Golden Trail (2 page)

“You’re up, showered and downstairs in
fifteen minutes. Get me?” Layne informed him, pushed open the door
and flipped on the bright overhead light as added incentive.

Tripp was a big fan of the snooze button but
Tripp would get up. Tripp would do what he was told.

Jasper would not. Jasper was not a big fan
of getting up. He was even less a fan of school. And he was even
less a fan of his old man and especially his old man telling him to
do something. He was supposed to set his alarm and wake his brother
if Tripp wasn’t up. He never did because he never set his alarm and
when Layne started doing it, Jasper turned it off just to get under
Layne’s skin. This was their every day dance when his boys were
with him and it never failed to piss Layne off.

Layne turned from the door and walked down
the stairs, Blondie so close to his side she nearly tripped
him.

She was shaking with excitement, this was
her favorite part of the day. She got to go outside, which she
loved, then she got to come inside to food and all her boys
together at the same time, something she didn’t get very often, or,
not as often as she liked.

Gabby hated dogs but she bought Blondie for
Jasper two weeks before Layne moved home. She did this to be a
bitch because she
was
a bitch and because she hated Layne
more than she hated dogs. Three weeks later, when he was home and
they’d established the joint custody schedule, she declared that
Blondie was to stay at Layne’s no matter what.

So Tanner Layne was home for the first time
in twelve years and he had an active, excitable, yellow lab puppy
on his hands as well as two sons who barely knew him and one who
could barely stand the sight of him and Rocky breathing the same
airspace, albeit ten miles away, that was still too damned
close.

His life, never great, or it hadn’t been
great for eighteen years, had turned to complete shit.

He walked through the vast open space that
was the kitchen and the living room to the sliding glass door that
led to the backyard. He bent, yanked the steel pole out of the
rails, straightened and unlatched the door. He reached out an arm,
pulled down the door to the security panel, punched in the code,
slapped the door back up and then slid the sliding glass door open
for Blondie to go outside. She didn’t hesitate, she raced right
through.

Layne slid the door closed, flipped the
switch to the kitchen lights, turned and surveyed the bottom floor
of his house.

For twelve years, he’d had nothing but
apartments and condos. Sometimes his apartments were small, even
studios. Sometimes they were large or townhomes. Some were shit,
some were palaces. All of them were crash pads.

Now, to his right was the kitchen. In the
far corner, countertops and cabinets at a right angle around the
door to the big pantry and utility room that led to the garage. A
huge triangular island with the points cut off was in the middle of
the kitchen, stools in front of it on the outside. An enormous
space for a dining room table by the big window, a space Layne
hadn’t filled. He ate standing up or sitting in front of the TV.
His boys ate at the stools, in their rooms, on the fly or sitting
in front of the TV.

To his left, the living room, enormous
console of cabinets and shelves into which he’d fit an equally
enormous, big screen TV. Two reclining chairs at either end of a
big deep seated couch, enough tables around where you could set
your beer or bag of chips so you didn’t have to reach very far to
get to it. There was a low wall and a column beyond which there was
nothing but open space. Dead space. He’d never figured out what to
do with it. If it didn’t store food, have a couch and TV, a weight
bench or a bed, he had no use for it. So, like the dining area, it
was empty.

There was a toilet and sink under the
stairs, the rest of the downstairs was taken up by a two car garage
that jutted out at the front of the house.

Layne stared at it, his gaze moving right,
left, then right again.

How the fuck he ended up in a three bedroom
house in a development with other three and four bedroom houses,
all painted one of four colors, each one one of limited floorplans
and with an HOA that made the Nazi party look like a bunch of
pansies so pretty much the whole fucking development looked the
same, he didn’t know. Hell, when he’d first moved there, more than
once on his way home he’d gotten lost in the acres of houses that
all looked the same and he had a highly tuned sense of
direction.

Well,
he thought,
at least the
fucker’s paid for.

He walked into the kitchen, straight to the
coffeepot. He pulled out the filter, the grounds from yesterday in
it, used and soggy. He dumped them in the open trash can that was
so overflowing, he had to shove the trash down first so the grounds
wouldn’t drip out.

