Golden Trail
Page 3
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 f**k 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 f**king 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 f**ker’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 h*ps 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 f**king sexy.
What the f**k 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.
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 f**k 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 f**king 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 f**ker’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 h*ps 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 f**king sexy.
What the f**k 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.
