Riding Dirty (7 page)

This was the precise mix of business and pleasure that Bronson Ramsey liked the best.

Content that they’d made the requisite splash and careful not to allow himself to get too wild, Bronson deliberately lifted his lips from Rowan’s delicious mouth. With a wry smile, he let his calloused hand slide to the bare small of her spine, applying a light pressure to steer her off the dance floor. Rowan stifled a gasp of shock at the intimate touch and obediently followed his lead, aware of the way men looked at her as she moved.

They meandered together out of the lounge door and past the long line of waiting patrons, Rowan laughing and flirting and resting her head on Bronson’s shoulder as they walked. It wasn’t hard for Bronson to show everyone that he was enjoying her company. Even idle passers-by found themselves briefly wishing that they were one or the other of the glamorous pair. They took their time strolling through the casino, and soon enough they were situated in the high-roller room.

Phase two of the plan was kicking into high gear. Bronson ordered bottle service, played cards, and kept Rowan in physical contact at all times. Her hand was in his hair, her lucky breath on his cards. His arm around her hips, his hand seeking out hers. As she had been instructed, Rowan was sociable and friendly with the other gamers, but made a point of continually glancing at Bronson to make sure to receive his nod of encouragement. This effectively established their alleged power dynamic to observers that believed themselves astute, and served a secondary purpose of raising curiosity.

When Rowan eventually excused herself to the ladies’ room and disappeared in a gossamer swirl of satin skin and tight curves, Bronson found himself the subject of a frank inspection from a new face across the poker table. He recognized the middle aged man from the dance floor earlier, and met the dull brown gaze with a challenging frown.

Bronson waited until the dealer stepped away briefly to get a fresh deck of cards to speak. “Got something in your eye brother?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow in challenge.

The other man emitted a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “No, no, not at all, didn’t mean to stare, I’m just curious about something. Uh, Ronnie Guzman, real-estate agent,” he introduced himself, blanching when Bronson didn’t accept his outstretched handshake. A muscle in his face twitched, but he forged ahead anyway on shaky ground. “I’ve got to ask you, man,” he wheezed, “where did you find that grindstone?” He sucked in his breath and shook a hand in the air for emphasis. “Damn, those tits!”

Bronson gazed at Guzman idly out of the corner of his eye, noting the shiny polyester blend of the man’s suit, the ungodly white of his teeth and the unforgivable artificial orange tint to his tanned skin. He looked like just the kind of moron Bronson would love taking for a ride. Bronson painted on his best blank expression. “You saying you like my girl’s tits?”

Guzman was probably forty-five, balding, and sweating. At Bronson’s ambiguous tone he paled, removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his blazer and dabbed at his dramatically beaked nose. “Uh, yeah, well, I do, she’s—look, I mean no disrespect, that’s a real hot meal you have there is all I’m saying.”
“I’d noticed.” Bronson allowed his voice to warm with amusement. “That’s why I’ve decided to represent her.”

“Represent her?” Encouraged by Bronson’s wink, Guzman turned a few shades oranger. “A guy would give just about anything for that kind of companionship. I’d just about die for a night with her.”

Somewhere behind his shielded black eyes and low, suave laugh, Bronson was thinking Guzman’s death would be a nice bonus when they closed the deal. But he shrugged the thought away for now. “She don’t come cheap,” Bronson returned. “I’m afraid she’s rather special. Maybe even one of a kind.”

“Obviously.”

Guzman’s laugh grated on his nerves, but Bronson was too aware of his goal to let himself lose any patience. Instead, he shifted chairs to sit next to Guzman. When the older man leaned in eagerly, his sweaty nose inches from Bronson’s face, Bronson almost laughed out loud at how easy it was to manipulate him. He almost felt sorry for the twit.

“See, Guzman,” Bronson whispered, “She’s a virgin.” He lit a cigarette, aware that the glow from his zippo gave the newcomer a better view of his slow, meaningful smile.

“No way.”

“Yeah way. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the only one left in the whole God forsaken town. So you see, she needs some special protection. That’s where I come in. Not everyone appreciates the value of someone like her.”

“No doubt.” Guzman licked his lips. “What…is her value, exactly?”

“What are you asking me?”

“What exactly would you consider a fair and decent exchange for a night with her?” When Bronson didn’t answer, Guzman took the bait. “Thirty thousand?”

Though the offer demonstrated that Guzman was not a novice in the business of paying for top-notch female companionship, Bronson was in high spirits and wanted to milk the night for all it was worth. After all, this was only their first offer. Bronson threw back his head and laughed until tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes. “That’s a good one Guzman. You’re a funny guy. We’ll be at the craps tables, if you decide to take life seriously.”

