Page 118 of Menace in Vegas

The light turns green. I press the gas with enough force to peel out. I’m seconds from a coronary.

My wife cranks up the volume on the radio like she’s DJing my funeral.

And what goddamn song plays?

“Like a Virgin” by Madonna.

She gasps. “Oh my God, I LOVE this song!”

She starts swaying to the beat, singing loudly, and running her fingers through her hair like she’s in a 1980s music video.

I grip the steering wheel so hard I’m gonna snap it. “Allie.”

No response.

“Baby.”

Still nothing.

She’s full-on vibing.

“DO. NOT. FUCKING?—”

She turns to me with wild eyes and screams the chorus.

Everyone on the Vegas Strip turns to stare.

I want to disappear.

Spontaneously combust.

Hit by an asteroid.

Anything to get me out of this nightmare.

* * *

Ten minutes later,I swerve into a random parking lot, slam the pink monstrosity into park, and twist toward her, chest heaving.

My patience? Gone. Dead. Buried.

Allie blinks at me, then grins like the goddamn devil. “Problem, husband?”

I reach across the seat and grip her chin. “I’m going to make you regret every second of this.”

Her eyes go wide. Her lips part.

Then she whispers, breathless and smug as hell, “Promise, Daddy?”

Oh, I’ll show her daddy.

46

CONNOR

The ride back to the hotel is thick with tension. Sparking with electricity. The kind of silence that buzzes between two people who know exactly what’s coming.

She’s playing it cool, but I know her tells—tight fists in her dress, shallow breaths, that delicious little tremble in her thigh.

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