by Tara Sivec
“He was supposed to be at that tournament, and it’s probably on his mind, and he’s running around like crazy helping me out and being all cute and sweet and sarcastic. And I’m confused and frustrated and taking it out on him, when I should be asking him if he’s okay.”
When I finish rambling, Tess tosses her bar towel over her shoulder and then grabs a bottle of vodka from under the counter, holding it up and swirling the liquid around a little with a raise of one eyebrow.
“No.”
“Because you’re on the clock, or because you still think you need to keep your body pure from the spirits of the devil for Palmer to make a move on you?”
Looking at the time on the screen of the TV, I see I still technically have ten minutes before I need to get out to the 10th hole. Tess tells one of the other bartenders to take care of the cart girls, and when she turns back to look at me, I perch my ass on the edge of the stool. I don’t have both cheeks on it, so it doesn’t really count as taking a break. Shut up, don’t judge me.
“I had to go out and clean up all the kids games after they left, because Donovan got heat stroke and had to go home,” I start explaining quickly. “You know the kids games took place right next to the driving range. Well, Campbell was out there giving a few pro tips to a handful of teachers, showing them the proper way to drive a ball.”
“Oh shit,” Tess mutters, trying to offer me vodka again, and I turn it down again.
I’ve watched Palmer drive a ball off a tee a thousand times over the years, on television and up close and in person. There’s nothing quite like being a few feet away from that man when he swings a club, even when he was younger, thirty-some pounds lighter, and had way less muscle tone. Tess has listened to me describe his body and how hot he looks swinging a club so many times in fifteen years she knows what’s going through my head right now.
I was in the process of scooping up a bunch of big plastic Wiffle balls that went with the children’s golf set we used during the games, when I heard a small thwack of a ball being hit, an embarrassed chuckle, and then Palmer’s quiet, understanding voice.
I stood up and turned around just in time to watch Palmer take the club from the vice principal of the elementary school who just hit the ball, get into position, shaking his hips a little and loosening up his shoulders before lining his club up to the tee, and explain the mechanics of everything he was doing to the men watching avidly from behind him. Maybe it’s the added muscle on him, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been wet since the first time he pressed his face into the side of my neck. Either way, I’m pretty sure I had a small orgasm when he pulled his club back and then brought down all that power to attack the ball. When Palmer hits a ball, it’s nothing like the little thwack that came from Mr. Arnold’s attempt at a drive, or like when I or any other average person hit a golf ball. It’s a loud, powerful crack that hangs in the air and rings in your ears long after the ball is gone. I didn’t even turn to see how far he hit it. The plastic balls all fell out of my arms, and I stared at his finishing stance with his legs crossed, hips turned, torso twisted, and his thick, corded biceps flexing and tensing as he held the club suspended back and up over his left shoulder, still gripping tightly to the shaft.
“Whose shaft did she grip?” Mr. Grega asks from down the bar, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I turn and look at him with wide eyes and then slowly look back at Tess.
“You kept muttering gripping his shaft,” Tess informs me, shutting up Mr. Grega by quickly refilling his Jack and Coke and then coming right back to me.
“I just had to think the word shaft, didn’t I?” I mutter as she reaches over the bar and pats my arm in sympathy. “Let me live vicariously through you before I have to get back to work. Did you sleep with Bodhi last night after you guys went on your second date?”
“A lady never tells.” We stare at each other for a few beats. “So anyway, totally fucked him on my couch, where I guess he’s now living. His dick is massive, and he must study romance novels, because his dirty talk is A-plus. I don’t know what it is about pot smokers, but they are exceptionally good with their tongues,” she muses, and I’m not in any way jealous at all.
My forehead thumping against the bar in front of me says that’s a lie.
Tess wedges her fingers between the wood and my forehead and lifts my head up for me.
“You know it’s okay to just reach out and grab what you want, right?”
A sigh is my only answer as I pick up the walkie-talkie and then grab my phone as I step off the bar stool.
“I’m referring to Putz’s dick, in case you didn’t catch that,” Tess adds, making Mr. Grega snort and then choke on a peanut.
