by Julie Cannon
“Beverage, ladies?”
She’d been watching the two for the last several holes, her eyes immediately drawn to the shorter of the two. She was dressed in fashionable golf attire—dark shorts and a sleeveless white top. She was much shorter than her own five feet eleven inches and had blond hair. Light freckles sprinkled across her nose, and dark Oakley sunglasses hid her eyes. Her legs were tan and muscular, and her arms showed enough definition to indicate that she spent some time in the gym. She was wearing a white ball cap to keep the sun off her face, and her ponytail was pulled through the hole in the back. There was just something sexy about a girl in a cap.
The woman was more than a weekend hacker, the term used to describe someone who played golf only on the weekend, and poorly at that. But she did have good form and, with a few tweaks, could be an excellent golfer. The other woman was taller, her Capris were green, and her T-shirt had a large Nike swoosh across the front. Her swing was awful, which had resulted in her ball going every place except in the middle of fairway or close to the cup. However, from what Peyton had seen, they were having a good time. Having fun was just as important as the final score.
Peyton had watched them tee off on the first hole earlier this morning, noting a few subtleties the blonde needed to change to make her shots more effective. She let her shoulder drop, twisted her hips too much, and needed to extend her follow-through a little more. When she pulled up beside them, and the woman turned to acknowledge her question, her heartbeat sped up.
In her position as part-time golf instructor, part-time beverage server, and general helper at the Copperwind Golf Resort, Peyton came in contact with women every day. Most were straight and some were lesbians, but she never took advantage of the opportunity in front of her. Not at work. Never at work. She needed this job too bad to screw up for, no pun intended, a simple screw.
The dark-haired woman gave the blonde a conspiratorial wink and stepped in front of her, blocking Peyton’s view. “You are my savior. What do you have in terms of an alcoholic beverage?”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t serve alcohol until eleven.” Peyton rattled off the selections from the dozens, if not hundreds of times she’d heard the same question. Little did they know that the resort kept meticulous records of the drinks their guests ordered, cross-referencing them to the names on dinner or golf reservations. Peyton reviewed the pairings for the day and always stocked their favorite beverage on her cart. These women were Leigh Marshall and Jill Bailey, and they both drank Diet Coke. However, she didn’t know which woman was which.
“I’ll have a Diet Coke,” the woman said, confirming Peyton’s research on their preferences. She turned to the blonde. “Since you’re winning, Leigh, you’re buying. And you make a lot more money than I do,” she added.
The blonde, now identified by process of elimination, was Leigh Marshall. She shook her head at her friend, and her genuine smile lit up her face.
Peyton choked on her breath and immediately felt the heat of embarrassment creep up her neck as she struggled to breathe.
“Are you okay?” Leigh asked.
“Yes, fine,” Peyton was able to croak out, the heat on her face increasing. Regaining her composure, she stepped out of the cart and walked to the back of the cart, where four Igloo coolers contained the drinks.
“She’ll have the same.” Jill used her thumb like a hitchhiker and motioned to Leigh.
Peyton reached over the cooler directly in front of her, lifted the lid, and reached inside. The action was habitual, but she knew it drew attention to the curve of her ass and her thirty-eight-inch-inseam legs. It generated large tips from the lesbians, equally generous ones from the men, and more than a few dirty looks from their wives. Peyton didn’t care. The last ten years she’d learned a lot of very, very useful things, one of which she used several times a day in her role, affectionately known on golf courses around the country, as the beer babe. Since the terms of her parole prohibited her from selling alcohol, she was the beverage babe. The tips were cash, unaccounted to the IRS, and went directly into her safe for just that—safekeeping.
“Thanks,” Leigh replied, exchanging a twenty-dollar bill for the cold cans. Ice slid down the side of one of the cans. Peyton reached into her pocket to make change.
“Keep it.” Jill waved off Peyton’s actions. Leigh’s head snapped toward her friend, and Peyton saw the look that she was too polite to voice. Even she had to admit a fourteen-dollar tip for two sodas was a bit excessive. Peyton was about to say as much, when a whistle and a wave from the men on the green to her left caught her attention.
