Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (13 page)

“Was this all just your sneaky way of getting me to call you
'girlfriend'?” he ventured. Jokes in the apocalypse, right? After a
painful-seeming beat, Romy smiled. Then she exhaled. Then she laughed, in thick
guffaws, making the kind of noise that starts in your belly and works its way
slow to the surface of your skin.

She was so beautiful, then, in the patio light: her blonde
hair wispy like corn silk, and musky mixed with a fragrance like sugary tea.
Her face was clear, her skin soft and supple. He'd had this woman so many times
this week; two, three, four times in a day. But there was still something about
her that managed to make him insatiable. Her slender neck. The fussy jut of her
chin. Her pale pink lips, moist, puckered. And then, there was the trimness of
her waist, her rib cage molded to his hands as if the trio of parts had been
made for each other. Her light, pink nipples, so pronounced when erect. The
cool cups of those perfect, perfect breasts. The muscular turn of her calves, and
the quivering softness between her thighs. And finally, there was the sweet,
slick center of her, and the soft flesh to be found there. Bryson groaned. In
spite of the mafia, in spite of his brother, in spite of the world, he wanted
her now as he'd never wanted before.

Romy could see the hunger in his eyes, and met this
expression with a cool giving-in. She stood up and crossed the patio in two
neat strides, landing in front of her beloved. He pressed his head into her
stomach, and held fast to the sharp bones in her hips.

“Romy Adelaide...I can't get enough of you,” he said to her
body. She bent to his words. She wilted, collapsed into his lap. He scooped her
toppling body up and held her on his lap, so his eyes were square with the fork
of her cleavage. She met his eyes as she glanced down and uttered softly, “I
feel the same way.”

He kissed across her arms, and over the constellation of
small freckles on her chest. He pressed his wind-brushed lips into the base of
her throat; she held his head in place there. Then, Romy started to rock her
thighs against her bad boy lover, pushing herself down over his rising member.
Bryson threw his head back in a kind of rapture. Romy hunched over and began to
return his kisses, working her way along the stubble of his jaw and landing on
his lips. Her ardent kisses forced his mouth open; she sucked and scooped up
the flesh of his tongue biting him playfully.

Bryson's hands worked their way down Romy's back, and on
finding the rim of her t-shirt, he worked frantically. The garment rolled over
her head, exposing the whole of Romy's upper torso—she hadn't put on a bra this
morning. One hand fondled her left breast, squeezing harder and harder, as the
other worked its way below the rise of her sweatpants. He grasped at the soft,
supple flesh of her, grateful and deeply aroused.

Romy took her own hands and snaked them down Bryson's torso,
where they paused at Gunther Willoughby's fake potbelly. She laughed into his
mouth as she slid the cushion out from below his t-shirt and tossed it aside.
Once her hands found the tense, carved flesh of her lover's pecs, his abdomen,
the fine and glorious parcels of his six pack, they ran wild. She tangled her
fingers in the strands of his chest hair. She worked two fingers over and across
an erect nipple, at which Bryson growled hungrily.

They were moving faster now, as the dark possibility that
this might be their last dalliance wormed its way through both of their minds.
Bryson began to suck feverishly on Romy's nipples, roving with abandon between
her right and left sides; she humped him harder and harder through his jeans.
Bryson was squeezing her ass so hard that it nearly hurt. One palm drew back
and spanked her right cheek. Romy was surprised at the wave of pleasure this
contact brought. The squawk she made in response was loud and about as ladylike
as the unidentified bird's call from around the way.

“You like that, baby?” Bryson whispered urgently. She could
only nod her head. He pulled a palm back and spanked her ass again, letting the
ripple of painful-pleasure flood through her lower back, and move down her
thighs.

“Should we go inside?” Romy ventured, not really wanting to.
Bryson didn't respond. He just took as much of her right breast as he could
into his mouth, and sucked hard. Romy's breath came harder and faster now as she
bore down on her partner's massive erection.

“Take me here. Please, God, take me here,” she cooed. With
fumbling motion, Bryson peeled down his trousers just far enough so his manhood
rose out of them. He nodded at Romy, who lifted her own hips, snaked her shorts
off, and slid slowly over her lover's throbbing cock. She cried out in pleasure
as he filled her up completely. Her body was slick and inviting, and she began
to ride him slowly, moving from his tip all the way down to the base of his
shaft.

