by Julie Cannon
“You’re done,” she said to both. She turned her attention to the guy. “Get your clothes on, and get your ass out of here.” She pointed at her sister. “You get dressed, and get out in the front room.”
“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked, climbing off the bed. Any intimidation he thought he had was diminished by the fact that he was butt-ass naked.
Peyton took three steps forward, effectively pinning him where he was. “An ex-con who just spent nine years in Nelson for murder, and I said get your ass out of here, NOW!”
The man’s face went as white as his ass as he scampered around the room picking up his clothes. The last she saw of him was his bare butt as she slammed and locked the front door behind him.
While Elizabeth screamed obscenities at her from the other room, Peyton calmly pushed an empty beer box off a chair and sat down. A few minutes later, Elizabeth burst into the room tying her hair back.
“Who in the fuck do you think you are, coming in here like this?”
Peyton had turned off the blaring music, and it was finally quiet. “I’m your fucking sister. One of the members of your family that you have chosen not to return phone calls from.” She looked around Elizabeth’s apartment. Trash was everywhere, the carpet was stained, and remnants of four joints lay on the Coors beer can turned ashtray that was on the table. She didn’t even want to know what was under the pile of stacked KFC buckets on the couch. “What in the fuck is going on here, Lizzy?”
“I told you not to call me that.” Elizabeth snarled.
“I’ll call you whatever I want. Right now, you’re acting like a child.”
“I’m nineteen years old.”
“Big fucking deal. It’s a number, nothing else.” Peyton looked around the room, not even trying to hide her disgust. “What the fuck? This place is a pigsty.”
“It’s my place.”
“You’re right. It is your place, and it’s not fine. If Mom and Dad were to come here they’d—”
“They’ve never come here—”
“Have you ever invited them? You know they’d never just drop by.”
“You did.”
“Yeah, well, somewhere in the last ten years, I lost my manners.”
“What do you want, Peyton?” Elizabeth asked, her whine like a petulant child’s.
“I want you to pull your head out of whoever’s crotch it’s in and get your life together.”
“How dare you say that to me. You don’t have any idea about my life.”
“No, Elizabeth, I don’t, and you have no idea how I spent nine years so you could sleep at night not having to worry if Chandler would come after you again.”
“I didn’t ask for your help then, and I’m not asking for it now,” Elizabeth shot back, her face red with anger.
“Well, that’s just too damn bad. We’re family, Elizabeth, and family doesn’t have to ask. We just do.” And that was exactly what Peyton had done. Her sister had needed her, and she hadn’t thought twice about it. “You’ve got to get some help.”
“There is nothing wrong with me.”
All that was missing from that statement was Elizabeth stomping her foot. “Look around, Elizabeth. Is this the way you want to live your life? Fucking one nameless guy after another.”
“I haven’t had any problems,” Elizabeth said, lifting her chin defiantly. “Or complaints.”
“Someday you will. I can guarantee it. Then where will you be?”
Peyton went home and spent the rest of her afternoon off looking through a photo album her parents had saved for her. All the pictures showed her and her family—a laughing, smiling group always having each other’s back. She studied several of her and Elizabeth when she was just sweet, innocent Lizzy on her ninth birthday. Her smile was radiant, her eyes inquisitive and trusting as only a child’s are. The next page and the page after that were empty, symbolizing how the lives of her entire family had changed that one fateful day.
Chapter Sixteen
“You have a new client today, Peyton. You played in their foursome a while back, and she won a lesson in the silent auction at the foster-care benefit a few weeks ago.”
“What’s the name?” Peyton asked, holding her breath. Several lessons had been auctioned off that night, and she was afraid it would be Hilde. She’d spend more time deflecting her advances than teaching her anything.
“Leigh Marshall,” Marcus said.
This time her heart did more than skitter. It actually jumped once or twice. “Okay.”
“She’ll be here at four thirty. She said she might be a few minutes late but will try her hardest to be here on time.”
