Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption

by Jo Richardson

  “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.

  Lana’s quiet for a few moments while I gather my wits.

  “Avoiding him isn’t going to solve any of your issues, Jackson. That tends to make things worse. The anger will just─”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  She breathes out purposefully. “I’m here to help. You know that, right?”

  “Really? ’Cause the last time I checked, shoving a bunch of nonsense psychological bullshit down someone’s throat instead of just—” I wave a hand at the air. The air is bugging the shit out of me. “—signing off on the goddamn paper so they can get back to-”

  “That wouldn’t do you any good, and you know it.” Her voice is even. Mine is not.

  “Then what would, Lana? Huh? Telling him he’s an asshole and has been for the past fifteen to twenty years now? He doesn’t give a shit anymore.”

  “I bet he does.” She is seriously pissing me off.

  I laugh. I have no idea why. It’s not really that fucking funny. Frank Stiles doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.

  Maybe, maybe, once upon a time, but nowadays? Not so much. Lana knows this. But since it’s her job to tell me otherwise, she insists on contra-fucking-dicting me.

  “Would you rather talk about the tattoo?”

  She nods toward the ink peeking out from under my shirt, making this one of the few times I wish I’d buttoned all the way up. The other being when my twelfth-grade tutor made a pass at me after school.

  Fucking gross.

  “Not really.” I inadvertently reach to cover it up.

  “Mikey always referred to you as Batman.”

  The sound of his name being announced, out loud like that, gives me a cold chill in the center of my chest.

  I don’t wanna go there today.

  Maybe I need the fucking cigarette, after all. I don’t care if this is a non-smoking establishment.

  Screw that.

  I pat myself down, but it’s nowhere to be found.

  Must have left it at the apartment.

  Stix better not fucking smoke my cig.

  “Jackson?”

  My head snaps up. “What?”

  “Why did you go with a rendition of the Joker?”

  She’s not gonna let this go.

  Okay. Fine. She asked for it.

  “Because despite what my little brother might have thought, I’m not a fucking Dark Knight ready to sacrifice myself for the greater good, Lana. That’s why.”

  Straightforward enough for you?

  “Aren’t you, though?” She says it like she knows something I don’t know. Only she doesn’t know shit about me. Not anymore.

  “No.” I hear the defensiveness in my voice and settle the fuck down. Meanwhile, Lana gives me a soft nod and stays quiet for a minute or so. This is doctor code for go on. Only I have nowhere to go from here.

  I check my watch. It has to have been an hour by now. My watch, however, is telling me it’s only been fifteen minutes.

  This is bullshit.

  “Look,” she offers. “You’re here. You may as well tell me something. Did you reach out to your mother this week like I suggested?”

  I shake my head. “Didn’t have time.”

  Sixteen minutes.

  Seriously?

  “Story of your life, right?” She smirks for the first time today, and I relax a little into my chair.

  “Damn straight.” I look her dead in the eyes when I answer her. My to-do list grows every day, and with me trying to solve the murder of a possible innocent these days, there’s not much room for casual conversation and kicking back at the old homestead.

  “Why do you think you make your mother pay for the problems you and your father are having?”

  “What the fuck kinda question is that?”

  “A fair one.”

  “I love my mother. She knows that.”

  “Does she? When was the last time you told her?”

  “I haven’t said that shit since I was ten, Lana.”

  “Actions speak louder than words.”

  “Exactly.” Damn, my fucking eyebrow itches like a boss right now.

  “And what have your actions been saying lately?”

  “They…”

  Son of a bitch.

  I hate it when she does that shit.

  “Fuck you.”

  She smiles. She knows she got one over on me.

  She’s shameless.

  The rest of the hour goes on, slightly less tense than how it started. Before I know it, she’s wrapping up.

  “I want you to do me a favor, Jackson.” She pulls out a pad of paper and picks up one of her sharp ass pencils.

  “Here we go.”

  She begins to write but doesn’t say anything else. She hands me the piece of paper and waits for me to say something.

  I say something, all right. “I don’t fucking think so.” I try to hand it back to her but she refuses it.

  “Just try it.”

  “Why?”

  “You tell me next time.”

  Next time.

  She’ll be lucky if I step another foot inside this hellhole again. Ever.

  I huff. Frustrated. I crumple up the piece of paper then stand and grab my jacket.

  “I’m done.”

  “For today. Lucky for you, I have someone coming in about five minutes.” She pushes up onto her feet as well, and I head for the door. I open it and salute the receptionist as I rush to the front door, but I’ve got no winks left for the day.

  “See you in a week, Mr. Stiles.” Lana moves next to her assistant as she bids me a professional fucking wave goodbye, and just like that, we’re back to the formalities.

  If I was in any worse of a mood, I’d call her ass out. Then again, maybe her assistant doesn’t like her, and maybe she’ll call the big man in charge to let him know there’s a conflict of interest here. That thought alone is enough to keep my big mouth shut.

