Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance

by Megan Hetherington

  His charcoal-gray jacket stretches tight across his back and when he lifts his arm to a shelf, the vent at the bottom parts to show a taut backside. No doubt his suits are handmade, cut from expensive cloth and hand-sewn in Brooklyn to accentuate his tall, athletic form.

  He passes over the myriad of books showing my intellect and ignores the certificates proving my worth. Instead, he picks up a small photograph, framed with seashells I scavenged at the beach where the photograph was taken. He runs his thumb over the glass, an act of intimacy that makes my breath hitch. Then he unceremoniously plonks it down, leaving it facing the opposite direction to the one it was originally placed.

  Like a lion prowling a new pride, it seems as if he is done with the territorial marking. He twists his torso and his pristine white dress-shirt gapes in between the buttons giving me a glimpse of tanned skin beneath. The creases on the shirt are ironed in that nonsensical fashion that men have, to make it seem they live out of a suitcase. Or perhaps he does?

  I resist a sarcastic comment, like “have you finished now.” Reminiscent of the sharp tongue my grandmother had. I maintain my sweet smile and follow his face as he stands in front of the chair allocated to him. Then, in a final act of disregard, he shrugs off his jacket and lays it across my desk.

  Asshole! I grit my teeth behind my smile and bide my inherited tongue.

  Then he slowly lowers down, the muscles in his thighs straining with the resistance his leisurely move creates. When finally seated, he pulls at his cuffs to reposition his sleeves at exactly the right point to expose his Rolex watch on one wrist and a shabby leather string bracelet on the other. I make a mental note as the bracelet seems an important keepsake. Although doubt I will need to explore that in any great detail. I know what he is here for, and I know what he is expecting to get out of this session. There is no need to unearth any latent childhood or relationship issues he will have, that would be professional vanity on my part.

  My eyes flit to the out-of-place photograph. Now that will irritate the hell out of me for the whole of this session.

  After a few seconds, I unhinge my hands, surprised by how white my fingertips have become from the anxious pressure I’ve placed on them. Then, I purposely check my watch, an indication he has already wasted several minutes of his consultation. Although I’m sure he doesn’t care, his ankle rested up on his knee and hands languishing in his pockets are a sign of that.

  Yes, Johnson, everyone knows you’ve got a big dick and, according to the internet search I carried out, you got it out last week for everyone to see. You don’t have to symbolically point it out right now too.

  Usually, I would soften the atmosphere at a client’s first visit by explaining how the process might pan out or ask them to tell me about themselves. But this guy has got under my professional skin already and I don’t have the desire to pander to his egotistical needs.

  So, I lean my head on one side and stare at him, like I’m weighing him up, when I’m actually taking my mind off to my Zen place. A beach, reminiscent of the one in the photograph, with pearly white sand and a warm breeze. Where frothy waves lap my feet and wet sand squidges between my toes. The sea air tingles my nostrils when I take a lungful, and that’s all it takes - one deep breath in my zone and I’m back to being Dr. Fairchild.

  Then he moves the aspidistra.

  The arrogant son of a bitch unfurls his legs, half stands from his chair, and places a long-fingered hand on either side of my Chinese porcelain plant pot and shoves the aspidistra to the floor.

  “That’s better.” He sits back down, running his fingers through his dirty blond hair. “I can see all of you now.”

  What the…?

  Chapter Three

  Johnson

  There was no choice but to agree to this nonsense. After my unacceptable behavior at the country club, the Golf Association threatened to throw me out and that would see my career flushed down the pan. The only recourse was to seek help with my behavior, which of course I reluctantly agreed to.

  I know a lot of golfers use psychologists to sort their headspace out, but I’m fine. Honestly. Last week was a one off. I’ve been practically a hermit for the last few months and I let slip that once because I lost a game and it got to me.

  Actually, my playing partner decided he would toss it off, and we lost the game. So technically, I didn’t lose; we did.

