Riding Dirty (8 page)

All Rowan wanted to do was crash on Chitto Miller’s secondhand pleather couch and sink into the delicious oblivion of sleep. It had been at least a million years since she'd slept last. Her body felt like it was about to come apart at the seams like an over-used rag doll. She was a total wreck—a sore, grumpy wreck.

It was all that Rowan could do to manage a weary grunt of greeting when her roommate and temporary host met her at the door, his face stoic but weary. Yikes, when was the last time she had seen him? Today was...Thursday. So Tuesday night?

“Where you been, little hoktuce?” Chitto asked. He had shaved away his goatee since the last time she’d seen him, and the clean planes of his striking, high-cheek boned face brought her comfort and a stab of guilt. He looked exactly like his relative Nila minus the eye shadow and lipstick, of course, and with the lean hard body of a disciplined military veteran. The same cheerful glow of Nila’s was in his eyes and the same self-assured poise buoyed his spine. Rowan admired and secretly envied both of their easygoing natures.

Rowan didn’t know Chitto very well, but his face so resembled many of the Creek natives she had grown up around, bought candy from at the general store, gone to grade school with. She felt herself relax instinctively in his presence. He looked so much like a friend, and indeed had already made huge strides in making her feel comfortable around him during their short acquaintance and in spite of her natural shyness. He had already done so much for her, sheltering her, vouching for her at the casino. She so wanted to unburden herself to him, but that would be unfair—and dangerous. It was better safe than sorry.

Rowan could only shake her head.

“Something came up,” she said. “Sorry I forgot to text you yesterday. I crashed with a friend right by the casino. It’s just so much easier. I’ll probably start doing it more.”

Chitto’s stony face and deep intake of breath as he took in her incongruous, red carpet outfit showed that he didn’t really accept her explanation. Lying was something Rowan would definitely have to learn to do better if she was going to make it in this town. Luckily Chitto was a thorough gentleman, raised between two strong cultures that stressed a man’s innate responsibility to protect and respect the fairer sex. And even though he knew his young guest was hiding something, knew she had come here for reasons other than what Nila had explained, he sensed that Rowan didn’t want to talk. And that was where it had to end.

Chitto hoped to God that Rowan wasn’t doing anything stupid. She didn’t seem the degenerate type, but then again he’d seen Vegas chew up and spit people out in ways that never ceased to surprise him. Considering he was a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, that was no small feat. Even seemingly smart, moral people couldn’t always handle Sin City.

“A’ight,” he sighed. “You be careful honey bun. If anything happens to you, I’ll have a hundred and sixty pounds of angry cousin on my case.”

Having placed the ball in Rowan’s court, he did the only thing that seemed appropriate: gave her a light hug and shuffled off to bed.

Rowan smiled wanly as she watched Chitto’s bedroom door close, silently thanking Nila once again for hooking her up with a solid, reliable dude. There were precious too few of them in the world, as far as she could tell. Leadenly, Rowan propelled herself into the bathroom. In seconds she was undressed and standing under the healing flow of a hot shower. The steaming lather of shampoo eased some of her throbbing headache and Rowan leaned gratefully against the cool tiles with a sigh of relief, letting the streams of water caress every crevice of her tired body.

It had been one of the longest, most emotionally draining days of her life. From that first adrenaline-soaked moment yesterday when Bronson Ramsey had first wrapped his relentless arms around her waist in a back alley, to the dawning dread of seeing the Ruiners’ clubhouse and criminal lifestyle; from the frustration of trying to communicate with the biker chicks who clearly resented her presence, her face, and her existence, to the elation of wrapping up the motley crew’s first successful robbery, Rowan hadn’t had a moment to herself. Not a moment’s peace.

That’s why after the group had abandoned Guzman, bloody and sniveling, in the hotel room and safely disbursed in the lobby of Caesar’s, Rowan had slipped away at the first opportunity. While Bronson and Dolce argued about God knows what, Rowan had quietly hailed a taxi. The boys had said something about plans to party at the Ruiners’ clubhouse, but that was the last place Rowan wanted to be right now. Now, finally in the safety of Chitto’s walls with nothing but the faint outdoor sounds of traffic and crickets for company, she felt as if she had passed through the fires and emerged reborn, clean, and utterly exhausted. This day had run the gauntlet from despair to joy.

If this sort of routine was going to be her new status quo, Rowan was going to have to find a way to get more energy. Naps? Maybe it was time to start taking vitamins. Or drugs.

Rowan couldn’t believe that in a mere 24 hours, her life had changed so dramatically. She had crossed from being totally lost in the weeds of a dark city to flying on the wrong side of the law. It was shocking to think that one failed attempt at cheating at cards last night had morphed so quickly into a partnership with Bronson Ramsey and all the packaging that came with him. UFC champion fighter, gangster, joker, charmer, biker…he frightened the hell out of her with his scars and impassive, world-weary eyes. Whenever he leveled that cutting gaze at her, it summoned the memory of what it had felt like to be naked and at his mercy. His was a ruthlessness and hardness she had never encountered before. He would probably trade his own mother for money, if he had a mother. Rowan was painfully conscious of how little her comfort—or life—must matter to him.

Shaking out her hair and sputtering water out of her mouth, Rowan grudgingly had to admit to herself that in spite of being a hard-hearted badass, Bronson was currently acting as her guardian angel. Lacy had a shot because of him. Why was he helping them? She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. His scheme was working, and Rowan couldn’t believe they had really pulled off tonight’s sting operation.

