Page 71 of Menace in Vegas

I will not let the smug, fry-feeding bastard win.

Blowing out a slow breath, I force myself to stay calm. Cool. Unbothered.

The highway stretches ahead like a punishment. The weather’s garbage. So is my mood.

Connor, of course, has the radio on. It’s blaring some old country heartbreak ballad like he’s the main character in a breakup montage.

He’s drumming on the steering wheel, humming along, stealing glances at me like he’s waiting for me to crack.

I don’t.

I won’t.

I’m a wall.

I am ice.

I am vengeance in leggings.

* * *

One hour later,I’ve maintained my silence. Avoided eye contact.

And my emotional stability ismostlyintact.

I’m plotting his murder when it happens.

A loud pop jolts me from my vengeance fantasy. The car jerks violently, then swerves.

Connor mutters a sharp,“What the fuck?”and pulls off to the side of the road.

Oh, no. Did Wanda finally surrender to our toxic energy?

He pulls to the side of the road, slamming his hands against the wheel. "Un-fucking-believable."

I almost smile.

He storms out of the car to inspect the damage, fuming.

Meanwhile, I sit back and sip my Coke like a queen watching her enemies fall.

His irritated groan drifts in through the cracked window.

Curious, I peek out, and almost lose it.

He’s standing there, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. His broad shoulders are tense under his shirt. For the first time in days, he looksstressed.

I grin.

Finally. My moment has come.

* * *

I slideout of the car, casual as can be, and stroll over to him.

Tilting my head, I smile sweetly. "What’s wrong, husband?"

His jaw ticks. "Flat tire."

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