Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption

by Jo Richardson

  Not really.

  Walker breathes in deep and holds it.

  He’s debating, but it doesn’t take him long to make a decision. He puts his pencil down. He stands his papers up on end and straightens them, then tucks them away underneath his desk-sized calendar.

  When he looks up at me, he seems concerned.

  “I want you to reconsider re-applying for the force, Jackson.”

  Say… “Huh?” That’s a new one. Color me not seeing that coming at all while you’re at it.

  “At your earliest possible convenience.”

  Seriously. What the fuck.

  “Why?”

  His mouth draws downward. He spreads his hands out.

  “You do good work. People here know you already.” His brow dips. “I think you’d make an excellent addition to the team.”

  Bullshit answer number two. No way in hell am I buying that it’s as simple as he wants me here.

  “Come again?” The words pop out before I can even think about it.

  I mean, not that I have to think about it.

  He waves a hand flippantly toward me. “It’s time to get over all that shit from the past, Stiles.”

  I cross my arms. “Really.” This shit oughta be good.

  “Absolutely.”

  First of all, he doesn’t tell me what the fuck to do, and secondly… “Says who?” And where does he get off trying to make light of the past.

  His or mine.

  “Says the world.” His pompous personality takes center stage as he stands up and waves his hands all over the goddamn office. “Says bill collectors and car payments. Rent and family and all the other expenses one might incur during their lifetime. You do all right in the private sector, Stiles, I’ll admit that, but you need to start thinking security.”

  My jaw is tight. My forehead strained. I almost hear Green’s voice telling me I’ve got that look again. The one where I wear all my stress.

  I open my eyes and stretch them out to make it go away.

  “I don’t have a car payment.”

  What? It’s all I’ve got.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he tells me with that know-it-all fucking attitude of his we all know and love.

  That was sarcasm, by the way.

  None of this is computing.

  At all.

  I’ve known Dick a long time. Back when I was in the academy, he was still an instructor, trying to claw his way into a much more appreciated ranking on the force. The guy’s had an ulterior motive in his back pocket since the day we met.

  The only question is, what’s the motive here?

  Like he said himself, doesn’t matter.

  He sucked ass back in the day, and he sucks ass now.

  “I could even get you a spot on the same team as your brother.” He eyes me carefully. “If that’s what you want.”

  Not gonna pussy foot around here. Workin’ with Nick, although not the highest of my priorities these days, would obviously have its benefits. Like seeing what the hell he’s up to around here. This would also give me access to answers I can’t easily get to on the outside.

  But the truth of the matter here is, Walker’s playing me.

  I don’t know this because he’s willing to bend a rule or two to get me in the same precinct as Nick, mind you. I know this because Dick Walker doesn’t do favors without expecting something in return.

  So I call him out.

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Catch?” He laughs. “I simply want the best of the best on board here in Redemption.” He waits a few seconds and adds, “Of course, your connections in the area would be an asset as well.”

  My connections.

  I think through some of them. The only one I can really pinpoint off the top of my head as being worthwhile for Walker would be Tricky Ricky.

  Dick pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights.

  Now, let’s ignore the fact that he isn’t even supposed to be fucking lighting up inside the building, for a moment, shall we?

  But seriously. Lights? Really?

  Pussy.

  He catches me eying the pack like a kid in a candy store and extends it out to me.

  “Smoke?”

  I shake my head at him. “Used to, but no thanks.”

  He lights his up. “Why’d you quit?”

  “Because it’s a disgusting fucking habit, and I want to live a long full life with healthy lungs that can breathe on their own.”

  My liver, on the other hand, that’s another story, but those can be replaced.

  “Really.” He blows the smoke out slow and meaningful. I can almost taste the nicotine on my lips.

  He seems almost impressed for a second or two until I spell some shit out for him, that is.

  “No, Dick. I quit because nothing and no one controls me but me.”

  And by the way, fuck you.

  His eyes become lines.

  I can damn near feel his hatred toward me, which is another reason none of this makes a lick of sense.

  “Everyone’s controlled by something, Stiles,” he says.

  Now we’re talking in code. Awesome.

  Not that I don’t get it. What he’s saying.

  “Not me,” I inform him, under no uncertain terms.

  “Aren’t you?” The way the corner of his mouth lifts slightly tells me he knows something I don’t know.

  Yet.

  “No.”

  We hold ourselves a small stare-off in the confines of Walker's office. For a minute, I toy with the idea that he might be right. Between Green getting super-secret texts behind my back and the way he has the ability to get me to even consider taking a position within the force, how could he not be?

  I know one thing, though. His intentions are not honorable.

  Still, I need to keep whatever upper hand I think I might have at the moment. So I play along.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  His smile widens. Clearly, he took the bait. I’ve given him hope.

  “Good, good. We’ll touch base when you’ve had some time. Tomorrow perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” I tell him even though I hate that fucking word. Unable to stand his smug face any longer, I leave to begin phase one of finding the fuck out what Green is up to.

