The Perfect Stroke (4 page)

“Oh. Right.” He climbs up into the passenger side of the tow truck just as I close the door. He looks around the old truck and I can literally see his nose curl in disgust. The old jewel ain’t much, but it’s not that bad. The seats are ripped and the black dash is now faded and cracked. The doors are squeaky and, okay, there’s dust and dirt everywhere, but it runs like a top. I take off towards the bronze-colored Tahoe and stop when I can park in front of it. I jump down and go to the Tahoe. I open the front door to his car as I hear Gray screech. “
What are you doing??
”

“Popping the hood,” I answer, staring at him like he’s crazy. I think he might be.
Did he think I could tell what was wrong just from looking at it?

“But you’re filthy!”

Oh, good Lord in Heaven, is this really the same guy who went down on me for a freaking hour? I reach in and pull the lever for the hood, slam the door shut a little stronger than necessary, then look at him, daring him to say anything. His mouth tightens up like he’s dying to, but he restrains himself.

“Really,” he goes on. “I think I can just call triple A, and…”

I ignore him. That seems to be the best option at this point and, since I chose it to begin with, I’m staying the course. His battery terminals are caked and I can tell from just looking at one that it’s loose. I’m surprised he’s been driving at all, though maybe he hit a bump or something and jarred it. I go back to the truck and grab a screwdriver, a wire brush, and a rag.

“What are you doing now?” he asks, sounding put-out.

“Cleaning your terminals. For someone who was worried I might get grease on his sweet leather interior, your battery posts are horrible. You got to clean under the hood sometimes too, Ace,” I tell him. Once I have one of the posts clean, I tighten the connector to it and do the same to the other. The battery could be bad, but somehow I doubt it.

“It’s not the battery. I told you the lights are on. Hell, even the radio still plays.”

I ignore him.
Yet again
. 

“Get inside and see if it will start,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes at me and I briefly imagine stabbing him between those eyes with my screwdriver. The engine turns and tries to hit, but it doesn’t have enough juice. I go back to the truck and get out the cables, pop my hood, and get ready to jump the engine. Just as I’m about to attach the ends to his battery, he grabs them out of my hand.

“Whoa, now. I don’t think you should be doing that.”

“Seriously?”

“Listen, I appreciate your help and all, but I told you my lights and things come on. If the battery was dead, that wouldn’t happen. I’m pretty sure it’s something more mechanical. I’ll just call triple A and have them send a tow out, you can go back to drowning yourself in oil, and everything will be fine.”

I sigh. “Listen. You’re obviously not from here. So let me explain a few things. First of all, I’m the only tow service for at least sixty miles. Which means if you call roadside assistance, they’re going to call me, and I’ll have to come out anyway. Second of all, the nearest garage besides mine is at least two hundred miles away, which means your tow bill, while nice for my pocket, is not worth it. Plus, I have things I need to do today and I really don’t feel like driving into the city. Third—and this might be the most important—I really would like to get you back on the road just to get rid of you,” I tell him, taking the cables out of his hand. “Now, this is obviously not your area of expertise, but things work according to amps. That means, your radio or lights might work with just a little juice in your battery, but there might not be enough to, say, run your car at the same time, or even start it,” I explain, attaching the cables. “It also means if there’s not a good connection, the output of the battery might not be strong enough. Understand?”

“Listen, I just don’t think you—”

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” I mutter, walking around and going to start his vehicle. When it fires right up, I slam the door—
hard
. He stands there looking at the car like it has Martians surrounding it and is getting ready to take him back to the mother ship. I proceed to take everything back to my truck while he stands there still looking at his car. When I slam his hood (again too hard), he turns around to look at me, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He looks a little embarrassed, and that makes me feel marginally better. Now if he apologizes for being an ass, I might feel better about the weekend I spent with him. I’ve seen the signs and maybe it’s because I’ve dealt with them over and over, but I really get tired of men who think I don’t understand how to do my job because I’m a woman.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks as he goes to his wallet, no apology in sight.

Okay, then. If that’s how he’s going to play it.

“Hundred bucks.”

“You’re kidding me! You weren’t out here but for ten minutes! That’s highway robbery. With prices like that, I’m surprised you get any business at all,” he grumbles, handing me a hundred dollar bill.

“Oh, what I did here was free.” His mouth goes tight again. Strangely enough, this time
I
smile.

“If that’s free, then why am I giving you money?”

“Because you were really that annoying. So I charged ten dollars for every minute I had to be around you. I probably should have charged more, but I’m feeling charitable.” I jump up in my truck and leave Gray standing there with his mouth open.

Yeah, I liked him better when his head was buried between my legs.

As I watch Claude drive back to her shop, I can’t shake the feeling that I know her from somewhere. There’s something about her voice … and that face—well, what I could see of it that wasn’t covered with oil. I have the strangest urge to follow her, but I can’t because I have to meet with Riverton.

