Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)
Jo Richardson
WHEN I WAS A KID, my parents told me to be good. They urged me to play nice, study hard, and treat others like I wanted to be treated. They said if I followed the rules and kept my nose clean, great things would happen for me.
Problem is, I never was a very good listener.
WELCOME TO MY WORLD
MY HEART IS BEATING like a motherf*cker.
Why didn’t I tell anyone where I’d be tonight, again?
Redemption isn’t the most considerably sized city in the U.S., but it’s big enough. If someone wanted to get lost, or wanted to lose someone, they could.
Hindsight’s… blah blah blah.
Not that it matters. I’ve got bigger problems to worry about. Such as the large group of would-be gangbangers I’m surrounded by, who might very well crush my skull like it’s a tomato if they find out I’m not who I say I am.
When they find out. The when is inevitable.
A lone cigarette calls out to me, promising to make it all better. To make the stress of my situation go away. Its very existence torments me, most days, in a schizophrenic kind of way. My head says it’s not worth it to take a drag. My lungs, however, they long for the sensation of nicotine like a kid longs for candy.
I inhale, long and deep, followed by a slow and steady exhale. It’s something my therapist is trying to get me into the habit of doing. She says it’s some kind of yoga bullshit I need to try more often.
Breathing is good, Stiles.
Breathing clears your head.
Breathing is not going to bring me the cool, satisfying calm that only the deep drag of a smoke can, dumbass.
My fingers curl around the steering wheel as my thumbs tap a familiar beat to one of the songs off Van Halen’s Eighty-four album.
It doesn’t help.
My hands twitch.
My jaw clenches.
My determination is… eh.
You will not pull the cancer causing item out of your pocket and smoke the f*ck out of it, dammit.
“Shit.”
Despite the headlights and loud music that surrounds me, I can’t seem to distract myself from wanting to take a drag.
Sucks to be me, sometimes.
A lot of times.
Okay, most of the time.
Finally, I concede and retrieve the damn thing. I give it a hard look, then I tap it against the dash.
I glower at it.
I want it bad. But after a never-ending stare-down with the inanimate object between my fingers, I don’t light up. Instead, I purposefully slip it back into my pocket.
Slow and easy.
Sometimes, the simple act of touching it is enough to quench the need. To remind me who’s boss. Not that it’s working perfectly at this particular moment, mind you, but it’s enough.
“Screw you,” I tell the devil wrapped in onion paper, peeved I even thought about giving in.
I sneak a peek around to make sure no one witnessed my moment of weakness even though it doesn’t matter. I don’t know a damn soul here.
Except for one.
Not that I really know him. It’s more that I know of him.
Damn, when did it get this dark out?
The sun goes down earlier and earlier these days. Then again, it’s about that time of year.
Don’t be scared, Mikey. Nighttime’s not all that bad.
A short blast of a painful memory surprises me and disrupts my focus. It throws me off my game for a split second, then I shake it off. ‘Cause that’s what I do.
Serpentine Road has been poorly lit for as long as I can remember. Hell, I’ve driven down this stretch too many times to remember and know where every pothole is by heart. On a good day, that is. But with the moon hiding behind the trees and the fog rolling in, I can’t see shit much more than ten, maybe fifteen feet in front of me. Even with the faint glow of low beams from my car—and the one next to it—I still feel blind as a f*cking bat.
One more deep breath in and I close my eyes while I let the air out.
Settle down.
My fingers rub against each other, aching for something to hold between them. I relieve my lips of their dryness and glance outside, looking for anything else to hold my attention. Silhouettes of people line the shoulders of the road as they wait for their show to begin.
I’m surprised there aren’t more potheads in attendance, to be honest.
Huh.
Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve seen one doobie light up since I got here.
Weird.
I rev the V-8 engine for dramatic effect. The over the top, blinged out, cherry red Dodge Charger RT I borrowed from a buddy of mine can take it. Plus, she needs to get warmed up. I want her in good spirits for what I’m about to do to her.
And, of course, when I say “borrowed,” I mean without permission. And when I use the term “buddy,” I mean ex-con who owed me a favor.
Same, same.
Muffled cheers outside seem to grow silent until all I hear is the beating inside my chest. And then, the buzzing inside my jacket.
“Dammit.”
I pull out my cell phone and check it, even though I already know who it is, seeing how it's been a good hour, hour and a half, since I last heard from her.
Answer your phone, Jackson.
The text is short and sweet, as usual. I put it away because I don’t have time for guilt trips—even from the woman who gave me life roughly twenty-eight years ago.