Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series by Celia Loren Page B
Authors: Celia Loren
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this, eliminating a player as soon as
he busts his bankroll, until there are two of you left. Table minimum is $1000
per hand, natural blackjack pays 3:2, dealer stands on soft-17, you can split
pairs up to four times, Aces once, and double-down on any first hits. The top
two players in the first round get to keep any profits they might make from the
house in the first round. Bet big, win big, and manage your risk gentlemen...”
Romy cast her eyes about for Zaida, briefly flustered. She still didn't know
how the tournament concluded. Bryson spoke quietly in her direction: “It's
okay, Romy. You just deal, alright? All you have to do is deal .”
Something in the heft of his voice startled her anew. Gone
entirely was his playful banter from the week before, his talk of high school.
And though she wasn't thinking of money, Romy noticed that Bryson was holding
tight to his chips this game; and betting only the table minimum. She surmised
that there would be no coin flicks of twenty-five dollar tips; she didn't care.
He didn't size her up, either—he seemed utterly concentrated on the game. Romy
took a deep breath and pressed on.
The first man to bust out was one half of the set of blonde
business twins. When he lost, the man slammed two hands down on the green
felt—a surprisingly violent gesture, considering his previously composed
demeanor. “FUCK. ME!” the man yelled. “And fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and
fuck you— ” he began, pointing at each man along the table in turn and
landing on Romy. His finger hung in the air inches from her face, quivering and
furious—though soon the stealthy security guard Titus materialized, and began
to guide the man towards the doorway.
Still, over the uproar, Romy heard The Dap yell: “You wish ,
asshat!” When he turned back towards the table, The Dap's eyes adhered closely
to Romy's figure. She felt his eyes on her skin like a hand on her throat.
“Romy. Romy. Focus, Romy,” this was Bryson again. “Don't
listen to a thing they say, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?! What're you, her father?” The Dap rose and
leaned across the felt. His shirt rose above his belly, exposing a dirty
wifebeater and a fleshy underside.
“I just think we should be polite to a lady, is all,” Bryson
said. He gripped his beer—a Coors—tight. There was the subtlest sort of menace
in his voice.
“Lady? Lady?” The Dap made a show of squinting through the
darkness. “I don't see a lady. You fellas see a lady?” The rest of the table
snorted, a small spectrum of liking-the-joke. Bryson was silent. Romy was
still.
“You're right, guy. We should be polite to a lady,” said The
Dap, sitting down at last. “But we should be ruthless...with a whore .”
He folded pocked arms across his suit and leaned back, a satisfied smile on his
twisted lips. He grinned up at Romy then with a look more galling, even, than
Lefty's or Zaida's original appraisals in the cellar. The Dap saw neither
object nor animal when he looked at Romy—he saw a victim.
In another cold flash of instinct, Romy followed the feeling
of a set of eyes penetrating deep into her back. She scanned the room and saw
Lefty DiMartino himself stepping out of the elevator. He smirked idly her way,
appearing to drink in the scene of her tournament. He wiggled his eyebrows.
Romy suddenly felt short of breath. Her fingers trembled.
“Just a moment,” she managed, before locking her chip box down and lurching
away from the table.
She found Zaida spying on the bar, prepared to pounce on a
young server whose hair was sliding precariously away from the mandated
ponytail. Romy gathered her courage and stepped forward. She tapped her boss on
the shoulder.
“Hi, Zaida...I'm sorry to bother you, but—”
“Where is your table?”
“I'm just taking a quick breather. I have...I have a
question.”
“NO BREATHER!” her boss screeched. “NO QUESTIONS, NO
TALKING!”
“I just need to know,” Romy pleaded.
he busts his bankroll, until there are two of you left. Table minimum is $1000
per hand, natural blackjack pays 3:2, dealer stands on soft-17, you can split
pairs up to four times, Aces once, and double-down on any first hits. The top
two players in the first round get to keep any profits they might make from the
house in the first round. Bet big, win big, and manage your risk gentlemen...”
Romy cast her eyes about for Zaida, briefly flustered. She still didn't know
how the tournament concluded. Bryson spoke quietly in her direction: “It's
okay, Romy. You just deal, alright? All you have to do is deal .”
Something in the heft of his voice startled her anew. Gone
entirely was his playful banter from the week before, his talk of high school.
And though she wasn't thinking of money, Romy noticed that Bryson was holding
tight to his chips this game; and betting only the table minimum. She surmised
that there would be no coin flicks of twenty-five dollar tips; she didn't care.
He didn't size her up, either—he seemed utterly concentrated on the game. Romy
took a deep breath and pressed on.
The first man to bust out was one half of the set of blonde
business twins. When he lost, the man slammed two hands down on the green
felt—a surprisingly violent gesture, considering his previously composed
demeanor. “FUCK. ME!” the man yelled. “And fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and
fuck you— ” he began, pointing at each man along the table in turn and
landing on Romy. His finger hung in the air inches from her face, quivering and
furious—though soon the stealthy security guard Titus materialized, and began
to guide the man towards the doorway.
Still, over the uproar, Romy heard The Dap yell: “You wish ,
asshat!” When he turned back towards the table, The Dap's eyes adhered closely
to Romy's figure. She felt his eyes on her skin like a hand on her throat.
“Romy. Romy. Focus, Romy,” this was Bryson again. “Don't
listen to a thing they say, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?! What're you, her father?” The Dap rose and
leaned across the felt. His shirt rose above his belly, exposing a dirty
wifebeater and a fleshy underside.
“I just think we should be polite to a lady, is all,” Bryson
said. He gripped his beer—a Coors—tight. There was the subtlest sort of menace
in his voice.
“Lady? Lady?” The Dap made a show of squinting through the
darkness. “I don't see a lady. You fellas see a lady?” The rest of the table
snorted, a small spectrum of liking-the-joke. Bryson was silent. Romy was
still.
“You're right, guy. We should be polite to a lady,” said The
Dap, sitting down at last. “But we should be ruthless...with a whore .”
He folded pocked arms across his suit and leaned back, a satisfied smile on his
twisted lips. He grinned up at Romy then with a look more galling, even, than
Lefty's or Zaida's original appraisals in the cellar. The Dap saw neither
object nor animal when he looked at Romy—he saw a victim.
In another cold flash of instinct, Romy followed the feeling
of a set of eyes penetrating deep into her back. She scanned the room and saw
Lefty DiMartino himself stepping out of the elevator. He smirked idly her way,
appearing to drink in the scene of her tournament. He wiggled his eyebrows.
Romy suddenly felt short of breath. Her fingers trembled.
“Just a moment,” she managed, before locking her chip box down and lurching
away from the table.
She found Zaida spying on the bar, prepared to pounce on a
young server whose hair was sliding precariously away from the mandated
ponytail. Romy gathered her courage and stepped forward. She tapped her boss on
the shoulder.
“Hi, Zaida...I'm sorry to bother you, but—”
“Where is your table?”
“I'm just taking a quick breather. I have...I have a
question.”
“NO BREATHER!” her boss screeched. “NO QUESTIONS, NO
TALKING!”
“I just need to know,” Romy pleaded.
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