by Amy Lane
“Then why all the research?” Jefferson handed Mason his coffee so they could each grab their clubs and trolley them in. Mason took the coffee and noticed that Jefferson had downed his and was starting on the pastry bag with limited ceremony. Hungry. He was hungry and didn’t remember a damned sweatshirt or gloves when it was thirty degrees outside.
Mason wondered if the level of worry in his stomach was worth the possibility of sex, but he didn’t have an answer for that, so he answered Jefferson’s question instead.
“’Cause they’re sort of spendy,” he said, avoiding the issue. Fact was, his set of clubs cost more than Jefferson’s car was worth. Carpenter’s clubs cost the down payment, at least, on Mason’s own car.
Jefferson had only been a little wrong when he’d said golf was a sport for rich douche bags. Mostly about the douche bags—or at least that’s what Mason was hoping.
He really tried not to be a douche bag.
“Well, they look like some sort of weapon from Star Trek. I mean, if they’re spendy too, these things should be able to take a dump for you, you think?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said mildly, “I sort of prefer to take my own dumps. Gives me time to think.”
Jefferson laughed. “Yeah, I read in the bathroom. Freaks Mom out—she thinks I’m wanking off.”
“No,” Mason said, as completely serious as Jefferson appeared to be. “You don’t wank off in the bathroom—that’s uncomfortable. Definitely in the bedroom. Soft mattress, nice lighting—”
“Right?” Jefferson’s excited nod was sincere as only a twentysomething talking about sex could be. “It’s like, hey, if this is the romance I’m getting, it had better be good!”
“Or at least comfortable!”
“I’m saying.” Jefferson gave a sunny smile, and they walked into the club in perfect synchronization.
And then Mason realized that they’d been talking about masturbation, and his next conversation—the one with the girl registering golfers for their tee times—was not nearly so smooth.
“Uh, yeah. Just two guys and their clubs… uh, swinging their sticks… uh whacking… erm, beating balls around the bush, I mean into the holes, the ones with the sticks in them, I mean….” Meltdown. Complete and total verbal meltdown. Mason closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool varnished wood of the counter, linking his fingers behind his neck.
“I have a reservation for Mason Hayes and Terry Jefferson, please?” he tried in a weak voice.
“Yes, Mr. Hayes,” she said, sounding amused. Well, she was Jefferson’s age—that age group seemed to be perpetually amused by dorks who couldn’t speak. Or maybe Mason was projecting. “Your tee time is in five minutes. Here’s the key to the cart. You two had better hurry!”
“Yes, thank you,” Mason croaked, and then took the keys and the registration packet, shouldered his clubs, and slouched out of the lobby toward the carts.
Jefferson followed, barely containing his glee.
“ZohmyGod!” he chortled as they emerged into the chill of the fog. “I mean, you warned me—you warned me you had moments like that—but until I saw it in action… damn.”
Mason shook his head, glad that at least his penis was hiding in mortification, because for a minute there it had been peeping out in hopeful curiosity. “That’s not as bad as it gets,” he confessed, face burning. He handed his key to the valet, who trotted down to the end of the line of golf carts, gesturing for the two of them to follow him.
“Oooh… tell me.” Jefferson’s eyes were big and honey-brown, and they fastened on Mason’s face like he was Game of Thrones and Destiny and the all-stars basketball tournament all rolled into one.
Mason laughed even though he didn’t feel like it and slid into the cart as the valet exited. “Maybe we should concentrate on your golf game,” he said mildly. “I’m dying to see you play.”
Jefferson snorted indelicately. “I’m surprised as shit you actually brought clubs for me—I swear, I thought this was a euphemism for sex.”
Ouch. “Was soccer?” he asked curiously, because that blow job hadn’t felt planned.
“Nope. Soccer was to see if you’d be interested in sex—”
“Or interesting enough to have sex with,” Mason said dryly.
