Page 84 of Blue-Eyed Jacks
It took a moment to find the trash can, but the circulars and junk mail went into it.
I almost dropped the envelope in it, but stopped when I saw my name scratched onto it.
Bikers.Not one of them had good handwriting.
I opened it, thinking it was something for the house, or maybe Jackson had talked to his lawyer already.
But it was photos.
My first reaction was to run.To deny what I already knew.
I flipped the envelope over and glared at the four letters of my name.
That was Shock’s handwriting.
It was the same handwriting that was on my marriage certificate.My father’s was in the spots I was supposed to fill out.
He’d found thishouse.Run!
I stared at the envelope.Then I looked out the windows to the backyard.The post Jackson climbed last night.The slab of concrete where the keg had been.The grass where Sprout landed.
Then my gaze shifted to the pantry door.Hookers.And Fruit Loops.
I had memories here.Barely a dozen hours of living, and there were already roots in the soil.
At that, I got angry.“Let’s see what kind of fuckery you’ve got for me, asshole.”I tugged out the stack.It was thick.Photos of all shapes and sizes, both color and black and white, spilled onto the countertop.I spread them out, bracing for images of me at my worst.
Instead, it was Jackson.
And women.
Every single photo held him in various compromising positions.Rarely with the same woman twice.
I flipped through them.
Two on one.Three.Well.
Some photos were recent.Some of a much younger Jackson.In those, he was more like the man I remembered than the one now.
Blondes, brunettes, redheads, Caucasian, Black, Hispanic; he certainly didn’t have a favorite flavor.I forced myself to look at each one.Shock would want that.
This display, this archive of sin, wasn’t about Jackson at all.It illustrated how long Shock suspected I had help.It was intended to split Jackson and me apart.
Funny, if he’d have just let me live in peace, none of the last few days would have happened.
I wouldn’t have walked in on Baldy getting a blow job.Zoe would have her summer job.Jackson would still be fucking hookers.
One photo stood out.Whoever captured it caught it right as he orgasmed.The open-mouthed gasp at its apex.But there was something missing.I’d witnessed two of these recently.And in my memories, there were almost a dozen more.Each time, he locked eyes with me.
Even when it was almost impossible to do.
None of these women got that.His gaze was always distant, focused elsewhere.In some, his face was stuck in that angry but stoic mask he slipped on when he pretended to listen to some fool’s problems.
Was it strange that I knew Jackson better than Shock did?
Bear’s heavy footfalls tromped up the basement stairs.I shoved the photos back into the envelope.The job was too massive to rush, so Bear caught the end of it.
“What’s that?”
