Three Over Par Page 8

  I turned down the corridor leading to the high-dependency wing, my mind on the wonderful ways of old people, and jerked to a halt. Daniel was lounging against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression hollow.

  “Daniel.” I stepped close and lightly touched his forearm, heartbeat accelerating with nervous excitement. “Hey.”

  His face stayed grim. “I heard you with Nan.”

  “Oh.” Heat coursed up my neck as I remembered what I’d said. How I’d bared my hand to Mrs. Haddon.

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  I cast around the corridor. Hakea Lodge’s walls had ears. Big ones. I licked lips made dry with worry that he meant himself. That this would be when he told me our flimsy relationship was at an end. “With who? You?”

  His voice emerged low, hoarse and raw, like a man tortured with what he was trying to constrain. “With Nan. She doesn’t know anything, least of all how I feel.”

  The annoyance that had bubbled in Mrs. Haddon’s room returned. I’d had it with this entire situation, this stupid game whose rules I didn’t understand. It was my life, my heart that was being kicked around. And I wanted it to stop.

  I tilted my head and crossed my arms. “And how is that, Daniel? Because I’d really like to know.”

  He said nothing, but the muscles in his cheeks and jaw flexed as though he was clamping his mouth closed. And his lovely long-lashed eyes reflected a tumult impossible to fathom.

  The fight leaked out of me. I couldn’t stay angry, not with him. I kept my voice hushed and gentle, not just for privacy but in deference to the turmoil he suffered. Because I loved him and hated to see him so torn. “She sounded quite certain when she said she thought you liked me.”

  “Like has nothing to do with it.” He pushed off the wall and made to step past.

  I grabbed his arm. He wasn’t escaping so easily. Not this time. “Why did you give me the necklace?”

  He stared at me, eyes like a sunset-lit forest and a voice like gravel. “For God’s sake, Lucy. Why do you think?”

  Suddenly, the world started to make sense. A smile broke across my face, a beam of pure happiness. My heart exploded with joy. He cared. Daniel cared about me like I cared about him. He hadn’t said but the truth shone like the sun.

  “Daniel?” Mrs. Haddon creaked around the corner, walking stick in one hand, her voluminous beige going-out bag in the other. “Oh,” she said when she saw us, a knowing grin creasing her walnut-like face.

  He jerked away and strode to his grandmother, taking her bag as he kissed her cheek. “Sorry I’m late, Nan.”

  She waved him away and cast me a wink. “That’s all right. You had more important things to do.”

  He ignored the comment and tried to steer her toward the front entrance, anxious, no doubt, to escape from me and the grenade he’d just let off in my heart.

  “Daniel?”

  He stopped, mouth narrowed and tense.

  I took a deep breath. “Perhaps I’ll see you later?”

  He looked at his grandmother and back at me. For several beats he didn’t speak and I had the impression he was fighting for control of himself. That he was searching for the power to say no.

  Dread clawed my guts and turned my blood to icy slush.

  Mrs. Haddon frowned and nudged him in the hip. “Well, answer the lass.”

  He breathed in deeply before speaking words that left me hanging on a precipice of anxiety. “I don’t know.”

  Without another word he escorted his appalled grandmother from the building, her scolds echoing in the empty hall.

  Leaving me to suffer days of gut-tearing torment.

  Chapter Six

  The Pro stands behind me as I straighten from balancing my ball on its tee and take my stance. I sense his feverish breaths heating the winter-cold air. Our lesson is about to begin and, though he doesn’t say a word, his anticipation crackles like fire.

  He doesn’t know it yet but this is the final time we will do this. Once again, death has shown me how my life must change.

  Last week I had to skip my lesson and drive to Melbourne for an aunt’s funeral, and the break has been almost unbearable. After Daniel’s “I don’t know,” I spent the last ten days petrified that I will never again experience his gentle touch and solid strength. That I will never again see sunlight dance across eyes made shiny with emotion. And with each passing hour, another piece of my brittle heart splinters with fear. Even Mrs. Haddon’s reassurances haven’t eased my anxiety, though there’s some solace in having her on my side.

