Page 5 of Tinder B@ng

Three

“What are you doing?” My kids are whispering suspiciously, and they’re definitely up to no good. The twenties seem to be like the toddler phase all over again — silence is suspicious. The hushed giggles and right blush on Emily’s cheeks are all a giveaway.

“Nothing,” Tala says, sniffling her laughter.

I don’t trust them for a second, but I also don’t have time right now to figure out exactly what it is they’re up to. I’m running late for golf.

“Cute pants, Dad,” she adds with a giggle, and I suspect snaps a picture of me.

“I am almost certain I don’t want to know what’s going on in here, be-fucking-have, I’m going to golf.”

“In the car?” Lycan asks.

“Yes, catch an Uber. I’m sure it’s there in your phone, the one glued to your face.” They think my car is a free cab service I swear.

“We wanted—”

“I don’t give a shit, it’s my car and I am going to golf.” There’s a groan, but I am already late so leave them to sort themselves out; they’re almost grownups, I am sure they won’t die. It’s at least a twenty-five minute drive to Overpeck, and I really don’t want to miss my tee-time. I need Friday golf more this week than I have in ages; my kids have turned my nice quiet life into a carnival in a week. I have gotten rather used to the retired life and the absolute free will that comes with it. My friends are mostly still working, so Friday afternoon golf has remained a weekly thing. I no longer need to do ‘deals’ or further my business, but the fresh air is good for me. Years of experience taught me that this is where the real business is conducted, and boardrooms are just a formality. The green, however, is where the biggest mergers and acquisitions happen. It’s also where drunk idiots will sign over their wealth to you on the sixteenth hole. This was my office for a very long time. When you want to get rich, you have to go where rich people go — golf, polo, opera — and other stupid shit I have no interest in. The country club is a minefield – there’s the husband hunters, the semi-pros, the just-there-for-lessons, the business sharks, and the cling-ons that are looking for a rich buddy to latch their trailer too. Navigating them all takes skill and years of learning evasive tactics.

“Kalon…” It’s Kate, a notorious husband hunter; she has lessons every week and still cannot hit a ball for more than two feet in front of her. “I didn’t know you were going to be here today.” She lies, I am here every Friday and so is she.

“Hi Kate.” I try to find a clear path past her, so I can avoid this awkward and unwanted social encounter.

“I wanted to know, I understand you’re looking elsewhere, but now that you’re dating again, maybe we could have dinner.” How much Chardonnay has she had? I am not dating, and certainly not her.

“I think you’ve got your wires crossed, Kate,” I say, seeing Luke at the bar.

“I think you’re so brave, getting out there that way. Not everyone is so open to the new way things are done.” Her botox has gone to her brain.

“Kate, I am late. Luke’s waiting for me. It’s nice to see you. Bye.” I make a beeline past her. I am not entertaining another word of that conversation. Crazy woman isn’t in my planner for today. I came here to get away from the drama, not find more. They should really have a rule about cutting people off when they get that boozy. Women should have their own separate time slot or day, the golf club isn’t where they belong anyways. They’re a distraction.

“What was that about?” Luke nods over my shoulder to where Kate is still looking at me with those predatory looking-for-husband-number-three eyes.

“I think she’s been on the wine, or maybe crack. She asked me out. Like on a date.” Luke laughs, and we leave the building for the safety of the golf course.

Luke is dirty because I beat him, again; his handicap is about as good as his IQ. My friend has family money, but sadly came from the shallow end of the gene pool. We’re friends because like me, he has little to no interest in society life. We just keep up appearances.

“Another?” I ask him, as he sulks at the bar.

“Why not?” He waves the barman over. “Heads up, but Kate and the band of man-eating cougars are still eyeballing you like you’re all the carbs they can’t eat.” I dare not look.

“They’re a rabid bunch, no idea why I am all of a sudden an eligible bachelor. They never turned a head before.” I have avoided the advances of that particular group of man eaters up until today it seems. “Have all the other rich divorcees died?”

Luke snickers and takes a sip of his drink. “They’re probably just bored, the only ones that ever actually say yes to them are the over-sixty wrinkle dicks that play on pensioners’ day.” He laughs now. “It’s because you’re retired, they think you're old now.” Fuck that. I worked my ass off to retire early and enjoy money before my dick or anything else is wrinkled.

“I think they’re just drunk,” I say, taking a sneaky look over my shoulder. Mutton dressed as lamb, they all look overdone and ready to pop from the amount of filler in their fake lips. No thanks. “I’m flattered, but if and when I date, I’d rather have a lady with real boobs, who doesn’t have half a bovine injected in her face.”

“That species is extinct in New York; you planning a move?” He makes a point. I wait out the ladies and when I can no longer see or hear them cackling with fake laughter. When I am convinced it’s safe to do so, I say my goodbyes. I have some errands that still need running, and it’s getting late in the day. My dry-cleaning needs to be fetched and the kids have eaten everything that’s not nailed down. So I will need to do a grocery run, again. They eat more than Tala’s horse, and all it does is eat and shit. As I get to my car door I am ambushed, first by the smell of her perfume, and then Kate is in my personal bubble. Real close between the two parked cars, there’s nowhere to run, and I can’t open my door. She’s blocking me.

“Kalon, come on now. One dinner with me isn’t going to kill you.” It just fucking might. “I know you’re out there fishing; I’m a catch you know.” A catch an STD and die maybe. “Come on.” She grabs my crotch, and I just about jump five feet in the air. Grabbing her wrist, moving her grabby hand away, I start to get a bit angry now. If I did that — it’d be a lawsuit, or a lifetime of blackmail.

“Look, Kate, I am not fishing. I am not dating, and you cannot just walk around grabbing men by their penises. It’s rude — and highly inappropriate.” I try not to raise my voice or draw any unwanted attention our way. The last thing I need with the kids’ party coming up is gossip. This situation is headed straight for gossip street. “You need to go home, sober up. And we will pretend today never happened. Okay?”

She looks a little starry-eyed, but nods and slips off to her car. She cannot drive.

“Kate,” I call after her.

“Kalon.”