Page 5 of Wedge

Dammit, this isn’t working. Again. I turn off the TV and scoot down on the bed, laying flat on my back and close my eyes, try to center my thoughts around just the sensations. My palm is rough against my skin, so I reach for the lube and slick myself up. Better. Maybe I should get one of those sleeves to stroke with.

I flick my left nipple and grunt at the jolt that flashes down my body. I tug it harder, letting the tingle shoot down to my cock. Pre-cum leaks from my tip, slicking me up more. I rock my hips up, thrusting into my hand, gripping it harder, moving faster. I switch nipples and let the heat spark down my body until I feel the base of my cock start to pulse and clench. I grit my teeth and pump fast.

Fragile hazel eyes watch me, plump lips open in front of me, and I finally spill over, gasping, painting my chest with cum.

I release the grip on my cock and rest my hand on my heaving chest.

What. The. Hell?

4

ADRIAN

Ben Vance’s second annual Pride Tournament at his Genesee Hills Golf Club should be fun. Caleb did it last year as a caddie for TJ Harrington. Caleb’s currently in his last semester of nursing school and couldn’t help me out, but Ben lined up a guy for me. I told him I could carry my own bag, but tournament rules, gotta have a caddie. Since he’s giving me one of the few scholarship spots, I’ll play by his rules.

I left Aurora at dawn, grabbing gas station coffee and drove almost an hour to get here. Up I-70, climbing into the foothills, and got here too early. So here I stand in front of the clubhouse the morning before the tournament, waiting for the guy to show up so we can walk the course together. The air is cold and bright, stinging the inside of my nose. The mountains still have some snow on top. The grass is wet right up to the edge of the parking lot. I smell pine and sprinklers.

I have on the required boring white polo that covers most of my tats, and a golf cap flattens my hawk. The plugs are out of my ears, waiting in a little box in my duffle bag. Without them, my ears feel naked. So does the rest of me, in this polo. My stomach knots itself around the half of a granola bar I had for breakfast.

Finally, Ben approaches with a broad-shouldered man in a dark navy polo. The bill of his cap hides his face as he tilts his head down to listen to something Ben is saying. When he tosses his head back on a laugh, my breathing stops. My lungs do not work.

My caddie is the gorgeous man from Babylon. Holy fuck. My cock twitches in my khaki shorts. Shit, no chubbing up, A, not cool.

He turns his face up to look my way, and his steps falter, then a smile spreads over his face. Shit, I can’t breathe.

“Adrian!” he says. “What a coincidence!”

“You know each other?” Ben asks.

“Caleb,” Stephen says.

“I swear that boy knows everyone,” Ben laughs. “So, Adrian, if you already know Stephen?”

“Just met at Babylon, actually,” Stephen replies. “Don’t know anything beyond he’s a better dancer than me and knows Caleb.”

He doesn’t mention Tad. He doesn’t mention how fast I bolted for the door. My chest unknots, and I have to laugh. “You’re not too terrible.” He really is.

He gives me a wry smile. “And you are a terrible liar.” He extends a hand. “Stephen Dodd.”

“Adrian Carter,” I reply, sliding my hand against his big palm.

He hefts my golf bag onto his shoulder and gestures towards the driving range. “Let’s get you warmed up, shall we?”

The range is quiet this early, just a few other early birds and the soft plunk of balls landing in wet grass. I stretch out a little, then hit a bucket of balls, Stephen handing me clubs. We start with my wedges, up to my irons, then woods, and finally my driver. He makes notes for each club, and I peek at them. My best distances per club. I have my own cheat sheet on a piece of paper tucked into my bag, folded so many times the creases have gone white, but his are gridded and fancier. The air up here is thin, and the ball goes forever. I nail a few over three-fifty, and Stephen whistles with approval.

“That’ll do,” he says.

I flush from the praise.

He raises a hand as if to pat my shoulder, then pulls it back. “Sorry, habit. Just my way of saying ’good job’ without words. I’ll use words.”

I feel my stupid face flush, and I realize it’d be okay if he pats my shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m okay with it. The shoulder pat,” I say.

He tilts his head to the side, then nods and pats my shoulder. Twice. His hand is huge, and I can feel the heat of it through the polo shirt.

“Okay, then. Let’s head to the first tee box. We’re starting on the mountain loop, The Ridge.”

The first tee sits on a rise, the fairway a long green strip below us with dark pines on the sides and mountains behind the trees, stretching out forever. It’s a long par four with a wide open fairway. He hands me my driver, and I set up.