Golden Trail
Page 118
Tomorrow, unit K, apartment three officially went on radar.
Layne flicked the butt in a drain in the street ten feet from Rocky’s stairs. As he jogged up them he pulled out his keys. He’d already put Rocky’s on his ring.
He let himself in. A light by the couch lit. The under cabinet lights in the kitchen lit. Soft but welcoming. The smell of something in the air, fruity, like berries. One of her candles she’d put out but the smell lingered.
He took off his jacket and threw it on the armchair. Then he went to the fridge, saw bottles of Bud and smiled. He took one out, twisted off the cap and took a slug then pulled open the door to the oven. Homemade macaroni and cheese with bits of hotdog.
At the sight, his smile got big. When they were living together she’d made it her mission to make the best homemade macaroni and cheese on the planet and she mostly did this because he loved her first try and told her, so she twisted herself in knots to make it better. It was f**king tasty by the time she left him. It was probably heaven on a plate if Astley stooped low enough to eat mac and cheese with cut up hotdogs.
Layne stood in the kitchen, h*ps against the counter, eating it and drinking beer. He was about to go to the fridge to see if she had leftovers he could nuke for a second helping when the loud knock came at the door.
“Rocky, open the f**king door!” Layne heard Jarrod Astley shout.
Layne stood in the kitchen with his empty plate in one hand, the fork resting on top, his bottle of beer in his other hand, he stared at the door and decided to count to ten.
He got to three when the knock came back and he heard, “I know he’s in there too, you stupid slut! Open the f**king door!”
Layne’s beer hit the counter with a thud and his plate with a crash and he was at the door in less time than it took him to count to three.
He pulled it open and filled its frame.
“What the f**k?” he asked an openly furious Jarrod Astley.
Astley barreled forward, hitting Layne in the chest with his shoulder and shoving him to the side all the while saying loudly, “Get out of my way, ass**le.”
Layne stepped away from him, threw the door to and turned to see Astley in the middle of the open space between kitchen and living room, looking around him. Then Astley shouted toward the stairs, “Rocky! Get your ass down here!”
Layne moved, going direct to him and gripping his upper arm, he yanked him around.
“You got two seconds to leave, you don’t, I’m puttin’ you out,” Layne clipped low.
“Fuck you!” Astley bellowed.
“Roc’s got a headache,” Layne ground out. “You got somethin’ to say to her you wait until she’s feelin’ better or you say it through your attorneys. You do not come bustin’ into her home f**kin’ shoutin’.”
Astley pulled sharply at his arm, demanding. “Take your hand off me!”
Layne yanked him forcefully in the direction of the door, Astley stumbled but righted himself and Layne ordered, “Get out.”
“Take your goddamned hand off me!” Astley roared, twisting his arm, lifting a hand and shoving it in Layne’s chest.
Layne braced so Astley’s shove only rocked him back and then he pressed forward, turning to crowd Astley and force him to the door when they heard from the stairs.“Jarrod?”
Both of them froze and looked to the stairs.
Rocky was at the middle, hair down and around her shoulders, a King’s Island nightshirt could be seen, the closed banister hiding the rest of her. Her face was pale and she looked visibly hazy, not from surprise or upset.
This wasn’t a headache. This was one of her headaches.
Fuck.
“Baby, go to bed. I’ll deal with this,” Layne called to her.
“Fuck that and f**k you!” Astley yelled and yanked his arm free, skirting Layne and taking two steps toward Rocky which were two steps to Layne’s three. Layne rounded him to stand in front of him and stood firm to block his way, bringing Astley up short.
“Get out,” Layne ordered.
Astley ignored him and kept his eyes pinned on Roc.
“Get your ass down here, you bitch!” At that, Layne put a hand to his chest, wishing he could put a fist to his face and Astley’s eyes sliced to him. “Do not touch me!” he shouted. “I know what she,” he jabbed a finger at Rocky, “put you up to. I know!”
Devin clearly had been busy.
“You need to go someplace and calm the f**k down,” Layne warned quietly.
“And you need to go f**k yourself!” Astley shouted then looked at Rocky. “You’re with him a month. A month and it’s like you spent ten minutes with me. You’re back to nothing. A piece of shit.”
Layne’s mouth got dry but his palms got prickly and he took two quick steps forward, forcing Astley back with his hand and his body.
“Layne,” Rocky called and Layne stopped and pushed Astley back another step with his hand but didn’t step back himself.
Astley glared at him, angry and stupid enough to stay in Layne’s space and Layne felt Rocky come up to his side and her hand curled around his bicep.
“What are you talking about?” she asked softly, her voice as hazy as her expression and pinched with pain.
Layne’s patience, already strained, slipped.
“Blackmail,” Astley spit out.
“Blackmail?” Rocky whispered, her hand clenching spasmodically on Layne’s arm.
“Yes, Rocky, blackmail. Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Astley returned.
“She doesn’t,” Layne put in and Astley’s eyes shot to his as he felt Rocky’s hit him. “That was all me.”
“Bullshit,” Astley snapped.
“It’s true. She has no f**kin’ clue,” Layne replied. “Now, seein’ as you’re a doctor and all, and considerin’ you spent the last ten years with her, I reckon you can take one look at her and know she’s not in a good way so, I’ll tell you again, get… the f**k… out.”
“And I’ll tell you again… fuck you!” Astley bellowed.
And then Rocky wasn’t there. Layne turned and watched her racing up the stairs with her hand over her mouth.
Shit, she was going to be sick. The pain was so bad, she was nauseous because of it.
And her ex-asshole was shouting.
Layne locked eyes with Astley then followed her, taking the steps three at a time.
He found her in the hall bathroom, on her knees in front of the toilet, one arm on the seat, one hand clenched in her hair to pull it back, head in the bowl, retching.
