Golden Trail (The 'Burg Series) Read online

  Layne didn’t have trouble finding one three three Greenbriar. He stopped across the street and looked at Rocky’s house. Like Merry said, it was on the manmade lake and it was a monster. He couldn’t visualize a Rocky, drinking beer, eating pizza, jumping up and down like a crazy woman when Tripp made his touchdown and telling her students rock stars were storytellers living in that behemoth. He could, however, visualize the Rocky of last night with that dress and those shoes living there.

  One of the three garage doors was open and a shiny, silver Aston Martin was in the bay. Outside in the drive was a yellow Corvette, Marissa’s new toy that Layne’s searches had shown that Astley had bought for her just over four weeks ago.

  Rocky’s Mercedes was nowhere to be seen and there were no other cars in the drive or on the street. Layne looked at the clock on his dash to see it wasn’t yet eleven. She said what she had to do wouldn’t take long but it had to take longer than an hour unless she went early.

  He pulled out of The Heritage and went to his offices, opening them up, he fired up his computer and looked up Chip Judd’s address. He wrote it down, shut down his computer, locked down the offices and scanned the street when he went outside. Then he hit Mimi’s for a coffee and to check if Rocky was in there.

  She wasn’t.

  He swung by Josie Judd’s and saw no Mercedes, not on the street or in the drive. Layne then rolled by Colt’s, just in case she went to Feb or Violet.

  No Mercedes.

  His next stop was Dave’s. No Mercedes. Next was Merry’s. No Mercedes, not in the lot in front of Merry’s place and, gliding through the complex, not anywhere.

  Layne swung into a spot in front of Merry’s unit and looked up at it. It wasn’t really even a condo, the doors opened to the elements. It was an apartment complex, maybe nicer than some, not others. They called them condos because you could purchase the units even though most were rented out by their owners.

  Layne sat there thinking that, apparently, during the getting to know you again part of the operation, Layne had not gotten to know Rocky very well. He was out of leads.

  Layne leaned forward and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to the second number down from his recent calls file and hit go.

  He put the phone to his ear and practiced deep breathing as it rang.

  “You’ve reached Rocky’s voicemail… leave me a message.”

  “You get this, Roc, you call me,” Layne growled, flipped the phone shut, tossed it on the dash and headed home.

  * * * * *

  Layne lounged on his couch, his cell on the armrest, his finger tapping it.

  Surrounding his feet on the coffee table was the detritus of a Sunday at home watching football with his boys. Empty chip bags. A bowl of drying out, spiced, once-melted yellow cheese. Microwave popcorn packets. Empty pop cans and beer bottles. Mostly empty boxes of cookies.

  Tripp was upstairs at Layne’s computer doing homework.

  Jasper was in the armchair at the left of the couch marathon texting Keira, his buds and half the population of Indiana.

  It was after six o’clock, night had fallen and Rocky hadn’t phoned.

  Layne made a decision.

  Actually, he made three.

  “Jas,” Layne called and Jasper’s head came up. “Got things to do. Tomorrow morning, I’ll give you money and you and Tripp need to swing by the grocery store after practice.”

  “For what?” Jasper asked and Layne’s eyes swept the coffee table before going back to his son.

  “For everything,” he answered and Jas grinned. “Pick this shit up before goin’ to bed tonight, yeah?” Layne indicated what shit he meant by dipping his head toward the coffee table.

  Jasper sighed then nodded.

  “Got another job for you,” Layne went on.

  “What?” Jasper asked, not belligerent, asshole teenaged kid, just resigned, teenaged kid. He thought he’d scored more chores but he wasn’t shoveling attitude.

  Progress.

  Layne took his feet off the coffee table, put them on the floor and leaned his elbows into his knees, his eyes never leaving his son. “I need you to get me your Mom’s work schedule.”

  Jasper straightened in his chair. “Why?”

  Layne told him straight out. “’Cause I got two options with this showdown with Stew. I hit him at work, I got witnesses. I don’t give a fuck about that but that shit could get back to your Mom. I hit him at home, when your Mom is at work, I got no witnesses and it’s up to Stew whether he wants to share. I reckon he won’t want to share. I’m pickin’ option two, I don’t know when I’ll do it but it’ll help me out knowin’ when your Mom’ll be outta the house.”

  Jasper stared at him awhile before nodding.

  Layne nabbed his phone and pushed up from the couch, muttering, “Sooner the better, Bud.”

  “Right,” Jasper replied.

  On his feet, Layne looked down at his son. “Be smart about it, yeah? I don’t want her cottoning on.”

  “I’ll be smart,” Jasper assured and Layne knew he would.

  “I gotta go out. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll have my cell, you need anything.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Layne turned toward the kitchen saying, “Later, Bud.”

  “Later, Dad.”

  Layne walked to the kitchen shouting up the stairs, “Goin’ out, Tripp!”

  “Okay Dad!” Tripp shouted back.

  “You help your brother clean up the mess in the living room, got me?”

  “Got you!”

  Layne grabbed his keys, went to his truck and drove to Rocky’s.

