Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance

by Megan Hetherington

  Tee it Up

  A Wilder Brothers Romance

  Book Two

  Megan Hetherington

  Copyright @ 2019 Megan Hetherington

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, real people and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organisations or places is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission. Apart from small excerpts that are used in book reviews.

  Acknowledgements

  To my golf playing husband; yes, this is what I get up to when you’re out on the course!

  Thanks to my over-used critique partner, Maryanne, whose advice is always spot on.

  Special thanks to everyone that reads my work and the bloggers who tirelessly promote indie authors’ books.

  If you have no confidence in self,

  you are twice defeated in the race of life.

  Marcus Garvey

  Prologue

  Johnson

  Have you ever spotted a golfer and considered him a privileged fuck-wit playing an old man’s game, prancing around wearing Argyle sweaters and other dull threads?

  Yeah, well that’s me, Johnson Wilder.

  Although I’d like to point out golfers now wear two-way stretch pants, tightly fitted to accentuate every line and curve going. Along with bicep hugging shirts in the most feminine of pinks.

  Oh yeah, and you’re more likely to find us in the gym pumping iron, than smoking a cigar at the gentlemen’s bar.

  Jamie Dornan, AKA Christian Grey plays golf, need I say more?

  But there’s one thing that still holds true.

  Confidence.

  That’s right we need it all, in whatever unit of measure you care to use. Buckets. Spades.

  I’ve exuded certainty ever since I first played at the age of four. The old man saw to that. He took me to the golf course where I would dig around in the fallen leaves for his lost ball, caddy for him when I grew tall enough and hung out at the club house; soaking up the replay of every game. So, when my time came to play in junior tournaments I was the master of self-worth.

  But that confidence is scooting out of the door as fast as you can say Johnson Wilder.

  Yep there it goes, right after I give it a boot for good measure.

  And that’s because it’s all my fault.

  Yes, you heard me correct.

  All. My. Fault.

  Chapter One

  Johnson

  This is the third time I’ve tried to open my sleep encrusted eyes.

  I’ve laid awake for a while now, registering each sound: crows cawing, water dripping, someone snores and bed sheets rustling.

  My mouth feels full of sand and some bastard is performing a craniotomy on me.

  Don’t they know I’m awake?

  Finally, the need to pee overcomes my reluctance to rise up, so I mentally will my legs to shuffle to the edge of the bed and let them flop onto the floor. Then using the centrifugal force, us golfers are masters at, I raise my torso to a sitting position.

  But I still can’t open my eyes.

  I press my hands to my temple and groan at the pounding a change in position has caused and the way it makes the blood whoosh in my ears.

  “Oh fuck,” I croak, trying in vain to wet my lips with a lizard-skin tongue.

  There’s a dreamy sigh from behind me and the sheet I’m sat on moves underneath my ass.

  Someone’s in this bed with me.

  What the…?

  I move my palms to my eyes, rubbing at the sockets until my eyelids open in protest. Through my bleary vision I make out a small sofa strewn with clothes; a coffee table with an overfull ashtray and empty miniature liquor bottles. I also spy three ice buckets, each holding upended green bottles. One bucket is on its side and the melting ice is responsible for the dripping noise I can hear bouncing onto the sodden rug.

  Did I drink all that?

  The way my head and stomach feel, I’m positive I drank all that and more. I shudder at the taste of bourbon on my lips, mixed with something else. Something vaguely familiar. Something carnal. Pussy.

  Shit!

  My eyes dart to the bedside table where a lamp is highlighting a used condom hanging off the edge. When I regretfully look down I spot four more strewn on the floor.

  Five used condoms for fuck’s sake. And yeah, the sixth and final one is still on my cock.

  Enraged with myself, I push off the side of the bed and make toward the bathroom.

  “Bring me some water back, Johnson.”

  I don’t even need to turn around to know that voice.

  Darcy Trainor. Darcy. Fucking.Trainor.

  I also now realize where we are. At her father’s country club. Way to go Johnson!

  “And some for me Johnson.” Requests another female voice.

  I do a one-eighty for that voice. That voice I don’t know.

  Tousled red hair pokes up from underneath the bedsheets, but I close my mouth - I can’t even be bothered to find out who she is.

  Then I return to my mission on a groan, slamming and locking the bathroom door behind me.

  The scalding shower does nothing to remove the bite and scratch marks on my neck and chest. Fucking whore. She gets me every time. Plies me with alcohol and offers every orifice going.

  I remember none of it, and if it wasn’t for the sore end on my cock, I’d assume it was a setup - those condoms filled with complimentary body lotion from the hotel bath set. Just for Darcy kicks.

  I use enough soap on my cock to wash away the smell and even contemplate using it in my mouth.

  There’s no need to wash away the memory though, because I don’t remember a second.

  That’s the way it goes with these episodes I torture myself with, and I’ve still not worked out whether it’s best not to remember any of it.