“Wait a second,” Guzman pleaded, laying his hand on Bronson’s shoulder to prevent him from the leaving. His eyes twinkled with greed. “Thirty five.”

Bronson pushed back his chair and began to walk to the bar.

“Forty?!” Guzman called after him.

Bronson ignored him long enough to order a martini and write something on a napkin. When he crossed back to the poker table, he slid the folded paper to Guzman silently. The little rat unfolded it and gulped.

“Cash,” Bronson said. “Up front.”

“Alright.”

Now Bronson did accept the handshake. “Get it, then give it to me, and then we’ll make our exchange. Your dough, our cherry. One big happy sundae.”

Every detail had been reviewed and every potential scenario accounted for and weighed in the careful planning and execution of the Ruiners’ business collaboration with Rowan Thomas. Bronson, Dolce, Luther, and Smiley had spent an hour or two hashing everything out with Rowan earlier that afternoon before she’d been whisked away by the girls for the frilly stuff. There had been just enough time for the boys to get some alone time and really lay the groundwork before they had to get themselves in position.

Now the ball was rolling. Lola and Valeria were busy distracting the Auditore henchmen that usually followed Bronson everywhere, using their wiles and some well-timed sleeping pills. Bronson and Rowan were doing their thing. Soon it would all be a memory. One big happy motherfucking family.

Dolce tossed back another gulp of his tequila. In jeans, a black button up shirt and his new glass eye, he almost blended in with the law-abiding citizens as he leaned, bored, against a slot machine. He watched as Luther mindlessly fed the machine with quarters from a Tupperware container, resisting the urge to snatch the quarters away and dump them over Luther’s head. Waiting was not his thing.

They were undercover, their club colors left out of the game for anonymity and safety. Above all, the Auditore brothers couldn’t find out they were here. Dolce checked his watch for the zillionth time, mentally cursing Bronson for taking his damn time finding a john. How hard could it be? Dolce only had one functioning eye, but had still seen the blonde. He’d realized in two seconds that he’d pay to pop her cherry himself if that didn’t defeat the entire purpose of the exercise.

He rhythmically rapped his fingers on the seam of his pant pocket, aching for action. Everything was ready. The room Luther had rented in Caesar’s Palace for the night was under the name and credit card of a stranger he’d bribed at the airport, and there was absolutely no way the booking could be traced back to the club. Once the Ruiners were done using it, John Doe would get his keys back and go about his night as a regular tourist. He’d slip under the covers and be there, innocent and genuinely ignorant, to provide contradictory evidence should Bronson and Rowan’s intended victim be stupid enough to report anything to the hotel security guards.

The layout of the room was perfect for the con; bay doors opened to a veranda adjacent to the pool area, providing an optimal emergency escape route should the necessity arise. Just a hop and a hedge away, Smiley was stretched in a lounge chair, flanked by women, sipping a gin spot and cooling his brass knuckles. He was within earshot.

Even Dolce had to admit to himself that Luther had done a good job in spite of being a complete boob and lacking any trace of good taste in cruisers. Axle would be prouder than a peacock. The old man had a weak spot for underdogs. Watching Luther waste his pocket change in the one-armed bandit, it was painful for Dolce to acknowledge that the newbie had a brain. At least he could delegate logistics to Luther for the rest of the play and have one less thing to worry about.

On the inside, the plan was simple. Luther and Dolce lurked in the casino until they saw their targets head up to the room. Then, they would follow Bronson, Rowan, and the john at a distance and wait for Bronson’s cue to bust in the room and do the dirty work. Rowan wouldn’t be alone for more than two minutes, so the likelihood of her needing to use the unregistered Beretta BU9 Nano 9x19mm Parabellum in her clutch was unlikely. Nevertheless Bronson had insisted it be loaded, just in case. After all, he was the MC’s Sergeant at Arms and muscle was his area of specialty. Perhaps that’s why Bronson was acting like such a meticulous pain in the ass, but Dolce doubted it.

After all, he’d seen the blonde.

“Let’s go,” Dolce said, kicking the stool out from under Luther and pointing to the elevator lobby.

Luther followed the trajectory of Dolce’s finger and spotted Bronson and Rowan and their mark stepping out of view. “I’m about to win,” he whined.

“Oh I’m so sorry, take your time.” Dolce screwed his face up in false apology. “It’s not like we’re here working or anything. Unbelievable. Moron.”

Muttering to himself, Luther had to skip to catch up to his buddy. Glancing longingly back at his vacated machine as he walked, he witnessed a gray-haired little old lady swoop in, pull the handle, and win. He kicked the wall, cursing. Of course. Hating his luck, he followed Dolce up one flight of the utility stairs.

