shifted distressingly
on receiving his weight. “I don't yank chains, kid. We're thrilled to have you
aboard.” He cracked the golden grin again, and then arched an eyebrow at his
son.
“This is a very dangerous assignment, baby,” V murmured.
She, unlike his father, seemed less than thrilled with her son's announcement.
“We have Bryson counting cards and casing a high-rolling VIP joint at a top
casino on The Strip. Trying to break up a big scandal...prostitution, serious
house cheating...I just want you to be prepared.”
“He's prepared, Valerie,” Hughie boomed. “He's a goddamn
Vaughn. He was born prepared.” At this, his father motioned for the check. His
mother chewed her lip.
Kellan slept uneasily that night, snug in his childhood bed.
Visions of Bryson's assignment drifted through his dreams—mobsters, guns, the
dark basement rooms in casinos where who knew what went on. Now that he had a
firmer grasp on the elusive Vegas plan—courtesy of a night session of elaborate
planning with Hughie—he was only the more afraid.
What's more, he hadn't elected to tell his parents about
Romy, fearing they'd further question his motives. Romy, who this room dredged
up. He remembered sitting on this very bed with her in high school, crooning
his terrible odes and trying desperately to get into her pants. It wasn't as if
he'd been pining for the girl all these years, but something about the way
Bryson had spoken her name in the Vegas club had ushered in a flood from his
memory, and thence his imagination.
She'd been a smart, slightly nerdy girl in high school—one
of those beauties who hid behind her glasses, fending off the attention of
creeps in the process. But regardless, Kellan had fallen for her personality.
She was simultaneously independent and warm; cynical, but trusting. A miserable
home-life had shaped her drive to leave Reno as quickly as possible (they'd had
that in common), but he likewise remembered the utterly pure, earnest look in
her eyes when she sat on his bed, listening to the song he'd written for her.
Romy Adelaide was the type of woman who hadn't let wound ruin her capacity to
love and believe. He hoped that much was still true.
Their courtship had dissolved almost before it began for the
usual reasons things had dissolved in high school: Kellan had grown shy and
distant, and Romy had probably connected Kellan and Bryson as brothers. Despite
the former's best efforts, Bryson—hangdog handsome man that he always was—had a
built-in knack for stealing the girl. And even if he hadn't known it then (and
didn't know it now), he had stolen Romy Adelaide from his younger brother, who
hadn't been able to measure up to the man his teenage girlfriend had glimpsed
on a motorbike weaving in and out of suburban Reno whenever was convenient for
him.
Of course, Kellan had moved on—there were many cities, many
women. He'd had girlfriends for short spells and long spells. He'd written
songs for plenty of beauties. But something about Romy had definitely stitched
its way under his skin. Imagining her now—as a soft, supple blackjack dealer
with the sexual power to render his own brother starry-eyed—was enough to pique
every curious bone in his body. Was her brilliant mind intact, improved? Would
she even remember him, and their fumbling kisses as children? No matter what
happened, he had to see her; and if she was in trouble the way Bryson implied
she was, he had to have some hand in her saving. And if he looked a little more
like her typical hero—in a leather cut and black sunglasses—well, so much the
better. Now besieged by new images of himself peeling away from the Strip on a
bike, his lady love harnessed to the back of him, his brother calling lamely
into their dust...Kellan bade his soul to calm down, to attempt sleep.
Yet he found that his body—humming with visions of Romy in a
snug casino girl's ensemble, but bearing the same deep intelligence behind her
kind
on receiving his weight. “I don't yank chains, kid. We're thrilled to have you
aboard.” He cracked the golden grin again, and then arched an eyebrow at his
son.
“This is a very dangerous assignment, baby,” V murmured.
She, unlike his father, seemed less than thrilled with her son's announcement.
“We have Bryson counting cards and casing a high-rolling VIP joint at a top
casino on The Strip. Trying to break up a big scandal...prostitution, serious
house cheating...I just want you to be prepared.”
“He's prepared, Valerie,” Hughie boomed. “He's a goddamn
Vaughn. He was born prepared.” At this, his father motioned for the check. His
mother chewed her lip.
Kellan slept uneasily that night, snug in his childhood bed.
Visions of Bryson's assignment drifted through his dreams—mobsters, guns, the
dark basement rooms in casinos where who knew what went on. Now that he had a
firmer grasp on the elusive Vegas plan—courtesy of a night session of elaborate
planning with Hughie—he was only the more afraid.
What's more, he hadn't elected to tell his parents about
Romy, fearing they'd further question his motives. Romy, who this room dredged
up. He remembered sitting on this very bed with her in high school, crooning
his terrible odes and trying desperately to get into her pants. It wasn't as if
he'd been pining for the girl all these years, but something about the way
Bryson had spoken her name in the Vegas club had ushered in a flood from his
memory, and thence his imagination.
She'd been a smart, slightly nerdy girl in high school—one
of those beauties who hid behind her glasses, fending off the attention of
creeps in the process. But regardless, Kellan had fallen for her personality.
She was simultaneously independent and warm; cynical, but trusting. A miserable
home-life had shaped her drive to leave Reno as quickly as possible (they'd had
that in common), but he likewise remembered the utterly pure, earnest look in
her eyes when she sat on his bed, listening to the song he'd written for her.
Romy Adelaide was the type of woman who hadn't let wound ruin her capacity to
love and believe. He hoped that much was still true.
Their courtship had dissolved almost before it began for the
usual reasons things had dissolved in high school: Kellan had grown shy and
distant, and Romy had probably connected Kellan and Bryson as brothers. Despite
the former's best efforts, Bryson—hangdog handsome man that he always was—had a
built-in knack for stealing the girl. And even if he hadn't known it then (and
didn't know it now), he had stolen Romy Adelaide from his younger brother, who
hadn't been able to measure up to the man his teenage girlfriend had glimpsed
on a motorbike weaving in and out of suburban Reno whenever was convenient for
him.
Of course, Kellan had moved on—there were many cities, many
women. He'd had girlfriends for short spells and long spells. He'd written
songs for plenty of beauties. But something about Romy had definitely stitched
its way under his skin. Imagining her now—as a soft, supple blackjack dealer
with the sexual power to render his own brother starry-eyed—was enough to pique
every curious bone in his body. Was her brilliant mind intact, improved? Would
she even remember him, and their fumbling kisses as children? No matter what
happened, he had to see her; and if she was in trouble the way Bryson implied
she was, he had to have some hand in her saving. And if he looked a little more
like her typical hero—in a leather cut and black sunglasses—well, so much the
better. Now besieged by new images of himself peeling away from the Strip on a
bike, his lady love harnessed to the back of him, his brother calling lamely
into their dust...Kellan bade his soul to calm down, to attempt sleep.
Yet he found that his body—humming with visions of Romy in a
snug casino girl's ensemble, but bearing the same deep intelligence behind her
kind
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