Page 23 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“You’re a glutton for punishment, but you’re also on.”

I polished off my root beer and took Megan’s hand, leading her back to the arcade. This time we perused the physical games, like skee ball and the digital batting cages and driving range.

“This looks promising,” I said of the driving range.

“No way,” Megan said, shaking her head.

“Why not?”

“You’re a billionaire, you probably play golf all the time, all over the world. No dice.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“Come on, you’re really telling me you don’t play golf?”

“I prefer mountain biking and kayaking, actually,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie… exactly.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I played a few holes with my grandpa on occasion. All right. But what shall the bet be?”

“The macarena?” I suggested.

“No, we already did a dance, you unoriginal bastard.” She poked me in the belly until I yelped. Her nails were long and hard. Seriously. “Come up with something on your own.”

I considered her for a long time. I had an idea, one that skirted the line of being too much, maybe, but I felt the time was right to spring it.

“Okay,” I said. “The winner gets to spank the loser ten times.”

Her mouth flew open. Green eyes widened with shock at the audacity of what I had just proposed. I thought for a moment I’d gone too far. I was within a hair’s breadth of retracting the proposal and offering an apology instead.

“Okay,” she said. “You’re on, tough guy.”

She stepped up onto the putting range, which consisted of a Bluetooth-enabled electronic club and a big projection screen showing a green. Megan picked up the club and appeared confused.

“Which way do I hold it again? I’m not sure.”

“You hit with the bigger end,” I suggested.

“Oh, like this?”

She turned and swung at the little practice ball on a string sitting atop the tee. Her form was excellent, feet planted the perfect distance apart, with great follow through.

“Did I mention I was on my high school golf team?” she asked sweetly. Her score came up. “Look at that. Three hundred and fifteen yards.”

“Looks like I’m in trouble,” I said, stepping onto the putting green as the game reset. I took the club in hand and then spent an inordinate amount of time settling my stance, wiping my palms, and generally being a nuisance.

“GET. ON. WITH IT.” Megan groaned. “What’s the matter? Afraid you’re going to lose?”

She licked her palm and cracked it against her own bottom.

“I can’t wait to tan your hide nice and red.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“You betcha. Judging from the way you’re holding that club, your claim of being averse to golfing is true. I’ve pretty much already won.”

“Is that so?”

I turned around and struck the practice ball. I was a little off my normal form, but soon the score came back.

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