The Fortunate Ones

by R.S. Grey

  Wrong.

  The golf course is packed. The club scheduled tee times back to back, so I’m left scrambling from hole to hole like a chicken with my head cut off. Worse, compared to working in the cabana, being out on the golf course is like trying to survive in the wild west. There are rules and social norms inside the clubhouse; guests have to carry themselves with a certain level of decorum. Out here, anything goes.

  I’m no prude, but if I have to listen to one more of these golfers drone on about their girlfriend’s tits or ass, I’m going to drive my golf cart into a sand trap. Currently, I’m mixing up three margaritas for a group of retirees who are requesting everything under the sun.

  “Do you have top-shelf tequila?”

  “Don’t skimp on the limes.”

  “Make sure my drink is ice cold.”

  “Could I get a little more bourbon in this?”

  “You know what? I’ll just take a beer instead.”

  I squeeze fresh lime juice until my hands are numb and narrowly miss slicing my finger open on a soda can tab.

  “You almost done there, sweetie?” one of them asks.

  “Sure thing, asshole.”

  “What was that?”

  “Oh!” I tilt my head around the side of the beverage cart and smile sweetly. “I said, ‘Sure, when you finish this hole!’”

  He grins, drags his gaze down to my breasts, and then turns back to his red-faced friends.

  I make sure to give him a little less tequila than everyone else. It feels like a silent victory when he tips me fifty bucks.

  “Meet up with us again at hole 9, will you?”

  He holds out another fifty.

  I smile, take it, and agree to see them there.

  So this is what it feels like to sell your soul to the devil. Funny, I knew it would happen eventually, but I guess I always thought it would hurt.

  …

  I get my first break toward the end of my shift, when I pull up to hole 7. There’s a group of four men getting ready to tee off and as I drive closer, I prep myself for more of the same bullshit I’ve dealt with all day.

  “Goddamn, I didn’t know angels drove golf carts!”

  “$15 for a beer? Do you come with it?”

  “I’ve been slicing my tee shots, do you mind givin’ me a little back rub, honey?”

  I pull the cart to a stop a safe distance from their group, a trick I learned early on. If I park far enough away, I don’t have to listen to their conversations while I’m mixing their drinks.

  I straighten my Twin Oaks baseball cap so the late afternoon sun isn’t in my eyes and then stroll closer to the men to get drink orders. From my vantage point, I can tell they’re younger and definitely more in shape than most of the other guys I’ve seen on the course today, so much so that they actually make their boring golf outfits pretty hot. It’s all about the pants, specifically the derrière, and yes, I realize men have objectified me all day and now I’m doing the same to these unsuspecting golfers, but that’s life, and sometimes it’s pretty fun to be a hypocrite. So, I stare at their butts as much as I want until one of them sees me approaching and nudges his friend. Like dominoes, they turn toward me, anxious for a drink, and I assess them from right to left. Cute…Cuter…Cutest…James.

  Shit.

  I can’t believe he’s there, standing at the end of the group, watching me approach like I don’t hate his stinking guts. Worse, I just totally checked out his butt without realizing it. What an unsettling thought considering I’ve spent the last few days telling myself I don’t find him attractive anymore—and I don’t. Like one shapely butt cheek is going to change that. Pfft.

  “Hey guys,” I say with a broad smile. “Can I get you anything from the beverage cart?”

  “Is this a mirage?” Cute asks Cuter. “Is she an angel or something, because I’ve been wanting a beer for the last 30 minutes.”

  He’s laying on the charm pretty thick, but it’s still kind of funny. “Well, it’s your lucky day. We carry every beer that’s on the menu back at the clubhouse, foreign and domestic.”

  “I’ll take a Dos Equis,” Cutest says.

  Cuter nods. “Same for me.”

  “Lime?”

  They both nod.

  “Can you do any mixed drinks out here?” Cute asks with a hopeful smile.

  “Simple ones. Margarita on the rocks, vodka soda, Jack and Coke—that sort of thing.”

