Page 184 of Menace in Vegas

Connor’s eye twitches.

I just sit there, caught in the whiplash of emotional wreckage and Gram-induced insanity.

This is my life now. Love. Blood. Secrets.

And Gram, cradling a tequila-soaked seashell and offering to emotionally waterboard the team goalie.

85

CONNOR

Daltyn hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

He’s still parked on the couch, a bag of ice pressed to his knuckles while Gram continues to stroke his arm like he’s a traumatized animal she rescued from a thunderstorm.

Allie’s perched on the edge of the armrest, watching him with quiet concern.

I’m pacing and glancing toward the front door like Landon might burst in with a machete. The tension in my chest hasn’t let up since the phone call, and it’s only gotten worse since Daltyn showed up looking like he lost a bar brawl with a brick wall.

He still hasn’t said where he’s going next.

Finally, Allie breaks the silence. “Do you have a place to stay?”

Daltyn hesitates. His jaw clenches, eyes locked on the floor. “I... I did,” he mutters. “Until about two hours ago.”

I stop pacing. “What the hell does that mean?”

His voice is low. Embarrassed. “The boat. I went back after the fight. Landon must’ve found it while I was watching Peyton. It’s gone.”

“Gone?” Allie echoes.

“Untied. Drifting. Might’ve been sunk.” He rubs a hand down his face. “Doesn’t matter. I had nothing on it worth saving.”

Gram gasps like someone just canceled bingo night. “You mean to tell me you’re homeless right now?”

Daltyn stiffens. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

But Gram’s already rising to her full dramatic height, tequila shell forgotten on the coffee table.

“I have a solution. He can sleep on my couch!” She claps her hands together. “I’ll read him erotic poetry before bed to ease his stress.”

Daltyn blinks, visibly horrified. “What?”

“Volume three is called ‘Lust on the Bayou,’” Gram says proudly. “It’s tastefully filthy. Some light bondage. Cajun metaphors. You’ll love it.”

Allie buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “He’s not staying at your place, Gram.”

“Why not? I’ve got plastic sheets and noise-canceling headphones.”

Daltyn makes a sound that’s half wheeze, half prayer for death.

I sigh. “You’re staying with us.”

He blinks at me. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously. You’re a bleeding target with no backup plan. You’re not going back out there.”

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