End of Day (Jack & Jill #1) (4 page)

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Jackson offered his hand.

AJ returned a firm shake while he inspected Jackson’s face that resembled a boxer’s after a title fight.

“Don’t mind my ugly mug. Jillian got me drunk; it’s the only way she can land a solid hit.”

Jillian tilted her head, giving Jackson a subtle shake and challenging glare.

AJ had seen and heard enough. The unexpectedness of the situation crippled his thoughts. He couldn’t remember the real reason for his visit.

“Anyway…” he cleared his throat “…I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m not home much, but my son is here most weekends so maybe just keep things …
appropriate
for his young eyes and ears.”

Jackson and Jillian shared an indecipherable look—maybe amusement but most definitely disrespect.

“How old is your son?” Jillian asked.

“Young,” AJ replied with a matter-of-fact finality.

“Young, huh? What two numbers is that between?” she goaded.

AJ’s heart hammered as he clenched his jaw, reaching deep for control. His brain was fucked-up, but not without cause. Never before had a woman made him feel so enraged. And never before had such lewd acts felt so tempting … so inevitable. He’d found a woman who could take pain. But Jillian didn’t just take it—she beseeched it.

J
illian’s mind lingered
on the image of AJ long after he’d vanished from her sight. It was obvious he made weightlifting his bitch, his definition a little more than just long and lean. The short black hair with a few highlights of grey and his strong jaw bared resemblance to Hugh Jackman. His broad shoulders seemed to bear the weight of the world as much as his dark intense eyes reflected it.

Confusion set in. Did she want to lick every inch of him or beat the shit out of him just to see if she could? What did he look like in uniform and would the sight of it awaken the demons?

The buzz cut he kept would prevent her controlling hands from making claim, but Jillian envisioned her fingernails digging, ripping, and scarring the muscled terrain of his back while his stormy eyes held hers, narrowing with every stab of pain. Pain she knew he would feel at her merciless touch. In the suppressed, rational corner of her twisted mind, she knew he defined wrongness and at least a dozen other synonyms. He woke something inside her that threatened her new existence.

Was there enough room in her head for this Jillian woman and the life she was trying to make for herself? Was there room in her heart to build a wall—a tomb—around her past and start anew? She had to find out because every day without Luke in her life felt like death, and there was nothing worse than feeling dead but still being alive. Maybe if she let her body move on, her mind would catch up.

“So AJ’s the sergeant?”

“Senior Master Sergeant Monaghan.” Jillian stood at attention and saluted.

“A guy in a uniform. Sounds like trouble … as in a mindfuck of trouble.” Jackson frowned as he turned and walked inside the house.

Jillian followed. “Maybe, but don’t worry, he’s not my type. I’m trying to rehabilitate my uniform ‘fetish’ to strictly FedEx and UPS—bigger packages.”

Jackson sighed like he’d been choking on the words he wanted to say but decided to gut them back down. “Let’s rip this wallpaper off today.” He pinched a peeling corner and pulled a small strip from the wall.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, Jess—Jillian.” Jackson closed his eyes. “You don’t.” His pain was hers too. They were bonded by so much more than blood.

Jillian couldn’t remember a time where she didn’t sense his thoughts, feel his pain. She pressed her forehead to his back and wrapped her arms around him.

“You have a jaded history with older women, but I didn’t get all judgmental with you when Greta showed such blatant interest.”

Jackson’s body vibrated with laughter, and she melted into him, grateful for the break in tension. “With one thrust, I’d snap her in half.”

They laughed.

“McGraw was right. We’re going to ruin these poor old people.” She handed him the wallpaper scorer. “Here—score, mix, soak, strip, clean.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon “de-elderizing” the place. Their neighborhood turned into a multiplying herd of onlookers roaming past their house, eager to catch a glimpse of the mysterious young couple who seemed to be gutting their entire place.

“Knock, knock,” an unfamiliar male voice sounded through the screen door.

Jackson climbed down the ladder while Jillian tied the last trash bag of wallpaper scraps.

“Hey, not trying to bother ya. I’m Stan Renner.”

“Hi, Stan. I’m Jackson Knight and Jillian is around the corner.”

“Be right there,” she called.

“No hurry. I live up the street, the only one with the four-car garage.”

“Did you stop by to see if we wanted to trade places?” Jackson smiled.

“What? Oh … no, no. My garage is my man cave. It’s temperature-controlled, finished floor, heated walls. Basically it’s the only thing that keeps me sane when my wife goes off on her rants about … well, everything. No, I’m just stopping cuz I’m the association president—nobody else wanted the job—but that’s neither here nor there. I think it’s great the way you’re updating the place, but you might not be aware of the fact that the garbage doesn’t come until Wednesday. If it were only a couple of trash bags, I’d tell ya to just keep them in your garage until trash day. But you’ve got a real mountain out at the end of your driveway, and I just don’t think you can leave that sitting there until Wednesday. I’m not trying to be a bad guy, but—”

“Hey, Stan …” Jillian enjoyed Stan’s incessant rambling too much to interrupt, but she also loved her brother and felt the need to save him from President Stan. “I’m Jillian. How lovely to meet you.”

Stan smoothed his hands over his salt and pepper hair that looked like it had once been curly, but suffered from the thinning and slow physical deterioration of time.

“Hi … uh … I’m Stan … Stan Renner.” He fell hard and quick, like most of Jillian’s victims.

His introduction was either naturally James Bond or simply a case of nerves. “I apologize for the heap of garbage in our driveway.” Jillian flipped her hair back over her shoulder, in case Stan wasn’t working with twenty-twenty.

As if on cue, those old-man eyes slipped to her breasts that were enjoying yet another day of freedom from the confines of a bra. “Ya know what? I’m just so tickled that you two are such diligent workers, which is hard to find in this day and age, that I don’t see any reason why I can’t bring down my pickup and get this hauled off for you.”

