Golden Trail (The 'Burg #3)(143)

Which made their farewell turn Layne’s stomach.

They were right under an overhead light but she still placed her hand on Gaines’s chest and got up on her toes and he bent his head, put his hand to her waist and kissed her neck.

“Son of a bitch,” Layne hissed at his windshield.

So much shit was going down, he was off his game. He should have had a camera ready mainly because he’d promised Rocky he’d get a photo of Gaines to Merry but now because, if Layne had shots of it, that kiss would make the Youth Minister need to answer uncomfortable questions. He had one in the glove compartment but he didn’t have it out.

Even so, he would never have imagined Gaines would stand in the parking lot of the f**king church and kiss a teenager’s neck for any driver in any passing car to see.

This guy was bold which meant he thought he was untouchable.

There had to be a reason for that. There had to be leverage. He had to have something.

Layne pulled out his camera and took shots and watched as Gaines smiled at her all the while she waved as she went to her car. She got in and took off and Gaines got in his Honda and left the lot. Layne waited while Gaines turned right on Green then he tossed his camera to the passenger seat, rolled out of the secluded, tree shrouded, unlit back area of the lot and kept his eyes on the Honda, flipping on his headlights and turning right with three cars between them.

Gaines turned right again on 56 and so did one of the three cars between them. Layne followed.

And he followed him straight to The Brendel where Gaines turned right into the entrance and Layne had no choice but to turn right with him.

Jesus. He either lived at The Brendel or he was visiting someone there at ten at night.

Layne slid through the gate Gaines opened and Gaines took the first right while Layne went left, toward Rocky’s place. He parked in one of her spots, grabbed his smokes from the glove compartment, his small digital camera from the seat and got out of the car. He walked into the road, tucking the camera in his inside jacket pocket and looked toward where Gaines turned.

No Honda in sight.

Layne took a swift moment to survey the area. Muted lighting but it was good. It didn’t invite strangers. There weren’t many dark corners. The streets were well lit so you could make your way. Someone came there wanting to do something they shouldn’t, they’d think twice because there was nowhere to hide and it was easy to see.

Good for the tenants. Bad for Layne.

He shook out a cigarette and walked to the sidewalk in front of Rocky’s unit. Then he lit it and took a stroll. A man outside having a smoke and a walk, he moved passed the unit next to Rocky’s and jogged across the wide entrance road to the complex. Then he hit the sidewalk on the other side. Four units in, just around a curve, he found the Honda parked next to a sporty, red Mazda.

Unit K.

Apartment one, lights out. Apartment two, lights on behind blinds. Lights on in apartment three, up the stairs and facing the small field that separated The Brendel from the next development, wide windows and a long balcony, twice the size of Rocky’s but without the two story windows. No curtains or blinds closed but Layne had no reason to stand there and watch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, lifting his smoke, taking a drag and exhaling as he dropped his hand, staring at the license plates on the cars and memorizing them. To save time so he didn’t have to do it in the morning, he was considering jogging quickly to the parking spaces to check their apartment number with the hope no one spotted him when he glanced back to the window and saw him.

Gaines at the window to close the blinds. Jacket off. Shirt untucked. Bottle of beer in his hand. He was home or at least in for the night.

He lived at The Brendel.

No Youth Minister could afford The Brendel.

The blinds started swinging closed and Layne made his way back to Rocky’s.

Tomorrow, unit K, apartment three officially went on radar.

Layne flicked the butt in a drain in the street ten feet from Rocky’s stairs. As he jogged up them he pulled out his keys. He’d already put Rocky’s on his ring.

He let himself in. A light by the couch lit. The under cabinet lights in the kitchen lit. Soft but welcoming. The smell of something in the air, fruity, like berries. One of her candles she’d put out but the smell lingered.

He took off his jacket and threw it on the armchair. Then he went to the fridge, saw bottles of Bud and smiled. He took one out, twisted off the cap and took a slug then pulled open the door to the oven. Homemade macaroni and cheese with bits of hotdog.

At the sight, his smile got big. When they were living together she’d made it her mission to make the best homemade macaroni and cheese on the planet and she mostly did this because he loved her first try and told her, so she twisted herself in knots to make it better. It was f**king tasty by the time she left him. It was probably heaven on a plate if Astley stooped low enough to eat mac and cheese with cut up hotdogs.

Layne stood in the kitchen, h*ps against the counter, eating it and drinking beer. He was about to go to the fridge to see if she had leftovers he could nuke for a second helping when the loud knock came at the door.

“Rocky, open the f**king door!” Layne heard Jarrod Astley shout.

Layne stood in the kitchen with his empty plate in one hand, the fork resting on top, his bottle of beer in his other hand, he stared at the door and decided to count to ten.

He got to three when the knock came back and he heard, “I know he’s in there too, you stupid slut! Open the f**king door!”