His gaze drops to the glass in my hand, and with a scoff, he says, “How’s the sparkling water?”
With the hint of a smile, I lift my glass to my lips and take a sip before meeting his eyes and asking, “How’s the…wife?”
Jackson’s face twists with anger, and he takes a step closer, chest puffed out as he fronts up to me, positively seething. “You better watch your fuckin’ mouth, Devereaux.”
Noticing the commotion, a few of the guys nearby step in, one pulling Jackson away from me, another moving in to stand between us, and I have to tamp down my laughter because Jackson fucking Taylor couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. He’s a little bitch. And the only reason he’s even trying me right now is because he knows the people around us are going to step in before it can escalate to me kicking his ass.
“Gentlemen?” The head of the tour, Greg Stoltz, steps in, eyes incredulously wide as they flit from me to Jackson and back again, glowering like I’m the instigator, because of fucking course. “Do we have a problem here?”
I shake my head. “No. No problem from me.”
Greg turns to Jackson, who is currently smoothing down the lapels of his sports jacket. With a huffed exhale, he pushes his blond hair back from his reddened face. “Nope.”
“Well, good,” Greg says, clearly unconvinced. Again, he turns to me as he continues, his warning loud and clear. “I don’t want to see any trouble from you this weekend, Mr. Devereaux. On or off the course. I don’t think I need to remind you that Donald Spielman is only a phone call away.”
I nod once, forcing a smile as I say with absolute insincerity, “I will be on my absolute best behavior, sir.” And then, sliding my gaze to fucking Jackson, I slam my empty glass onto a nearby table. My smile turns menacing as I jut my chin at him. “See you tomorrow,Jackson.”
Cam: What is this?
I look closer at the picture on my phone. It’s a blurry cell phone photo of Jackson and me back at the club, Jackson all up in my face, me grinning at him like a cocky son of a bitch.
Blake: Did you pick a fight with Taylor?
Me: Trust me. If I’d picked a fight with that kid, he would’ve walked away with a broken fucking nose.
Cam: Brookes, you need to stay out of trouble.
Me: Not to sound like a child, but he literally started it.
Blake: I’m flying out there.
I throw my head back on a groan, banging it a few times against the mirrored wall of the elevator. Just what I need.
Me: I play better when I don’t have a chaperone.
Blake: Well, I don’t trust you not to do something stupid.
My fist clenches around my phone so tight I hear the device crack under the pressure. Taking a deep breath, I count to three before tapping out my reply.
Me: Do I need to remind you who works for fucking whom?
Cam: Okay. Everyone just calm down.
Me: I don’t need a goddamn babysitter.
Blake: Well then stop acting like a child.
I switch my phone off before I say something I know I’ll regret, suddenly more worked up than I was earlier after leaving the Legend’s Dinner. Sometimes it really does feel like no one is ever on my fucking side.
When the elevator chimes, I hop off and continue to the end of the corridor, swiping my keycard and pushing through the doors to the suite. Inside is quiet and dimly lit, and I glance to the side, noticing Poppy’s bedroom door is closed. Huffing a hard breath, I push my hair back from my face and continue through to the French doors, opening them and walking out onto the terrace that looks over the city of Tulsa lit up against the darkness across the river.
Man, I could do with a drink. Beer, liquor, a shot of fucking tequila—I’d accept just about anything to take the edge off, something to dull the noise of the voices in my head screaming at me that, no matter how hard I try, I’m never going to be the best again, telling me I might as well just give in.
Hanging my head, I take a few steadying breaths, collecting myself as best as I can when I hear a faint whimper come from behind the French doors that open from the terrace into Poppy’s bedroom.
Snapping my head up, I listen again, but I’m met with nothing but silence. I take a step closer, closing my eyes as if that helps, but there’s nothing. Great. Not only am I desperate for a drink, now I’m fucking hearing things. Maybe I should go call my sponsor.
Heading back inside, I walk toward my bedroom, but I’m stopped dead in my tracks because I know for a damn sure I didn’t just imagine that. Poppy is in her room… whimpering. And, of course, my dick stirs because I’m only fucking human, and it’s been over a year since the big guy’s had any real action.