Jefferson was silent for a moment, and Mason turned his eyes away from the course long enough to see him frowning. “Why would you think I wouldn’t want to blow you?”
“Because I am incredibly conventional,” Mason said.
“Except for when you start talking to random strangers about your balls.” Jefferson smirked.
“Not really a point in my favor.” Mason had stopped praying to be swallowed by the earth around the time he had to change schools for asking to see a guy’s penis—but as a way to cope, it hadn’t been bad. It beat the hell out of trying to find something to say to a guy he hoped liked him for more than his penis.
Jefferson’s buddy pat on his thigh was not reassuring. “No, no—it’s cute. You look all corporate guy, but you’re just not that smooth. I’m not a fan of smooth, really. Not always sincere, you know?”
Mason frowned a little and negotiated the cart along the path. “Never thought of it that way.” Ira, Gordon—smoother than turkey shit. Todd—another silver-tongued snake-fucker. All he’d ever put together about them was that they had a quality he did not.
He’d assumed he’d been the one lacking.
“You should,” Jefferson said grandly. “It’s always a lot easier if you assume the world is wrong and you’re right. If you assume the other way around, we may as well pray for the earth to swallow us up because we’re not doing jackshit right!”
Mason slid a sideways glance at him, wondering when he started reading Mason’s secret prayers from high school.
Then he saw it—that slight vulnerability to Jefferson’s lower lip, a glint in his eyes.
He’s talking about himself.
“You’re right,” he said, completely serious. “World’s wrong, we’re right—I don’t know why I’ve never seen it before.”
“Yes!” Jefferson crowed, pumping his fist. “Bring on the clubs and the ball!”
Fierce words—oh yes they were.
They came to a halt and got out of the cart; then Mason set up the ball and chose his driver, explaining all the way. “See, this one’s my driver. I’m picking a three-iron because this hole isn’t very deep, and iron gives me control. If it was a longer distance, I’d pick wood, because wood hits farther. Kay?”
Jefferson grunted, busy turning a full circle at the tee. “There’s no woods,” he said. “I mean, there are a few trees, but I was sort of hoping there’d be deep woods somewhere.”
Mason looked around Diamond Oaks and grimaced. “There’s some willow trees over there,” he said. “Uh, you have a thing for trees?”
Jefferson rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Mason. I really want to blow a tree.”
His words hit Mason in midswing. Mason scratched, glaring helplessly at Jefferson as he recovered the ball.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding reasonably contrite.
“Just… just let me hit a couple of rounds,” Mason found himself pleading. “Let me teach you how to swing the club—”
“Heh heh!”
“—at the very least!” he begged. “Then we can go out to pancakes after nine holes. My treat.”
Jefferson squinted and cocked his head. “Like a date?”
“You can blow me in the car at the pancake place,” Mason offered, feeling like he was imposing. But it was okay, because Jefferson perked up at the mention of the sleazy sex behind a restaurant in broad daylight.
“Sure,” Jefferson said cautiously. “But… the sex has to be meaningless.”
A little part of Mason’s heart shriveled, but he was used to that. “Okay. Fine. Maybe I can give this time.”
“You’d want to?”
Mason sighed and set up to swing. “If you just let me beat the crap out of the ball wit
h the stick, I’d love to.” He pulled back and paused to see if Jefferson had anything to add.
Beat… beat… beat… and swi—
“Do you really like giving?”
And scratch.
Mason sighed and turned around, checking to see if next party was coming their way. So far, so good—apparently only diehards went golfing when it was still dark and cold as fuck.
“I’m gay, Jefferson. You name a thing about a penis, and I’m pretty sure I’m a fan. Now can I hit the damned ball?”
“Gay?” That narrow harlequin face compressed, one eyebrow going up and the other dipping down, skewing the shape of him, making him look like a polygon instead of a rectangle.
“Aren’t you gay? Or at least bi?”
“Well… I like blowing guys,” Jefferson said hopefully. “And getting blown by them. And butt sex is great. But I can’t be gay or my mother would kill me.”