“It’s fine. Thank you,” Leigh said. “Catch up with us later?”
“Certainly. Thanks again. Enjoy your game,” Peyton replied, not wanting to leave. But it wasn’t like they all planned to chat for the rest of the afternoon. Her job was done, and she needed to move on.
“She’s cute,” Jill commented, tipping her head in the direction of the cart driving away. “Speaking of wild, raunchy sex—”
“Yes, she is,” Leigh said. A word other than cute came to mind to describe the woman, but she refused to say that to Jill. If she did, she’d be deflecting Jill’s dare for her to ask the woman out. She wasn’t in the market for a girlfriend, but then Leigh realized that was a huge leap from having a quickie with the beverage babe, however drop-dead gorgeous she was. “But no.”
Peyton was much taller than her, close to six feet, and she obviously spent a lot of time in the sun. Her legs were long and tan, her clothes perfectly pressed and neat. She couldn’t see her eyes behind her Ray Ban sunglasses, but Leigh felt her piercing gaze. Her hair was very short, but she didn’t look overly butch.
“Her name tag said Peyton. Did you see the scar on her face?” Jill asked, her voice unnecessarily quiet. Peyton was at least fifty yards away now.
Leigh had noticed and had tried not to stare at the jagged line that ran from just beside Peyton’s left eye, down her cheek, and ended at her jawline. “Yes, I did. It’s hard to imagine that a plastic surgeon wouldn’t have sewn up a cut like that.” The scar wasn’t ugly, but it was noticeable.
“I suppose.” Jill shook her head in agreement. “It makes her look dangerous, in a sexy kind of way.” Jill raised and lowered her eyebrows to emphasize her point. “Wild, crazy sex,” Jill muttered under her breath loud enough for Leigh to hear.
Chapter Four
Peyton parked her cart and handed the key to her relief. She had a lesson in thirty minutes and wanted a chance to review her notes before Steve Albert arrived. Steve, a newly minted cardiologist, was still under the misguided belief that all doctors played golf on Wednesdays. Peyton’s brother-in-law Phil, a neurosurgeon, had told her that with today’s health-care reimbursements, most doctors couldn’t afford to take Wednesdays off anymore.
“How’s business?” her brother Marcus asked when she stepped into the small office in the clubhouse. Marcus was thirty-one and looked like a young John Wayne, complete with a six-foot, four-inch frame. While Peyton was in Nelson, Marcus had married Olivia, who, at no taller than four feet ten inches, was as energetic and exuberant as the Energizer Bunny. After meeting Olivia, Peyton had wondered how in the hell they had sex, then quickly shut that thought down. She didn’t need that image in her head.
Marcus had met Olivia soon after Peyton went to Nelson. They’d been dating for a few years before he brought Olivia along on one of his visits. Olivia was warm and chatted constantly and obviously loved her brother. Marcus came alone for one visit and told Peyton he wanted to propose.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with Olivia,” he said nervously. “I love her.”
“Marcus, that’s awesome.” When he didn’t reply or even answer, she said, “So, what’s the problem?” Peyton knew there was more to the visit than he’d let on so far.
Marcus squirmed in his hard, plastic seat, and Peyton figured it out. She touched the thick glass separating them.
As a maximum-security prisone
r, visiting day consisted of both parties sitting on hard round stools separated by bullet-resistant glass. The only way they could communicate, other than by using sign language, was through a telephone handset mounted on the wall beside them. Peyton knew all conversations were monitored when, during one of her parents’ early visits, an inmate slammed the phone back in its cradle and started shouting obscenities to the guards. She was taken away in handcuffs, still screaming about her rights to talk to whoever she wanted about whatever she wanted. Peyton, at first shaken by the ugly scene, quickly put it out of her mind. She had only fifteen minutes before the next inmate would occupy her seat.