  I like to stick with the devil I know personally, and besides, that would make me a dick.

  Okay, maybe a bigger dick than I already am.

  So I leave without so much as rolling my eyes. When I get back to the car, there’s a present waiting for me.

  My favorite snack, taped to the driver's side window, tells me one thing, and one thing only.

  Lilah’s here.

  I take a look around. It doesn’t take long to spot her─ exactly one hundred and one feet away.

  She waves, excitedly at first, but then thinks better of it. The innocent yet slightly off-balance girl ducks behind the side of a storefront, then peeks around the corner again.

  I’m still here, Lilah.

  Unfortunately.

  I wave to her to let her know I see her. I pull the candy bar off the window and slide into the Chevelle so there’s no misunderstanding here. This isn’t okay.

  I eat the Twix after giving it a good once over. I’m not a fucking idiot.

  On the way back home, I try to drown out what Lana said back at her office. I want to forget about the fact that my one-time best friend from high school thinks she still knows what makes me tick. However, that piece o
f paper in my pocket is making the loudest noise of all inside my head.

  At a stop light, I take it out and read it again.

  Tell someone “thank you” today, and mean it.

  Mean it is not just underlined, it’s double underlined.

  What the fuck does that even mean?

  I tell people thank you all the time. As a matter of fact, I just told someone thank you yesterday.

  I told the cashier at the sub joint slash gas station I filled up at thanks a whole hell of a lot for screwing up my fucking sub order. Instead of turkey on wheat he gave me ham and Swiss on white. I hate Swiss cheese. And ham.

  “Fuck it.” I crumple it back up and shove it back into my pocket. I need to get home. And Ma knows I love her despite what doctor Likes-to-use-big-words-to-impress-people says.

  I turn the tunes up for the entire thirty-minute drive back to my apartment. It’s decidedly calming, despite the backups on the road or the way my mind races over everything that’s happened this week.

  And why the fuck do I care?

  Donnie Leary got himself involved in shit he had no business getting involved in. I did my job. I took him in.

  And now he’s dead.

  “Shit.”

  Okay, do I have an opportunity to make amends here?

  Maybe.

  But for what? Another kid from the poor side of town bitching about how his brother didn’t do it, and the injustice of his death is the epitome of the infestation of dirty cops.

  Hold up. He is just another kid bitching about this shit.

  In fact, the other kid I remember bitching about something very similar to Donnie’s situation was just over the summer. And not too far from where Donnie was found, if I recall correctly.

  They never found the shooter there either, but it was implied Thomas Flint was behind that one, too.

  Wait.

  Why am I doing this again?

  Despite my doubts of whether or not it’s a good idea, I pull out my iPhone and tell Siri I need to make a note. “Check out that case from last summer about the… shit!”

  He did NOT lie in wait at my own home.

  I slip the phone away and park. My brother leans against the outside railing with that smug ass I win motherfucking look on his face.

  If I try to make a run for it now, he’ll spin his big ass red and blue flashing lights that he likes to show off and pull my sorry ass over.

  I shake my head at him and he smiles.

  Dick.

  I grimace. That’s all I’m giving him.

  “Here’s to family disputes and argument hangovers,” I tell myself as I head toward the apartment.

  I grab my shit and lock up the Chevelle. As I stroll over to Nick, I’m formulating a plan to prevent my brother from coming into my apartment. The last thing I need is for him to be aware of the minor I have stowed away in my place, who may or may not be wanted by the police.

  “What’s that look?” He laughs, flashing those bright ass teeth that he whitens every six months like clockwork.

  “What look?”

  He points at me. “That one. You used to make it in calculus class when you were thinking, super hard.”

  Because it was fucking calculus. Helloooooo.

  “Nothing.” I brush past him. “I’ve got shit to do, Nick, so…”

  “Well good, ’cause this won’t take long.”

  I start up the stairs. “I mean I have zero time to talk right now─”

  “I have zero reasons to believe that.” He follows me.

  Fucking A.

  I stop and turn on him so he can’t go any farther.

  “What do you want, Nick?” Dammit, I’ve got a kink in my neck, now. Great.

  His laugh is annoying as hell. “You know what I want.”

  He’s talking about the dinner at our parent’s place, of course.

  “Again, can’t.” Does he not understand the English language today? Granted, okay, there was a time in the Stiles family history books when celebrating birthdays was, I don’t know, fun?

  Not anymore.

  “You have to.”

  “Why?” I turn and quicken my steps. He stops behind me.

  “Because if you don’t, Ma’s making a trip over here, and I think we both know you don’t want that to happen.”

  I’m dead in my tracks.

  Dead with a capital D, stick a fork in my temple now, please.

  “Fuck.” I don’t say it loud enough for Nick to hear me.

  “Plus I mighta told her you have a girlfriend.”

  Say…

  “What?” I pose to jump his ass. My plan is to kick it. Hard.

  “There’s that look again.”

  “What in the hell would make you tell her something like that?”

