Free Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption by Jo Richardson Page A

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.
    Hours upon hours go by. It’s been pouring for most of the day but the steady sound of rainfall has proven to be a sedative of sorts. I’ve gotten a lot of shit done, and I’m feeling pretty damn good about it as I file away the last manila folder, ready to call it a day.
    That is until the door creaks open in unison with the long, satisfying yawn I let out.
    Who in their right goddamn mind would be out in this shitty weather? And when did it get dark out?
    I stand and pull my jacket off the back of my chair while cracking my back as I call out to the potential client who just let himself in. “Gonna have to come back to—”
    Fuuuuuuuuck me.
    “—morrow.” I’m only able to get half of my arm into the sleeve of my jacket when I see the gun in the hand of a scrawny kid who’s pointing it at me. Who’s dripping fucking wet and getting water all over the floor I just paid an arm and a leg to get refinished.
    It’s official. Today I’m in hell.
    One of the cons to burying oneself in paperwork, you’re not paying attention to criminals as they slink into your workspace.
    “Whatcha got there, kid?”
    His hand is shaky. His expression─angry. Who knows if he’s planning on using that thing, but one wrong move and later for you, Stiles.
    He doesn’t answer. I may as well finish putting on my jacket.
    “Do I know you?” He looks a little familiar, aside from the wet dog look he’s got going on. It could be the tension of his expression. Then again, pretty much all the kids I’ve dealt with lately look like this. Mad at the world, scared shitless, haven’t showered in a few days.
    Even so…
    His eyes dart to the wad of cash I have sitting out on the desk. It’s been ready to be deposited for three days now. I have no idea why I haven’t taken it to the bank yet.
    Regardless, he can’t seriously think he’s faster than my ass.
    We lock eyes, and he gets it. No way in hell he’s taking the money. And he panics.
    “Hands up!” When he almost drops the gun, I pull the S&W out and point it at him before he can decide what to do next. In an unexpected move, he throws the damn thing at me and makes a run for the door.
    Which also isn’t fucking happening.
    Sorry about your luck, kid.
    On a whim, I abandon the shoot-first-ask-questions-later principle I’ve followed since being licensed and make a mad dash for the front door.
    “Gotcha.” Lightning hits close by and lights up