  He nods. “Great. I’ll take a vodka soda.”

  That leaves just one person: Mr. James Suddenly-Silent Ashwood.

  “James? Want anything?” Cutest asks, nudging him.

  I work up enough courage to stare at the grass at James’ feet. It’s a start.

  “I didn’t realize you worked out here, Brooke.”

  His voice is a warm hand around my neck.

  “Uhh, her dress says her name’s Ellie dude.”

  “That’s not her dress,” he points out with a confident tone.

  I ignore their conversation. “Would you like something or not?”

  My tone is biting, but when I get called into Brian’s office later to address this complaint—as I undoubtedly will—I’ll describe it as gentle and kind.

  He still doesn’t reply, so I nod and turn on my heel. “Well I’ll get those drinks started while Mr. Ashwood thinks over what he would like.”

  There’s shuffling of feet and the awkward sounds of clearing throats. It’s obvious we know each other, and the second before I step out of earshot, they ask him what’s going on. I wish now that I’d pulled my beverage cart close enough to hear his reply. I’m sure it’d be amusing.

  I pop tops off beers, slice limes, and whip up a vodka soda faster than I’ve done anything all day. The drinks are in their hands and a cool tip is in mine before I’ve had time to process my body’s reaction to James.

  “Manna from heaven,” Cuter says, clinking his bottle with his friend’s.

  I smile and attempt once more to get a drink for James. I don’t want to get accused of denying him service or anything.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Three words said in a tone that oozes disdain and annoyance. I want to roll my eyes and flip him off a thousand times, but I don’t even think that would cool my jets at this point. I clench my teeth to keep expletives from spilling out and then taking a calming breath.

  “Right, well…enjoy your golf game.”

  Cutest steps forward with an easy smile. “Can’t you stay? We’re not even halfway through and we’re all sick of each other. I promise I’ll order a new drink every hole.”

  Cute nods enthusiastically.

  I smile and am about to reply when James beats me to the punch. “She can’t.”

  I whip my gaze up, finally, finally giving in to the urge to look at him.

  He’s wearing a Nike hat and matching shirt, both black—the color of his soul. I realize, as I focus on just how tan and muscular they are, that I’ve never seen his arms. He’s always dressed in a suit when he’s inside the club. Out here, he almost looks like a regular guy—a very hot, very in shape, regular guy.

  “Well this is awkward as shit,” Cute says with a laugh.

  The guys chuckle, but James’ face is an impenetrable mask of hatred, and it’s directed right at me.

  If I stay another second, there’s going to be a scene, and I refuse to let that happen. I only have an hour left of my shift. I’ll wrap it up, earn as many tips as I can, and then do what any self-respecting woman would do in this situation: wait for James in the parking lot when I’m no longer on the clock and give him a piece of my mind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  By the time I’ve exchanged my dress for jeans and a tank top, I’ve almost talked myself out of confronting James. Key word: almost. At this point, I’m a missile that’s already been launched. My momentum is too strong to be overridden by silly things like common sense and consequences.

  There’s a Tesla SUV parked in James’ spot. It’s his second fanc
y car, one I don’t see all that often, and I’m trying to decide how satisfying it would be to pull a Carrie Underwood when I hear him call my name.

  That didn’t take long. So much for taking a Louisville Slugger to both headlights.

  I turn to find him walking out of the club and heading straight for me. I’d assumed he would take longer with his golfing buddies; maybe they didn’t play the full course, or maybe he cut things off early. Either way, I’m happy I didn’t have to wait all night. As it is, the sun is barely setting behind him. I’d probably think it was lovely if I wasn’t a burning ball of fury.

  I cross my arms and lean against the side of his car.

  He scowls.

  I grimace with the intensity of a thousand toddlers being made to eat broccoli.

  It takes him an obnoxiously long time to reach me. It’s like he’s walking the wrong way on a moving airport walkway, and I think he likes to watch me squirm. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of me. I can smell his cologne, the stuff he puts on in the morning to make women swoon. How pathetic. I inhale deeply.

