Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (4 page)

BOOK: Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption
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“That’s what I thought.” I give him a nod before I walk on through the metal detector. On the other side, I quietly collect my things. There’s no way I’m pushing the sarcastic limits with this guy.

In the elevator, I’m grateful for the opportunity to lean my head back, close my eyes, and enjoy the quiet while my skull continues to recuperate. It’s a fleeting appreciation, though, because five quick floors later the elevator doors open, and I’ve officially arrived at my own personal version of Hell.

“Morning, Stiles.” The five-and-a-half-foot brunette who likes to make my life miserable is easily five-eight, maybe even five-nine in the heels she’s got on today. Combined with the dark blue power suit she’s wearing, she comes off as all business despite the fact that she doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s too busy scrolling through a bunch of bullshit on her smartphone.

I growl a response so it comes out as more of a warning than a greeting. Is it a bit much for this time of day? Maybe. Considering our history, I’m not exactly worried about her impression of me, though.

Emma Green is the latest and greatest “crime” reporter for our friendly neighborhood tabloid. And I use the term “reporter” loosely, by the way. Very loosely.

Doesn’t care about getting the story right in certain cases, if ya know what I mean, loosely.

Her name’s been on nearly every article Redemption’s local paper
The
Chronicle
has put out since she arrived from somewhere down in Florida. She shows up at most crime scenes, from burglaries to homicides, and has very much become a royal pain in my…

“You’re late, by the way. They were just talking about you.” She mutters and points, blindly, down the hall as she steps into the elevator. Which is my cue to get the fuck out.

My one and only cigarette calls to me from the front pocket of my button-down.
Thank God I remembered it.
But quite frankly, I don’t have the energy to pull it out.
Not that I wouldn’t get arrested if I did, but . . .

“And you look like hell.” She’s full of compliments today, I see.

“Fuck you very much, Green.” Not that I’m complaining. It makes it easy to respond to her in like fashion. And bonus: I’m feeling pretty good about getting the last word in on this battle of the banter, as the doors close but then they open again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stay up so late playing around with your buddies over at the police department.” I look back to see her foot blocking the sensors that would normally allow the doors to close. She still can’t be bothered to look up. She’s too busy burying her nose into the iPhone.

Let’s be real here. Flirting is not her forte.

“I appreciate that enlightening bit of useless advice, Green.” Despite my attempt to be nice, sarcasm spills out of every word. It’s only when she pulls her foot all the way in and the doors are halfway shut that I ask myself: how did she know I was downtown last night?

Emerald eyes peer up at me as the question enters my mind. And I swear, she’s fucking smirking.

Between the pleasant smile and the way her expression lights up like she’s about to pounce, I’m not sure what the hell to think. I haven’t seen her smile like that since the day I briefly met her on the scene of a break-in I was hired to investigate. First thing I noticed was her smile. She seemed… new.

The next thing I noticed was her eyes.

Deep green. The grab-ahold-of-you-and-don’t-let-go kind that make you wanna know everything that’s going on behind them.

And don’t even get me started on her ass. It begs for mercy because she, no doubt, runs it every day, then follows up with a pint of fat free yogurt and a jug of water.

Not that I’ve thought about it.

But I digress.

She was polite enough. Or so I thought. Asked me if I had any insider’s information on what had gone down that day. It’s not like I was rude or anything. All I did was tell her I wasn’t doing her fucking job for her.

I paid the price for that comment in the article she ran the next day. The headline read, “Local P.I. steals more from family than burglar.” I won’t bother you with the details, but let’s just say, the article was less about the break-in and more about what an asshole I am.

I mean, what the fuck?

I can assure anyone who has the balls to ask, I charge less than ninety percent of the dicks working the tristate area. Just ask the bill collectors.

The asshole thing is still up for debate… in most circles.

Lesson learned here? Never trust a woman with eyes that stunning or an ass that tight.

Basically, I fucking hate her.

“Stiles!”

Here we go.

Green’s vindictive nature is forgotten as I turn to face the state's attorney, my brother, and his dicktwat of a superior all waiting for me at the end of the hallway. I walk down to meet them. My welcoming smile is usually enough to put people at ease, but this crew? Not so much.

“What’s up?”

My brother, who’s in full uniform, crosses his arms and looks at the very interesting wall beside him like a pouting baby. His boss gives me the old “furrowed brow” look, and I’m confused all of a sudden.

“What? I’m not
that
late.” I check my watch. “Did the judge change his mind about letting me testify? Is he still pissed? ’Cause I’m going to my appointments.”

Most of them, anyway.

There’s a sequel to the wall, apparently. Nick has now found the more exciting, more mysterious ceiling.

It’s odd behavior even for him.

“Court’s been adjourned, Stiles. You can go home.” Shawn Davenport, the state’s attorney, is the only one to tell me what the fuck is going on.

“That was quick.”

“Try screwed.” My brother lets his very controlled irritation spill out, and I’m about to ask him about his choice of angry Nick words when we’re both shot down by his dick of a boss.
Whose name, coincidentally, might I add, is Dick. Richard, technically, but still…

“That’s enough, Detective!”


Dick.

“What happened?” I ask the only person in the immediate area who might actually answer me.

“Our evidence was lost.” Davenport’s stare is cold. It’s not difficult to read between the lines here. When he says lost, he clearly means conveniently.

“Huh.”   


And
the transcripts we had where this guy named names.”

