by Tara Sivec
I falter, and my shot slices when I remember Bodhi asking Birdie about some vacation and how sad she looked. I mutter a curse when my ball hits a tree, but at least it bounces back onto the fairway and I don’t have to go searching for it in the trees.
Turning around, I stomp right back to the cart and ignore Bodhi’s chuckling when I put my club away and slam my ass down on the seat.
“People are actually going to pay to get lessons from you? Schmucks.” Bodhi snorts, flooring the golf cart toward my ball.
“Kiss my ass. And tell me about this shit Birdie’s been through and about that vacation you mentioned to her in the pro shop the other day,” I order as the trees lining the cart path whiz by. “Also, feel free to keep dazzling Tess with your charms so she can give you more dirt on Birdie so I’ll know what I’m working with and how I should approach this situation.”
“Oh, I’m definitely going to be dazzling the lovely Tess Powell, but that’s for my benefit, not yours,” Bodhi informs me, reaching into the cubby under the dashboard when he stops the cart a few feet from my ball, pulling out the shirtless dude romance book, and smacking it into my chest. “Learn how to dazzle and get your own dirt. I bookmarked page 120 for you and highlighted the parts that will remind you what those dangly things in your shorts are for.”
Grabbing the book, I chuck it right back into the cubby.
“I know what they’re for, asshole. I can’t just show up here after two years and try to get in her pants. That’s not what this is about, and you know it. I need to get our friendship back on track first.”
“But to do that, you’ll have to tell her why you dropped her like a bad habit two years ago,” he reminds me.
“Yeah. And that’s the problem. If I tell her that, she knows everything. I’ve already freaked her out by showing up here without any warning. I don’t want to give her a heart attack on top of it.” I sigh. “So, I can’t move forward with her in any way until I can get our friendship back. I can’t get our friendship back unless I can get her to forgive me. And I can’t get her to forgive me unless I give her a valid explanation for why I stopped talking to her. It’s just one big circle of suck.”
We sit in the cart, staring out at the 8th fairway quietly for a few minutes.
“Oh, and she was all fired up about me accusing her of being a stalker or something, so that’s a fun new development in her hatred of me,” I finally speak, still wondering what that was all about.
“Oooh yeah, I might know a little something about that,” Bodhi says sheepishly with a grimace.
“Explain,” I order with a glare when he doesn’t immediately tell me everything he knows, because that stupid accusation has kept me up every night since then, wondering if Birdie really was going through some sort of memory loss and that joke I made in the pro shop suddenly wasn’t so funny.
“Okay, so in my defense, I found out about this around the time when the blocking and the changing of the number was happening, you were flipping tables, completely fucking up The Miles Cup, and in a really bad headspace,” Bodhi explains. “I didn’t think adding one more thing on top of that was a wise decision, and then we were never allowed to speak about her—the blip—again, and I kind of forgot all about it until now.”
I punch him in the thigh as hard as I can when he pauses again. “Tell the story faster!”
“Goddammit, that hurt!” Bodhi complains, rubbing the top of his thigh and scowling at me while he continues. “Remember that publicist your dad hired on a trial basis for a few months back then? I think her name was Candace.”
“It was Callie.”
“You sure? I don’t remember her looking like a Callie.”
I ball my hand into a fist and lift it up by my shoulder.
“Right, so Callie, who didn’t work out, because she didn’t care about getting on top of your publicity, she only cared about getting on top of your dick.”
She was pretty good at her job, but her advances started wearing on me after a while and especially after I heard from a few guys on the pro circuit that that was Callie’s thing. Only signing with clients she wanted to sleep with. And she succeeded until she got to me and I had no interest.
“My dad barely batted an eye when I told him to let her go, and she was gone within an hour. He never did anything I asked without a lecture first,” I remember aloud.