They barreled down the hallway and saw Ramsey a few paces away. Before they had a chance to think, Ramsey held up his hand in an unmistakable order for silence and patience. Nodding their understanding, Dolce and Luther closed the distance between them and waited.

A minute ticked by in tense silence. Dolce reached for his gun when a low rattle approached, but when the source of the noise appeared around the corner he relaxed. It was only a maid with a cart. To justify their presence, Luther pulled out his phone and pretended to be texting. The maid rolled quietly off and disappeared around a corner. Her footsteps padded away and faded to silence.

Bronson double-checked the hall in both directions before taking a giant step and unleashing all his pent up strength, frustration, and hope in one epic kick that splintered the door handle. The door thudded open, revealing a scarring sight—Ron Guzman in his boxers. Rolls of fat popped over the waistband, and it was a truly difficult dilemma to decide which detail was the most hilarious aspect of Guzman’s current appearance. Vying for number one was the chintzy pattern of joker cards all over the cheap green polyester garment that was a size or two too big for Guzman’s goods. Then again, that was eclipsed by the fact that Guzman literally had his dick in his hand.

The real clincher, though, and the absolute best part was the fact that Guzman had already been knocked to the floor and was lying on his belly, pinned beneath Rowan’s pedicured, well-heeled foot. Her hair was loose and her cheeks flushed, the barrel of her Beretta leveled at Guzman’s head.

“Took you long enough,” was her only greeting, and Bronson couldn’t help himself. At the sight of her dominating the worm they had picked out for sacrifice, he gave up the futile battle to keep his cool. Clutching his sides, he collapsed against the wall laughing, unaware that his reaction to her had inspired a proud and defiant smile to spread across Rowan’s face. She felt vindicated, somehow, proving to him that she was capable of pointing a gun without wavering.

When Luther pushed in the room and saw what was going on, he snickered too, but the joyful moment was short-lived. Dolce crashed past Luther with a grunt of disgust and elbowed Ramsey. “Bunch of hyenas. Can we get on with this please?”

With an effort Bronson stifled his genuine amusement and refocused. “Guzman,” he growled, the sharp authority in his voice causing a shiver to run up Rowan’s spine. “Before we proceed any further, I think you owe the lady a tip. The rest of your money and whatever you put in our safe will do. Get up.”

Trembling, Guzman obeyed. “Wait a second, you guys, I already paid you. Cash. Upfront. Remember? Everything you asked for. This crazy bitch—”

Bronson reacted to the insult instantaneously, his southpaw cross hook almost unhinging Guzman’s jaw. “Are you going to get the lady her tip, or do I have to melt the gold fillings from your fucking teeth?”

Whimpering like a kicked cur, Guzman stumbled to pull his billfold from the pocket of his discarded jeans. Dolce snatched it from his hand, then shoved him bodily over to the closet and supervised as he entered his combination. Inside the box were a Rolex, a gold ring, and a small stack of benjamins.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Dolce crowed, pocketing the jewelry and waving the money like a paper fan in front of his face. “Beginner’s luck, eh Ramsey? I’ll take it.”

“We’ll count it later.” Bronson jutted his chin at Guzman. “You. Silence. Understood? Or we find you and you die.”

Dolce cocked his head to the side pensively. “I mean, dumbass here might say it’s lacking finesse or wit as a parting monologue, but you covered the major points. Right Lu?”

It took Luther a moment to realize he was being addressed. “Right.”

Dolce rolled his eye. “Unbelievable.”

Still waiting for an answer, Bronson raised his fist and took a step toward Guzman. “I didn’t catch your reply. I asked you if you understand?” Guzman nodded wretchedly. “And will you keep your mouth shut about what went down here tonight, what we look like, what sleazy shit you tried to pull? Or will we have to kill you?”

“N-no, no,” wailed Guzman, “Don’t kill me, I understand. I’ll be quiet.”

“Good,” said Bronson. “That was easy.” He stretched out his hand for Rowan, helping her to balance as she stepped around the kneeling and sniveling form of Guzman. “Come on baby, you’ve worked hard enough tonight.”

“Kind of you to notice,” Rowan quipped. She paused in the doorway and reached in her purse for something, pulling out a crumpled napkin. Smiling faintly, she held it out to Guzman. “Oh, I almost forgot, you paid for my cherry didn’t you? I’d hate you to think I was a tease, so, here you go.” Untwisting the napkin, she shook it until something dropped out and landed on the floor in front of Guzman’s nose: a red, rumpled maraschino cherry. “Enjoy.”