Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (10 page)

The fuck?

I shake that shit off.

That’s crazy talk.

Right?

My eyes glide along her body, from the low cut tee she’s sporting today to the loose fitting jeans, stopping at the ankle holster peeking out from underneath.

Interesting
.

Why would she need that?

Protection? Or is she undercover? And if she is, who is she undercover for?

Out of the blue, a loud snort coming from somewhere inside Green wakes her up. I scramble to get the fuck outta Dodge but can’t decide which way to go.

Her eyes fly open and she sees me standing there. I’m a buffoon, staring at her like some desperate twelve-year-old aching for a boob shot of my neighbor late at night.

Not that it’s ever happened. But if it did, I’d be a fucking buffoon.

She seems confused for a second, then embarrassed, then confused again when she comes to grips with the fact that there she is, and here I am, and we’re both in a fucking Target late at night.

What are the chances of that, by the way?

I could make a run for it, sure. Pretend none of this happened and spend the rest of the night trying to get the image of Emma Green’s unguarded eyes out of my head. The truth is, it’s too much fun to give the woman some grief.

“Lose your apartment?”

I smirk. It’s funny.

Green doesn’t think so. A scowl appears across her face as she groggily pushes herself up and out of the saucer.

“Ass.”

“Boyfriend kick you out?”

She flips me the bird, and I stifle another laugh.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” She insists.

“Really? ’Cause ya could have fucking fooled me.”

She yawns. “And you care because…”

Good question. “I don’t.”

Green gives me a groggy yet triumphant look. “Could’ve fucking fooled me.”

I don’t have a comeback for that one.

Dammit.

“Why were you standing there watching me like that anyway?” She checks to make sure all her shit is still where she left it. “It’s creepy.”

“It was like a horror film; it was freaking me out but I couldn’t look away. Plus, you know, I didn’t wanna get too close.”

She gives me a look that clearly asks, what in the hell are you talking about? And I point to my still
slightly
bruised lip from the other day. As a courtesy reminder of her Ninja skills.

Realization hits her. She bows her head and busies herself by rummaging through her purse, but I see the smile she’s trying to hide. It’s
friendly
.

Weird.

Instead of grilling her more about why she prefers to spend her time snoozing at the back of a Target store, I ask her something else I’m curious about.

“Why are you carrying?”

Her head snaps up and she appears surprised that I noticed. But come on, how could I not notice that shit? She’s lucky it was me that stumbled upon her and not security.

“What?” she huffs out a nervous giggle.

“Right leg.”
Right handed.
“Black leather holster. Probably nothing more than a handgun. You look like the Ruger type.”

She blinks. Then blinks again. “I… how did you…”

I lean in toward her and tap the side of my temple. “Private eye. I’m extremely observant.” I point at her. “I hope you know how to use that thing.”

“I’ve taken lessons,” she assures me. “And have a permit.” Then she throws her purse strap over her shoulder and starts to leave. To which I follow her with my cart full of teenage items.

She peeks into the cart then back at me.

“New wardrobe?”

I shake my head. “Client.” No idea why I feel the need to explain.

This raises an eyebrow. Literally.

“Anyone I know?”

“Doubt it.”

She takes another look and spots the skinny jeans, then inspects what I’m wearing. “A teenager secured your services?” She thinks it over. “Her parents know about it?”

She’s baiting me. She’s knows this shit is male clothing.

“Low blow, Green.”

She giggles. “Hefty price for investigative services.”

I walked right into that one, I guess. So, I step the fuck away from this particular conversation.

“Stop trying to divert the topic at hand and explain to me why a tabloid reporter needs to carry.”

“It’s a free country.” She reaches out to feel the fabric of some tops we pass. Clearly there’s more to this story. And she’s not planning on sharing it.

So, I nod.

“Ex-marine?” ’Cause that’s hot. But when her ears lift, I know she’s smiling even though she’s no longer paying me any mind. She’s on to glancing up at the banners hanging from the store walls.

So no-go on the ex-military. Bummer.

“Assassin?” Still hot, although a little scary.

“Oh, my God.” She side-eyes me and shakes her head.

Okay, we’ve crossed off all the bad-ass reasons for the gun. I narrow my stare and breathe in some hefty curiosity about the woman I barely know but find myself interested in all of a sudden.

When I open my mouth to make another guess that’s more realistic, she asks, “Why do I need a specific reason, anyway? I mean this is America, right? I
do
have the right to carry a weapon for no reason whatsoever, right?”

Ah.

I see.

She’s playing this off like it’s no big deal. But it’s definitely a big deal. Otherwise, why not just tell me?

Clearly I need to get my Sherlock Holmes on for this one.

“You take some sort of classes for work related purposes and think you’re Dirty Harry now or something?”

She huffs out, almost amused, and shakes her head.

No Dirty Harry complex. Check.

“Used to live in a bad neighborhood, maybe?”

The smile dwindles and she clears her throat.

Getting closer.

“No wait, don’t tell me. I know this one. You and your girlfriends got together and took one of those defense classes and got all fucking high on the power and─”

“It’s none of your fucking business, Stiles!”

When she stops to face me, abruptly, her eyes are glassy. That’s enough to catch me off guard, but then I notice her quivering chin to boot.

