Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“Jiggy?” Rock’s rough voice pulls me out of my thoughts. Has he said my name more than once?
He’s waiting with an expectant expression. I glance at the house and press my hand to my chest. “You want my opinion?”
“You’re standing here.” Rock tilts his head and speaks with exaggerated slowness. “I assume there’s a functional brain between your ears. Any thoughts?”
I glance at Teller. Is he going to jump down my throat if I answer? Probably. Too bad. “I thought it would be creepier but it’s kinda homey. I get that the markups are high, but can the club really make enough bank to justify the hassle?”
“Eventually, yes,” Teller answers with more patience than I expected. “But having another place—besides a seedy titty bar—to wash cash is the real draw. And access to the crematorium.”
Ah, yes. Our never-ending need for places to clean our dirty money. “Yeah, that part’s cool.”
I still didn’t care for the way the old man spoke to his daughter. Margot. God damn, she’s cute.
“Anyone else think his attitude toward the daughter is kinda shitty?” I ask, gesturing toward the home.
“I noticed.” Teller shrugs. “Unless it interferes with the business, it’s not our problem. We’re not here to drag him into the twenty-first century.”
I shrug. “Fair enough.” It’s not like our MC is all about equality, either.
Murphy doubles over laughing his big, bearded face off. “You got a thing for blondes, Jiggy? First Shelby’s mom…”
Oh, hell no. He didn’t bring Lynn into this. “First”—I shove a finger in Murphy’s face— “Shelby’s mom was most definitely not my first. Blonde or otherwise. And second”—I step back and smirk— “I appreciate females of all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors.”
Teller groans. “You know women don’t exist to be your dick sweaters, right?”
I can’t help laughing. I’m so using dick sweaters in the future. “If they were, I’d prefer them warm and tight.” I make a fist in front of Teller’s face and shake it back and forth.
“Enough.” Rock squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Yes, the old man’s attitude is shitty, but Teller’s right. It’s not our problem. However, Margot seemed to like you, Jiggy. If it’s all right with Z, I’d like you to help Teller with this project.”
Hell yes. Rock knows what’s up. He saw the spark between Margot and me.
With our Upstate president’s blessing, I’ll have plenty of time to return and get to know her better while I’m “helping” Teller fix up the place.
“Wait, what?” Teller stops and stares at Rock. “You heard him. He’ll be asking her to try his dick on for size.”
“How crass.” I let out a big, fake yawn and shake my head. “You’re the one who came up with dick sweaters, not me.”
“He’s…available.” Rock turns my way and smirks. “Women seem to find him charming.”
“They really do,” I agree.
“Fine. You’re right.” Teller glances at the funeral home. “It’ll be helpful for Jigsaw to keep her occupied and away from me.”
Fuck yeah, sign me up. I’ll occupy the fuck out of Margot. I salute Teller with two fingers instead of the one I really want to fly in his face.
Despite what any of them think, it’s not Margot’s pretty face and perfect, curvy little figure that interests me the most. Nope. When I looked in her eyes, I glimpsed something dark that I recognized all too well. Maybe it’s her ease at working with the dead. But I sense it’s more than that and I’m eager to find out everything I can about Margot Cedarwood.
CHAPTER FIVE
Margot
The O’Leary family is small, but Ann O’Leary had a lot of friends. The viewing room is packed. Even the hallways are crowded. During the viewing, I walk a continuous loop from the front door to check on Henry, who greets people, hands them a pen, and asks them to sign the register book, to the viewing room where my cousin Paul is stationed a discreet distance from the casket in case there are any issues—like the one time we had a son try to climb into his mother’s casket and almost knocked it off the catafalque.
I ran into Daniel briefly this morning but haven’t seen him since.
My father’s out back preparing things for the trip to the cemetery, while I continue observing and fixing any issues that arise.
On one of my rounds, Paul signals to me that there’s an issue in the back of the room. It doesn’t take long for my gaze to land on pieces of a broken vase. I hurry over to pick it up before someone gets hurt.
Holding the large chunks of broken porcelain in my hands, I stand and turn quickly—only to freeze when I find myself face to face with Daniel.
“Hi,” I squeak. “How is everything?” I add in a slightly less startled, more professional tone.
“Wonderful. Truly. Thank you for everything.” While his words are appreciative, he seems rigid.