Page 84 of Menace in Vegas (Pucked Up Hearts #2)

84

ALLISON

T he silence surrounding us is thick. Heavy enough to smother us.

Daltyn stares at the floor like it personally betrayed him.

Connor stands across the room, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’s seconds from shattering it.

And I’m crouched beside a bruised, bloodied goalie who’s clearly unraveling but refuses to say it out loud.

Then the front door bursts open. “Knock knock, bitches!”

Gram breezes in wearing a sea turtle sarong, massive sunglasses, and a hot pink “Jimmy’s Girl” T-shirt I refuse to emotionally unpack right now.

One hand clutches a margarita. The other holds a giant conch shell.

“This baby right here?” she says, lifting the shell like it’s sacred. “Captain Jimmy says the crack on the side looks just like Elvis’s pelvis. I say it looks more like Marilyn Monroe mid-orgasm, but hey, art is subjective.”

I blink slowly.

Connor pinches the bridge of his nose.

Daltyn just stares like she manifested out of a fever dream. Which, in fairness, she probably did.

Gram struts over and shoves the shell in my face.

“Why does it smell like tequila?” I ask.

“Because I used it as a shot glass, obviously.” Her grin is feral. “Jimmy says it enhances the flavor when it’s aged with sea energy.”

“What the hell is sea energy?” Connor mutters.

“No clue,” Gram replies. “But it tingled going down.”

“Jesus Christ,” Connor mumbles.

Then she finally notices Daltyn, sitting on the couch bruised and bloodied, an ice pack in hand, and halts mid-chaos.

“Oh, honey,” she says, lowering the shell. “Who do I have to kill?”

“I’m fine,” Daltyn mutters.

She eyes him like she’s scanning for lies. “You look like someone lost a bar fight with a meat grinder.”

“Still fine.”

Gram turns to me. “He’s in denial. Do we need to put him in the tub and play a Sarah McLachlan playlist until he opens up?”

I glance at Daltyn. He looks one sarcastic comment away from completely snapping.

“We’re good,” I tell her gently.

She nods, satisfied. “Alright. But I’m not above emotional waterboarding if it comes to it.”

Then she flops onto the couch beside him, crosses her legs, and starts gently petting his arm like he’s a traumatized cat.

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.