Having Leigh as a client entailed so many difficulties, the obvious one being Peyton’s attraction to her. The not-so-obvious was that somehow Peyton had to get through the entire day before their appointment. She was scheduled on the beverage cart from seven to eleven, and then she’d do odd jobs around the clubhouse, intermixed with any other lessons she had to teach. Today she had three clients, two of which she spent only thirty minutes with, which would kill some of the time, but not nearly enough.
As expected, the day dragged on. Several people were peeved because she didn’t have any beer; it didn’t matter that it was only eight thirty in the morning. She raked out nine sand traps, emptied twelve cans of garbage, and gave her best effort, as she always did, for her clients.
The time between four and four fifteen crawled. She spent most of it looking at her watch and out the window to the parking lot. Finally, at four twenty-five, Leigh stepped out of the red Audi Peyton had seen enter the parking lot moments ago. “Nothing sexier than a good-looking woman in a hot car,” she mumbled.
Leigh popped the trunk and replaced her golf clubs and duffel bag with her suit jacket and briefcase. As she hurried away, she waved her key fob in the air over her head. The taillights blinked and the trunk lid closed. She glanced at her watch as she hurried across the parking lot and through the front door, where Peyton lost sight of her.
By the way she was dressed, Peyton knew Leigh would be headed toward the locker room, where she’d drop her bag, change her clothes, and check in at the front desk. Peyton decided to wait for her there but didn’t have to wait long.
Leigh hustled out of the locker room in a pair of teal-green golf shorts that ended just above her knees and a matching tank top with some sort of jungle pattern. Her golf shoes in her hand, her bag in the other, she headed toward Peyton in her sock feet. Peyton’s pulse jumped as Leigh smiled when she saw her waiting. When she reached the desk, she dropped her bag and looked at her watch.
“Thank God. I wasn’t sure I’d get here on time.”
“You’re fine,” Peyton said. “I don’t have anyone after you. Why don’t you put your shoes on, and we’ll head out to the driving range.”
Leigh sat down on a bench across from Peyton. When she bent over to put her shoes on, her tank top gapped open in the front, giving Peyton, and anyone else who walked by, more than a little something to look at. Peyton knew her mouth was probably hanging open and she should do the respectable thing and look away, but it looked too good. Leigh stood up, but not before she caught Peyton staring down the front of her shirt.
Fuck. Peyton certainly hadn’t wanted to get caught. She expected to see anger in Leigh’s eyes, if not her refusal to have her as an instructor. Who wanted a golf teacher who, on their first meeting, leered at her student? Even though she was a little out of practice, what she saw instead was a flash of mutual interest before Leigh grabbed her hat from the top of her bag and pulled her ponytail through the back.
“All set?” Peyton asked, stepping forward, her voice a little huskier than normal. She picked up Leigh’s bag.
“You don’t have to do that,” Leigh said, reaching for the strap.
“Part of the job. Come on. We’ll talk as we walk.”
Their golf cleats clattered over the tile floor and quieted when they hit the grass. The hard metal spikes on golf shoes ha
d been replaced by star-shaped rubber cleats twisted into the bottom of shoes that looked more like tennis shoes or cross trainers than the ugly black-and-white ones during her playing days. Peyton grabbed two of the metal baskets of golf balls specifically used for practice. Each basket contained fifty balls with an orange stripe so as to clearly identify them as practice balls.
“I’m glad to see you’re cashing in your winning,” Peyton said, referring to Leigh’s lesson certificate.
“I’m not one known to throw away money. That, and I could use a few lessons.”
“Financially smart, that’s good,” Peyton commented. “So, what can I do to help you?”
“I’m not really sure. You saw me collapse when I played with Stark, and I’d like to understand how that happened. I’d certainly like to have my drives be longer and two putt instead of three or four.”
Peyton was glad Leigh’s golf bag was between them, giving her head some extra air to clear. When Leigh had passed her earlier, Peyton had caught a whiff of her perfume and become a little light-headed.