  Even so, it riled me enough to drink way too much Champagne, denigrate the club owner’s wife, fuck his daughter and piss in a priceless silver trophy.

  A one off.

  Anyway, enough of that crap, back to this doctor with her slender legs, crossed over at the ankles in a haughty but very sexy way. I’ve not fucked a doctor before.

  I engage my best scrutinizing stare.

  “How do you view women, Mr. Wilder?”

  I still for a moment as her words cut through my fantasies. Is she taking the piss? Did she actually ask that of me?

  “Excuse me, doctor?”

  “How do you view women?” Her ice-blue eyes remain fixed as she repeats the question, using exactly the same words I heard the first time.

  “What? Like how do they look through my eyes?” I falter.

  “No, like what do you think of them? Not how do they look?” Her tone firm.

  As a reaction to the discomfort her question causes, my lips pull away from my teeth making my dimples do their cute thing. Or that’s what I’ve been told anyway - when I smile I have cute dimples and they make panties miraculously melt.

  If that’s all it takes?

  I snort at the ridiculous thought. That is wishful thinking with this woman. She’ll either have asbestos lined panties or not wear any at all. I stare a little harder at her short skirt before replaying the question she asked in my mind.

  Now there’s a right answer to this question, I’m no imbecile. But the quandary is - do I give that response or do I play a little with this doctor first?

  Fuck it!

  “I consider all women playthings I can pick up and then drop whenever I choose.”

  With no verbal response I watch her pen a check on her notepad.

  Then she continues without further comment. “And how do you suppose women view you?” Holding my stare with disdain.

  I’m mildly irritated. Has she taken my answer as read? She believes I judge women to be play things?

  “Huh,” I snort. “I didn’t mean that. I was… you know…” My dimples still trying to work their magic.

  Now what am I doing, exactly? Why do I assume a woman who is clever enough to get through medical school and earn a living from understanding the depths and hidden caverns of a human mind, will appreciate my admission I was ‘messing with her’? Especially after I’ve described women as playthings.

  During the pause in my answer, I try to interpret her facial expression, but it’s unfathomable. I’d hate to play poker against someone like her.

  Feeling uncomfortable, I shuffle in the chair, my dimples put back in my arsenal for use with a woman who may appreciate them. Not a cat in hell’s chance with this ice maiden. Forget the asbestos panties, she’s locked a chastity belt beneath that skirt.

  I sigh with frustration. “We both know why I’m here. If you like, we can be silent for the next forty-five minutes and then I’ll be on my way. I’ve got no desire to go along with this bullshit.”

  “Actually, no I don’t know why you’re here. I mean, I read the answers on the intro document, but they were as benign as they get. So, Mr. Wilder, please enlighten me. Why are you here?”

  “To get my game back on form. And to appease the Association.”

  “Yes, that’s what you submitted in the document. So, what’s putting you off?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what you’re supposed to tell me. Isn’t it?”

  “Sure.”

  What the hell is going on here? I’ve never had such a confusing conversation with anyone. Not sober anyhow. I blow out a breath of annoyance and comb my f
ingers through my hair. “Okay, what now?”

  “I ask you some questions.”

  I know that. Even a novice like me gets that psychologists ask questions. “Are we going around in circles here?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Go on then ask me some questions.” I throw a hand up in her direction. “But I may not answer truthfully.”

  “That’s your prerogative Mr. Wilder, but please remember, if you want a solution then you should at least tell yourself the truth.”

  “Whatever.” I roll my eyes.

  So, she’s got me down as a liar too. A woman hater and a liar. Jeez, how to feel good about yourself and get on top of your game. Go see a psychologist - they’ll pull you up.

  “So, are you happy for me to start again?” She taps her pen on the notepad resting on her thighs.

  “Happy?”

  “Do you want me to ask you a question?” she fires out.

  “Might as well.” I examine my fingernails.

