Page 83 of Jig's Last Dance
“What’s the plan?” I rasp, my throat sore from holding back the fear pressing at my lungs.
Jig’s brows drop over his eyes. “We’ll go up Saturday.”
“We? Just give me the address—”
“No fucking way,” Jig growls, and I acquiesce. This was how it was always going to go. The question is, are we playing into John’s hands, or am I playing into Jig’s?
Nodding, I turn away, unsurprised when Jig follows me from the room and out to the car.
Looking it over with distaste, I turn to Jig, and he raises a brow.
With a ghastly smile, I ask, “Can you drop me off?”
He glances at the car, and I follow his gaze, clearing my throat. “It’s better if he doesn’t know where I’m going.”
“Then you shouldn’t be driving his car,” he says.
Dipping my chin, I nod reluctantly. “Fine. But I still need a ride.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket, and we get into the SUV. When we’re on the highway, I murmur, “I need to go home.”
He heads west, and I stare out the window, turning my head when he asks, “What else happened?”
“Nothing,” I say. I’m not in the mood to share. Frankly, I’m afraid I might lose my shit if I do because I’m holding onto my sanity with my fingertips. The longer I wait to get this done, the longer my dad could be in danger.
Is he alive? I don’t know. If he is, he sure has some explaining to do. Ben’s never been the same, not to mention his total sacrifice for me. And I’ve been no better, hanging out, partying to escape the empty feeling that pervades our home.
I haven’t allowed myself to consider Mom. If Dad somehow lived through the accident, then what about her? The thought burns my chest and I set it aside. I loved my parents equally but in some ways, Mom was the one who was there, while Dad was off working. This is why I avoid thinking about her. It cuts too fucking deep.
Shaking my head, I turn back to the current ridiculousness. I’ll have plenty of time to either hate or mourn my parents later. Now, I have to consider John’s insistence about Jig. Who do I trust?
“Whatever. You’ve been inside your own head for hours. Tell me.”
Shaking my head, I ignore him until he pulls to the side of the road. The truck fishtails in the gravel, and I careen around, grabbing the oh-shit handle before shooting him a murderous glare.
For my efforts, he merely raises a brow.
“What?” I snarl, clenching my hands into fists.
“Spill,” he says, leaning back as though he’s getting nice and comfortable.
Narrowing my eyes, I drill him with my stare, but he’s unaffected. “Jig . . .”
“Sunshine . . .” he smiles, and I huff, glancing out the window.
I don’t want to talk about shit. Besides, if I do tell him, it’s possible I’ll get pretty lies in return. What’s the point?
But if I don’t, the fucker might sit here all night. Unless I can distract him.
He shifts, and I turn, eyeing him for a moment. What the hell. It’s worth a shot. And I could use a good distraction too.
He’s gazing at me steadily, and with a silent prayer for patience, I slide across the seat and snuggle into his side.
His brows drop, and he sucks in a breath. Mentally, I roll my eyes before saying softly, “Jig?”
“Yeah?” The husky timbre of his voice makes me squirm, and I just know he’s fucking smiling arrogantly, but I choose to focus on my goal.
Running my fingertip up the line of his arm, I trace the brilliant red rose painted on his skin, frowning at the sharp, barbed wire piercing the soft flesh. From afar, this looks like a sweet tattoo. Up close, it’s almost tragic.