  X X X

  Anyone with a decent job would head home right now, bask in the limelight, fantasize over the amount of attention they might obtain on the force and in Walker’s back pocket with some potentially illegal shit going down behind the scenes.

  Me?

  I’d rather sit in my fucking car, of which its heat has decided to stop working, and follow a hunch I have about a certain dick of a police captain.

  One hour in, I’m still pretty optimistic about my instincts.

  Another thirty minutes after that, I start having my first doubts.

  Now, two point two hours later, I’m fighting with the gear shift so I can go the fuck home and contemplate the severity of my idiocy for sitting out here in the first fucking place.

  That’s when it happens.

  “Hallelujah, motherfuckers!” The heater starts up again.

  And Richard Walker finally steps out of his building.

  He stands in the middle of the sidewalk for a few minutes, checking his cell phone. When he starts walking, I follow along slowly down the road. When he goes where I can’t, the parking garage, I wait some more.

  His burgundy Mercedes pulls out onto the roadway, and my mouth pulls into a triumphant grin.

  Gotcha.

  People put a lot of stock in tracking devices and GPS shit these days. I am here to tell you, however, that there’s nothing, and I do mean nothing, like the thrill of the chase, all up close and personal like. When he pulls up in front of The Chronicle building, the bottom drops out of my stomach. And pretty much every other organ inside me.

  I park across the street and watch him go in. Once he hits the elevators, I’m basically blind until he comes back out.

  I
mean, yeah, I debate going in there, following him all stealthy like and what not, but there’re too many people who saw me with Green just a couple days ago that might say something to her. Or better yet, she might see me.

  I’d much rather keep the upper hand here, for a while, and figure out what the hell is happening before she knows I know she’s in with Walker.

  I wait.

  Apparently, I do a lot of that shit in this job.

  Not that I mind. I mean, what the fuck else is there to do right now?

  Touch base with Stix, nail Jim Galley to the wall, and avoid life in general.

  When Walker’s not back out in about a half hour, I start dozing off. It’s kinda hard not to when the heat’s kicking, the music’s playing, and I haven’t slept right for about a week and a half.

  Know what I mean?

  I’m not sure how long I’m out when a familiar scene plays out in my dreams.

  Me and Mikey, yelling at each other in the middle of the street.

  Go home, Mike.

  Him being a stubborn ass.

  “No, man, talk to me.”

  Me being a dick to him.

  “Go the fuck home!”

  Only this time, when I turn to leave him standing there, and I hear the screech of car tires, I turn to see the scene play out in slow motion. It’s not Mikey who’s lying dead in the street because of me.

  It’s Green.

  My eyes fly open, and I look around. My blood doesn’t slow down for a couple seconds when I realize where I am and what I’m doing here.

  That’s when I catch a glimpse of Walker, exiting the building with Green.

  Fuck if I don’t want to let my mind go where it’s headed.

  I watch the woman of my dreams, literally, very carefully. She’s all business, whatever she’s discussing. Me, I’m guessing. It’s not too long before I pull away. I got what I came for.

  Confirmation of the FUBAR kind.

  Regardless, it’s getting late, and I’ve got work to do.

  Like maybe doing a background check on a certain writer who likes getting herself in too deep with the wrong fucking crowd.

  X X X

  As I lay on my couch, bouncing my favorite nerf ball against the ceiling, I’m stumped.

  Nothing I find on Green adds up to conspiracy participant.

  Only child. Straight A’s. Majored in literature but minored in law. Her dad, however, is a bit more interesting. Card dealer on the gambling cruises down on the southeastern coast. Prison security guard for a while. Jobless for even longer.

  Something tells me Papa Green isn’t the most up and up kinda guy.

  I have no idea how all this ties in with Walker up here but I’m sure as hell it ties in. I feel it in my gut. And it does not feel good, my friends.

  My guess is, he fucked up—small town rumor mill drove Green batshit crazy, and she couldn’t escape her family’s legacy.

  Welcome to the fucking club.

  I bounce the nerf against the ceiling some more.

  It helps me think.

  “Calculating.” Bounce.

  “Infuriating.” Bounce

  “Conniving, manipulating, chatter-fest…” Double bounce.

  “You all right there, Jackie?” The sound of my brother’s voice in the apartment all of a sudden should probably be cause for concern. The truth is, this shit happens all the time.

  I know, right?

  Welcome to my world.

  “No.” I look back at him. His shoulders barely have room to breathe in the doorway. He looks way too fucking amused for my taste today. “How’d you get in?”

  I know the answer. I’m trying to give him a hint. He doesn’t get it, though. Instead, he holds up the culprit and grins. “Key.”

  “I thought I took that back last time you broke into my house.” I tried. Fucker has a kung fu grip like you wouldn’t believe.

  “Nope.” He curls it up into his mammoth hand. “It’s mine forever.” All cocky fucker like, he slips it into his front uniform pocket.

  Funny guy.

  “You seem frustrated.” Nick likes to state the obvious. Always has.

  Bounce.