  “Where’s your dress?” he asks, tipping his head to the side.

  “Stuffed in Ellie’s locker.”

  He nods and I think…dear god, is he actually smiling right now?!

  “I can see you’re furious.” He says it like he’s happy at the prospect.

  I nod. “I am. Did your stupid watch detect that?”

  “What exactly are you upset about?”

  “Let’s recount.” I hold up my fingers and start ticking things off. “Your friend drugged me, you blamed me, you didn’t stay to see if I was okay, and you still haven’t apologized.”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  I throw my hands up in anger. “Who cares?! You assumed I did that to myself, and you were wrong.”

  He arches a brow. “Can you blame me? It didn’t look good. You disappeared and then returned out of your mind.”

  “So? You were wrong and you should have apologized.”

  He nods.

  I wait.

  Silence.

  “So…apologize!”

  He smiles and steps around me. He’s going to leave, but I’m not done.

  “Why were you acting like that back there?” I ask. “On the course?”

  He unlocks his car, sets down his golf clubs, and then starts to fold down the back row of seats. “I was curious.”

  “Curious?”

  He stashes his clubs, closes the door, and turns back to me. “Yeah. Where’s your bike?”

  “Locked to the rack behind the clubhouse.”

  He starts to walk away, and I’m forced to follow if I want to continue the conversation.

  “Curious about what?”

  “What your plan was—besides refusing to look at me. It was actually pretty funny.”

  I seethe.

  “I wouldn’t look at you because I didn’t want to make a scene in front of your friends.”

  “They’re business associates,” he clarifies as we round the side of the clubhouse.

  “What does that matter?!”

  “Because it’s an important distinction. Is Brian your friend?”

  “Stop changing the subject!”

  He points to my bike lock.

  “What’s the combo?”

  I cross my arms, looking every bit of four years old. “Like I’m telling you.”

  The stare he levels at me could slice through granite. It seems to say, If I wanted to steal your bike, I could just buy this entire country club.

  “10-17-38.”

  He puts in the combo, pops the lock, and proceeds to wheel my bike back in the direction of the parking lot. I’m left to speed walk after him again.

  “What are you doing?”

  There are a handful of members out in the parking lot, and every one of them is watching me trail after James as he steals my bike. They do nothing.

  I finally catch up with him enough to try to yank it out of his hold.

  “Give me my bike, James.”

  But it’s too late. We’re back at his parking spot. He pops the trunk of his Tesla and pauses for a moment, assessing something. Then he leans down and detaches the front wheel with a few flicks of his wrist. Without it in place, the bike slides easily into the trunk space. He tosses the wheel in after it and slams the door closed.

  I cross my arms. “Great. You’ve stolen a bike from a woman. What’s next? Gonna go steal those little tennis balls off some granny’s walker? Or what about a rattle from a baby?”

  He chuckles, shakes his head, and heads for the passenger side door. “Get in the car, Brooke.”

  I can feel people watching us, completely enthralled no doubt. Soon Brian is going to wander out and join the crowd. I don’t want to get in trouble for causing a scene in the parking lot, although truthfully, that’s exactly what I had originally planned to do. I just didn’t expect James to do it for me.

  He opens my door, rounds the front of the car, and gets in behind the wheel. He doesn’t have to ask me to get in again; the empty seat taunts me enough as it is. I glance back to the clubhouse and seriously contemplate booking an Uber to get home. He changes radio stations, puts the car in reverse, and before I can truly acknowledge my actions, I get in.

  Neither of us speaks for the first few minutes. I sit like a statue, my arms crossed in front of my chest, my gaze laser-focused out the front window. James, by contrast, has apparently reached the highest level of nirvana. He couldn’t be more relaxed. He turns up the music and drums his thumb on the steering wheel. I bet if I glanced over, I’d even find a hint of a smile.

