Page 10 of Blitz
“Where is the nearest putt-fucking-putt golf course?” he snarled.
I lifted a shoulder. “Not my town, remember?”
“Fucker.” He yanked his cell from his front pocket with so much venom it caught on a string and ripped a small rend. He mumbled under his breath as he did a quick Google search. Then, he rammed his phone so close to my face it bounced off my nose. “Here. Jonestown Road.”
“Oh cool.” I hurried to remember the address before he stalked off after whipping the empty paper cup at me. I chuckled softly, picked it up, and jogged around the mansion to catch him peeling out in his fancy Lambo. I kicked myself for not driving one of my Italian cars instead of being practical by driving here in my BMW EV. It was fine. I’d catch up in time and then, we would spend an hour together. Maybe he would talk to me about what he was so damned angry about. It had always worked for Larry when he was eight.
Not to blowmy own horn, but it was nice to be recognized.
Gary, the owner of Gary’s Goofy Golf, was about to close down when we pulled up. He had no clue who the dude in theLambo was, but he knew me. Even though the middle-aged man in a Captain Hook outfit was a little pushy, I gave him my best public handshake. After I asked if we could lure him into staying open for us for just another hour, Gary was thrilled to do so. I signed his shirt, a cap for his kid, and took a selfie beside the big sign with a smiling octopus holding a golf club. I also passed him a few hundred dollar bills for staying late for us.
Trick, throughout all of this was, by the looks of him, this close to popping off. When I finally broke free, I hustled over to him, gave him a grin, and told him to grab a putter from the bin.
“He had no clue who I was,” he said as he removed a purple putter, then headed out to the course. I grabbed a yellow putter and followed, enjoying the atmosphere of the mini-golf course with its bright lights, happy music, and festive nine-hole tropical pirate design.
“Well to be fair, I’ve been in the public spotlight for longer than you,” I said as I came up to stand beside him on the first hole. “You’re what? About twenty-three or four?”
“Twenty-five. And you’re what? About fifty?” he asked, then sauntered over to the tee to try his best to get a golf ball through a loop-de-loop and into the cup. A plywood pirate cutout stood over to the left of the first hole.
“Somedays I feel it,” I replied and got a crinkled nose in reply. He seemed not to quite know how to handle someone who was not going to rise to his bait. I suspected most took immediate offense to his whole aura. It could be prickly. But as a fan of horned melon, I was more than happy to deal with his pokey exterior. “But I’m actually thirty-three.”
He threw me a glance over his shoulder as he took his stance in front of the ball. “No shit. You look pretty good for such an old man.”
“Yeah, I work out,” I parried. He snorted, then took his shot. The ball rolled halfway around the loop then came back to him. “Oh damn, not enough vinegar. Try putting harder.”
“I think I figured that out already all by myself.”
I motioned for him to go again, then placed my putter on my shoulder. The theme song fromPirates of the Caribbeanflowed around us, as did a few hundred mosquitoes. The lights were thick with moths. If the wind moved right, the aroma of the deep fried food tickled my nose. Just how I remembered from back in the day.
“That counts as a stroke,” I mentioned casually as the sound of a car horn interrupted the tunes piping in overhead. The stink eye I got was amusing, and I sniggered softly.
“That was the warm-up,” he argued as he lowered his head. His stance was dreadful. Not that I was Tiger Woods or anything, but it was pretty obvious the guy had never held a putter in his life. “This is the first official shot.”
“Sure, okay, we’ll cheat,” I teased. He shot me a middle finger. The man was amazingly easy to distract. That surely couldn’t be a good thing for him on the ice. “Since I’m feeling generous, and you’re cute, I’ll give you a free stroke.” His head whipped in my direction, dark eyes round as dinner plates. It took me a second to realize what I’d said. “Oh man that sounded dirty. You know what I meant.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, then putted. This time, the ball did make it through the loop. He hooted with glee as his shot rolled close to the cup. His smugness was comical. With a swagger he strutted to his ball, gave it a tap, and sank it. Then, all full of himself, he turned to look at me. “Beat that, Gramps.”
Using my putter as a cane, I shuffled to the first tee, coughing and sputtering like an old man. Trick smiled a wee bit before his amusement faded. I lined up, got comfy, and sent my ball through the loop-de-loop and into the cup.
“Hole in one,” I informed him as I returned to old man shuffle to fetch my ball.
“Asshole,” he said under his breath before moving to the second hole. Whistling as I tossed my ball into the air and caught it, Trick cemented my assumption about his lack of golfing skills. On the fourth hole, a tricky one where you had to sink the ball into the open mouth of the Kraken, I finally had to speak up.
“Okay, so you’re having so much trouble because you’re going at this like it’s a slap shot contest. You’re not Happy Gilmore. Here.” I came up behind him. He watched me warily. “I’m just going to show you the proper putting form.” With that I took his hips in my hands and turned him towards the ball resting on the tee. “You comfortable with a man pressing up tight to you from behind?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” He glanced back for a hot, short second. Something in his gaze made my blood feel fizzy like the punch we’d had at the party. “If you tell me to address the ball I will elbow you,” he growled.
“Nope, not today. Next time. What you need to do is get your body and feet aligned parallel to the ball.” I came in close to his back, then used my foot to tap his sneakers a little wider apart. “Good, now loosen your grip.” I linked my arms around him. “Hold the putter with your left index finger resting over your right pinkie. Now, focus on a smooth stroke, little wrist movement, and keeping a square alignment.”
He was a solid man, lean and muscled, tall and firm. Hard planes, long legs. He locked into my arms perfectly like a puzzle piece. He was stiff though. And I could only assume he was not into me being so intimate. I went to move away.
“Guide me through a stroke,” he said, the timbre of his voice lower.
“Sure, yeah.” I did as asked, guiding him through the putt, his body tight to mine. He smelled rich. Like the finest colognemoney could buy. A rich combo of cedar, myrrh, and leather. I let it tickle my nose and fill my lungs as his putt rolled perfectly between two thick plywood tentacles into the monster’s beaklike mouth. “Nice. Really nice.”
He threw a half smile at me over a shoulder. Wow. Just… wow. That real smile made him even that much handsomer. I could seriously get lost in his dark gaze, so I gave him a clap on the shoulder, then moved away—quickly—before my dick decided to get any perkier. While he might be okay with a dude showing him a golf stance, he was probably not down with a boner in his ass.
Trick stared down at his feet for a second, then quietly stepped aside to let me putt. My game went downhill after that sultry little hug and putt on hole four. I couldn’t get rid of the memory of his body tight to mine no matter how I tried. I managed to tie him after nine. But by the skin of my teeth.