  “Do you worry you’re a sex addict?”

  I throw my head back and give over a deep throaty laugh. “Sex addict?”

  The smirk is wiped off my face when my head falls straight and I see she’s not laughing, nor joking.

  “Sex addict? What the hell is a sex addict, anyway?”

  “Someone who puts sex before other more important things in their life.”

  “Sex addict?” I can’t help repeat the phrase. Even Tony Soprano wasn’t asked if he was a sex addict. Was he? That’s it - I need to be more gangster with this woman and show her who the real boss is.

  “Hang on Dr. Fairchild. I’m not clear what sex or women have to do with golf and getting my game back on track.”

  “No, neither do I, but in your case, Mr. Wilder, they clearly do.”

  I drop my head and put my hands up to my face, rest my elbows on my knees and tap my forefingers onto my temple to stop me from blowing a fuse.

  How did I get to this position? I won a championship every year for six years straight, then last year flunked. It was at the time that the partying got out of control, and I know that had an effect. That’s why I hired Cherie, my PA, as my fake girlfriend for a while. But am I a sex addict? Is that the real reason I’m hurtling down the professional ranks?

  Suddenly, I raise my head, my hands sliding down my cheeks. “I don’t believe that to be true for one minute. Until last week I hadn’t had sex for four months. There’s no way a sex addict would last that long.”

  I sit back and fold my arms in front of my chest.

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  “You truthfully want to know what I feel when I’m having sex? When I’ve got some broad’s lips around my cock?” I raise my chin and laugh up to the ceiling again. Oh, I’m good at this.

  “If you want to explore that aspect, go ahead. I won’t be shocked.” She locks into my stare. “But actually, I wanted to know about your celibacy and how you felt during that period.”

  I rub my palm up and down my cheek, letting out a big sigh, before wriggling in my seat a little to loosen my pants from around my groin.

  “You would actually sit there and listen to me describe my sexual encounters.” I snort and shake my head before standing.

  I take my jacket from the desk and stride toward the door.

  “Sorry, doctor, but this is too much. Way too much.”

  Chapter Four

  Meredith

  As soon as the door shuts behind Johnson Wilder, I press a sweaty palm to my diaphragm to stop myself from hyperventilating. Eventually, when the dizziness subsides, I stand and walk towards the window in time to see him climb into his car and reverse at a reckless speed out of the parking space. Tires screech when he spins out of the parking lot.

  I rest my forehead against the window and watch through the steam from my breath until his car disappears from view. Then, I pivot around and study the scene: the chair he reclined in, the aspidistra on the floor and my photograph awry on the bookshelf.

  Why did I let him get to me? Because he did. Before he came into my office, I knew he would be irritatingly handsome and annoyingly well groomed. I believed I had immunity from that sort of attraction when it’s cloaked in an air of arrogance, but it seems I don’t.

  My professionalism took a back seat to my need to show off. And it backfired.

  All I had to do was stroke his ego, give him a lesson in mindfulness and send him on his way to the next championship win. He would hail me as the guru who got his form back and everything would be peachy keen. But no, I had to be the clever one. Make him squirm. Show him I know the real Johnson and the chink in his armor. I had to be the one that stood up for all those women he uses like sex toys and prod him in the chest and say, “Hey! You can’t go treating women like that. You need to have more respect.”

  I pick my notepad up from the seat of my consulting chair and walk over to my desk, dropping the pad onto the inlaid leather top. Then I pluck the photograph from the bookshelf and slump on to my desk chair to study the image.

  When the photograph was taken, I was only twelve, and the paper has turned an orangey pink with age. My super-short shorts highlight gangly legs, a tank that shows my midriff and hair that seems like was cut around a bowl stuck over my head. Life was straightforward when that image was taken. No heads to examine, no horror stories to listen to. And certainly, no Adonis-like golfers to lock horns with.

