End of Day (Jack & Jill #1) (3 page)

*

By midnight Jack
and Jill had finished two six packs of beer and declared it was time to spar in the basement.

“This might not be such a good idea.” Jillian hiccuppped as her body swayed on its own accord.

Jackson stumbled over his impaired feet while shoving all the furniture to the far side of the walkout basement. “We don’t have to go to work in the morning.” He laughed. “Cuz we don’t have jobs. And I haven’t been this drunk in years—cuz I used to be responsible. And I need to beat the shit out of you—cuz you pissed me off today.”

The equally drunk and pissed off sister kicked out one leg then the other, sending her flip-flops flying. “Fair enough. But if you mess up my nail polish, you’ll be eating out of a straw for the next week. And I’m not holding back because that
Price is Right
shit was ridiculous.”

Jackson brought his fists up in front of his face. “This is for my designer glasses.” His first attempt was sloppy, but he landed his second.

Their bodies were fit and cut to perfection. Their skills—mastered. Sparring was their favorite workout and a necessary part of their survival. Only on the rare occasion did either one emerge with marks, cuts, or bruises. However, on that particular night, under the heavy influence of Heineken, the Knights busted each other up as well as the drywall.

“Why is the floor wet?” Jackson mumbled from his corpse position, knuckles bloodied. Heineken distracted the Knights from wrapping their hands first.

Propped against the wall like a rag doll, Jillian pried open the eye that hadn’t caught Jackson’s fist. “I think ‘Sarge’ has a fish tank. Scratch that …
had
a fish tank.”

Jackson eyed the huge hole in the wall. “Oops.”

“Coffee … lots of coffee, then you patch the wall and I’ll replace the tank and fish.” Jillian moved to all fours then lumbered to vertical.

Jackson took her offered hand. “Where are you going to get fish and a tank in the middle of the night?”

“Sam Walton’s.”

“Jillian wouldn’t know that.” Jackson flicked her ear with his finger, reaffirming their sibling antics would stay frozen in time at age ten forever.

“Everyone knows Sam Walton founded Walmart, you idiot.” She rolled her eyes at his paranoia.

Their grandfather had been a professor at UC Davis and thanks to him they knew the founders’ names of the top Fortune 500 companies before they knew the states and their capitals. Ever since then she referred to major businesses by their founder’s name.

S
enior Master Sergeant
Monaghan was career air force. When his son, Cage, was ten, his wife—a dental hygienist—left him for her boss. At the time he didn’t care; Sarge was happily married to his job. At least that’s what he told himself to keep the pain at bay.

“Son, are you ready to talk about the fish tank?” Sarge asked as he inhaled his eggs, hash, and sausage at the kitchen table. He’d already run seven miles, surged through an hour of weights and abs, spit shined the bathrooms, and devoured the paper cover-to-cover.

Twenty-year-old Cage, starting quarterback for the Huskers, made the short hour drive home most weekends to hang out with his dad. He lived on the football field—hardworking, dedicated, and focused just like his father. But on the weekends he did what most college students did over summer break—drank too much and slept until noon.

“Yeah, Dad, I’m dying to know how you managed to break the tank, replace it with the cheapest piece of crap I’ve ever seen, fill it with Betta fish, which are known for fighting to the death, and then paint the wall behind the tank a completely different shade of gray than the rest of the wall. Are you having
issues
again?” Cage raised a cautious eyebrow.

“I’m not laughing.” Sarge cleared his throat, a stern glare shooting over the rim of his coffee cup like a missile taking aim at its target.

Cage poured nearly an entire box of cereal into a popcorn bowl and flooded it with milk, then took a seat opposite his father. “Of course you’re not. Come to think of it … I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you laugh.”

“I don’t mind you staying with me on the weekends, but I have zero tolerance for parties.”

Cage paused mid-shovel, milk dripping from his spoon as he leaned over the trough. “You’re serious? I arrived around noon yesterday, met up with a few buddies downtown, then crashed by eleven. The tank and fish massacre happened before I arrived here. Maybe Ryn broke the tank and replaced it.”

Sarge studied his son through narrowed eyes. Not only was Sarge a human lie detector, he’d also raised his son to value integrity and honesty.

“Ryn came last week. I was home three days ago.” Sarge knew his housekeeper would not try to hide something as blatantly obvious as that from him.

“What else could it be? You had some nice fish but they weren’t anything worth stealing. Besides, when someone breaks in to steal something they don’t replace it with a cheaper version … or replace it at all for that matter.”

“If this is some prank or practical joke …” Sarge warned.

Cage shook his head. “I don’t have a death wish, so stop trying to pin this one on me. Maybe you should ask the new neighbors if they heard anything going on over here.”

“New neighbors? They’ve moved in?”

Cage nodded. “Mrs. Housby dropped off an invite for tomorrow’s association picnic. She said they’re young and ‘utterly delightful.’ She thinks it’s going to be ‘fun’ having a young married couple in the neighborhood.”

“Kids?”

“I don’t think so. She didn’t say. I haven’t met them, but I saw the woman when I arrived yesterday. She was …” Cage shifted in his chair.

“She was …?” Sarge looked up at him while loading the dishwasher.

“Getting the mail … in a white tank top…” Cage cleared his throat “…no bra, lace panties, and red rain boots.”

Sarge straightened with a stiff air of readiness. “I see. Was anyone else outside witnessing it?”