“If it were that easy, I would have done it fifteen years ago,” I tell her quietly as I lean closer to her over the bar.
“Yeah, well, the difference is you know your feelings are reciprocated this time.” She shrugs.
“But do I? Do I really?” I ask, trying to keep my low voice from coming out high-pitched and hysterical. “He didn’t like it that I dated Bradley and stopped talking to me. Two years ago. A lot can change in two years. It doesn’t mean he still feels that way. We’re friends again. Isn’t that fun? Friends!”
This time, my voice does come out high-pitched and a little hysterical.
My phone buzzes against the bar, and I see another text from Palmer telling me to hurry up. I refrain from telling him to fuck off this time. Looking up at the TV as I say goodbye to Tess, I let the tournament remind me I need to cut him a little slack, even if my body highly disagrees.
“Have a nice nap? Get all your dillydallying out of your system?”
“Dillydallying? What are you, ninety?” I ask Palmer, shading my eyes from the sun as I look up at him, since I forgot my hat back in my office.
A bunch of course workers and onlookers who aren’t competing have started to gather around us, half down here by the cup to watch where the balls land, and half up at the tee box to watch the competitors tee off. One of the SIG workers is holding onto the pin markers that we’ll use to mark the balls when they land. They’re essentially plastic stakes that stand about three-feet tall with a wide enough area at the top for us to write someone’s name on them with Sharpie.
“At least I’m not twelve. Nice braids.”
Palmer reaches over and tugs on one of the two French braids I plaited this morning after I parted my hair down the middle, thinking it would keep me cool in the hot summer sun and, I don’t know, maybe keep my neck wide open in case someone wanted to nuzzle it. Instead, it’s given him the perfect opportunity to call me a child all day and bring his hand right by my boob to gently yank a braid without even giving me the curtesy of a nipple graze.
I swat his hand away, pretending like he’s an annoying gnat instead of a nipple tease.
“Did you even remember the baby powder?”
“Shit!” I glance over by the 10th hole cup, where there’s already a six-foot in diameter white circle of powder, and then cross my arms when I look back at a smiling Palmer.
For any type of competitions like this where a golfer needs to hit their ball within a certain area in order for his or her shot to count toward the competition and be measured, we usually mark off the area with baby powder, because it doesn’t ruin the manicured greens and it’s easily washed away.
“You had one job to do.” Palmer scoffs playfully as he hands me the list of golfers competing in the Closest to the Pin competition and what color their assigned golf balls are that will be sailing in our direction in a little bit. “You’re lucky I keep a bottle of Fresh Balls in my golf bag at all times and was able to save the day without your help, since you don’t do any work around here.”
“Balls been chaffing a little, have they?” Bodhi asks around a mouthful of food as he steps up next to us.
“Don’t really enjoy friction in the testicular area, and ball sweat isn’t very pleasant either.” Palmer nods, reaching down into his bag next to him and ho
lding up a yellow plastic bottle, which used to hold the… ball powder that is now in a circle around the cup.
“Your ball sweat is particularly unpleasant,” Bodhi agrees, wiping mustard off his cheek with a napkin balled in his hand after he takes another bite of his hot dog then looks over at the powdered circle and chuckles. “Remind me to tell you guys about that one time we were in Columbia for a stupid golf tournament, and I was hanging out with some caddies at the end of the day after Pal went back to the hotel. We played Closest to the Pin, but that wasn’t baby powder or Fresh Balls we used. Ahhh, golf is so much more fun in Columbia. My nose tingles just thinking about it.”
“Why are you even here? You’re not a teacher, and I know you didn’t buy a ticket,” I say, right when I hear Adam radio to me that the first golfer is teeing up.
“Uh, free hot dogs, duh.” Bodhi laughs. “I like enjoying a little mystery meat while watching adults grip their shafts and play with their balls all day.”
And just like that, my head goes right in the gutter as the three of us move over behind the roped-off area and out of the way with everyone else, my mind filled with nothing but Palmer’s shaft.
