Page 180 of Menace in Vegas

Something feral stirs in me. I consider throwing her over my shoulder and taking her straight back to bed.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says, arching a brow. “You look like you’ve been up all night prepping for war.”

She’s not wrong.

My eyes drop to the jersey again.

“I still have enough energy to?—”

She cuts me off with a hand.

“Save it.” Her expression softens. “Any updates from Stryker?”

I stare at her momentarily. Last night, I told her that Stryker is a hacker. We lived in the same neighborhood and attended the same school until my parents divorced. Allie took it all in stride, not even flinching over him being a hacker. She just asked if I used his help to hack into her phone during our road trip or time in Vegas.

When I told her I did, she looked upset, then angry, before finally saying, “I don’t know why I’m surprised. I should be pissed. But you’re… you.”

“Not yet. But he’s close.”

I don’t tell her about the second burner ping Stryker flagged an hour ago. The location was two blocks from the beach bar we visited yesterday with Gram.

I’m debating whether to text him again when a loud, sharp bang rattles the front door.

I’m out of my chair in seconds, adrenaline flaring like a match dropped in gasoline.

I yank open the door, prepare to go to war… and freeze.

Daltyn stands there, blood dripping from his knuckles. A bruise already blooms along his cheekbone.

His eyes meet mine. His voice is clipped. Rough. “We need to talk.”

82

CONNOR

Iblink at my teammate.

Daltyn looks like he went ten rounds with a brick wall.

Judging by the wild, unfocused look in his eyes, I’m guessing the wall lost.

“Get inside,” I say, stepping back.

He storms past me, shoulders tense, fists clenched, the kind of energy that vibrates with barely leashed fury.

I shut the door and follow him into the living room.

Allie pokes her head around the corner.

The second she sees Daltyn, her eyes go wide. “Oh my God—what happened?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters.

But it’s a lie.

His voice is flat. Hollow. The kind of tone that screams anything but fine.

I cross the room, grab a towel from the drawer, and toss it at him. “Sit.”

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