Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (7 page)

“And?”

“And you seemed to be in the middle of a pretty heated conversation with them.”

I reach a hand inside my jacket. My pocket’s empty.

Dammit. What did I do with it?

I could really use a drag right about now.

“I assume you were talking about Mr. Leary.”

“I don’t have time for this shit.”

Must have left it on the counter, this morning. Damn, the Chevelle is so close I can almost touch it.

It’s
right
there.

“Why was the conversation so abruptly ended as soon as your brother arrived?”

I’m getting a headache. She literally gives me a fucking headache. How many people can I say that about?

“Of course, I didn’t know he was your brother when I made that observation.” She chews on the inside of her cheek and waits. The back of my neck itches. I need a smoke like I’ve never fucking needed a smoke before.

I don’t enjoy being backed into a corner by annoyingly intuitive tabloid reporters. Since I can’t find the one thing that might take away the stress of this situation, I divert.

“Why would you wanna do me any favors, anyway?”

“Huh?” Suddenly she’s not the pushy reporter any more. She’s caught off guard. I can tell by the way she takes an inadvertent step backward away from me.

Booyah.

“Why do you care if I have family drama or not? Or better yet, why do you care if I’m uncomfortable about it? You seem to
like
making people uncomfortable.”

“I wanted to help.”

This, my friend, is humor. In case you didn’t recognize it through her steely disposition or the fake-ass innocent expression on her face.

“Ha! Bullshit.”

“Okay.” She admits it, surprisingly enough. “Jeez, I guess I figured if I did you a solid, you’d give me some information.”

I gotta give it to her. At least the truth is coming out of her mouth this time. Funny as it may be.

“First of all, that wasn’t a solid. I know how to handle myself with my own brother, and secondly, I don’t owe you shit.”

Green’s cheeriness fades. I just burst her bubble in record time. Not that I feel bad about it, but now I’m kind of curious.

“What exactly did you think you were gonna get out of me?”

She shrugs and tries her hand at the eyelash batting thing. It’s not as good as the flirting, let me just say. “Like I said, it seemed like maybe you knew those officers.” She nods sideways, back toward the crime scene. “I was hoping you could tell me what happened. Give me a scoop.”

Approach with caution
signs are flashing all around me. She has got to be kidding me.

“You can cut the crap, Green. My brother’s gone, and I’m not falling for the cute act.”

Mainly because my traitor dick twitches every time she does that shit. Not to mention the fact that information in an everyday reporter’s hands is scary. The truth in Emma Green’s hands? I don’t even wanna think about it.

“And why in the name of Lucifer would I… Ya know what? Never mind.”

“But—”

“You already know what happened. The entire tristate area knows what happened. It was on every news channel around. Gunshot to the back of the head. Donnie go bye-bye. End of story.”

I leave out the fact that I might have been able to save the kid had I taken my head out of my ass long enough.

“Why do I get the impression you don’t believe that?”

Green is a little too observant for her own good. That’s what’s going to get her hurt some day.

“No idea. Maybe your radar is off.” That’s believable, right?

She raises an eyebrow at me, telling me no, it’s not fucking believable.

“What?”

She takes a deep breath in and let’s it out slow, making me wonder if she’s seeing the same therapist I am. “How about I buy you that Bonefish dinner I told your brother you owe me. Then you can tell me all about the
gunshot to the head
.” She air quotes that last part and smirks when she’s done. She actually thinks she’s being influential, here.

I smile for her.

Hell, why
not
have her pay for my grub tonight?

Including the champagne.

Part of me even thinks I might actually enjoy listening to her jabber on about all of her crazy reporter bullshit. A deep, dark, albeit deranged, part of me.

Maybe I could inquire about where she got that scar just above her left eye. Or why she looks at me all cockeyed sometimes.

I want to inhale her perfume and maybe even let myself get intoxicated by the sound of her hums when I’m doing it. And I have no goddamn idea why.

In the middle of my completely irrational daydream, I remember she’s the enemy. And let us not forget the boy-toy. Whatever he is.
So instead of messing with any more dangerous ideas, I pull my keys out of my jeans’ pocket and give her a two-finger wave.

“Nice seeing you, as always, Green.” I head for the car, and before her heels make the first clack against the pavement, I hear her huff out in frustration.

“Wait.”

“No can do,” I tell her over my shoulder. “I’ve got actual work to do.” And a cold shower to take.

“Stiles, if you would just—”

“When I’m in the mood to get my name dragged through the mud again, I’ll call you.”

That’s a lie, of course. I don’t have her number.

Keep walking, Stiles.

I train my eyes on the Chevelle and continue moving forward. Thank God I came to my senses. For all I know, Jim Galley and his goons pointed her in my direction to get me drunk and have me spill all my secrets into some sort of recording device. Next thing I know, my words are twisted, and I get a free pass to some quality jail time for being the guy who killed Donnie Leary.

No. And thank you.

