by Kelsie Rae
I snort at his randomness.
Quik_Q182: Twice a day, like every other normal human being on the planet. You?
BeatlesBoy_41: Only twice? What were you? Raised in a barn? I brush a minimum of three times, gotta keep those pearly whites sparkling. What’s your biggest pet peeve?
Quik_Q182: People who brush their teeth too much. ;)
BeatlesBoy_41: LMAO I may or may not have OCD because of my upbringing. Mine is loud chewers. Those people are awful.
I groan, agreeing completely.
Quik_Q182: NVM I take it back. Loud chewers are the worst!!!
BeatlesBoy_41: Glad we finally agree on something. What’s your favorite food?
Quik_Q182: Mexican. Hands down.
BeatlesBoy_41: Aww... a girl after my own heart. I know an incredible taco stand that serves the most amazing fish tacos you’ve ever tasted. You need to try them one day.
I quirk my brow, wondering if he’s hinting at something. Nah. I shrug it off.
Quik_Q182: Sounds intriguing. I’m a sucker for a fish taco. Where are you from?
I can’t believe I’m chatting with an absolute stranger on the internet and actually enjoying the conversation. I don’t talk to people. Period. And I definitely don’t open up to them. Even if it’s about random things like food preferences and pet peeves.
BeatlesBoy_41: I currently live in SLC, Utah. You?
I debate before answering, as milk cartons with missing person pictures flash through my conscience. Deciding to keep it vague, I type my response.
Quik_Q182: A little town in Arizona.
His response is almost immediate.
BeatlesBoy_41: Good girl. I would’ve been disappointed if you gave a random stranger your address over the internet. Tsk Tsk.
A soft smile appears on my face.
Quik_Q182: Great minds think alike. What’s your name BTW? I feel weird calling you BeatlesBoy.
BeatlesBoy_41: haha I can see how that doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue smoothly. ;) My real name is Julian, but very few people know that.
I quirk my brow at his cryptic response. Very few people know his real name?
Quik_Q182: Then what do they call you?
BeatlesBoy_41: BeatlesBoy of course! ;)
I laugh at his ludicrous reply.
Quik_Q182: LOL. You’re ridiculous.
I click send before realizing I didn’t ask him a question in return. My inner girl is shaking her head in disgust at my lack of flirting skills. I hope he doesn’t sign off, and I’m surprised by the disappointment that sits in my gut. I’m typing out a random question, praying to keep the conversation alive, when I’m notified of another message.
BeatlesBoy_41: LMAO yeah, I’ve been told that a time or two. How many ppl are in your family?
Once again, I debate on how much info I should give. This time, I’m greeted with an image in my head of a fifty-year-old peeping Tom hiding near the cacti in my front yard. I snicker at the thought.
After a minute, I decide that this information is relatively harmless. If he ever does any research, he’ll be able to find out, anyway. I’ve already answered this question for a blogger a few years ago during an interview.
Quik_Q182: It’s just me and my dad.
I click send before expanding in a separate message.
Quik_Q182: He was diagnosed with dementia a few years back, though. So most days I feel like it’s just me, myself, and I.
The message sends before I have a chance to delete it. I’m blown away by the fact that I just opened up about such a vulnerable topic to Julian. I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised, though. Opening up through a keyboard has always been easier for me than doing it face to face. I have no doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t have opened up like this if I were speaking to Julian, instead of messaging him.
BeatlesBoy_41: I’m really sorry about that, Q. The loneliness must be eating you alive.
His sincerity seems genuine, and I find myself connecting with Julian more than I ever expected.
Quik_Q182: Yup. It pretty much sucks.
My answer is blunt, yet honest.
BeatlesBoy_41: I can only imagine. How are you handling things?
Not well. The pressure and heartache are killing me.
Quik_Q182: As well as I can, I guess? It’s not easy, but ever since I signed my contract with Flinch, it’s helped a ton. At least I don’t need to worry about finances anymore. You know?
BeatlesBoy_41: That’s a major relief. I hope they’re taking care of you.
Quik_Q182: As long as I hit my numbers, then we’re on good terms. LOL.
BeatlesBoy_41: And what about your mom? I know you said she isn’t in the picture….
Quik_Q182: She died a long time ago. Cancer’s a bitch.
I know my dad isn’t a fan of swearing, but I think even he’d agree with that description.
BeatlesBoy_41: I’m sorry. Do you have anyone you can rely on?
I take a moment to really consider his question, wanting to cry as I type in my answer.
Quik_Q182: Nope.
BeatlesBoy_41: I know you don’t know me well, but I need to throw this out there anyway. You can rely on me, Q. I’m here if you ever need me.
My eyes tear up at his sweet offer. He’s practically a stranger, but his offer comforts me, nonetheless. Is it sad that he’s the only one in my life that’s ever offered to be there for me?
