Page 85 of Jig's Last Dance

In my room, I pull open a drawer and shuffle the shit around before grabbing everything and dumping it on the bed. Next are my shirts and jeans, whatever Ben chose not to set on the porch. I stuff it in a bag.

Jig watches me silently from the threshold. When I’m done, I throw the bag at him and enter the bathroom, sneering, “I’m peeing. Did you need to watch that too?”

His brows fly over his eyes, and I close the door on his no doubt snarky response before quietly sliding the lock into place.

Leaning against the wood, I hear the soft shush of him shuffling around and tiptoe to the other door, which leads into my brother’s room.

His space is still a pigsty, and I swallow a curse when I bang my toe against whatever the fuck is hidden beneath piles of clothes, dirty dishes, and shit.

At the door to the hall, I pause and suck in a breath before poking my head beyond. I don’t see Jig at my door, and I can only hope his curiosity has gotten the better of him as I shoot across the hall and plaster myself against the wall inside my parents’ room.

When nothing stirs, I tiptoe into the closet and kneel before the safe, pressing my shaking finger over the sensor.

The lock clicks, and I cringe, glancing behind me before slowly opening the door and surveying my options.

The .357 was my favorite once upon a time. With a shrug, I press it between my jeans so it rests against my tailbone before grabbing a box of ammunition. This I shove in my waist band as well and fluff my shirt, hoping it won’t be too fucking obvious.

With a silent sigh, I reengage the lock before poking my head out into the corridor. The coast is still clear, and I hop into Ben’s room before sliding back into the bathroom.

“Shit,” I gasp, heaving out a breath before flushing the toilet and running the sink.

Jig is sitting on my bed flipping through a book when I open the door, and I gasp when I see it’s my diary. I haven’t written in the thing for years, but fuck, there are personal details no one needs to know.

Shit. Did I write about him in there?

He looks up with a quiet intensity that makes me shiver before his lips quirk in a smile. “What?” I slam my hand into the book, and it drops from his fingers.

“Interesting reading, sunshine.”

“Fuck off,” I growl, grabbing up the journal and shoving it in a drawer. But after a moment’s hesitation, I take it out of the drawer and shove it into a box in the closet.

I’m pretty sure I don’t need my brother reading that shit either. Jig watches me with a smirk, and I grab his arm, pulling him down the hall. We exit back out the garage door, and once we’re in the car, he pulls away from the curb with a whistle.

Sinking in my seat, I glare out the window, turning to him with wide eyes when he says, “So, Michael Rappaport was your first kiss?”

∞∞∞

“Here?” I grumble, staring at his bed. He lives in a fucking mansion, and he thinks I’m gonna sleep here?

Fuck no.

“Yep,” he says with a shit-eating grin. Rolling my eyes, I wave around me and say sassily, “How many bedrooms does this house have?”

“Ten.”

“So, there are nine other rooms, and you expect me to sleep with you?”

His jaw dips, and his eyes lose their sparkle before he says, “Eight. And yes, you’re sleeping here. My house, my rules.”

Ignoring the chill, I turn away and mumble, “You’re fucking insane.”

“Yep. Now, about Michael Rap—”

Shrieking, I grab a pillow off the bed and lob it at his head. He catches it with a grin and tackles me to the mattress. Bucking against him, I pause when his erection presses into my leg. With a mischievous smile, he rolls me over and thrusts into my core.

“If I recall, you were asking for my dick earlier?”

“What?” I groan, staring into his brilliant eyes.