Page 103 of Jig's Last Dance

Can I live with myself if we do nothing?

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jig barks as I pull open the door and peek beyond.

The lights are almost blinding, and I blink against the glare, but nothing stirs. There’s no more crying. There’s no movement. Not even the sounds of a fucking animal foraging in the woods.

“Alice?” Jig roars, grabbing me up by the waist. With a gasp, I let loose the door too late, and it swings wide open.

At the same time, the lights go out. He freezes while I dangle in his arms. All the hair on my arms stands on end, and I shiver, Jig’s heated breaths cascading over my skin.

A flash of fire lights up the area—one, two, three—and I flinch as Jig’s arms tighten before he throws me inside. With a cry, I land on my hands and knees, sucking in a breath when fire licks up my leg.

Jig slams the door closed, and I collapse against the floor, moaning under my breath. It burns like a motherfucker, but I forget about the pain when Rain shouts, “Jig!”

When I turn, Jig is leaning against the door with his hand wrapped around his shoulder. To my horror, blood is oozing between his fingers, and he slides to the floor, his face ashen.

“Jig?” I whisper, crawling toward him.

“Sunshine,” he says, with a soft smile, and I cover his hands, pressed against his shoulder.

“No,” I moan, and Jig meets my gaze, his normally bright eyes dull. Dipping my head to maintain contact, I try to smile until I’m grabbed from behind and tossed aside.

As soon as I hit the floor, I crawl toward Jig again, but I’m waylaid by Cyn, who says, “We need to get back to the car—now.”

“How? That fucker is shooting at us,” Bastion growls.

Staring at the floor, I spy my bloody prints and raise my hands, splaying my fingers. This is Jig’s blood. He’s bleeding heavily, and we’re really fucking far from civilization.

“I’ll go out there,” Rain whispers, her pale face stricken. “He wants me.”

“Fuck no!” Cyn roars, and I stand, ignoring the burn on my leg.

I don’t want to die, but I don’t want Jig to either. And if John wants Rain so badly, I have a better shot at living. Assuming it’s John out there. Could it be my dad? Shaking my head against the thought, I have to swallow twice before the words pass my lips. “I’ll go.”

On the floor, Jig’s eyes flip open, and he moans, “No.”

But it’s a mere whisper, and that alone shores up my resolve. If I do nothing, he’s fucked.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t trembling at the thought, but I push it aside and lick my lips. “It has to be me. If Rain goes . . . well, it has to be me.”

“He doesn’t want you,” Cyn growls, not bothering to look my way.

Ignoring his rude tone, I say calmly, although my heart feels like it’s going to jump right out of my chest, “No, but I bet he wants his money.”

Bastion swings my way, Rain cocks her head, and Cyn finally takes me seriously, grabbing my arm. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s a long story,” I say shakily. “Please, you can hate me later. Jig needs help.”

Jig opens his eyes and looks between us before slurring, “No, not sunshine.”

He can’t keep his eyes open, though, and his head drops to his chest. With my heart in my throat, I turn to Cyn and say, “This is it. I’m not giving you a choice.”

Cyn drops my arm, and I step around him, ignoring his glare as I open the door. Before I step out, I shout, “I have your fucking money! It’s not smart to bury that shit in the yard. If you want it back, you’ll let them go.”

Silence greets me as I inch onto the porch, searching the trees. Behind me, I see Cyn and Bastion hoist Jig between them, and I close the door as they disappear toward the back. Rain’s behind them, and at the last minute, she tilts her head my way, but it’s too dark. I can’t see her expression. After a moment’s hesitation, she’s gone.

Staring blindly at the door, I consider my options. I didn’t think this one through because now I’m alone with a crazy fucker shooting at us from the trees. Turning back to the darkness, I fight the shivers racking my body and call out, “Well, you pansy-ass, motherfucker. What’s it going to be?”

Not knowing what I’m up against is sheer fucking torture, but when nothing stirs after a fucking lifetime of waiting, I sit on the porch and wrap my hands around my middle. I hope John isn’t following them, but I have to assume he’s out here somewhere because I refuse to contemplate him stalking them through the damn woods.

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