Chapter 4
POPPY
“Hey, Poppy!”
Mid-bite of my chicken salad sandwich, I look up from my book to find Kendall approach with the disingenuous smile she wears so well.
Kendall only ever talks to me when she wants something.
In fact, all the other cart girls only ever talk to me when they want something; I’m otherwise non-existent to them.
Which is exactly the way I like it. To put it simply, they are just not my kind of people.
I’ve been a cart girl at Vista Palms, the most exclusive golf course, not only in Florida, but in the entire country, for just over twelve months.
When I moved to Florida from Missouri with my then-boyfriend, Simon, I didn’t know what I was going to do.
Simon had been drafted to the local double-A baseball team, and rent is expensive as hell around these parts, so I knew I needed to earn enough to help out with the bills.
Fresh out of college, I didn’t have a lot of experience, other than waiting tables, so I was able to land a job pretty quickly as a server at a bar.
One of the bartenders there worked days here at Vista Palms and said the tips were insane.
I saw dollar signs and naturally asked him to get me an in with whoever was in charge because it’s always who you know.
As luck would have it, the day I walked in for an interview, they’d just lost one of their cart girls and were looking for someone to step in.
I started that very day, despite never having driven a golf cart in my life.
And although I know I don’t look the part of a typical cart girl, my sassy, sunny disposition usually wins everyone over. What can I say? I’m a goddamn delight.
“Hey.” I smile, placing my sandwich down and wiping my hands on a paper napkin. “What’s up?”
Kendall eyes my sandwich and sighs wistfully. “I miss bread…”
My brows knit together as I look from her to my sandwich and back again. “Where… did it go?”
She meets my eyes and laughs. “Oh, no. Sorry, I just mean… I haven’t eaten bread in—gosh—I don’t even know how long.”
“Oh…” I consider that a moment. “Are you… allergic?”
“To carbs? Yeah.” She scoffs.
And I can tell by the tone of her words and the look in her eyes that’s she’s judging me, but I don’t care. Carbs are life. With a smile, I pick up my sandwich and take a bigger bite than necessary because screw the haters.
Kendall barely contains her own grimace before shaking her head to herself, her fake smile returning. “Anyway, I have an appointment I can’t miss.” Leaning in, she lowers her voice to a stage whisper, holding a hand up to shield anyone from seeing her mouth as she says, “Botox.”
I watch her, waiting.
Twirling a lock of her long black hair around her finger, she flutters her thick lashes and asks so hopefully, “Can you cover my round?”
My mind flashes back to the group of men I last encountered at the fifth.
The ones who leered at me and laughed like a pack of hyenas when the ringleader booped my ass with his nine iron.
A bachelor party, apparently. I know they’re still out there, and they’re probably drunk as hell by now, given it’s two hours later and edging ninety-four in the direct sunlight, but I also know I can’t say no because the golfers need servicing and I’m the only cart girl on break.
“Please!” Kendall holds her hands up in prayer.
“Sure,” I say with false nonchalance, adding a smile I know doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Oh my God, you’re a life saver!” And, with that, she twirls and practically skips out of the staff courtyard, and as I glance down at my sandwich, my appetite is suddenly non-existent.
As I navigate the tree-lined cart path between holes eleven and twelve, dread curls in my stomach.
I don’t hate this job. In the time I’ve been working here, I’ve earned more in tips than I’d earn at any entry-level desk job.
But this is a means to an end for me. I have a dream.
And it’s definitely not serving rich, entitled, white men who can’t handle their liquor on a golf course.
Most of the time, it’s fine. The regulars are nice enough.
And I usually get through a shift without issue.
But, on days like today, where the occasional rowdy group of out-of-towners blow in under the guise of a bachelor party, or a team building activity, or some other celebration, things tend to get a little out of control.
I’m usually pretty good at handling myself, but sometimes, the demons of my past have a habit of getting the better of me.
I round the curve and spot the group of six up on the green, their raucous laughter catching in the afternoon breeze and hitting me hard like a slap to the face. Great.
As I putt up the cart path, pulling in behind them, I force a smile when they all turn in my direction.
“Hi, boys!” I wave a hand, sliding out of the cart.
“Hips!” a few of the men chorus in greeting.
I grit my teeth at the nickname they bestowed upon me during our last encounter. “Who’s winning?”
“We all are,” one of them says, his smirk lecherous as he eyes me up and down, “now that you’re here.”
Pressing my lips together, I fake a laugh, turning to my coolers. “Another round?”
“Yeah. And a round of Fireballs, too,” a deep voice says as I’m bent over, rifling through ice. “And one for your pretty little self, too.”
I stiffen involuntarily at just how close he is, his warmth almost pressed up against me from behind, breath fanning my skin. My heart pounds hard and my breath catches in the back of my throat. Keep it together, Poppy.
“Oh, I don’t drink.” I pull out two beers and turn quickly, taking a much-needed step back. Smiling up at him, I hand over the beers. “But y’all can have mine.”
“Shaun!” the man calls over his shoulder while still looking down at me and not moving. “She doesn’t drink, bro.”
