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 fucking 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, hips 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 fucking 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 fucking door!”
Layne’s beer hit the counter with a thud and his plate with a crash and he was at the door in less time than it took him to count to three.
He pulled it open and filled its frame.
“What the fuck?” he asked an openly furious Jarrod Astley.
Astley barreled forward, hitting Layne in the chest with his shoulder and shoving him to the side all the while saying loudly, “Get out of my way, asshole.”
Layne stepped away from him, threw the door to and turned to see Astley in the middle of the open space between kitchen and living room, looking around him. Then Astley shouted toward the stairs, “Rocky! Get your ass down here!”
Layne moved, going direct to him and gripping his upper arm, he yanked him around.
“You got two seconds to leave, you don’t, I’m puttin’ you out,” Layne clipped low.
“Fuck you!” Astley bellowed.
“Roc’s got a headache,” Layne ground out. “You got somethin’ to say to her you wait until she’s feelin’ better or you say it through your attorneys. You do not come bustin’ into her home fuckin’ shoutin’.”
Astley pulled sharply at his arm, demanding. “Take your hand off me!”
Layne yanked him forcefully in the direction of the door, Astley stumbled but righted himself and Layne ordered, “Get out.”
“Take your goddamned hand off me!” Astley roared, twisting his arm, lifting a hand and shoving it in Layne’s chest.
Layne braced so Astley’s shove only rocked him back and then he pressed forward, turning to crowd Astley and force him to the door when they heard from the stairs.“Jarrod?”
Both of them froze and looked to the stairs.
Rocky was at the middle, hair down and around her shoulders, a King’s Island nightshirt could be seen, the closed banister hiding the rest of her. Her face was pale and she looked visibly hazy, not from surprise or upset.
This wasn’t a headache. This was one of her headaches.
Fuck.
“Baby, go to bed. I’ll deal with this,” Layne called to her.
“Fuck that and fuck you!” Astley yelled and yanked his arm free, skirting Layne and taking two steps toward Rocky which were two steps to Layne’s three. Layne rounded him to stand in front of him and stood firm to block his way, bringing Astley up short.
“Get out,” Layne ordered.
Astley ignored him and kept his eyes pinned on Roc.
“Get your ass down here, you bitch!” At that, Layne put a hand to his chest, wishing he could put a fist to his face and Astley’s eyes sliced to him. “Do not touch me!” he shouted. “I know what she,” he jabbed a finger at Rocky, “put you up to. I know!”
Devin clearly had been busy.