“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I told him as we walked out of the shop and down the way to our spot. I’d been golfing a few times before, but I was terrible. People with anger management issues and impatience do not a good golfer make. I swing at the ball way before I’m ready and then I throw my club and scream. A driving range would be a lot easier since we wouldn’t be holding anyone up, but still. If I had been in charge of our day of fun, this wouldn’t have been the first choice.
He put his hand on my shoulder for a moment and gave a warm squeeze that reached all the way into my chest.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. This isn’t about getting the ball as far as it can go.”
“No?” I asked, trying to hide the disappointment in my face as he took his hand away.
He shook his head. “Nope. This is about taking control. It’s about controlling yourself, getting into that tiny moment in which you can make things happen. It’s hard to channel everything you have into Titleist, but when you do, you get…I don’t know…Zen.”
“I didn’t know you were such a golfer, Camden.”
“I’m a lot of things, but a golfer isn’t one of them,” he said with a laugh. “I just like swinging the club. When you take the pressure off and just go for it, it does wonders for your anger.”
I chewed on my lip. “You have anger? You’re like steady as a rock.”
He laughed again but it didn’t reach his eyes. He ran his hand through the sides of his hair and looked away. “I’m glad it seems that way. You kind of need to be as steady as something when you have my job.” He mimicked holding a shaking tattoo needle.
We took our spot at the range a few sections down from the other golfers like troublemakers who sat at the back of the classroom. I told him he was swinging first, and he responded by taking two cold beers out of his backpack.
“First things first,” he said, handing me a beer. “In order to get into the Zen zone, you have to be calm. Beer always helps.”
We clinked the bottles together and then quickly hid them when a curious golfer looked our way. I stepped closer to him to get out of the golfer’s range of sight, and by doing so, my head was almost at Camden’s chest. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.
Crap. I hope I was subtle about that creeper move.
Camden lowered his head and I was too afraid to look up. I could feel his lips burning just inches away from the top of my head.
I cleared my throat and spoke into his pecs. “Well now that beer is involved, it looks like this will be Camden and Ellie’s Day of Fun after all.”
“What was it before?” he murmured. His words ruffled my hair, causing the skin on my scalp to tighten pleasurably.
“Camden and Ellie’s Day of Assault with a Golf Club.”
I could feel him smile. “Once a spazz, always a spazz.”
I put my hand on his chest and pushed myself away from him, ignoring how hard it was beneath my fingers, how I could feel his heart thumping hard. I gave him a wry look and took a long sip of my drink.
“I’ll have you know I only spazz when it’s called for. And if any game calls for it, it’s golf.”
He raised his brows and said smoothly, “Well then you better drink faster.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice.
I was as bad as I thought I’d be. The first few swings were a little rough. I mean, I totally missed the ball. Not even close. And that’s when I could feel the waves of anger pushing up through my limbs, wanting some form of release.
I tightened the grip on the club and bit hard on my lip. I briefly shot Camden an embarrassed look and he slowly shook his head.
“Aren’t you going to tell me to be the ball or something?” I asked, trying to push the frustration away. Christ, I was a spazz, wasn’t I? I wished I could take some of the Kava pills I had in my bag without looking like a total junkie.
“Just…stop caring what I think,” he said.
I grunted and looked down at the ball, trying to line my club up properly. “I don’t care what you think.”
“You do. You’re trying to impress me.”
Okay, that did it. I faced him and leaned with one arm on the end of the club. “I am not trying to impress you.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. It was borderline smug and I wanted to wipe it off his face. “Yes you are. You don’t want to look weaker than you seem. You want to look like you’ve got everything figured out, everything under control, even your swing.”
“You don’t know me,” I told him with a surprising amount of bitterness. I turned back to the club and the ball and tried to adjust my grip. It all felt wrong. My fingers were stiff. My face was flaring up with heat. I was about to make a ridiculous swing that would have the club go flying across the range.
Then I felt his presence behind me and his arms slowly, softly, slid down on top of mine. He pressed himself to my back, not too tight, and put his lips just behind my ear. My eyes widened and I nearly let go of the club.
“I know what I know of you,” he whispered into my ear, his breath hot. “And I want to know more.”
His husky voice sent subtle shockwaves through me. I was going from angry to turned on in seconds flat, and the friction from my jeans was not helping. He let his hands wrap around the tops of mine, his massive forearms nearly rendering mine invisible. He pressed closer to me, and if I wasn’t mistaken, he was as hard as stone. Fuck, he felt large. He felt good. His lips brushed the outer edge of my ear.
“Just like this,” he said softly. “Let everything go.” He started stroking the tops of my hands with his fingers, slowly, in circles. Back and forth, over every little hair. Somehow, the motion of it was extremely erotic. I couldn’t help but press my ass back into him, just an inch, and his breath hitched heavily in response. If he truly wanted me to let everything go, I’d flip him over and ride him right there on the range. Screw golf, I’d screw him instead.
