Fore Play

by Julie Cannon

  “She was disbarred, convicted of insider trading,” Lori said, tugging Peyton back across memory lane.

  Peyton was surprised. She hadn’t known what Lori would say about her ex, but it certainly wasn’t this.

  “Hmm,” Peyton said, noncommittal.

  “Yeah. I guess she got caught with more than just her hand in the cookie jar. She was sentenced to eighteen months in some federal facility in Texas.”

  Peyton wasn’t sure how she felt. She’d loved Jolene at one time, wanted to marry her, raise a family with her. Now she didn’t know if she felt sympathy or pity for the life Jolene was about to have being locked up 24/7. Jolene would experience every possible indignity and be stripped of humanity. Peyton had a lingering desire for Jolene to experience the pain she had felt when she dumped her.

  “I read about it in the paper,” Lori said, dumping three packets of sweetener into her iced tea. “After I heard, I googled the story, and it had her mug shot. God, Peyton, she looked like she was facing her executioner. I know you don’t care about her anymore, but karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  “I feel nothing for her.”

  “I know, but I just can’t help but smile when I think about it. The way she treated you.” Lori would often make her opinion of Jolene known. There was no doubt what she thought of her.

  “Lori, I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to talk about her.”

  Lori knew that tone and changed the subject. “So, have you met any interesting people at the club?”

  Instantly, Leigh’s face popped into her head. “Everybody’s interesting in their own way.”

  Lori chastised her. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “Lori, you know I don’t do that.”

  “I know. I’m just worried about you.”

  “Well, don’t be. I’m fine.”

  “Peyton, I’m no expert on this subject, although I will admit I read everything I could get my hands on about individuals released from prison, and you are not all right.” Lori used her fingers to make air quotes around the last two words. “You haven’t been out that long. You’re still getting acclimated to going where you want, when you want, meeting people, meeting women.” Lori had stayed with Peyton in her apartment for the first week, helping her adjust.

  “And that works out fine until they start asking deeper, probing questions. What do you do, how long have you done it, what did you do before, where did you go to school, how did you get that scar?”

  “What do you say?”

  “Nothing. I make some vague reference to something, then change the subject.”

  “I know—”

  “No, Lori. You don’t.” Peyton suddenly felt guilty at the look of hurt that flashed over her best friend’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You don’t know what it’s like. Don’t you remember what it was like when I was arrested? It was a feeding frenzy. My parents couldn’t leave their house, and the fucking media sharks and protestors on both sides trampled their yard and invaded their privacy. Their neighbors were furious at them. In fact, some of them still are. And they had to relive it when I got out. My name, my face is out there. Most people don’t recognize me, but I know when somebody does or when they can’t quite place where they’ve seen me before.

  “I was trying to hook up with this one woman. I don’t even remember what her name was. She kept pestering me about it, and, like an idiot, I told her. Then she wanted to know every detail. Was it like the Netflix show Orange is the New Black? Was it like the old HBO series Oz? Did people shank each other, get raped in the shower? Did I ever have to kill anyone inside? I swear, the more questions she asked, the hotter she got. I finally just fucked her and left. That’s what she wanted anyway. Now I’m sure she tells all her friends that she slept with a murderer, which makes her the bad girl. What she should feel is ashamed.”

  “Come on, Peyton. Why do you say that?”

  “I am. I’m a murderer.”

  “No, you’re not.” Lori’s voice was hard and firm with emphasis. “You are Peyton Broader, three-time NCAA Golfer of the year and the two-time NCAA athlete of the year, college graduate with a degree in one of the toughest fields there is. You are a daughter, sister, and a fabulous best friend. You killed someone who deserved to be killed. That doesn’t make you a murderer. You are still you. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. I can’t control what you think, but that’s not what I see in front of me. I see a strong woman who did the right thing and has survived the adversity that came with it. Don’t let it turn you into something you’re not. I won’t let you.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Peyton and NCAA and collegiate golf,” Leigh said as her fingers flew across the keyboard. It was Monday morning, and she’d almost gone back to bed to start the day over. She’d overslept after hours of nightmares that included Stark laughing at her with his hyena laugh and Peyton knocking the slimeball on his ass when he continued his homophobic comments about her. She knew her eyes were puffy, and she got to work so late she’d had to park at the end of the lot. Thankfully she didn’t have any meetings this morning.

  Stark had probably told everyone about her collapse on the course because several people had walked by and looked into her office with more curiosity than they ever had. Obviously, the word was out, thank you very much, Peter Prick.

  Her office was twenty feet by twenty-five, the city skyline filling the bank of windows behind her desk. An equal number was directly in front of her as well, giving the entire area an airy, open feel but creating privacy in her office.

  Her curiosity about Peyton finally got the best of her, and Google could turn up anything if you typed in the right string of keywords. She didn’t know Peyton’s last name, but she was sure she’d played golf in college and, based on how well she played with them, had been pretty damn good.

