“I don’t know.” I pause. “She wasn’t acting right even before the night at the Steel Pier, but now it’s like she’s just turned off altogether.”
“I got an idea.” Ace widens his eyes. “Why don’t you just ask her?”
“Very funny, smart ass, but I have, and she either says she’s fine, or she ignores me and continues to watch that damn BravoTV. By now, I know every housewife from Jersey to Beverly Hills. The sound of Andy Cohen’s voice makes me wanna barf.”
“Then shut the TV off and make her listen.”
“Have you met the woman? She’ll throw me attitude, then shut me down.”
“Her pullin’ that gun on Viper was fuckin’ amazing, but,” Ace lets his gaze run over me, “I’m guessing she’s, what, five-foot-six, a buck-twenty? And you’re, what, six-two, two-twenty?” Ace screws up his lips. “Shit, snatch her up, put her over your shoulder and pin her down until she promises to talk.”
“That’s your advice?”
“What you’re doin’ now ain’t working, so yeah.”
I heave out a sigh, slap some bills on the table and push out of the booth.
Ace pushes the money back at me. “All you had was a fuckin’ cup of coffee.”
“Payment for the advice. Of course, if it doesn’t work, I’m gonna find you and beat your sorry ass.”
“Shit, I never thought I’d see the day when my hard-ass friend and prez was pussy-whipped.”
“Fuck you.”
We tap fists, I head out to the parking lot, swing my leg over my Harley and play Ace’s words in my head. What the hell do I have to lose? Nothing else is working.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to our rental, which I am really starting to like. Before my prison time, I always had a room at our old clubhouse. At the time, it seemed like the perfect situation. All the booze I could drink, and hot-and-cold-running women twenty-four-seven.
I never thought of anything permanent, but Sammie makes me look at my old choices differently, and that scares the shit outta me too. The waves crashing in the distance usually calm me, but not today.
I trudge into the house to hear Andy Cohen talking about the next episode of theNew Jersey Housewives. Shit!
When I enter the living room, Sammie’s back stiffens, but she stays silent.
I pick up the remote, shut off the TV and turn to her. “We gotta talk.”
She gives me a blank stare.
“That means you too, not just me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She pushes off the couch and tries to leave the room, but I step in front of her.
“You’re not going anywhere until we talk about what’s bothering you.”
“I told you: nothing.” She side-steps, and I move with her. She glares up at me. “Get out of my way.”
“Not until we talk.”
She mashes her lips together and pulls her stubborn face, so I lean down, grab her around the waist, and hoist her over my shoulder.
She lets out a yelp. “Put me down!” She beats my back with her fists.
I slap her ass. “Settle the fuck down.” I stomp into the bedroom and dump her on the bed. She hits the mattress so hard she bounces, then glares at me. I thank fuck she’s not holding that .38 snub nose, ‘cause I swear she would’ve used it.
“What are you going to do, lock me in my room?” She tries to stand, and I push her back to the bed.
“If that’s what it takes, yeah.”
