End of Day (Jack & Jill #1) Page 2

  “Jess,” he whispered her name as if it was the last time he’d ever say it. “Now. Right now. You need to channel that strength I know you have, and feed off it until it numbs the pain. You no longer have a choice. Okay? Fin de journée.”

  Jillian averted her eyes, pulling away. Empty. Lost. Numb. “Fin de journée.”

  End of Day

  “We need a plan.” Jackson opened the garage door.

  Weak moments had to be brushed away like pesky bugs. Jillian took a deep breath and exhaled all her emotion. Some days it felt like letting go of her humanity. Who lives that way?

  “Vehicles, gut the place, then jobs.” She sighed.

  “Jobs, gut the place, then vehicles,” Jackson countered.

  They grinned at each other. “Alcohol.”

  *

  By the time they pulled Woody in the garage, the backseat filled with liquor and a few essential groceries, the neighbors were out in droves walking dogs, spit shining old cars, grilling, and watering potted plants.

  “We moved to Jurassic Park.” Jackson gave Jillian a sidelong glance before opening his door.

  Jillian shrugged. “I didn’t want to live in an apartment. You didn’t want to worry about running over neighbor kids. So our only option was the old fogey development.”

  “Yoo hoo!” a voice singsonged before Jillian could tag the down button to the garage door. “Hello, hello, hello. You must be the new neighbors.”

  “We are-are-are,” Jackson sang back.

  Jillian stifled a snort as she unloaded the sacks and cartons from the backseat. Her brother had three talents: computers, hand-to-hand combat, and random sex. Acting out niceties with strangers that wouldn’t end up in his bed was not part of his arsenal of social assets. However, this Jackson guy poured it on thick and sweet. Jillian cocked her head sideways, intrigued by the Oscar-winning performance.

  “I’m Jackson Knight and this is Jillian.”

  “Oh, well hello there. I’m Greta Housby. I live right across the street. You two seem too pretty … I mean young … well, pretty young for our community. These ranch-style homes seem to attract the fifty and over group.”

  “We were looking for a quiet community.” Jackson smiled.

  Greta homed in on his arms. “Oh those tattoos are really something. I bet they don’t end there … not that it’s my business … but they don’t … do they?” She bit her lip, missing sexy by about thirty years. It was oddly endearing.

  Jillian swallowed back her amusement as Greta stumbled over her words unable to keep her eyes on Jackson for more than a few seconds at a time before her face blushed to a cherry Dum Dum. Jackson shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts, looking the part of an innocent boy. He wet his lips as they pulled into his signature sexy grin that rendered women speechless and usually naked too.

  “No they don’t.” He wiggled his brows.

  “Oh … uh … good, I mean okay…” Greta took a second to catch her breath “… so, no kids I take it?”

  “Nope, just us.” Jackson winked at her like a pro.

  “Well, your timing is perfect. We’re having an association picnic this weekend. Everyone is just dying to meet you. Sarge should be home by then too.”

  “Sarge?” Jillian questioned, a little uneasy at the word and the memories it conjured.

  “Yes, he lives in the unit right next to yours. He works at Offutt … the air force base. We’re all just so proud of his accomplishments. Kind of a quiet guy. I think he’s seen some pretty horrific stuff during his career. He’s divorced and I’d love to see him find a nice girl. He always seems so sad.”

  “A nice girl? How old is Sarge?” Jillian questioned as if it didn’t matter, even if it did.

  Greta’s skin flushed a bit. “He’s young, maybe not as young as you two, but I think he’s in his early forties.”

  Jillian nodded, deep in thought.

  “And he’s so handsome.” Greta gave Jackson a timid glance as if she was worried he’d be jealous of a little competition. “He looks like a body builder with a half dozen abs and all that.”

  Jillian grinned. “You mean a six pack.” She took an instant liking to Greta, admiring any woman who embraced her sexiness no matter her age. Jillian could see herself working the shameless flirt well into her nineties … if she lived that long.

  “Oh yes, that might be it. But that’s just hearsay. It’s not like he walks around the development without his shirt on.” She cleared her throat. “I mean … he could, there’s nothing in the association guidelines that prohibits it.” She beamed at Jackson. “In case you were wondering.”