“Yeah, he didn’t put up a fight, because he’d already gotten a few complaints about her,” Bodhi says. “I overheard him talking to someone. She had logged into your social media accounts and sent out messages from you to fans she considered a threat, saying their overenthusiasm was making you uncomfortable and it was starting to feel stalkerish, and she said if they didn’t ease up, you would get the authorities involved. I think I remember your dad saying it went out to like, fifty women. The list of female fans the messages went to was still on his desk when I went in his office later that day to grab some waters out of his mini fridge. I only saw the top page, but it was alphabetical. So I saw the Bs.”
“Oh no,” I mutter, already knowing exactly what he’s going to say next.
“Oh yeah.” Bodhi nods. “Everything happened at one time. Callie sent out the stalker private messages that looked like they came directly from you, since everyone knew you ran all your own social media back then, one of which went to Birdie, and then you logged into your accounts an hour later and blocked her there and then on your phone. And your dad decided to conveniently leave Birdie off the apology tour with the rest of the female fans Callie offended, because he’s an opportunistic asshole who decided he was quite fine with one less distraction in your life.”
That arrogant asshole…
Shit! This is so much worse than me just not talking to her the last two years. I’m surprised she didn’t pull a knife out of her pocket and stab me when I showed up here.
“Fuuuck me.”
“No thanks, I’m good,” Bodhi quips before quickly sobering. “But yeah, you’re even more screwed than I thought. What time are you supposed to meet her for work today?”
I glance down at my watch.
“In about twenty minutes. If she even shows up.”
I wanted to get in a few holes to warm up before work, since according to another note from Birdie, I have my first lesson scheduled for later today. I came out at my favorite time—the break of day, when it first starts getting light out, the ground is wet with dew, and you have to wear long-sleeves because there’s still a slight chill in the air without the sun being high above to warm everything up just yet. It’s all quiet and new, and you feel like you can do anything. Even get a stubborn, beautiful woman to stay in one place long enough to talk to you.
“Will you at least give me the scoop on… Brad.”
I actually choke a little when I say his name. I guess that’s progress. I usually outright vomit. The lack of a ring on Birdie’s left hand was the only thing keeping me going at this point and gave me hope. Just because I blocked her from social media doesn’t mean I wasn’t a sick bastard who spied on Brad whenever I was feeling particularly sorry for myself and was left alone after having one too many cocktails. His vain ass shared more selfies on a weekly basis than any teenage girl in the world, but he’d drop the douchebag mask every once in a while over the last two years to share a picture of him with Birdie. Proof they were still together and karma telling me to stop fucking spying on him, because it’s never going to feel warm and fuzzy.
I knew I should have left the cottage the last few nights like Bodhi did. Instead of sitting around, hiding away, and having a pity party for myself, I could have been out chatting it up with locals and getting all the Summersweet gossip. What a rookie mistake.
“Surprisingly, I didn’t hear anything about our favorite hedge fund manager. But even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. Take a peace offering this time. Something to butter her up that will work like a stun gun and keep her in place long enough for you to word vomit some shit,” Bodhi suggests, starting the
cart back up and turning us completely around so we’re heading back toward the clubhouse. “We’ve got twenty minutes. What kind of Birdie weapon can you find in twenty minutes?”
Smiling and grabbing onto the roll bar as he flies down the cart path, I know exactly what I can grab in twenty minutes or less, because I packed them in a cooler and brought them with me this morning.
“You were groomed by a father who put a golf club in your hands at the age of three. Has that always made you bitter toward him?”
I roll my eyes, thankful the interviewer on the other end of this phone call can’t see me as I pace back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the clubhouse.
“I… I don’t know. I just liked to play golf.” I roll my eyes again at how stupid I sound, wondering why in the hell I decided to answer a call from an unknown number. Birdie was late, which I expected, and I had nothing better to do while I waited for her. When I realized the guy on the phone was from a major news source who interviewed me several times before and never once misquoted me or took things out of context, I decided to break my silence with him, since I had time to kill. Probably all day, since I’m assuming Birdie is avoiding me again.
