Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(8)

Very delicately, I celebrate the tiniest of victories.

In the kitchen, I grab the king-sized bag of cat chow. Frodo’s bowl only holds about a cup of food, and every day, without fail, I manage to spill most of it onto the tiled floor. Today, even more so than usual.

“It’s gonna be one of those days, buddy.” I toss the scoop back into the bag and scratch the scrawny gray cat on his head before grabbing the last green apple off the counter for myself. It’s gonna have to do for now.

Frodo’s a stray that found me about a year ago, FYI. We had a few late night chats, and I might have let him share some of my Kung Pao chicken one night. After that, he wouldn’t stop hanging out on my doorstep. I couldn’t bring myself to call animal control when he looked up at me with those pitiful hazel eyes of his.

Plus, he gets me; this is rare. So I took him to the vet, made him legal, and the rest is history.

“See ya later.” He gives me a cracked voice box meow of some sort and a flick of his long, ratted tail. I tend to interpret this as cat speak for “f*ck off.” My extremely positive mother, however, once told me he’s just letting me know he adores me.

Yeah, right.

I shove the apple into my mouth, my wallet into my jeans, and pull the door shut behind me. After I turn the deadbolt, I fly down the stairs, two steps at a time. Not on purpose. My sense of balance is way the f*ck off right now. I’m lucky I don’t land on my face a couple of times.

At the bottom, I find my 1970 Chevelle hardtop waiting for me in the parking lot.

I f*cking love that car.

She’s not in the best of shape these days. She wouldn’t win a drag race, that’s for sure. She’s a work in progress, really, but she gets me from point A to point B, most of the time. Trust me when I say that on a good day, she can kick some ass.

Speaking of which, did I return the Charger?

I definitely returned the Charger.

I’m pretty sure I returned it.

Shit. I hope I did.

I’m sure Ricky’ll let me know if I didn’t. Right?

Regardless, I’ve gotta get my own ass over to the courthouse, pronto, which, technically speaking, is never gonna happen. Even though it should only take me about twenty minutes or so to get to the heart of the city, it’s more like thirty-five to forty in rush hour. Maybe more.

Fuck my life.

Being late really isn’t an option for me. If I’m late, my testimony doesn’t get heard, which means I don’t get paid in full for this particular job. I like money. It keeps a roof over my head, food in my belly, and it supports my hobbies.

That was a joke. I don’t have any hobbies. Unless you consider collecting fugitives a hobby, in which case I do have one.

Bottom line is, I may have to suck it up and listen to the rambling tongue lashing from big bro’s superior if I plan on seeing a bank deposit from him this time.

Awesome.



X X X



“Hey, Marty.” I nod and wink over at the flustered reporter as I approach the steps of the courthouse.

Twenty-seven minutes. Not too shabby.

At the entrance, a short man dressed in blue holds a white-gloved hand up putting me even further behind schedule. This does not bode well for my temperament today.

“Are you R.P.D?” That’s Redemption Police Department, by the way. He’s all business so I keep it short as I give him my standard answer to stupid questions.

“No.”

“Marshal?” Really? I shake my head and try to stifle the urge to punch him in the face for that jibe.

“FBI?”

I clear my throat. “No.”

“CIA?”

A laugh escapes me. Because Hell, and no.

“Sir-”

“You done?” I ask him. “Damn.” I eye the entry dweeb hard as I pull my wallet out. “Stiles, P.I. I’m here as an expert witness.”

He inspects my I.D. carefully. Like they didn’t f*cking tell him to expect me.

“You’re late, Mr. Stiles.” He hands back my I.D. with a flick of his wrist.

“No shit.”

I head past Captain f*cking Obvious and stop at security.

“How’s it goin’?” I take my gun out and place it in one of the bins along with my keys, then put my hands up so they can conduct the standard pat down.

“They’re waiting for you, Mr. Stiles.” The tall weightlifter they put here for no other purpose but intimidation tactics waves me through. His brow looks like it was painted into the frowning position, and his voice reminds me of Michael Clarke Duncan.

“What do you weigh, two hundred? Two-twenty?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He’s definitely over two hundred.

“That’s what I thought.” I give him a nod before I walk on through the metal detector. On the other side, I quietly collect my things. There’s no way I’m pushing the sarcastic limits with this guy.

In the elevator, I’m grateful for the opportunity to lean my head back, close my eyes, and enjoy the quiet while my skull continues to recuperate. It’s a fleeting appreciation, though, because five quick floors later the elevator doors open, and I’ve officially arrived at my own personal version of Hell.

“Morning, Stiles.” The five-and-a-half-foot brunette who likes to make my life miserable is easily five-eight, maybe even five-nine in the heels she’s got on today. Combined with the dark blue power suit she’s wearing, she comes off as all business despite the fact that she doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s too busy scrolling through a bunch of bullshit on her smartphone.