Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Except that the military doesn’t just leave a man once he’s put in his papers. Gazing down the street, my eyes scan the neighborhood reflexively, looking for anything out of place. A van that shouldn’t be there. A homeless person who seems too curious. A streetlight that’s flashing when it shouldn’t be. Of course, there’s nothing. The entire scene is as normal as can be, and I shake my head ruefully. Damn, old habits die hard.
I stroll towards Gerald’s house, forcing myself to smile although I’m sweating through my t-shirt already. Retiring from the Air Force was supposed to mean I’d get some relief from dress codes, but the climate today is “hot and sour soup.” I head up the walk, noting the riot of hostas and hydrangeas crowding the front beds. They’re too precise, almost military in their symmetry—a touch I recognize from Gerald’s compulsive gardening habit.
I round the side of the house, following the sound of a weed whacker, and sure enough, there’s my buddy in a battered straw hat and orthopedic sneakers, mowing down dandelions like he’s on a mission. He looks older than last time, or maybe that’s just me, seeing him in the harsh daylight instead of half-lit barstools. His arms are still thick, but there’s a soft collapse to his posture that wasn’t there before.
He spots me, waves the weed whacker in a salute, and yells, “Yo Jack! You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I call back. “How’s life treating you?”
He snorts. “Like shit. Nancy’s got me on more projects than I can count.” He sets the tool aside and wipes his brow with a rag that was white sometime during the Clinton administration.
Then I see her.
She’s kneeling in the garden, a line of tomato plants standing at attention in front of her. She’s wearing short-shorts that reveal tanned, golden legs; a tank top with a picture of a laughing puppy on it; and cute white sneakers. A thick ponytail slithers like molten gold down her back, and she’s got a garden trowel in one hand and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. But nothing can hide that curvaceous figure, complete with big breasts, a slim waist, and wide hips. I try not to stare at her tits, but fail awesomely.
The young woman glances up, squinting, then offers a polite smile. “Hi, Mr. Landry.”
The “Mr.” stings a little, like a shot of cheap vodka. Do I look that old? To her, I probably do. Nonetheless, I muster a friendly smile.
“Yep. Eliza, right? Last time I saw you, was when? Last year?”
She stands and brushes dirt from her hands, looking me up and down with a sweet smile. “That sounds about right. I think you saw me stuffing my face with peach pie at one of our barbecues.”
Gerald laughs. “She loves her sugar, this one.” He slaps me on the back, which almost knocks the wind out of me. “Come on, bud, let’s get you something cold to drink.”
We head to the patio, which is as perfectly maintained as the front. Nancy’s already there with a pitcher and three glasses. She hugs me, then fusses with the arrangement of coasters until Gerald tells her to sit down and “stop acting like it’s the Queen of England.” It’s soothing, actually, the comfortable bickering of people who’ve run out of new arguments but keep at it anyway for sport.
Eliza sits across from me, one knee drawn up, the shorts riding even higher up her creamy thigh. I try not to notice, but my body is not a team player when it comes to temptation. I sneak a look at her face—blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose, and a mouth that looks pink and pouty, perfect for kissing. She’s a damn beauty queen, and I try not to go ga-ga, even though my rod’s already hardening in my jeans.
Meanwhile, Gerald pours lemonade, then launches into a monologue about the neighbor’s dog, the city council, and the merits of oscillating sprinklers. It’s classic stalling tactic, and I recognize it from years of knowing the man—he’s giving me time to adjust to civilian life, and the new rules of engagement. Eliza mostly ignores the conversation, twirling her glass in slow, hypnotic circles.
“So as I was saying,” Gerald drones. “City Council has lost its shit! Excuse the language…”
I tune him out, merely trying not to stare at his daughter. Eventually, Nancy gets up to check on the food, and Eliza follows with a tumbler in one hand. I watch her go, my eyes caught on the sway of her hips and the expanse of her big bottom. I have to remind myself not to gawk like a pervert, because this woman is how old? Nineteen? Twenty? Damn, she’s so young, and so totally off-limits. But it’s tough because Eliza moves like a sylph, seductive and yet innocent with her big blue eyes.