v Ashley: Golden Trail

He felt his mouth get tight and it got tighter when she dug into the sink and he saw her pink-tipped fingernails, perfectly manicured, the nails not long and sharp but shortish and squared off, looking classy, stylish, yet she didn’t hesitate in digging through dirty dishes. She found a dishcloth and turned on the water to rinse it out.

“Raquel –” he started but her head turned to him.

“The shower isn’t on, Layne,” she said quietly.

He cocked his head to the side and listened.

It wasn’t.

Fuck.

He watched as she rinsed out the cloth, dropped it into the bowl and reached for the dishwashing liquid at the back of the sink then he put down the dog food.

She wanted to clean Blondie’s bowl? He’d let her. Blondie didn’t give a fuck. He looked down at his son’s dog seeing he was wrong. She did give a fuck. A clean bowl meant an unnecessary delay in breakfast.

Layne sighed then he moved away and walked up the stairs to see Tripp coming out of his brother’s bedroom. He was wearing jeans and nothing else, his hair wet and spiking out everywhere. Layne had no idea if this was the style he was going with that day or if it was just wet and spiking out everywhere. Tripp changed hairstyles like women changed shoes.

“He doesn’t want to get up,” Tripp told his Dad.

“Finish getting ready, Pal. I’ll get him,” Layne told his son and walked to Jasper’s room.

Jasper had gotten up, Layne knew, but he’d gone back to bed. Layne knew this because the overhead light was out.

He walked to Jasper’s dresser and tagged his son’s car keys. When he’d turned sixteen the year before, Layne had given him a 2007 Dodge Charger, red, with a black racing stripe and spoiler. It was a sweet ride. It had bought Layne forty-eight hours of Jasper liking him.

“Jasper, you’re up and in the shower in two minutes or I call school, say you’re sick, then call Coach and say you feel so shit, you can’t play Friday’s game.” Then he left the room and made certain he jiggled the keys as he walked out.

Layne went to his own room, tossed the keys on his dresser, opened a drawer and grabbed a gray t-shirt. He pulled it on and down over his blue with burgundy stripes pajama bottoms. Melody had bought those for him last Christmas, along with three other pairs. Said, since his sons were living with him, he needed to sleep in something other than nothing, which was how he usually slept.

Melody.

He hadn’t thought of her in weeks.

Now, he thought of her. He thought of giving her a call. If Layne gave her a call, she’d take vacation and come to town. Melody was in town, Layne wouldn’t have sex dreams about Rocky. Melody might not be as good as Rocky had been, or as good as Rocky was in those dreams, but she was far from bad.

He grabbed Jasper’s car keys and was relieved to hear the shower going as he went back downstairs. When he got to the kitchen, Blondie’s face was in her bowl and Rocky was leaning against a counter, one arm wrapped around her middle, the elbow of the other arm resting on her wrist, a coffee cup held up.

He stopped dead and stared at her.

“You should keep your mugs over the coffeepot,” she informed him. “Makes more sense not to have to walk across the kitchen to get a mug.”

He felt his eyes narrow.

He was about to ask if she was shitting him, coming to his house first thing in the morning, asking him and his sons to dinner, feeding his dog, helping herself to coffee and telling him where to keep his mugs but he didn’t get the chance. Her arms moved, she twisted to grab a mug and then she twisted back to hand it to him.

“Still black with two sugars?” she asked but her eyes didn’t meet his.

He ignored the coffee she held out.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Raquel?” he asked, voice low and angry.

Her eyes finally met his.

“Dad wants you to come to dinner,” she answered.

“Dave can call me himself,” Layne pointed out.

“I told him I’d pop by on the way to work,” she replied.

“On the way to work?” Layne bit out.

He lived in a middle class development on the west edges of the ‘burg. She lived in a six bedroom mini-mansion by a manmade lake in a development that included a nine hole golf course with driving range and putting green, a clubhouse with restaurant, bar and party rooms as well as a full gym and indoor/outdoor swimming pool in a definitely upper class development on the north edge of town. She was a teacher at Jasper and Tripp’s school, which was in town. Layne’s house was not on her way to work.

“Yes,” she answered.

Layne opened his mouth to tell her to get the fuck out and maybe to shove that leg of lamb straight up her ass when Tripp spoke.

“Mrs. Astley?”

She tore her eyes from his face, leaned forward and looked around Layne.

Then she smiled.

Another shot to the gut.

“Hey Tripp,” she greeted.

“What are you doin’ here?” Tripp asked and Layne turned to look at his son.

If Tripp didn’t have Layne’s body – long legs and torso, wide shoulders, the power not developed in either due to his being fourteen – Layne would have asked Gabby for a DNA test. Tripp had sandy blond hair (now darkened because he filled it with gunk to style it and make it spike out all over his head, which apparently was his ‘do for the day) and blue eyes. Gabby didn’t have blonde hair and blue eyes and neither did anyone in her or Layne’s family, that he knew. Tripp had a bit of Gabby in the face but the rest of him, Layne had no fucking clue where it came from. Layne wouldn’t doubt Gabby would step out on him but, as Tripp grew older, there was no denying Layne gave Tripp his body.

Anyway, it didn’t matter because he loved the kid. This was because Tripp was lovable. He’d always been a good kid. Once or twice a week, always, Tripp called, from the time the kid could pick up the phone and dial, the whole time Layne lived away. They’d talk, or Tripp would. The kid could talk for ten. Whenever Layne came home for a visit, from when he was little, to when he got older, the minute Tripp saw Layne he’d dash to him, throw his arms around him and give him a tight hug. When he got older, he tried to make the dash cooler but there was no mistaking he was happy to see his Dad.

He felt pressure and heat at his abs and looked down to see Raquel was pressing the coffee mug there. Automatically he took it and looked to her. She was close, close enough for him to smell her perfume.

“Inviting you to dinner,” she answered Tripp’s question. “Dad has a leg of lamb.”

Layne looked to Tripp. Tripp was staring at Rocky like she was a movie star, pink in his cheeks, eyes dazzled.

Layne looked back at Raquel then at Tripp who still hadn’t torn his eyes away from her.

Fuck. She was an English Lit teacher at his school and he had the hots for her.

He would, she was fucking gorgeous. She wore those skirts, those shirts and those heels to school every day, probably every boy went home and jacked off, thinking about her.

Even his son.

Fuck.

“Tripp, breakfast,” Layne ordered.

Tripp blinked, looked at his Dad, then he moved forward and toward the pantry.

“A leg of lamb?” Tripp asked as he moved.

Rocky headed back to the island, her heels clicking on the tiles as she went and, to put distance between them, Layne headed to the sink.

“A leg of lamb,” she replied.

“I’ve never had a leg of lamb,” Tripp could be heard from the pantry, although not seen.

“You’re in for a treat. Greek night. Homemade pita. Homemade tzatziki sauce. You’ll love it.”

Tripp came out of the pantry with a box of cereal.

“Cool,” he said, smiling at Rocky. “Uncle Dave a good cook?” he asked when he made it to the cupboard to pull down a bowl.