Combined with the fact that the tone in her voice just went from uncomfortably playful to defensively agitated, I know.

It’s personal, not professional.

Options blow through my mind in an instant.

Kidnapping.

Mugging.

Abuse.

Rape.

That last one gives me pause. I search her thoughtful gaze for something that will cross it off the list, but there’s nothing. So, I make an attempt to verbally nix the idea of some sort of abusive situation.

“How bad?”

Wait, that wasn’t where I was going with this.

“None.” She swallows down some anger.

“Did you know him?”
Stop getting personal, Stiles.

“Of.”

“Did he stalk you?” ‘Cause I can identify with that fuckery.

“Your.”

“Did he…” I can’t even finish my fucking sentence this time.

“
Business
.” She looks away at something on a rack after she says the last word. She wipes her face, and it’s pretty clear the door is shut. She’s not entertaining my curiosity any more this evening.

And I’m not in the mood to push the subject further, if I’m being completely honest.

Something unexpected rises up inside me as leftover ideas of what might have happened to her swirl around in my brain.

Compassion
.

I feel the urge to punch something.

Really fucking hard.

“Green.” Her name floats off of my lips. I’m not even sure why I say it, except I can’t leave shit like this.

Slowly, she looks up at me. Naïveté plays at the edges of her eyes reminding me of the first day I met her.

At first, I believed I was gonna try and lighten the mood by giving her one last dig for the night, free of charge. But now, as I stand here witnessing her vulnerability, I’m more inclined to offer up some professional advice. And maybe a little bit of personal guidance is thrown in there, too.

“You might wanna think about getting a waistband holster.” I whisper into her ear. Just our little secret. “Easier to get to and quicker on the draw.”

She pulls away from me, but not wholeheartedly. It’s more like she’s not sure if I’m serious or kidding.

My heart is about to beat itself right the fuck out of my chest.

The moment is quickly turning meaningful between the two of us and it’s uncomfortable, to say the least. I sense a crack in the carefully constructed universe I’ve created, originally full of animosity toward the woman.

I’m not at all sure what the hell to do with it.

So I end the conversation here.

“Later, Green.”

I give her a half-smile and leave for a register as far away from where we’re standing as possible.

And damn, I really need that drink right about now.

X X X

By the time Stix and I get to Tricky’s place, I’ve made several attempts to push the potentially dark and twisted back story of Emma Green out of my mind. And failed.

When I see Tricky waiting for us outside, the Target store moment is forgotten. For now.

Tricky paces with one arm tucked into the other as he chews on his thumbnail. A habit he’s had for as long as I can remember. It makes him come off like a jittery rabbit as opposed to a down to business bail-bondsman.

“I don’t think this is the best idea, Stiles.” I’m not even out of the damn car when he tells me he’s changed his mind.

“Relax.” He’s a little dramatic sometimes.

“No, I mean, guess who paid me a visit within five minutes of me getting off the phone with you.”

“Santa Claus?” I can’t help it sometimes.

“Very funny.”

“Okay, I give.” Now Stix is curious, as he gets out of the car.

“None other than the man himself.”

That gives me pause, as well as the kid.

“Thomas?”

“S’right. And he was askin’ questions, too.” He rubs his unshaven face with a rough hand and eyes Stix suspiciously.

Add paranoia on top of nervousness and you’ve got an unstable human being. Ricky’s teetering on the edge with this shit. And can I just add, that’s some damn coincidence, Thomas dropping by.

“About what?”

“Wantin’ to know if maybe I heard something about what happened to that Leary kid. Like a name, maybe.”

“But you haven’t, so…” No problemo. Am I right?

“I told him that, Stiles. But…” he leans in and whispers out of the side of his mouth. “He was suspicious.”

Ricky’s always been a look-over-your-shoulder kinda guy. I’ve always thought he was slightly off his rocker, good guy as he is. But something in my gut tells me to pay attention this time. Not that Stix would be in danger, necessarily, even if Thomas did run into him somewhere. Because, like I said, it’s not really his style to hold grudges against anyone but the person who did him wrong.

Let’s say it wasn’t Thomas who had Donnie offed. Maybe that person does hold grudges that extend outward from the offending person. Maybe Thomas is working with that person. Maybe he stands to make some money off of turning the kid in.

I’m not down with that.

I peek over at Stix. The kid looks like he’s gonna hurl.

I’m pretty much fucked here. You know that, right?

I mean I can’t very well leave him here. Not with my spidey senses tingling and shit, and particularly not after I already made the mistake of leaving one Leary with the wrong people.

There really isn’t anywhere else to put him up. It’s not like my brother is keen on keeping runaways in his home. Not with a family he’s responsible for, anyway. And Green…

Jesus. I don’t even know why her name popped into my head like that. What in the ever loving hell is wrong with me today?

Ricky paces some more while he keeps watch, up and down the street, to make sure no one else is getting ready to give him a surprise visit.

Stix strides over to me and turns around so Ricky can’t hear him. “You’re not really gonna make me stay here, are you, Jackson?”

Me?

I take a deep breath and let it out, trying to find that calming spirit somewhere inside me.

Who am I kidding? There’s no calming fucking anything inside me right now.

“No.” I grab the kid by the arm and lead him back to the car. “Later, Tricky.”