  The funeral was held in the tiny, forgotten cemetery of the outer suburb in which my extended family contentedly resides. I hadn’t wanted to attend, but loyalty forced my presence. And as the minister uttered his words under the veil of a typical Melbourne drizzle, I stared emotionlessly at my aunt’s coffin, wanting to feel but unable to arouse anything other than mild sorrow. I’ve seen too many deaths, and funerals now leave me hollow, cold, almost numb. They play no role except to remind me that I must grasp life in my hands and shake it ’til there’s nothing left, until all my regrets fall from its branches like rotten fruit.

  As I waited for the ceremony to grind to its sad conclusion, the question Mrs. Haddon had once asked kept creeping into my mind. “Are you happy?”

  The answer left me shuddering in the cold.

  At the wake I’d wandered silently through my family, staring at their faces, wondering if they knew the secret of a good life. If they had the answers I sought so desperately. Their expressions told me nothing. I left them to their sherry and port and curling sandwiches, and drove the three hours back to Harrington with my soul aching and another week of not knowing if I’d experience Daniel’s love again. But determined that this had to end.

  It’s something I should have done months ago but my fear of losing Daniel rendered me crippled. The Pro has always been my most solid link to him. Forgoing one meant losing another and that I couldn’t countenance. Until now.

  Living a life without regrets means taking risks. Not sexual ones. Emotional ones. And on this day, I’m about to take the biggest of my life.

  My drive down the first lands to the right and in the first cut of rough. Not my best strike, but it’s been a long time since our lessons have been about golf and today, more than ever, I care little about my game.

  “Your alignment was wrong,” the Pro says as we return to the cart. “You need to concentrate more.”

  He’s right, but I’m nervous about everything. About seeing Daniel. About telling the Pro of my decision. About making sure our last lesson is special. That we both walk off the ninth green with a memory we can savour. That we’re okay with the conclusion of this game.

  We don’t talk as the Pro ferries me to the ball but I can feel his disquiet, as though he knows something is up but can’t fathom it.

  He stays in the cart as I take my second shot. It falls short of the green and it’ll take only a short wedge to chip the ball close to the pin. One accurate putt and I will make par on a hole where I typically shoot for birdie.

  “Not up to your usual standard. What’s up?”

  I toss my club back in my bag, shrugging. “The usual. Lack of sex.”

  Relief spreads a grin across his face. He slides his finger up my thigh, gathering folds of my skirt with it. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll soon have that sorted.”

  My body reacts as though a tap of lust has been turned full on. Already I can feel the damp collecting in the thin gusset of my G-string. I moisten lips made dry by cold and my shallow, rapid breaths.

  The Pro notices and smiles. “Patience, babe.” He fetches my putter as I smooth my skirt back into place and try to regain some poise.

  I miss my putt and finish off the hole with a bogey. The Pro doesn’t comment as he drives me to the second tee. He doesn’t have to. We both know where my real focus lies.

  “Relax,” he says, standing behind me as I line up my tee shot.

  But I can’t, for I
know that from now on, the rules change.

  The second tee is sheltered from sight by saggy-leafed eucalypts and a thick hedge of spiky grevilleas, which, come summer, will erupt in a riot of spidery red and yellow flowers and attract hundreds of bees. In winter, they’re unattractive plants whose plain foliage and tangled limbs do nothing but provide cover for our activities.

  Every lesson, this is where teasing begins, the first touches of what will be a long foreplay. The anticipation alone sends my cunt throbbing.

  The Pro stands behind me, his arms stretching forward to surround mine, his hands cupping mine over my grip. To an observer it might appear he’s demonstrating some nuance of the game, albeit with startling familiarity. They might think I’m a poor student who needs assistance with my stance or alignment or ball placement. Their assessment would be wrong. A working golf professional wouldn’t have an erection prodding my backside. He wouldn’t be touching me at all.

  But this isn’t work for the Pro. It’s pleasure.