Cage grinned. “Oh yes. It was like the second coming of Christ. The women gasped, nearly fainting, and the men…” Cage winked with an easy nod “…well, a
part
of them was most likely resurrected.”

Sergeant Monaghan thrived on order and regimen. He couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling Cage’s revelation gave him about the new neighbors. Peaceful Woods was a quiet development free from the chaos of young children and even barking dogs. Only a few of the residents had pets and most were cats or small dogs that used piss pads indoors. The forty pound weight limit on pets served both to discourage ownership and keep the peace.

“Clean up your mess when you’re done. I’m going to go introduce myself to the new neighbors.”

*

Weekends were a
rare opportunity to catch Sarge out of his uniform. He needed the aura of authority it gave him. Lingering stares that conveyed both respect and intimidation. It made it easier to pretend he wasn’t losing his fucking mind. However, he deemed it best to make his first encounter with the new neighbors a friendly one. There was no need to intimidate anyone—yet.

“Just a minute!” a female voice sounded.

Sarge tried to peer through the sidelight window, but all he could see were a few boxes and some tied up black trash bags. The door flung open giving way to a woman. A woman who did not belong in Peaceful Woods. She couldn’t have been more than a buck fifteen in weight and maybe five-two with arms and legs wrapped in muscle and taut tan skin. Her long blond hair hung in messy strands over her chest, not completely concealing the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her tight T-shirt and frayed denim shorts that would violate most public school dress codes.

“Are you more of the welcome wagon?” She smiled, but not just any smile. Sarge knew her type. He was certain she was used to men frolicking around in her presence—men with a fraction of Sarge’s discipline and devoid of all dignity.

“No. I don’t bake,” he deadpanned.

Her grin crept its way up to her golden eyes. She looked humored by his comment; little did she know, Sarge was born without a funny bone. He too was used to women frolicking around him, but it pissed him off that his
married
neighbor was so blatant with her eyes all over him.

“Neither do I. Beer?”

Sarge glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes past noon. “If I say no thank you, are you going to give me the ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere’ line?”

She turned on her heel with a chuckle. “No.”

He followed her inside, weaving his way through the maze of boxes. “Still unpacking?”

“Nope, just the opposite. We bought the place unseen and furnished. We won’t be making that mistake again. Everything in those boxes and bags is too nauseating to keep.” She handed him a beer.

“No, thank you.”

The petulant woman with seductive curves and a wicked smile shoved it into his chest until he wrapped his hand around its cool neck. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” She hopped up on the counter.

His eyes narrowed.

“Your line, not mine.” Jillian winked then took a long pull of her beer.

Showing no humor or interest, he set the beer down on the counter. She glanced at it with a frown.

“I just came over to introduce myself. I’m AJ Monaghan. I live in the unit next to yours.”

“Mmm …” she swallowed “…yes, the uh … GI Joe guy. Greta speaks highly of you. In fact, I think you were her neighborhood crush until Jackson caused her fragile heart to go all a flutter.”

She chugged down the rest of the beer. AJ had never seen a woman drink quite like that. “Rumor has it you have the best abs in the neighborhood. Mine aren’t too shabby either. Want to compare?”

“Excuse me?” He shot her a piercing glare. Her uncensored personality was three times the size of her body.

Jillian’s eyes danced with mischief. “Maybe some other time, then. Jackson’s out in the garage cleaning up his Woody. I’ll have to introduce you two.”

AJ wasn’t going to touch the “woody” comment. “I’m a Senior Master Sergeant, not a ‘GI Joe guy.’”

She grabbed AJ’s beer and gulped half of it down, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Good for you. I’d hate to invite you to my wedding. It would be a real bitch trying to fit all that in calligraphy on a five-by-seven envelope. So what’s AJ stand for?”

He tipped his chin up. “How long’s he been hitting you?”

The not so innocent victim touched the mottled skin around her eye, then feathered her fingers down to the small cut on her lip. A devilish grin appeared. “As long as I’ve been hitting him.” She hopped off the counter, landing so close to AJ her chest almost touched his stomach.

AJ retreated until his back pressed flush against the refrigerator. She moved with him like a slow dance. Her lips grazed his shirt at his sternum. The pint-sized man-eater inhaled a slow breath as if he were going to be her lunch. Then she met his gaze, peering at him through long lashes.

“Why? Are you going to save me from the Big Bad Wolf?” she whispered then let her tongue make a lazy drag across her bottom lip.

He’d always imagined the devil being taller. AJ didn’t care that she most likely felt his erection against her stomach. It wasn’t much of a compliment to her. Guys could get erections from tampon commercials; it was simple anatomy.

“Doubtful. You probably deserved it.”

Pleasure spread across her face as she stepped back, taking another swig of beer. “I’m Jillian. And I’m sure you’re right. I probably had it coming for one thing or another. But thanks for your concern.”

He stared at her, willing her to back off. Her complete disregard for his personal space pissed him off even if his dick was having a lapse in judgement. “I wasn’t concerned.”

“Oh, well then that just shows your lack of manners for pointing out a woman’s flaws to her. You must be a real lady killer.” She gestured with her head. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Jackson.”

AJ’s head pounded with dizzying confusion. He couldn’t figure out how this sick and twisted couple found their way into Peaceful Woods. The rest of the residents may have had impaired vision, but the moment Jackson turned his attention away from the most wretchedly hideous car AJ had ever seen, he knew—Jackson and Jillian were siblings. Their eyes weren’t similar, they were identical. Identical shades of a rare golden-amber.
Fucking inbreds
.