  He shrugs a shoulder at me. “She’s also expecting you to bring her with you tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  My fucking eyebrow itches again.

  “Why would you do this to me? Have I killed any pets of yours this week? Did I offend your fucking wife? Just tell me, Nick.”

  His huge shoulders bob with each chuckle he lets out. “Relax, Jackie, it’s not the end of the world to be in a relationship, you know. In fact, Mia and I are very─”

  LALALALALALAAAH!

  “I don’t wanna hear about your sex life, Nick. I’m already scarred for life from Thanksgiving two-thousand.” I turn and stalk up the rest of the way to my apartment. He’s following me again.

  “Hey, nobody told you to walk in on us in the middle of the night. That’s what married people do.”

  “I didn’t walk in on you, Nick. You were in my room. I needed sleep.”

  “You needed to pass out, ya mean. And it was our room, Jackie.”

  Details.

  “Is there a point to this conversation?” I can’t take it anymore. I have to say, though, this sucks.

  If I tell him to fuck off and Ma has to drive all the way over here just for me to say no, she’s gonna be pissed. If I say yes, she’ll still be pissed because I shoulda just said yes in the first fucking place.

  I’m screwed.

  Again, “Fuck.”

  “You just realized you’re screwed here, didn’t you?”

  The sigh I let out tells him all he needs to know.

  “Okay then. I’ll pick you up at─”

  “I’ll drive myself.” What am I, ten?

  “Sorry, bro, I promised Ma you’d be there. It’s my ass if you turn out to be a no-show. I’ll be here around five. Be ready.”

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and… fuck me. I kick the railing and throw a hand up. I give.

  “Fine.”

  “Sweet.” He claps his hands like he’s a used car salesman who just signed his last deal of the day.

  The only problem is, he’s still expecting to come inside.

  “Uh, look, Nick. The place is a mess.”

  “So?” He laughs and tries to push past me. I stop his ass.

  “Fine. I’ve got someone inside, and I don’t want it to get awkward, so…” It’s all I’ve got. Not exactly a lie. Just an insinuated one.

  With Nick being the gentleman he is, it’s all I need.

  He holds his hands up and backs off. Thank you, God.

  “Say no more.” He leans toward me and whispers. “But, dude, I wouldn’t let Emma find out. That one’s a firecracker.”

  He winks and punches my arm. First of all, ow. But secondly, “She’s not─”

  “Just bring someone, Jackie. You know how Ma gets,” he tells me on his way back down the stairs. His steps are triumphant. And I’m this close to throwing a pen at the back of his head.

  “Why’d you bring a cop here, man?” Jimmy asks in a panicked voice from behind a cracked doorway. Nick gets into his cruiser and waves a hand as he pulls out into the road.

  I wave back and answer Stix out of the side of my mouth.

  “I didn’t.”

  He opens the door wider and steps out onto the platform next
to me as the cruiser pulls out. Then he lets out a sigh of relief.

  “I thought you set me up, sent ’em to come get me.”

  This kid is almost as paranoid as I am.

  Almost.

  “Not gonna happen, Jimmy.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yep.”

  I start inside and click my teeth, looking for Frodo. And my cigarette. Jimmy’s right behind me. I may as well have two cats.

  “So who was that?”

  “Just a guy.” I open the bedroom door. Frodo’s not on the bed.

  “Why was he here?”

  “None of your business.” I check the pantry. Sometimes he gets himself stuck in there trying to get at the treats.

  “You in trouble?”

  “You know what, kid? I think I liked you better when you weren’t talking so much. Where’s my cat?”

  “He was meowing a bunch so I fed him, and he took off out the bathroom window. That was like, ten-fifteen minutes ago.”

  Damn cat.

  “Okay, well, what about you? You eat?”

  I do a visual sweep of the apartment to see if anything looks, I don’t know, out of place.

  Jimmy’s face scrunches up. “That bread is stale and the peanut butter looked gross.”

  “What?” I walk over to the kitchen counter and open up the jar. I sniff it, then I proceed to gag.

  It definitely smells like sweaty balls. What’s the expiration date on this shit, anyway?

  “Okay.” I toss the jar into the trash and head back for the door. “How do you feel about subs?”

  “I like subs,” he tells me, excited and bouncy like a fifteen-year-old girl about to get her first kiss.

  Yay me.

  THERE ONCE WAS A STREET PUNK NAMED THOMAS

  “I THOUGHT WE WERE getting subs.”

  The kid, otherwise most recently known as the royal pain in my proverbial ass, is apparently very observant.

  “Side stop.”

  “Where?”

  I ignore him. If I tell him I’m going to check out a hunch I have regarding multiple murders that may or may not be linked to his brother’s, he might freak the fuck out. The last thing I need right now is a panicked teenager.

  This way, all I get is emo, which I’m willing to overlook. I’m not, however, willing to ignore the fact that his feet are about to scuff up my dash after I just cleaned this bitch.