  There are no towels in the bathroom - fuck knows where they went - which means I have to re-enter the bedroom dripping wet and naked.

  “Come back for seconds have you, stud?” Darcy pulls back the covers to offer her model perfect body and sticks a manicured fingernail to the side of her mouth. I don’t know how the girl does it. Her hair and make-up are flawless with no mascara streaks or haphazard lipstick smears in sight.

  I glimpse the fully clothed red-head, slipping out of the hotel room door, before glaring back at the bed and respond to Darcy’s assertion.

  “Fuck off Darcy,” I growl.

  “That’s not very gentleman-like,” she purrs, sitting up and pulling the white linen under her armpits.

  “I’m not a gentleman and you’re certainly no lady.”

  She pouts her lips. “Aw, don’t be like that honey-bun. I’ll tell Daddy you’re being mean to me.”

  “Yeah and I’ll tell Daddy how you like to eat pussy while I stick you up the ass.”

  That must have hit a nerve because she shoots out of bed and lurches for the bathroom. Framed photographs of the country club golf course rattle against the wall when she slams the door.

  Using my toe, I burrow through the pile of cast-off garments to find my pants. They’re creased and my Ralph Lauren dress shirt has at least three buttons missing. I don’t even bother searching for my socks, so I dress and stuff my bare feet into my patent brogues before snatching my jacket off the valet stand on the way out.

  The alarm screeches
when I push the exit bar of the fire escape door at the end of the corridor but at least the cool air is a welcome sensation to my cotton-wool filled head.

  Fortunately, my car keys are in my jacket pocket, so I press the button to unlock the door, fling it open and duck into the racing seat. I press my foot sharply on the gas pedal making the wheels spin out on the gravel-topped car lot and onto the main drag, near the eighteenth hole.

  When I prod the hands-free button, I discover there’s no cell to connect to. After scrabbling in my jacket pockets, I bang my hands on the red and black Alcantara clad steering wheel with the frustration of leaving my phone back at the hotel room.

  Four months of nail biting, jaw clenching abstinence. That’s sixteen weekends or eight tournament finales to get my shit together and back on top of my game. Now I’m back at square one.

  Darcy Trainor, and whoever that red-headed whore is, have got one up on me and I wouldn’t care if I remembered any of it. But I don’t.

  And yes, I care. Memory or not. I care very much.

  With the heel of my palm, I spin the car around and push back down on the gas, the back-end of the Porsche skitting from side-to-side. If I get pulled over by the police, I’d fail a breath test and lose my license, but that’s the last worry on my mind right now.

  When I re-enter the country club, I don’t care who will see me and strut through the front doors, passed the gawping receptionist and down the corridor to the owner’s suite.

  The door is locked, so I bang on the dark heavy wood, and rest my arm up on the doorframe. I can hear Darcy talking and when she opens the door, I realize it’s someone on my phone because she moves it straight from her ear and toward my outstretched hand.

  A smart smile on her lips is enough to send me over the edge.

  “Who was that?” I bark.

  She cocks her head to one side and secrets the cell behind her back, making the robe she is wearing part at the front. Her other hand moves down her stomach to play with the clit piercing I know is there.

  “Why don’t you ask me nicely, Johnson?”

  “I’m not playing games with you, Darcy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent. Now give me my cell.” I force the words through gritted teeth.

  “Here.” She throws it at my face. “Have it. You’re a lame fuck, anyway. It’s a good job I brought Melindrah along.”

  I snort as I bend to pick up the cell from the carpet. “Yeah right.”

  “Don’t you want to know who called?” she shouts down the corridor after me.

  My pace slows.

  “Who I was having a little chat with?” she torments.

  Bitch.

  Yes, I want to know, but I’ll find out for myself. On the way back to my car, I press the home button and call the last received number, but it’s engaged.

  I waste no time in driving back home and don’t wait for the gates to fully open before lurching the car onto the driveway and around the ornate stone water feature at its center.

  My phone rings as I get out of the car.

  “AJ, my man. What’s happening?” The pace of my stride flaps my jacket open and the exposed chest hairs from the buttonless shirt tingle in the cool air. Either that or my skin is still crawling from those whores’ hands all over my body last night.

  “So, you’re still alive then, Johnson?”

  “Yes, why do you say that?” I open my front door and step onto the white marble tiles, flinging my keys onto the gilded table in the center of the hall.

  “Just what that girl said when she answered your cell this morning.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Not sure I can repeat it?” He sniggers.

  “To be honest, I’m not interested. What did you ring for, anyway?” I bound up the staircase that snakes around the outside walls of the hexagonal entrance hall. Immediately regretting taking two steps at a time when my head pounds again.

  “Had a call from Golfer Digest, they were asking if you have problems again?”

  I stride through my bedroom to the en-suite bathroom. “Problems? What fucking problems?” I open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and take out two painkillers from the prescription bottle on the middle glass shelf, making a mental note to order more before my sore back flares up.

