Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(7)
I find it. The phone that is. Eventually. And once it’s silent, I toss the damn thing to the floor because I’m too f*cking tired to find the table again.
I tighten my eyelids to make the jack hammering inside my head go away along with certain memories. But there’s only ever one way to make the flashbacks back the f*ck off. So I open up my eyes, face the world, and fill my day with the business at hand. One day at a time. And maybe some goddamn ibuprofen.
It’s been about three weeks since I’ve slept in the bed just down the hall. I’m not sure why but as a result the first thing I see every morning is the hand drawn cartoon character of yours truly hanging on the wall, wearing a black mask, a black cape, and a ray of hope surrounding his frame. Its glass encasement protects the art work these days, but I can still see the torn edges of the paper and the wrinkles from when it was thrown away, once upon a time.
The sketch is the only thing I own worth putting up in the apartment. The only thing I both love and hate about this place.
“Morning, Mikey.” My voice is strained and rough but despite the harsh sound of it, when I say his name, I’m someone else. Someone who doesn’t hate himself with every fiber of his f*cking being.
Luckily, the sound of my favorite newswoman repeating today’s news has begun to waft throughout the living room. It dulls the ache in my temples and clouds my head with distraction.
Time to get a move on.
My shoulder is killing me today. An old injury that never really healed from when I used to be a productive part of society, a.k.a., high school.
I sit up and roll it out until it’s bearable. Then I stretch my neck and rub my temples. The half-empty bottle of Patron Silver sitting on my coffee table gets shoved aside and I shiver, because… alcohol.
“Ow.” Where the f*ck did this bruise on my arm come from, anyway? And where is the goddamn Aleve?
Marty Sweetwater’s voice grabs my attention again, and she sounds slightly stressed as she doles out the news. That’s not something your average Joe would notice. Even in my current state, I’m pretty good at reading people, up to and including the way their voices change during intense moments they might be having.
Not that I’ve been in Marty’s company while she was experiencing such intensity.
Much.
Okay, one time.
Every few months.
We don’t make a big deal about it. She’s way too f*cking career driven to want or need a steady man in her life and I’m too drunk and/or angry to be that for anyone so… win-win.
I smack my lips and curse the dehydration that takes over thoughts of Marty in the TV station’s men’s room. I press hard against the sides of my head and try to remember where I left the pain meds last time I used them. Then I swear at the fridge because I know for a fact there’s no bottled water left.
I hate tap water. But that’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is the fact that Marty is telling viewers that there’s a mob of curious citizens starting to congregate outside the courthouse at this very moment.
“The District Attorney just arrived with his team, and not fifteen minutes to spare.” Her reference to time causes my heart to stop. I lean over and grab my watch.
“Shit.” I overslept.
One, maybe four blinks later, I focus as best I can until things begin to clear up for me. Then I give my shirt a pat-down. When I find the cig, still safe in my front pocket, I breathe a little easier and pull it out to debate smoking it right here, right now, while Marty goes on with her story.
“There’ve been rumors lately of dirty jurors, mishandling of evidence, and most disturbing, bribed judges . . .”
“Mother of . . .” I drag a hand through my hair as the phone rings. Then I hop up off the couch a little too fast and nearly fall over from the pain behind my right eye.
“Fuck.”
The cancer stick gets flicked down onto the counter with a groan as I make my way down the hallway toward the bathroom.
The landline rings again and what’s sad is I already know who it is before the answering machine picks up, which only feeds my irritation this morning.
“Jackie, it’s Nick.”
“No shit,” I tell the phone cradle as I pass it by.
“You’re about to be late.”
My brother, ladies and gentlemen. Queen of the mother hens. He also happens to be the lead detective for Redemption’s 1st Precinct, which is presumably why he’s so interested in my tardiness today. Not that he needs an excuse.
I flip him the bird and grab a towel out of the hall closet. It’s also reasonable to believe that I use some highly creative sign language, aimed at the phone that may or may not involve my nether regions.
“Again…” The tone in Nick’s voice tells me he’s out of patience with me at the moment. Maybe a little embarrassed. Quite honestly, I’m too hungover to give a shit.
I shut the door to the bathroom so I don’t have to listen to the rest of what my big brother has to say.
“Ah.” Pain relief sits there, waiting for me, on the bathroom sink. After I take a couple of pills, I wash them down with a handful of water from the faucet. Good stuff. In the shower, the scalding water wakes me up and clears my mind.
X X X
“Fastest comeback ever.” It takes me no more than ten minutes to shower, dress, and ensure my breath doesn’t smell like ass. No time for a shave. I’m still a bit shaky, and in dire need of some greasy food, but the headache is only lingering.