Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(38)

I stifle a laugh. “Will do.”

She leaves me sitting there, and instead of pulling away right off the bat, I watch her go. I’m not exactly sure what the f*ck to think of the woman any more.

Why is she so interested in this case? And how in the hell did she have the balls to pull a gun on Flint’s guy like that?

When she gets to the front door of the building, she turns unexpectedly and catches me watching her. I feel her gaze from here and find myself wondering if the blush in her cheeks is back.

I smile at the thought of it.

She’s quick to break the connection between us, but instead of making a smooth getaway, she runs smack into the revolving door.

The sides of my mouth tug into a much wider grin, and a chuckle escapes me. As much as I’d like to stay and see what else she can physically harm herself with, I throw the Chevelle into gear and take the lingering speculation of the mystery that is Emma Green with me.





DON’T DO ME ANY FAVORS





JIMMY STANDS at the counter inside my favorite sub shop. While he tries to make up his mind what the f*ck kind of sandwich he’s in the mood for, I take a step back and give Green a call.

It’s not that I want to. I have to.

Something she said earlier has been nagging at the back of my brain.

“Hey, can I get chips too?” I nod and wave off the kid. Why do I give a shit if he gets chips?

“Emma Green.” She’s answers all bubbly like and whatnot. Like she wasn’t just almost killed by Redemption’s most notorious and unforgiving drug lord.

“Green. It’s Stiles.”

“Oh, good, now I can put you into my contacts. What’s up?”

Awesome. I’m a contact now. That’s exactly what I need.

“Hey, that interesting tidbit of info you got from Thomas’s guy earlier?”

“Yeah?” Coy.

“What was it about?”

Hesitation, check.

“Why should I tell you?”

Flirtatious banter, check.

Misguided assumption that she’s got one over on me, check.

Clearly, she doesn’t know me well enough to know how much I enjoy the hell out of a challenge.

Jimmy gets his food. I slide up next to him and give the cashier my card for our lunches. He points to the cookies in the glass case next to us.

Why not? “Can we get a couple of those?” I ask the cashier. He wants to know which ones, so I nod to the kid, and he tells him what he wants.

“Can we get a couple of what?” Green asks from the other end of the line, confused.

“Not you. Listen, I was thinking.”

“Might want to be careful how much you do that, Stiles.” She snorts and I shake my head at how she just laughed at her own damn joke. Amateur.

“Anyway…”

“I’m not sharing my intel with you.”

“Why’s that?” I haven't even asked the f*cking question yet.

“Because you don’t think I can handle writing this article. But I’m going to prove to you, and everyone else in this God-forsaken town, that I can write a real story.”

See? Even she can admit she’s been blowing smoke up this city’s ass.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Green.”

“Oh really?”

“Really. See, I know you can handle writing the f*cking article.” Unfortunately. “What I don’t think you can handle is dealing with drug dealers who’ve killed a lot of people for a lot less than writing something up on them in a tabloid.”

“Ha!”

“That’s funny?”

She’s quiet for a minute. Not good. Jimmy points to the large drink cup. I nod again.

“Okay,” Green says finally. “I’ll tell you what my informant said, and you give me some details on Donnie Leary’s death.”

Not happening.

Must divert.

“Informant, Green? Really? That guy was hardly an informant. He was barely a human being.” More like a primate on steroids.

“Do we have a deal or not?”

Should have known she was more of a tunnel vision kinda gal.

“How about you tell me what you found out, and I give you some pointers on how to steer clear of Thomas’s crew in the future?” That’s fair. Right?

“Goodbye, Stiles.”

“Wait!”

Shit. I jumped the gun.

I can’t tell her what I know about Donnie. If I do, she’ll run the story. If she runs the story, she’s gonna exaggerate. Exaggerations will get her killed. More importantly, she’ll get me killed.

And probably Jimmy.

“I’m listening. But not for long.” I picture her standing there, doing her nails or f*cking putting lipstick on or something, thinking she’s got this in the bag. But I still have an ace up my sleeve.

“You still need your car back, right?”

“I’ll get it myself.”

She is so f*cking stubborn.

But so am I.

“Okay then.”

Silence grips the conversation.

“Dammit,” she breathes from the other end. And I grin.

Gotcha.

“I’ll pick you up in a couple hours.”