Page 4 of Hot Set

Shafts of sunlight filter through the trees to feature Treat pressing Lanie against a nearby trunk. His hands twist her hair in a way I know all too well. My boyfriend’s lips devour Lanie’s mouth, neck, and single exposed breast. Treat’s hand travels down her ribcage, over a hip to disappear under a Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear golf skirt. The two rock and slide together in a rhythm that fills me with the chilling certainty that this isn’t their first encounter.

When she hooks her leg around his hip, I bite back a scream. To make the nightmare vanish, I whip around, execute a violent backswing, and strike my ball with gale force intensity.

Frantic commotion explodes from the green. I lift my head in time to see Bobby Provost, showrunner ofThe Chieftain’s Son, crumple onto the grass.

ChapterTwo

In my fantasies, an entire boy band or Hemingway were the men sharing my teenage bed. It was never a slightly scrawny hummingbird of a guy. A hummingbird whose wings I clipped with a crazed golf shot.

They’d only release Bobby from the hospital to people who would wake him up every hour for the next twelve. I figured the best place for a concussed showrunner is my parent’s place. There, I’d have backup for waking Bobby throughout the night. Most of all, I needed my mom. As soon as Bobby was snoozing under no less than three quilts, all lifted from television shows my parents designed the sets for, I unraveled in her arms.

The hallway light is burned out, so my mother and I stand in the dark outside my bedroom. The odd thing is my tears are akin to mourning the loss of a death you knew was coming, not the kind where you get an unexpected, tragic phone call. How long have I been subconsciously preparing myself for the demise of Treat and Gilly?

Mom squeezes me tighter. The advantage of having a chubby mother is the ability to bury your woes against a squishy, comforting shoulder.

She holds me at arm’s length. “Sweetheart, if it’s any consolation, I do believe Treat loved you as much as a spoiled princeling can love anyone besides themselves.”

“No more bashing.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t irk me you invested over two years in that man while he insisted on a secrecy manifesto.”

I rip fresh tissues from the box in her hand. “But—”

She raises a hand to shush me. “I’ll stop bashing if you refrain from excusing him.”

My standard defense for Treat’s lack of commitment bubbles up then fizzles. I feel more duped than dumped, but if I paint him as the devil, I’m an even bigger loser for sticking with him all this time.

“Hush-hush doesn’t mean it isn’t real.” Treat sang that song every time I fretted over our secret. And I believed him. I accepted his cadre of reasons our relationship had to fly under the radar as logic.

Mom straightens the collar of my golf shirt. “Now buck up, honey. It’s almost time to wake Bobby again.” She sets the tissue box on a table in the hall. “I’m going to go make our guest some soup.”

“Soup for a concussion?”

“Soup for anything.” She sweeps down the hall, leaving me to reset.

Mom never liked Treat, but until tonight, she tolerated my obviously misplaced loyalty to a man who adores instead of loves me. After unleashing her pent-up dislike for him, she promised we’d eat caramel truffle ice cream straight out of the carton.

On the other side of my bedroom door, my responsibility gently snores. I slip into the room. Bobby doesn’t move. He’s curled onto his side with a hand by his mouth. I’ll bet he sucked his thumb as a kid.

I gently shake his shoulder and whisper. “Bobby?” He’s not waking up.Oh, God. What if his brain is swelling or some other cranial malfunction?I’ve damaged the showrunner of the most anticipated television show in a decade. Fans will kill me.

“More oomph, Gillian,” says my mom, barging into the room. “Wake it up there, Bob.”

Bobby’s eyes open and widen like Mom and I are oncoming headlights, but then he settles into a moan.

I offer a couple of capsules on my open palm. “For what ails you.”

He wiggles into a sitting position. “I’m trapped in a coven of merciless women. A man needs his sleep.”

Mom clicks her tongue. “After near murder by golf, that’s off the table. Do you prefer chicken noodle or Italian wedding soup?”

I want to drop my head into my hands at this blatant reminder of the disaster my rage-fueled golf shot created. “If you’re a good patient, I’ll let you sleep an hour and half before I wake your concussion next time.”

Bobby assesses my red face. “Don’t cry, golf buddy. I promise not to sue.”

I turn and blot my eyes with a crumpled tissue.

“Tell me, Amethyst,” says Bobby to my mom while he pops pills and chases them with half a bottle of water. “How many of Gillian’s golf kills have you buried in the backyard?”

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