Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(30)

I swap my boxers for a clean pair and slip some jeans on that haven’t made it into the washing machine yet. Don’t worry. They smell fine.

On my way out the door, I start to wake up the kid but think better of it at the last minute. Instead, I write my cell number down onto a sticky note and mention not to call unless it’s an absolute emergency.

You never know who’s watching the cell tower pings.

I also mention there’s some bread on the counter and some peanut butter in the cabinet. You know, in case he’s hungry when he wakes up.

I’m considerate like that.

On the way downtown, I ask myself, why would the Redemption police attend Donnie Leary’s funeral? And what in the hell would they want with his brother? Typically, once a gangbanger is dead, he’s no more than an afterthought to the cops. They aren’t really big on offering condolences to next of kin. They’re just glad to be rid of one more street thug.

So why the interest now?

Remorse, meanwhile, eats away at me as I mull it all over.

Don’t leave me with these guys.

I can’t shake the thought that had I not left Donnie with those dicks in the first place, I wouldn’t have his delinquent little brother making a mess of my apartment right now.

Shake it off, Stiles.

He’ll be gone tonight. I’ll get a hit on some relatives and send him off, and we can get back to the status quo immediately thereafter.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

My stop approaches and I slow to a crawl before I shift the car into park. I take a nice, long deep inhale before getting out. I exhale as I shut the car door.

I’ll worry about Donnie and the kid later. Right now, I gotta see a lady about some temper tantrums I may or may not have had during a trial a few months back.

It might have involved the judge’s gavel breaking.

I don’t know.

Moving on.

I head inside to see Doctor Likes-to-talk-my-f*cking-ear-off. I mean, damn, you’d think she was the one looking for healing or some shit.

Last time I was here, I found out more than I ever wanted about herbs and spices that soothe your spirit.

Like my f*cking spirit needs soothing.

One long exaggerated step at a time, I climb my way up to the fourth floor of my psychotherapist’s building. When I get there, I hope and pray she’s been called to some petty ass meeting with one of her petty ass colleagues so I can go the f*ck home and make sure Jimmy isn’t breaking anything. Or breaking into anything.

Sadly, she’s waiting for me in the reception area like a hungry lioness ready to clamp down onto my jugular.

“Morning.” I’m a chipper motherf*cker as I wink at the young woman behind the desk. At least, she thinks I am.

She blushes, but then I find Doctor Who-does-she-think-she-is-anyway’s dark eyes glaring at me from behind the humanoid she possesses. She’s not amused.

Check.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Stiles.” She spins around to head into her office, assuming I’ll follow. Which, technically, I guess I have to.

I give the receptionist a look of horror as I step in line behind the woman in charge. She giggles and disappears behind the book she’s reading. The good doctor slams her office door behind me.

“I’ve got shit to do, Lana.”

“What you’ve got to do is pass this psychological evaluation. Without that, the rest is all for naught.”

I spit out a chuckle as I take a seat across from her desk. “All for naught? Seriously?”

Doctor Pompous rolls her eyes and sits. She arranges her pencils, which are already f*cking straight by the way, into a tidy row across her desk calendar before clasping her fingers together. She grants me that condescending know-it-all glare, and then we begin.

“Do you want to talk about your father?”

I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair. I need the cigarette for this.

No, you don’t.

Instead of reaching for it, I take my jacket off and scrunch it behind me. This chair kills my back.

“No.”

“This weekend is his birthday, right?” She flips open my file and checks, even though she knows goddamn well it is.

“No idea.” I crack my neck. Twice.

“Mister—”

“Do you think we could cut the bullshit already, Lana?”

“Doctor—”

“Canter, I know. I f*cking know your name, Lana. I’ve known it since seventh grade.”

Jesus.

My eyebrow itches. Why does my f*cking eyebrow itch every time I’m in this office?

I drag a hand through my hair and breathe.

Lana’s quiet for a few moments while I gather my wits.

“Avoiding him isn’t going to solve any of your issues, Jackson. That tends to make things worse. The anger will just─”

“Jesus Christ.”

She breathes out purposefully. “I’m here to help. You know that, right?”

“Really? ’Cause the last time I checked, shoving a bunch of nonsense psychological bullshit down someone’s throat instead of just—” I wave a hand at the air. The air is bugging the shit out of me. “—signing off on the goddamn paper so they can get back to-”

“That wouldn’t do you any good, and you know it.” Her voice is even. Mine is not.