I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this interview. I don’t have the first fucking idea what to say to these people.
“Have you spoken to your dad since Bermuda? How did it go? Did you apologize? Any chance you’ll share with us where you’ve been hiding out?”
“He hasn’t…. I don’t…. I’m not…. Can we talk about something other than my dad?”
All of a sudden, my cell phone is ripped out of my hand.
“No comment. Thanks so much for calling,” Birdie says sweetly into my phone before ending the call and handing it back to me. “Do not, under any circumstances, talk to anyone without discussing it with me first.”
It takes me a minute for my brain to catch up and realize Birdie is standing a foot away from me, looking me right in the eyes, and actually having a conversation with me. Well, at me, since I’m in a state of shock. She’s wearing a pink long-sleeved fitted shirt that molds to her curves and a super-short pink, white, and green golf skirt, her toned legs on full display from her ankles all the way to the tops of her bare thighs. Sweet mother of God, I think I’m going to pass out. She shoves a spiral planner at me, and I have just enough time to grab it before it drops to the ground.
I watch with rabid fascination, trying not to pant like a dog, as she uses her fingers to comb all that wavy blonde hair up into a high ponytail, the front of her shirt stretching tightly over her mouth-watering tits, while she pulls a band off her wrist to secure her hair before snatching the planner back out of my hand and speaking to me again.
“From now on, just don’t answer any phone calls from unknown numbers,” Birdie continues, pulling a pen out of the spirals of the planner and clicking it before scribbling something in one of the dated squares. “If you get any email requests for interviews, forward them to me, and I’ll draft up an automated reply about how you’re not talking to anyone at this time. After we get done with a skills camp on the practice putting green and you make it through the lessons I scheduled for you today, you can give me all your log-ins and I’ll start replying to things and make a list of what should be tackled after that.”
I’m in a daze, staring at her mouth as it moves, her lips covered in some shiny shit I just want to lick off, until I realize her mouth is no longer moving and she’s tapping one sneaker-covered foot against the sidewalk.
Wake up, idiot!
“Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m a little out of sorts this morning, since my boss was late. Also, so glad to hear you’ve decided to be agreeable about the whole fixing my public image thing. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist my charms.” I smile at Birdie and watch her grind her teeth for a few seconds.
“I’m only resisting the urge to choke you. Don’t push it. And I wasn’t that late,” she protests.
“Seventeen minutes. That’s pretty late.”
I try giving her a stern look, but it’s really hard, because she is super annoyed, and it’s adorable.
“Look, I had to run up to the police station really quick to pay a stupid citation, all right? Can we just get back to work, since that’s why we’re here?”
“Yeah, nope. I’m gonna need more information on this citation.” Spinning my golf hat around on my head so the brim isn’t shielding my eyes and I can see her better, I cross my arms in front of me.
I hear her mutter something under her breath that sounds like a date, since the only thing I can make out is 2018, before she clears her throat and meets my eyes again.
“Tess and I had a little fire the other night. We’ve been banned from beach fires for another month, and the cops found out.” She sighs with a roll of her eyes. “It was stupid the first time, and it continues to be stupid.”
“Ahhh, a break-up burning.” I nod with a laugh, quite familiar with Tess’s need to cleanse the bad by lighting it on fire and removing it from their lives. “Who was the poor soul this time that Tess loved and left who wonders where his favorite sweatshirt went?”
Birdie’s face is completely expressionless.
“Oh shit,” I whisper. “Am I the poor soul? I couldn’t find my lucky golf hat this morning, and I know Tess knows how to pick a damn lock.”
I stop worrying how many of my things might have went up in flames last night and forget how to breathe when ever so slowly the corner of Birdie’s shiny, lickable mouth tips up. Then the other corner goes up with it until the dimple she has in her right cheek is showing and the sounds of quiet laughter coming out of her makes the back of my neck tingle.