“Now…” His voice trailed off and he gradually stepped back. My back felt cold without his body there. “Now swing.”
I swallowed hard and willed my legs to stop from shaking. I took in a deep breath, feeling a headiness that sank into my core, raised the club, and swung.
I hit the ball with a satisfying thwack and it sailed across the range. All right, so it didn’t go too far but it went far enough. It bounced merrily among the other balls that dotted the sea of green and came to a stop near the 70-yard line.
I looked behind me at Camden who was standing with his arms folded across his chest, grinning in approval. I did my damndest not to look at his crotch and suss out if he still had an erection. If he did, he certainly didn’t care.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said. He held out his hand for a high-five.
I returned it, wiggling my lips. “That’s quite the technique. Do you use that on all the girls?”
His teeth were so white against his perpetually tanned skin. “Only the ones worth the effort. With everyone else I just tell them to be the ball.”
He handed me another fresh beer and then guided me by my shoulders and moved me out of the way.
“All right, now it’s my turn to impress you,” he said, picking up his club.
I stood back and watched him with a smile. I didn’t think I could be more impressed than I already was.
***
My drive improved after that, er, hands-on lesson, but sadly he didn’t try his technique again. I could only hope he was saving it for later, but to be honest, that thought terrified me a little. The good news was that he seemed to be able to wet my panties with nothing more than erotic hand holding, the bad news was the whole act of ripping your clothes off and jumping each other involved…ripping your clothes off.
I’m sure the average female has some aversions about being seen naked by a guy they’re into—or anyone, really. Maybe they don’t like the cellulite on their ass (somehow there’s none on mine) or their stomach pooch or they think their torso is too long or
maybe their nipples are too small. You name it, everyone’s got something. But my something was impossible to hide and it always prompted a story. Every time I had sex with a guy, I had to apologize for the way my leg looked. I had to let them know that I acknowledged my deformity, that I in no way thought I was perfect.
Ironically, most men didn’t give a shit. If they saw the horrible ribbons of scars that swarmed my leg, they didn’t stare. They barely noticed. They were just staring at my tits and vagina and that was about it. If they were really nice, they’d stare at my face. But it didn’t stop me from almost having a panic attack every time I got naked. I was always waiting for that moment for some asshole guy to kick me out of bed for being a freak.
Camden knew about my scars; he always wanted to see them, but I’d never show. I didn’t want the only person who liked me to lose his desire or interest in me. I didn’t want it to put a barrier between us. It sounded silly since he was just as different as I was, but I could never forget how easy it was for him to hide— if he wanted to—and how impossible it was for me.
And now, well now he wasn’t a freak. Now he was a virile young man whose body I wanted nothing more than to run my hands over and get a firm grope in here and there. He was now that and I was still me.
After we left the driving range and headed back into town, the searing heat of the sun and the stark blue sky burning away some of my insecurities, we got started on the next portion of our Day of Fun.
He pulled the Jeep into the parking lot of one of the local thrift stores and peeked at me over his wayfarer shades.
“Are you ready for our next adventure?”
I stared at the store in awe. It was the same damn one we used to shop at when we were young. As high school went on, I kind of forgot about the place, but here it was still ticking. From the smudged front window it looked dimly lit, like it wasn’t even open, but then again it had always looked that way.
I took off my sunglasses and slipped them in my purse. “Same deal as before?”
“Yup. I buy you an outfit and you buy me an outfit. And we have to wear it tonight. No matter what.”
“Tonight, huh? It would help if I knew what we were doing,” I teased. Camden was doling out our day one piece at a time. For all I knew, we could be going to one of the Fabulous Follies shows in Palm Springs, or harassing the camels at The Living Desert in Palm Desert.
“I can give you a hint…it involves dinner. But I haven’t quite figured out where yet. I was thinking maybe the restaurant at the top of the gondola.”
I grimaced. “The gondola that makes me want to vomit? Good choice.”
“Or,” he said, louder now, “we can do dinner at my place.”
My ears perked up. I smiled mischievously, brushing my hair back behind my ear. Dinner at his place meant I could properly scope out the joint. It also meant sex. I hoped it would at least mean one of those things.
His face went smoothly blank for a split-second and his jaw twitched. Then he smiled and was back to his vibrant self. “Dinner at my place it is then. Now let’s make sure we’re dressed well for the occasion.” He hopped out of the jeep and made his way toward the entrance. I sat there for a few moments, feeling strangely uneasy, then brushed it away and joined him.
The door was still one of those you couldn’t tell if you had to push or pull, and after a failed attempt, Camden was holding the door open for me. The shop smelled exactly as I remembered—like mothballs, potpourri, and brass. The woman behind the counter was younger than the one back in the day, but she was still in her sixties and wore thick glasses with an ugly beaded neck strap. She snapped her head up from her paperback novel as we came in and gave us a tepid smile. I knew that smile. It was the “oh crap, these kids are going to rob me, aren’t they?” kind of smile. She’d be watching our every move.
