Golden Trail (47 page)

That got him the breathy, “Layne.”

He had her. He not only had her, pretty soon
he was going to
have her.
Thank fuck.

He put his mouth to hers and whispered, “I
gotta turn the lights out and secure the house. Go upstairs and get
naked for me, baby.”

“I don’t know if I can –”

“Sweetcheeks. Go upstairs and get naked for
me.”

“Layne.”

“Do it.”

She pressed her head back into the couch and
whispered, “But… I don’t think I can be quiet.”

Layne grinned again.

She probably couldn’t. She was a moaner
eighteen years ago and she was again last night. She was great at
giving head, mostly because she liked doing it and it helped when
she moaned how much she liked it around his cock.

“We’ll get creative,” he promised and her
eyes got round. “Go upstairs, honey, and get naked for me.”

“Okay,” she whispered, he rolled to the
side, she shot off the couch but strutted up the stairs.

Layne took his time as he secured the house,
turned out the lights and followed her.

He found her naked in his bed.

He got naked and joined her.

Then he did everything he promised and then
some.

And he just managed to muffle her moans with
his hand the first time she came, his mouth the third time and she
muffled them in a pillow the second.

* * * * *

With Rocky dead to the world and pinning him
to the bed, Layne stared at the dark ceiling and remembered his
dream.

“
Do you get it?” Rocky whispered in his
ear.

“
Get what, baby?” he whispered
back.

“
Why I left you?”

He didn’t get it. She’d finally explained it
and he still didn’t get it.

That wasn’t a scene she acted out on his
couch that was real.

Fuck,
Rocky
didn’t even fucking get
it.

Which made Layne wonder why she left him?
Why she took everything from their house, jammed it into her room
and lost two days? Why she spent every day for eighteen years
struggling against connecting with him? Why she spent the last
months since he’d been shot losing that struggle but grasping at
it?

Why was she so afraid of the fucking
dark?

And what was that he felt coming off of her,
seeping in the room so strong it even pressed against him, reeking
of a fear that was more than fear of the fucking dark?

He knew one thing. That fear wasn’t a fear
of dark and wild. That fear was dark but it wasn’t fear of him. It
was a fear of something sinister.

Layne had no answers to these questions.

But he knew who did.

Fighting to Win

Layne felt her moving against him, over him,
her hair sliding on his shoulder, her lips at his throat, she
shifted astride him, he felt her knees at his sides, her bottom
settle into his crotch, her breasts against his chest.

His hands went to span Rocky’s hips.

He opened his eyes.

* * * * *

Layne saw dark ceiling.

Rocky was astride him, her lips moving from
his throat to the hinge of his jaw, her hips in his hands.

She wasn’t a dream.

Now,
this
was how he wanted to wake
up yesterday.

“Baby,” he murmured, her lips left his jaw
and he saw her head come up, her hair falling down to frame both of
their faces.

“Morning,” she whispered, that soft, sweet
word said with her warm body on top of his drove into his mouth,
down his throat, burning a golden trail through his chest, his gut,
straight to his cock.

She tilted her head and her lips hit
his.

The moment of impact, his hands slid in, his
arms going around her waist, one slanting up, his fingers gripped
her hair, she opened her mouth, his tongue slid in as he growled
and rolled her to her back.

* * * * *

Layne was at the bar doing pull ups wearing
nothing but shorts, ankle socks and running shoes.

He’d pulled up when one of the double doors
to his bedroom swung open, Rocky walked out and stopped dead.

He dropped down and hung there, staring at
her.

She had her hair wrapped in a towel, a huge
bundle of dirty laundry piled in her arms and her body wrapped in
his plaid, flannel robe.

Jesus, where’d she find that fucking
robe?

He’d had it since he was seventeen and he
had no idea why he kept hold of it. His mother bought for him it to
take to Ball State. He’d skipped a grade, going from sixth to
eighth and therefore graduated from high school early. He
remembered she’d given him that robe with tears in her eyes,
distraught, she’d told him, that her baby, not even a man, was
going away. He remembered it had annoyed him immensely because he
thought he
was
a man. He’d worn it sometimes during his
freshman year in the dorms when he had to walk the corridors to get
to the bathrooms and then never wore it again.

