v Ashley: Golden Trail

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.”