Page 95 of Calling the Shots

Yeah, we get it. You have a nice ass.

Mack averts his gaze, stepping around her and stabbing the ground with his tee. Tinsley brushes against his arm, swiping her tee from the ground.

“Sorry. Don’t want this to be in your way.” Then she spins on her heel and swish-swishes away.

Lips pressed together in a tight line, Mack’s brow furrows in concentration. He takes a practice stroke, then drives the ball further than everyone else.

“Impressive.” Tinsley trills the word and a tiny bit of vomit rises in my throat.

“Let’s hit it, kids. We’ve got a group behind us.” Mack’s dad hitches his thumb at the impatient foursome glowering behind us.

Mack’s dad takes off and I follow, depressing the pedal all the way. We pick up speed going downhill and I let off the gas pedal, hoping to coast.

All of us slow down as we approach the fairway and I cut the cart to the right, trying to get close to Mack’s ball. Unfortunately, I hit a patch of white gravel as I near his parents’ cart. I slam on the brakes and the cart slides twenty feet. I’m an inch away from rear-ending his mom and dad. Mack braces himself as a puff of white dust blossoms around us and we screech to a halt.

“Good God almighty, son! What’s going on back there?” Mack’s dad adjusts his hat, shaking his head, and Mack’s mom scowls at us. The look’s practically her entire personality at this point.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

“It’s fine, babe.” Mack pats my thigh, Emma Kate and Tinsley snickering in the background.

I can’t even drive a golf cart right.Who am I kidding? I’m not a country club – golf – tennis – yacht girlie. I’m a small-town—tequila-drinking—bar girlie who occasionally has sex in the back of a pickup truck beneath the stars.

This isn’t me at all.

Everyone hits their shots, then Mack’s back in the cart.

“You drive.” I scoot over, motioning at the plastic steering wheel.

“No, you’ve got it.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Let’s go!” Tinsley shouts, revving her cart behind us.

“Fine.” Mack sighs, sliding behind the wheel. I fold my arms over my chest and try to think happy thoughts.

Nothing comes to mind.

“I’m going to bounce at the middle, okay?”

“At the turn?” Mack glances over his shoulder, artificially green grass whizzing by.

“Yeah. At the midpoint. Halftime. Whatever.” I shrug, not sure of the technical jargon and not caring, either.

“Okay. Bobby can run you home.”

“It’s fine, I can walk.”

“Gracelyn, it’s over a mile.”

“I need the exercise.”

“Says who?”

“Tinsley.” The names pop out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

He eases off the gas pedal and the cart slows. “Did she say something to you?”

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