Branded
Page 60
Dax finally lets go of me when he’s sure I’m not going to haul off and punch him again. I turn around slowly, waiting for him to tell me the rest, still unsure if I’m going to be forced to beat his ass.
“As soon as I got the call, I started discreetly asking about Jackson around the station. A lot of people don’t like him. They think he’s shady and there’s been some complaints about his forceful tactics when he goes on calls. There were even some rumors that he’s been taking bribes from prisoners to do favors for them on the outside. They said the captain refused to make any formal complaints until someone came to them with solid proof. Jordan’s death was the perfect excuse for cap to ask Jackson to take a leave of absence and get his head on straight.”
This is all just too fucked up. The man watching us day and night, following us everywhere we go, is responsible for all the threats and for almost killing us. And now he has Phina.
“I called Phina and told her to call me back right away and then I called Marcus and told him to make sure she didn’t leave because Jackson could be a threat. I also called your stupid ass, but you didn’t answer. I wanted to come here and question him myself and feel him out. You can’t just go around accusing a cop of working on the wrong side of the law,” Dax explains.
I don’t want to hear anything else. Jackson could be the biggest threat to Phina, or if his co-workers are correct, he could have taken a bribe from her father and be delivering her to him right now. Either option is unacceptable.
“Move this fucking cruiser out of my way,” I tell Dax, pointing to Marcus’ car still blocking my truck as I pull my keys out of my pocket and head over to it.
“You’re not fucking going anywhere, DJ. Back-up will be here any minute now and the cops will handle it,” he tells me as I get inside my truck and slam the door closed.
With the window rolled down, I start it up and give him one last look. “Yeah, because the cops have done a SUPER fucking job of it so far. Move the goddamn cruiser before I run the fucker over!”
I rev my engine and put the truck in gear. We’ve already wasted enough time standing out here in the front yard talking when we should have been high-tailing it after Phina and Jackson.
“Goddammit, DJ! Don’t make me do this!” Dax shouts, pulling his gun from his shoulder holster and pointing it right at me.
I smirk at him, taking my foot off the brake. “Go ahead, pull the trigger, dick fuck.”
He can either let me go or shoot me. I’ll do whatever it takes to find Phina.
Dax shakes his head at me and curses a blue streak as I press on the gas. As I start to turn around to look behind me and see how much room I have before I smash into the cruiser, the explosion from Dax’s gun echoes through the night.
I look over at Jackson questioningly as he makes a right instead of a left at the end of my street.
“Heard on the radio there was an accident on Clemmons Street. Going to take a shortcut to the police station,” he explains.
Nodding silently, I rest my head on the seat back and stare out the window.
God, why does this have to hurt so fucking much? Me, the woman who loves pain, suddenly doesn’t want to feel it any more.
“Hey, so how come things between us never worked out?” Jackson suddenly asks.
I close my eyes, really not wanting to talk right now, but I also don’t want to be a bitch to the person who has taken time out of his life to keep an eye on me and keep me safe.
When I open my eyes again, I continue to stare out the window.
“I don’t know, I guess we were just too different. It never would have worked out,” I reply softly.
“You and DJ are pretty opposite, but that seems to be working out just fine.”
At the mention of DJ’s name, I press the palms of my hands against my chest, trying my hardest to keep my heart from jumping out and flopping like a dead fish onto the floor at my feet.
I don’t respond to his statement. I definitely don’t want to get into this right now. It’s too soon and I’m too raw. It feels like someone has filleted my skin and then dumped acid over it. Everything hurts and I just want to curl up in bed, pull the covers over my head and sleep until I stop aching.
“Seriously, I just want to know why I wasn’t good enough for you?” Jackson prods, the tone of his voice suddenly turning harder than it was moments ago.
Jesus, it was like twelve years ago. Get over it already.
“That wasn’t it at all, Jackson,” I tell him, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It was me. I wasn’t good enough for you.”
He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, continuing to talk nonsense.
“I know it was because of the shit that went down between Jordan and Finnley. You just couldn’t handle being with a guy who had that kind of craziness in his family tree.”
What in the hell is he talking about? We broke up long before Jordan and Finnley even got married, let alone finding out Jordan had boarded the crazy train headed straight to his death.
I notice a few things all at once as I stare across the console at Jackson. He’s clutching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are white, the armpits of his blue uniform shirt are stained with circles of sweat, and he keeps tipping his head from side to side to crack his neck like a nervous tick. My sixth sense kicks in and I subtly glance at the door handle and contemplate jumping out of the moving vehicle if things get any weirder.
