“That’s it! You’re fucking fired, and you know what else? You can eat my shit! That’s right, my shit. Eat. My. Shit!”
Tess is howling with laughter, bent over at the waist, and clutching her sides, and I’m just standing here with my mouth open, wondering what in the hell I’m watching and if this is some kind of hidden camera, prank show or something. Or maybe there was a crazy outbreak of golfers at the tournament secretly being given meth, and now they’ve all gone mad. That’s the only explanation for the very public meltdown I’m currently watching, although the secret meth seems to only be affecting one golfer in particular. Suddenly, I’ve forgotten all about my dumpster fire of a vacation and the little white lies I’ve told, and now my head and my heart are filled with one thing and one thing only, and that is sooo not good for me.
“Look at good old Putz, losing his shit in front of the entire world. God, it gets funnier every time.” Tess giggles.
“Wait for it,” Murphy mutters. “Putz takes his shoe off and throws it in the drink in three, two, one. Weee, look at it go!”
What’s really funny is the fact that the nickname of Putz that Murphy gave to Palmer Campbell two years ago caught on nicely with my friends and family. Pal. Please, give me break. He’s the worst pal in the universe. Putz is definitely more fitting.
“Look at his caddie’s face when he rips the poor guy’s water bottle right away from his mouth. Priceless!” Tess snorts.
I met Bodhi Armbruster once, and I adored everything about the guy. He was laid back, easygoing, and he made me laugh every time he bitched about how boring golf was. The only thing that makes me crack the tiniest of smiles while I watch my former friend and one of the most professional, serious, quiet, and respectful golfers I’ve ever seen toss item after item into the water hazard, is the sight of Bodhi throwing his head back in laughter and being the only person in the entire crowd who claps appreciatively through the entire meltdown.
ESPN plays the video three more times. It’s the first time in two years I’ve allowed myself to stand still and watch something with him on it all the way through. Of course, I’ve seen snippets of videos and a few seconds of different shots he’s taken here and there or interviews he’s done at tournaments that were playing when I walked through the bar and Tess wasn’t fast enough to change the channel. I can handle seconds and snippets every once in a while without feeling like someone just punched me in the stomach and I got the wind knocked out of me. I didn’t need a three minute and thirty-seven second clip played three times in a row to remind me how hot Palmer Campbell still is. Or to remind me of all those times I got him to come out of his stoic, rigid shell and show a little life and passion. Just like in the video, but with more laughter and less “Oh dear God, what have I done?” And I definitely didn’t need that clip to remind me how much I still hate him.
“Hey, Tess, is the bar open yet?”
Mark is back, popping his head in this time from the hallway that leads to the bar, and Tess moves out from behind the counter, telling Mark she’ll meet him there. Turning around to walk backward out of the pro shop, Tess blows me a kiss.
“Sip and Bitch at the Dip and Twist tonight?”
I nod, blowing a kiss back.
“Tonight is definitely a Sip and Bitch night.” We agree on a time to meet at the ice cream stand my mom owns, and I let her know I’ll text my sister the info.
Tess turns around with a flounce of her short red hair and disappears to make Mark a drink. After she’s gone, it’s not until I hear the crinkling of a bag that I realize I’m still standing in the same spot, still staring at the television that has now moved on to a commercial.
A strawberry thumbprint cookie suddenly shows up in my line of sight, and I take it out of Murphy’s hand, shoving the entire thing in my mouth at once.
“Greg told me he’s got a new golf pro starting in a few weeks, and he put you in charge of him.”
I nod, chewing the rest of my cookie and swallowing before I answer him. “Yeah, I found out about that a month ago. I’m going to start getting his schedule organized so I’m not scrambling at the last minute. Oh and Greg stopped me this morning and said something has changed and I’ll need to help the guy out with something other than his schedule at SIG, and that if I can handle it, the promotion is mine. Whatever that means. That’s all he quickly rattled before he had to leave,” I explain to Murphy, referring to the thirty-second chat I had with the owner of the golf course earlier this morning when he was rushing out the door for a doctor’s appointment.
“I hate golf pros,” Murphy mutters.
We’ve had a bunch of golf pros over the years, some good and some bad, some assholes and some really nice people. Not all golf pros are professional golfers who have played on The National Tour. It’s rare a golf course can afford someone like that. Most golf pros range anywhere from just someone who really likes golf and is good at it, to someone who is certified as a coach in golf training.
“You hate everyone. I’m sure this guy will be fine. I’ll talk to Greg when he’s back tomorrow about whatever this extra job is I have to do.”
I try to let out a lighthearted laugh, but it comes out as more of a choked grunt. Nothing is funny now that I can’t get the image of that perfect ass in fitted golf pants out of my head and the sheer amount of bicep power it must have taken to break that club over his knee. His arms are definitely bigger. He’s been working out.
For shit’s sake, Birdie, you’re not allowed to think about Putz and definitely not like that! Get it together!
Another inhuman sound comes out of me, and Murphy shoves the entire bag of cookies in my hands with a grunt, knowing one cookie is nowhere near enough for me right now, and I’m sucking it up as best as I can.
“Get off my practice putting green, you dipshits! Do you not see the sprinklers running?” Murphy leans over and bangs on the window above the computer then charges out the door before I can tell him not to scare anyone away. Again. Three of the phone lines start ringing all at once, two foursomes come in to check in for their tee times, Tess pops in to tell me the vodka delivery from this morning never came, and the announcer on the television still set at a thousand decibels decides now is a great time to say Palmer Campbell’s name a dozen times in a row.
I silence my scream by shoving two cookies in my mouth at once, snatch the remote off the counter to mute the stupid television, and get to work.
After Sip and Bitch tonight, Putz Campbell can go right on back into the far recesses of my mind where he belongs, and where he shall stay forever and ever, along with Hawaii and Bradley, and the dirty, X-rated sex I will never have.
Sip and Bitch time better get here fast.
CHAPTER 3
Palmer
“You drive me crazy.”
Setting foot on Summersweet Island is like stepping into a time warp. It’s almost like the show Riverdale Bodhi makes me watch whenever we have downtime, but without all the secrets, lies, teenagers acting and talking like grown-ass adults, and murder stuff. You know it’s present day, because people have cell phones and Amazon Prime and all that, but there’s one grocery store, one school, no stoplights, no Starbucks or any chain establishment of any kind, and the only way to get around the island is by golf cart or bike.