I felt some of that shaft on the beach the other night after cornhole when I couldn’t take it anymore as I started walking away from him, wondered why I kept torturing myself and launched myself into his arms. With his body and his smell and the tight hold he had on me like he never wanted to let me go, and how he told me how much he missed me in such a cracked, guttural voice, it all became too much and I couldn’t breathe without wanting to kiss him and blurt out everything I’ve felt for him. I quickly untangled myself from around him and slid down his body. And since he was wearing thin athletic shorts and there wasn’t an ounce of space between us, I felt a little bit of what he’s packing slide between my spread legs that had been around him and then graze my stomach.
Sweet Jesus, someone get me out of here.
Palmer’s hip bumps against mine, and I’m gripping the piece of paper with the list of golfers in my hands so tightly it rips halfway down the middle.
“You okay? You seem a little distracted.”
“Here, have the rest of my hot dog,” Bodhi speaks over Palmer, leaning around him to hold out his half-eaten mystery meat.
Taking a giant step to my right and away from both men, I stop being distracted by my friend next to me and get to work. Quickly lifting the air-horn I did remember to bring with me from my office above my head and closer to the men standing next to me while they’re busy talking about something, I press and hold the button and let the loud shriek of the horn signifying the start of the competition blast through the course, and I find some pleasure in the fact Palmer jerked so hard in fright that he smacked Bodhi’s hot dog right out of his mouth to flop upside down in the grass at his feet.
CHAPTER 15
Palmer
“Try choking down on the shaft.”
Palmer: You still up?
Birdie: Who is this?
Palmer: FFS, Birdie.
Birdie: Ahhh, okay. The other Dickhole Assfuck Piece of Shit Loser in my phone calls me Robert. What can I do for you, Campbell?
Palmer: You’re exhausting sometimes.
Birdie: It’s after 11. Stop texting me and go to bed then. We have another fun-filled day tomorrow of vomit and people making poor life choices while attempting to golf.
Palmer: I just wanted to say thank you for leaving me alone to have dinner this evening at Tess’s place with her and Bodhi. I’ll be having nightmares forever now.
Birdie: Sorry, you know I had to drop off Owen at a sleepover at his friend’s house on the mainland for Wren. Also, you’ve been to Tess’s house before, and you’ve seen the skull in the middle of her kitchen counter that may or may not be human from that time she dated a guy at Virginia State who majored in Forensic Anthropology. She promised never to leave it on your pillow again while you’re sleeping, and Tess always keeps her promises, you big baby.
Palmer: Not talking about the skull with creepy, empty eye sockets that follow you around the room wherever you go, but thanks for reminding me about the time I wet the bed as an adult.
Birdie: You’re welcome. Hey, are you okay after today?
Palmer: You mean after witnessing a grown man curl up in the fetal position in a pile of his own vomit and cry on the driving range? Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last time. Bodhi knew his free hot dog limit, and he far exceeded it.
Birdie: No, but thanks. Now I’LL be having nightmares forever. I meant about The Briar Open. You would have kicked ass at that tournament. They suck for not letting you compete. I’m sorry you didn’t get to and instead had to work a stupid golf outing.
Palmer: It’s fine. I loved every minute of working that outing today, and you know it. I didn’t even realize Briar was today until one of the guys said who won, when Bodhi and I were leaving for Tess’s house. Brock golfed a clean game from what I heard. He deserved the win.
Birdie: No, he didn’t. Shut up. Are you forgetting who you’re talking to? You don’t have to be diplomatic with me. He’s an arrogant asshole who only tips his caddies 1% of his purse winnings instead of the traditional five to ten, puts you down every time he’s interviewed when you’ve never said a bad word about him, and has a higher handicap than you by 4, which is pathetic. You should have been there, and you would have kicked his ass.
Palmer: Are you… sticking up for me? Oh God. Is this it? Is this the end of the world? I’m not ready! There’s so much I haven’t done yet! I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE!
Birdie: All right, that’s enough. Did you only text me at this hour to annoy me?