“Jackson, we dated back in college. Finnley and Jordan weren’t even married yet,” I remind him, glancing at the door handle again.
“As soon as I got the call, I started discreetly asking about Jackson around the station. A lot of people don’t like him. They think he’s shady and there’s been some complaints about his forceful tactics when he goes on calls. There were even some rumors that he’s been taking bribes from prisoners to do favors for them on the outside. They said the captain refused to make any formal complaints until someone came to them with solid proof. Jordan’s death was the perfect excuse for cap to ask Jackson to take a leave of absence and get his head on straight.”
This is all just too fucked up. The man watching us day and night, following us everywhere we go, is responsible for all the threats and for almost killing us. And now he has Phina.
“I called Phina and told her to call me back right away and then I called Marcus and told him to make sure she didn’t leave because Jackson could be a threat. I also called your stupid ass, but you didn’t answer. I wanted to come here and question him myself and feel him out. You can’t just go around accusing a cop of working on the wrong side of the law,” Dax explains.
I don’t want to hear anything else. Jackson could be the biggest threat to Phina, or if his co-workers are correct, he could have taken a bribe from her father and be delivering her to him right now. Either option is unacceptable.
“Move this fucking cruiser out of my way,” I tell Dax, pointing to Marcus’ car still blocking my truck as I pull my keys out of my pocket and head over to it.
“You’re not fucking going anywhere, DJ. Back-up will be here any minute now and the cops will handle it,” he tells me as I get inside my truck and slam the door closed.
With the window rolled down, I start it up and give him one last look. “Yeah, because the cops have done a SUPER fucking job of it so far. Move the goddamn cruiser before I run the fucker over!”
I rev my engine and put the truck in gear. We’ve already wasted enough time standing out here in the front yard talking when we should have been high-tailing it after Phina and Jackson.
“Goddammit, DJ! Don’t make me do this!” Dax shouts, pulling his gun from his shoulder holster and pointing it right at me.
I smirk at him, taking my foot off the brake. “Go ahead, pull the trigger, dick fuck.”
He can either let me go or shoot me. I’ll do whatever it takes to find Phina.
Dax shakes his head at me and curses a blue streak as I press on the gas. As I start to turn around to look behind me and see how much room I have before I smash into the cruiser, the explosion from Dax’s gun echoes through the night.
I look over at Jackson questioningly as he makes a right instead of a left at the end of my street.
“Heard on the radio there was an accident on Clemmons Street. Going to take a shortcut to the police station,” he explains.
Nodding silently, I rest my head on the seat back and stare out the window.
God, why does this have to hurt so fucking much? Me, the woman who loves pain, suddenly doesn’t want to feel it any more.
“Hey, so how come things between us never worked out?” Jackson suddenly asks.
I close my eyes, really not wanting to talk right now, but I also don’t want to be a bitch to the person who has taken time out of his life to keep an eye on me and keep me safe.
When I open my eyes again, I continue to stare out the window.
“I don’t know, I guess we were just too different. It never would have worked out,” I reply softly.
“You and DJ are pretty opposite, but that seems to be working out just fine.”
At the mention of DJ’s name, I press the palms of my hands against my chest, trying my hardest to keep my heart from jumping out and flopping like a dead fish onto the floor at my feet.
I don’t respond to his statement. I definitely don’t want to get into this right now. It’s too soon and I’m too raw. It feels like someone has filleted my skin and then dumped acid over it. Everything hurts and I just want to curl up in bed, pull the covers over my head and sleep until I stop aching.
“Seriously, I just want to know why I wasn’t good enough for you?” Jackson prods, the tone of his voice suddenly turning harder than it was moments ago.
Jesus, it was like twelve years ago. Get over it already.
“That wasn’t it at all, Jackson,” I tell him, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It was me. I wasn’t good enough for you.”
He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, continuing to talk nonsense.
“I know it was because of the shit that went down between Jordan and Finnley. You just couldn’t handle being with a guy who had that kind of craziness in his family tree.”
What in the hell is he talking about? We broke up long before Jordan and Finnley even got married, let alone finding out Jordan had boarded the crazy train headed straight to his death.
I notice a few things all at once as I stare across the console at Jackson. He’s clutching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are white, the armpits of his blue uniform shirt are stained with circles of sweat, and he keeps tipping his head from side to side to crack his neck like a nervous tick. My sixth sense kicks in and I subtly glance at the door handle and contemplate jumping out of the moving vehicle if things get any weirder.
“Jackson, we dated back in college. Finnley and Jordan weren’t even married yet,” I remind him, glancing at the door handle again.