“Oh really?” Jillian proved to Jackson that he wasn’t the only one who could pour the honey slow and sweet. “That would be amazing! Make sure you check with me when you’re done. I was just getting ready to throw a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.”

Stan backed out the door. “Well, young lady, I might just take you up on that. The only thing the missus does anymore is sit around watching Netflix on her computer all day. I think I’ve forgotten what a woman’s sweet treats taste like.” Stan waved then walked his tall, bony body back up the street—hands gesturing every which way, lips moving like he was talking to someone, but no one else was around.

“Let’s just be clear on this. First, it’s a little disturbing that Stan can’t remember the taste of a ‘woman’s sweet treats.’ But what’s even crazier is the fact that we have beer, half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and three brown bananas, yet somehow you’re going to wave your magic wand and make homemade chocolate chip cookies appear in our oven?”

Jillian bit the edge of her thumbnail. “Yeah, I should have said peanut butter cookies.”

*

Within two hours,
Stan had hauled away all of their trash, swept their driveway, pulled weeds in their front yard, edged along their walk, and planted three hostas below their deck that he’d split from the north side of his own house. The Knights were dealing with a seventy-something who had a severe case of ADHD. Luckily for everyone involved, Stan enjoyed staying busy and they had no qualms with taking advantage of their elderly neighbor, who had the energy of someone half his age.

“Peanut butter, banana bread balls … and he ate them with a smile.”

Jillian fought to contain her own amusement. “Do you think it’s my blond hair?”

Jackson nudged her shoulder as they sipped their beers and watched the slow motion of life in Peaceful Woods from their front door step. “No, it’s your tits.”

“I should start wearing a bra.”

“I doubt it would matter. It’s still lingerie. From what I’ve seen, I think once women hit sixty they start buying their bras from the Army Surplus Store. You know what I’m talking about, the ones with seven rows of fastening hooks, six-inch wide shoulder straps, and such thick material and complete coverage it could double as a bulletproof vest. These men around here … they’ve been looking at vests for years.”

Jillian laughed, almost to the point of tears. “You’re so mean.”

“Astute.”

“Shrewd.” She sighed. “God, I can’t believe this is our home now.”

“Well believe it. And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but we’re going to be attacked from every direction at the picnic tomorrow. These people have nothing better to do than live vicariously through us because let’s face it … they have no life. So we need to get our shit together. We’ve agreed on a past, now we need a future.”

“A future?” Jillian finished the rest of her beer.

“Jobs.”

“You know what we should do?” Jillian’s eyes widened.

“Professional beer tasting?”

“Is that a real job?” Jillian couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice from the fleeting moment of promise.

“I’m joking.”

“About it being a real job or our job?”

Jackson shook his head. “Both, neither … I don’t know. You’d suck at it since you don’t like beer.”

“No, that other girl didn’t like beer. Jillian Knight is quite fond of it.”

“You guzzle it down to expedite the buzz so you no longer care what it tastes like.”

He had a valid point. In the past thirty years she’d had maybe a grand total of six bottles of beer. Since their arrival in Omaha, she’d been averaging a six pack a day. The beer did two necessary things: one, it made her Jillian Knight, and two, it made life as Jillian Knight in Omaha, Nebraska,
tolerable
.

“Back to my idea.” Jillian stood and offered Jackson her hand.

“Where are we going?”

“Inside for paper, pens, and hats.”

As only two thirty-year-olds on a new path with way too much alcohol circulating through their veins would have done, the Knights decided to write five jobs for each other on ripped pieces of paper then drew them out of a hat.

“What if I don’t like the first one I draw?” Jackson asked as he went first.

“Then you can draw another, but there’s only five so you have to choose one.”

“No way.” Jackson ripped the first piece of paper in two.

“Which one was it?”

“School bus driver.”

Jillian giggled, tipping her beer toward him. “Yeah, I didn’t think that one through. It would require you to be sober.”

“And like kids. Your turn.”

“Don’t act so callous. Why exactly is it you don’t like kids? I mean … I’ve assumed for quite some time now that it’s because you still are one and you don’t like competition.”

Jackson shrugged. “They remind me of what I may never have.”

“Oh … that’s … deep.”

“God, you’re gullible. It’s been my MO for years. The downside to dating older women is their damn ticking biological clocks. If a woman knows I don’t like kids and still ends up in my bed, then I know it’s for the right reason.”

“Which is?”

“Duh … sex.” Jackson took a swig of his beer.

“Yeah … not so deep after all.”

Jackson smirked and held out Jillian’s hat. She stirred her hand around and picked out a piece of paper. “What the hell?”

Jackson snatched it from her. “Oh, this is a good one. And I’m sure the demand is high here in Nebraska. The downside is the risk of injury.”

“It’s not even a real job, you perverted fuck.”

“It most certainly is.”

“Then do share, oh wise one, what exactly a
barnyard masturbator
does.”

“It’s self-explanatory. They collect bovine sperm for research and breeding purposes. You can use a rectal electrifier to stimulate its release, or an artificial vagina on its penis, or good old-fashioned manual stimulation.” Jackson wiggled his brows.

“Bullshit.”

Jackson laughed. “Technically it’s bull sperm.”

“Give me your hat. I need to add some better job options.” Jillian tried to take Jackson’s drawing hat.

“Nope. Too late. And just remember … we shook on it. We
both
agreed we would choose one of the five jobs,
no matter what
.”

“Draw,” Jillian grumbled, sitting back in her chair.

“Personal Trainer? No way.” Jackson narrowed his eyes at her.

“Don’t even look at me that way. You cannot honestly say working as a personal trainer is worse than jacking-off barnyard animals.”