days proceeded in a whirlwind of activity and new routine: Bryson would zoom over to Romy's house early, the pair would practice all manner of complicated card counting techniques, and punctuate their breaks with long, soulful bouts of love-making. As she learned his playing style, his mannerisms, all the little pieces making up his demeanor-so too did Romy learn her new man's body. They f.u.c.ked on the futon, over the back of the futon, flush against the wall, on the table, on the floor, and-at long last-in her bed. On one of the last practice days, Bryson made a risky move and stayed the night. Sleeping beside him in her own bed was far better than their sordid evening at the Windsor, and waking to his snoring frame, Romy let herself indulge in the vision of this life becoming habit.

She could be a biker girlfriend. She could be a biker wife, even. She could balance the books and run the household. Teach math by day, and spend her evenings on some prairie porch, waiting for the comforting sound of her lover's roaring engine. They'd pa.s.s their evenings playing card games-but not blackjack or poker. She'd cook in this alternate life, and they'd eat lavish meals and have long talks and end every day entwined together, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g in the direction of the sunset.

It was getting harder to stay focused on the task at hand, even though Romy was making progress with her game. Bryson remained a patient but stern teacher; though their "study breaks" were a difficult distraction to skirt. Romy was abstaining from cla.s.ses all week-which left an unpleasant pit of guilt in her stomach-but, as Bryson reminded her, if all went well on Sat.u.r.day she'd be in the position to resume her studies with incredible ease. That was a secret lynch-pin to the master plan: if they all made it out of Lefty's scheme alive, not only would Romy be able to flee her job, but she'd be part of a three-way split of serious casino cash. All she had to do was ensure that Bryson, and his still as-yet-unmentioned partner, made it to the final round of a tournament.

On Thursday, the fourth day of their practice sessions, Romy squared off against her partner in a lazy game of Texas Hold'em. Bryson was going over a basic card count on a single deck game. His shirt was off and his skin was sticky from earlier in the day, when he'd all but jumped across their game and interrupted her mid-question with a kiss that led to more...and then more. She herself was naked from the waist up, flushed and glowing. His skill in the bedroom remained unparalleled. From the unexpected softness in his lips to the firm hold of his muscular arms around her small body...she'd never been treated so well.

"I'll thank you to stop looking at my t.i.ts, sir," Romy said archly.

"And here I was thinking you meant to distract me with your huge b.o.o.bs." Bryson's eyes didn't lurch from her round, perky b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He licked his lips hungrily.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a professional."

"I'll bet you are."

"Hey!" Romy said sharply. "Not funny!" Bryson met her eyes, suddenly humbled.

"Not sorry."

They played in silence for a moment.

"Do you really think I'm-?" Romy started. She didn't quite know how to finish this question, so she let it hang in the air for a moment. Bryson paused in his dealing; they were just at the turn card. He set the deck down, giving his lady full attention.

"What?"

"It's just...I know you think I'm this sweet, innocent woman, but I can't help feeling so stupid about this whole thing. Like it's kind of my fault, at the end of the day."

"Disagree."

"But Bryson-,"

"No, Romy. I'm serious. Listen to me: For centuries, people like Lefty DiMartino have been taking advantage of trusting, good people like yourself-people who might need a bit of an extra break in life, and so they've been taught to follow opportunities when they knock. The country's built on the backs of men and women who are too honest to get what they want. And men have been taking advantage of women since the f.u.c.king dawn of time. And it's never a woman's fault, it's never a victim's fault. Because even if you're smart, h.e.l.l, even if you're dumb, no one deserves to be tricked, or used. Better yet: absolutely no one deserves to be bought or sold. It's not your fault. I never for a minute thought you wanted to be part of this mess. I know that you didn't want it." Bryson fell silent, looking suddenly sheepish about his impa.s.sioned speech.

It was funny: he wasn't the most eloquent of men, but there was something so fiery, so knightish about her lover. At different points over the last week, it had crossed Romy's mind that she'd always pictured herself ending up with a man who was a little more intellectual. A man who was sensitive enough to profess love, but eloquent enough to structure an argument. A man who was less a brutish knight-in-shining armor, and more a partner, someone who'd respect her and challenge her and let her be independent. Perhaps someone with an artistic sensibility, to complement her own math smarts.

Bryson watched Romy lose herself in thought for a moment. Her pensive face was stunning to him; the furrow in her brow so deep, serene. He'd never quite imagined himself with a woman like her. The ladies he'd met on the road and through the Devil's Aces club tended to bounce along a spectrum of deliberately meek, soft-spoken types with few deep thoughts to share or, on the flip side, aggressive, independent loudmouths with lots of nothing to say. He loved the biker women, like his mother, for their toughness, their refusal to take s.h.i.t from the wrong people. The Ace's women could kill prairie snakes with hatchets, fix carburetors, build fire and shelter. They could feed fifteen men with three cans of beans and a flank of meat; they could raise boys, they could break up fights. The sadder beauties of Vegas clubs were wounded, in need of strength, sweet, and perpetually simpering.

But Romy wasn't quite like either of these "types." She fell somewhere in between: she was cautious, private, and slightly dreamy but also witty, self-deprecating and fiercely independent. Her intelligence lifted her away from either camp. He imagined spending months, years, in her company-saw them sitting across the table from one another, like so. Their mind-blowing s.e.x notwithstanding, would he ever be able to really know this woman? Was he good enough to be in her life for good?

"I have one more question," she said suddenly. "We haven't talked about this partner you're bringing. This other Ace. What's his story?"

