Buck flopped down on his bed, tempted to wake Art up and find out what the hell went wrong this time. Let the kid sleep. They had an early starting time in the morning.
Instead, Buck clicked on the bedside lamp and took Art’s tablet off the floor.
When he’d seen Carla tonight, his heart had skipped a beat and butterflies had filled his stomach, worse than a schoolboy crush. The anticipation of seeing her again, even if it was only to retrieve his 1-iron, lightened the mood. Although he wondered about Roger, Jr.
Buck found photos of Carla on the Zinger website, including a recent one from the Phoenix Open. He recognized the dress. She and Junior were together, looking like a couple.
Junior was a vice president with Zinger. He was a decent looking guy, probably in his forties. There was no mention of a wife. Was Roger Junior the real reason Carla was in Tucson? Were they a couple?
Shit.
He put down the tablet and turned off the light.
It seemed only minutes later he woke to the sound of Art’s voice.
“We did lots of kissing and other things,” Art said.
That got Buck’s full attention. He switched on the lamp.
It was four a.m.
Art sat sideways on the bed, a huge grin on his face and his head rotating wildly, up and down and all around. “We did lots of things.”
“Congratulations.” Buck offered a fist bump, but Art thrust his fingers in the air.
“We did it two times!”
“Art Rimlinger, you’re a stud now.” Buck lowered onto the pillow. Closing his eyes, he dozed with the light on while Art kept up a steady stream of excited and repetitious commentary.
“I can work at a gamer store and Hannah will live here with us.”
Buck snapped awake. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, lover boy.”
“She gave me her number. I should call her.”
“It’s too early.” Buck lifted up on his elbows. “Listen, women like Hannah, they’re not girlfriends.”
“But she is my girlfriend now.” Art squeezed his shoulders to his ears.
“Art, we can’t have girlfriends. See, you and me, we’re love `em and leave `em dudes.”
“I don’t want to leave her.”
“She wants you to,” Buck said.
“No she doesn’t. She said she likes me.”
“It’s her job to say that.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. She got paid to bang you tonight.”
“But I want to buy her a ring.”
“No. Forget about it.” Buck turned off the light. “Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t forget about Hannah!” Art switched the light back on. “We have a date tonight.”
Buck bolted upright. “You can’t get attached to her.”
“You wouldn’t let me have Carla and now you won’t let me have Hannah. You’re just jealous because they like me better.”
“Knock it off.” Buck couldn’t stop himself. “And Carla doesn’t like you more than me.”
“Yes she does,” Art said. “But you can have her now because I have Hannah.”
“Seriously, what planet are you living on? You’re not letting me have anybody.”
“I could let you have Gigi.” Art giggled and then dropped to the floor onto his knees. He held his hands up in a prayer position, pleading, “Please let me have another date with Hannah.”
“I won’t even think about it unless you turn off the light and go to sleep.”
Art scrambled into bed and the light was out in an instant.
In the dark, Buck said, “If we make the cut today, we can talk about another date.”
There was silence for a moment and then Art said, “Buck?”
“What now?”
“You’re the best brother,” Art answered.
Buck lifted his head. “I’m not as good as you think.” He punched his pillow. “Just so you know, you’re spending your money and Hannah ain’t cheap.”
“I love you anyway.”
“If you want to show it, then shut up and let me sleep.”
on the dance floor
The wind was a beast on Friday. Stiff gusts of brute force attacked at the worst moments, kicking up dust and desert debris. It made for a challenging round. Buck focused on keeping his ball low. His distance suffered, but his putter made up for it.
Buck came off the course with an even par for the round. Sandblasted, drained, and dried out, he signed his scorecard.
A quick glance at the full scoreboard told Buck what he needed to know. He said to Art, “We’ll make the cut.”
“How do you know?”
“We’re in top twenty.”
It was a good feeling, monumental, but without the crushing sense of relief he’d expected. Instead, it was a curiously normal sensation. The greens were showing signs of fatigue, and the bloom had faded from Lone Wolf and now that he’d made the cut, the tournament was strictly business. It was all about how many points he could rack up and how much money he could earn this week.
Before they’d walked very far, LeeAnn appeared. She stood on her tiptoes, waved and then ran towards them.
No way to escape, no room for retreat.
“You played spectacular today.” She breathed heavily as she lurched at Buck.
Before he could say anything, Buck saw Carla in the crowd behind LeeAnn. She was heading their way. Buck raised his hand to let her know he’d seen her.
LeeAnn turned around.
When Carla drew near, Art moved to her. “I have a new girlfriend,” he told her.
Buck touched LeeAnn’s shoulder lightly. “Can I call you later?”
He put on a warm smile, knowing he had no intention of calling her. It didn’t work. She was miffed; those eyes didn’t hide much. She stomped away.
Buck quickly turned his attention to what Art was telling Carla.
“So we aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. Because I can’t have two girlfriends.” Art shook his head. “No, we can’t have that.” He did his baby bird motion, exposing his throat while he said, “Hannah lives here. We did stuff last night. Lots of things.”
