Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (11 page)

“Yeah, yeah,” he says in a hurry. “Good idea. I’m here for you, Stiles, you know that, but this is…”

“No worries, Trick. Just keep a lid on the intel, okay?” Not that I doubt he will, but it never hurts to reiterate that shit.

He nods and waves and wrings his hands as I drive off with the kid in tow.
Still
.

One night.

I can deal with one night.

I GIVE

IT’S A LONG RIDE back to my place.

My fingers itch for a smoke. Who the fuck am I kidding? It’s the lungs. It’s always the lungs. They ache for it. My head itches for something else. Something that will explain to me how and why I’m continuing to dig myself into a hole I might not be able to get out of.

I don’t need a smoke.

I don’t need a smoke.

Dammit. I need a smoke.

It occurs to me that I could easily put this kid up in some cheap ass motel somewhere, buy him a bus ticket even, and be done with this shit.

It also occurs to me, though, that whenever I pull a Pontius Pilate, bad things happen.

Go the fuck home, Mikey.

See ya, kid.

I don’t know if my conscience could handle another death on my hands this week. Year. Decade.
Whatever
.

Temporary roommate it is.

“Dude, this place is a shit hole.” Stix laughs. I however, am not finding that shit funny.

“Is that a thank you?” I will put his ass out, swear to God, if he keeps it up. “’Cause I’m pretty fucking sure you don’t have any other options right now.”

Neither do I.

“Sorry.” He says it in that way only a teenager can.  You know the one that makes you think they aren’t fucking sorry at all.

“Jeez.” He’s out of breath. “Why the top floor?” I’m guessing he isn’t big on the whole exercise scene if he can’t even handle three flights of stairs.

“Maybe you’d rather sleep in the gutter down by the precinct?” It’s always good to remind them of their options.

The kid is mum after that. Until he sees the cat.

“This is Frodo. Don’t go in for a scratch too fast. He hates needy.”

“Gotcha. Hey there, big guy.” He indeed goes in for the scratch and almost loses an eye. I give him the old
did you not fucking hear what I just said
look and he backs off, keeping a close watch on Frodo the whole time.

“Okay, look.” I point down the hall. “There’s the toilet. There’re leftovers in the fridge somewhere. Don’t fucking touch anything other than food.” I need a goddamn shower. And a shot of something hard.

X X X

After I’ve washed the day away and I’m beelining it for a shot of Patron with a Stella chaser, I realize what an idiot I am. You never tell a kid not to touch anything. It’s the one surefire way to get them to touch every-fucking-thing.

“Dude. You know Wii is for kids, right?” Stix is buried in games. He’s got a nunchaku in one hand and a controller in the other.

He found my emergency stash, otherwise known as
the nephew entertainment system.
So, yeah, of course it’s for kids. He doesn’t need to know my business, though.

Sitting on the back of the couch, watching him in earnest, is the fucking cat.

“Some watchdog you are.” Frodo mews at me and flicks his tail as if to say,
whatever dumbass, you’re the one who left him in charge
. And he’s right. Who gives some punk off the street access to their home, then leaves them to their own devices?

Me. That’s who.

“YES! Got him!” Stix lets the Wii remote drop to the floor then throws his hands up into the air in victory.

I should have taken the necessary precautions to ensure the kid wouldn’t get into anything he shouldn’t be getting into.

I’m the idiot here.

Only, I’m not. Because I did take the fucking precautions. The same ones I take every other goddamn day.

“How’d you get into my closet, Jimmy?” The one with the lock on it. The one I
always
keep locked.

“Oh. That reminds me.” He pulls out of his pocket a contraption that suspiciously looks like it used to be my door knob. “You really should upgrade your locks. That stuff you’ve got on your doors is at least fifteen years old.”

“
You’re
fifteen years old.”
Little shit.

“Seventeen.”

Smartass.

I pick up an empty diet Dr. Pepper can on my way to the hall closet.

“Use a fucking coaster next time.” I wipe the sweat from his drink off the table with my sleeve and toss the can, free throw style, into the recycle bin before grabbing a pillow and blanket for the kid.

He mumbles an apology.

“And lights out in T-minus thirty minutes.” I mighta said sixty had he not put a water ring on my coffee table. Or broke my goddamn door.

“Come on, really?”

The bedding I pull out of the hall closet hits the couch like a three-pointer lands the net.

Swish, motherfucker.

“I’m finding you a place to stay tomorrow until we can get you outta Dodge.”

“But-”

“End of story, kid. I have shit to do. I can’t be distracted with your pubescent-like tendencies at all hours of the goddamn night.” His shoes look like they’ve been kicked off mid-stride. I amend that problem immediately and set them side by side at the door.

“And why in the hell haven’t you changed into something dry, yet?” I grab the bag of clothes I brought in and throw it to him. “There’s what might be construed as PJs in there.” He opens it up and starts rummaging through it. “Otherwise known as sweats.”

He pulls out the jeans I purchased and gives them a pointedly disgusted look.

“
What
are
these
?”

“Isn’t that what all the kids are wearing these days?”

