Page 27 of Menace in Vegas

She leans back, casually propping her feet on the dash like she owns the thing. “I’m naming her Wanda.”

I blink. “What?”

“The wagon. She looks like a Wanda. You know, dependable, a little unhinged, probably has a side hustle selling essential oils.”

I stare at her like she’s lost her damn mind. “You don’t get to name this car.”

“Too late. Wanda’s part of the family now.”

I slam the car into drive.

Three days.

Three fucking days of this.

“At least it’s not pink,” Allie chirps.

I turn to glare at her. “Shut your fucking mouth, Payne.”

She grins.

I’m going to murder her.

* * *

We pull backonto the highway, and I swear the car smells like stale cigarettes and regret.

Allie is still humming happily, scrolling on her phone. She managed to find a radio station playing 80s music.

Allie pulls a hairbrush from her bag and starts belting out the lyrics of “Object of My Desire.”

I fucking die.

My temperature shoots up ten degrees.

I’m melting into the fucking ancient, rotting seat.

When she belts about something about her body screaming to make love to her, I nearly run off the fucking road.

She grins at me while I glare at the road, regretting the day I met her.

She taps her foot to the beat of the next song, tossing her hairbrush in her bag and grabbing her phone.

“Uh-oh,” she mutters.

I grip the wheel tighter. "What?"

Don’t tell me she posted that video of me driving the pink Barbie car, and it went viral.

She taps her phone. "The GPS says this route is gonna take us a while."

I exhale through my nose. "How long?"

She takes a slow, obnoxious sip of her coffee, licks her lips, then calmly says, "Three days."

I nearly swerve into oncoming traffic. "THREE DAYS?!"

She beams. "Yep! Guess we’ll be staying in more hotels. You, me, and Wanda.” She pats the cracked dash. “She’s earned her name. She smells like regrets and probably once ran over a husband.”

---