Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(4)

“You’re about to go to jail for manslaughter. Maybe you should worry about that for a little while.”

His expression changes as though he’s just now realizing why I’m taking him in.

“I didn’t kill anybody.” His voice wavers slightly, and I see it in his eyes. He’s scared. He doesn’t want me to know it, but it’s there. Plain as day.

He wants me to believe him, maybe even needs me to. But I’ve already been briefed on his record. I hear enough woe is me crap on a daily basis. I don’t need to hear it from this guy, too. And I definitely don’t need to hear it all the way to the precinct. So I nod, roll my eyes, then turn on the radio and crank up the tunes.

I fast dial Tricky Ricky, the bail bondsman who contacted me about our friendly neighborhood Redemption police department needing a little help with this one.

“I’ve got him.” I end the call almost as soon as it begins. Short and sweet runs in my family. Besides, Tricky and me, we go way back—he knows the drill.

Personally, I'm over the moon. Not only am I a thousand dollars richer from the drag race I just nailed, but I’m also about to be another ten grand in the black when I drop this kid off at Redemption’s 1st Precinct for the night. Because I’m feeling pretty spectacular, I lean back, open up the engine, and just drive for a while.

Also, before you ask, I wasn’t lying back there. I’m not a cop. And don’t even get me started on bounty hunters. These days, they’re a dime a dozen, and the level of service with those guys? Joke.

I’m the guy they call when they can’t get it up. Or rather, can’t get the job done for whatever reason. Normally, I work directly through the bail bondsman I’ve known for a lot of years, but in certain circumstances, like this one, I deal directly with the men in blue.

Name’s Jackson Stiles. I’m of the independent sector. A private dick, as some of my close friends call me.

Kidding. I have no close friends.

And I get the job done, by the way.

Every damn time, my friends.

Every.

Damn.

Time.

Not that I have anything against the police force in any way, shape, or form, mind you. Hell, my brother’s a cop, but do you have any idea what those guys make? Freelance is the way to go, in my humble opinion. Or what I like to call “consulting.”

It’s the least I can do, really. Besides, if I can get one more douchebag off the streets, win-win for both me and the men in blue. Forget about the fact that they’d rather lose out on a bust than disobey their precious leaders.

Call me bitter. My family does. Most of them anyway.

Donnie hollers something from the back seat as we get closer to our destination. I turn down the music, irritated.

“What?”

“You don’t have to do this.” He’s jittery, now, and desperate.

Great.

Kid better not piss his pants on the seat of this f*cking car is all I’m saying.

“We can take this conversation somewhere else. Anywhere. Just not…there.” He glances over at the brick building off in the distance, then swallows a lump in his throat.

“What’s there to talk about? You f*cked up.” He inches his way forward and sits up straight.

“No, I know, I totally f*cked up, but this rap is not mine. I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake. Don’t give me to these guys.”

I meet his eyes again.

The confident little shit from earlier isn’t quite so confident any more. He’s more like a scared little kid who realizes he’s about to be held accountable for the shit he’s been pulling.

Or, you know, a murder, if you’d like to get specific.

“Please.”

And now I’m curious. So I let off the gas and bring the car to a coast for a stretch.

“Tell me something, kid. If it’s not your rap, then whose is it?”

I’m all about getting to the point.

He contemplates saying something else, but doesn’t. So, apparently he trusts me enough to beg me to set him free, but not enough to expand on his claims of innocence. Gotta love the younger generation. Never wanting to take responsibility for their bullshit.

“Who escapes a murder scene then sticks around to drag race, anyway?” That’s been bugging me all night.

“I didn’t kill anyone!” He’s defiant now. Ticked.

“But you somehow know exactly what the f*ck I’m talking about?” Obviously, since he knows what he’s going to jail for.

“Unfortunately.” He’s leaving something out, and it annoys the shit out of me. Like a puzzle I need to finish, only I can’t because he threw the last piece out the window, and the timer’s about to go off. It’s not in my job description to get the story, though. All I'm supposed to do is take him in. Something I have to keep reminding myself of tonight, for some reason.

“Well, I say no worries then.” I try to make light of the situation as I press on the gas pedal again. “You get a defense lawyer assigned to your case. They prove you weren’t the killer. Bam. Done.”

“Right.” He laughs out a sarcastic huff of air and watches the shrubbery go by outside. He’s got about as much confidence in the justice system as I do, it seems.

“Tell ya what, if I ever become a life coach, I’ll give you a call. We’ll talk shop, and I’ll tell you how to keep your nose clean as opposed to getting involved with the wrong kind of people.” It’s a half-hearted promise. Redemption doesn’t have a whole hell of a lot of the right kind of people.