Golden Trail
Page 47
“Layne,” she whispered.
“You got us all in your snare, sweetcheeks, we’re bound up in it. You can’t cut us loose just because of whatever-the-fuck is goin’ on in that head of yours. This time, baby, with my boys in the mix, you can’t cut us loose and go your merry f**kin’ way because I’m not gonna let you cut us loose.”
“Layne,” she repeated on another whisper.
“You are not quitting. You are not backin’ out. I know you’re good at that, sweetcheeks, but I gotta disappoint you. This time you’re gonna see it through to the bitter f**kin’ end.”
He pushed away from the counter and went to her fridge, opening it, he saw two brown bottles of fancy-ass beer. He grabbed one and shut the fridge. He went to the counter and reckoned that she kept her utensils close to the fridge, an area where she’d prepare food, it made more sense not to have to walk far to get what she needed. He opened the drawer and found the bottle opener, he used it, flipped the cap on the counter, tossed the opener in the drawer and closed it with his hip.
Then he turned to her before taking a pull.
She was still pressed against the counter where he left her, her elbows back, the palms of her hands on the counter. Her eyes were on him and he didn’t allow himself to process the look on her face.
When he dropped his hand, he said, “You’ll need to stock decent beer, baby. Bud, Coors, Miller, bottles or cans, I don’t give a f**k.” He lifted his bottle. “This shit sucks.”
Then he walked by her and into the living room.
Two weeks and he saw that Raquel had transformed it. He didn’t even know you could get furniture that quickly. Couch against the back wall, deep purple color, deep-seated and cushiony, inviting. A chair in a dark gray with a big footrest in front of it, just as inviting. A big, black lacquered, square coffee table, papers spread all around, her kids’ work. A big-bowled wineglass, half-filled with red wine and some red pens amongst the papers. Candles here and there, all of them burning, making the place smell like berries.
He walked to some black lacquered shelves next to the fireplace where there were some books and a stereo. He belatedly noticed that music was playing. Rock ‘n’ roll but playing soft. He switched off the music, spotted the remote sitting at the base of a stylish lamp on an end table, also black lacquer. He walked to it, nabbed it, turned on the flat screen that was on a stand in the corner and discovered she’d already had cable installed. He found a game and stretched full body on her couch.
It was comfortable, the cushions soft, his body sinking in, f**k, he could sleep there. He grabbed a big toss pillow patterned in grays, purples and blacks, shoved it behind his head on the armrest and his eyes went to the game.
He was making a point.
Rocky missed his point.
It took her awhile but he felt her approach and, even though she wasn’t in his line of sight, he felt her presence when she came to stand beside the coffee table.
“Maybe you should go home,” she suggested quietly.
“Nope,” Layne replied, keeping his eyes on the TV, he took a sip of beer then dropped his hand and rested the bottle on his abs. “Rutledge lives in unit G, apartment one. I didn’t look when I drove in but, he’s out, he has to drive by your parking spots. He’s in, he can see my truck from his front window.”
She didn’t respond. He heard her move but didn’t look at her. Some minutes later, he saw her left hand reach for the glass of wine. His eyes slid to her and he saw her sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, head down to the papers, a red pen in the fingers of her bandaged hand, her left elbow on the table, wineglass held high.
“What’s with the bandage, Rocky?” he asked.
She didn’t look up from her papers when she answered, “I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t what I asked, sweetcheeks.”
Her head turned to him and she put down her glass of wine. She wasn’t wearing makeup and it sucked but he couldn’t help but think he hadn’t seen her looking prettier since he got home.
“It was hurting last night,” she answered. “I woke up and my wrist was swollen. I went to the clinic first thing. They did a scan and said it was sprained. They bandaged it and gave me some pain pills. Nothing big. I’m fine.”
Then she looked back down at her papers.
Layne looked back at the TV, took another sip of beer and tried not to think of Rocky injuring herself in a desperate attempt to get away from him and Melody, waking up all alone with a swollen wrist, taking herself to the goddamned clinic, again alone, and being in physical pain.
He tried not to think of it but he f**king failed.
Minutes slid by and he heard her say softly, “I’ll come over, for Jasper.”
Layne kept his eyes on the TV. “Right.”
“Just tell me when to be there,” she went on.
“You got it.”
She fell silent.
More time slid by before she asked, “Have you had dinner?”
“Nope, but I had enough junk food watchin’ games with my boys to preserve my body until the end of time.”
She hesitated before going on. “Do you want something decent in your stomach?”
His head turned to her. “You’re hungry, Roc, eat. But I’m good.”
“I’m not hungry,” she whispered.
He held her eyes.
She looked to her papers.
Her thick ponytail had fallen forward, over her shoulder, curling around her neck.
Looking at it, Layne had the overwhelming urge to roll off her couch and pull the holder out of that ponytail then pick her up, take her back to her couch and press her body deep into it, under his, then bury his hands in her long hair then, after doing other things to her, burying his c**k in her.
He didn’t want this urge but he had to admit he had it.
He lifted his beer, took another slug then rolled off the couch. He put the beer on an open space free of papers on the table. Her head tilted far back to look at him but he straightened, scanned her place and saw her keys on the counter.
He walked to them, grabbed them and when he turned toward the door, he saw her torso twisted to look at him.
“I’ll be back,” he muttered, left the apartment, jogged down the stairs and to his truck. He bleeped it open, went into the passenger side, pulled down the door to the glove compartment and nabbed his smokes. He jogged back, let himself in and walked directly to the balcony doors without looking at her, bending slightly to drop the keys on the table on his way. “I’m havin’ a smoke.”