He’d had it when he was with Rocky,
obviously, but she’d never worn it. She’d had her own robe but
mostly she strutted around in his tees. So she wasn’t the reason he
kept it.

He had no clue why he kept it. He just
did.

Looking at her now, Layne was glad he kept
it and he was equally glad Rocky had dug through his shit to find
it. She looked adorable in that old robe.

“Hey sweetcheeks,” he greeted and she stared
at him as he pulled himself up, chin over the bar, then slowly
lowered himself down.

“Is that taking it easy?” she asked in a
tone that stated clearly any answer other than “no” and any future
action other than him letting go of the bar and hitting the shower
was unacceptable.

“Yep,” he replied and pulled himself back
up.

She glared at him as he slowly let himself
down and continued to glare at him as he pulled himself back up.
Then she stomped to the stairs.

She returned as he was hooking his ankles
under the bar at the weight bench he’d declined and he was about to
roll back to do sit ups. He twisted to watch her glare at him as
she walked back to his room, one hand holding the handle of a
coffee mug, the other hand precariously balancing a pile of his
folded clothes under which, hooked on her fingers, were hangers on
which hung his ironed shirts.

“Your mother re-ironed everything I ironed
yesterday,” she told him in mid-strut, tone now displeased. “She
says I don’t do it right.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, not that
he had a response, she walked into his bedroom and kicked the door
closed.

Layne twisted back and rolled down,
grinning.

“Pancakes!” Vera shouted from downstairs and
three seconds later, Tripp tore through his bedroom door, racing
down the hall to the bathroom.

Tripp was a big fan of his Grandma’s
pancakes and there was a reason why, her pancakes were the
shit.

Not twenty seconds later, Jasper came out of
his room and, with his back to the bench, Layne looked at his
mostly upside down son who was staring down the hall at the closed
bathroom door.

Jas’s eyes came to his Dad. “Tripp in the
bathroom?”

Layne grunted, “Yep,” as he curled up.

“I’ll use the one downstairs,” Jas mumbled
and Layne heard his footfalls on the stairs.

Proof that Vera’s pancakes were the bomb. It
was Sunday morning, his sons were both teenagers, it was just eight
o’clock and they both were out of bed.

Layne rolled back to the weight bench, again
grinning.

* * * * *

Layne was standing outside with hair wet
from his shower wearing thick socks, track pants and a freshly
laundered, white, long-sleeved thermal. He bent down to pick up the
tennis ball Blondie had just dropped at his feet, tipped his head
back to see she’d inched back, front legs out and sprawled, chest
to the cement patio, behind in the air, tail wagging and her eyes
were riveted to the ball.

Layne tossed it and she went racing after
it.

Then he straightened, turned to the table,
picked up his coffee mug steaming in the cold air, sipped at it and
turned back to Blondie who was dropping the tennis ball again at
his feet. He repeated his actions, she raced away and Layne reached
to the table and grabbed his cell, flipping it open.

By the time it was ringing in his ear, he’d
thrown the ball for Blondie three more times.

He heard the connect then, “You’ve reached
Lieutenant Garrett Merrick, I’m unable to take your call but leave
a message and I’ll get back to you.”

After the beep, Layne said, “Merry. Layne.
Call me when you get this.”

Then he flipped the phone shut, tossed it on
the table, bent and tossed the ball for Blondie and turned to the
table to get his mug. Something caught at his peripheral vision, he
twisted his neck to look through the sliding glass doors and
froze.

Rocky was walking down the stairs.

Not even ten minutes ago he’d left her in
the bathroom. After he’d finished his workout, he got in the shower
when she was blow drying her hair and when he got out of the
shower, she was still blow drying her hair.

He could see this. His woman had a lot of
hair.

After he’d dressed, he’d left her bent over
the basin applying mascara.

