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

Jillian slipped her feet into her flip-flops, careful not to smudge her shiny wet toenails. “In the
grocery store
! You had him on his knees, an inch from his life, in under a second.”

McGraw shook his head. “Enough, you two misfit psychos. Out! Good riddance. Utilities are due on the fifteenth. I’d say try to stay alive, but you’re not the ones I should be concerned about. So don’t kill anyone but yourselves.”

The Knights stepped out of the vehicle that sped away the moment their doors slammed shut. They stood in the two-stall driveway, making a 360-degree survey of their new neighborhood: grey cookie cutter homes in groups of two and three, each with a small, staked maple tree in the front yard.

In that moment they were reborn.

“Kansas?” Jackson asked.

“Omaha … Nebraska.” Jillian nudged his shoulder, a snicker vibrating from her chest.

“The Cornhusker State?”

“Yes.”

“Warren Buffet?”

“Yes.”

“Malcolm X?”

“I don’t know, Jack. You’re the geek.”

He looked down at her, pushing his Clark Kent glasses high on his nose. She ripped them off his face and snapped them in two.

“What the hell?”

Jillian tossed them over her shoulder. “You have twenty-twenty vision, and if I have to give up my
everything,
it’s not going to be to stare at you in geek glasses that make me want to punch you squarely between the eyes.”

The bitter sister with a penchant for snark opened the front door to their three-bedroom fully furnished ranch. “Yeah, no one will ever find us here. After all, who voluntarily enters the gates of Hell? I bet the bathroom is wheelchair accessible.”

Jackson feathered his hand along the floral wallpaper that plastered every inch of drywall like geriatric graffiti in the story-and-a-half great room. Jillian eyed the polished brass fixtures, none more nauseating than the gaudy crystal chandelier over the dining room table.

“McGraw is going to die.”

Jackson nodded. “I won’t be getting laid here anytime soon.”

“Not unless she’s blind. Then again, I think
you
could manage to get laid in the front pew of a Baptist church during communion.” Jillian wrinkled her nose, walking toward the master bedroom. “It even smells like old people.”

“And what is that smell?”

The bedroom was a replica of a 1980’s Motel 6 room, complete with a dusty rose bedspread and a brass-framed knockoff of Monet’s
Blue Water Lilies
over the white wicker headboard.

“You know … Bengay and carnations.”

“What’s in the garage?” Jackson walked past her.

“I told McGraw a Harley Davidson for me and something sophisticated like a BMW or Mercedes for you. I miss my bike, I miss …”

Jackson turned, giving her a sad smile. “It’s okay. I miss Dad too. He would be pleased to see that your love for his hobby was genuine.”

Jillian nodded as he opened the door to the garage and flipped the switch for the florescent lights that flickered in protest with their last bit of life.

“So. Fucking. Dead.”

Jillian squeezed past him. “Oh God.”

“Yup.” Jackson chuckled until it grew into a full-out hysteria-filled laugh.

She didn’t share his humor. Her eyes flitted with disbelief between the pink Vespa with a cream seat and chrome mirrors and the eggplant PT Cruiser with wood panels.

“I’m calling him Woody.” Jackson opened the driver’s door and slid down into the tan leather seat, hands clenching the steering wheel. “You should call your motorcycle Candy.”

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “It’s
not
a motorcycle and you know it. I wouldn’t be caught dead on this thing.” She made a full-circle inspection without touching it. Jackson and his friends used to call her a tomboy because she liked motorcycles and tools. She hated that stereotype. There was something in between a frilly girly girl and a tomboy. Jillian called it badass sexy.

Jackson climbed out, shut the door, and leaned back against Woody, arms crossed over his chest. “I think not being caught dead is the point.”

She riffled through the contents of the red, five-drawer Craftsman tool chest she requested. “No, the point is to fit in, not look like a Mary Kay consultant.”

“I think they drive Cadillacs.”

The daughter with her father’s temper slammed the drawers shut and balled her hands at her hips. “Look at us.” Her emotions warred between laughing and crying, but Jillian Knight didn’t cry, or maybe she did. She didn’t know this Jillian woman well enough to say for sure. Years of repressing her true feelings and hiding any weaknesses had left her emotionally disoriented.

“It all sounded so easy. New identities, new appearances, new location, new professions. But I can’t … I can’t let go of that life. Thirty years. It’s too much to just forget in six months. Hell, it’s too much to forget in a lifetime.”

Jackson shared a pained smile. “You don’t have to forget, but you do have to let it go. Those caskets … they represent that life. It’s dead, but we’re not. We have each other. I still get to look at you and see my sister, and that’s enough for me to move on.”

“How can you look at me and see anything? Have you looked in the mirror? You have a disturbing mess of dark hair sprouting from your head with
gel
in it. You haven’t had hair in over a decade. And this…” she held her long platinum blond hair out from her ear “…my IQ went down ten points in one hour at the salon.”

“But our eyes…” Jackson pulled her into his strong, safe arms and looked into her eyes “…they’re—”

“Amber … like the desert sunset.” She’d lost count of how many times their mother had said those words—at least a million.

“I want to go back, even if I die. I just … I don’t want to be here.” The honesty ripped from her gut. They were conditioned as teenagers to show no emotion, to find strength in bravery. But no one could live that way forever. Everyone needed a safe harbor to release their rawest emotions. Jackson was hers.

“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.”