“Okay. Jill mentioned that you had some important round coming up.”
Leigh’s head snapped toward her, anger crossing her face.
“I’m sorry,” Peyton said quickly. “Did I speak out of turn?”
“No, sorry, it’s not you. For being my BFF, Jill has the biggest mouth on the planet.”
“I wouldn’t hold that against her. I got the impression she was just making conversation.”
“Well, she needs to figure out something else to talk about besides me. But yes, and no. I have a round scheduled with my boss, but it keeps getting pushed back. Our executive team plays a lot of golf, and I need to step up my game. I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself again.”
Peyton chuckled. “I don’t think there’s any chance you’ll make a fool of yourself, complete or otherwise. I’ve seen your game, Ms. Marshall, and it’s pretty good.”
“What’s with the Ms. Marshall?” Leigh asked when they stopped at the practice position at the far end of the driving range.
“House rules. You’re a client.”
“What about Denise?” Leigh asked, referring to Peyton’s client who had practically crawled all over her when they played a few weeks ago.
“She asked me to call her Denise.”
“Well, Ms. Marshall is my mother, and you have my permission to call me Leigh.”
“As I said, I’ve seen you play. You just need a little refinement, a tweak or two, and you’ll be surprised how much your game will improve.”
“From your lips to my body,” Leigh said, imitating a golf swing.
Peyton dropped a basket, the balls scattering around their feet. Her pulse roared in her ears, her heart raced, her head started to spin, and if she were to squeeze her thighs together, she’d probably come.
“Oh my God, that’s not what I meant. That didn’t come out right. I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”
Peyton took advantage of Leigh putting both hands over her face to regain her composure. She concentrated on remaining upright and focused on her breathing.
“Don’t worry about it.” Peyton’s voice sounded tight and controlled. “Let’s start with your tee shot.”
“Okay. Let me warm up. Next time I’ll have this done before we start.” Leigh pulled her longest club from her bag. She placed one hand on each end and slowly bent over at the waist, the club parallel to the ground. She let the weight of her upper body stretch her hamstrings until Peyton could see the curve of her back and imagine running her hands over the smooth skin. She raised the club over her head, extending her arms straight up and arching backward. Peyton’s mouth was suddenly dry, the image of Leigh naked, straddling her flashed in her mind.
Peyton caught a glimpse of a colorful tattoo on the inside of Leigh’s left bicep that she hadn’t noticed earlier. From where she was standing, she couldn’t see it clearly and certainly didn’t want to get caught ogling her again. She filed it away for future reference if the opportunity came up.
Leigh repeated those moves four more times before using her club as a cane. She grabbed her right ankle and pulled her foot backward to touch her butt, stretching her quadriceps. She did the same for the other leg, then repeated the set four more times before holding the club behind her neck and twisting back and forth, each time turning farther than the time before. When finished, she stepped back and took several practice swings, slowly at first and finishing with a full-force swing she’d use to hit the ball. Peyton had counted the swings—anything to help herself keep her mind where it should be. Peyton was impressed by her warm-up routine and told her so. She was also more than a little aroused watching Leigh’s body move. It was athletic and elegant, a very powerful, sexy combination.
“The last thing I need to do is hurt myself,” Leigh said.
Peyton pulled it together. “Okay. Let’s see you hit.” Peyton handed Leigh a ball and one of the tees she fished out of her pocket. Leigh’s ungloved fingertips grazed her palm, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her crotch. Peyton didn’t dare look at Leigh for fear that what was going on between her legs would be evident on her face.
Leigh bent over, giving Peyton another tantalizing view down her top as she sank the bright-yellow tee into the grass. She set her stance, looked once down the range, and swung.
“Ugh. I hate it when I do that.”
Her ball traveled only forty yards, its trajectory mirroring a rock skipping across the top of the calm pond.
“Try it again,” Peyton said, not commenting on the obvious reasons the ball didn’t catch flight and sail into the air.