“Marcus, I don’t expect, nor do I want, anyone to stop living their lives just because I’m in here. Your life needs to go on, and that includes being happy. If Olivia makes you happy, then you better marry her as soon as you can.” Peyton’s voice was firm. “Life is too short.”
Marcus’s marriage to Olivia had created a partnership with his new father-in-law as part owner of the exclusive club. When Marcus wanted to give Peyton a job after she was released, his father-in-law had adamantly refused. Olivia, Marcus had told her one afternoon as they were drinking iced tea on the patio, had stood up to her father and told him that Marcus would be hiring her, and that was the end of that discussion.
Peyton owed everything to Marcus and Olivia and would never do anything to make them regret their support when no one wanted to hire an ex-convict, especially a murderer. With her background as a collegiate golfer, she knew more than enough to be a competent resident pro. Copperwind charged one hundred and ten dollars an hour for a private lesson, and Peyton took home sixty of it. She currently had twelve regular clients and at least four or five others throughout the week.
“Good. Everyone’s keeping up. There was a backlog on eleven, but the foursome let the group behind them play through, and that moved things along.” In addition to her beverage duties, she reported back to Marcus about how the pairings were moving through the holes. Nothing killed the reputation of a course more than golfers griping about how they had to stand around on a tee waiting for the group in front of them to clear the hole.
“We have quite a few women playing today.” Marcus was determined to increase the number of women in the clubhouse and had designed several specific programs especially for them to encourage membership.
“There was a pretty good pairing out there. Bailey and Marshall, I think.” Peyton knew exactly the names but didn’t want to give anything away to Marcus.
“They come in a few times a month. Marshall comes in during the week too and hits a couple buckets of balls,” he said, referencing the practice range. “She’s not too bad.”
Peyton nodded, not wanting to comment too much. “She needs a little work, but she’s better than most.” Peyton changed the subject. “The LGBT invitational is coming up. You ready?”
Three years ago, Marcus had started a golf tournament specifically catering to the LGBT community. He’d posted fliers in the bars and community centers around town and placed ads in every newsletter or magazine he could find that catered to the community.
Peyton had volunteered to be a caddie, and Marcus would assign caddies to teams. At last count, twenty-seven teams of two or four had signed up. The entry fee of one hundred and twenty-five dollars per person provided the golfers a tournament golf shirt and cap, four drink tickets, lunch for the day, and attendance at the awards dinner Sunday evening. The winning team received a trophy and bragging rights for the year.
“I’m excited to see how it goes. It’s Olivia’s favorite tournament, and it’s grown each year,” Marcus commented.
Peyton was still getting to know her sister-in-law, but she’d liked her from their first meeting. Olivia was the perfect complement to Marcus’ calm, staid personality, often finishing his sentences when she thought he took too long to finish them himself. She’d welcomed Peyton home with no hesitation and, unlike some others, never asked about her life behind bars.
“It’s mine too,” Marcus said. “Everybody just wants to have some fun and play golf without any hassle. Last year we had several that were transitioning from men to women, and it’ll be interesting to see how they’re doing this year.”
Peyton looked at her brother, trying to detect if anything underlay his comment. Marcus had been twenty-one when she went away, and she was still getting reacquainted with him. She had come out to her family in her late teens, and Marcus had been her biggest supporter. He still was, and he supported the LGBT community every chance he had. But a lot had changed in the nine years she was absent from the weekly family dinner table.
Her parents, Brad, a technical writer, and Maria, the chief nurse in the busiest emergency room in the state, had aged tremendously. Worry lines were deeper, and their dark hair now more salt than pepper. They had mortgaged their house to pay for her defense. Peyton lived in an apartment above her brother’s garage, and she gave her parents almost all her paycheck every week. She kept just enough for food and utilities and a few incidentals. It was the least she could do.
