Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(88)

“Fuck you.”

“Excuse me?” His head spins around in a circle as he tries to break bad with me. I can’t really bring myself to give a shit that Ma would probably kill me if she knew I was talking to him like this but ya know what?

This shit’s overdue.

“I said f*ck you. Dad.” Were the jazz hands necessary? Maybe not, but f*ck if sometimes he doesn’t bring out the drama queen in me.

“Because maybe if you hadn’t f*cking intimidated the kid into doing every f*cking thing you wanted him to do, he wouldn’t have followed me out that night in the first place.”

“And directly into oncoming traffic.”

Like I haven’t read myself the riot act over that a million times already.

“It was a goddamn accident.” I try repeating the words Green told me last night. The same ones Nick drills into me. They sound hollow. Empty.

’Cause it really doesn’t f*cking matter if it was an accident or not.

Dad tries to let it go.

“At least, he died doing something he loved.”

“Bullshit.” I’m not so inclined to blow it off, though.

Dad shoots daggers at me. “W─what’d you just say to me?”

“Painting. Drawing. If he’d been doing shit like that, then he would’ve died doing something he loved, Dad. But the force?”

I throw him a sarcastic laugh.

“He hated it there.”

“He didn’t hate it.” The words slur out of his mouth. “He chose the life, son.”

“No, Dad. He loved you. He’d a done anything to impress you. But he hated the f*cking force. And he didn’t f*cking belong there.”

He points at me. “You watch your mouth.”

“Why don’t you watch your own f*cking mouth, Dad. Have you even heard yourself one damn time in the entirety of any of our lives?”

He doesn’t say anything at that accusation.

“Or maybe you were too busy reliving your own glory days through us to give a damn about what any of us wanted.”

He glares up at me.

“Nick and me, we belonged there. We thrived there. Catching perps? Taking down the bad guys? It’s natural to us. But Mike?” I shake my head and have to fight the urge to let emotions spill out of me. “He was more than that.”

Words have never really been Dad’s and my thing. We usually just throw a few nasty glances at each other, make a few salty comments to go along with the looks, and call it a day. We have an understanding, him and me.

He doesn’t try to tell me what the f*ck to do any more, and I don’t remind him what a shitty dad he’s been.

But now, as he sits on my living room couch, I see something I don’t believe I’ve ever seen lingering behind his eyes.

Regret.

“There’s too much damn death in the world.” He breathes heavy. “Too much everything.”

“No f*cking shit.”

For the first time since I was very, very f*cking young, I don't see the man I’ve encapsulated as the head villain in my family.

I see an old, decrepit, sad example of a human being.

“Doesn’t matter, I guess.” He wipes his face with a callus-ridden palm. “Graham Black’s legalizing marijuana this year. City’s going to hell in a handbasket soon enough. Nothing’ll matter anymore.”

I knew this, of course.

Well, I knew Black was promising to legalize it.

Whether he actually pulls that shit off is another story.

“Proving it, too.” Dad throws in there with a random flailing of both arms now. “With all the arrests and street thug killings this year. Who wouldn’t want to just push it through at this point? Get it over with.”

He’s got a─

Wait.

“What?”

Dad looks up at me like I’m an idiot who can’t understand a word he’s saying. Hell, I just wanna hear it one more time for reiteration’s sake.

“I said who wouldn’t want to push it through at this point.”

Something clicks inside my head when I hear it for the second time.

Clear as day.

“Who indeed.”

I’ve been assuming the cops were the ones doing the killing all this time. It never crossed my f*cking mind that the politicians might be in on it.

Jesus.

I grab my jacket and pat it down. Just in f*cking case.

“I’ve gotta go, Dad.”

“But─”

“Don’t. Touch. Anything.” It’s the last thing I say to him before I shut the door behind me and drive as fast as I f*cking can over to see Thomas and his thugs for some f*cking answers.

This time, he’s gonna give me the right ones.





AN ARCHANGEL ON MY SHOULDER


(THOMAS FLINT, REDUX)





“THOMAS.”

All I see is the back of his head as I approach him in the street. He’s looking down at something. After he hears my voice, his head raises up. He takes a drag from his cigarette and blows it out, letting the smoke billow out in front of him.

The guy standing across from him leans to one side. When he sees me, he nods once to Thomas.

“Dice, get my gun.” He speaks easy. Scary f*cking easy. That shit sends chills down my spine.