Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(6)

Everyone knows the captain and I don’t exactly get along. It’s more of a begrudged association, really. Another long story. So any excuse for me to get out of having a not-so-nice face-to-face with him is fine by me.

Paperwork is paperwork.

I sign the thing and hold it out for Hank to take, and he disappears behind the desk to give it his John Hancock and make me my copy.

“You’ve got a knack for the admin side of law enforcement, Riley.” I snigger but he doesn’t join in my amusement.

“Your services are no longer needed for the evening, Stiles. You should go home, relax.” Jim Galley sniffs in my general direction. “Get a shower or something.”

Galley’s a dick. Always has been. Always will be. Thinks he’s beyond the law and isn’t ashamed to say it in some circles.

As the men in blue laugh among themselves, Brown-Noser begins to lead Donnie off toward another room. The kid stiffens suddenly, and his eyes begin to dart around like he’s trying to figure out a way to escape this situation.

When they land on mine, there’s worry bursting from behind them. He swallows hard and shakes his head. “I don’t belong here, man. You know that, right?” The desperation in his voice causes the group of officers to cackle like a group of hens on crack, and I kinda wanna dick punch every one of them for it.

Okay, I kinda wanna dick punch them on any given day of the week, but still.

“You taking on the role of mommy now, Stiles?” Galley jibes. The rest of them applaud the ass-twat because, yeah, good one, Jim.

Meanwhile, my Spidey senses are making the back of my neck itch. So let’s take a short time out here, shall we?

Say I actually want to do something about this situation.

There’re three of them. Four if you’re including chicken legs over there. Not great odds, but I’ve taken on more than that before. No need to re-hash the details of that incident. Not to mention the fact that if I was to take off with a perp, who’s wanted for murder, might I add, that I was hired to bring in, not only am I harboring a fugitive, but I am a fugitive.

So the question is, do I have the energy, or the interest, to deal with the entirety of Redemption’s police department chasing my ass over this petty ass bullshit? Maybe even the entire state?

Decisions, decisions.

I check the time.

Jesus. It’s getting late, and honestly, I’m probably just imagining things anyway.

It’s been known to happen. Especially when I’m in sleep deprivation mode.

Besides, this is a perp we’re talking about. Right? Sorry about your luck, Donnie.

“See ya, kid,” I tell him. That’s my final decision and he knows it. The disappointment that spreads across his expression tells me so. Not that I’m affected by it whatsoever.

At that, Hank slaps an enthusiastic hand against my chest. It’s holding an envelope with my copy of the paperwork I need for tonight’s job. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

I take it and shove it into my pocket while simultaneously making sure I still have the money envelope there. Then I back out through the front doors and head for the car.

Sure, I left the kid to fend for himself. In my defense, I try not to make a habit of taking the word of delinquents I bring in when they tell me they didn’t do it. Which, by the way, is every single one of them. I mean, I would not make money that way, and I’d be a f*cking laughing stock.

I’ve got a reputation to uphold here.

Worst case scenario, Donnie learns a tough lesson. Maybe he goes to jail with some bumps and bruises. Or maybe he’s telling the truth and he’ll be scot-free in a few days.

Maybe.





THERE’S NO ESCAPING FAMILY…OR STALKERS





SOMEWHERE BETWEEN my dream state and the living world there’s a kid who visits my subconscious each morning. He’s not completely unfamiliar, but he doesn’t resemble the person I knew over a decade ago either.

He’s grungy and distant. He hasn’t aged, but he hasn’t stayed the same. He’s about ten years younger than I am now. His eyes are dark and grim like his stare. They’re full of death. There’s a deep, un-healing gash just above his right eye.

I can’t stop staring at it.

No matter what I say, or how I say it, he never moves. He never speaks. He just glares.

Not that I need him to say anything. I know what he’s thinking. I’ve thought it a thousand times myself.

It was your fault.

For the millionth time in the past ten years, I take pause at the irony of living in a city that’s literally named after what I crave worse than tobacco but am never going to get.

A pounding somewhere off in the distance vibrates inside my head and draws my attention away from the kid. When I look back for him, he’s gone.

Heavy shit for the crack of dawn, I know.

Welcome to my world.

Fucking A.

My cranium was apparently used as a landing pad for a Boeing seven-fifty-f*cking-seven overnight. I can barely move without an ache screaming at me. My system is trying to decide if it wants to flush itself upward or downward. On top of which, my cell phone alarm is pissing me right the f*ck off.

I stretch and yawn. My arm is like lead when I feel around for the damn thing. The stiffness in my body makes every move painful. Hell, even the backs of my eyeballs are wailing out in dull misery.