His face scrunches up.

“What?”

He drops the jeans that the saleslady specifically fucking told me was a hot ticket item this year.

I should have known.

Skinny-legged kids don’t actually want their legs to be seen as skinny.

“It’s gonna have to suffice for now.”

Or at least until tomorrow.

It has to.

As Stix continues to judge every item I bought him, I grab the laptop, the mouse, some folders, and a certain bottle of alcoholic beverage I need before heading to the bedroom. I turn the lights out as I go, hearing Stix huff and puff and curse my name all the while.

Poor kid. I’m the least of his problems.

X X X

Angry, empty eyes jolt me out of a deep sleep. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve woken up in my bed, and as a strange added twist, I kinda miss seeing the old hand-drawn superhero hanging on my wall, first thing.

Morning, Mikey.

The fact that the side of my face is stuck to my laptop keyboard tells me I dozed off in the middle of searching for articles relating to Donnie Leary’s death, and henceforth, relatives that might be looking for his brother. The blinding light that’s sneaking in through the window suggests it’s morning.

I check the time.

And I’m fucking late. Again.

“Shit.”

Kill me now.

No time to figure out where to put the kid. I completely fucking forgot about the court required appointment that awaits me halfway across Redemption.

I swap my boxers for a clean pair and slip some jeans on that haven’t made it into the washing machine yet. Don’t worry. They smell fine.

On my way out the door, I start to wake up the kid but think better of it at the last minute. Instead, I write my cell number down onto a sticky note and mention not to call unless it’s an absolute emergency.

You never know who’s watching the cell tower pings.

I also mention there’s some bread on the counter and some peanut butter in the cabinet. You know, in case he’s hungry when he wakes up.

I’m considerate like that.

On the way downtown, I ask myself, why would the Redemption police attend Donnie Leary’s funeral? And what in the hell would they want with his brother? Typically, once a gangbanger is dead, he’s no more than an afterthought to the cops. They aren’t really big on offering condolences to next of kin. They’re just glad to be rid of one more street thug.

So why the interest now?

Remorse, meanwhile, eats away at me as I mull it all over.

Don’t leave me with these guys.

I can’t shake the thought that had I not left Donnie with those dicks in the first place, I wouldn’t have his delinquent little brother making a mess of my apartment right now.

Shake it off, Stiles.

He’ll be gone tonight. I’ll get a hit on some relatives and send him off, and we can get back to the status quo immediately thereafter.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

My stop approaches and I slow to a crawl before I shift the car into park. I take a nice, long deep inhale before getting out. I exhale as I shut the car door.

I’ll worry about Donnie and the kid later. Right now, I gotta see a lady about some temper tantrums I may or may not have had during a trial a few months back.

It might have involved the judge’s gavel breaking.

I don’t know.

Moving on.

I head inside to see Doctor Likes-to-talk-my-fucking-ear-off. I mean, damn, you’d think
she
was the one looking for healing or some shit.

Last time I was here, I found out more than I ever wanted about herbs and spices that soothe your spirit.

Like my fucking spirit needs soothing.

One long exaggerated step at a time, I climb my way up to the fourth floor of my psychotherapist’s building. When I get there, I hope and pray she’s been called to some petty ass meeting with one of her petty ass colleagues so I can go the fuck home and make sure Jimmy isn’t breaking anything. Or breaking
into
anything.

Sadly, she’s waiting for me in the reception area like a hungry lioness ready to clamp down onto my jugular.

“Morning.” I’m a chipper motherfucker as I wink at the young woman behind the desk. At least, she thinks I am.

She blushes, but then I find Doctor Who-does-she-think-she-is-anyway’s dark eyes glaring at me from behind the humanoid she possesses. She’s not amused.

Check.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Stiles.” She spins around to head into her office, assuming I’ll follow. Which, technically, I guess I have to.

I give the receptionist a look of horror as I step in line behind the woman in charge. She giggles and disappears behind the book she’s reading. The good doctor slams her office door behind me.

“I’ve got shit to do, Lana.”

“What you’ve
got
to do is pass this psychological evaluation. Without that, the rest is all for naught.”

I spit out a chuckle as I take a seat across from her desk. “All for naught? Seriously?”

Doctor Pompous rolls her eyes and sits. She arranges her pencils, which are already fucking straight by the way, into a tidy row across her desk calendar before clasping her fingers together. She grants me that condescending know-it-all glare, and then we begin.

“Do you want to talk about your father?”

I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair. I need the cigarette for this.

No, you don’t.

Instead of reaching for it, I take my jacket off and scrunch it behind me. This chair kills my back.

“No.”

“This weekend is his birthday, right?” She flips open my file and checks, even though she knows goddamn well it is.

“No idea.” I crack my neck. Twice.

“Mister—”

“Do you think we could cut the bullshit already, Lana?”

“Doctor—”

“Canter, I know. I fucking know your name, Lana. I’ve known it since seventh grade.”

Jesus.

My eyebrow itches. Why does my fucking eyebrow itch every time I’m in this office?

I drag a hand through my hair and breathe.