  Jillian looked at Jackson. Neither one jumped in to rescue Greta from her nervous pool of chatter. After a few moments, Greta’s gaze drifted to the pink Vespa.

  “What a darling little motorcycle.”

  Jillian’s nostrils flared while malevolent thoughts of breaking McGraw’s neck jigged in her mind. “It’s not a motorcycle. It’s a scooter. Would you like to have it?”

  Greta’s expression grew wide with surprise. “Oh, I couldn’t—”

  “Jillian, don’t be ridiculous. You won that on the Price is Right. It’s your favorite souvenir.” Jackson grinned.

  Her brother may have been a special neurotic breed, but he could crank the crap out of his mouth at a moment’s notice. It shouldn’t have surprised Jillian, but it still did. When would she ever learn? They had a story and deviating from said story was unacceptable. In less than two hours of their arrival, Jackson had gone rogue. Brother dearest would pay for his indiscretion.

  “The Price is Right … yes. What was I thinking? Though maybe you could take it for a little spin sometime.”

  “Oh dear. I don’t know. My hands are a bit crippled with arthritis.”

  “No worries, Greta. Jackson would love to take you for a ride.” Jillian kicked the back door of Woody shut.

  “I would?” Jackson raised a single eyebrow at his sister.

  Greta’s cheeks pinked as she traced invisible circles on the concrete with the toe of her chunky, tan orthotic shoe, hands clasped behind her back. Jillian waited for the bashful “aw shucks” to fall from her lips.

  “I … I would. I’d love to take you for a ride sometime.” Jackson grabbed the last two sacks from the back of Woody.

  “It’s a date!” Greta waltzed backwards. “Well, not a date. We’re all married of course. But Marvin takes a nap between three and five every day … if that works for you. Not that I’m hiding anything from him—”

  “Bye, Greta.” Jillian pushed the garage door button and reentered the gates of Hell. “If Candy doesn’t do it for her, I bet Mrs. Marvin Housby would like the smooth ride of your Woody.”

  “You’re going to get your ass handed to you later. I’m still pissed about you snapping my glasses. Don’t even get me started on you pimping me out to the blue-hair.”

  Jillian popped the caps off two bottles of beer, then handed one to Jackson. “I like her. I bet she’s a real cougar.”

  Jackson took a long pull. “I don’t know. The whiskers on her chin bear greater resemblance to a wild boar than a cougar.”

  Jillian laughed. “Can you hear that? It’s Satan cackling as the inferno flames lick our asses because we’re close, buddy, really close. As we speak, there are babies being born that will be calling us walking fossils in thirty to forty years. Your toenails will be yellowed and six inches thick, and I’ll be using a tree spade to remove the whiskers from my boar chin.”

  *

  By midnight Jack and Jill had finished two six packs of beer and declared it was time to spar in the basement.

  “This might not be such a good idea.” Jillian hiccuppped as her body swayed on its own accord.

  Jackson stumbled over his impaired feet while shoving all the furniture to the far side of the walkout basement. “We don’t have to go to work in the morning.” He laughed. “Cuz we don’t have jobs. And I haven’t been this drunk in years—cuz I used to be resp
onsible. And I need to beat the shit out of you—cuz you pissed me off today.”

  The equally drunk and pissed off sister kicked out one leg then the other, sending her flip-flops flying. “Fair enough. But if you mess up my nail polish, you’ll be eating out of a straw for the next week. And I’m not holding back because that Price is Right shit was ridiculous.”

  Jackson brought his fists up in front of his face. “This is for my designer glasses.” His first attempt was sloppy, but he landed his second.

  Their bodies were fit and cut to perfection. Their skills—mastered. Sparring was their favorite workout and a necessary part of their survival. Only on the rare occasion did either one emerge with marks, cuts, or bruises. However, on that particular night, under the heavy influence of Heineken, the Knights busted each other up as well as the drywall.

  “Why is the floor wet?” Jackson mumbled from his corpse position, knuckles bloodied. Heineken distracted the Knights from wrapping their hands first.

