Part 15 (1/2)

Everything that followed happened in a tight blur. Romy remembered the corners of her vision growing dark, a few last gasps of air slithering from her aching lungs. She remembered the sharp, terrible sound of a bullet cracking the air, then the sink of it finding its target. Someone pushed her to the floor after that. She remembered the smell and feel of the Needle's grimy carpet, rising up to braid her face. Then... nothing.

Bryson had pulled the first gun. On his signal, Kellan had swiftly removed the .44 Magnum from his leg strap and shot an advancing t.i.tus square in the chest-his aviator sun gla.s.ses flung from his face. The Sallow Man had pulled a glock on the other bouncer, popped him first in the right knee and then in the neck. A fine spray of blood had sooted the room. Zaida and the bartender had screamed and cowered, while the geezer's aid fainted in a heap from sheer terror.

A slight silence had followed, during which the air was filled with the painful last cries of dying men. Romy learned later that Lefty had expired with a sick smirk still etched on his face. She would try, in the days to come, to conjure sympathy for the dead tyrant: but it wouldn't come. She wasn't sorry.

In the midst of the carnage The Dap had struggled to remove his own Jericho 941, but his drunkenness had proved an obstacle. Before the cretin had even reached the trigger, Bryson shot him dead. Three fat bullets straight into his wide heaving chest.

The first thing Romy saw on waking was Kellan's frightened face, hovering inches above her own. He stroked the side of her cheek with a frantic tenderness.

”Get her up, Kelly! We don't have much time,” cried Bryson, from the far end of the room.

He was crouching out of sight, somewhere behind the bar.

”What's happening?” Romy asked. Had she dreamt it? But no, even in the dark light, her eyes began to discern the hulking corpses of four men, the sheen of red liquid making rivulets on the playing cards. So. Much. Blood.

”Don't worry, Ro. We're going to be just fine. Just listen to everything I say.” Even from inside her panic, it occurred to Romy that this was the first time she'd spoken to Kellan Vaughn outside the ruse. She nearly smiled at him-his floppy hair, his friendly gaze-it was refres.h.i.+ng to hear him call her name, a spell unbroken. But then she remembered herself and the fact they remained in incredible, incredible danger.

Kellan helped her slowly to her feet. He held her gaze. In her periphery, Romy glimpsed a figure darting back and forth in the shadows. Out of instinct, she screamed.

”Ro! Don't scream! Hus.h.!.+” Bryson said. His voice sounded wrought, fractured. He now stood above the bar, so she could see his face. It was cracked and manic, there was sweat pouring down his handsome face. She wondered if he'd ever done this before...killed a man. Men.

Kellan tracked her gaze, then placed his spindly musician's hands on her shoulders. His hold was strong. He could guide her. ”Don't worry, Ro. The man running around, he's just Brownstein. He's a Devil's Ace.”

”And a great f.u.c.king shot!” called Bryson, attempting a laugh. Now Romy could hear the plaintive wails of women, and a ragged, harsh breath. She scanned the bar area, where Bryson stood. Of course: Zaida, the aid, the geezer, the bartender, all of them were witnesses. They'd been left alive.

Her eyes caught the mysterious Brownstein again by the makes.h.i.+ft dealer's bank, in the Needle's far right corner. He seemed to be scooping handfuls and handfuls of stacks of hundred dollar bills into one of four huge duffle bags. Looking down, she saw that the table before her was already clear of loot.

”Seven....seven and a quarter...seven and a half...” Brownstein sang. ”Seven and...nearly three quarters.”

”We've got ten minutes!” Bryson called in response. ”The automatic locks are going to click on. Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

Kellan now lead a dazed Romy across the spattered Needle. He wouldn't let her look down, or to either side. ”Stay focused on me,” he repeated, all sweetness. ”We're going to be fine now. You're going to be safe.”

”Seven and three quarters...annnnnd....eight!” Now, a less-sallow Brownstein darted towards the elevator banks, where all of the little party but Bryson had a.s.sembled. ”Eight f.u.c.king million dollars,” Kellan murmured. ”Christ Almighty.”

Finally, Bryson himself emerged from behind the bar. He had the barrel of his gun pressed firm against a quivering Zaida's shoulder blades. Romy nearly felt sorry for the Queen b.i.t.c.h right then, though as supervisor, she'd so recently been the object of Romy's unequivocal hatred and fear. Now, Zaida's always-perfect ponytail was askew, and her kohl-rimmed eyes glimmered with tears. She walked quickly, tripping over her high-heels.