It was Jasper’s week to take out the trash
so of course the trash hadn’t been taken out.

He went back to the coffeepot, grabbed the
glass carafe and yanked it out, going to the sink. It, too, was
overflowing.

Layne sifted through the schedule in his
mind. Last night, it was Tripp’s turn to cook, Jasper’s turn to do
the dishes. Therefore, the dishes weren’t done.

Layne sighed as he rinsed out the filter and
the carafe and heard the shower go on upstairs. Then he filled the
carafe with water, went back to the pot and made coffee. He’d just
flipped the switch when the doorbell went.

His eyes went to the clock on the microwave
over the stove. Six thirty-six. Who was at his door as six
thirty-six?

He moved through the house, silent on bare
feet. He went to the big, picture window in the empty space at the
front of his house. He had blinds there, they were partially
closed. He turned the bar at the side so they were open and looked
to the door.

His eyes narrowed as his blood turned to
acid.

Rocky was standing out there. Her hair was
pulled back in a ponytail, that fall draping down the side at her
temple, tucked behind her ear. She was wearing a pale pink blouse
that fit her middle like a glove, drawing your attention to her
ribs and tits and it had little poofy sleeves. She was also wearing
a mushroom colored skirt that hit her at the tops of her knees and
fit tight, skintight, so skintight it cupped her ass and was snug
across her hips and down her thighs. And last she was wearing pink
pumps, a thin strap rounding her heel, the heels of the shoes high
and pencil thin. The whole package slick, polished and unbelievably
fucking sexy.

What the fuck was she doing there?

She lifted a hand, finger pointed, toward
the doorbell and he moved to the door. The doorbell sounded just as
he opened it and stood looking down at her through the glass in his
storm door.

The bell ceased and she stood there, looking
up at him, her makeup perfect, pink at her eyes, her cheeks, her
lips glossed. Her hair was sleek, shiny, thick. He wondered if she
hired someone to come every morning to do her hair and makeup. She
could, she had the money for it.

“Raquel, what are you –?”

He stopped speaking when her hand went to
the handle, she turned it and opened the door, coming right
through. He had to step out of her way as she swiftly skirted him
and moved into his house, her high heels making dull sounds as they
thudded across his wood floors.

She stopped five feet in and turned; her
eyes went to his first, they dropped down to his bare chest, he saw
a flinch she couldn’t hide and he opened his mouth to speak.

She got there before him.

Her eyes coming back to his, she asked, “How
are you, Layne?”

“Fit,” he answered tersely. “Now, what’re
you –”

He stopped speaking when they both heard
Blondie whine and scratch at the glass. Raquel twisted her torso so
fast, her ponytail flipped around so it’s length shot over her
shoulder.

She turned back slower, that hank of dark
hair still resting against her light blouse.

Her eyebrows were up.

“Is that Jasper’s dog?” she asked.

“Yes, now Raqu –”

Again, he didn’t finish. She turned, moving
quickly through his house, her heels sounding against his floor,
dull on the wood, turning sharper when she hit tile, her ass
swaying as she went.

Layne watched.

Rocky could strut. She didn’t do anything
else. Her movements fluid, her ass generous, she could strut like
no woman he’d ever seen, even the ones who practiced.

Rocky didn’t have to practice, she was a
natural.

Before he could move, she had the sliding
glass door open and Blondie bounded in.

He moved then because Blondie was in
ecstasy. She loved her boys. The only thing she loved more was
company. She was jumping all over Rocky’s fancy-ass outfit.

“Down,” Layne growled and Blondie’s head
jerked to him, she whined then she dropped down, removing her paws
from Rocky’s blouse.

Rocky dropped down too. In a low squat, ass
to heels, knees to chest, her skirt stretched to the danger zone,
delineating every inch of flesh on her ass and thighs.

She was rubbing Blondie’s head and neck at
the same time craning her own to avoid Blondie’s lashing
tongue.

“Who’s a beautiful girl?” she cooed at
Blondie and Blondie replied by tagging the length of Rocky’s jaw
with her tongue.

