Page 117 of Jig's Last Dance

He raises a brow, and I look him over icily. “You have a problem with that?”

He frowns, his gaze hardening, before he nods and says, “No, Miss Patterson.”

I cringe at the cool reception because I know I’m acting like a bitch, but whatever. Marco speaks into his earpiece, and not five minutes later, a car rolls up.

It’s a Maserati, and holy shit, it’s beautiful.

With a brisk nod, I slide inside and hit the gas before anyone can tell me no. That was way too easy, making me wonder what these dicks know about me.

I guess it doesn’t matter, but the knowledge stings my already swollen throat.

Pulling onto the freeway, I set the cruise control and admire the car. I refuse to think about where I’m going or the shit pressing on my chest. Instead, I enjoy the ride until my phone starts buzzing again.

It stops only to start over and over.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing send. “What?”

“Sunshine, why aren’t you at school?” Jig says and I soak in the sound of his voice.

“Skipping,” I say, rubbing my aching chest.

“Okay, then come here.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been banned. Didn’t you talk to your lord and master?” I sneer.

“Sunshine,” he growls.

“Grumpy asshole,” I return in a sassy tone.

“Get your ass over here so we can talk.”

“Nope. Nothing to say. You were right, though.”

“About what?”

His cautious tone makes me smile, and I swallow the sob as I say, “They’re your family. And family comes first.”

I hang up before he can respond and switch to silent for good measure. I can’t think about Jig when I’m about to pick up shit for Castinetti.

I’m sick to my stomach already. I can just imagine what Jig would have to say about it.

Eventually, I take the turnoff to the neighborhood where this all began, and I immediately begin to sweat.

I’m not stupid; I brought the gun I stole from my dad’s safe, but it doesn’t do much to ease the anxiety rolling down my spine.

John is a skeevy fuck, and I’m me. But as I pull to a stop at the curb and stare at the facade, I vow to stay alive, whatever it takes.

I may not understand why my dad has done what he has or even the extent of it, but I’m still his daughter. I hope and I won’t back down. I guess I can be grateful he instilled that in me if nothing else.

My heart is in my throat as I ease beyond the door, but there’s nothing here save for an envelope on the bare floor.

Grabbing it up, I fly back to the car and lock myself inside for good measure. Then, with the envelope on the seat, I start the engine and put the car in gear, studiously ignoring it.

But as I pull away, I sag against the leather.

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