  Over four thousand hits come up with a variety of headings, the second one catching her eye. Peyton Broader, Repeats as NCAA Golfer of the Year. She clicked on the hyperlink, and it took her directly to an article that talked about Peyton’s golf career at Louisiana State University. Peyton had entered LSU as a freshman at seventeen with a full-ride golf scholarship.

  Leigh read about Peyton’s achievements on the golf links and, due to her winning the NCAA Golfer of the Year, how she had an automatic exemption to play on the LPGA tour. She finished in the top ten in every tournament she played but was unable to accept any prize money, which would have negated her scholarship eligibility.

  “I’m focused on finishing my education, then going on to medical school, not dropping out to play on the tour,” Peyton was quoted as saying at the Women’s U.S. Open her first year. Given her scholastic experience, Peyton had been on track to do just that. She’d graduated summa cum laude with a dual major in physics and biochemistry. She’d been accepted to several of the most prestigious medical schools in the country but had chosen to stay close to home and attend the University of Arizona.

  Leigh was just about to read the next article when her boss knocked on her door and she waved him in.

  “How was the tournament,” Larry asked, innocently.

  Larry Taylor, their CEO and her boss, was six feet nine inches tall and a marathon runner who proudly displayed the finisher medals of his races on a wall in his office. He was also more than a weekend golfer. He didn’t look the part of the executive of a multibillion-dollar company who spent more time in boardrooms than outside. Leigh had read in the annual report that he was sixty-two, married to his college sweetheart, and had four kids. He valued teamwork, camaraderie, and work-life balance. He played golf every Saturday, and in the summer, when the sun set later, he played two or three times a week.

  Leigh had heard through the rumor mill that Larry took his golf clubs and running shoes on every business trip, often making time for both sports.

  “It was great,” she replied honestly. “It was a beautiful day, beautiful venue, great course.” Other than he
r complete humiliation in front of Peyton and Stark, she’d had a wonderful time.

  “Peter said you had a little trouble on the back nine.”

  “Well, we all have one of those rounds we just want to simply forget,” Leigh said, the line she’d rehearsed all day yesterday.

  Larry looked at her so intently Leigh started to get nervous

  “Are you okay, Leigh?” he asked, concern on his face as well as in his voice.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know.” He stared at her so intensely again that Leigh wanted to look away. “Out of sorts, I guess,” he added.

  Leigh tried to laugh it off, but it came out more of a hrmph instead. “My sorts are fine. I appreciate your concern, Larry.”

  Larry strolled around her office, picking up a framed photo of her standing proud at the finish line of a motocross race, her teammates flanking her.

  “You race?” Larry asked with more than a little curiosity.

  “Yes. I do. Those are the guys I ride with.”

  “That’s one sport I’ve never tried. The idea of driving fifty miles an hour on dirt roads with the only thing between you and a major road rash a small motorcycle makes me shudder.” And Larry did just that.

  “We have protective gear.” Leigh pointed to the helmet, chest protector, elbow and knee pads, and the specially made knee-high boots to protect her ankles from snapping if they hit the ground the wrong way.

  “I see that, but too much risk for me,” he said. “My wife would kill me if I picked up another sport.” He changed the subject. “We’re still on to play when I get back from overseas, right?”

  “Yes, we are,” Leigh answered. “I’m looking forward to it,” Leigh lied.

  “As am I,” Larry said. “I’d like to get to know you better, your family, what else you do in your spare time, that sort of thing.”

  Leigh wondered what Larry would do if he found out she dated women and was a better motocross rider than golfer.

  “I’m sorry it couldn’t be sooner, schedules being what they are and my three weeks of traveling to our other locations.”

  “I understand. It gives me a chance to polish my game a little.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Larry said, and looked at his watch. “Oh, gotta run. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Yes, sir. You too. Safe travels.”

  When Larry left, she just sat down in her chair, swiveled it to look out the window, and placed her feet on the credenza that paralleled her desk. Her cell phone rang, and as she fished it out of her briefcase she saw that it was Rick Henderson, the president of her motocross club. She’d met Rick years ago while riding her dirt bike on a trail surrounding Lake Pleasant, forty-five minutes from her house. She’d just finished a grueling trail and was guzzling a cherry Gatorade when he pulled up next to her.

  “Hi. I’m Rick Henderson. I’ve seen you out here before.”

  Leigh was hot, tired, and more than a little grungy, in no mood to deflect the clueless advances of some straight guy, so she didn’t say anything.

  “I have a club, just a bunch of us that get together and ride and do a few races here and there, and we’re always looking for good riders.”

  Leigh still didn’t say anything. Good-looking riders, she thought.

  “Here.” Rick dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “This is us, The Desperados,” he said, handing Leigh a business card. “I know it’s a ridiculous name, but we’re just a bunch of guys that are probably having a midlife crisis.”

  Leigh looked at the card and saw a cool-looking logo, a website address, and information on a Facebook page.

  “Check us out,” he said, nodding toward the card in Leigh’s hand. She still hadn’t said anything. Rick squirmed in his seat, his bright-red helmet in his lap.