The shop was almost empty except for an old, hunched over lady in the housewares section, peering at chipped teacups. Camden and I made a beeline for the clothes, he to the women’s section and me to the men’s, and we started noisily flipping through the racks.
I was pretty giddy as I flung the hangers down, looking for the perfect outfit for him. In the past we were all about humiliating each other, which was only fair and fun since we’d both look like idiots. Now I wasn’t sure what the plan was. But making him look like a goof during dinner seemed like a great idea to me.
I came across an extremely loud pink and purple Hawaiian shirt that wouldn’t even look hip on him. It was tacky faux silk and two sizes too large. I’d make him wear it halfway unbuttoned, then I could stare at his chest (honestly, when had I become such a horndog?). After that winning find, I went to the pants section. Something tight would do the trick, even though he hadn’t shown any aversion to tight pants, both then and now.
Then I spotted it. A kilt. Green and black tartan. Oh yes, this would look wonderful on my Scottish Hawaiian dude. I rounded out the outfit with a black fedora. Now he was also a private eye.
“Okay,” I called to him over the racks. “I have your stuff.”
“Already?” he asked, still searching through his end. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be very worried. Unless you’ve always wanted to be a Scottish detective from Hawaii.”
“Like Magnum P.I.?”
“Not even close.”
I walked down the aisle and over to him. He was holding a glow-mesh halter top in one hand. Figures. I peered at his other hand. It was a leather miniskirt.
I breathed out sharply through my nose and shot him an apologetic smile. “Yeah, I’m not wearing the skirt so you can just put it back.”
He shook his head and kept going through some cardigans. “Rules are rules, Ellie. You have to wear whatever I choose for you.”
I crossed my arms, the pile of clothes bunching up. “I am not wearing a skirt.”
He kept on as if he didn’t hear me and the click click click of hangers being slid past were driving me insane. I bundled my clothes under one arm and put my hand on his to take the skirt away. He wouldn’t budge.
“Seriously, you know I’m not wearing that.”
He sighed and turned to face me, his dark brows coming together to create a deep groove between his eyes. “Why not?” He sounded like his patience was being tested, which in turn made my patience feel tested.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know why. I have scars, Camden. Still have them.”
“So?”
I fought the urge to raise my voice. “So? So I don’t feel like wearing something that’s going to humiliate me.”
“We used to humiliate each other all the time. You’re trying to make me look like a cross-dressing Tom Selleck.”
“That’s different. And we had our own rules back then. You knew how I was, so you’d only dress me in pants or long skirts.”
His lower lip moved back and forth as he studied me. “I thought you’d have gotten over it by now.”
My eyes nearly bulged out of my head. “That’s not exactly something you can get over, Camden.” The absolute nerve of him. “I’m not like you. I can’t just get over every shitty thing that gets thrown my way.”
He focused on me intently. “I don’t get over everything.” His voice had dropped a register or two and flowed out of him like a snake.
I broke away from his gaze and took my hand off the hanger. “Well, so then you know. Look maybe this whole thing was a bad idea. I mean, we’re twenty-six years old and playing dress up…”
I took in a deep breath and turned to face the changing rooms. My face looked back at me from the mirror. I didn’t like that view either.
Suddenly I felt him behind me and his arm going around my waist. He turned me around and pulled me to him, then embraced me in a hug. All our clothes and hangers dropped to the floor, and over his shoulder I saw the cashier getting off her stool to look over at the clatter.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m being an insensitive jerk.”
He squeezed me
tight enough to make breathing hard. I patted him lightly on the back, not wanting to see this side of him, not over something like this.
“It’s fine,” I told him, trying to sound breezy and not at all caught off guard. “I just get a little touchy over it. It’s…it’s something I’m working on.”
He held me in a pause of silence. I heard the buzz of the dim overhead lights and the rustle of the newspaper as the cashier resumed reading.
“You’re still such a brave girl, Ellie,” he said softly, sadly. “It’s too bad.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant it was too bad I was brave or the situation was too bad. While I was mulling that over, he let me go and scooped up our clothes. To my relief, he stuck the skirt back on the rack and focused behind him where the women’s pants were. In seconds he had plucked out a pair of skin-tight, orange leopard-print leggings. Insanely tacky. It was perfect.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After the antics at the thrift shop were over and we walked away with a hideous mix of materials, our next stop was to pop into the grocery store and stock up for our meal. Thankfully, we were only wearing our crazy outfits for dinner and didn’t have to go into the store looking like total lunatics.
Camden decided on filet mignon which he wanted to grill on his new barbecue, with a side of asparagus. You couldn’t get a sexier meal than that, unless you threw in some oysters. To Camden’s brazen credit, he did check at the seafood department but they didn’t have any. I decided to supply the wine and picked up two bottles of deep, bold reds.
“Do we look like alcoholics if we have two bottles?” I asked him, holding them both up, one in each hand.
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