Page 73 of Jig's Last Dance
The back lot is barely lit, and I glance around wearily before stepping under the only streetlamp. John appears from the shadows with an icy look, and sensing his impatience, I follow him into the darkness. I’m twenty feet from the door, within shouting distance, but there isn’t another fucking soul around. Not good news. But I can’t ignore Sal’s dictate, which means I’m stuck being this guy’s contact, whatever that means.
John’s mouth curves into a smile, making his countenance that much creepier as he says, “Well, little princess. It seems we’ll be getting to know each other better.”
Iris shifts behind him, and I stare at her with wide eyes, but she ignores me, playing with the hem of her dress.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, licking my dry lips.
He chuckles, and I clench my hands into fists. I’m being played, but I haven’t figured out the game. Why John? Why this? It doesn’t make sense.
“I’m checking in with my contact.”
“Okay, great. Consider yourself checked,” I mutter, biting back a gasp when he looms over me.
“Did you ask Jig about the keys, little princess? Did he tell you what he did, hm?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, glancing at the door. I’m still woefully alone. Damn it.
“No? Too busy sucking his dick, maybe? Tsk, tsk. Your father is rolling over in his grave.”
Gritting my teeth, I say, “What do you want?”
“I want you to pull your head out of your ass. That boy knows things, hm? Ask him. Ask him about your father.”
Flinching from his vehemence, I sway on my feet. “Why do you care? This isn’t about you.”
Cocking his head to the side, he grabs my hair and whispers against my ear, “Because your father owes me.”
“Wh-what?” I gasp, wrenching away. He drops his hand with a smile.
“Ask him,” he says, “Ask Jig.”
With weak knees, I nod, my head bowed to my chest. This fucker is a wack job. What does he mean about my father?
When I don’t respond, he wrenches my arm. “You’re just like your fucking father, a thorn in my damn side. And now Castinetti? Nuh-uh, no way.”
Raising my chin, I channel every fucking molecule of my dad as I say, “Back the fuck off. You report to me, remember?”
John dips his head, his pale eyes hard, and then he chuckles. The grating sound is like razors across my skin, and I narrow my eyes when what I really want to do is run and never look fucking back.
“You think you’re tough? Fine. I have something for Sal. It’s at the cabin.”
“What cabin?”
“It’s up North.”
I don’t trust this dick. And sending me to the middle of nowhere sounds fucking sketchy.
“I think you should bring it here,” I say and John blinks.
“You think? You think? Well, don’t fucking think. I can’t bring,” he sneers, “it here. You think Castinetti wants that shit anywhere the cops can find it?”
Biting my lip, I exhale slowly, filing away the piece about the cops for when I can freak out later. “If you can’t bring it here, how am I supposed to?”
“Not my fucking problem! Here.” He holds out an envelope, and I take it reluctantly, my stomach a burning mass of bile.
Sal’s demands just went next level, and now I’m hoping I’m not holding something that could send me to prison.
“Tell Sal it’s all lined up.”