Golden Trail

Chapter One Dreams

She rolled him then her mouth was on him, her tongue, her hair trailing down his chest, she nipped his side with her teeth, sexy, hot, Christ, she’d devour him if she could.

He hauled her up and rolled her back, his lips taking hers, his tongue shafting into her mouth. He fucking loved the way she let him kiss her, let him take, did nothing but give. It was contradictory to the way she fucked him, a tussle, a battle for supremacy.

Not, of course, when he made love to her, that was different.

But now, they were fucking.

Both her hands slid down his back to his ass, fingers curling in, he could feel her nails, all the while she arched her back, pressing into him. She wanted it, he knew it and his cock was so fucking hard, aching, if he didn’t give it to her soon, he’d come on her belly.

His hand moved down her body, between her legs, down the inside of one thigh, pushing it open and his hips moved between.

Her mouth broke from his, lips sliding across his cheek to his ear.

“Yes, Layne, come inside,” Rocky rasped.

Layne’s eyes opened.

He was on his stomach, in his bed and his cock was rock hard. Aching.

He rolled to his back.

“Christ,” he muttered into the darkened room.

He lifted his palms to his forehead and pressed in.

Every night, every night for six weeks since he saw her in his hospital room, he had these dreams. Always sex, hot sex, wild sex and not what they had eighteen years ago. These weren’t memories. She wasn’t twenty and he wasn’t twenty-four. They’d had hot, wild sex back then, the best, the fucking best he ever had, by a mile. But, in the dreams, she was who she is now and the same with him. And the sex was better.

Far better.

Out of this fucking world.

He stared at the ceiling, concentrating on bringing his body under control.

Layne didn’t understand these dreams. He hadn’t even seen her since that night. He’d seen her brother Merry and father Dave dozens of times but not Raquel. He hadn’t talked to or asked Merry or Dave about Rocky’s visit either. After days slid into weeks and she didn’t show, he’d actually tried to convince himself he’d been hallucinating, especially after seeing that look, smelling her perfume so close, feeling the touch of her hand, her hair, her lips.

But he knew he wasn’t hallucinating.

He rolled out of bed and got up, walked to the bathroom, took a piss, washed his hands, splashed water on his face then brushed his teeth as he stared at his torso in the mirror.

The wounds were fading, still red, the violence of a bullet tearing though flesh still visible. Three inches down from the middle of his right shoulder and another at his upper gut. His pajama bottoms hid the wound to his right thigh. They joined the stab wound he got in his right side in San Antonio and the deep graze wounds from the shrapnel he took to the left hip and side of his thigh after that car bomb went off in LA.

He bent his neck and spit, rinsed and wiped his mouth with a towel he took from and threw back to the counter before he raised his head and looked into his eyes in the mirror.

“I need a new fuckin’ job,” he told himself.

Then his head cocked and he listened.

Nothing.

He walked into the room, his eyes at the drawn curtains, seeing weak light coming around the sides, through the slit in the middle. His eyes went to his alarm clock.

Six thirty.

He listened again.

“Fuck,” he bit out and strode fast from his room, a huge master suite that had a bedroom that held his king-size bed, a low dresser and another narrower, higher dresser on which he’d put a flat-screen TV. If he wanted, he could put a chair and couch in there, which he didn’t, so there was tons of empty space making the room seem cavernous. This led to a master bath that had a double sink, a huge mirror in front of it, acres of counter space between the sinks, cabinets underneath separated by a space where the woman of the house, if there was one, which there wasn’t, could put a bench and have a dressing table. Behind the sinks a room with the toilet, giving privacy – to the left, if you were facing it. Across from that, a shower stall big enough to fit two. In between and up two carpeted steps, a huge, oval sunken tub. Beyond the bathroom was an enormous walk-in closet nearly as big as the bedroom.

Layne threw open one of the double doors that led out to the large open area at the top of the stairs that held his weight bench, weights, a treadmill, a wall filled with in-built shelves, cabinets and a desk unit under the wide window where his computer was, a beat up swivel chair in front of it.

He walked through the room and to one of the doors at the opposite side of the stairs. He knocked loud, twice. His hand went to the handle, he pressed down and pushed in, swinging his torso into the dark room, he saw his youngest son Tripp dead asleep in bed.

“Tripp, up, shower,” he ordered, his voice loud.

Tripp’s body moved, rolled. “Wha?”

“Up, boy, shower. You’re late. You gotta get to school,” Layne told his son.

“Right,” Tripp mumbled and rolled back to his stomach.

“Now, Tripp,” Layne demanded, pushed the door all the way open and walked down the hall to the next door.

He knocked, twice again, and then opened the door. There was movement immediately but this was Jasper’s dog, Blondie, a way-too-friendly yellow lab. She jumped from Jasper’s bed and moseyed to the door, her body swaying with the force of her wagging tail. His son, however, didn’t move.

