Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(42)

Good Lord this woman can babble with the best, but honestly, what hits me as she goes on and on about this shit is she’s about as intelligent as they come. Pays attention to real news even when I know for a fact that spot was only about a ten-second segment. I hadn’t expected that. Not with her background in spreading gossip and stirring pots.

“Green.”

“Yeah?” She blinks a couple times.

“Is that it? That’s the interesting f*cking information you got from this guy?”

Seriously?

“Oh,” she snaps out of her rabbit-hole topic. “No, the interesting thing was, he let it slip that some of the cops who usually patrol the area were in a meeting with Thomas last week.”

“Really.”

That is interesting.

“Did he say why?”

She shakes her head. “He wasn’t present. He just saw them come in and watched them go out. But he did think it was odd since they usually only come around to make an arrest or give Thomas a bunch of hell about parking tickets or something.”

She trails off.

“You happen to know what precinct the cops were from?”

Swear to God, if she says first precinct…

“He didn’t know. Sorry.”

Damn.

“But he did say one of them had on a trooper's uniform. That’s weird, right? I mean, why would a trooper be in gang territory?”

Weird? Maybe. Bad news? Definitely.

“Maybe.”

“Hey.”

I look up at her, and she’s got a different look about her. Concern?

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?” Her lips get all twisted up, like she’s thinking or debating. Then she reaches over and smooths the area between my eyes with her thumb. It feels, I don’t know, it just feels.

“Why do you do that?” She slowly takes her hand back.

“What?” Doesn’t everybody scowl at something some time or another?

“Why do you hold everything in?”

The f*ck is she talking about?

“You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

My mouth opens to say something but I stop it from making an ass out of both of us.

Outside the Chevelle, the world is happening still, I’m sure. But inside? It’s just us. Me staring at Green, trying to figure her out, and her looking up at me expectantly.

Her tongue slides along her bottom lip, and my eyes are drawn to it. It would only take a second to pull her in, taste her, feel her lips against mine, her skin against my fingers.

But that is so not a good idea right now.

Down boy.

“Um.” She looks up at her building. I’m not sure what she sees there but shortly after, she clears her throat and pulls herself together. “I should probably go.” Her voice is quiet, like she doesn’t want to leave.

Surprisingly, I don’t want her to either.

“Yeah.” I let go of her wrist. “You probably should.” I’m sure Connor—whatever the f*ck he is—is getting lonely up there. I nod to the building.

Her entire face falls, and it takes her another minute to gather herself enough to leave. I almost think she’s waiting for me to tell her to stay.

I’m almost regretting that I’ve disappointed her.

Almost.

“Bye.” She slides out of the car, and when she’s halfway back to her building, it hits me.

“Hey, Green.” She stops and walks back over to the car window. She leans down just enough to give me a teaser of what’s under the flimsy top she’s wearing.

I force my eyes up to hers.

“Listen.”

She waits as I process what she told me. And I am, trust me. But I’m also processing everything else that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours.

Lana’s words from earlier ring loud inside my head.

And, man, do I f*cking hate it when she’s right, even more than I hate it when she tells me what the f*ck to do.

If I’m gonna try this shit, though, I may as well try it with someone I nearly lost my life with today.

Right?

I breathe in. Here goes nothing.

“Thanks,” I tell her. And I f*cking mean it.





DIRTY LAUNDRY ISN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE





I WISH I COULD SAY I got a good night’s sleep. Or that I had ridiculously hot sex dreams to make up for the shit f*ckery of a day I had yesterday. Hell, I’d settle for mediocre sex dreams. As it stands, I was up most of the night thinking of possible ways to get out of dinner with the family tonight. When I came up empty on that front, I switched to listing the cops I suspected might be involved in the murder of Donnie Leary.

Jim Galley stands out.

He’s a douche, for sure, but he can’t be working alone.

And, okay, there might have been some fantasizing going on, against my will, of Green playing the part of Black Widow and me, in my Iron Man suit. Blame that on some late night Netflix viewing.

Don’t judge. It’s better than watching that QVC shit.

Despite my lack of shut eye, I’ve tried to make today productive.

Granted, I’m not saying I’ve been successful, but I’ve given it the old Stiles effort.

I fed the kid and made sure he understood the importance of not going out or answering the door, for any reason whatsoever, while I’m gone.