His eyes flick over toward my brother and his superior then back to me again. I don’t know if I was supposed to notice that shit or not, but never-the-less, I take a peek toward them.  Neither is paying any attention. They’re too lost in their own quiet discussion about what went down this morning. It’s probable that they didn’t even hear what Davenport said.

Time out.

Is he saying what I think he’s fucking saying?

I, for one, fully understand the urge to start a conspiracy theory, especially when it comes to some of the boys on the force in Redemption, but to insinuate that Nick Stiles had something to do with it?

No fucking way.

I make eye contact with Davenport again and let him know I’m in disagreement with that craziness. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. Nick was in charge of the case. He suggested Dick hire me. He wanted this guy behind bars more than I did. Plus, he’s way too goodie-two-shoes for that kinda bullshit.

I shrug it off and move on to more questions.

“So what, my testimony is shit now? They know I’m an eyewitness, right? The night I picked him up was─”

“Doesn’t matter, Stiles,” Davenport explains. “Without the other, yeah, basically. Your testimony, most unfortunately, is shit. I mean, you’re not the most reliable source these days.”

I huff, disgusted with the system. “The fuck did you even ask me to come for, then?”

“Stiles.” A word of warning from the dick himself, but honestly, he doesn’t bother me as much as my brother’s silence. There’s no way I’ll get anything out of him, though.

Not with the state’s attorney
and
Dick Walker around.

“It was everything combined that was gonna help put this guy away, but you alone?” He makes a face that resembles a cartoon character trying to figure out where his balls are, and I get it.

I fucking get it.

And I have zero time to waste arguing the topic, so…

“Say no more.” I hold a hand up to him and wave. Sort of. “Gentlemen.” I nod to Nick. “Bro. Since you won’t be needing my services, I’ve gotta see a bail bondsman about a runner.”  I back down the hallway a bit then make a run for it.  Figuratively speaking, that is. I run for no one unless my paycheck is at risk.

I’ll back Nick into a corner later to see what in the hell all the cryptic BS was about. Maybe he’ll actually tell me.

Probably not.

“Oh, well.” When I get to the elevator it’s already open. As I take the ride back down to the ground floor, despite my attempt to blow off what just happened, everything is too damn loud inside my head.

Besides the fact that yet another Redemption asshole is getting off scot-free today, I’ve lost gas, time, and not to mention much needed sleep.

As I leave the building and step out into the chilly, overcast day, my stomach grumbles.

And I’m fucking hungry to boot.

I need breakfast. Fast. And maybe a nap before I go see Tricky Ricky. But when I witness an argument going on, roughly ten feet away, I call for a change in the game plan.

Emma Green stands there, flustered with every ounce of her being, in a heated discussion with none other than her smartphone.

Why am I not surprised?

Her back is toward me so she doesn’t know I’m there as she growls out in frustration.

“No, Siri, call
Dad.
” Eventually, she gives up on the voice dial feature and begins to frantically type something instead. As she taps away at the buttons, she’s jabbering incoherently, and I think about what my options are here.

Obviously, she’s focused on whatever it is she’s talking about. The intensity in her body language tells me it’s something serious. At least in her world it is.

In reality, she’s probably late for a deadline on some story about a poor schmuck who thought she wanted a quote for honorable reasons as opposed to circulation numbers.

Therefore, the only logical thing for me to do is fuck with her.

I take a few quiet steps in her direction, and when I’m an arm’s length away, I tap her on the shoulder.

“Whatcha doing there, Green?”

A blur of brown hair smacks me in the face, the iPhone flies through the air, and before I can laugh at the alarmed expression she’s wearing, the woman decks me. Right in the fucking lip. Like she’s on the set of a Bruce Lee movie or some shit.

“Ow! Fuck!”

I bend over and cover my face in case blood is about to splatter the sidewalk. It doesn’t but I can taste iron which means she broke the fucking skin.

Damn, she’s got a right hook on her.

Someone
explain to me why I find that shit sexy.

I stand up straight again. No way I’m giving her the satisfaction of knowing it hurts like hell. Green’s eyes are wide and horrified. When she sees I’m fine, they turn to relieved and then she realizes it’s me.

Now I’m rewarded with the infamous bitch face.

Nice.

Green backs away, slow like, and wipes her hands against her outfit to regain her composure.

Because
I’m
the one with cooties here.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Her brow creases and her eyes are angry.

“Me? What the—”

“Sneaking up on someone like that.” She looks around on the ground, for her phone, I’m assuming.

“You just—”

“You scared the shit out me, Stiles.” She finds it and bends over to pick it up. That tight ass of hers is flaunting itself. She catches me staring when she’s up straight again.

Damned tight asses.

“I’m reporting you.” She points a finger at me and stomps off. The clickity-clacking of her shoes echoes throughout the area.

“Reporting me? I should fucking report your ass for assault.”

Green spins. “Assault?” She tilts her head slightly so she can hear me better. She’s practically amused for Christ’s sake.

“That’s right. Men are assaulted by women every day,” I inform little miss crazy pants. “They don’t make a complaint necessarily because it might somehow jeopardize their manhood. In this case, I’m glad to make an exception.”

Green’s mouth falls open and her eyes begin to narrow. She stands there, staring at me like that for an eternity before she decides something and shakes her head.

She turns to go again, then spins back to face me one more time. She’s about to say something, and it looks to be a doozy, except something catches her eyes behind me, and she points.

“Who is that?”

BOOK: Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption
8.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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