Page 59 of Jig's Last Dance

And Uncle fucking Sal? I can’t go back to his home. I can’t…

Once we reach Jig’s drive, I tense, stepping stiffly from the car when Bastion parks. Jig walks behind me up the stairs, and when I stare at the door, he grunts before opening it and shoving me inside.

I’m pushed into the living room, where Jig and I traded sexual favors not too long ago, and I turn my head from the memory, sour in the face of his derision.

“Talk,” he barks, and I jump, running a hand through my hair.

Jig eyes me dangerously, his mouth curling at my button-down shirt before he says, “Why are you so nervous?”

My eyes fill with tears. Sucking in a breath, I drop my bag and unzip the pocket. Jig holds up a hand when Bastion growls, but I ignore them both as I pull out the pictures and let them fall from my hand.

“Fuck! Where did you get these?” He bends down and picks one up.

Bile rises in my throat once more, and I swallow heavily to push it back down, but I can’t stop the tears and bury my face in my hands.

“Alice! Where did these come from?” he barks. I shake my head. My chest burns, and I can’t get a full breath into my lungs.

Thoughts of my dad doing whatever with these fucks circles my brain, and no matter what I do, I can’t shut it off.

“Sun-Alice?”

When I don’t answer, Jig picks me up and walks us to the couch before settling me in his lap. Stiffly, I sit and stare at his chest before I wrap my arms around him and sob, “He was a monster.”

“Sh,” Jig says, stroking my hair.

Shuddering convulsively, I cry into his shoulder, all the hurt and rage I’ve been holding at bay escaping in a deluge.

I knew my father did bad things, but I guess I convinced myself that it didn’t matter because he was my dad. Now I don’t know. How do I love someone who could commit such horrendous acts?

Finally, I calm down, and Jig tips my head back, his eyes piercing as he studies my face. Wiping my eyes, I avert my gaze, and he sighs before settling me on the couch and standing.

I’m not in the headspace to continue this conversation, so I curl into a ball, sniffling as Bastion rounds the couch. His eyes are haunted when he meets my gaze, and I look away. Did he see his dad in those pictures? I guess we can both now admit that our fathers were pieces of shit.

After a moment, he rasps, “How did you find these?”

“I tripped,” I mumble.

“Where?”

“In the closet.”

“What were you doing there in the first place?” he yells, and I flinch.

“Bastion,” Jig says, and Bastion growls, “What!”

“Pull back.”

“Fuck off! What was she doing there, Jig?”

“I don’t fucking know,” he says.

With a wince, I sit up and rub my nose on my sleeve. Normally this would gross me out, but I hate this fucking shirt and what it represents.

“I want answers,” Bastion says.

“Chill out. Iris sent me,” I interject.

Jig turns to me with disbelief, and Bastion steps back, his brows rising and falling.

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