Page 186 of Menace in Vegas

He doesn’t answer.

Connor leans forward, voice low and sharp. “You’ve been watching her without her knowing?”

“I was keeping an eye out. After Vegas, I couldn’t just leave her alone. I’ve kept my distance?—”

“You’ve been spying on her,” I cut in.

He winces. “Not spying. Just… monitoring.”

Connor’s jaw ticks. “Like a stalker.”

“I was trying to protect her!”

“She doesn’t know that,” I snap.

“You’re a fine one to talk. Look at all the shit you did with Allie. You even stayed at the B&B?—”

Connor’s look cuts him off. His face is red from rage, and the vein throbbing in his forehead looks like it’s about to explode.

The air turns thick and heavy.

And then Gram shatters it like a drunk wrecking ball.

She reaches into her oversized bag, pulls out a thin, well-worn paperback, and settles her readers on the bridge of her nose.

“What the hell is that?” Connor asks, staring like the book might bite him.

“It’s a poetry book. ‘Lust on the Bayou,’” she announces proudly. “Volume three. I thought it might ease some tension.”

“No,” Connor snaps.

Gram clears her throat. “His gator-sized hunger left her beignets trembling?—”

“No,” Connor says louder, but she’s already in full performance mode.

“She moaned as his swampy hands tangled in her?—”

Daltyn slams his menu on the table. “I’d like to eat. Please stop.”

“—untamed humidity, whispering filthy verses as he?—”

“Gram,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose, “for the love of all things holy, put it away.”

“Can’t. I bookmarked the next scene. It’s the emotional climax.”

Connor groans.

Daltyn looks like he’s astral projecting.

And I just sit there, laughing and crying, because this is our life now.

One long nightmare wrapped in a poem narrated by Gram.

87

ALLISON

Gram is mid-monologue, readers perched on her nose like she’s headlining an erotic book club from hell.

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