Her sister, Lizzy, had just turned ten when the doors of Nelson locked behind Peyton, and now that Lizzy was nineteen, Peyton hardly recognized her. In the years she was away, Lizzy had shaved her head, had six piercings in each ear, one above each eyebrow, and a bar through her nose. Tattoos started at the first knuckle on each hand and continued up her arm, shoulder, and chest as far as Peyton could see. When Peyton saw Lizzy the first time after she was released, Lizzy had told her, no, demanded, that she should address her as Elizabeth. Lizzy was a little girl’s name, and she was not a little girl. Peyton and her mother often talked about the anger and guilt Elizabeth carried like one of her angry tattoos. Maria had shared with Peyton how, in one drunken episode, Elizabeth had shared that she felt overwhelming guilt for Peyton going to jail.
Her other sister, Natalie, now twenty-eight and more than a little overweight from sitting behind a desk, was just getting back into the good graces of her boss, the district attorney. She had been instrumental in petitioning for Peyton’s release and had gotten her ass chewed, spit out, and handed to her because of it. Natalie’s fiancé at the time of Peyton’s conviction had dumped her via text the day after her sentencing. He was callous enough to ask for the ring back, and Natalie had gladly returned it somewhere inside a baggie full of dog shit from the local park. She’d since gone on to marry a neurosurgeon.
“Do you get any backlash from the other members?” Peyton asked.
“A few. Olivia told the ones who complained to get over it or go play somewhere else.”
Peyton gladly added another tally mark in the “Owe” column under Olivia’s name.
Chapter Five
After more than ten years, the dream was as real as it was when it happened. Every detail marched through her mind in an orderly procession.
The police came the day after the shooting and took Peyton into custody. They searched her, gave her the legally required Miranda Warning, and informed her that she had the right to remain silent and to have an attorney, and that anything she said could and would be used against her. She immediately requested a lawyer.
Peyton had taken the law into her own hands and was judge, jury, and executioner. And she was okay with that. If it brought peace of mind to her little sister, she had no conscience. She knew she’d be questioned about the killing, and she had a lawyer’s phone number memorized.
She was officially booked and asked questions that she answered without her lawyer present, including her name and address, emergency contact information, and treatment for any medical condition. She was moved to another room, where her fingerprints were taken using a machine that looked like a standard copy machine. There was no ink or mess, and each of her ten fingers—her right and left four fingers and her thumbs—was digitally scanned into a database. She was handed a blackboard with white block letters spelling out her name, the date, and an identifying number and told to stand against a wall contain
ing a measuring chart and look directly into the camera. The light was harsh, and the flash blinded her for a few seconds.
She was taken to a small, empty room and told to remove all her clothes. One of the two female guards in the room watched Peyton as she stripped, the other taking her clothes and thoroughly inspecting each item. Peyton knew what search was next and complied with their instructions, knowing the sooner this was over, the sooner she could get out of there.
She was taken to a holding cell and told she’d remain there until her lawyer arrived. Four other women were in the cell, each of whom looked like this wasn’t their first visit. Woman #1 had dirty blond hair that looked like it hadn’t seen shampoo in weeks. She sat on the corner of the bench, her knees drawn up, a blank look on her face. Woman #2 was as tall as #1 and pencil-thin, her dress tight against her breasts and stomach. Her legs were disproportionately smaller than the rest of her, and she wore flip-flops. Number 3 had her head in the metal toilet, retching, the sound echoing off the concrete walls, the smell permeating the stale air. The last woman’s shorts were too short, her top too revealing, and her heels too tall for anyone other than a hooker. She was sitting on the other end of the bench from #1, examining her nails like she was just biding her time until she was bailed out.
The women looked at her when she entered, and Peyton made eye contact with each of them. It was her way of saying don’t fuck with me. It either worked or they just didn’t care and left her alone.
Her lawyer, Bernard Lerner, showed up an hour later, and she was led, in handcuffs, to an interview room. When they were left alone, as required by law, Peyton went over exactly what she’d done step by step. Lerner peppered her with questions and after two hours left her with strict instructions to not say a word to anyone about anything without him present. She returned to the holding cell, where this time, only woman #3 remained, and five new occupants were there. She received the same once-over and silent treatment as before.