Golden Trail (The 'Burg #3)(242)

No, especially not normal.

Therefore, determined not to take anything for granted, his eyes glued to Raquel’s profile, he lifted up, her head turned, he twisted and locked an arm around her waist, pulling her up his chest.

“Layne –” she started but his head came down and he kissed his wife.

Hard.

He tasted her, smelled her, felt her soft body pressed to his and he loved all of that.

But what he heard was his daughter’s giggle.

And he loved that too.

* * * * *

Layne laid the sleeping Cecilia on her belly in her crib in Tripp’s old room.

He pulled the blanket up to her shoulders and let his hand rest on her bottom a second while he made certain she settled. Then he moved out of the room, ignoring the excess decoration of pinks and purples and shooting stars. His wife could shop and she was thrilled beyond reason when she’d had a daughter, something Layne knew before she’d had her because Doc had told him, information Rocky had unusually not wanted to know until the day came. Since her birth, Layne wasn’t certain his daughter wore the same thing twice and he rarely went into CeeCee’s room and not found some new decoration or toy. Vera advised that he should curtail Rocky’s tendency to spoil their daughter rotten. His mother had advised this but Layne had no intention of taking that advice. Layne intended to let Roc be whatever kind of mother she wanted to be and as the months slid passed, he knew this was the right decision. This was mainly because Rocky was Rocky and it was also because she’d had two good teachers.

He heard his family downstairs and headed that way but stopped when his phone rang. He pulled it out, checked the display, flipped it open and put it to his ear.

“What’s up, Sully?” Layne greeted.

“Got news, Tanner,” Sully replied and this could mean anything.

Since it all went down, Layne’s caseload hadn’t lightened. Now that his mother did his books and he had a receptionist, his caseload had doubled. Thus, his daughter’s room could be filled with girlie shit, his wife’s closet filled with clingy dresses, his credit card statement filled with expensive dinners so he could eat while sitting across from his wife while she was wearing clingy dresses, his youngest son had a Camaro and his family had an underground pool.

Therefore, with a heavy caseload that often involved work with the ‘burg’s PD, Sully’s news could mean anything.

“What?” Layne asked.

“Harrison Rutledge is dead, man. Happened yesterday. Shiv to the jugular. He bled out before the guards got to his body.”

Well, that took longer than expected.

“World’s not exactly a poorer place,” Layne muttered.

“Yeah,” Sully agreed. “But thought you’d wanna know.”

“Thanks, Sul,” Layne replied.

“One other thing,” Sully stated.

“Yeah?”

“Stew Baranski’s parole was denied.”

Layne grinned.

“Not a model prisoner?” Layne asked.

“Guy’s not only an ass**le, apparently he’s an ass**le magnet. He and his crew aren’t real popular with their fellow inmates or the guards. Dick’s seen a lotta solitary. Why they even put him before the parole board is anyone’s guess.”

“Probably were hopin’ to get rid of him. Not a good fix, turning him loose on an unsuspecting public, but at least he’d be outta their hair.”

“Yeah,” Sully muttered and Layne knew he was smiling, “that would be why.”

Layne chuckled.

“That’s all the news that’s fit to print,” Sully said then finished, “for now.”

“Right, later,” Layne returned

“Later.”

Layne flipped his phone closed and wiped his mind clean of Harrison Rutledge and Stewart Baranski. Those ass**les had had enough of his time, his life and Rutledge had been responsible for taking Layne’s blood. They didn’t deserve to be in Layne’s house, not ever but especially not now, not when it was filled with the beautiful life, a place Harrison Rutledge, dead or alive, and Stew Baranski didn’t deserve to be.

Layne walked down the stairs and saw through the sliding glass door that Devin was outside with a stoagie. Then he saw his boys and their girls were in the living room, Blondie sitting beside Jasper with her head in his lap, his fingers scratching behind her ears, her eyes closed in apparent dog ecstasy. Vera was in the kitchen looking like she was going to cook something even though they’d all just left the barbeque and they’d all eaten enough for a week. And Roc was sitting at the island, opening mail.

Layne went to Rocky, fitted his front to her back, swept her hair from her shoulder and dropped his head to kiss her neck.

“You could save a move if you let me wear my hair in a ponytail,” she pointed out as she slit open an envelope.

“We’ll leave that ‘til I’m ninety and decrepit,” Layne replied.

“Right,” she whispered but he could tell she did it through a smile. “Like you’re ever going to be decrepit.” Layne straightened and Rocky asked softly, “She down?”

“And out,” Layne answered.

“Good,” Rocky whispered.

He started to move away when Rocky pulled something out of the envelope, studied it, twisted and asked him, “Do you know a Farrah Gerald or an Andre Washington?”