GHOSTS OF VICTIMS PAST

THERE’S NOTHING LIKE a couple days, some easy jobs, and a little bit of self-deprecation to make you forget about the piercing green eyes and enticing grin of a certain nosy─yet intriguingly seductive in her own weird, talkative, highly intrusive personality kinda way─reporter.

Or not.

Emma Green’s attempt to manipulate me the other day might’ve failed, but the lingering effect of her flirtatious tone and inquisitive disposition has, unfortunately, struck a chord with me.

A chord that’s very much in need of a fucking tuning, considering the fact that rubbing one out didn’t get her out of my head. Apparently, a late night visit to Marty Sweetwater’s apartment didn’t either,
and
she may or may not think I’m into role play now since I accidentally called her Emma during sex.

But I digress.

It’s kinda pissing me off, truthfully. That and the fact she and my brother seemed to hit it off so easily. I’m pretty sure Mikey would’ve liked her, too.

Talk to me, Jackie.

I force the sound of his voice out of my head as I smear the fog from the bathroom mirror. The dark glare of a villain engraved high into my left peck grabs my attention. Its sinister smirk judges me.

He resembles a darker, more twisted version of the Joker from a deck of cards, with a twinge of the Dark Knight’s adversary bleeding through in his expression. People read into what he means, and I don’t correct them. The truth is, he’s a reminder of what I am and what I’m not, and that’s none of their fucking business.

The sound of Marty Sweetwater’s earlier news segment rerun bleeds in from the other room when I start to brush my teeth. It’s enough to keep me from sinking into what is quickly becoming sulk mode and more along the lines of the much needed P.I. mode.

Before I hopped into the shower this morning, I heard the tail end of Donnie Leary’s funeral announcement. Now I’m getting all the deets. It’s being held in a few short hours at Redemption’s South End Cemetery. Good to know, but why in the hell are they making this a segment? It’s not like he was a big player. He wasn’t even a medium player.

The next words out of Sweetwater’s mouth answer my question. They needed a reason to bring up Thomas Flint and his clan of assholes again.

“The gang is known to be in connection with much of the drug distribution that’s infiltrating the area. Flint is said to be personally responsible for the increasing number of high school dropouts in the past two years by recruiting teenagers into his circle of crime.”

Dun, dun,
dunnnnnn
.

Frustrated with the amount of attention this guy gets lately, I turn off the boob-tube, toss the remote, and stumble down the hallway. I’ve got to find myself something to wear today.

My closet’s full of a lot of the same shit so it doesn’t take me long to find a decent shirt, socks, and jeans to walk around in. I push my feet into some shoes on my way to the kitchen. After I dole out food for Frodo to find later, I slide my Smith & Wesson into its holster. I nab the cigarette I left sitting on the coffee table last night, just in case, and head out to the car with one thought managing to nag at the back of my mind.

Donnie Leary.

X X X

Breathe, Stiles.

I hadn’t planned on paying my respects to the kid, yet here I am, a good forty to forty-five minutes away from my office and headed straight toward the one place I shouldn’t be.

Go figure.

I park the car about a quarter mile away from the burial site and head up a familiar hill to check things out from afar.

An uncomfortable stiffness begins to creep into every inch of me the closer I get to where Donnie Leary is about to be put into the ground. It could be the darkened skies putting me in a bad mood. Maybe it’s the cold weather. Or
it could be guilt for not visiting this place often enough over the past decade.

Mikey’s gravestone is playing at the edges of my periphery I don’t dare look in its direction, though. That’s asking for a whole bunch of pain I don’t have the will or the want to deal with right now.

Instead, for the millionth time, just today, I question my decision-making skills from a few nights ago. I’m not sure I have a right to even be here, but it’s too late now. So I trudge the rest of the way up the hill and take a spot behind an old maple tree.

When I look down onto the scene below, my gut is shaky. A tailspin of memories are hurled at me of another funeral that happened on this property back when I was barely considered an adult.

It didn’t go so well, but then again, what funeral does?

“What the hell are you doing here?”

My father’s voice echoes inside my mind while I try to focus on the current burial that’s about to happen. It doesn’t work. All the confusion, anger, frustration, and regret I had that day takes a hold of me all over again.

“I didn’t mean for—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant, does it?”

If I concentrate hard enough, I know I can push his voice out of my head. And I do. Because I need to see who shows up to say goodbye to Donnie and make an assessment as to whether or not any of them might have played a hand in putting him in the ground.

Thunder cracks above me. It’s like the sky's about to open up right over my fucking head, but I still have a few minutes to make some notes.

There aren’t a
ton
of people here. A few hoodies pulled over some faces, a couple of adult-type figures, ten, maybe twenty more I don’t care to elaborate on, and the preacher, grasping his Bible like it’s a goddamn security blanket.

I expected more based on the number of kids who were ready to rumble for him the other night, but I guess it makes sense, them not being here. Most of Donnie’s associations were probably criminals, and the rest, well, they most likely didn’t want to come out in the middle of what looks like the beginning of a pretty disastrous storm.

