Let's play a game of thwack fuck
REED
Newsflash:Lila’s better at golf than me. Mypride is deflated.
Related news: My dick is theoppositeof deflated.
Flinging her mock pity at me, she rolls her lower lip into a pout and bats her lashes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to show you?”
“For the last time, there’s nothing wrong with my grip.”
Her smile beams like the sun. “Score says otherwise.”
I glance at the display again, hoping it’s not as much of a blood bath as the last time I checked.
And that hope is pointless, much like the vow I made to avoid lusting after Lila tonight.
Or any prior night.
Armed with stubborn determination and a golf club, I roll my wrists and adjust my grip. Once I’ve spotted my target on the range, I shift my footing, then return my focus to this little bastard white ball. I take a deep breath, draw the club back, and let ‘er rip.
Thwack.
Fuck.
Once again, I get plenty ofoomphon the ball, but my accuracy sucks ass. It ends up rolling into the giant white target worth a piddly ten points.
“Hell yes,” I joke, pointing straight-armed at the course. “Did you see that shit? You haven’t hit one of those yet, cookie.”
“Be careful, or you’ll end up trading the FBI acronym for the PGA.”
We share a laugh, and it feels damn good. Even if my pride will never recover from this piss poor performance.
She’s hit the blue hundred-point target five times and the red five-hundred-point hole twice. The seven-year-old in bay eleven hasn’t gotten anything less than the fifty-point target, which is my total score at present.
In my defense, I fucking hate golf.
But I gave Lila the choice. In retrospect, I should have just taken her to ax-throwing. As she reminded me when she hit the first blue target, her father was an avid golfer.
Fuck you, hindsight.
Before I take my second shot of this round, I call Lila on her bullshit attempt to correct my grip. “All right, Lila. What am I doing wrong?”
With giddiness dancing around her, she claps twice and spins on the stool, letting her legs gently slink to the ground. After taking a sip of her drink, she flounces toward me with an adorable skip in her step.“You’re too stiff for one thing.”
My dirty mind swats the low-hanging fruit. “And you think getting closer to me will reduce mystiffness?”
“Pervert.”
She stops a foot in front of me and hinges forward slightly, mirroring my position. It gives me a view down her blouse too tempting to pass up.
Yep. I’m a pervert.
She softly pops the inside of my elbows with the back of her hand, one then the other. “I meant loosen your arms. Hands too. You’re robbing your swing of power. The club isnota flight risk. It’s not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what gravity told me.”
She points stiffly at my arms and cricks her head to one side. “Relax your arms. Now.”