Palmer: Oh, that’s right! My initial reason for this conversation. You’re very distracting. I was texting you to thank you about leaving me alone with Tess and Bodhi, and not because of the demon skull that wants my soul. I was actually referring to all the PDA I had to witness while dinner was being prepared, during dinner, and the five minutes after dinner it took me to find my golf cart keys. The good news is I didn’t have to pay for porn tonight.
Birdie: You do know porn is widely available for free on the internet, right? No wonder you have no money and had to get a job at SIG. LOLOLOLOLOL!
Palmer: Watch a lot of free porn, do ya? Is that the real reason you and Backpack Brad didn’t work out? You do know they have addiction centers for that, right? LOLOLOLOLOL!
Birdie: I’m going to sleep now.
Palmer: One more thing. Bodhi and Tess want to know if we want to go with them and a few other people to Hang Five tomorrow night after work. I think she said Wren and Owen are going and can give you a ride. You in?
Birdie: I could possibly be persuaded to kick your ass in a few rounds of Skee-Ball. Are you even allowed back in the arcade? I think there’s still a Skee-Ball embedded in the ceiling tiles from the last time you were there.
Palmer: Ha ha, you’re hilarious. And it was a storage closet door, and I ordered Ralph a new door before I even left the island that time. It’s fine. Sweet dreams, sweet cheeks.
Palmer: 1-800-IHEARTPORN is the addiction center number, FYI.
Coming to an arcade with all the lights, bells, sirens, whistles, and tokens clinking and clanking as they tumble out of machines maybe wasn’t the best idea after a second full day of drunk mayhem at the school golf outing and the second round of all the tournaments. But glancing around the brick room with archways leading into other game areas, adults and kids crowded around pinball machines, air hockey tables, old-school arcade games like Donkey Kong and Pac-Man, and coin-pusher games, cheering each other on and laughing, racing around the room to other games, surprisingly I forget about my headache. I remember a hundred different nights just like this, being here and having fun with the woman sitting next to me at the table, the two of us popping in here just to cool off and play a few games while we wandered around town, grabbing her hand and dragging her to the pool tables, because it’s the only game I could ever beat her at, and I stil
l can’t believe I’m actually here with her again.
Hopefully this time older and wiser.
After about an hour of playtime, Birdie decided it was worktime, and the two of us moved to one of the small handful of tables Hang Five Arcade has set up by the ticket redemption counter for weary parents who need to take a load off. Right now, Birdie and I feel like weary parents, and I’m suddenly rethinking my stance on wanting three kids.
“I need more tokens,” Bodhi demands with his hands cupped out in front of him, standing next to our table where Birdie and I are sitting, and I’m trying not to notice each time her smooth, bare thigh rubs up against mine.
“I just gave you fifty tokens. What the hell did you do with them already?” I mutter, grabbing a handful of gold coins out of the plastic bucket on the table and depositing them in Bodhi’s hands.
“I shoved them up my ass and then shit out some stuffed animals for a few kids. What the hell do you think I did with them? Stop being cheap, Daddy, and give me another handful.”
Birdie snorts next to me, and I keep my annoyed glare on my friend as I reach into the bucket again and deposit another handful of tokens into his outstretched hands. As soon as the last coin drops onto the pile, he’s off and running.
“Don’t run, or you’ll knock someone down!” Birdie yells after him, doing the same to Tess when she suddenly emerges from the room behind us and goes running by our table after him.
“Good Lord, you put people in front of a bunch of games that will spit out tickets you can redeem for nothing but crap, and they turn into toddlers,” Birdie complains, both of us watching Tess shove Bodhi out of the way so she can play the Wheel of Fortune coin game he was standing in front of.
“Don’t act like you’re not bouncing in your seat, waiting to turn your tickets in for a tie-dyed stuffed sand crab, seventeen Laffy Taffys, nine Pixie Stix, and a bouncy ball,” I tell her, turning away from Tess and Bodhi arguing to see her smiling at me, a big megawatt Birdie smile, with her dimple out and where she’s biting the tip of her tongue.