Page 32 of Jig's Last Dance
Fuck. Is he supposed to be taking me places without my permission?
Marco glances at me through the rear-view mirror. “Relax. Mr. Castinetti asked me to run an errand.”
“Where?”
“All I have is the address, Miss Patterson.”
“Can you just call me Alice?”
His mouth quirks. “Sure, Alice.”
It’s a baby step, but the formality was making my skin itch. Maybe now I can pretend I’m not being babysat by a six-foot-something bruiser with a pretty smile.
We stop at a rundown home on the south side of town, and I eye the place dubiously. Only half-joking, I say, “Um, are you about to kill me?”
“No,” he says, and I whip my head around at the sharp tone.
His brows furrow and he sighs. “Just wait for me, Miss—Alice.”
Nodding, I watch him step from the vehicle and approach the house. He doesn’t look back before he disappears through the threshold of the dilapidated structure.
This is not a casual visit. No way. This house is creepy as fuck.
The porch is falling; the stairs are sunken in. Hell, the door is hanging on one hinge.
Staring at the facade, I watch for movement before sagging against the seat and closing my eyes. Whatever. I just need to wait, and he’ll be out soon, but as the minutes pass and he doesn’t emerge, I grow restless.
What’s he doing in there? Why bring me along for the ride? Is this normal?
After another thirty minutes pass, and with sweat clinging to my armpits, I push the door open. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t sit around forever while he does whatever.
This is ridiculous.
Stalking to the door, I tap on the wood, staring wide-eyed when it shudders before opening a little more. Shit. This house should be condemned.
Uneasily, I glance at the car, deflating when Marco doesn’t magically appear. Maybe I should go back?
But a shushing sound brings me around, and I cringe at the figure with flaming red hair that approaches. Huh. Iris O’Malley? What the fuck?
“Come in,” she says with a smile, but her lips are crooked and her bloodshot eyes are seriously fucking dilated.
Is she high?
Stepping past the threshold, I stop awkwardly in the pathetic excuse for a living room and shuffle on my feet.
Iris sways with a giggle and then frowns. “What—”
Behind her, I spy a man approaching from the hall. “Ah, and who might you be?”
He’s my uncle’s age with piercing eyes, and when he smiles, his thin lips stretch over a weak chin.
Behind me, Iris collapses to the couch, which was clean probably twenty years ago, but she’s immune as she stares into nothing. She’s lost weight, and it does not look good on her shaky form.
Fuck me. I never knew she was an addict. I mean, she had a reputation as being tough and, well, slutty, but this? Shit.
Does Rain know? Iris and Rain are cousins, but they graduated, and I haven’t seen her since. I think their relationship was shaky based on rumblings at school, but I did my best to stay the fuck out of it. And yet, ironically, here I am without the information that may save me from an awkward situation at best.
“Um, hey,” I say weakly. “Is Marco here?”