A Dirty Business (Kings of New York #1)
Tijan
CHAPTER ONE
JESS
Beer and hockey.
That’s where it’s at.
I didn’t know what “it” was and where “it” was, but I was currently sitting at the hockey arena, a beer in hand, watching some holy hottie hockey gods on the ice, so yeah, I was thinking I was where “it” was supposed to be. Life was good. Beer and hockey.
“I gotta take a piss.”
I stifled a grin because only my roommate, who looked like a real-life Barbie, talked in a way that in no way was Barbie-like at all. Made me love her even more for it.
I gave a nod. The second period was ending, and I glanced at my beer. It was a third empty.
I made a decision, right then and there. Because I was decisive—it’s a word that I had to recently explain to a parolee of mine, and I had to explain in detail to the nth degree. She didn’t know what setting goals was or what being decisive meant. I’d enjoyed the conversation. Her eyes were glazed, and her drug test was negative, so I knew it was the topic boring her. Too bad. We both had to endure that conversation, though it wasn’t her that had me needing my current beer. It was the three parolees after her that I checked on. All of them together made me need the last beer, and my next beer was being dedicated to the two home visits I’d be doing tomorrow.
Not looking forward to those, but it was part of the job. So as Kelly was making her way to the stairs, I went right behind her.
Kelly drew the eye. Platinum-blonde hair. A slender and almost model-like body. Blue eyes. Barbie, like I said. She got looks from males and females, and I understood, especially after her recent boob job. She’d been my roommate since college and after. The only time we’d taken apart from each other was when she’d moved in with a boyfriend-turned-fiancé, who was now an ex-husband. He’d cheated on her, so she got a decent-size settlement from him, and I got my best friend back. Score for me, sucked for him. But the thing I loved about Kelly was that she was flexible. I came home and told her I needed a drink, and she said she won two tickets to the New York Stallions hockey game. It was meant to be, the way I was figuring.
She glanced back, saw me following her.
I tipped my cup up and drained it to her unspoken question.
She turned, going the rest of the way with a laugh. Almost like we’d done this before (because we had), she went for the bathroom, and I went to the beer concession stand.
“Oh, ho, ho, ho. Hey there.”
The jovial greeting sounded out from one of the workers, a big burly guy. I had to take a second to appreciate what I was seeing. I knew this guy. He’d been a parolee in the past, not mine, but I’d been in the hallway a few times he had a disagreement with his current parole officer at that time. He liked to go by the name Jimi Hendrix, but we all called him Jimmy. And with Jimmy, unfortunately, there’d been a lot of disagreements.
So, he was on parole a lot.
“Jimmy.” I was scanning him up and down. He’d lost thirty pounds, which I caught because I needed to know that for my job, but on him, it was barely noticeable. The guy was six five and 310. Or now, 280? I was also noting the beer he was serving. “How are you doing?”
He caught my tone, and his grin upped a degree. “I’m off parole. You don’t need to be worried about reporting me. Finished it, got a good place to live, and got this job. I’m working at a grocery store, bagging groceries, too, Miss Jess.”
That was another thing about Jimmy. I was normally Officer Montell, but Jimmy somehow got away with calling me Miss Jess. A couple of his coworkers were checking me out like I was his ex-lady, and I saw the speculation in their eyes. I had no interest in dating either of them.
“You wanna beer, Miss Jess?”
“Uh . . . sure.” Felt odd taking a beer from a past parolee, but okay then. As he was pouring, still seeing some of the interest from his coworkers, I reached into my purse for my phone and my badge. The badge got hung around my neck. I didn’t need to brandish it here, but they saw it, and it did the job. The interest fell flat, and I got a couple sneers instead.
I pulled up Travis, a coworker, and sent him a text.
Jess: Jimi Hendrix is off parole?
He buzzed back almost right away.
Asshole Coworker 1: Yeah. Why?
Jess: Just wondering, saw him. He looks good.
Asshole Coworker 1: He in trouble?
Jess: Nope. Bye.
My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t like Travis. The feeling was mutual, more than mutual actually. Derek Travis. He’d been up my ass for as long as I’d been working as a parole officer. Didn’t know why or what his problem was since they needed female parole officers. I did my job, did it well, and only butted heads with him a couple of times. But I’d asked about Jimmy because I needed to make sure, and he’d answered. The topic was done as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t going to give him any reason to bug Jimmy, but sometimes they lied, hence the text.
“Here you go, Miss Jess.”
Even with Jimmy’s outbursts or disagreements, I always liked him. He couldn’t handle his temper at times, but he was usually funny about it, swinging on himself more than swinging on others. Ninety-five percent of the time, he didn’t want to hurt anyone else.
“What do I owe you, Jimmy?”
His smile was almost blinding, his two massive hands resting on the sides of the register and his big frame hunched forward and down. That’d been one of his old habits, I was remembering too. He tried to make himself smaller than he was, usually to make others feel more comfortable around him.