  Life was about family and beaches and picnics and friends. I position the picture on my desk and pick up my cell. I need to record the notes from the session with Johnson Wilder now in case I forget the conversation.

  My eyes roll in my head. Forget? Not likely.

  I run my finger across the solitary line written on the notepad. “Believes he’s God’s gift to women. Question mark. Check.”

  His face when I penned an over-emphasized check mark isn’t worth the regret I'm experiencing right now.

  I open the desk drawer to pick out my bottle of fruit infused water and take a long sip from the integrated straw. Cucumber and strawberry flavors refresh my mouth, but nothing more.

  “Okay.” I start the dictation. “Session one, Mr. Johnson Wilder…”

  It doesn’t take long to record the conversation and add my observational notes. I hesitate at the end and wonder if this counseling will continue. It’s an open-ended booking, as most of them are. There’s no agreement to improve his game by a particular date and he is free to never come back.

  A feeling washes over me at the prospect, and it takes a little while to pick it apart. It’s only when a loud slurp signifies I’ve emptied my two-pint water bottle, I realize with astonishing clarity - I want to see him again.

  He intrigues me and I suspect there is a good man in there somewhere that I’ve a desire to pull to the surface. And of course, ogling over his beautiful body has nothing to do with it.

  The research I carried out before the session had led me to a particular judgment on Johnson Wilder. One I decided I didn’t like and determined to expose in the session. That was selfish and against the patient’s needs. I shouldn’t have done that.

  I drag my laptop across the desk and pull up the dictated notes to see if the voice conversion has worked. Sometimes I can have the most amusing interpretations to laugh over, but it seems there aren’t any today. Every word and punctuation are there and smack of my unprofessionalism. I slowly close the screen and tap the top with a finger.

  Lost in my thoughts, I nearly leap out of my chair when I hear an unexpected rap on the office door.

  Hastily, I clear my throat. “Come in.”

  “Hey, Meredith.” My boss, Hector, pokes his head around the door. “Not disturbing you, am I?”

  “No, not at all, please come in. I was about to call you, anyway.”

  “Oh, really?” His eyebrows lift away from his eyes and his forehead furrows into a dozen ridges.

  Sufficiently intrigued he reveals his full body from around the door, his ill-fitting ja
cket a stark contrast to the last suited man stood in that doorway.

  “Yes, I wanted to go over an issue with you. Get your take on it.” I explain.

  He tip-taps across the floor, his footsteps muted when he reaches the rug that defines the comfort of my consulting space.

  I come out from behind the desk to join him and we sit in our designated chairs. This time I’m the patient and he’s the sage. I snuggle into the seat cushion and ask, “Where should I start?”

  “At the beginning is usually best.” His smile is nervous as he rarely makes jokes, even clichéd ones.

  “Well, I considered starting at the end and then have you tell me what you think went wrong.” I eye up the aspidistra still wrongfully positioned on the floor.

  “If you like?”

  I shake my head and smile. “No Hector, there’s no need for me to play games with you, I fear that’s what has got me in this state.”

  “Come on then, you’ve properly peaked my interest now.” He crosses his scrawny legs and leans back in the chair.

  I hesitate, working out how best to reveal my thoughts. “So, I had a consultation with a sports personality and I let my pre-conceived opinion get the better of my professionalism.”

  He lifts his elbows up onto the arms of the chair and presses his fingers into a triangle shape. Like I did earlier when I was supposedly the consultant. “It happens Meredith, to err is human.”

  “And to forgive is divine.” I finish the proverb and wonder whether Johnson would exonerate me from my crime.

  “So, what pre-conceptions did you allow to taint your professionalism?”

  I blow out over my bottom lip and pull on the hem of my skirt. “Before the appointment I carried out some research, and I discovered news articles suggesting his recent poor sporting performance is because of his lack of restraint when socializing. There are dozens of search engine pages covering his womanizing antics, and, in particular a lurid act at an awards evening last week.”