  “Just your scorecard this week and then… well last night.” I put AJ on loudspeaker so I can take water to swallow the pills with.

  “What about last night?” I shout over to the handset, glaring at it with contempt, while I put my mouth to the water gushing out of the faucet.

  Silence.

  I swallow the pills and move to grab the handset; taking a deep breath to calm my voice before I repeat my question. “What about last night, AJ?”

  He clears his throat, at which I remove the handset from my ears.

  “Just what you said to the host at the awards last night.”

  I blow out an elongated breath and look up to the spotlight studded ceiling.

  “And what was that?” I ask with a resigned tone of indifference.

  “That next time you fucked his wife he could come and watch.”

  I sit on the edge of the bathtub and rub my hand up and down the side of my face. “And why would I say that?”

  “Because you’re an asshole.”

  I snort. “Fucking hell AJ. Why did you let me get shit faced?”

  “Because you’re a grown man and you should be capable of sorting your own shit out.”

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I push up off the side of the tub and pace the bathroom, until my reflection annoys the hell out of me, so I move into the bedroom. I stare out of the window overlooking the backyard, close my eyes and lean forward, letting the cool glass soothe my sore forehead.

  “What happened after that?” I murmur.

  “D’ya mean you don’t remember?”

  “Would I be asking if I did?”

  He laughs, which sets him off coughing again.

  “I’m glad you find this funny AJ. You know you’ll be out on your ass too if this doesn’t blow over?”

  “Johnson, you took out your cock and pissed in the winners’ trophy cup.”

  My jaw drops open and for a fleeting second I remember doing just that. He’s not made that up. I did urinate in front of God knows how many of my peers into that one-hundred-year-old silver trophy. They could throw me out of the Association for that. Fuck, it’s likely they will.

  A nauseous wave rises from my stomach, so I rush back to the bathroom and drop my phone on the hard floor before puking my guts up. Purging every last piece of self-respect down the pan.

  I slump to the floor with my knees up and my jaw resting in the delve between them; then I hear AJ repeat my name. “Johnson? Johnson? You okay, man?”

  Eventually, I crawl over the cold bathroom floor to retrieve the cell. “Yeah man, I’m okay. So, what do I need to do?”

  Chapter Two

  Meredith

  My skirt hitches up when I sit down and I’m not wholly comfortable with how much leg is on show. I stretch it down but in attention seeking fashion it shrinks back up my thighs. So, I try sitting in the chair behind my desk, but even set to the side it’s awkward. Not relaxed enough for a patient to reveal their anxieties.

  Relaxed? That’s a joke. Never mind the patient, I’m anything but relaxed.

  Reluctantly, I move back to my usual consulting chair and reposition the retro-styled side table slightly forward, so I can place the potted aspidistra on it and hide my legs behind its floppy green leaves.

  Slightly better.

  I stand; lift the patient’s chair to the other side - nearly pulling a muscle - and try it out from his viewpoint.

  Imagining he’s taller, I put my feet up onto the chair and crouch down, so I can position myself at his eye-level.

  Possibly okay.

  There’s a knock on my mahogany office door and before I have a chance to answer, it’s flung open by my client who f
ills the entrance.

  My cheeks heat and in my haste to get down from the chair my heels catch in the seat cushion. Fortunately, I free myself at the last-minute and narrowly avoid an embarrassing nose dive to the floor.

  A bemused expression casts across his face, so I redeem myself by straightening my back and puffing out my chest. Then I smooth over my skirt with my hands before carefully lowering onto my chair with the hem firmly in my grip.

  “Mr. Wilder, please.” I indicate with an outstretched arm for him to sit in the chair I performed acrobatics on.

  “If you’re ready for me - I can always start over…” He turns and points to the waiting room.

  His smirk tells me he isn’t being polite, more cocky. Which is entirely to be expected because I know who Johnson Wilder is and what he stands for; I’ve done my research and I know his type.

  Arrogant and privileged.

  There won’t be any real issue with his state of mind and he’ll not take any of these consultations seriously. He’s searching for the magic wand - the one he expects me to waft over his head and with a sprinkling of fairy dust make everything golden for him again.

  But I can’t say that. I must play along, otherwise we won’t get any more of the professional players my practise manager is keen to pursue.

  And if I’m being honest with myself, I’m looking forward to the little light relief these players will give in between the more wretched cases; the ones I wake up in the middle of the night sweating over.

  “I’m ready, Mr. Wilder. Please.” I smile sweetly and indicate once more to the chair at the side of mine.

  This time he heeds my command, coming toward me, but then veers to the side of the chair and across to the bookshelves lining the whole of the far wall.

  This guy has got a severe case of entitlement. His inability to follow a simple instruction and try to take command of a situation - this situation - is so textbook.

  With elbows resting on my hips, I watch him over steepled fingers. A pose that shows I’m in no hurry to lasso him under control.