“You feel so fucking good baby,” Bryson moaned, locking on
her gaze. He clutched her tighter. She swiveled her hips against his.

“Oh, Bryson,” Romy said.

Bucking and bucking, they came together; their muscles
spasming in tandem as they each went over the edge. Bryson collapsed against
the lawn chair and Romy fell against his heaving chest. She felt the most
peculiar mixture of adoration, terror and absolute victory.

With time to kill, and with no proper partner to practice
with, Kellan began spending his days on the Strip. Hughie and V had wired their
younger son a hefty hunk of “practice cash,” with the strict admonition
attached:
do not lose this.

And Kellan found he was good at following instructions, so
far at least. To his surprise and delight, he also discovered he was as even
better at blackjack than he remembered. Many, many summers had the Vaughns
spent teaching their children, their cohorts and their guests the ins and outs
of basic strategy. Hughie himself was such a master at poker that a suspected
third of the club's income came directly from Vegas card tables. He'd taught
Kellan to count cards on one-deck games (which set him behind his brother, who
had mastered multi-deck games), but Kellan had always been better at reading
human behavior. He never quavered and he never rattled. He also wasn't
especially social or charismatic on the floor, and so rarely gave anything
about his style away. He had Bryson bested there.

Fans of The Prattle would sometimes come up to him, as he
ambled from casino to casino. He began with small potatoes of course, but by
the end of the week, the younger Vaughn was raising eyebrows at the Bellagio,
having made himself a cool ten grand off his first three stops. Before he quite
knew it, doormen were being solicitous—offering him the ins on VIP rooms.
Kellan had managed to make Vegas assume that he was a rock star, and so, it
seemed, he was.

Most nights that week he'd frequented a few of the music
clubs; Cellar Lounge, House of Blues. On one of these visits, an old Prattle
drummer was playing with her new band HexxMonster and called Kellan onto the
stage. An unexpected sea of fans called out his name, swooning.

“Hello Las VEGAS!” he cried, briefly enjoying the attention.
A roadie slipped him a fine axe—one of the new Reverend guitars, a dainty,
beautiful instrument. And Kellan broke into a new ballad he'd been working on
through late nights and early mornings in his hotel room:

“This is for a girl that got away. I know we all have one of
those.” The crowd screamed back. Some of the young women scrunched their faces
up in disapproval, as if wounded by the notion that their hero had once had
other lovers.

“Goes a little something like this,” Kellan started. He
launched into the first G-chord:

“If you were to turn my way,

after all this time,

I'd lay down my life,

I'd let you be mine.

I would take your hand,

we could run away,

it'd be nothing like

it was yesterday.

Yeah, yesterday.”

The band kicked in. The room fell quiet.

“You were sweet to me

back when we were young

and the game was fun,

yeah, the game was fun.

I'm a grown man now,

you won't know my name,

doesn't stop me from praying on

yesterday.”

The audience was swaying, completely mesmerized by his
impromptu performance. A few lighters lurched back and forth across the sea of
heads. It was a strange and inexact science, but there was this way to
determine a hit. He could hear his choppy new soul song resonating with people,
slicing its way into their hearts. But even the crowds and the success they
might represent were distant to Kellan, who closed his eyes as he murmured his
way through an improvised last verse:

“I dream of you

wearing white somewhere

and I dream your face

and your long, blonde hair.

If I called you now,

could you know my name?

Could you come running back to me –

yesterday?”

When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find his lashes
gummed together with moisture. On impulse, he scanned the crowd for the face
behind this soliloquy, but for all he knew, Romy Adelaide and his own dear
brother were making the walls shake in some crummy hotel room at this very
moment. The cheers were deafening, but Kellan accepted the praise humbly. He
placed the guitar on its rack and wandered off stage and back towards the bar,
where an invested-looking bartender set a Jack on the rocks in front of him.

“I don't usually say this kind of thing, but that was really
beautiful, man. You're super good.”

Kellan smirked. “Hey, thanks, guy.”

“That's on me.”

“No...”

“Really.”