Layne flicked the butt in a drain in the street ten feet from Rocky’s stairs. As he jogged up them he pulled out his keys. He’d already put Rocky’s on his ring.
He let himself in. A light by the couch lit. The under cabinet lights in the kitchen lit. Soft but welcoming. The smell of something in the air, fruity, like berries. One of her candles she’d put out but the smell lingered.
He took off his jacket and threw it on the armchair. Then he went to the fridge, saw bottles of Bud and smiled. He took one out, twisted off the cap and took a slug then pulled open the door to the oven. Homemade macaroni and cheese with bits of hotdog.
At the sight, his smile got big. When they were living together she’d made it her mission to make the best homemade macaroni and cheese on the planet and she mostly did this because he loved her first try and told her, so she twisted herself in knots to make it better. It was f**king tasty by the time she left him. It was probably heaven on a plate if Astley stooped low enough to eat mac and cheese with cut up hotdogs.
Layne stood in the kitchen, h*ps against the counter, eating it and drinking beer. He was about to go to the fridge to see if she had leftovers he could nuke for a second helping when the loud knock came at the door.
“Rocky, open the f**king door!” Layne heard Jarrod Astley shout.
Layne stood in the kitchen with his empty plate in one hand, the fork resting on top, his bottle of beer in his other hand, he stared at the door and decided to count to ten.
He got to three when the knock came back and he heard, “I know he’s in there too, you stupid slut! Open the f**king door!”
Layne’s beer hit the counter with a thud and his plate with a crash and he was at the door in less time than it took him to count to three.
He pulled it open and filled its frame.
“What the f**k?” he asked an openly furious Jarrod Astley.
Astley barreled forward, hitting Layne in the chest with his shoulder and shoving him to the side all the while saying loudly, “Get out of my way, ass**le.”
Layne stepped away from him, threw the door to and turned to see Astley in the middle of the open space between kitchen and living room, looking around him. Then Astley shouted toward the stairs, “Rocky! Get your ass down here!”
Layne moved, going direct to him and gripping his upper arm, he yanked him around.
“You got two seconds to leave, you don’t, I’m puttin’ you out,” Layne clipped low.
“Fuck you!” Astley bellowed.
“Roc’s got a headache,” Layne ground out. “You got somethin’ to say to her you wait until she’s feelin’ better or you say it through your attorneys. You do not come bustin’ into her home f**kin’ shoutin’.”
Astley pulled sharply at his arm, demanding. “Take your hand off me!”
Layne yanked him forcefully in the direction of the door, Astley stumbled but righted himself and Layne ordered, “Get out.”
“Take your goddamned hand off me!” Astley roared, twisting his arm, lifting a hand and shoving it in Layne’s chest.
Layne braced so Astley’s shove only rocked him back and then he pressed forward, turning to crowd Astley and force him to the door when they heard from the stairs.“Jarrod?”
Both of them froze and looked to the stairs.
Rocky was at the middle, hair down and around her shoulders, a King’s Island nightshirt could be seen, the closed banister hiding the rest of her. Her face was pale and she looked visibly hazy, not from surprise or upset.
This wasn’t a headache. This was one of her headaches.
Fuck.
“Baby, go to bed. I’ll deal with this,” Layne called to her.
“Fuck that and f**k you!” Astley yelled and yanked his arm free, skirting Layne and taking two steps toward Rocky which were two steps to Layne’s three. Layne rounded him to stand in front of him and stood firm to block his way, bringing Astley up short.
“Get out,” Layne ordered.
Astley ignored him and kept his eyes pinned on Roc.
“Get your ass down here, you bitch!” At that, Layne put a hand to his chest, wishing he could put a fist to his face and Astley’s eyes sliced to him. “Do not touch me!” he shouted. “I know what she,” he jabbed a finger at Rocky, “put you up to. I know!”
Devin clearly had been busy.
“You need to go someplace and calm the f**k down,” Layne warned quietly.
“And you need to go f**k yourself!” Astley shouted then looked at Rocky. “You’re with him a month. A month and it’s like you spent ten minutes with me. You’re back to nothing. A piece of shit.”
Layne’s mouth got dry but his palms got prickly and he took two quick steps forward, forcing Astley back with his hand and his body.
“Layne,” Rocky called and Layne stopped and pushed Astley back another step with his hand but didn’t step back himself.
Astley glared at him, angry and stupid enough to stay in Layne’s space and Layne felt Rocky come up to his side and her hand curled around his bicep.
“What are you talking about?” she asked softly, her voice as hazy as her expression and pinched with pain.
Layne’s patience, already strained, slipped.
“Blackmail,” Astley spit out.
“Blackmail?” Rocky whispered, her hand clenching spasmodically on Layne’s arm.
“Yes, Rocky, blackmail. Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Astley returned.
“She doesn’t,” Layne put in and Astley’s eyes shot to his as he felt Rocky’s hit him. “That was all me.”
“Bullshit,” Astley snapped.
“It’s true. She has no f**kin’ clue,” Layne replied. “Now, seein’ as you’re a doctor and all, and considerin’ you spent the last ten years with her, I reckon you can take one look at her and know she’s not in a good way so, I’ll tell you again, get… the f**k… out.”
“And I’ll tell you again… fuck you!” Astley bellowed.
And then Rocky wasn’t there. Layne turned and watched her racing up the stairs with her hand over her mouth.
Shit, she was going to be sick. The pain was so bad, she was nauseous because of it.
And her ex-asshole was shouting.
Layne locked eyes with Astley then followed her, taking the steps three at a time.
He found her in the hall bathroom, on her knees in front of the toilet, one arm on the seat, one hand clenched in her hair to pull it back, head in the bowl, retching.
