Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption Read online

  Heavy shit for the crack of dawn, I know.

  Welcome to my world.

  Fucking A.

  My cranium was apparently used as a landing pad for a Boeing seven-fifty-fucking-seven overnight. I can barely move without an ache screaming at me. My system is trying to decide if it wants to flush itself upward or downward. On top of which, my cell phone alarm is pissing me right the fuck off.

  I stretch and yawn. My arm is like lead when I feel around for the damn thing. The stiffness in my body makes every move painful. Hell, even the backs of my eyeballs are wailing out in dull misery.

  I find it. The phone that is. Eventually. And once it’s silent, I toss the damn thing to the floor because I’m too fucking tired to find the table again.

  I tighten my eyelids to make the jack hammering inside my head go away along with certain memories. But there’s only ever one way to make the flashbacks back the fuck off. So I open up my eyes, face the world, and fill my day with the business at hand. One day at a time. And maybe some goddamn ibuprofen.

  It’s been about three weeks since I’ve slept in the bed just down the hall. I’m not sure why but as a result the first thing I see every morning is the hand drawn cartoon character of yours truly hanging on the wall, wearing a black mask, a black cape, and a ray of hope surrounding his frame. Its glass encasement protects the art work these days, but I can still see the torn edges of the paper and the wrinkles from when it was thrown away, once upon a time.

  The sketch is the only thing I own worth putting up in the apartment. The only thing I both love and hate about this place.

  “Morning, Mikey.” My voice is strained and rough but despite the harsh sound of it, when I say his name, I’m someone else. Someone who doesn’t hate himself with every fiber of his fucking being.

  Luckily, the sound of my favorite newswoman repeating today’s news has begun to waft throughout the living room. It dulls the ache in my temples and clouds my head with distraction.

  Time to get a move on.

  My shoulder is killing me today. An old injury that never really healed from when I used to be a productive part of society, a.k.a., high school.

  I sit up and roll it out until it’s bearable. Then I stretch my neck and rub my temples. The half-empty bottle of Patron Silver sitting on my coffee table gets shoved aside and I shiver, because… alcohol.

  “Ow.” Where the fuck did this bruise on my arm come from, anyway? And where is the goddamn Aleve?

  Marty Sweetwater’s voice grabs my attention again, and she sounds slightly stressed as she doles out the news. That’s not something your average Joe would notice. Even in my current state, I’m pretty good at reading people, up to and including the way their voices change during intense moments they might be having.

  Not that I’ve been in Marty’s company while she was experiencing such intensity.

  Much.

  Okay, one time.

  Every few months.

  We don’t make a big deal about it. She’s way too fucking career driven to want or need a steady man in her life and I’m too drunk and/or angry to be that for anyone so… win-win.

  I smack my lips and curse the dehydration that takes over thoughts of Marty in the TV station’s men’s room. I press hard against the sides of my head and try to remember where I left the pain meds last time I used them. Then I swear at the fridge because I know for a fact there’s no bottled water left.

  I hate tap water. But that’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is the fact that Marty is telling viewers that there’s a mob of curious citizens starting to congregate outside the courthouse at this very moment.

  “The District Attorney just arrived with his team, and not fifteen minutes to spare.” Her reference to time causes my heart to stop. I lean over and grab my watch.

  “Shit.” I overslept.

  One, maybe four blinks later, I focus as best I can until things begin to clear up for me. Then I give my shirt a pat-down. When I find the cig, still safe in my front pocket, I breathe a little easier and pull it out to debate smoking it right here, right now, while Marty goes on with her story.

  “There’ve been rumors lately of dirty jurors, mishandling of evidence, and most disturbing, bribed judges . . .”

  “Mother of . . .” I drag a hand through my hair as the phone rings. Then I hop up off the couch a little too fast and nearly fall over from the pain behind my right eye.

  “Fuck.”

  The cancer stick gets flicked down onto the counter with a groan as I make my way down the hallway toward the bathroom.

  The landline rings again and what’s sad is I already know who it is before the answering machine picks up, which only feeds my irritation this morning.

  “Jackie, it’s Nick.”

  “No shit,” I tell the phone cradle as I pass it by.

  “You’re about to be late.”

  My brother, ladies and gentlemen. Queen of the mother hens. He also happens to be the lead detective for Redemption’s 1st Precinct, which is presumably why he’s so interested in my tardiness today. Not that he needs an excuse.

  I flip him the bird and grab a towel out of the hall closet. It’s also reasonable to believe that I use some highly creative sign language, aimed at the phone that may or may not involve my nether regions.

  “Again…” The tone in Nick’s voice tells me he’s out of patience with me at the moment. Maybe a little embarrassed. Quite honestly, I’m too hungover to give a shit.

