Page 11 of Menace in Vegas

Because nothing about this day is simple or easy.

* * *

I walk upto the rental car counter, jaw tight, praying for a miracle.

“Reservation for Byrns,” I say, trying to sound like a man who hasn’t lost all control of his life.

The woman behind the counter types a few things, then frowns.

My stomach sinks. “What?”

She hesitates. “Unfortunately, we’re running low on inventory due to the spring break surge. We had to make a substitution.”

“What kind of substitution?”

She brightens. “It’s compact, fuel-efficient, and very popular with bachelorette parties.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be insulted by a vehicle?”

She slides the keys across the counter with a far-too-cheerful smile. “Enjoy your ride, Mr. Byrns.”

When I step outside and see what I’m supposed to drive, I nearly black out from pure fury.

A pink. VW. Bug. Convertible.

I blink rapidly like the hideous thing is a mirage.

But it doesn’t disappear.

It’s real.

Worse, it’s waiting for me.

I stare at it, willing it to morph into something cool, sleek, and roomy.

I turn to the rental agent. "You’re fucking with me?"

The woman just shrugs. "It’s the only car left."

I inhale sharply, fighting the urge to snap. My pulse is already throbbing against my temples.

I am a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound professional hockey player, and they want me to drive a goddamn Barbie Dream Car?

Absolutely the fuck not.

But before I can say another word, Allie releases a squeal of pure joy. "This is perfect," she chirps, practically skipping to the car.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Of course it’s perfect—forher. She’s five-foot-two with curves that bring me to my knees.

But this thing? This absurd, bubblegum death trap? It was made for her, not forme.

I’m going to need a priest, a drink, and possibly therapy.

My hands curl into fists. “I’m not driving that… thing.”

She grabs the keys, twirling them around her finger. "No problem. I’ll drive."

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