Page 59 of Forged in Rain

Screwing my face into indifference, I step around the corner and approach as a trio of heads turn my way.

Jig smiles happily, and although I’m annoyed with his line of questioning, I set it aside and give him a small smile in return. Of course, Bastion has his customary scowl, which I ignore, sitting down across from him and beside Cyn, who’s giving me a moody look of his own.

“Hey,” I rasp, clearing my throat.

“LB,” Jig says with a smirk, “you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, rubbing my ankle where the fucking ache won’t go away.

Cyn rises and leaves to my dismay, but before I can brood on what it means, he returns with painkillers and hands me a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” I whisper, my pulse jumping when his mouth quirks at the corner.

“Okay, so what do we do?” Jig asks, pulling me away from thoughts I shouldn’t be having like maybe Cyn could love me after all.

“We find the money,” Cyn says quietly, sitting back down beside me.

“How? Iris said the last time she saw it, he buried it in the backyard.”

“She probably has it,” Bastion says, and although I’d like to defend Iris, I resist because it’s entirely likely she does.

“I searched her room, but I didn’t find any money,” I say instead.

“Nothing?” Jigs says, his blue eyes troubled.

Cyn pegs me with his stare, and I rub my eyes tiredly, muttering, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he mutters.

“Who’s Cue?” I ask, raising a brow.

His eyes darken, his mouth forming a thin line before he says, “Who we answer to.”

“Cyn,” Bastion growls, and Cyn turns to him with a raised brow.

“I thought that was McCafferty?” I ask, breaking into their intense stare-off.

“McCafferty is the endgame, but we have a go-between we’ve never met. It protects us from any legal action shit,” Jig says.

This sounds a little too unbelievable for a high schooler, although if anyone had told me last summer I’d be sitting here with these three, and we’d be talking about the Mafia, I wouldn’t have believed it, either.

“So, you don’t know who he is?” I ask.

“No, beauty,” Cyn says, and my heart flutters at the endearment, “but that’s where we get our orders.”

“Then what about Jagger?”

“Jagger thinks he’s running the show,” Bastion grumbles.

Rubbing my forehead in confusion, I say, “So Jagger’s not really in charge, and whoever is, calls that number which John conveniently had?”

“Yep.”

“So, it probably was John,” I say dully, ignoring the pulse of disappointment because the thought of these guys answering to John makes my skin crawl.

“That’s the thing. It can’t be,” Cyn mutters.

“How so?” I ask, dropping my hands to the table.

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