Page 72 of Nash

“Nothing about my brothers. Nothing about Alena. Nothing about yourself other than you’re a beautiful woman who’s about to beat the shit out of him in golf.”

“Who is he playing with?”

“He registered to play with a woman. Daisy Lantry. We looked her up. She’s a former debutante and Southern royalty. She has no idea who Turner really is.”

I grin. “Oh, this will be fun.”

“It’s not fun, Vale, it’s work.”

“Oh, I’m gonna work him alright.”

Finally, Nash smiles.

“Best of luck today,and we look forward to seeing you at the after-party!” The course’s golf pro finishes his welcome speech, kicking off the tournament as Nash and I turn for our golf carts.

“Here we go,” he mutters because our cart is parked next to Turner’s.

Together, our foursome is supposed to drive our two carts to the first hole and play like friendly competitors.

So much for that.

After we secure our bags to the back of the cart and turn toward him, it’s almost amusing watching furious recognition fire across Turner’s blue eyes before he hides it.

“Hi!” His date offers her hand to shake. “I’m Daisy. This is Olan, and I guess we’re a foursome today.”

“Hi.” I shake her hand. “I’m Vale, and this is Nash, and let me apologize in advance for today because I have a case of the shanks.”

She smiles, tipping her head, confused.

“I’m overthinking my swing,” I explain. “I’ve been shanking the ball into the rough for years.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” She seems genuinely nice. “I’m not the best player, either.”

But she is gorgeous, and Claude Olan Turner the Fourth looks like a tall, sandy-haired Abercrombie model who hides his evil under the navy sweater jauntily draped over his narrow shoulders.

He even reeks of fierce cologne and perversion, too. He doesn’t shake our hands. He doesn’t introduce himself. He’s got to be wondering why Nash is here, covertly confronting him, but Turner’s ego is too big to back down.

“Let’s play,” Nash offers coldly, so I take the passenger seat in our cart. Nash glares at Turner, then smirks, gesturing with his hand as he taunts, “We’ll followyouthis time.”

Good god, Nash is so sexy when he’s a smartass. Wonder who’s the bad influence on him lately?

While we follow them down the cart path, he quietly asks, “So that’s how you’re playing this? That you suck at golf now?”

“You know me. I’ll suck at it, then stick it in his ass.”

He huffs, amused by my reference to the mind-blowing blowjob I gave him, “That stays between you and me, poison.”

“Not today. Today, I’m going to make Turner think I suck at golf until we take the turn to the back nine, and then I’ll ram our win up his ass.”

At the first hole, I play off the women’s tee with Daisy.

“Whoops!” I shout after I shank my drive left, off the fairway, and into the rough, exactly where I wanted it.

Then I step away from the tee-box and Turner makes a production of helping Daisy with her first drive. He stands behind her, mounting her like a perv while he shows her how to “swing better.”

I watch, rolling my eyes. Mansplaining is an epidemic nowadays.

Daisy doesn’t need help. She hits a decent drive without him. Then Turner drives, hitting the ball two hundred and twenty yards. Not bad. It’s average. So Nash does the same.

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