Tom wondered aloud, following Suzy’s car across the Venetian Causeway, suspended high over picturesque Biscayne Bay, into mainland Miami. Once across, the cars slowed to a virtual standstill at the intersection of Biscayne Boulevard and Northeast Fourteenth Street. “Shit. What now?” Where was everyone going? “Doesn’t anybody stay home anymore?” he shouted out his open window at no one in particular. It was after two in the morning, for shit’s sake. He was hot; he was tired; he was very drunk and more than a little queasy. So what was he doing running after some twat who’d rejected him once tonight already? A white Lexus SUV suddenly appeared from out of nowhere to cut in front of him. “Goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch,” Tom swore as the traffic began inching forward. “I’ll blow your motherfucking head off.” He reached for his gun, then quickly thought better of it, counting to ten, and then twenty, in a concerted effort to calm himself down.
