I’m sure Ricky’ll let me know if I didn’t. Right?
Regardless, I’ve gotta get my own ass over to the courthouse, pronto, which, technically speaking, is never gonna happen. Even though it should only take me about twenty minutes or so to get to the heart of the city, it’s more like thirty-five to forty in rush hour. Maybe more.
Fuck my life.
Being late really isn’t an option for me. If I’m late, my testimony doesn’t get heard, which means I don’t get paid in full for this particular job. I like money. It keeps a roof over my head, food in my belly, and it supports my hobbies.
That was a joke. I don’t have any hobbies. Unless you consider collecting fugitives a hobby, in which case I do have one.
Bottom line is, I may have to suck it up and listen to the rambling tongue lashing from big bro’s superior if I plan on seeing a bank deposit from him this time.
Awesome.
X X X
“Hey, Marty.” I nod and wink over at the flustered reporter as I approach the steps of the courthouse.
Twenty-seven minutes. Not too shabby.
At the entrance, a short man dressed in blue holds a white-gloved hand up putting me even further behind schedule. This does not bode well for my temperament today.
“Are you R.P.D?” That’s Redemption Police Department, by the way. He’s all business so I keep it short as I give him my standard answer to stupid questions.
“No.”
“Marshal?” Really? I shake my head and try to stifle the urge to punch him in the face for that jibe.
“FBI?”
I clear my throat. “No.”
“CIA?”
A laugh escapes me. Because Hell, and no.
“Sir-”
“You done?” I ask him. “Damn.” I eye the entry dweeb hard as I pull my wallet out. “Stiles, P.I. I’m here as an expert witness.”
He inspects my I.D. carefully. Like they didn’t fucking tell him to expect me.
“You’re late, Mr. Stiles.” He hands back my I.D. with a flick of his wrist.
“No shit.”
I head past Captain fucking Obvious and stop at security.
“How’s it goin’?” I take my gun out and place it in one of the bins along with my keys, then put my hands up so they can conduct the standard pat down.
“They’re waiting for you, Mr. Stiles.” The tall weightlifter they put here for no other purpose but intimidation tactics waves me through. His brow looks like it was painted into the frowning position, and his voice reminds me of Michael Clarke Duncan.
“What do you weigh, two hundred? Two-twenty?”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He’s definitely over two hundred.
“That’s what I thought.” I give him a nod before I walk on through the metal detector. On the other side, I quietly collect my things. There’s no way I’m pushing the sarcastic limits with this guy.
In the elevator, I’m grateful for the opportunity to lean my head back, close my eyes, and enjoy the quiet while my skull continues to recuperate. It’s a fleeting appreciation, though, because five quick floors later the elevator doors open, and I’ve officially arrived at my own personal version of Hell.
“Morning, Stiles.” The five-and-a-half-foot brunette who likes to make my life miserable is easily five-eight, maybe even five-nine in the heels she’s got on today. Combined with the dark blue power suit she’s wearing, she comes off as all business despite the fact that she doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s too busy scrolling through a bunch of bullshit on her smartphone.
I growl a response so it comes out as more of a warning than a greeting. Is it a bit much for this time of day? Maybe. Considering our history, I’m not exactly worried about her impression of me, though.
Emma Green is the latest and greatest “crime” reporter for our friendly neighborhood tabloid. And I use the term “reporter” loosely, by the way. Very loosely.
Doesn’t care about getting the story right in certain cases, if ya know what I mean, loosely.
Her name’s been on nearly every article Redemption’s local paper The Chronicle has put out since she arrived from somewhere down in Florida. She shows up at most crime scenes, from burglaries to homicides, and has very much become a royal pain in my…
“You’re late, by the way. They were just talking about you.” She mutters and points, blindly, down the hall as she steps into the elevator. Which is my cue to get the fuck out.
My one and only cigarette calls to me from the front pocket of my button-down. Thank God I remembered it. But quite frankly, I don’t have the energy to pull it out. Not that I wouldn’t get arrested if I did, but . . .
“And you look like hell.” She’s full of compliments today, I see.