  The Merc was parked in a spot.

  He swung the Suburban in beside it and took his time switching off the ignition, jumping down from the truck and walking up to her apartment. He did this in an effort to control his temper. Last night had not been good and Rocky had left in a highly emotional state which was worsened by the fact that she felt humiliated after taking that fall. Even though it was absolutely not cool she disappeared, there were reasons and Layne knew he needed to handle this situation with care.

  He hit her buzzer and waited. It took awhile but the door opened two inches. Layne could see Rocky, hair back in a ponytail, through the shiny silver latch that secured the door.

  Layne’s control on his temper slipped.

  “Open the latch, Rocky,” he ordered.

  “Layne, now’s not a good time. I’ve got papers to grade.”

  His control slipped further.

  “Open the latch,” he repeated.

  “Really, Layne, I’m being serious. This is going to take all night.”

  His control slipped even further.

  “Open the fuckin’ latch, Roc.”

  “I don’t think –”

  He lost his hold on his temper.

  “Okay, then step back,” he demanded.

  Through the small space, he saw her eyes widen. “Why?”

  “’Cause I don’t want you to get hurt when I kick open the goddamned door,” he gritted out.

  She studied him and he saw she understood instantly now was not the time for a stare down. The door closed and immediately opened. Layne put a hand on it and shoved in, throwing the door to behind him so hard it slammed.

  Rocky was retreating. Hair in that goddamned ponytail. Faded jeans hanging low on her hips and clinging in all the right places, a split in the left knee. A tight blue tee with the word “Butler” across the tits. An ace bandage wrapped tight around her right wrist.

  The bandage should have served to remind him he should take a minute to calm the fuck down.

  It didn’t.

  He advanced and she kept retreating.

  “Layne –” she began, lifting up her bandaged hand.

  He cut her off. “We had plans today.”

  She kept retreating, Layne kept advancing.

  “I know but I changed my mind,” she told him.

  He tilted his head to the side and backed her into
her kitchen. “You changed your mind?”

  “Yeah, I changed my mind.” She hit counter and pressed back.

  Layne invaded her space and pressed in, putting a hand on the counter by either side of her waist, he tipped his head forward to look down at her.

  “You think to tell me there was a change of plans?”

  “I –”

  “Maybe pick up one of the four times I called you?”

  “Layne, it –”

  “Call me back after I left a message?”

  “I thought –”

  “Where have you been all day?”

  Her head jerked. “What?”

  “Where have you been all day?”

  “I… went somewhere. To think.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere, Layne!” she snapped. “Would you please move back?”

  “Where… have you been… all day?”

  “It’s none of your business, Layne, step back!”

  Layne tipped his head deeper and got into her face. “Where the fuck have you been all day!” he roared.

  “Step back!” she shouted.

  “Rocky, we’re workin’ an operation and you do not fuckin’ disappear in the middle of a fucking operation!”

  “As you can see, I was fine!”

  “Yeah, but all day, I didn’t fuckin’ know that!”

  “Now you do!”

  He returned to his earlier subject. “Where have been all day?”

  “Layne –”

  “Tell me, goddammit!” he shouted.

  “At Mom’s grave!” she shouted back and Layne’s body locked. “Step back!”

  His voice had quieted when he asked, “You were at your mother’s grave?”

  “Yes, I go there when I have to think. Now step back.”

  He didn’t step back. He pressed forward.

  “And what were you thinkin’ about Roc?”

  She tossed her head, looked him in the eye and declared, “I’m quitting.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quitting what?”

  “Our operation.”

  “You’re quitting our operation,” Layne repeated.

  “Yes,” Rocky hissed.

  Layne scowled down at her then his eyes went over her shoulder and he stared at the black-tiled backsplash.

  “Step back,” she demanded.

  He looked back at her. “You can’t quit. You’re my cover.”

  “I can. We both know that’s bullshit. You can do your thing without me providing cover.”

  “Yeah, that was true two weeks ago. Now, since we’ve started this shit, the whole town’s in on it and you’re bonding with Rutledge, it isn’t true.”

  “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she answered.

  “How sure, Roc?”

  “Very sure, Layne. Now, I asked you, step back.”

  “Tripp says hi.”

  She went still and stared up at him, her face going pale.

  Too pissed at that point to do anything but, Layne pushed it. “And Jasper wants me to talk to you about comin’ over when he makes pasta bake for Keira. Apparently, Keira thinks you’re the shit. And I know Jas thinks Keira is the shit. He wants to impress her and, he’s my boy, I want him to have what he wants.”

  “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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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 fuck.” 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, fuck, 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 o
f it but he fucking 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 cock 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.”

  He twisted the fancy-ass lock, noting, with some annoyance, that if someone managed to scale the wall to the balcony, not hard with tall trees on either side of it, they could break a window, reach in and open that lock. An exterior door like that should open only with a key. His eyes lifted, checking for security sensors and he saw them on the windows but not on the doors. Asinine mistake and shoddy work. No one would shatter those huge glass plates to breach the apartment, they’d go through the fucking door.