Quik_Q182: Thank you.
As soon as I send the message, I quickly follow up with another one.
Quik_Q182: You should change the subject now. I’m not so great with personal topics, but I’m not ready for our conversation to end quite yet, either.
I lick my lips as I wait for his reply, surprised that I’m being so honest. Our conversation is distracting me from the life I’m currently living, and I don’t want that distraction to end so soon.
BeatlesBoy_41: Alright, then. Peeta or Gale? Edward or Jacob? Harry Potter or Frodo Baggins?
Laughter bubbles up from deep in my belly as I type my response. We spend the rest of the evening chatting like we’re old friends... instead of the complete strangers we really are.
Chapter 7
Jude
I may or may not have stolen Quincy’s number from Jett’s phone while he was in the loo. I’m not sure why I felt the need to be sneaky, but I couldn’t help myself.
Hastily, I type out a message.
Jude: Good morning, Quin!
Kitten: Who is this, and how did you get my number?
I smile at her uneasy reply, shaking my head from side to side.
Silly, distrusting, Quincy.
That girl’s walls are built higher than Mt. Everest.
Jude: It’s the love of your life, Kitten. Did you miss me?
Kitten: Don’t call me kitten.
Laughing at her friskiness, my fingers fly across the screen of my phone.
Jude: Sorry, Kitten. I’ve already added it in my mobile, and you can’t just change someone’s name once it’s been added to their contact information.
If she were in the room, I’m positive she’d be rolling her eyes in response to my text.
Kitten: It’s not rocket science, Jude. Maybe Marcus can help you figure it out.
After our messaging last night through the Flinch platform, I assumed that Quin would likely be more willing to voice her true thoughts through text instead of verbally. This conversation simply proves my theory to be correct.
Jude: You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?
Kitten: You haven’t seen feisty yet.
The grin plastered across my face must look absolutely ridiculous, but I can’t make it disappear for the life of me.
Jude: Bollocks. I’ve already mentioned my willingness to see it in action, but you politely declined.
Kitten: Politely, my butt.
Jude: Is this you allowing me to comment on your backside?
Kitten: No! OMG. You’re ridiculous.
Jude: So I�
�ve been told.
I chuckle at my inside joke that she isn’t privy to, while remembering how she made the same comment to BeatlesBoy_41 last night.
Kitten: Is there a reason you’re texting me?
Jude: Why yes. Yes, there is.
Kitten: … And?
I can practically feel her frustration through the satellites that connect our phones. I don’t understand why, but the lady has reduced me to schoolground teasing. If I’m not careful, I’ll be tugging on her pigtails before I know it.
Jude: I wanted to let you know that our team meeting for this afternoon has moved locations.
Kitten: … Why?
Her suspicion seeps through the one-word text. I can almost picture her pinched brows and her puckered lips as she anxiously waits for my reply.
Jude: Because the team and I have decided you need to get out of the comfortable little box you’ve placed yourself in.
Kitten: What box?
Jude: The one that holds you, and you alone. In order for us to win as a team, we need to act as a team. And in order for us to act as a team, we need to get to know each other on a more personal level. And in order for that to happen, we need to get you away from your precious keyboard and out into the real world.
I hesitate before sending, knowing this text could push her over the edge. Instead of deleting it, I treat the message like a Band-Aid, ripping it off in one go.
Ten minutes later, there’s still no response. I’m positive I’ve offended her, and I feel terrible. However, the lady needs to have her eyes opened and realize that the way she’s been living isn’t really living at all.
I could tell that our conversation yesterday had made a positive impact on her day. Hell, she even expressed that much to me. She needs more human connection than she’s been receiving through Gateway Guardians, and I’m determined to give it to her.
Jude: Would you like to know where we’ll be meeting, instead?
Again, no reply.
I’m about to throw in the towel and ask Marcus to give her the details, since she’s effectively ignoring me, when my phone buzzes.
I scramble to open the message, nearly dropping my mobile in the process. I’m both terrified and anxious to see her response.
Kitten: Where are we meeting? And do I need to bring anything?
Her text instantly places me at ease, letting me know that she’s willing to step out of her comfort zone in order for Team AFK to be successful. She’s putting someone else’s needs before her own, and I commend her for it. It seems like she does that quite often, if last night is anything to go by.
I send her the coordinates for the golf course before adding a personal message.
Jude: Just your cute little self, Kitten. I’ll take care of the rest.
Kitten: Don’t call me Kitten.
Grinning from ear to ear, I slip my mobile back into my trousers before making the proper accommodations for our little adventure.
I’m nervous, which is very unlike me. I’m always confident. Smooth. Suave. The fact that I’m nervous tells me a great deal about my feelings in regards to Quincy Phillips.