  He drives us down the winding drive and away from the country club. I could ask him where we’re going, but alas, I’d be breaking the silence first, and I will not lose this battle. Besides, I get my answer soon enough when he pulls up in front of 24 Diner at 6th and Lamar. I’ve driven by the restaurant a million times, but I’ve never stopped for a meal.

  He didn’t even ask if I was hungry. He just assumed if he parked here and hopped out of the car, I would follow along after him—and what’s more frustrating is that I do. It’s getting annoying. I feel like a puppy or a victim with Stockholm syndrome.

  “Table for two please,” he says to the hostess.

  She leads us to a small booth in the back of the restaurant. James stakes a claim on one side, and I take the other. The waiter swoops down on us, and James speaks up for me. “We’ll take an order of the chicken and waffles.”

  I peer at him over the top of my menu.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  I am, but if he’s going to be difficult, then so am I.

  “That’s too bad.”

  He takes my menu and hands it to the waiter along with his.

  We’re left to ourselves. Silence descends again, and I can’t handle it. I’ve never been around someone so infuriating. Sure, first dates are awkward, but that awkwardness is usually felt by both parties. James seems totally oblivious. He’s staring off down the hallway past my head, content within his own thoughts.

  So, I try to be too.

  I think over what I need to buy at the grocery store tomorrow. Chicken. Maybe some of that fancy gelato I stroll past every week and try very hard to avoid. I remind myself to text Ellie about our SoulCycle class Monday—she has a tendency to forget about them unless I hound her. All in all, I think I do a good job of ignoring him completely.

  Our food arrives and my mouth waters. I’ve had chicken and waffles a few times in my life, but it’s never looked like this. In the center of a large plate sits a perfect, golden waffle. On top of that, they’ve arranged four pieces of crispy fried chicken. The smell hits me before my other senses can even catch up. I want to fall forward and face-plant into it. That’s how delicious this food smells.

  James puts a quarter of the waffle and some chicken onto a spare plate and pushes it toward me.

  “I know you aren’t hungry,” he says, “but if you’re goi
ng to try a bite, I’d add a little bit of the brown sugar butter.”

  He points to a small bowl off to the side I hadn’t noticed due to my waffle blinders. At this point, I’m drooling out of the corner of my mouth. I’m sure in some alternate universe, Brooke 1,342 stands up, flips the table over, and skips all the way home…but in this life, I swallow my pride right before dipping my knife into the brown sugar butter and drizzling syrup all over my plate.

  I’m ashamed, and I do not meet his eyes as I fork my first bite into my mouth. It is, of course, a perfect combination of chicken and waffle and butter and syrup—all the main food groups.

  It’s heaven on earth.

  “Oh my god,” I moan before realizing what I’m doing.

  I whip my gaze to James, and thankfully he pretends like he doesn’t hear me—that is, until I notice the little smirk he’s trying to hide behind his napkin as he wipes his mouth.

  I ignore him, and just to be sure the first bite wasn’t a fluke, I take another.

  My plate is cleared before James has finished half of his. I dab my mouth like a proper lady and then recline against the booth.

  I watch him eat, studying the meticulous way he loads his fork. One bite of waffle, one bite of chicken, one small dab of brown sugar butter—if all the parts aren’t there, he doesn’t eat it.

  I smile to myself and tuck away that bit of information.

  “This is my way of apologizing,” he says, pulling us out of what could now be described as pleasant silence. Funny how that happens.

  I glance up to find him studying me. Our eyes lock for one heated moment, and then he looks back down at his food.

  “It doesn’t come naturally to me,” he continues.

  “I would have never guessed,” I tease.

  “It’s something I want to work on.”

  I smirk. “No time like the present.”

  He laughs, sets his fork down, and then leans back, hooking his elbow on the back of the booth. Reclined like that, he looks every bit the confident businessman, aloof and unattainable. “You’re right.”

  I wait, and he continues, “I owe you an apology.”

  I squint as if I’m thinking really hard. “Yeah, I still don’t think those are quite the words I’m looking for.”