So. Much. Wrong. With. That.
Mason’s brain blew a fuse—he turned back, fucked his form, and whacked the holy shit out of the little ball.
TWO HOLES later, the sun was rising and the chill dew was soaking in through their shoes, socks, and the cuffs of Mason’s jeans. Jefferson was dancing at every hole while Mason tried to instruct him in golf, and Mason had to concede.
This wasn’t working.
He stood behind Jefferson, hands on his thighs, as he corrected his stance, his back, his arms, his grip, and his swing.
On the one hand, it was great being so close to him—and on the other, it was torture being so close to him.
And on the third hand, they now had a backup of two other parties who needed to play through.
“Okay,” Mason said, letting a lot of breath out on his exhale. “Are we good? Knock that little fucker up and over, and then the rest of it is short game.”
“Yeah, fine,” Jefferson said, but Mason saw his eyes had glazed over. He was done.
“I’m going to move back and let you go for it, okay?”
“God, yeah, faggot—move back and give the guy some room!”
They both jerked their heads around to see the foursome waiting for them to get their shit together—all blandly handsome guys in their fifties with capped teeth.
Mason wanted to smack them—except he knew he was going to be a nonbigoted version of them in about twenty years, and he hoped someone would have some patience with him.
“I’m sorry,” he said with forced cheer. “My friend is new. Once we finish this hole, you guys can play through.”
“You’re apologizing to him?” Jefferson asked, furious.
“We’re holding up the line,” Mason said. “Don’t worry—it’s all my fault. I talk too much.”
“He called you a—”
“Jefferson, just swing and we’ll get out of his way, okay?”
Jefferson scowled at him, then scowled at the guy with the capped teeth and the plaid pants, and then grabbed Mason’s face and planted a big, bruising kiss on him.
Mason stood, stunned for a minute, and about the time his brain said, This doesn’t happen often, open mouth, extend tongue, Jefferson pulled back and gave him an apologetic little peck on the lips. Then he turned to the ball and, with decent form, whacked it as hard as he could. They grabbed their clubs under the gimlet eye of the jackass with the Brylcreem and took off, Mason flooring their golf cart to maximum revs.
“Wow,” Mason said, wondering when his heartbeat was going to slow down.
“It wasn’t your fault, it was mine,” Jefferson said.
“You’re new—he should be more patient—”
“I didn’t realize we were holding up the line. I was being an asshole, thinking you were talking down to me when you were just teaching me. It makes me check out.”
Mason had seen him doing that. “I’m sorry. Golf isn’t really your—”
“You tried so hard at soccer. Give me another chance?”
And for once he wasn’t looking into the distance or to the side. He was looking hungrily at Mason’s face, like for approval. Mason—who had pretty much written off pancakes and the blow job at this point—felt himself warm again.
“Of course,” he said, smiling tentatively. “If you want to learn—”
“I want to try again,” Jefferson said seriously. “Please?”
“Of course.” Why not? They were there.
They got down to the hole and Jefferson took Mason’s advice and putted effectively. They finished the hole about five over par—which, on the one hand, stunk on ice, but on the other? It showed a learning curve, and Mason was all for that.
They hurried to the next tee, doing their best to get ahead of the foursome that appeared to have it out for them.
It went better until, three holes later, Mason stood behind Jefferson, adjusting his form and correcting his swing, and Jefferson suddenly fidgeted upright.
“Uh, Mace?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but… you’re sort of getting a stiffie, and I’m trying to concentrate.”
The wash of heat made Mason’s sweatshirt stick at the collar. “Yeah. Course. Go ahead.”
Jefferson got back into position and then paused and looked over his shoulder. “Uh, it wasn’t unpleasant,” he said with a helpful smile.
Mason flushed again and concentrated hard as Jefferson made another vastly improved swing.
IN THE end they finished nine holes just a breath away from the party behind them, and between thirty and three hundred strokes over par.
