Bond (Klein Brothers 1)

Ah, fuck!

Watching the golf ball explode was an experience. Come to find out, hitting it was nigh on impossible if you didn’t change your mental approach to the game. By that I meant, my family had been clay pigeon shooting for years. I wasn’t a pro at it, and we didn’t do it often, but I wasn’t bad. Viewing a golf ball as one of the clay discs was where people needed to change their approach, because the size and shape of the disc were what we knew and expected.

Once I’d realized that I needed to look at it as a hummingbird versus a pigeon and wait until I was pointing at its path of trajectory—not unlike regular shooting—I was okay.

I still missed a shit ton of them, though, but I hit five out of eight during the competition itself, so that wasn’t too bad. Unlike Reid, who’d only hit one, and Canon, who’d missed them all. Jarrod had been the surprising one and had hit every single golf ball. Apparently his gamer wife had him playing games like Call Of Duty, and they’d helped him with his aim.

Dad… well, he’d been struck in the neck by the first ball that’d been hit for him to shoot. Tom had been the one to take him out accidentally, so he’d just sat on the bed of the truck and watched with an ice pack on his injury.

“Okay, teams Freddie Mercury and Jacques Cousteau,” Hurst shouted, waving the damn notebook he’d been furiously writing in since we’d gotten here. “I’ve got the results. Let’s go through who won each aspect of it and then who actually won the game.”

We all groaned, just wanting to move on and get out of the hot sun.

“Now, now, none of that. It’s important to give credit where credit’s due,” he admonished. “The best golfers on each team were: Reid Klein, for team Freddie Mercury. And for team Jacques Cousteau, Garrett Evans. The worst golfers were: Tony for team Freddie Mercury and Tom for Jacques Cousteau. The irony that Tom was on a team with that name, yet he couldn’t find the ball if he tried, isn’t lost on me.”

We all burst out laughing at the look of indignation on Tom’s face.

“The club slipped, okay?” he hissed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“It slipped each time you tried to hit the ball?” Cole chuckled.

His only response was to give his brother the bird, then wave it at the rest of us, making us laugh even harder.

Once we’d settled down, Hurst held his hand up to get our attention. “Let’s continue so we can move on to the next game.”

“Does it involve having something cold to drink?” Mace called out.

Amen!

“You can have a drink before we start the game, yes, and you can also consume alcohol during this one, if you so wish.” Hurst confirmed. “Anyway, the best shooter on team Freddie Mercury was Jarrod, and on Jacque Cousteau, it was Cole. I’m a bit disappointed that our sheriff didn’t hit all of them, but then, it isn’t easy.”

Looking mildly offended, DB glared back at him. “It’s not easy when you’ve got sweat dripping down your ass crack and the sun in your eyes. Even with sunglasses on, I swear I’ve fucked up my retinas.”

“Whatever you say, buddy,” Hurst muttered. “We all need excuses to fall back on in times like these.” Before DB could argue back, he continued, “And the winning team is”—he looked around us—“drum roll, please.”

A quick look around at the others confirmed they were all staring back at him blankly, just like I was.

“I said, drum roll, please.”

Knowing he wouldn’t move on until he got what he wanted, we all started making the sound he wanted begrudgingly. Apparently, it still wasn’t good enough, though.

“A little enthusiasm wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ren groaned. “Just give him the damn drum roll.”

Putting some power behind it, we all amped up the noise.

Looking pleased, Hurst shouted, “The winning team’s Freddie Mercury.”

You’d expect that we’d all start singing We Are The Champions with a name like that. And we would have, if it wasn’t for the fact that doing the drum roll for Hurst had highlighted to everyone how dry their mouths were from being out in the sun, so we all ran over to the coolers and grabbed out a bottle of water instead.

I swear it felt like someone had hosed down the inside of my stomach with ice as I gulped it down. I didn’t even feel mad about the fact I got brain freeze not long after I started drinking it. I just kept chugging away until the bottle was almost empty and then held it to the back of my neck.

“The next game’s a blast,” Ren assured us. “But be careful how much water you have in your stomach.”