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 an
d 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 i
n 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.