”Zaida's going to show us out of the casino. Aren't you, Z?” Bryson asked, nudging her back with the gun's barrel. The woman nodded dully. ”She's going to see we aren't bothered until we reach city limits. If she does that, she's free to go back to Russia or whatever s.h.i.+thole she crawled out of.”

Sighing shakily, Bryson surveyed the rest of the room. Romy couldn't help following his suit. Behind the bar, the motley remaining crew had been loosely tied together with bands of bungee cord. The old man seemed to be rolling in and out of a troubled sleep, completely oblivious to the current situation.

”What's going to happen to them?” Romy stuttered. To her right, Kellan squeezed her hand.

”As soon as we're out of sight, the casino staff will find them and help them to safety,” he said. Then he tilted her chin, so their eyes met once more. His eyes like shallow pools, blue like his brother's but much less deep. She felt the jab of a memory moving in her heart...something about those silly, sweet songs he'd written in high school. That life seemed laughably far away now, in this room full up with murdered men. And she was an accessory...

”Don't worry, Ro,” Kellan repeated, in the same sure tone. ”No one else is going to die here tonight.”

Once they were all sandwiched into the tiny elevator, Romy at last let her gaze come to rest on Bryson. Her hero. He was fl.u.s.tered. His eyes were darting madly around every corner of the small s.p.a.ce. She imagined he was replaying the recent scene over and over in his mind, experiencing again the feel under his fingers of a smoking gun, seeing in vivid picture all that flying blood. She fought the urge to reach for him then and there, to quiet his churning spirit. For whatever the awful consequence, he had saved her life. All their lives. That much she knew.

They were quiet as they reached the hotel main floors, switching to a central elevator as a single, swift unit. Romy imagined all of their hearts beating in unison, chiming together in elevated terror.

After what felt like forever, they had reached the main floor. Bryson sheathed his gun in the long sleeve of his blazer. We must look so suspicious, Romy worried to herself, but they were moving too quickly now and there was no going back. The only thing to focus on was the exit: as soon as they were free of the lobby, all of Vegas could rise up to cover their deeds. From the corners of her eyes, she could tell that the blackjack tables were as empty as they'd been earlier in the day, though everything looked so different. The slot machines, the varnished bar, the cheap chandeliers... the world had changed. They were all of them aliens now. Criminals.

”Walk faster, Z,” Bryson muttered into his hostage's back, his voice spiking as they neared the heavy gla.s.s entrance doors. Zaida did. Romy couldn't bring herself to pause and look around the s.p.a.ce, for fear she'd give something away to some curious onlooker. It didn't occur to her until they'd reached the outside foyer that this would probably be the last time she ever set foot in the Windsor, her home for all these years.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the burning midday light. Nearly free, she thought vaguely. They were almost free. She waited for relief to spread across her aching joints, but none came; instead, Romy just felt deeply, deeply exhausted. She craved a cool, dark s.p.a.ce.

”Oh ho ho!” Kellan cried out then, sounding inappropriately pleased given their precarious circ.u.mstance. But looking down, Romy let herself see what he saw: a motorcade of Devil's Aces, fanned out in front of the valet stand. Between ten and fifteen men and women were straddling brightly colored bikes, their unlit headlamps flas.h.i.+ng in tandem with the sun's rays. Zaida flinched at the sight. Bryson leapt down the foyer steps two at a time, until he'd landed in front of an older couple, who seemed to be at the head of the parade. They embraced him, clapped him freely on the back. They looked proud as...

”My parents,” Kellan explained, from her shoulder. He seemed to be keeping his own pale skin deliberately away from the sky's furious spotlight. To Romy's surprise, he didn't rush off to join his family. He hadn't even let loose her hand yet, and she was freshly aware of the tender pressure in his palm.

”ROMY!” Bryson called then, smiling from his place amidst the Aces. He looked happy now. Nearly as peaceful as she'd ever seen him, locked in the embrace of his fellow riders. She recognized in all the gang her lover's same tanned skin, his same strong, defined arms. These were people of the road. This was the biker's life she'd only vaguely imagined, weeks before. Could she ever, truly be a part of it?

Suddenly, from behind, Romy felt the whoosh of two encircling arms. She instantly recoiled in fear, casting about for Zaida's furious face. The woman had vanished, however. Her old supervisor was nowhere to be seen.