“You got us all in your snare, sweetcheeks, we’re bound up in it. You can’t cut us loose just because of whatever-the-fuck is goin’ on in that head of yours. This time, baby, with my boys in the mix, you can’t cut us loose and go your merry f**kin’ way because I’m not gonna let you cut us loose.”
“Layne,” she repeated on another whisper.
“You are not quitting. You are not backin’ out. I know you’re good at that, sweetcheeks, but I gotta disappoint you. This time you’re gonna see it through to the bitter f**kin’ end.”
He pushed away from the counter and went to her fridge, opening it, he saw two brown bottles of fancy-ass beer. He grabbed one and shut the fridge. He went to the counter and reckoned that she kept her utensils close to the fridge, an area where she’d prepare food, it made more sense not to have to walk far to get what she needed. He opened the drawer and found the bottle opener, he used it, flipped the cap on the counter, tossed the opener in the drawer and closed it with his hip.
Then he turned to her before taking a pull.
She was still pressed against the counter where he left her, her elbows back, the palms of her hands on the counter. Her eyes were on him and he didn’t allow himself to process the look on her face.
When he dropped his hand, he said, “You’ll need to stock decent beer, baby. Bud, Coors, Miller, bottles or cans, I don’t give a f**k.” He lifted his bottle. “This shit sucks.”
Then he walked by her and into the living room.
Two weeks and he saw that Raquel had transformed it. He didn’t even know you could get furniture that quickly. Couch against the back wall, deep purple color, deep-seated and cushiony, inviting. A chair in a dark gray with a big footrest in front of it, just as inviting. A big, black lacquered, square coffee table, papers spread all around, her kids’ work. A big-bowled wineglass, half-filled with red wine and some red pens amongst the papers. Candles here and there, all of them burning, making the place smell like berries.
He walked to some black lacquered shelves next to the fireplace where there were some books and a stereo. He belatedly noticed that music was playing. Rock ‘n’ roll but playing soft. He switched off the music, spotted the remote sitting at the base of a stylish lamp on an end table, also black lacquer. He walked to it, nabbed it, turned on the flat screen that was on a stand in the corner and discovered she’d already had cable installed. He found a game and stretched full body on her couch.
It was comfortable, the cushions soft, his body sinking in, f**k, he could sleep there. He grabbed a big toss pillow patterned in grays, purples and blacks, shoved it behind his head on the armrest and his eyes went to the game.
He was making a point.
Rocky missed his point.
It took her awhile but he felt her approach and, even though she wasn’t in his line of sight, he felt her presence when she came to stand beside the coffee table.
“Maybe you should go home,” she suggested quietly.
“Nope,” Layne replied, keeping his eyes on the TV, he took a sip of beer then dropped his hand and rested the bottle on his abs. “Rutledge lives in unit G, apartment one. I didn’t look when I drove in but, he’s out, he has to drive by your parking spots. He’s in, he can see my truck from his front window.”
She didn’t respond. He heard her move but didn’t look at her. Some minutes later, he saw her left hand reach for the glass of wine. His eyes slid to her and he saw her sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, head down to the papers, a red pen in the fingers of her bandaged hand, her left elbow on the table, wineglass held high.
“What’s with the bandage, Rocky?” he asked.
She didn’t look up from her papers when she answered, “I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t what I asked, sweetcheeks.”
Her head turned to him and she put down her glass of wine. She wasn’t wearing makeup and it sucked but he couldn’t help but think he hadn’t seen her looking prettier since he got home.
“It was hurting last night,” she answered. “I woke up and my wrist was swollen. I went to the clinic first thing. They did a scan and said it was sprained. They bandaged it and gave me some pain pills. Nothing big. I’m fine.”
Then she looked back down at her papers.
Layne looked back at the TV, took another sip of beer and tried not to think of Rocky injuring herself in a desperate attempt to get away from him and Melody, waking up all alone with a swollen wrist, taking herself to the goddamned clinic, again alone, and being in physical pain.
He tried not to think of it but he f**king failed.
Minutes slid by and he heard her say softly, “I’ll come over, for Jasper.”
Layne kept his eyes on the TV. “Right.”
“Just tell me when to be there,” she went on.
“You got it.”
She fell silent.
More time slid by before she asked, “Have you had dinner?”
“Nope, but I had enough junk food watchin’ games with my boys to preserve my body until the end of time.”
She hesitated before going on. “Do you want something decent in your stomach?”
His head turned to her. “You’re hungry, Roc, eat. But I’m good.”
“I’m not hungry,” she whispered.
He held her eyes.
She looked to her papers.
Her thick ponytail had fallen forward, over her shoulder, curling around her neck.
Looking at it, Layne had the overwhelming urge to roll off her couch and pull the holder out of that ponytail then pick her up, take her back to her couch and press her body deep into it, under his, then bury his hands in her long hair then, after doing other things to her, burying his c**k in her.
He didn’t want this urge but he had to admit he had it.
He lifted his beer, took another slug then rolled off the couch. He put the beer on an open space free of papers on the table. Her head tilted far back to look at him but he straightened, scanned her place and saw her keys on the counter.
He walked to them, grabbed them and when he turned toward the door, he saw her torso twisted to look at him.
“I’ll be back,” he muttered, left the apartment, jogged down the stairs and to his truck. He bleeped it open, went into the passenger side, pulled down the door to the glove compartment and nabbed his smokes. He jogged back, let himself in and walked directly to the balcony doors without looking at her, bending slightly to drop the keys on the table on his way. “I’m havin’ a smoke.”