  Slowly, he slides a moist tongue up the bare skin of my neck toward my ear. The breeze turns the trail frigid and I shiver in delight. He sucks on my ear and presses his groin into the cleft of my buttocks. He’s hard. Very hard.

  “I missed you, babe. I missed feeling your soft tits and fucking your tight pussy, but you know what I missed most?”

  His breath feels boiling against my cold skin. I can guess what he’s going to say. I close my eyes and let his words feed my lust.

  “Yeah, you know, don’t you, babe. You know what I missed most. Fucking that tight little arse of yours, that’s what. Sliding my cock into that tight hole, listening to you moan as I fuck you up the arse, feel you squeeze me even tighter as you come, as that hot, sweet pussy of yours leaks come all over your legs.”

  He’s panting now, grinding his cock against me while I dribble fluid into my underwear. Each time he does this I can’t help but think of the first time we did it that way. The forbidden thrill that has held us captive since. A thrill soon we will have no more.

  The Pro steps back, rendering my back suddenly cold. The grevilleas whistle as wind sweeps through their branches. I relax my grip and walk away from the ball. I’m too hot and horny to think straight. And underneath it all, flowing like a sludgy river, is the fear Daniel won’t show. That he, too, has made a decision to stop.

  I point at the phone in his shirt pocket. “Ring Daniel. Tell him to meet us at the eighth now.”

  The Pro grins and shakes his head, and I bury the urge to punch the head of my driver into his stomach. He likes to tease. It gives him power but he forgets that he only has that power because I let him.

  He nods at my teed-up ball. “Daniel can wait. Take your shot.”

  I cast him a filthy look. I don’t want to play the Pro’s game. I want to see Daniel. I want to press my mouth against his, smell him, breathe him in until I’m filled with all that’s leaked out of me since I last saw him. I want some hope.

  “Don’t sulk, babe. It doesn’t suit you.”

  He’s right. I know it doesn’t. I’m attractive but don’t possess the sort of beauty that transcends a sour expression. With a sigh, I tuck my temper back in its dark hole and try to think of the shot I must take. I can’t rush it or the Pro will simply make me play it again. Once, on the seventh, he made me play a tee shot five times until my swing was perfect. I almost melted with frustration, both sexual and mental, for I was desperate to see Daniel, but the Pro wouldn’t let me progress until I played the shot perfectly.

  The club connects with a satisfying ding. I poke my tongue out at him and he laughs, as good-natured as ever, and I’m struck by how hugely likeable he is. Not just sexy, but charming. The sort of person you could easily be friends with and perhaps, if things were different, even more than friends.

  My mood lifts, made sunny again by his good humour and the realisation that none of this will change the future. Daniel will either be there or he won’t and I may as well enjoy the fun the Pro so laughingly offers. Despite my fear, the gamble with my heart I’m taking makes me feel more alive than ever.

  He doesn’t touch me as we trundle along the fairway to my ball, but his mouth has a little half smile that tells me he’s dreaming up something to tease me with. For a moment, I amuse myself trying to imagine what it could be but I can’t think of anything new. He’s already stretched my imagination further than I thought it could go.

  We stop and I step out to take a club from my bag. My hand hovers between a fairway wood and a four iron. I’m not sure the lie is suited for a wood. The grass is long, and recent rains have made it hard for Daniel to keep the fairways properly mown.

  “Four iron,” the Pro says.

  I nod, pull the club from my bag and take my stance. The Pro stands facing me and it takes me a moment to realise his fly is undone. His penis protrudes from between the zipper, smooth and lovely. He grins, and slowly he begins to stroke it.

  The sight of his hand on his cock mesmerises me. It’s beautiful, surreal, like something out of a wet dream, and all I can think of is taking that cock in my mouth and tasting its silky surface while my own hand burrows between my thighs.

  “You like watching, don’t you?” He glances toward his groin and observes his hand sliding up and down the shaft for a moment before staring lusty-eyed back at me. “You love it, don’t you, babe?”

  I swallow and nod. A sparkle appears at the tip of his penis, the first drop of pre-come. The urge to fall to my knees and lick it off is overwhelming.