“I think not,” spoke a voice from over Kellan's shoulder. He
swiveled slightly, and made out a hefty figure, a real
Goodfellas
type.
The man was swaddled in a red velvet smoking jacket (straight from a Bond
movie), and flanked by a tall, black personal security guard. He grinned at
Kellan, showing off two neat rows of yellowing teeth.

“It's on
me
, champ. That was really something, kid.
Can I sit down?”

Kellan gulped a good half of his whiskey. There was
something off-putting about this figure, but something else told him it would
be a bad idea to deny this man his attention. He was clearly important, and on
the Strip that could mean anything.

“Sure,” Kellan said, indicating the stool beside him. The
man slid into his seat and merely nodded at the bartender, who scurried off in
the direction of the gin shelf. So he was well-known around these parts, this
mysterious stranger.

“Do you know who I am, kid?”

“I'm actually new in town. Just taking a kind of...personal
vacation.”

“Ahhh.” The man leaned back, though there was no support
affixed to his stool. The bodyguard stepped forward, as if in case his charge
should fall.

“Everybody in this town knows me,” the benefactor proceeded.
He let these words dangle in the air a moment. Meanwhile, the bartender had
whipped up a Sapphire martini in what felt like a matter of seconds. “Dirty,
dirty, dirty...as you like it, boss.” Before waiting for money, the keep
scurried away. Was it just Kellan, or was the bartender terrified of this
high-rolling tub-o-lard?

“I'm Kellan Vaughn.”

“I know who you are. And I like your style up there.” The
man still wouldn't come right out and say his name. The
pomposity
.
“Listen, Mr. Vaughn let me cut to the chase. I own a string of casinos around
here. Mainstay is The Windsor. You know it?”

Kellan gulped. He hoped the man hadn't seen this.

“
Everybody
knows it, kid.”

“I know it,” Kellan admitted. He fought to keep the movement
out of his voice. “So, wait. That makes you...Lefty DiMartino.”

Lefty tilted his head back and laughed a hearty, dangerous
laugh. The bodyguard followed suit with a series of snorts.

“Well, I ain't
Righty
,” Lefty said, thumping the
table. “Bless me. Good for you, traveler.”

After what felt like too long a time, Lefty regained his
composure and took a thick sip of his drink. Kellan sized up his bar mate's
face for any shred of recognition, any hint of warning...

“We've got a nice entertainment program over at the Windsor
right now,” the big man finally ventured. “Lotsa cool guys like you. My sources
say you've been tearing it up at the big casinos. Say you're a pretty serious
hand at poker.”

“I play blackjack almost exclusively these days,” Kellan
said quickly. Wherever this was going, he had to see it out.

“Blackjack, then,” Lefty repeated softly. “Well. We've got a
nice game up at our rooftop...lounge. Meets every Saturday. You like beautiful
women, kid?” He seemed to think better of this before waiting for a reply.
“Nah, of course you do. Big-titted blondies, like in the song.”

The bile was beginning to rise in Kellan's throat. It would
be easy to punch Lefty's lights out right here, right now. Though, he'd pay a
large price; probably see the business end of a glock from the security guard,
but it was a thought worth contemplating for a moment. To see this twisted,
miserable criminal who was behind Romy Adelaide's enslavement squirming on the
floor like a fish out of water...

“...you're welcome to play a few sets in the lounge, too.
Good exposure. You scratch my back, I scratch...well, you know.” Lefty cracked
a grin. Without finishing his martini, he suddenly lifted himself off the
stool, making for the exit. It was now or never.

“Think about it, Kellan. Play some cards...with some
big-titted
blondies
.” The boss wiggled his eyebrows diabolically, and gestured at his
security. “Saturday night 7 p.m. Just come. Tell 'em I sentcha from the Cellar,
at the door.” With a last smirk and scintillating look, Lefty DiMartino motored
out of the lounge. Kellan hadn't realized he'd been gripping his glass
near-maniacally throughout the whole conversation, but once the monster had
cleared the door he let his whole body relax.

The bartender rematerialized.

“Lord. That guy...” he seemed to think better of whatever
he'd been about to say, and looked at Kellan with different eyes now. “Anyways.
Good for you, high-roller.” Then he raised his eyebrows at the whiskey.
Thinking quickly, Kellan coughed up a crisp twenty.