Blondie skirted him and then stopped, her body close, she wanted out.

The room smelled like teenage boy and dog. Not a great combination.

“Jasper, get up. Time to get ready for school,” Layne called, again loud.

Jasper didn’t move.

“Jas, get up,” Layne said louder.

Jasper’s body moved, only slightly, but he didn’t make a sound.

“You’re up, showered and downstairs in fifteen minutes. Get me?” Layne informed him, pushed open the door and flipped on the bright overhead light as added incentive.

Tripp was a big fan of the snooze button but Tripp would get up. Tripp would do what he was told.

Jasper would not. Jasper was not a big fan of getting up. He was even less a fan of school. And he was even less a fan of his old man and especially his old man telling him to do something. He was supposed to set his alarm and wake his brother if Tripp wasn’t up. He never did because he never set his alarm and when Layne started doing it, Jasper turned it off just to get under Layne’s skin. This was their every day dance when his boys were with him and it never failed to piss Layne off.

Layne turned from the door and walked down the stairs, Blondie so close to his side she nearly tripped him.

She was shaking with excitement, this was her favorite part of the day. She got to go outside, which she loved, then she got to come inside to food and all her boys together at the same time, something she didn’t get very often, or, not as often as she liked.

Gabby hated dogs but she bought Blondie for Jasper two weeks before Layne moved home. She did this to be a bitch because she was a bitch and because she hated Layne more than she hated dogs. Three weeks later, when he was home and they’d established the joint custody schedule, she declared that Blondie was to stay at Layne’s no matter what.

So Tanner Layne was home for the first time in twelve years and he had an active, excitable, yellow lab puppy on his hands as well as two sons who barely knew him and one who could barely stand the sight of him and Rocky breathing the same airspace, albeit ten miles away, that was still too damned close.

His life, never great, or it hadn’t been great for eighteen years, had turned to complete shit.

He walked through the vast open space that was the kitchen and the living room to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. He bent, yanked the steel pole out of the rails, straightened and unlatched the door. He reached out an arm, pulled down the door to the security panel, punched in the code, slapped the door back up and then slid the sliding glass door open for Blondie to go outside. She didn’t hesitate, she raced right through.

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 fuck 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 fucking 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 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.”

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.

“I’m cooking,” Rocky informed him.

He was still smiling at her when he put the bowl and cereal down at the island and headed to the fridge.

“You a good cook?” he asked.

“I’ve had no complaints,” she answered, smiling back at him.

She wouldn’t. She had been a fucking great cook. Eighteen years of practice, especially not cooking on a budget, she was probably a master chef.

Layne felt his jaw get tight again as he saw Raquel’s eyes fall to the box of sugary cereal and her smile faded into a frown.

“Tripp, you should have oatmeal or something,” she advised as Tripp hit the island with the milk. “Sustained energy. That cereal will burn out halfway through first period.”

“That’s okay, I always get a candy bar from the vending machines between first and second period,” he told her and her eyes shot to Layne, communicating, clearly, that he should do something about his son’s lack of nutrition.

That’s when he’d had enough.

That was also when he was interrupted yet again in doing something about it.

“Hey Mrs. Astley,” Jasper said and he saw Rocky start to turn then his eyes went to Jasper.

Now Jasper was undoubtedly his son. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin that looked tan even in the dead of winter. He had Layne’s body too, but at seventeen, and dedicated to football, as well as being a stud and therefore at Layne’s weight equipment more than Layne was, he was ripped. He was nearly Layne’s height at 6’2” whereas Tripp was still growing and he hadn’t broken six foot yet, but he would.

Jasper was slowly pulling down a t-shirt as he stood at the edge of the kitchen counter. This was so Rocky could get a good look at his chest and six pack.

Layne’s eyes rolled to the ceiling.

His first born son was also cocky. Further, he was already sexually active. Layne knew it and supplied condoms because his efforts at discussing sex with Jasper had been unsuccessful and eventually volatile. So he bought condoms and put them in Jasper’s nightstand as well as slid packets in his wallet. He knew Jasper was active because the boxes were opened with condoms missing and his wallet was almost always empty of stash. Jasper had no girlfriend, a serial dater, working his way through his school and the rest of the schools in the county.

Jasper knew he was a good-looking kid with a sculpted, teenage boy body and he wanted his thirty-eight year old English Lit teacher to know it too.

The minute his son pulled his shirt down, Layne put his teeth to his lip, his tongue to his teeth and gave a sharp, low whistle. Jasper’s head swung to him and Layne tossed his car keys to him. With quick reflexes, Jasper caught them.

“Breakfast, Jas,” Layne ordered.

“We’re going to Uncle Dave’s tonight,” Tripp announced, shoveling cereal into his mouth. “Mrs. Astley is cooking.”

Jasper tossed his keys by the coffeepot and went to the cupboard to get a bowl.