  He points his cock at the ball. “Take your shot, Luce.”

  I moan a little protest but do as he orders, although it’s almost impossible to concentrate. The ball flies to the left and lands in a greenside bunker. The Pro tut-tuts and begins to tuck his penis away. He’s so hard it takes an effort and I wonder if the struggle to return it to his trousers is painful.

  As we settle once more in the cart, I decide to treat him to some of his own torture. I brace my legs against the dash, gather my skirt up my thighs and, when I see his eyes slide toward me, I finger myself through the thin lace of my G-string.

  The Pro pulls to a halt beside the bunker but I don’t stop my playing. I’m too turned on by my own ministrations. I want him to tweak my nipples or, even better, bite them, but don’t ask in case he refuses. The Pro has a habit of making me squirm. Sometimes I think he has a touch of the sadist about him, but he’s never cruel, so perhaps it’s simply his way of teasing himself as much as me.

  He stares at my hand. I pull my G-string aside and dip a finger into my cunt. The heat is unbelievable, as though I’ve a cauldron inside me. My wet finger finds my clit. It’s swollen and hard, and I’m unable to stop from swirling my fingertip around it. The sensation that engulfs me makes me arch my back and moan softly.

  “Fuck, Luce.”

  I let out a laugh that sounds more like a whimper. Fuck Luce is what I want him to do, except I’m so turned on now I don’t even want to stop fingering myself until I orgasm.

  He places his hand over mine. “Are you going to come, babe?”

  I nod, my chest heaving.

  He grips my fingers and pulls them away, leaving my cunt open and throbbing in the cold air. I try to return them, but his grasp is firm.

  “Not yet.”

  “But I need to.”

  He shakes his head. “You can come on the next hole.”

  I sag against the seat and close my eyes, my hand still held in his.

  He nudges me until I groan and get out of the cart. My skirt falls back around my shins but my underwear is uncomfortably crooked and I have to reach under to straighten it out.

  “Lucy.” The Pro waggles a finger at me.

  I pout. “I’m just fixing my knickers.”

  “Yeah, sure you are.”

  Underwear back in place, I remove my hand and wave it at him. My fingers are shiny with juices and I have to wipe them on my golf towel before selecting my sand wedge.

  It takes me two
shots to get out of the bunker. The Pro stands at the edge, laughing at me, with the rake in his hand like Neptune with his trident. “Concentrate!”

  “I’m trying to!”

  But my head is filled with the image of him wanking in front of me, of my promised orgasm. I finish the hole three strokes over par. Terrible.

  On the third tee, the Pro says nothing as I line up. My eyes keep flicking to his groin but he doesn’t remove his cock again, and I can’t believe how disappointed I am.

  My ball lands on the edge of the green, leaving me with a long birdie putt. The Pro claps slowly and moves to stand beside me. My breath quickens.

  “Nice,” he says.

  He takes the club from my hand and, for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t. The Pro and I don’t kiss. It’s as though some unspoken rule exists between us. We’ve nuzzled necks, licked throats, nipped earlobes, but with the exception of one strange evening, the memory of which still makes me anxious, we’ve never put our mouths together and kissed like lovers.

  The night we kissed—truly kissed—occurred not long after our golf lessons had become sexual and we were still awed by what we were doing. It was a Thursday, and I had joined a number of nursing home staff for dinner at a local pub to farewell a colleague who was relocating to Ballarat. The Pro was hanging with an older couple I assumed to be friends. We bumped shoulders at the bar, and he casually pecked my cheek in greeting and turned to introduce me to the couple, who turned out to be visiting cousins, as his star pupil. We chatted politely for a few minutes before drifting back to our tables and that was that.

  Except it wasn’t. For some reason we were hit by the same urge that takes us on the golf course. For the remainder of the evening, we cast surreptitious glances at one another across the room. Glances we both knew, both understood. At nine o’clock, hot, aroused, needy, I made my excuses and bolted. Thirty seconds later, the Pro followed.