Now she was strutting down the stairs
wearing a tight, dark brown skirt, a blue sweater with one of those
cowl necks, the one on Rocky’s sweater hanging deep, passed her
tits and showing skin at her chest, the rest of the sweater
skintight and a pair of dark blue pumps with a high, thin heel, a
closed toe and a thin, sexy ankle strap. Her makeup was done full
on. Her hair was back and he couldn’t tell how she’d pulled it back
this time but he thought it was a waste of all that effort with the
blow dryer to pull it back and he’d be pulling it down about two
seconds after he found out what in
the fuck
she was up to,
dressed like that on Sunday morning.

He grabbed his phone and was nearly to the
door when Blondie caught him and dropped the ball at his feet. He
transferred his phone to his hand carrying the mug, bent, grabbed
the ball, tossed it side arm as he straightened, she dashed after
it and Layne slid open the door and walked into the house.

Rocky was now at the island transferring
shit from one purse to another. Vera was at the sink, doing dishes.
His boys were both camped out on the couch watching TV and he
couldn’t see but parts of their bodies as they were lounging.

“We don’t usually dress to watch the Colts
play, sweetcheeks,” he remarked after he slid the door closed.

He thought it was telling that she didn’t
lift her head when she answered and he knew why with what she
said.

“I’m going to church.”

Layne stopped dead and felt his eyes narrow.
Vera turned slowly from the sink and her surprised eyes hit Rocky.
Both his boys’ heads popped up over the couch.

“Come again?” Layne asked quietly but he
couldn’t keep the rumble out of his tone.

Rocky lifted a compact at the same time she
unscrewed the lid of a tube of lip gloss and her eyes skidded
across him before she flipped the compact open, her eyes going to
it and she repeated, “I’m going to church.”

Then she calmly slid the applicator across
her lips, transferring a glimmering, peachy gloss to them as Layne
watched and wondered if counting to ten actually worked.

Then he decided, fuck it.

He walked to the island and stood at the end
of it next to where she was at the front, put his mug and cell down
and asked, “You’re going to church?”

She rubbed her lips together, shoved the
applicator in the tube and snapped the compact closed, taking this
time, he knew, to pluck up the courage to meet his eyes.

Then she met his eyes. “Yes. I’m going to
church.”

“When’s the last time you went to church?”
Layne returned.

She pulled in breath then shrugged.

It was then, Layne was done.

“You’re not goin’ to church,” he stated
firmly but his voice was pitched low.

“Yes I am,” she replied firmly but her voice
was pitched a little high.

“No, Roc, you aren’t.”

“Yes, Layne, I am.”

“Why?” Layne asked sharply.

“I feel in the mood for fellowship,” she
answered and Layne heard both Tripp and Jasper laugh, Tripp’s was
louder and Jasper’s was more a chuckle.

“Roc –” Layne started, wondering if his
mother and sons would find it inappropriate if he threw her over
his shoulder and carried her up the stairs, knowing at least his
mother would, and then wondering if he gave a fuck.

He was cut off by Vera. “That’s an excellent
idea. Let me check my hair. I’ll go with you.”

Rocky’s startled eyes turned to Vera, who
was definitely not Rocky’s best friend and she’d made this clear
beyond yesterday morning. Re-ironing Layne’s shirts was just the
continuation of it. They’d been in détente during the Paige drama
but Vera laid it on after they got back from Cal’s. When they’d
arrived home, Vera had been in mid-October-Spring-clean of the
house which now, top to bottom, was sparkling. And, after Layne had
brought in the cookies that Rocky made and his sons devoured them
like they’d never tasted anything but sawdust in their lives, Vera
had demanded to make dinner then demanded to clean up after dinner.
She also practically raced Rocky to the washing machine any time
Rocky looked to be heading that way and, therefore, they’d engaged
in a hostile tag team to do Layne’s laundry. Through this, Vera was
making clear whose house this was and who was welcome to make
themselves at home in it and clear whose it wasn’t and that person
was Rocky.

Vera rounded the stairs and by the time
Rocky’s head turned back to him, she’d realized the advantages to
Vera’s unexpected alliance and she smiled smugly up at him.