End of Day (Jack & Jill 1)

“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.”

*

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.”