Art let out a loud snickering laugh and Buck just about died of embarrassment. He glanced at Carla. She merely smiled and said, “I’m happy for you.”
“I have Hannah’s phone number. Buck said if we made the cut I could call her.”
“That’s great.” Carla sounded respectful, almost as though she really was proud of Art.
She turned to Buck. “Very nice round today.”
“We made it work.” Buck hesitated before he asked her, “Are you free for dinner? I mean I could pick up the 1-iron, you know.”
Carla tilted her head slightly. “You’re not busy with your blonde friend?”
“Her?” Buck made a sour face, as though repulsed. “She’s with StraightLine. It’s strictly business.”
“Can Hannah come?” Art asked.
“No.” Buck kept his gaze on Carla.
She lowered her head, staring at the ground. “There’s an event I need to attend.”
“Okay.” Buck put his hands in his pockets and scanned the crowd behind her. “I guess I’ll have to find another time.”
“We could meet later tonight.” Her eyes were on him now.
“Yeah?”
She spoke quickly when she said. “Can you stop by around eight-thirty? I’ll be ready to leave the party by then. Sometimes Roger can get a little long-winded.”
“Dinner date two nights in a row,” Buck said.
“It’s not a date. It’s business. Just like your blonde friend.”
Buck crossed his arm. She couldn’t possibly know about LeeAnn. Or could she? Intuition? Gossip?
No way; he was being paranoid.
Carla turned and walked away. With a glance over her shoulder, she said. “I’ll text you the address where I’m staying.”
#
Buck and Art arrived a few minutes early and Ca
rla opened the door in a dress and heels.
As Buck breezed in, he waved his arm. “Is this place yours too?”
“Mr. Buchanan, where are your manners? Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ before you want to know who owns the property.”
“Sorry. Am I being rude?”
She ushered them into the living room. Art immediately noticed the technical gibberish floating across the television screen. He picked up the remote and started to press buttons. “Your cable is not working.”
“I know. I’m not sure what happened.” Carla seemed to avoid looking at Buck.
Art pressed a few more buttons and the screen came alive.
“You fixed it. Thank you, Art,” Carla said.
“Can I play with my Xbox? It doesn’t work in the hotel.” Art held up both hands with his fingers crossed in anticipation of her permission being given.
“Uh.” Carla looked at Buck for permission.
He shrugged.
“Sure,” she said. “For a little while.”
Art jumped into action. He hightailed it out the door.
Buck looked around. The condo was much newer than her house, and didn’t seem to fit her style with the modern furniture. There was no evidence of personal stuff like photos.
“Did you rent this?” he asked her.
“No. Zinger owns it.” She moved out of the foyer and into the living room. “Congratulations on making the cut.”
“Thanks. It feels good, really good.” He wanted to tell her that she’d helped him do it, but it would sound sappy and weak.
There was an awkward silence.
“You don’t have the girls tomorrow?” he asked.
“No. Saturday was the last class. The next program will start after spring break. But, I’m taking Jasmine and Roberta out on Monday. They’re practicing for a tournament.”
“A tournament already?”
“It gives them a reason to play.”
Her dress was long-sleeved and she rubbed her hands on her arms, as though she had a sudden chill.
“How was dinner?” Buck asked.
“The same.”
“So why didn’t you say you were going to be at the tournament?”
She turned away and went to the kitchen. “I wasn’t exactly sure when I’d be here.” She removed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “You want one?”
“Sure.” Buck moved closer to her.
“I didn’t want to set up any expectations. With Art.” She handed him a bottle and took one for herself.
The front door opened.
“Carla,” Art shouted. He appeared with the Xbox carton.
Carla moved into the living room. Art knelt next to the screen and looked up at Carla. “When I say ‘go’ start timing me.”
She held up her wrist and focused on her watch. Buck watched from the kitchen.
“Ready when you are,” she said.
“Go.” Art raced to unscrew the cables and rearrange the connections, then he took the controller and reprogrammed the set box and had it working.
“Less than four minutes,” Carla told him.
Art grinned and settled onto the sectional. “I need to tell Gigi about Hannah.”
Carla turned to Buck. “Oh, before I forget. Your 1-iron is in the closet.” She led him to the foyer and opened a small door. She pulled the 1-iron out and offered the grip to him.
His hesitation told him why he’d not returned to retrieve it.
When the club was in his hand, he felt the disappointment in losing his excuse to see her again. It was too soon, too fast. He’d hoped to return to Phoenix with a trophy in his hand.
“There’s a practice green in the courtyard,” she said, moving to the stairs.
With one foot on the first step, the hem of her dress fell across her leg, draped tantalizingly over the soft hollow of her inner thigh.
“If you want I can show you an exercise I like to do before a tournament round.” She took another step up.
Buck followed her legs with his eyes.
“Let me change,” she said.