  “Look. I’m not coming on to you. I’m happily married with three kids and a wife who lets me ride around with a bunch of guys on Saturdays.”

  “What would she say if it were a bunch of guys and a woman?”

  “She’d probably say it’s about time we added some diversity to our club. Other than Michael,” he added. “He’s African American.”

  “Well, she doesn’t have to worry about me taking her husband. I’m not into husbands, or any male for that matter.” Leigh didn’t normally come out to everyone she met, but for some reason she liked Rick and was interested in finding out more about his club.

  “Even better,” Rick said, nonplussed. “My daughter’s a lesbian. Jenny Henderson. You know her?”

  Leigh couldn’t help but laugh at Rick. He was so sincere. “We don’t all know each other, Rick.”

  He flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Jenny says I can be really stupid sometimes.” He kicked the dirt with his black riding boot. “Think about it. We’re out here every Saturday except the first one of the month. We make camp and gear up over there,” he pointed over his shoulder to his left, “at eight. Our wives come with, sometimes our kids, and we ride most of the morning, then grab a bite at the camp before we head home. We really are harmless, and, well, we need a sixth for our team. Tom transferred to Chicago, and we’ve been short for several months. We’ve missed a few races because of it.”

  Leigh had visited the website for Desperados and their Facebook page. From what she could tell, they were exactly what Rick had said they were—a bunch of middle-aged men riding motocross bikes. She’d called him later that week and had been riding with them for the past three years.

  She answered the phone, grateful for something to take her mind off the last few minutes.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ugh! I’ve got to take some lessons,” Leigh said, propping her golf bag next to several others in the corner of the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Jill asked. “You played for shit all day.”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably PTSD after playing that round with Stark.” Leigh had told Jill of her breakdown on the last seven holes. “I’m traumatized.” Leigh tried to laugh it off, but it really bothered her.

  “What are you going to do?” Jill asked as they walked to the bar and sat on the tall stools.

  “I guess I’ll call around and try to get some lessons.”

  “How about Peyton?” Jill said as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  “Peyton?” Leigh said, her heart jumping and her stomach fluttering at the attractive golf pro’s name. Based on her reaction to Peyton’s name and every time she thought of her and the very, very vivid dream of her last night, Leigh wasn’t sure she’d be able to pay attention to what Peyton was trying to teach her. Her eyes were piercing and looked like she didn’t miss a thing.

  “I Googled her the other day.” Leigh hadn’t intended to tell anyone, but Jill was her best friend and a sound ear.

  Jill leaned forward, her forearms on the table “What did you find out?” Jill evidently sensed something so Leigh needed to be careful.

  “She’s pretty good, or at least she was.” Leigh recited the facts she’d learned about Peyton.

  “She’d be perfect. She’s seen you play a couple of times and probably already knows what you need to fix. Call her, right now. Better yet, go over to the clubhouse and sign up.”

  “I am not going over to the clubhouse, and I don’t need to call her right now.”

  “Yes, you do. You’ll overthink it and talk yourself out of it.”

  Jill knew her too well.

  “Do you have any idea how expensive this is going to be?”

  “Leigh, you make at least a couple hundred thousand dollars a year, and Peyton’s going to charge, what, one hundred, two hundred dollars an hour? Don’t you think that’s a good investment to save you the embarrassment of another meltdown, this time in front of your boss? This might be the biggest game of your life. How can you afford not to? Now, tell me the last time you had sex.”

  Leigh almost choked on her beer. “What?”

  “Sex, you know, that thing that feels real
ly good, and even better when you do it with someone?” Jill loved sex. She loved talking about it, getting it, and was one of the few women who could say clitoris and orgasm as easy as she said peanut butter and jelly. To Jill, sex was as normal and important to life as breathing.

  “I am so not telling you the last time I had sex,” Leigh said but knew she’d end up doing just that.

  “That long, huh?”

  “Jill.” Leigh’s voice betrayed just how tired she was of this conversation.

  “I’m going to continue to hound you because it seems like the only time you actually have sex is when I badger you into it.”

  “So now you’re saying the only time I have sex is when you tell me to?”

  “Isn’t that what happened with Stephanie and what was her name? Indy or something?”

  “Her name was Indiana.”

  “Jeez. Does that mean her parents conceived her in Indiana or was she born there?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “What are you talking about?” Leigh asked sharply, tired of this subject.

  “You’re never with someone long enough to find out about her.”

  “Weren’t you the one who told me the other day to go out and hook up and have wild sex?”

  Yes, I did because you’re really uptight, Leigh. I know,” Jill said, holding her hands up in defense. “You told me after you got this job, blah, blah, blah. Well, let me tell you, Leigh. Your life has gotten crazier. More pressure, more visibility, less fun time.”

  “And I’m supposed to…what? Stock up on sex now?”

  “Hmm,” Jill said, pursing her lips and frowning. “I never thought about it in that way. But that won’t work.”