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

the entire office as I pull him back in and throw him to the floor. Blood rushes through me like a freight train when I slam the door shut and put a shoe to his throat.
    I lock the door in case he’s got friends outside as back up.
    Upon better inspection, the kid doesn’t look much older than fifteen or sixteen. Unfortunate, considering the bandanna tied around his neck, which I’m currently stepping on, tells me he’s with a gang. His jeans are ripped like he’s only got the one pair, and his T-shirt’s even worse than the jeans.
    “You picked the wrong place to rob, dip-shit.”
    I grab him by the shirt so I can stand him upright before punching him square in the jaw, even if he is soaking wet and pathetic looking.
    “It’s not stealing if it wasn’t yours to begin with!” He swings for me and misses.
    “Yeah? Well, I don’t know where you got your information from, but that money,” I point to the desk, “is definitely mine.”
    He can’t be a collector. A) he’s too fucking small, and B) the only person I’m in deep with is Ricky, and that was more a gift than a loan. Pretty much.
    “Bullshit!” He wriggles and squirms, but he’s not going anywhere. “You took it. It’s not yours.” His breathing is erratic. The kid’s gonna have a heart attack if he doesn’t settle down.
    “What the hell are you talking about?” He’s got the wrong establishment, clearly.
    “You tricked him and took his money, then you killed him!” His voice is angry and loud, and in and out of working condition. “You killed him!”
    His words echo inside my head and now two memories haunt me when I hear them.
    My grip on him loosens as a burst of guilt rushes through me, landing square in my gut, right next to all the other not so great accomplishments in my life.
    “What’d you fucking say?”
     “Donnie. You said you just wanted to race, and he trusted you. And you screwed him over.” His eyes are on me now. Flat and dead.
    Not that he doesn’t have a point there, but I’m generally not one to give people the satisfaction of knowing that shit. Especially a little pissant causing mayhem in my fucking office.
    “And this is your business because?”
    He tries to catch his breath. It looks difficult for him. “He was my brother, asshole.”
    I take a step back, surprised by his declaration.
    “Just talk to me, Jackie.” Mikey’s voice tells me.
    “Don’t leave me here.” Donnie’s voice follows up.
    I keep my cool despite the fact that of all the confrontations I could’ve had at this particular moment, this is the worst one I can think of.
    Give me a no-name, random gang member looking for some payback any day. That I can handle. But a sibling? A younger sibling, no less, who looks like he hasn’t seen a day of experience out on the streets? How am I supposed to react to that?
    And we’re not talking about some guy who could even remotely take me, by the way. He might be hovering somewhere around five-nine, five-ten, a couple inches shorter than yours truly, but he’s only about a hundred-twenty, a hundred-thirty pounds, wet. Literally. I’m no heavyweight myself. I’m lean. I’m also mostly muscle. There’s a difference. I could breathe funny on this kid and he’d fall over.
    Now that he’s settled down and I’m not wrestling with him anymore, his expression falls.
    I’m lucky he didn’t pull the trigger to that gun on pure adrenaline.
    “What’s your name?”
    I give him some space, confident he’ll stay put for the time being. Then I sit my ass down on the corner of my desk and try to figure out where I’m planning on going with this, or why I care.
    “Stix.” He wipes his face with his sleeve and glares off at the wall. It’s not difficult to imagine why he’s called that. He looks like he’s walking on a couple stilts. But I’m not looking for what he’s known as out on the street.
    “Your real name.”
    “Fuck you.”
    Oh, I see. We’re playing it that way.
    Hatred oozes