He waited in the foyer, holding the 1-iron, listening to his heart pounding in his chest. Disappointment had melted into anticipation. Surely, she meant another lesson, a drill or exercise, but his heart expected something else. It was dumb, it was wrong.
Buck went back to the kitchen for the bottle of water.
When Carla returned, she was dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie.
She carried a carton of Hickenlooper balls. She removed a sleeve and emptied it into her hand.
“No glow in the dark balls?”
“Let’s see what you can do with your 1-iron.” She moved to the back door.
Buck no longer thought of it as sentimental mumbo-jumbo and it touched him that she understood the 1-iron was important to him.
They stepped through the back door and out into a common area with a long, narrow lawn separating the condo units. Low profile lighting marked the sidewalk.
She led him out onto an area set up as a practice putting green. It was near a cluster of units with no lights on. He saw her lift a flagstick out and place a ball down. He couldn’t see much more than the white ball and had only a dim sense it was about a foot from the hole.
His eyes adjusted and he could see the dark outline of the plastic cup.
The first ball dropped in.
She positioned the next ball a quarter turn around the hole and a foot further away. Buck quietly tapped it in.
A third ball went down, another foot out and a quarter turn.
He missed the fourth ball.
“Good,” she said. “I like the spiral. It’s a divine shape.”
“Where do you come up with all this stuff?”
“My father taught me not to play the game, but to play the ball. So that’s what I do. I play with the ball.”
Buck took his stance again. “If we keep this up, I’m going to have to start calling you the golf whisperer or something.”
She sighed softly. “Please don’t.”
A door opened behind him, casting a harsh light on Carla’s face. She squinted and put her hand over her eyes. Buck moved to block the light.
The door closed and Buck turned around. A man with a small dog on a leash walked towards them. The dog whimpered. A moment later the man passed by, saying, “Good evening.”
“Evening,” Buck replied.
Whether because of the interruption or because it had been poking around in his brain since last night, Buck said, “Uh, I didn’t know there were two Rogers.”
“Oh.”
That was a non-answer. “How well do you know them?” he asked.
“I met Roger when I played for ASU.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes,” she said. “Buck, what are you asking?”
They were standing closer now. He breathed in deeply before he asked, “Are you particularly close to Roger Junior?”
“Why do you ask?” She stepped back and then moved to retrieve a ball off the ground.
“I don’t know. You were sitting together at dinner.”
She laughed. “If I were interested in a man, it would not be Roger Junior.”
Something about her answer made Buck hesitate.
“Are you saying you’re not into men?”
She shifted the ball between her hands. “Depends on the person.”
The meaning soaked in slowly.
“What? Like a fifty-fifty thing?” he asked.
“It’s not a tug-of-war.”
“You sure,” he said, “cause I’d kind of like to know which side is winning.”
“There’s no winning or losing.” She laughed again.
In the dim light, he saw her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“You never did tell me why your 1-iron is so important,” she said.
“I thought we already talked about it.” He knew he hadn’t.
The man with the dog walked by again. They
didn’t exchange pleasantries this time.
Buck waited for the man to pass before he said, “Art’s dad gave it to me. Art probably doesn’t remember this, but when we had to move out of the house, Ruthie sold it in the garage sale. She took it from me, even though I begged her not to. It was already pretty beat up back then, but it was mine to keep, not hers to sell.”
Buck stopped a moment.
“A man down the street paid her two dollars for it. We had a terrible fight. A real shouting match in front of the neighbors. Man, I know I said some awful things but I was so angry that she’d purposefully taken away the only thing I had that was Leon’s.”
This was the first time he’d put words to that horrible day.
“I had to clean his gutter to get it back,” he said.
Carla didn’t say anything, but she moved a little closer to him.
“See, when Leon came onto the scene, it was all new to me. I’d never had father. It was awesome and I just assumed that once he was there, he wouldn’t leave. I believed it because I thought God, or the universe, or whatever was somehow balancing the scales for me, to compensate for not having a father of my own.”
Buck squeezed the grip.
“I thought if I hung onto it, maybe he’d come back one day.”
His voice faltered and he tapped the club head on the ground lightly, as though repairing a divot that wasn’t there.
He sensed her gaze, but couldn’t meet it. “Kid logic,” he whispered.
“It was a bad time. Losing the house, changing schools in the middle of junior high, having to put up with Art and all his special needs. It sucked.”
Carla put her hand on his forearm. She lifted her eyes to him. “Your mother was probably dealing with her own grief and she might have thought Art needed her more than you did.”
“He did, but I made sure everybody knew I was pissed.”
She chuckled. “I’ll bet you did. But you know, as hard as it was, it made you who you are today.”
Buck looked up at the sky, and then fixed his eyes on her. “That’s what I love about you,” he said.
“Love, huh?” She smiled.
“Well, you know.” Buck tamped the 1-iron on the ground again.
“Know what?” She squeezed his forearm gently.
“I meant you have a way of making everything sound better, feel better.”
The Perfectly Good Lie Page 16