Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(18)

Green’s cheeriness fades. I just burst her bubble in record time. Not that I feel bad about it, but now I’m kind of curious.

“What exactly did you think you were gonna get out of me?”

She shrugs and tries her hand at the eyelash batting thing. It’s not as good as the flirting, let me just say. “Like I said, it seemed like maybe you knew those officers.” She nods sideways, back toward the crime scene. “I was hoping you could tell me what happened. Give me a scoop.”

Approach with caution signs are flashing all around me. She has got to be kidding me.

“You can cut the crap, Green. My brother’s gone, and I’m not falling for the cute act.”

Mainly because my traitor dick twitches every time she does that shit. Not to mention the fact that information in an everyday reporter’s hands is scary. The truth in Emma Green’s hands? I don’t even wanna think about it.

“And why in the name of Lucifer would I… Ya know what? Never mind.”

“But—”

“You already know what happened. The entire tristate area knows what happened. It was on every news channel around. Gunshot to the back of the head. Donnie go bye-bye. End of story.”

I leave out the fact that I might have been able to save the kid had I taken my head out of my ass long enough.

“Why do I get the impression you don’t believe that?”

Green is a little too observant for her own good. That’s what’s going to get her hurt some day.

“No idea. Maybe your radar is off.” That’s believable, right?

She raises an eyebrow at me, telling me no, it’s not f*cking believable.

“What?”

She takes a deep breath in and let’s it out slow, making me wonder if she’s seeing the same therapist I am. “How about I buy you that Bonefish dinner I told your brother you owe me. Then you can tell me all about the gunshot to the head.” She air quotes that last part and smirks when she’s done. She actually thinks she’s being influential, here.

I smile for her.

Hell, why not have her pay for my grub tonight?

Including the champagne.

Part of me even thinks I might actually enjoy listening to her jabber on about all of her crazy reporter bullshit. A deep, dark, albeit deranged, part of me.

Maybe I could inquire about where she got that scar just above her left eye. Or why she looks at me all cockeyed sometimes.

I want to inhale her perfume and maybe even let myself get intoxicated by the sound of her hums when I’m doing it. And I have no goddamn idea why.

In the middle of my completely irrational daydream, I remember she’s the enemy. And let us not forget the boy-toy. Whatever he is. So instead of messing with any more dangerous ideas, I pull my keys out of my jeans’ pocket and give her a two-finger wave.

“Nice seeing you, as always, Green.” I head for the car, and before her heels make the first clack against the pavement, I hear her huff out in frustration.

“Wait.”

“No can do,” I tell her over my shoulder. “I’ve got actual work to do.” And a cold shower to take.

“Stiles, if you would just—”

“When I’m in the mood to get my name dragged through the mud again, I’ll call you.”

That’s a lie, of course. I don’t have her number.

Keep walking, Stiles.

I train my eyes on the Chevelle and continue moving forward. Thank God I came to my senses. For all I know, Jim Galley and his goons pointed her in my direction to get me drunk and have me spill all my secrets into some sort of recording device. Next thing I know, my words are twisted, and I get a free pass to some quality jail time for being the guy who killed Donnie Leary.

No. And thank you.





GHOSTS OF VICTIMS PAST


THERE’S NOTHING LIKE a couple days, some easy jobs, and a little bit of self-deprecation to make you forget about the piercing green eyes and enticing grin of a certain nosy─yet intriguingly seductive in her own weird, talkative, highly intrusive personality kinda way─reporter.

Or not.

Emma Green’s attempt to manipulate me the other day might’ve failed, but the lingering effect of her flirtatious tone and inquisitive disposition has, unfortunately, struck a chord with me.

A chord that’s very much in need of a f*cking tuning, considering the fact that rubbing one out didn’t get her out of my head. Apparently, a late night visit to Marty Sweetwater’s apartment didn’t either, and she may or may not think I’m into role play now since I accidentally called her Emma during sex.

But I digress.

It’s kinda pissing me off, truthfully. That and the fact she and my brother seemed to hit it off so easily. I’m pretty sure Mikey would’ve liked her, too.

Talk to me, Jackie.

I force the sound of his voice out of my head as I smear the fog from the bathroom mirror. The dark glare of a villain engraved high into my left peck grabs my attention. Its sinister smirk judges me.

He resembles a darker, more twisted version of the Joker from a deck of cards, with a twinge of the Dark Knight’s adversary bleeding through in his expression. People read into what he means, and I don’t correct them. The truth is, he’s a reminder of what I am and what I’m not, and that’s none of their f*cking business.