Her smile and laughter are gone just as fast as they came, like someone flipped a switch, and I almost whimper like a baby when her lips are back into a straight line and the dimple is gone.
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t anything of yours. We don’t care enough about your stuff to burn it.”
Fucking ouch, man.
“Grab your putter and let’s get to work. Your first lesson is in an hour, and I need to make sure you don’t suck and you won’t throw a temper tantrum by a water hazard.”
Jesus, the hits just keep on coming.
“Wait!” I shout, since she’s already turned away from me and started walking toward the putting green.
When she stops with a huge sigh and looks back over her shoulder at me, I quickly jog over to the golf cart Bodhi left parked in a spot in front of the clubhouse before he disappeared into the bar to find Tess. Grabbing the small insulated cooler bag from the floorboard, I walk back over to Birdie and step up onto the sidewalk to stand in front of her, unzipping the lid to the bag as I go.
My hands are shaking, and I’m suddenly second-guessing this decision as I stand in front of her. She looks like she’s two seconds away from shanking me with the pen she’s clicking and unclicking in her hand. Everyone on this island knows Birdie would kill her family for what’s in this cooler that you can only get over on the mainland. She has a… boyfriend who lives on the mainland. She’s going to laugh in my face and think this is ridiculous, because of course fucking Backpack Brad has probably been feeding her addiction in my place.
Before I can quickly rezip the bag and make up some sort of lie about what’s in it, like maybe I’m carrying around a cooler of my urine for the employee drug test—because that wouldn’t be weird at all—I see the exact second the smell that is not my piss, thank you very much, reaches Birdie’s nose. It twitches like a bunny, her eyes light up, and her planner and pen slip from her hands and smack to the concrete by her feet.
My cock stiffens in my shorts, and I have to swallow back a groan when Birdie licks her shiny lips and leans closer to the bag as I slowly lift the lid. When she sees that her nose has not deceived her and that I’ve carefully packed the cooler with a dozen maple bacon donuts with a caramel drizzle from Dolphin Donuts, she moans low and soft, and I almost come in my pants.
The
only Dolphin’s location is a little over an hour inland, and considering you still have at least a twenty-minute ferry ride over to the mainland first, on top of crazy Virginia traffic, Birdie rarely made it out that far, and it was always up to me to get her fix. When Dolphin Donuts opened two blocks from my private high school the summer before our sophomore year and students started selling the maple bacon donuts to their friends more than coke and weed, I knew I had to bring Birdie one on my next trip to the island. I swear she sobbed the entire time she ate it and then yelled at me for the next two hours about why I would do something so stupid as to only bring her one. From that point on, every time I came to the island, even if it had only been two days since my last visit, I brought her no less than a dozen, and she would eat every single one.
“Oh, now you’re just playing dirty, Campbell,” Birdie whispers.
My heart starts pounding in my chest when she calls me by my last name. She’s only ever called me Campbell from the day we met and she had to caddie for me, busting my balls through eighteen holes and making a day of training fun for the first time ever, while also making it… hard. The day I met Birdie Bennett was the first time I ever had to lock myself in a bathroom stall at a golf course and jerk off halfway through the day so I could finish playing without wincing every time I took a step. Calling me Campbell was like Birdie’s way of immediately letting me know I was friend-zoned for eternity, so that’s been great. Regardless of how many times I’ve dreamed about hearing her whisper, moan, or scream Palmer, at least she’s not calling me Putz for the moment, so the donuts seem to be working.
“I do like it dirty,” I quip, forcing Birdie to stop undressing the donuts with her eyes to look up at me and roll them.
Our faces are only a few inches apart, and I can smell her tropical scent on top of the delicious smell of maple and bacon, and I swear to God my knees get weak. Her blues eyes are looking up at me, and I notice her mouth start moving and hear her mutter what sounds like a date again before she grabs the cooler from my hands, hugs it to her chest, and backs up a step.