  “Yep.”

  “Emma, I’m guessing?”

  BOUNCE.

  “What makes you say that?”

  He catches the ball on its way back down.

  “Women, that’s why.”

  “Then yes.” I sit up and drag both hands through my hair.

  “And?”

  I look up at him like crazy is written across his face. Because, hello, isn’t it obvious?

  “She’s a pain in my ass, that’s what.”

  “And?”

  I stand and swing a hand at the highly irritating air.

  “She’s a fucking know-it-all, leaving-shit-out-of-her-backstory, and can’t-just-fucking-be-honest-with-a-guy.”

  Nick chuckles. “Anything else?”

  And I can’t get her out of my head?

  And I’m pissed off she’s working with my nemesis?

  And I think I might be fucking falling for her?

  Yeah. Like any of that would go over well.

  “No.”

  Silence.

  He doesn’t believe me, but quite frankly, that’s neither here nor fucking there.

  “Hey, I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember that game we used to play?”

  “What fucking game?” What the hell is he talking about?

  “The one where we were brothers?”

  Oh.

  “Because I have this theory.”

  “Really.” This shit oughta be good. Or bad. Depending on where you sit.

  Nick quirks a grin and nods. “I think you like Emma.”

  “I didn’t fucking say─”

  “Up, bup, bup.” He puts a hand up. “See, she’s not like all those other women in your life, if you wanna call it a life.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means she doesn’t kiss your ass and blow smoke up there like the rest of them do.”

  “They don’t─”

  “I think she gives it to you straight and that both pisses you off and makes you─”

  “Annoyed as hell?”

  “Interested.”

  HA! “In?”

  “Whether or not she’s the one.”

  I choke on something. Spit maybe. “I’m sorry, did you just say, the one?” Really? Like I have time to wonder about that shit.

  “Yeah, you know. The one that might just be able to handle your sorry ass and all its cocky, baggage-ridden glory.”

  I snort a laugh out at him.

  As much as I wanna tell him he’s full of shit, my mouth stops working. All I can do is grab the nerf ball out of his hand and shoot a dirty look or five at him before I leave the room.

  I need a drink.

  While I’m fulfilling that fantasy, Nick cuts into my thoughts again.

  “You really like her, huh?”

  I finish the shot and set the glass down, hard. “In a disastrous kinda way, yes.”

  I hate admitting that fuckery, but hell, he’s got a point.

  A very small, infinitesimal point, but still.

  What? I know big words. I don’t necessarily like using them on the daily. People would get the wrong ideas about me if I did.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  I swig another drink down and turn to face him. “The problem, Nick, is that I don’t think she is who she says she is.”

  “You wanna expand on that?”

  “Not really.”

  My fucking head hurts.

  “Well, then…” He takes a shot glass down from the cabinet, pours himself a shot, then fills mine back up. “Maybe you should figure that shit out.”

  He holds his glass up and waits for me to take mine. I pick it up and touch his, then we throw the liquid back together. Nothing else is said after that until he reminds me, “We stil
l are, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Brothers.”

  I nod, wishing we were still three instead of two.

  The tattoo on my shoulder burns like hell, and I have no fucking idea where my cigarette is.

  “I know.”

  Nick makes for the other room and plops himself down onto the couch. I stay behind, in the kitchen, and pour myself another shot.

  “Isn’t Mia expecting you home?”

  “I called her; told her I’d be late. Wanted to check in with you.”

  The TV clicks on as I put the glass to my lips. Smooth liquid slides down the back of my throat, and I focus on the burn there as opposed to the burning inside my chest.

  “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

  I set the glass down next to the Patron and join Nick in the living room. He smiles as he pulls out the remote for the Wii and starts up Mario Kart.

  “I know.”

  X X X

  A half-bottle of tequila and fifteen video game races later, my cell phone rings.

  “Hey, Jackson.”

  “Hey.” I check the time and lose the remote as I sit up straight and eye my brother. I don’t need him knowing about Stix, so I leave the room and talk low in the kitchen.

  Shit, it’s late.

  Is the room spinning or is that me?

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine. No bad cops, no good cops, no drug dealers or mob hit men have been seen.”

  “So you’re okay?” Did I ask him that already?

  “Yeah, totally.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t make it back.”

  “It’s all good. But you know, you said to check in so…”

  “Good deal.”

  “Your TV sucks, by the way. Can’t you at least get cable?”

  I spot the pile of Xbox bullshit I bought the other day and tell him I’ll bring it over first thing. When he hears Nick asking me to grab him a water, he wants to know, “Is that Emma?”

  This guy and Green. Jesus Christ.

  “No.”

  There’s no way in hell I’m telling him who it really is.

  I hear Nick rustling around like he’s getting up in the other room and cut my conversation short. “Listen, I gotta go, kid. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  I toss the phone onto the counter just as Nick is walking into the kitchen.

  “It’s fucking late.”

  “Time flies.” I clap my hands together, then point at him with an afterthought. “Should you be driving?”