One person, who’s notably standing just outside the crowd of attendees, is the girl from the street race. The one who kissed Donnie good luck and whispered sweet somethings into his ear. She isn’t the happy, bubbly young girl in love from the other night. Now she looks stoic, frozen, and much older as she watches the generic scene unfold in front of her. Kind of how my mom looked the last time we stood about fifty feet from where I’m standing.

“I’m sorry, Ma.”

She couldn’t look at me, and it drove an ice pick straight into my chest. The more I tried to make amends, the more she cried. The more she cried, the more my dad reminded me I wasn’t wanted there to begin with.

“Why don’t you take some of your own advice, son? Go home.”

I’m not gonna lie and say it didn’t hurt. But it
was
one of those learning moments I was awarded in life.

Don’t open up a wound and people can’t pour salt in it.

I did better than go home. I moved out that day.

The priest, down below, begins a speech. I keep my distance for a lot of reasons. It’s not like I need to be down there to know what’s going on. It’s easy to imagine what’s being said. Some form or another of “ashes to ashes and dust to dust” that doesn’t really apply to real world bullshit on any level whatsoever; and the way the preacher says it makes you think he’s repeated it so many times even he doesn’t know what it means any more. And when the dirt starts getting shoveled on top of the person you’re trying desperately to hold onto, you realize you’re never getting him back. So what fucking difference does it make what anyone says, anyway?

A police cruiser pulls up to the site and everyone, including Donnie’s girl, distances themselves from the plot. In fact, hardly anyone’s left as the casket starts to lower, save the cops who showed up last minute and a couple of stragglers who must not have anything to hide today. My feet take a few steps backward. It’s time for me to get outta Dodge myself.

“Sorry, kid.” The words sting and feel empty. Don’t get me wrong, I mean them. But are they enough?

When I can’t see his casket any more, I turn to go.

Just in time, it seems, as the first raindrops begin to fall from the sky.

Mikey’s grave isn’t too far from where I’m standing. I can almost see it in the distance. His headstone pulls at me like a magnet, but I fight against it. I’m fucking tired of trips down memory lane today.

I’m out.

“Stiles?” A curious voice calls out from the bottom of the hill. And just when I thought I was gonna make a clean getaway, too.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

Is lightning about to strike me dead?

Affirmative.

I could pretend I didn’t hear her. Go on about my business. But something about Green’s pompous attitude, every goddamn time I see her, makes me wanna run her off a high bridge into some shallow water.

For now, I don’t have the fucking energy. So I wave and figure that’s that.

“Are you following me?” she calls out.

My feet screech to a halt. Am I… Did she just…

“No.” Seriously? “Why would I-”

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” She pulls her pad and paper out of the bag she’s got flung over her shoulder. “I mean, it can’t possibly be for Donnie Leary’s funeral since you have no idea what’s going on with that.”

I’d say something but the words inside my head aren’t quite forming a logical thought.

Yet.

“Unless you lied.” She waits a beat. “Did you lie to me, Stiles?” She readies her pen and paper for something to write.

How did she get right up into my personal space so fast?

“Like I’m gonna spill my guts to the woman who wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked her in the face.”

I don’t fucking think so.

“Is it another case? Or…” She thinks it over and a thought strikes her. “Are you
actually
following me?”

Her hand lowers. “Because that’s harassment, Stiles. I do have a day job you know, and every right to-”

“Jesus.” Enough with this shit. “No I am not fucking following you.”

No way in hell am I telling her I’m here for Donnie, but what the fuck else am I supposed to do?

My thoughts are, once again, drawn to Mikey.

And I really hope he forgives me for this someday.

“Tell ya what.” I take her by the shoulders and spin her around, then I point in the general direction of where my brother’s body was buried. “Take a walk about fifty or so feet in that direction, and have a nice fucking day.”

I leave her there without a single look back to see if she went for the bait.

“Stiles! I’m—”

I don’t hear what it is she says. The door is closed and I’m in drive before she can finish.

Deep breaths.
I hear my therapist’s voice in my head. Which I ignore because screw breathing. I need a drink.

I pull the
last cig standing
out of my pocket. It’s tempting. All I need to do is light it up and inhale. One puff and the stress of dealing with the smartest mouth in America would be over. Alas, I’m not giving in. Not today. And not over Emma motherfucking Green. So I hide the stick away again and move on to a very important decision I need to make.
Lunch or work?

I have zero appetite, between Donnie Leary’s funeral, Emma Green being Emma Green, and the warped adaptation of
Jackson Stiles, this is your life
that I was playing back there, so I head for the office.

Let’s do this.

X X X

I know I said it’s my safe haven, but really, it’s mostly mindless paperwork I do at the office. Today, I’m thankful for it. Not only because it’s raining cats and fucking dogs outside, but it busies my brain and keeps me focused on what’s important.
Getting paid.
Something snooping around Donnie Leary’s fresh grave isn’t gonna get me.

I solemnly swear to leave the police work to my brother.

Most of the time.