  I shut the door to the bathroom so I don’t have to listen to the rest of what my big brother has to say.

  “Ah.” Pain relief sits there, waiting for me, on the bathroom sink. After I take a couple of pills, I wash them down with a handful of water from the faucet. Good stuff. In the shower, the scalding water wakes me up and clears my mind.

  X X X

  “Fastest comeback ever.” It takes me no more than ten minutes to shower, dress, and ensure my breath doesn’t smell like ass. No time for a shave. I’m still a bit shaky, and in dire need of some greasy food, but the headache is only lingering.

  Very delicately, I celebrate the tiniest of victories.

  In the kitchen, I grab the king-sized bag of cat chow. Frodo’s bowl only holds about a cup of food, and every day, without fail, I manage to spill most of it onto the tiled floor. Today, even more so than usual.

  “It’s gonna be one of those days, buddy.” I toss the scoop back into the bag and scratch the scrawny gray cat on his head before grabbing the last green apple off the counter for myself. It’s gonna have to do for now.

  Frodo’s a stray that found me about a year ago, FYI. We had a few late night chats, and I might have let him share some of my Kung Pao chicken one night. After that, he wouldn’t stop hanging out on my doorstep. I couldn’t bring myself to call animal control when he looked up at me with those pitiful hazel eyes of his.

  Plus, he gets me; this is rare. So I took him to the vet, made him legal, and the rest is history.

  “See ya later.” He gives me a cracked voice box meow of some sort and a flick of his long, ratted tail. I tend to interpret this as cat speak for “fuck off.” My extremely positive mother, however, once told me he’s just letting me know he adores me.

  Yeah, right.

  I shove the apple into my mouth, my wallet into my jeans, and pull the door shut behind me. After I turn the deadbolt, I fly down the stairs, two steps at a time. Not on purpose. My sense of balance is way the fuck off right now. I’m lucky I don’t land on my face a couple of times.

  At the bottom, I find my 1970 Chevelle hardtop waiting for me in the parking lot.

  I fucking love that car.

  She’s not in the best of shape these days. She wouldn’t win a drag race, that’s for sure. She’s a work in progress, really, but she gets me from point A to point B, most of the time. Trust me when I say that on a good day, she can kick some ass.

  Speaking of which, did I return the Charger?

  I definit
ely returned the Charger.

  I’m pretty sure I returned it.

  Shit. I hope I did.

  I’m sure Ricky’ll let me know if I didn’t. Right?

  Regardless, I’ve gotta get my own ass over to the courthouse, pronto, which, technically speaking, is never gonna happen. Even though it should only take me about twenty minutes or so to get to the heart of the city, it’s more like thirty-five to forty in rush hour. Maybe more.

  Fuck my life.

  Being late really isn’t an option for me. If I’m late, my testimony doesn’t get heard, which means I don’t get paid in full for this particular job. I like money. It keeps a roof over my head, food in my belly, and it supports my hobbies.

  That was a joke. I don’t have any hobbies. Unless you consider collecting fugitives a hobby, in which case I do have one.

  Bottom line is, I may have to suck it up and listen to the rambling tongue lashing from big bro’s superior if I plan on seeing a bank deposit from him this time.

  Awesome.

  X X X

  “Hey, Marty.” I nod and wink over at the flustered reporter as I approach the steps of the courthouse.

  Twenty-seven minutes. Not too shabby.

  At the entrance, a short man dressed in blue holds a white-gloved hand up putting me even further behind schedule. This does not bode well for my temperament today.

  “Are you R.P.D?” That’s Redemption Police Department, by the way. He’s all business so I keep it short as I give him my standard answer to stupid questions.

  “No.”

  “Marshal?” Really? I shake my head and try to stifle the urge to punch him in the face for that jibe.

  “FBI?”

  I clear my throat. “No.”

  “CIA?”

  A laugh escapes me. Because Hell, and no.

  “Sir-”

  “You done?” I ask him. “Damn.” I eye the entry dweeb hard as I pull my wallet out. “Stiles, P.I. I’m here as an expert witness.”

  He inspects my I.D. carefully. Like they didn’t fucking tell him to expect me.

  “You’re late, Mr. Stiles.” He hands back my I.D. with a flick of his wrist.

  “No shit.”

  I head past Captain fucking Obvious and stop at security.

  “How’s it goin’?” I take my gun out and place it in one of the bins along with my keys, then put my hands up so they can conduct the standard pat down.

  “They’re waiting for you, Mr. Stiles.” The tall weightlifter they put here for no other purpose but intimidation tactics waves me through. His brow looks like it was painted into the frowning position, and his voice reminds me of Michael Clarke Duncan.

  “What do you weigh, two hundred? Two-twenty?”

  He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He’s definitely over two hundred.

  “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.
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br />   “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.