Forever October [Preview]

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Haley

Golf is a form of self-torture.

The game is a straight shot to constant dissatisfaction. The chance that anything goes my way is somewhere between no and never. The sport suffers from a bad rap as a game for wealthy retirees.

But something happened in recent years. The older pros with their sharp jackets and pleated pants retired. In roared the next generation of players with their smokin' lean muscles and determined focuses that made women imagine what that razor sharp focus could do off the course. Calm yourselves, ladies. Chances are that putt your man messed up on hole 5 in the last round is what he's thinking about while orgasming.

Which is why I traded in my clubs and became a golf caddie. You know. The golfer's assistant trailing the athlete and carrying the golf bag and lending advice on the stroke.

"Inside left," I advise my client, a visibly frustrated gentleman who makes million-dollar deals in between the fairway and putting green.

He sets up the shot, shoulders aligned with the flag, and he ignores my advice. The ball flies sharp right and short. Not even 100 yards. My feet propel me backwards and out of the way as he throws his club like a toddler and paces in a circle, hands on hips, breathing like he's stalking prey. "God dammit," he seethes. "I hate this sport."

This isn't the time to remind him that on the previous hole he had shouted, "I love this sport," in a dramatic knee-bending, fist-curling jab. The highs are high, and the lows are volatile.

He will be back. He is addicted to the hope their game might go well.

It usually doesn't.

He takes his phone out and makes a call, pressing it against his ear, ordering someone to get his car. "I'm leaving early today, Haley," he says, putting his phone away and picking up his club.

"How's business?" I get in the golf cart and drive him along the tree-lined path with peek-a-boo glimpses of the course to the clubhouse.

"Better than my golf game."

The clubhouse comes into view. Peaked roofs and a stone exterior are offset by a higher-than-usual crowd mulling around which I navigate between and towards the cart drop-off. A press of the brake and my job is done.

He takes his golf bag out of the back and shakes my hand, slipping me cash. "Good luck next week. My wife and I will be here for round one."

The cash is a $100 bill I slip into the thin pocket in the nylon shorts beneath my golf skirt. Not bad for watching someone pay to stress themselves out.

And now my turn has come to stress.

The reason I got into this sport is a secret causing me to lose sleep. Nerves in my stomach flare and breathe fire. My steps quicken causing my golf skirt to smack my backside. Sweat lingers at the juncture of bra meeting skin from the past four hours spent beneath the burnout of early September heat.