”RO-MY!” cried a familiar voice. ”Oh, Lord...I didn't mean to scare you!”

And there she was: Paulette Nagle-used-to-be-Brownstein. Romy felt she hadn't seen her old friend in weeks. She gazed, bemused, into Paulette's friendly face and fought the urge to sob.

”Hi, Paulette,” Kellan said gently. ”We were just leaving.”

”Weren't gonna go anywhere until I got a chance to say goodbye,” the woman said. Romy briefly wondered how the pair of them knew one another, but her mind was too frazzled to navigate the connection. Bryson had begun to wave the remaining party down the steps, towards the caravan. She could read anxiety in his face from here.

”And how was Howard?” Paulette asked Kellan, though her arms were wrapped around Romy. She then indicated Brownstein, who was busy affixing his duffle bags to an already-laden, mustard-colored Harley. He didn't look so sallow now, flush against the other riders. He looked like a Devil's Ace.

”He was perfect, P. Just perfect.” Kellan said.

”Glad the ex is good for something.” Paulette winked up at Romy.

”WE'VE GOT TO GO!” Bryson hollered from the road. He was already astride his bike, sliding a key into the ignition. Was it Romy's imagination, or could she hear sirens in the distance? And where had Zaida gone?

”Me and the boys'll take care of Goofy, as long as you need. And I'm holding your papers for transfer, your school books...I'll be watching your house. And if anyone comes a calling, I say you've been staying with me. So don't worry. Don't worry about anything, honey.” Paulette reached up and smeared an errant imprint of lipstick from the side of her friend's face. ”You're gonna be fine with this crew. I know 'em myself.”

Kellan pulled on her hand now, before racing down the casino steps towards his own waiting bike. The distant sirens were definitely real now, and they were approaching.

”Romy! Romy! One last thing!” The motorcade was beginning to leave, bikers kicking away from the ground one by one. Bryson called her name frantically, but Paulette continued to block her exit.

”You take good care of that boy, alright? Because he loves you something fierce.” Her friend directed this last comment straight into Romy's eyes. ”He's a good one, okay? I thought you needed to know.” Then she nodded her head one more time, indicating Kellan Vaughn's retreating back, Kellan's flopping mane. His own blue bike was already equipped with a guitar case, mounted high on the pa.s.senger seat. He was looking at Romy urgently now, but his face was so intelligent, so sweet. She smiled back. Perhaps there was a piece of her who was still capable of loving this boy, this sensitive soul who'd known her well when she was young. But then, she was so much older now. Romy s.h.i.+fted her gaze back to Bryson.

The Vegas sirens were upon them. Her lover's calls now merged on a plea. Looking down at him, Romy was suddenly aware of a choice; in a way, this was the first moment in weeks in which she'd been truly free to choose her own destiny. She didn't have to make off with the Devil's Aces, to whatever den they used to divvy up money. Couldn't she as easily change her name, change her city, start afresh in some other master's program? She could look out for herself, the way she'd always done so well. She could forsake this mad life, these two compet.i.tive brothers and the persistent drama they were bound to inspire. There'd be no more evidence of this dark blot in her work history. She could go home.

But the man before her, in his motorcycle boots and leather cut, sandy brown hair dappled blonde with light...she thought about their weeks together. The sweet hours in her living room, all those confessions her body had made to his. The feel of his encircling arms. The knowledge that he would do anything in this world to protect her-even kill a man.

f.u.c.k it, Romy thought.

She raced down the steps, pausing only to fling her preposterous high heels off her feet and into the thatch of garden bordering the Windsor's valet stand. She jumped on behind Bryson Vaughn, noting the approving gazes of his parents. There was only the Vaughn family left now; the rest of the motorcade had burned rubber in the direction of the freeway. The sun bore down on her shoulders like pressure. She hugged her lover's middle tight, and let her head nestle into the crevice made between his muscular neck and angular chin. She kissed the inky imprint of his neck tattoo, tasting blood and sweat and something else spicy and strange. He reached around and squeezed her knee.

”Welcome to the Devil's Aces, Adelaide. You're a bad girl now, and there's no going back.” he called over the din of his revving engine. Romy threw one last wave in Paulette's direction, but her friend had also fled. Casino guards were beginning to clog up the lobby. Bryson kicked away from the curb and Romy clung tight around his waist, the speed of his bike pressing into the wind, the feel of the air on her face... felt for all the world like the adventure was just beginning.