Mingling pride and repulsion filled her belly as the reality of her new life sank in. Prostitution was legal in many parts of Nevada, but somehow not in Clark County—and ironically not in Las Vegas, Sin City itself. Which meant that not one single aspect of what Rowan was doing was legitimate. If she was caught soliciting johns there was no chance at talking herself out of it, and it would be the end of any potential career as a counselor. She was betting all she had on this crazy scheme.

Besides, she wasn’t even a real prostitute. The fact that she wasn’t actually selling her body didn’t quite dissolve the small stone of shame she felt forming in her chest like a dead weight. Yes, she had to admit she had felt a pleasant sensation of power when she saw the way men looked at her in that gold dress. Even so, that knot of guilt was choking. Sentient to the fact that she was really the huntress and the men the prey, Rowan still didn’t quite feel safe from the lust in their eyes.

She was rapidly deciding that she hated Las Vegas.

As if the shame of being mistaken for a prostitute wasn’t bad enough, her conscience was prickling with the knowledge that she was actually a thief. Stealing was illegal anywhere. Worse, it was wrong. And she was stealing with the help of a real honest to God biker gang, the kind that probably had members in prison, sold drugs to kids, had drive-by shootings and did all the other horrible gang things she had only really ever read about in newspapers. Rowan hadn’t been in the presence of Bronson’s brawny “friends” more than three seconds before she realized that meeting any of them alone in an alley would be bad, bad news. Remembering Guzman’s bloodied face and fearful eyes, Rowan had to admit to herself that she had been the cause of his suffering. She was the reason behind the crime.

All of these disjointed thoughts were swirling in Rowan’s bleary brain, but each anxious rabbit trail led to the same conclusion: this was what she had to do to save Lacy. It wasn’t fair that her sweet little sister should lose her life just because of poverty and neglect, and there wasn’t any legal way around Rowan’s own poverty and limitations.

“This is it,” she muttered to herself. “This is what it is.”

Rowan groaned, banging her forehead lightly against the shower wall in frustration. Not even a seemingly noble motivation like helping Lacy could ever justify her doing such terrible things. It didn’t make her choices ok, it didn’t absolve her of guilt.

She had always believed in right and wrong. It was wrong for her father to drink like a fish and wrong for her parents to have kids in the first place when they obviously couldn’t care for them. It was right to work hard and do your best in everything, right to hate evil and try to help the weak. It was right to love and wrong to steal. Rowan believed all of that fully, even now, and dreaded that she would eventually have to face the consequences of her actions.

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a clean towel around her hair, Rowan piled it all in a turban on top of her head. Meeting her own gaze in the mirror, she took a deep breath and had a moment of truth. Could she really accept the consequences of her choices? Could she live with the reality of what she was becoming? Was she really willing to forfeit her values, her very soul, if that was the price to save Lacy?

Looking at herself, she laughed softly. That decision was already made, and now she nodded and quietly sealed the deal with herself. No looking back, just forward.

“Bring it on,” she muttered to her reflection.

There was always a price to pay.

“That you blondie?”

A startled cry escaped her lips. She must have jumped three feet in the air as she spun to trace the source of the sound to the window over the shower. The frosted glass was cracked open a few inches, and through the steam from her shower she could just make out the dark outline of a man’s face peering in. Her heart hammered; that voice was unmistakable, and she felt goose bumps prickle up all over her bare skin.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed, pulling the towel from her hair to shield her nude body. She fluttered a finger up to her lips, frantically motioning for quiet. She stood frozen for a moment, listening, and then sighed in relief. “Thank God you didn’t wake up Chitto, just gave me a heart attack.” Turning to the window, it dawned on her that her midnight visitor was enjoying his view a little too much, and her cheeks flushed angrily. “Don’t look at me! What is wrong with you? How did you even find me? What do you want?”

Outside the window, Bronson chuckled in amusement but obligingly turned around. Modesty was something he rarely encountered in women anymore, and it tickled him. Quaint. At any rate, he had already seen Rowan completely naked and the pleasurable image wasn’t likely to leave his brain any time soon. Even with his back to her, he could picture the swelling curves of her breasts and the lean slope of her thighs with tormenting accuracy. It didn’t take a lot of effort to imagine his hands sliding across that taut skin.

Raising the pitch of his voice, Bronson playfully mimicked Rowan’s tone. “Good to see you, Bronson. Lovely evening isn’t it? Thank you so much for following my sweet little stubborn ass all the way to this shitty neighborhood to protect me from the scary bad guys that might be following a piece like me home. I know you did it because you’re a good guy and you’re worried about me.” He flicked open his zippo and lit up. “That’s what you could have said, you know, if you bothered to be nice to me. But I guess that’s too much of a
strain
for you”

Rowan’s skin flushed even pinker than it already was from the hot water, but she calmly reached for her underwear and began to dress. Gathering as much dignity as she could, she pretended not to notice his parody of her own rebuking words from earlier in the night. “I was under the impression we were finished for the night and that I could maybe—
maybe
—have a few hours of peace and quiet without a bunch of thugs watching my every move.”

Bronson magnanimously decided to ignore the clear disparagement of his character and took a long, calming drag on his cigarette. “Look, I get it princess, you’re tired. But you can’t just slip off like that. It’s not safe. I told you, you’re mine now. For better or worse, until we’re done with our deal. Unfortunately that means your carefree days are temporarily at an end. Unsavory types are gonna take an interest in you, and I’m gonna protect my investment.”

So that’s how he saw her—his investment? “What am I supposed to do, move in to your suite at the hotel?”