Raquel laughed, the sound hitting him like a
bullet to the gut.

Worse.

And he knew just how much fucking pain that
could cause.

At his end, he clipped, “Raquel, what are
you doing here?”

He sounded annoyed because he meant to and
he
was
.

Her head came around, tilted back to look up
at him and she muttered, “Right.” She gave Blondie one last rub and
straightened, turning to him. “Leg of lamb,” she finished
ridiculously.

“What?” Layne asked.

“Leg of lamb,” she repeated. “Dad won one in
a poker game.”

Jesus, only Dave would accept a leg of lamb
as a bet in a poker game. All three Merricks were nuts, in their
own way. Or, they had been, eighteen years ago. He had no idea if
Rocky was still a nut but he knew Dave and Merry were.

Layne gave slight shakes of his head then
asked, “So?”

“He asked me to find a recipe; he’s never
cooked a leg of lamb. I haven’t either but I found one, it’s Greek.
He wants you and the boys to come over for dinner tonight.” She
stopped and he didn’t speak so she went on. “It’s a big leg of
lamb.”

She was, essentially, asking him to a dinner
she was cooking.

Layne wondered if he was hallucinating
again. Maybe he was in a coma and the last six weeks, and those
dreams, were all some coma-induced fantasy.

No, if he was having a fantasy, Jasper would
have been jolted out of being an asshole kid when his father took
three bullets instead of becoming more of an asshole kid.

It was then Layne noticed Blondie was
staring at him, need in her eyes. She wanted to get fed.

Layne turned and headed to the pantry.

Raquel spoke to his back. “We’re thinking
six thirty. The boys’ll be done with football practice then, they
can get home and showered. But we can do later if you want.”

He didn’t speak. He went into the pantry,
nabbed a can of dog food and came out. He heard the shower had gone
off so he walked to the foot of the stairs, ignoring the fact that
Rocky was now standing at the island, hand light on the counter,
hip resting against the side.

He yelled up the stairs, “Tripp, if your
brother isn’t up, get him up. I want to hear the shower. Two
minutes.”

“Right, Dad,” Tripp yelled back down.

Layne headed to the dog bowl wondering how
he could get out of leg of lamb. He picked up the dog bowl and
Blondie crowded him, shaking with excitement. He lifted the tab,
pulled the lid off the can, reaching to yank a clean spoon out of
the dish drainer. He gouged into the food and was about to plop it
into the bowl when he heard Rocky speak.

“What are you doing?”

He twisted his torso to look at her. His
eyes went to her face, her eyes were on the dog bowl.

“Feeding the dog,” Layne pointed out the
obvious.

Her gaze lifted to his and she looked
disgusted.

Then she moved, pushing away from the
counter, she came at him. She got close as he watched and didn’t
move.

She grabbed the bowl and went to the sink,
explaining softly, “Even puppies need clean dishes.”

He felt his mouth get tight and it got
tighter when she dug into the sink and he saw her pink-tipped
fingernails, perfectly manicured, the nails not long and sharp but
shortish and squared off, looking classy, stylish, yet she didn’t
hesitate in digging through dirty dishes. She found a dishcloth and
turned on the water to rinse it out.

“Raquel –” he started but her head turned to
him.

“The shower isn’t on, Layne,” she said
quietly.

He cocked his head to the side and
listened.

It wasn’t.

Fuck.

He watched as she rinsed out the cloth,
dropped it into the bowl and reached for the dishwashing liquid at
the back of the sink then he put down the dog food.

She wanted to clean Blondie’s bowl? He’d let
her. Blondie didn’t give a fuck. He looked down at his son’s dog
seeing he was wrong. She did give a fuck. A clean bowl meant an
unnecessary delay in breakfast.

Layne sighed then he moved away and walked
up the stairs to see Tripp coming out of his brother’s bedroom. He
was wearing jeans and nothing else, his hair wet and spiking out
everywhere. Layne had no idea if this was the style he was going
with that day or if it was just wet and spiking out everywhere.
Tripp changed hairstyles like women changed shoes.

“He doesn’t want to get up,” Tripp told his
Dad.