Page 4 of Wood

“We’ve walked fourteen holes together, Geoff. I think you can call me ‘Ben’,” I say gently as I hand him the fluorescent yellow bottle. Our fingers touch briefly, and he blushes and snatches his hand back. The contact was oh-so-short, but I felt a small jolt, a pulse of… something I haven’t felt in a long while.

“Um,” he stammers, “thanks, Mr.… Ben.” He twists off the cap and gulps the yellow liquid down.

I try not to stare at his Adam’s apple as he swallows. I fail. So young. Skin so smooth. Plush lips. Damn it, don’t be a creepy old guy. I force my eyes away.

“You’re good with a yardage book,” I say, leaning back against the marble counter, crossing my golf shoes at the ankle. “My regular guy, Julian, would have had us hitting a six-iron on the twelfth hole. You called the altitude bounce perfectly. Saved me a stroke.”

The kid looks down at his boots, a flush of genuine pride hitting his cheeks. “My dad used to play. He taught me how the ball cuts through the thin air versus down lower where it’s humid. You just have to trust the numbers.” He pauses, looking up, his eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, quiet intensity. “It’s easy to look good when the guy swinging the club doesn’t miss the center of the face.”

My cock stirs as I look into those bright blue eyes. The air in here is suddenly not so cool, but thick and heavy. I take another slow sip of protein drink. It’s now sludge and cloying on my tongue, and I toss the half-consumed bottle into the trash, grabbing a cold bottle of water instead and chugging it down before I say something I will regret. My life is transactional, one-off meetings in unimportant places. I finish the water and toss the bottle away, grabbing an electrolyte water.

“So,” I say slowly. “Tell me about yourself, Geoff. Why work as a caddie? Young athlete like yourself can probably do a lot easier work.”

He smiles. “It’s not so bad. Outside all day on a gorgeous course. Meet interesting people. Reminds me of my father, too, in a good way.”

“He gone?” I ask, guessing.

Geoff nods, sipping his drink. “Yeah, he and Mom. Last spring.” He swallows hard but forces out, “Car crash.”

“Oh.” I feel like a shit now. “That sucks.”

More nodding. “I’m taking a gap year,” he admits.

“From college?” I ask.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. I was all kinds of messed up, didn’t want to waste money I don’t have to fail classes I don’t care about.” The line sounds practiced, like armor he can use on demand. Another sip of liquid, then he continues. “I serve drinks at night, too. Saving up.”

My mind tingles and I ask, “Oh? Where?” Have I been to it?

“Babylon?” He smirks, the smile no longer quite so innocent. “Do you know it?”

My mind whirls with an image of him, shirtless with rainbow suspenders and tiny black shorts. Heart tattoo on his shoulder. My cock stirs and shit, I need to get out of this hut. Shaking my head, I cap my water and tuck it into the bag’s cooler section. Stop thinking about his pretty ass in those little shorts, Ben. Guess I need a new bar, too. Perhaps just stick to the gay bathhouse from now on. No sexy waiters there.

“Never heard of it,” I lie. “Grab a protein bar and let’s head out? Fifteenth hole,” I state. “How is it playing today?”

Stepping to the railing of my deck, I breathe in the crisp, dry morning air. I’ve been back a week. Pennsylvania was muggy, and I relish the cooler high-altitude breezes. Sipping my coffee, I watch the ducks and geese floating around the large pond, poking among the reeds. Bluebirds and red-winged blackbirds flit about, catching their morning meals. An elegant white heron picks its way around the edge. The pond’s surface ripples, and a splash signals a trout snatching a bug from the still water.

No crowds gathering here, no tournament tourists hovering with cameras. This neighborhood is so worth it. Gated complex in the hills just west of Golden, private yards facing the pond, private fenced pool and hot tub to soothe my aching body. I’ve earned this.

My body hums with the last of the buzz of the orgasm I stroked out in the shower this morning. Bright blue eyes looked up from between my legs, that pretty pouty mouth filled with my thick cock. My imagination refused to conjure up any of the hundreds of other men I’ve had suck me off, and I finally gave up and splattered my cum with Geoff’s face, front and center, those broad shoulders gleaming before me. Bad man.

I turn away from the railing and settle into the deck chair, pulling the coffee pot closer to refill my cup. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I tug it free. A text from Julian, my caddie. I frown and open my messages.

JULIAN: Hey Ben, just wanted to let you know, I’ve signed with Jackson Painter. Need the cut cause Cindy’s PG. Sorry, man, been fun.

Well, damn. Now I need a new caddie.

4

GEOFF

If that fat creep keeps touching my shoulders, I am going to blow a gasket. Seriously, man, paws off. Never mind the techno crap blasting out of the heavy Bluetooth speaker on his son’s golf bag. Which I have to carry.

I heft Gordie’s overstuffed bag onto my right shoulder - three umbrellas, a fuck ton of extra balls, and a twelve-pack in the cooler compartment. Then I shrug Gordy Jr.’s bag onto my left. The skin on my shoulders frays under my white jumpsuit. Trudging down the fairway, twenty-eight clubs clatter with each step.

At least the old man’s ball didn’t hook into the deep rough. I really don’t feel like searching for errant balls for overweight idiots with wandering hands while carrying ninety pounds of bags on my back, never mind the rattlesnakes. He tips well, though, so I will do my damnedest to hold my tongue. His son is an oblivious frat boy, so up his plaid shorts that he never notices his father’s bullshit. Used to dear old dad pawing the hired help, I suppose.

Setting the bags down near the dad’s ball, I pull the cheap range finder from my jumpsuit and measure the distance, then pull out his seven iron. He is about one hundred and sixty yards from the green and has a decent swing. He takes the club without argument and, yep, plops it right where I figured.