  Propped against the wall like a rag doll, Jillian pried open the eye that hadn’t caught Jackson’s fist. “I think ‘Sarge’ has a fish tank. Scratch that … had a fish tank.”

  Jackson eyed the huge hole in the wall. “Oops.”

  “Coffee … lots of coffee, then you patch the wall and I’ll replace the tank and fish.” Jillian moved to all fours then lumbered to vertical.

  Jackson took her offered hand. “Where are you going to get fish and a tank in the middle of the night?”

  “Sam Walton’s.”

  “Jillian wouldn’t know that.” Jackson flicked her ear with his finger, reaffirming their sibling antics would stay frozen in time at age ten forever.

  “Everyone knows Sam Walton founded Walmart, you idiot.” She rolled her eyes at his paranoia.

  Their grandfather had been a professor at UC Davis and thanks to him they knew the founders’ names of the top Fortune 500 companies before they knew the states and their capitals. Ever since then she referred to major businesses by their founder’s name.

  Chapter Three

  Senior Master Sergeant Monaghan was career air force. When his son, Cage, was ten, his wife—a dental hygienist—left him for her boss. At the time he didn’t care; Sarge was happily married to his job. At least that’s what he told himself to keep the pain at bay.

  “Son, are you ready to talk about the fish tank?” Sarge asked as he inhaled his eggs, hash, and sausage at the kitchen table. He’d already run seven miles, surged through an hour of weights and abs, spit shined the bathrooms, and devoured the paper cover-to-cover.

  Twenty-year-old Cage, starting quarterback for the Huskers, made the short hour drive home most weekends to hang out with his dad. He lived on the football field—hardworking, dedicated, and focused just like his father. But on the weekends he did what most college students did over summer break—drank too much and slept until noon.

  “Yeah, Dad, I’m dying to know how you managed to break the tank, replace it with the cheapest piece of crap I’ve ever seen, fill it with Betta fish, which are known for fighting to the death, and then paint the wall behind the tank a completely different shade of gray than the rest of the wall. Are you having issues again?” Cage raised a cautious eyebrow.

  “I’m not laughing.” Sarge cleared his throat, a stern glare shooting over the rim of his coffee cup like a missile taking aim at its target.

  Cage poured nearly an entire box of cereal into a popcorn bowl and flooded it with milk, then took a seat opposite his father. “Of course you’re not. Come to think of it … I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you laugh.”

  “I don’t mind you staying with me on the weekends, but I have zero tolerance for parties.”

  Cage paused mid-shovel, milk dripping from his spoon as he leaned over the trough. “You’re serious? I arrived around noon yesterday, met up with a few buddies downtown, then crashed by eleven. The tank and fish massacre happened before I arrived here. Maybe Ryn broke the tank and replaced it.”

  Sarge studied his son through narrowed eyes. Not only was Sarge a human lie detector, he’d also raised his son to value integrity and honesty.

  “Ryn came last week. I was home three days ago.” Sarge knew his housekeeper would not try to hide something as blatantly obvious as that from him.

  “What else could it be? You had some nice fish but they weren’t anything worth stealing. Besides, when someone breaks in to steal something they don’t replace it with a cheaper version … or replace it at all for that matter.”

  “If this is some prank or practical joke …” Sarge warned.

  Cage shook his head. “I don’t have a death wish, so stop trying to pin this one on me. Maybe you should ask the new neighbors if they heard anything going on over here.”

  “New neighbors? They’ve moved in?”

  Cage nodded. “Mrs. Housby dropped off an invite for tomorrow’s association picnic. She said they’re young and ‘utterly delightful.’ She thinks it’s going to be ‘fun’ having a young married couple in the neighborhood.”

  “Kids?”

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t say. I haven’t met them, but I saw the woman when I arrived yesterday. She was …” Cage shifted in his chair.

  “She was …?” Sarge looked up at him while loading the dishwasher.

  “Getting the mail … in a white tank top…” Cage cleared his throat “…no bra, lace panties, and red rain boots.”

  Sarge straightened with a stiff air of readiness. “I see. Was anyone else outside witnessing it?”