“What?” Shaun, I presume, steps forward, coming up behind me. It’s only then that I realize I’m almost sandwiched between the two men. And, while I’d like to assume they’re nothing but drunk and completely innocent, the anxiety swirling in my chest says otherwise.
“So, six beers and six Fireballs?” I turn back to the cart to retrieve the remaining cans, and the Fireball from the glass cabinet of miniature bottles, fully aware of both men standing right there, either side of me.
“Do they make you wear these little skirts?”
I startle when I feel the handle of a golf club graze my thigh where the hem of my skirt ends.
“Or do you girls wear them to help with the tips?”
Before I can think, I smack the club away and spin around, my smile falling as I glare up at the man. The same man who touched my ass earlier, with the very same club. His wife-to-be sure is a lucky woman…
“Don’t touch me,” I warn, keeping my tone steady.
He sniffs a laugh, holding his golf club in surrender. “Relax, darlin’. I’m just playing around.”
I swallow hard, looking from him to his friend, to the group of guys all watching from the green snickering between themselves.
“Besides,” the culprit, Shaun, continues, “no offense, but you’re not really my type.”
“I love curvy girls!” one of the huskier men on the green yells out causing the others to laugh like a bunch of fourteen-year-old dickheads.
“I sure as hell don’t discriminate,” Shaun’s buddy says, stepping up to me, his beer breath fanning in my face and causing me to wince.
Rolling my eyes, I push him off me and turn back to my cart, grabbing my tablet to ring up their order, which is when I feel a hand on my waist, holding me firm.
“Get your dang hands off me!” I lose my cool then, swinging around so fast, my hand connects with his face and scratches his cheek. Accidentally, of course.
He steps back, clutching his face, and his eyes blaze with terrifying anger.
When he advances on me, I step back, trapped against the cart with nowhere to go. “I’m s-sorry, it was an accident, I was just—”
“Is there a problem here?” a deep voice yells, cutting through the warm afternoon air.
“Holy shit!” someone mutters.
Shaun yanks his buddy away from me, and I gasp at the unexpected sight of Brookes Devereaux walking directly toward us from his golf cart.
And despite his face shadowed by the brim of his ball cap, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, the tic in his jaw is obvious, as is the way his hands are currently balled into fists by his sides.
“Brookes Devereaux!” someone in the group shouts.
Brookes ignores them, heading directly to me and shouldering his way past Shaun, nearly mowing him down in his haste.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and steely as he ducks down, big hands wrapping around my arms. “I saw the whole thing.”
I manage a nod, my eyes flitting about, not sure what the hell is happening.
Brookes moves next to me, his ropey arm snaking around my shoulders and pulling me close to him. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” he grits out, his tone laced with bitterness at the word.
Shaun and his friend both shake their heads, eyeing me. “No. No problem here.”
“Good,” Brookes says. “Then I’d appreciate if you keep your fucking hands off my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” someone guffaws.
Hell, it could be me for all I know because, dude, same. Did he just say girlfriend? I can’t help but gape up at Brookes, but he doesn’t even acknowledge my confusion, instead removing his arm around me and taking a step forward.
“Yeah,” he spits out. “You got a problem with that, bud?”
Again, the group shakes their heads seemingly in sync.
Satisfied, Brookes turns to me then, stepping right up to me, his big hands cupping my cheeks and forcing my eyes to his. “How much do they owe you, baby?”
It takes a moment to process his words, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Um… I-I—”
“Breathe,” Brookes whispers.
Another thick swallow works its way down my throat, and I blink hard, snapping myself out of my daze. “A hundred and twenty,” I croak out.
Brookes flashes me the hint of a dimpled smirk and turns back to the group of men, folding his arms across his broad chest, keeping his body wedged between me and them. “That’ll be one hundred and sixty bucks. Plus tip.”
Oh, God. I’m so going to be fired. I just know it.
Peering around Brookes’ big frame, I see the men all scramble, pulling out wallets and handing over cash.
“Keep it coming,” Brookes says, palm held out, waggling his fingers. “I saw you pull up in a Maserati; you can tip more than that, big guy.”
I close my eyes on a resigned sigh. I’m so screwed.
“Here you go, baby.”
Opening my eyes, I look up at Brookes to find him right there, again, a wad of cash held out to me. My eyes widen because there’s got to be at least six hundred dollars there.
I take it with trembling hands. “Brookes, I can’t—”
“Who’s the member here?” Brookes says, interrupting my murmured objection and turning back to the party of assholes.
“I am.” Shaun’s buddy tentatively holds up a hand.
Brookes looks him up and down. “Well, your membership was just revoked.”
“What?” the man shouts, incredulous. “Y-you can’t do that!”
“I’m Brookes Devereaux,” Brookes snorts, pointing at finger at himself. “I can pretty much do whatever the fuck I want around here. So, finish up your game and… fuck off.”
I gawk at Brookes when he turns to me, ultimately dismissing the men with his back. And, with another hand pressed to my cheek, he leans in, his lips grazing my ear as he whispers, “Go straight back to the club and don’t say a word.”
Nodding quickly, I turn and hop back into the cart. And, without another look back at the men, I pull out onto the cart path and start back toward the clubhouse, trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and where the hell I’m going to find a job that pays as good as this one.