Leigh’s second and third shots were the same, and after she set her ball for the fourth, she turned to Peyton. She had one hand on her hip, the other on the end of her club. Her hip was cocked, her ponytail blowing in the light breeze. Peyton’s breath caught somewhere in the middle of her chest.
“You make me nervous.”
“Do you want a different instructor?”
“No,” Leigh said after a moment. “You obviously know what you’re doing, being the three-time NCAA player of the year.”
A flush of adrenaline kicked in. If Leigh had Googled her, she knew her history—all her history. Leigh was here so it must not have scared her away. Or was it just curiosity like so many others?
“Every golfer looks at everyone else on the course,” Peyton said, abruptly shifting her thoughts. “What brand of shoes you’re wearing, how many clubs are in your bag, long putter or short. The worse their game, the more people look. You have to block it out and focus.”
“Is that what you do?”
That’s what I’m trying to do. “Yes. Just pretend I’m not here.”
Leigh turned back and assumed her stance to hit the ball. “Like that’s possible,” she murmured loud enough that Peyton heard.
Peyton watched Leigh hit a few more balls. Her mechanics were fairly sound, but she needed to lower her ball on the tee, rotate her hips a bit more, drop her chin, and extend her follow-through.
“Hang on a second.” Peyton knelt in front of Leigh. “Shift your hands a little,” she said, putting her hands over Leigh’s to move them to a more correct position. Heat burned through her, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from raking a trail up Leigh’s body and stopping at her eyes. Along the way she hesitated when she noticed that Leigh’s chest was moving in and out faster than it had been before she touched her. Leigh’s eyes flashed, and she loosened her grip on the club, almost dropping it.
Peyton regained control of her wayward thoughts and her runaway body and looked away from Leigh’s mesmerizing eyes. “Just shift your right hand over a little more.” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat. “Give it a try.”
Would her body eventually get used to being near Leigh and stop reacting like this? Would she ever get used to her? Even outside in the middle of a driving range, tension filled the air. Peyton couldn’t believe it was sexual attraction between the
m. It had to be due to her history.
Leigh’s next few swings were awful. Obviously, Leigh was as shaken as she was.
“It might be uncomfortable at first, but you’ll get used to it,” she said, giving Leigh an out. Leigh mumbled something that sounded like “Yeah, right,” but Peyton couldn’t make it out. “Hit a few more. I want at least a couple dozen good shots before we move on. I’ll look downrange if that makes you more comfortable. Just concentrate on where your hands are.” And I’ll try not to think about where I want them to be.
Peyton gave Leigh a couple of pointers on her stance and turning her hips but didn’t touch her, even when, with other clients, she would have. The heat pulsing through her would probably scorch Leigh’s clothes. Peyton stood on all three sides of Leigh observing her stance, her form, and her swing. She noticed a long, pale scar on the outside of Leigh’s right knee she hadn’t seen before. Even though she’d been distracted once or twice by Leigh’s legs when they played, she had concentrated on her game so as not to embarrass herself in front of the women she was playing with.
Leigh’s scar was faint, whereas Peyton’s definitely was visible, a clear indication of prison versus private health care. It looked like her injury had been severe, and like her tattoo, Peyton couldn’t comment on either. She was here to give her pointers on her form and her golf game, not what she saw on her body, however interesting it was.
Peyton made mental notes as she watched Leigh finish hitting the rest of the balls. Her club was perpendicular to her left arm, pointing slightly outside the ball—good. Her hands were almost in the right place on the club shaft—we’ll work on that. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed between them—good. The ball was slightly out of line, but the clubface was looking at the target—something else to work on.
Her swing started in the right order. First the club head moved, then her hands, arms, shoulders, and lastly her hips. Her weight shifted correctly from left to right, but at the top of her swing, her club wasn’t parallel to the ground. On her down swing, she lifted her head a little, her hips were too tight, and her left arm bent more than it should—all fixable.
