A Soul Ensnared

Four

June 15, 2013

"You really do know how to please a man, Sonya," Edward Brighton declared, stepping up to the tee, driver in hand. "Somehow you always pick the best caddy for me; it really helps improve my game!" He steadied his stance, gave a practice swing, and then clipped the ball off the tee. The ball sailed through the air, only to get caught by an errant wind, which blew it right into the edge of the rough. Brighton beamed, puffing out his chest. He clapped his caddy on the shoulder, letting out a whoop of excitement. "You see that shot, boys? That is how this game is played!"

Sonya released a tense laugh, trying to remain focused. She was tired, she was hot, and her mood was growing more sour by the minute. They were on the back nine of the longest game of her life. Having expected a long afternoon, she had dressed in a white golf skirt, a pink, sleeveless polo shirt, and white Keds. A round of golf with Brighton's group was something she usually looked forward to: six middle-aged men, six caddies, and one staff member with a golf cart filled with coolers full of snacks, water, and beer. She should have been allowing the conversation to rejuvenate her for the grueling office work that would soon eat away her afternoon, but everything about the day kept her from enjoying the game. She wasn't in the mood to be out on the course, she hadn't prepared herself to sit through all eighteen holes of Bloomfield's expansive course, and it hadn't occurred to her that the company would be anything less than pleasant. Paired with the argument with Brent, and the lewd, suggestive nature of Noelle, Sonya was clasping onto her last bit of patience.

The stagnant air felt oppressive, as oppressive as the idea that Brent had had a previous encounter with Noelle while they had been dating. Even knowing the woman had been drunk, and that she might have been mistakenly texting Brent instead of another man, a shred of doubt had crept in. Over the course of the morning, she'd allowed her mind to replay the messages in her head. The comments of "cum over" seemed to take on new meaning when she paired it with Brent's statement about not wanting to be tied down.

At every turn in her relationship, she felt as if she had to fight to remain relevant. Last night had felt like a struggle to merely exist in his world. Why was he with her if he never envisioned a blended life that included her in it? Was it because he was still busy looking for another woman? Were there other women waiting for him to break it off, like Noelle had suggested, hoping for a moment to jump into his arms and into his bed?

She sighed, wiping a bead of sweat off her brow. At least I know he's never had the time to cheat on me.

... Or has he? She looked over the group of men, mind riddled with confusion. Another man had stepped up to the tee, taking Brighton's place. Her eyes drifted across the group, searching for anyone who might need a light refreshment. She needed to focus on something else, anything else, but Brent. On accident, she caught the eye of a man she'd been ignoring for most of the morning. It was one of Brighton's members. He caught her eye, released a deviant smile, and licked his lips in a slow, deliberate manner.

A cringe of revulsion coursed through her frame. Her eyes turned stony in response. She jerked her eyes away to gain some control over the situation. This man, a portly, balding man, had been a point of contention throughout the morning. He was prone to brilliant, neon colors in an attempt to offset his girth, and he had established himself as the most obnoxious character in the Brighton group from the moment she met him. As soon as he had set eyes on Sonya, he had decided to act like a jock in a locker room.

Feeling his eyes still on her, she released an inward groan. This is your job, Sonya. Who cares how he makes you feel. If you want his money, you'll oblige him. Setting her teeth, she pursed her lips, and turned to ask if he needed another beer. This would be his sixth, which more than explained his poor golf skills.