Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(27)

I walked right into that one, I guess. So, I step the f*ck away from this particular conversation.

“Stop trying to divert the topic at hand and explain to me why a tabloid reporter needs to carry.”

“It’s a free country.” She reaches out to feel the fabric of some tops we pass. Clearly there’s more to this story. And she’s not planning on sharing it.

So, I nod.

“Ex-marine?” ’Cause that’s hot. But when her ears lift, I know she’s smiling even though she’s no longer paying me any mind. She’s on to glancing up at the banners hanging from the store walls.

So no-go on the ex-military. Bummer.

“Assassin?” Still hot, although a little scary.

“Oh, my God.” She side-eyes me and shakes her head.

Okay, we’ve crossed off all the bad-ass reasons for the gun. I narrow my stare and breathe in some hefty curiosity about the woman I barely know but find myself interested in all of a sudden.

When I open my mouth to make another guess that’s more realistic, she asks, “Why do I need a specific reason, anyway? I mean this is America, right? I do have the right to carry a weapon for no reason whatsoever, right?”

Ah.

I see.

She’s playing this off like it’s no big deal. But it’s definitely a big deal. Otherwise, why not just tell me?

Clearly I need to get my Sherlock Holmes on for this one.

“You take some sort of classes for work related purposes and think you’re Dirty Harry now or something?”

She huffs out, almost amused, and shakes her head.

No Dirty Harry complex. Check.

“Used to live in a bad neighborhood, maybe?”

The smile dwindles and she clears her throat.

Getting closer.

“No wait, don’t tell me. I know this one. You and your girlfriends got together and took one of those defense classes and got all f*cking high on the power and─”

“It’s none of your f*cking business, Stiles!”

When she stops to face me, abruptly, her eyes are glassy. That’s enough to catch me off guard, but then I notice her quivering chin to boot.

Combined with the fact that the tone in her voice just went from uncomfortably playful to defensively agitated, I know.

It’s personal, not professional.

Options blow through my mind in an instant.

Kidnapping.

Mugging.

Abuse.

Rape.

That last one gives me pause. I search her thoughtful gaze for something that will cross it off the list, but there’s nothing. So, I make an attempt to verbally nix the idea of some sort of abusive situation.

“How bad?”

Wait, that wasn’t where I was going with this.

“None.” She swallows down some anger.

“Did you know him?” Stop getting personal, Stiles.

“Of.”

“Did he stalk you?” ‘Cause I can identify with that f*ckery.

“Your.”

“Did he…” I can’t even finish my f*cking sentence this time.

“Business.” She looks away at something on a rack after she says the last word. She wipes her face, and it’s pretty clear the door is shut. She’s not entertaining my curiosity any more this evening.

And I’m not in the mood to push the subject further, if I’m being completely honest.

Something unexpected rises up inside me as leftover ideas of what might have happened to her swirl around in my brain.

Compassion.

I feel the urge to punch something.

Really f*cking hard.

“Green.” Her name floats off of my lips. I’m not even sure why I say it, except I can’t leave shit like this.

Slowly, she looks up at me. Na?veté plays at the edges of her eyes reminding me of the first day I met her.

At first, I believed I was gonna try and lighten the mood by giving her one last dig for the night, free of charge. But now, as I stand here witnessing her vulnerability, I’m more inclined to offer up some professional advice. And maybe a little bit of personal guidance is thrown in there, too.

“You might wanna think about getting a waistband holster.” I whisper into her ear. Just our little secret. “Easier to get to and quicker on the draw.”

She pulls away from me, but not wholeheartedly. It’s more like she’s not sure if I’m serious or kidding.

My heart is about to beat itself right the f*ck out of my chest.

The moment is quickly turning meaningful between the two of us and it’s uncomfortable, to say the least. I sense a crack in the carefully constructed universe I’ve created, originally full of animosity toward the woman.

I’m not at all sure what the hell to do with it.

So I end the conversation here.

“Later, Green.”

I give her a half-smile and leave for a register as far away from where we’re standing as possible.

And damn, I really need that drink right about now.





X X X


By the time Stix and I get to Tricky’s place, I’ve made several attempts to push the potentially dark and twisted back story of Emma Green out of my mind. And failed.

When I see Tricky waiting for us outside, the Target store moment is forgotten. For now.