Page 64 of Precious Hazard

I work for almost half an hour, making notes on changes I’d like to see. The pills have finally kicked in, lessening the ache in my chest and the throbbing at my temples. However, even feeling marginally better, I’m still having a hard time concentrating on what I’m doing. And that’s all because of Tara. My wife, who’s been silently moping on the seat beside me.

For the umpteenth time, my eyes dart toward her. “Why didn’t you eat anything?” I close the laptop and slide the device back onto the console. “That steak was actually decent.”

“Can’t keep smiling while I eat. And you were adamant about that requirement for social functions in our agreement.”

“Jesus. I’ll fix you dinner when we get home. Did you enjoy the lasagna?”

“Haven’t touched it. Greta was kind enough to make something else for me.”

“What? Why?”

“I already told you, DeVille. I won’t eat anything you prepare, on principle.”

My nostrils flare. I don’t understand why this pisses me off so much. What do I care if she’d rather wolf down takeout or processed crap? But it does. It irritates me a great deal. Instead of getting some much-needed shut-eye after my early meeting this morning, I spent over an hour making homemade lasagna for her. And I wanted her to like it, damn it.

“Do you intend to starve, then? Because from what I gather, you don’t know how to cook.”

“I cook. I just won’t do it in a kitchen where the feng shui is all wrong. Your stove is close to the northwest corner. Do you have any idea how unlucky that is? I refuse to touch it.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Greta said she doesn’t mind making my meals. But if she’s unavailable, there’s always takeout.”

Yeah? We’ll see about that.

We’ve just made a turn onto a wider road when the car jerks violently to the side, and the tires screech as Riggo slams on the brakes. The sharp movements send Tara careening straight toward me. I catch her in time to prevent her from smashing her head into the window or being tossed toward the privacy partition between us and the front seat.

Sliding the screen down, Riggo glances at me over his shoulder. “Apologies, Mr. DeVille,” he says. “That vehicle in front of us fishtailed and then made a sudden stop. They might have had a tire blowout. Should I see if they need help?”

I peer ahead, checking out the road conditions through the windshield. A guy in jeans and a black hoodie is crouched down next to the driver-side tire of his full-size black pickup. This might be an infrequently used side road, at least at this time of year, but the asphalt is new. No potholes or anything else that might cause sudden damage to a heavy-duty tire like the ones on this guy’s rig. Especially to the extent that an abrupt stop would be necessary. He didn’t even bother pulling over to the shoulder.

The man rises and kicks the tire with his boot, then turns toward us. With a casual shrug, he beckons Riggo to come over, as if he does need help after all. I keep my attention on the nimrod as I reach into my jacket and pull out my gun.

“Really?” Tara grumbles next to my ear. I didn’t realize that I was still holding her tightly pressed to my side. “Are you seriously going to get out, guns blazing, because some poor guy got a flat?”

“Riggo. When I tell you to, hit the gas.” I turn to face my stubborn wife, bumping my nose with hers in the process. “Get down on the floor.”

“Why?”

“Because the doors can block more bullets than the windows. Down. Now!”

“Bullets?” She blinks at me twice in confusion, then quickly untangles her legs from mine and crouches on the floor between the seats. “Fucking great.”

Considering she experienced a panic attack during our wedding vows, I’m expecting her to lose her shit any second. In fact, I kinda expected she’d be halfway there by now, right after bullets were mentioned. But instead of drowning in hysterics, my wife simply adjusts her skirt and flashes me an angry scowl. Unbelievable.

I cock my gun. “Floor it, Riggo.”

The car launches forward.

Thepoor guywith a flatreaches behind his back, pulling out a weapon. At the same time, the passenger door as well as two back doors fly open, and three other guys leap out of the pickup just as our car rushes past them.

Rhythmic pings pepper the back of the car as the shooters spray us with gunfire. One of the rounds ricochets off the rear windshield, leaving an indent in the bulletproof glass. The bastards are using armor-piercing shit. I lower my window and return fire.

“I should have married Conrad,” Tara mutters from her spot on the floor. “I could be having a great time somewhere in Europe, enjoying a shrimp cocktail right now. Not getting shot at in the middle of nowhere.”

“Who the fuck is Conrad?” I bark while aiming at the pursuing truck. A couple of guys have their heads out of the side windows, while another pops up through the sunroof. I should probably be thankful their driver is too busy to also shoot at us right now.

“Someone I dated in college. We were such a good match. His dad is an oil tycoon, so Conrad used to spoil me rotten. But we’d only been seeing each other for a short time before he proposed. I panicked and broke up with him. He still calls me occasionally, though.”

I grit my teeth and send another round at the pickup that’s dogging our every move. “Well, tell your oil tycoon brat that if he calls my wife again, the next call you’ll be getting is an invite to his funeral.”

“You can’t forbid me from speaking with my friends!”

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