This is bullshit. I’m not Green after all. Being in the majors like he is, he has to deal with bullshit sponsors. Golf is completely different from baseball, and it’s one thing I’ve always been thankful for. I’m also unbelievably fucking good at it. That’s not ego, though I will admit to having that at times. It’s just the truth. My sport is filled with middle-aged men; there’s a reason they call me the young stud of the sport. I like that title. Fuck, I live up to that title. I’ve become the face of the industry in just a few short years. I took a bunch of ribbing because I went into golf—most of it from my own fucking brothers. But I silenced them by bringing home the bank. Shit, I make more than Green and I don’t have to tow the line like he does. That might be the very reason I’m resenting the fact that Seth has me out here playing nice with Riverton. I am not a fucking yes man. I am who the fuck I am and I like being me. Kissing up to some man just so his company can smooth the way with the big wigs in charge of the tour pisses me off. Everyone thinks money greases the wheels, that it’s all about the money, but the truth is … it’s
politics
. In the big leagues, everyone has full pockets. They just want to show off who has the bigger dick. The people in charge of getting me exposure, ensuring my rank and position for the tournament, are
major
dicks.

As I pull up to the wrought iron gate with two giant R’s detailed on it, I do my best to swallow the bile that comes up in my chest. Is this what swallowing your pride feels like? The urge to drive away is strong, but I beat that down too. I’ll play nice. I’ll send in the matches I’ll appear at, and with Riverton behind me, I’ll be welcomed with open arms. Then,
fuck them all
. Once I win that pretty trophy and jacket, I’m done
. D. O. N. E
. Then they’ll be the ones crawling to me. I’ll be the one in complete control.

I hit the button on the speaker and tell the voice who I am. The gates open. I pull up and look into my rearview mirror. As they slowly come to a close, I flinch. One season. That’s it. I’ll do this to become what I need to be: the master of my own destiny.

I drive towards the house and the strangest thing happens. I think about this past weekend with CC. That’s where I wish I was right now. Back with her in that damn hotel room, listening to her laugh, feeling her legs wrap around me as I sink down into her. But that’s not what hits my gut and makes my hands constrict so tight around the steering wheel it could almost break.

It’s the realization that the voice of Claude and CC are one and the same.

I’ll be visiting a certain little mechanic again soon.
Very soon
.

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Jackson says, as if there are two of him. It always makes me grin. At times he sounds so much like Banger that it hurts. 

“Later, old man,” I tell him, getting that look from him I always get. There’s only ten years’ difference in our ages, but Jackson
seems
so much older. Banger always said life can age you more than years, and Jackson seems to be a walking testament to that. We break apart at our vehicles. Once I start my car, Jackson takes off on his bike. Right before I put the car into drive, I realize I left my cellphone in the garage. With a groan—because I
really
want to get home—I switch the car off and go back the way I came. I have the phone retrieved and I’m locking the door when I hear his voice from behind.

“I think it’s a crime to cover up hair that beautiful in that cap on your head.”

Before I can even fully turn around, Gray’s reaching up to pull it off. My hair tumbles over my shoulders and halfway down my back. As if by reflex, I use my hand to shake the curls out and comb it away from my face.

“I guess this means you know who I am now.”

“I guess I do,” he says, propping himself up on my door and caging me in.

“I guess I should give you a cookie or something,” I mumble, finally getting the door to lock.

“I can think of something else I’d rather you give me.”

“That’s not happening,” I assure him, stubbornly refusing to look his way.

“Why’s that?”

“That ship has sailed.”

“We could always take it back out to sea.”

“The point of weekend hookups out of town is that they end at the weekend and they remain out of town,” I tell him with a wince, trying to ignore how that makes me sound. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to come to town on business.”

“This place isn’t exactly industry row.”

“No, but it does have its appeal, that’s for sure.” His finger wraps around a strand of my hair. I barely resist the urge to pull it away from him. I’m working really hard on ignoring the way his voice sends chills down my back.
The man is like a drug!
—one that I’m definitely smart to quit cold turkey.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your visit,” I tell him, “but I need to get home. It’s been a long day and Cat is waiting for me.”

“You named your cat… Cat?”

“Cat could have been a person.”

“Is she?”

“No.”

“Then I’m right. Strange. I would have figured you for a dog person.”

“Well, you don’t really know me.”

“You’re definitely wrong there. I think I know a lot about you.”

“Considering you didn’t even know who I was earlier today, I think I can safely argue.”

“If I remember correctly, proving you wrong is a lot of fun, so you can argue away.”

“What’re you—?”

“Remember? You said there was no way you could come again, and I told you that you could. All it took was sliding my tongue slowly against—”

“Okay, I think you should stop there. I’ve had a long day, and I’m sure you’re anxious to get back on the road and go back to wherever—”

“Actually, it seems I’m going to be staying in Kentucky for a couple of weeks.”

My heart stutters at his words, and a nervous tension gathers in my stomach. This news shouldn’t affect me one way or another—but it does. I do my best to shake it off and not let it show.

“In that case, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around. Right now, however, I better get going.”

“Right, home to your…
cat
,” he says, and I don’t correct him.

“Exactly. Take care, Gray.”

“Maybe you could help me first.”