“Awesome,” Jasper replied, turning to the island with his bowl. “Merry going to be there?”

“Yes, Jasper, a family affair,” Rocky answered and Jasper gave her a grin so she grinned back.

A family affair.

A fucking family affair.

Fuck her.

Layne was done and he moved.

“Eat,” he growled as he strode behind his sons at the counter with Rocky.

He made it to her, grabbed her bicep in his hand, yanked her coffee cup out of her other hand and slammed it on the island. Then he pulled her toward the door.

“Layne,” she said softly.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, but quietly.

She tried to twist her bicep out of his hand and he let her but only to run his hand down her arm until it caught hers. He dragged her through his front door, the storm door, down the walk and straight to her car in the drive.

She drove a sporty, black, Mercedes coupe that probably cost a quarter of what he paid for his house.

Jesus Christ.

He walked to the driver’s side of the car and yanked it opened, using her hand to maneuver her around and in, her back between the door and the car and he moved in, pinning her there.

She tipped her head back.

“Layne,” she whispered.

“He don’t do it for you?” Layne asked low.

She blinked then asked back, “What?”

“Jarrod,” he snarled her husband’s name, watched her wince and thought that was telling. “He don’t do it for you? Don’t make you burn? Don’t make you come so hard you stop breathing? Think to go slumming, find a way to get off?”

“Layne!” she hissed, her entire body getting visibly tight.

“We were good, baby, you remember. So good, I’m surprised it took you a year to make that play.” He jerked his head to the house.

“I’m not making a play!” She was angry, he could tell by the fire in her eyes, the line of her body and the way she spoke and he didn’t give a fuck.

He ignored her. “But I’m not interested. You want, I can shop around for you. Bet a lot of boys in this ‘burg would jump at a shot at you.”

“I was just asking you to dinner!” she snapped.

“Bullshit,” he clipped back.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not twenty-four, Roc. Not a man to be led around by his dick anymore. Had eighteen years to learn how to be the one who does the fucking, not the one who gets fucked.”

Her body jerked then locked but not before he saw pain carve a path through her features before they blanked.

She took a breath in through her nose, so big, it expanded her chest.

Then she asked, “What can I tell Dad?”

Rocky, he couldn’t tolerate. Dave and Merry were another story. This meant he was wrong, she’d fucked him.

Again.

“We’ll be there. Six thirty,” he growled.

“Brilliant,” she snapped and then whirled so fast in the small space he’d given her, her shoulder brushed roughly against his chest and her ponytail slid across his neck but she didn’t stop moving. She folded herself into the car and didn’t hesitate to reach out to the door handle. He moved out of the way just in time to miss getting hit when she slammed the door. She hit the ignition and backed out too fast, yanking the steering wheel at the end of the drive, then her expensive, high performance vehicle shot forward and he lost sight of her in seconds.

He stared after her for longer than their entire conversation in the drive lasted. Then he sucked in breath to calm his frayed temper and walked into the house.

“What was that?” Jasper asked the minute he hit the kitchen.

“Nothin’,” Layne answered.

“That wasn’t nothin’, you were pissed…” he hesitated, his eyes sharp on his Dad, “at Mrs. Astley.”

His last two words were said disbelievingly, like wealthy, polished, sexy, high school English Lit teacher, wife of the Chief of Surgery at a big hospital in Indianapolis, charity-working, pillar of the community Raquel Merrick Astley was a step away from the ‘burg’s own Princess Diana.

He stared at his son and noted Tripp was also watching him.

Then he made a decision.

“A long time ago, before your Mom, we were together. We lived together. It was good. Then it went bad. Very bad. I’m not a big fan of Mrs. Astley.”

“No shit?” Tripp asked and Layne looked at his younger son.

“No shit,” he answered.

“Wow,” Tripp whispered.

“How’d it go bad?” Jasper asked and Layne’s eyes went to him.

“Maybe, you still care, in about five years I’ll tell you,” Layne answered.

Jasper studied his father and then, miracle of miracles, he let it go.

“We goin’ to Uncle Dave’s tonight to eat her cookin’?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Layne answered.

“That’ll be interesting,” Jasper muttered.

Layne’s anger dissipated and he grinned. It was too bad Jasper spent so much time honing his asshole teenaged kid act. When he wasn’t doing that, he was smart and damned funny.

“Yep, it’ll be interesting,” Layne agreed. “Now, you guys hafta get to school. And Jasper, I want you to take the trash out before you go.”

The asshole teenaged kid came back in a flash.

Still, he took the trash out before he went.

After they were gone, in the house alone, Layne let Blondie out to roam the yard while he showered and dressed to get ready to go into the office. He was on his way through the kitchen from the sliding glass door when he saw her mug sitting on the counter, the impression of her lower lip in pink gloss on the side.

Layne stopped and stared at it.

Then he decided to do the dishes before he took a shower.