There’s a smirk on Sarah’s lips that I don’t like. Not one fucking bit.
She goes to my golf bag and grabs a club of her own.
“If I can hit this ball off this woman’s ass and score a hole in one, then, you, my dear brother, will put yourself up on MaleOrder.com for purchase.”
I laugh. Not just a regular hey-that-was-a-good-joke kind of laugh.
No, this is the kind of laugh that comes from the stomach. A laugh that hurts so much I can feel my eyes begin to water. The last time I’d laughed so hard, I was fleeing forty horny sorority sisters with tassels around my dick and whipped cream over my nipples.
“Well, considering there’s no fucking way you can make that shot…Yeah, I’ll take that fucking bet.”
She takes my ball and tee from my hands. She looks confident. A little too confident.
We shake hands to seal the deal.
She doesn’t bother to kick off her heels. She just slips the ball and tee between the caddy’s firm ass cheeks and lines up her shot.
“Don’t fuck it up now,” I warn.
She takes her swing. I hold my breath and watch that white ball soar across the sky toward the green. It hits it and rolls with purpose towards its destination. I pray that it just fucking stops there, but it doesn’t.
No, it slides right up to the edge of the hole with the last of its momentum and sits for a moment. I get ready to celebrate.
Not quite, little sis.
Then, the fucking thing tips right over the ledge and into the hole!
Christ. Mocked by a fucking golf ball.
Will, zero; Sarah, fucking infinity.
“Okay,” I level with her, “when the fuck did you turn into Tiger Woods?”
“You’re not the only golfer in the family, big brother.”
With shots like that, apparently fucking not.
I stand there speechless as Sarah grabs my caddy and my whiskey.
“Be sure to use that picture from the Christmas party last year. You looked really good in that Santa hat,” Sarah suggests, draping her arm around the caddy and taking off.
I toss my club onto the green and pull out my phone.
MaleOrder.com. Fuck’s sake.
Well, this will be an adventure, if nothing else.
2
Katrina
“No way, dude,” Beatrice groans, leaning over my balcony and looking down. “That’s just fucking creepy.”
“Stop being such a worrywart, Bea,” I reply, grabbing her by her bra straps and hauling her back up. “I’m on the twelfth floor. It’s not a big deal.”
“Kat, babe, you are one horny, sex-crazed stalker away from a full security breach,” Bea responds as she shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, showing off the tattoos of lilies and roses on her forearms. “Seriously, I bet a guy could just climb from balcony to balcony and be up here in, like, five minutes flat.”
I roll my eyes. Have you ever met someone who’s been studying something for all of two weeks and is suddenly an overnight expert on the subject? That’s my baby sister.