Bryson felt his stomach flip. Here was something he hadn't accounted for. A part of him was angry with Romy for never once mentioning a high-school dalliance with his brother, but the other half figured that her refusal to address this subject meant that the affair hadn't meant very much to her. It wasn't impossible that she'd forgotten Kellan in the interim years; Bryson wished for this, in spite of himself. And as much as he didn't want to shock her at the table with a familiar face, having the ghost of his rock star brother hanging over their last two glorious days of freedom and practice was too threatening an idea to bear. For what if she did still care for him? What if there was something there after all these years? Better to keep the possibility at bay.

"I hope you can understand this, but the party involved wants to maintain...anonymity."

"Anonymity? He's going to be a contender to sleep with me."

"He's not going to sleep with you. I'm going to win. And even if he wins, he'll chose the money." G.o.d, Bryson couldn't even begin to imagine that situation.

"You're so c.o.c.ky."

"You love it."

Romy enjoyed the banter. She decided in that moment to not let the odd look in Bryson's eyes at the mention of the invisible third party throw her game. There was simply too much else to be concerned with, too much else that could go wrong. So what if some thuggish biker would be in the running on Sat.u.r.day? If Bryson trusted the man, so would she. She owed him that much.

"Burn one, and flip the river," Bryson p.r.o.nounced, turning over a final card. It was a Joker. They laughed at this gaff, a little tensely.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

All too soon, it was Friday morning. Romy woke to Goofy's frantic barking at the front door.

She dressed hastily, throwing on one of Bryson's discarded white t-shirts and a pair of Sofis, and followed the noise to the door.

"What's wrong, puppy?" she asked her pet, stooping to ruffle his ears and squinting out at the hazy early daylight. Sure enough, there was an unfamiliar beige Sedan parked across the street from Romy's driveway. It wouldn't have been comment-worthy, but Goofy had an established knack for detecting unsavory strangers. He snarled in the direction of the car.

"You stay here, little guy," she said, rising. Wary, Romy cracked the door-thankfully the morning paper was situated on her stoop, furnishing her with a perfect excuse to sneak outside. Though it was officially light out, the Sedan still wore its headlights. Its idling engine murmured on the quiet street.

Stooping to pick up her paper, Romy shielded her eyes from the Eastern sun and saw for a flash a driver in dark sungla.s.ses, speaking into what looked like a walkie-talkie. He noticed her gaze almost instantly, and just like that the Sedan lurched out of park and began to amble down the street. She watched the vehicle until it rounded a corner. Then, despite the desert heat, Romy shivered.

The phone rang from inside her flat, jerking her out of the stoop reverie. Romy s.n.a.t.c.hed up the paper and walked back to her door. Who was that mysterious stranger? A DiMartino-sanctioned spy?

"h.e.l.lo? Who is it?"

"Well I'm glad you're BREATHING over there at least. Sheesh! Don't answer any of your phone calls anymore, seems like."

It was Paulette. Romy might've figured, not many other people of her acquaintance were up and about at seven a.m., even her cla.s.smates at the college.

"Morning, sunshine."

"And good morning to you, Daisy. We sure miss you on the floor! Just wanted to see how your new gig's going."

Romy thought back to the undercover car on her street. "Fine. I miss you all, but..."

"Money. Don't have to tell me twice." Paulette made a noisy exhale. "So really, Ro. Why haven't you been picking up your phone? You had all of us worried, you know. One of your Professors called me."

Romy furrowed her brow. Trouble with the phone? Even though she was one of the last few trendy youngsters still equipped with a landline, Romy rarely used the house phone. She thought back: Bryson had called her, earlier this week. And...that was it. Yes, come to think of it, there'd been no haranguing from the bursar's office, no fellow students or study buddies calling to inquire after her health. For all she knew, Zaida had tried to contact her-but then again.

The man in the town car.

It was as Bryson had cautioned: she was being watched. But did Lefty really have the power and prowess to disconnect her phone without her noticing? Had he been keeping track of all of her calls? If he knew about even the Monday night call, there was trouble afoot. If he'd been a diligent spy, he would already know about Bryson...

"Paulette, I have to call you back. Something just came up."

"But-,"

"I love you, truly. I promise I'll call you back." Romy clicked off, setting the phone back in its cradle. After thinking a moment, she picked it up again.

Sure enough, where she should have heard a dial tone immediately, there was a strange rustling noise on the line. Like someone scrambling through a sheaf of papers. After a few beats, a dial tone resumed on the line. Romy hung up.

Bryson. Bryson. Did they have him already? Were they busted? Romy sat heavily in a kitchen chair, trying to think. Last Sat.u.r.day, what had Bryson done to ensure they were alone? He'd hunted for bugs. Video feeds. She needed to scour her place, and fast.

Moving quickly and with the incidental aid of a fl.u.s.tered Goofy, Romy bent low and stood on chairs in search of those eerie patches of disturbed wall or ceiling which might contain a camera. She moved through the kitchen, removing all of her dishes from the cabinets. She crawled along the baseboard. In her bedroom, she took down the few framed photographs and posters. Thank heavens right now for her ascetic decor. After an exhaustive few hours that carried her right to the lip of midday, she stopped her search. The house was clear.

But Bryson was late. Every other day of the week, he'd come over far before noon. Then, perhaps his tardiness was a good sign: he might've been tipped off about the spies but she had no way to contact him without the phone.

As the minutes ticked by, her mind roamed towards darker possibilities. Maybe he'd been caught. Maybe the Sedan had been parked outside the evening before, and the spy had seen him leave her place. The spy might've followed her lover all the way to the highway, before pulling him over, dragging him to some terrible bas.e.m.e.nt interrogation room, doing who knows what...

No.

Romy tried to focus. She shuffled a few decks of KEM cards and cut the decks over one another, just for something to do with her hands. She paced the floor. She removed her clingy leotard from its dry-cleaner's sheathe, laying it flat across the bed in antic.i.p.ation of tomorrow's work.