Page 29 of Putting Out
Irritated, she thought whoever the mystery woman was, she could have him. It was probably Sandra Bullock. Or maybe Jodi Foster. She could see Jodi being his type. And she’d won two Oscars, hadn’t she? After all nobody knew better than Reilly that Luke always upgraded: cars, clothes, and women.
Bastard.
“Where are we going?” Erica wanted to know.
“For ice cream,” Kenny called over his shoulder. “The parlor has a new awning. We need to check it out.”
Erica stopped and turned to Reilly.
“Is he serious? Is he taking me on a date to an ice-cream parlor for a hot fudge sundae?”
“Uh… I think he might be. Yeah.”
“I can’t eat ice cream during the season. I already ate pie last night. You made me eat pie.”
Erica was famous for her conditioning and diet discipline on tour. Most considered it the model behavior for a female athlete resulting in strength, endurance, weight control, and flexibility.
What most didn’t know was that off-season, Erica made up for lost time on an entirely junk food, fast food, and processed food diet. Plus, she rarely moved from her couch.
“One sundae.” Reilly held up a finger for emphasis. “It won’t kill you.”
“Spoken by the woman who has no regard for her body and still manages to kick all of our asses and look good doing it. Bitch.”
“Great metabolism. It’s a gift.”
Erica held up a single finger, which conveyed a different message.
“Hey, Reilly! A picture?”
Reilly turned and found a photographer ten feet back aiming his zoom lens at her. She spun around and let him get a picture of her back.
“Come on! One picture,” he yelled.
She’d learned a long time ago the easiest way to cope with media attention was to give them what they wanted and wait until they got bored. It had worked to date, but the new storm over her up and coming decision was making it difficult to wait them out.
Another man across the street, who had been talking to some locals, picked his head up at the photographer’s shouts and trotted across the street in her direction.
“Reilly Carr. Stanley Webb fromGolf Digest,” he introduced himself puffing as he caught up with them. He was short with a receding hairline and a small nose, but his beady eyes were those of someone familiar with a hunt.
Reilly was the prey.
“I have no comment,” she answered, turning her back on the photographer who had waved after the shot.
“I got that. I got it the first few hundred times. Look, all I want to know is when you think you might have a comment. I’m missing the California swing. Roy Staddler and Sinjin Rye, one and two in the world in case you’re only familiar with your ranking, are going to go after each other in the Pro-Am at Pebble. I need to be out there, but my editor won’t let me go until we know one way or the other on you.”
Reilly digested that. “Oh. I see. You want me to make what will be the biggest decision of my professional life now because it would be more convenient for you.”
For a second he thought to deny it then shrugged.
“I need a story. You need to tell people what your decision is. If that could somehow happen sooner rather than later… well, what’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is I haven’t made my decision.”
He snorted. “Please.”
“What? I haven’t.”
“This is a no-brainer. You do have a brain, don’t you? Wait, you don’t even need one for this.”
