Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(21)

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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking office.

“And this is your business because?”

He tries to catch his breath. It looks difficult for him. “He was my brother, *.”

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.