  Cage grinned. “Oh yes. It was like the second coming of Christ. The women gasped, nearly fainting, and the men…” Cage winked with an easy nod “…well, a part of them was most likely resurrected.”

  Sergeant Monaghan thrived on order and regimen. He couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling Cage’s revelation gave him about the new neighbors. Peaceful Woods was a quiet development free from the chaos of young children and even barking dogs. Only a few of the residents had pets and most were cats or small dogs that used piss pads indoors. The forty pound weight limit on pets served both to discourage ownership and keep the peace.

  “Clean up your mess when you’re done. I’m going to go introduce myself to the new neighbors.”

  *

  Weekends were a rare opportunity to catch Sarge out of his uniform. He needed the aura of authority it gave him. Lingering stares that conveyed both respect and intimidation. It made it easier to pretend he wasn’t losing his fucking mind. However, he deemed it best to make his first encounter with the new neighbors a friendly one. There was no need to intimidate anyone—yet.

  “Just a minute!” a female voice sounded.

  Sarge tried to peer through the sidelight window, but all he could see were a few boxes and some tied up black trash bags. The door flung open giving way to a woman. A woman who did not belong in Peaceful Woods. She couldn’t have been more than a buck fifteen in weight and maybe five-two with arms and legs wrapped in muscle and taut tan skin. Her long blond hair hung in messy strands over her chest, not completely concealing the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her tight T-shirt and frayed denim shorts that would violate most public school dress codes.

  “Are you more of the welcome wagon?” She smiled, but not just any smile. Sarge knew her type. He was certain she was used to men frolicking around in her presence—men with a fraction of Sarge’s discipline and devoid of all dignity.

  “No. I don’t bake,” he deadpanned.

  Her grin crept its way up to her golden eyes. She looked humored by his comment; little did she know, Sarge was born without a funny bone. He too was used to women frolicking around him, but it pissed him off that his married neighbor was so blatant with her eyes all over him.

  “Neither do I. Beer?”

  Sarge glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes past noon. “If I say no thank you, are you going to give me the ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere’ line?”

  She turned on her heel with a chuckle. “No.
”

  He followed her inside, weaving his way through the maze of boxes. “Still unpacking?”

  “Nope, just the opposite. We bought the place unseen and furnished. We won’t be making that mistake again. Everything in those boxes and bags is too nauseating to keep.” She handed him a beer.

  “No, thank you.”

  The petulant woman with seductive curves and a wicked smile shoved it into his chest until he wrapped his hand around its cool neck. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” She hopped up on the counter.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Your line, not mine.” Jillian winked then took a long pull of her beer.

  Showing no humor or interest, he set the beer down on the counter. She glanced at it with a frown.

  “I just came over to introduce myself. I’m AJ Monaghan. I live in the unit next to yours.”

  “Mmm …” she swallowed “…yes, the uh … GI Joe guy. Greta speaks highly of you. In fact, I think you were her neighborhood crush until Jackson caused her fragile heart to go all a flutter.”

  She chugged down the rest of the beer. AJ had never seen a woman drink quite like that. “Rumor has it you have the best abs in the neighborhood. Mine aren’t too shabby either. Want to compare?”

  “Excuse me?” He shot her a piercing glare. Her uncensored personality was three times the size of her body.

  Jillian’s eyes danced with mischief. “Maybe some other time, then. Jackson’s out in the garage cleaning up his Woody. I’ll have to introduce you two.”

  AJ wasn’t going to touch the “woody” comment. “I’m a Senior Master Sergeant, not a ‘GI Joe guy.’”

  She grabbed AJ’s beer and gulped half of it down, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Good for you. I’d hate to invite you to my wedding. It would be a real bitch trying to fit all that in calligraphy on a five-by-seven envelope. So what’s AJ stand for?”

  He tipped his chin up. “How long’s he been hitting you?”

  The not so innocent victim touched the mottled skin around her eye, then feathered her fingers down to the small cut on her lip. A devilish grin appeared. “As long as I’ve been hitting him.” She hopped off the counter, landing so close to AJ her chest almost touched his stomach.