The rest of the team arrived about fifteen minutes ago, giving us plenty of time to hit up the driving range before our tee time. However, Quincy has yet to make an appearance.
I’m debating whether to send her another text message when a rusty Volkswagen pulls into the parking lot. Its exhaust pipe hacks like an old smoker on his deathbed.
The door creaks open slowly, cautiously, as if the driver is hesitant to exit the vehicle. When I catch a glimpse of a head covered in dark red hair that I instantly recognize, I understand why.
Quincy is dressed in a baggy, black band T-shirt that slips off her slender shoulder and light blue cut-off shorts. Her fiery locks are pulled into a high ponytail, with wisps of hair framing her pixie face.
My protective nature had kicked in when I was in the gift shop, and had impulsively purchased a bottle of sunscreen. After seeing all of her exposed skin, I toss it in her direction.
Thankfully, she catches the tube before quirking her eyebrow and placing her hand on her hip.
Apparently, the claws are about to come out.
“I’m sorry, why did you just throw sunscreen at me?” she asks, her tone aggressive.
“We’re in Vegas, Kitten, and the sun is still out. I don’t want your milky white skin to blister.” I attempt to convey my sincerity by keeping my tone gentle.
She rolls her eyes and almost tosses the tube back at me, then thinks better of it.
Without a word, Quin grudgingly pops the top open. She squeezes a large amount of thick, white lotion into her hand before closing the cap and putting the bottle between her thighs, while she rubs the sunscreen over her arms and face generously. After she’s finished lathering her upper body, Quin grabs the tube again. She puts a little more in her hand and bends at the waist to finish covering the exposed skin on her legs and thighs... giving me an excellent view of her perky little arse. The damn motions are so mesmerizing, I find myself holding my breath, taking in every tiny movement. I say a silent prayer to the gods, asking for it to be my hands applying the lotion instead of her own. I must be on their rubbish list though, because they ignore my request.
Bollocks.
As soon as Quin finishes, she tosses the sunscreen at my head, missing her target by less than an inch.
“Oops,” she replies innocently, batting her long, dark lashes in my direction. She strolls past me, her hips swaying back and forth as she heads to the clubhouse entrance.
Quin has no idea how bloody sexy she is.
The left side of my mouth tilts up, silently challenging her to come a little closer, so I can throw her over my shoulder and give her a nice little spanking. She deserves one after teasing me for the last five minutes. And let’s not forget about the plastic bottle she just threw at my head, shall we?
This beauty is quite the handful, and I need to keep my undeniable attraction to her in check.
I follow behind her, desperately trying to keep my eyes above her waist. It’s damn near impossible not to peek at her tiny shorts or the miles of exposed skin below.
I swallow thickly as my eyes memorize every curve. I have no doubt the image in front of me will haunt my dreams for the foreseeable future. I try to subtly adjust myself while looking around inconspicuously, when I catch Ronny staring at me from across the open clubhouse with Jonah by his side. Both wankers are attempting to cover their laughter with completely phony coughs. As we get closer, I lean into their space and murmur, “Bug off.” My hushed words only cause them to laugh harder. Jonah grabs Ronny’s T-shirt while wheezing his delight. My embarrassment may give the poor lad a heart attack.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in annoyance before adjusting my glasses and grasping Quin’s elbow.
“Let’s get you some clubs.”
Quin follows my lead silently, her earlier confidence vanishing into thin air. I’m not sure what changed her attitude, but I decide to leave it for now and make a mental note to ask her about it later. I’m unsure if she’ll open up to me, but I at least have to try.
The sales associate gives Quin extra attention, encouraging her to try out a variety of putters and irons. She’s nervous as hell, flinging them around like a toddler floundering with a foreign object. The tosser won’t stop staring at her as she swings the clubs through the air. His focus is on her pert arse, the way mine was earlier. I may be a bit biased, but this time it feels... dirty.
After what seems like forever, I grab the nearest set of clubs and shove them into the salesman’s arms. “These will do just fine,” I grit out, trying to maintain a semblance of control. I’m fairly positive I don’t think I fool anyone. Quin’s eyes cut to my own at my little outburst as her brows furrow in confusion. She has no idea why I feel the need to rein in my frustration or how attracted I am to her. How possessive I’m starting to feel.
The salesman catches the hint and completes the transac
tion as quickly as possible.
I grab both bags, even though Quin insists on carrying her own. We meet the rest of the blokes at the golf carts near the first hole. Quin is busy huffing and puffing in frustration at my stubbornness.
“I rented two carts since I knew we all wouldn’t fit into one. Hope that’s cool with you guys,” Marcus mentions when he sees us. I guess Quin and I will be sharing one which couldn’t be more perfect.