I took a chance coming here at this time, hoping she still kept up with the same tradition of ending her day of work and releasing all her rage after dealing with stupid people by whacking the shit out of fifty golf balls. I’m glad to see that chance paid off, even if I’m nervous as hell and my goddamn hands won’t stop shaking. I thought they were sweaty and my palms were feeling prickly because I’ve never gone this long without wrapping my hands around the grip of a club and they were going through withdrawals or something. Now I realize I have to keep shaking them out and wiping them on Bodhi’s shirt, because I’m starting to think I should have called first before I just showed up here like this. I’m walking unarmed up to a woman—who has probably made lists of all the ways she wants to kill me—while she has a weapon in her hand that I fucking taught her how to swing like a champ.
Birdie stretches out her arm that holds her driver, tapping on one of the balls she dumped a few feet from the tee and bringing it closer so she can bend over and grab it. My feet start moving on autopilot as I watch her place her ball on the tee, stand back up, and start getting into position. I’ve seen her drill a ball off the tee a million times. I taught her how to drill a ball off the tee. My brain, heart, and dick all remember what it’s like to watch Birdie Bennett tee off, and they make damn sure I move faster, closing the distance across the lawn until I can get close enough for a better view, even if I was just contemplating turning around and running before a 9-iron gets imbedded in my skull. I’m like a dying man in the dessert who sees a body of water. Except it’s a body of water that looks great from a distance but will rearrange your face if you drink it. Birdie is my body of water, and I need a goddamn drink before I pass out, so… goodbye, pretty face.
Stopping about ten feet away, I watch her get into her stance and address the ball. I see her straighten her arms out in front of her, drop her shoulders, and relax into position, the upper part of her body subtly moving as she takes her usual three deep breaths, thinking about all the mechanics and what she needs to remember to do.
I stop breathing during her backswing, my eyes focused on the curve of her slender waist, the twisting of her hips, the way the muscles in her thighs tighten when she shifts her weight from one foot to the other and starts to pull the club back. It’s like going up the hill of a roller coaster, the anticipation making my heart beat faster and my hands ball into fists down at my sides until she’s brought the club back and up far enough above her right shoulder. Just like I taught her, she doesn’t pause, she doesn’t think, she doesn’t do anything else but follow through the motion like a pendulum. My stomach drops like I just went over the hill as Birdie’s arms come back down, swinging through with enough power and momentum that I hear the whoosh of her club slicing through the air. I finally remember how to breathe again, and my breath hitches as soon as Birdie connects with the ball and I hear the thwack. That sound is one of the most satisfying things in the world to a golfer. That moment when you know you’ve made contact and you can finally take your eyes off the tee and watch your ball sail off straight into the distance if you did it right.
My dick is hard and my balls ache staring at this sexy-as-hell woman in her finishing stance. I’m wearing a ridiculous golf pun shirt, my life is a shitshow, and there is absolutely nothing to laugh about right now. But when Birdie hits the ball and it does not sail off straight down the middle of the range two hundred yards away and instead sails up two hundred yards into the sky and then plummets right back down to the grass a hundred feet in front of her with a gentle thunk before bouncing twice, laughter rumbles low and deep in my chest.
I knew exactly what she did wrong before she even connected with the ball, but it didn’t matter to me, because watching Birdie drive a ball is always a thing of beauty and should never be interrupted, even if she hits it like shit and it goes nowhere. Going by the muttered curses coming out of her and the divots she’s leaving in the grass when she smacks her club into the ground repeatedly a few times, Birdie knows what she did wrong too, and suddenly I forget about how unfunny my life is and my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.
“Goddamn piece of shit asshole bullshit! My shoulders were perfect… fucking golf.”
Birdie is one of the many people I know who loves golf as much as she hates it. But she’s the only one who can keep me at half-mast and make me want to throw my head back and laugh while she has a tantrum because the ball didn’t do what it was supposed to do, and she knows exactly why it didn’t.
“You got under the ball, because you dipped your right shoulder.”
“I know I dipped my damn shoulder. I don’t need you to tell me—”
She’s so busy being annoyed that someone gave her a golf tip that it’s not until she fully turns around to face me that she realizes who just gave her that golf tip.
“Hey, Birdie,” I whisper, the only way I can say her name out loud without tripping over it or choking on my emotions like a loser.
Her pale-blue eyes widen, and her gorgeous pink lips part with a surprised gasp, and once again I feel like I’m going up the hill of a roller coaster. In the past, whenever I’d get to the island, I always had to brace myself as soon as Birdie got one good look at me. She’d come running from whatever distance it was and launch herself into my arms with her arms and legs wrapped around me like an octopus, telling me I had to stop staying away so long, even if it had only been a week. It’s been two and a half years since I’ve stood this close to her, and she’s definitely not running toward me. She’s slowly taking a few steps back, bringing her driver up and out between us as she goes, pointing the toe of the club at my chest. The shock on her face is replaced with a serious level of pissed off I haven’t seen from her since her sister Wren tattled on us the night we convinced a caddie to give us a case of beer when we were seventeen. Wren led their mom right to us, where we were chugging the beer behind the saltwater taffy store after hours.
Oh shit.
No need to brace myself for a Birdie-launch hug. My original instinct of shielding my face was definitely spot-on. So much for having a tiny sliver of hope for exactly one-point-two seconds when she turned around that enough time had gone by for her to have forgiven me and be happy to see me.
“Well hey there, Putz, you absolute piece of dog shit. Long time no see.”
CHAPTER 4
Birdie
“Asking fore a friend.”
“Holy shit, Putz is on the island!” Tess shouts at the top of her lungs as soon as I come around the front corner of the Dip and Twist to the covered picnic table area.
My feet stutter to a stop a few tables away, and I huff.
“How in the hell do you already know that?” I mutter, forcing my feet to move again, even though just thinking about Putz makes me want to curl up into a ball on the ground and never move again. “I just found out fifteen minutes ago and came right here.”
I finish my complaint as soon as I get to our purple picnic table located in the far back corner next to the small building. Tess and my older-by-four-years sister Wren slide apart so I can squeeze in between them with our butts resting on the tabletop and our feet perched on the bench beneath us. It’s almost ten at night and pitch-dark outside all around the ice cream stand downtown, but thankfully the bright florescent lights with a yellowish tint under the table area can be seen from space.