Mason had given up keeping score on the second hole. He let Jefferson drive them back after the ninth hole while he completely made up numbers so he could submit their scorecards to the club.
“Why’s it so important that people know what my score was anyway?” Jefferson asked as Mason decided that five over par at every hole did not look suspicious.
“Well, there’s leagues, and people looking to play with a partner and stuff. And mostly just tradition, so you can look up another golfer’s handicap and—”
“Oh,” Jefferson said, suddenly completely okay with fake scorecards. “So like seeding.”
“Like what?”
“Like a seeding tournament, where all the teams in the league get together and then you know which teams will be matched.”
“Yes—yes, exactly.”
“But we were awful.”
“Well, I’m not writing that we’re prodigies!” Mason laughed. “Besides, if you ever want to play again, I’m setting us up so we’re even.”
“So… like, you’d play again?”
Mason smiled a little, thinking about how amenable Jefferson’d been after the run-in with the jerk who used the f-word. “Yeah. Once you decided to learn, it went really well.” And bam, his flush was back. “And… you know. Coaching you from, uhm, behind was pleasant.”
Jefferson cast him a grin that was all teeth and then steered the cart into the parking queue. “Excellent! Pancakes first or pancakes later?”
Oh God. Public sex. “Pancakes first,” Mason said grimly. This way he could at least be sure that Jefferson ate.
IHOP was not exactly haute cuisine, but there was literally no way to screw up strawberry pancakes. Jefferson made his chocolate banana, and they spent their meal talking about other foods that should be dessert but that got served as entrees. Mason was pretty sure honey-walnut shrimp was the number-one entry, but Jefferson said he couldn’t see eating seafood for dessert—there was something fundamentally wrong with that—and went with Ritz crackers and Dr Pepper.
“You eat that for lunch?” Mason was appalled. “Like, don’t you leaven it with soup or anything like that?”
“Well now I do,” Jefferson laughed. “But when I was a kid, there wasn’t always soup. Sometimes there was just crackers and soda. I mean, food stamps, you know? They only go so far.”
Mason blinked at him. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know that.”
He saw the wash of heat up Jeffer
son’s cheeks. It left a faint red crescent at the razor edge of each cheekbone. “You’ve probably had cash all your life,” he mumbled. “Sorry—embarrassing story.” He tried to mask his mortification in a cup of coffee.
Mason’s brain shorted out again and he blurted, “I got kicked out of school for asking to see my boyfriend’s penis.”
Jefferson spit out his coffee. “You did what?”
“We were necking under the bleachers, he was feeling me up, and I thought I’d be a gentleman. He decked me.”
Jefferson stopped mopping up coffee from the front of his borrowed sweatshirt. “What an asshole.” He frowned, the expression looking about as fierce as a Chihuahua licking your hand. “Why did he do that?”
Mason sighed, remembering the half-strangled apology the kid had gotten out when Mason and his mother had left the principal’s office that day. “He didn’t want to admit he was gay. It was one thing to make out with me, but if I asked about it and he did it, that meant something entirely different.”
Jefferson slow blinked and set down his wad of napkins. “I don’t… my mom would fucking kill me,” he said, looking back up at Mason with that plea in his eyes.
“Fine,” Mason agreed rashly. “But… can we go somewhere besides the car? My house is in Fair Oaks. It’s about ten minutes away from Skip’s. I swear, nobody will be there.”
Jefferson pulled out his phone and checked the time. “We’ve got about two hours,” he said softly. “Let me go clean up.”
As soon as he was gone from the table, Mason signaled for the waitress to give him the check, and whipped out his phone.
Are you home? he texted Dane.
Just woke up. Why?
Because you need to leave.
FOREVER?
NO—for two hours.
Why?
Because he’s skittish.
So you want to get laid.
Well duh. And I don’t want to scare him off. Mason took a deep breath. He’s not out to his mother.
I’m not his mother, Dane texted stubbornly. I’m two bedrooms down from you—pretend I’m not here.
