Chapter 22
brOOKES
I’ve been home from Oklahoma for a couple of days, dealing with back-to-back interviews and meetings, rigorous swing practice, and a heavy focus on putting accuracy since it’s where I was showing a little too much inconsistency in Tulsa.
My comeback is trending on social media, and suddenly, everyone wants a piece of me again.
But I know how fast that script can flip, so I’ve been riding the wave tentatively, careful not to fuck up.
Things with Poppy have been… weird. After the night together in the suite, where she woke from her nightmare and then cried in my arms until she finally fell back asleep, the next morning it was as if nothing had happened, like I’d imagined the entire thing.
She was right back to her happy, almost too cheerful self.
And it got me thinking; is it all an act?
Beneath her perma-happy, sunshine persona, is there a darkness that looms?
Because I know all too well about fighting demons; maybe I could help her.
But I also have trouble controlling my own emotions, so how the hell am I supposed to help Poppy control hers?
All I know is that night has been at the forefront of my mind, but I’ve been reluctant to ask her about it.
Because the last thing I want is to upset her.
But I swear to God, if I find out that bag of dicks ex-boyfriend is responsible, that he hurt her in any way, physically or emotionally, I might as well fly out to Dallas and personally hand my AGL tour card back to Donald Spielman, because I will not hesitate in murdering that scrawny little fucker.
“Here we are gentlemen.” Marilyn, one of the longer serving waitresses in the fairway café at Vista Palms arrives at the table I’m sharing with Jonesy on the patio where we often stop in for lunch after a morning round. “Two BLTs for our two favorite fellas.”
Rubbing his hands together, Jonesy looks from his sandwich to Marilyn and winks. “Love of my life.”
Marilyn puts a hand on her popped hip, offering a quirked brow. “You talking to me or the sandwich, Jonesy?”
“Always you, darlin’.” He winks again.
“Mm-hmm.” Marilyn turns to me with a knowing smile. “Can I get you anything else, Brookes hon?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.” I shake my head and she winks, turning and walking back to her post behind the bar.
Before I can even unfold my napkin, Jonesy starts on me.
“So,” he begins, eyeing me from across the table. “I have a question.”
“Here we go,” I mutter, picking up one half of my BLT and taking a big bite.
“When’d you last have sex?”
Three things happen in the wake of Jonesy’s unexpected question.
I guffaw. I drop my sandwich. And then, when the sandwich falls into my lap instead of onto my plate, I suck in a gasp which causes me to choke.
Full-on spluttering and coughing while fighting for life, a wayward crumb flying out of my goddamn nose.
Marilyn rushes back to our table, a jug of water in her hand. She quickly fills my glass before slapping me on my back while I continue coughing. All while Jonesy sits there watching on like he didn’t just commit attempted murder by asking me when I last had sex…
“You done?” Jonesy barks, not looking up from where he’s eating his sandwich with a knife and fork like a serial killer.
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and take a few sips of water, clearing my throat before offering him an are-you-fucking-serious look. “You sure you passed that cognitive test with flying colors, old man?”
Chewing around his mouthful, Jonesy just blinks at me.
I shake my head, brushing the last of the lettuce off my shorts. “And, for your information, that’s none of your business,” I mutter. “You can’t just go around asking people that.”
“I’m just saying,” Jonesy starts, holding his hands up in defense.
“Please don’t,” I mutter again, knowing exactly where this is leading.
“You need to get laid. It’s starting to show in your back swing.”
“Can you keep your voice down,” I grit, looking around to check if anyone is within earshot, but thankfully there’s only one table occupied around us and it’s an older woman on her phone. I spear Jonesy with a glower. “And quit talking about my sex life.”
Leaning back in his chair, Jonesy looks at me long and hard.
I try to ignore him, but his silence is loud because, frankly, he’s right.
I do need to get laid. At first, I couldn’t.
Rules of the program—you need to abstain from casual sex and avoid starting any new relationships while you’re in active recovery. But my year was up months ago.
“How’s Poppy?”
I snap my head up then, meeting Jonesy’s eyes, not missing the glint in his watery gaze. And, squaring my shoulders, I clear my throat, offering him no more than a grunt.
Jonesy lifts his coffee to his lips. “Maybe she could… help you out?” He shrugs a shoulder, taking a sip.
“Jonesy…” I warn.
He just smirks at me over the lip of his mug, and I offer him a long-levelled look, trying to ignore how just the mention of Poppy makes the coil at the base of my spine tighten because, if I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking things I have no right in thinking.
Like the way her ass looked the other night while she was lying there on that massage table wearing just a thong, or the way she looked after that, in her tiny bikini in the hotel pool, her tan skin glowing against the underwater lights.
I’ve been trying to forget, wipe those images clear from my mind, but it’s harder than it should be. Literally and figuratively.
I was an ignorant stupid-ass son of a bitch to think having a girl like Poppy around wouldn’t tempt me because she’s not my type. Not my type? Turns out Poppy is fine as hell and I’m a fucking joke.
Thankfully, before Jonesy can continue his totally inappropriate line of questioning, my phone rings, and I look down at it to see Cam’s name on the screen.
“What’s up?” I answer quickly.
“Fucking Blake,” is all Cam says in response, and immediately I’m on edge.
“What the fuck now?” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“He’s arranged a dinner tonight,” Cam says. “With Chuck and Dave.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. I drop my head back, closing my eyes. “Did he somehow forget that Royale dropped my ass literally the day after Hilton Head?”
“He said they want to try to come to a mutually beneficial agreement,” Cam explains with a heavy sigh.
“Shocking,” I say, deadpan.
“I presume they’ve seen a dramatic decline in sales…”
“Fine. Whatever,” I huff out. “When and where?”
“Eight o’clock at Rare.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there.”
“Brookes, I can’t make it,” Cam says tentatively. “Gloria will cut off my balls if I miss another date night.”
I groan again.
“I mean, unless you need me there…” he adds, more than a little reluctant, like he’s afraid I might say yes.
Dragging a hand down my face, I stifle yet another groan. “No. It’s okay. I’ll… figure it out. But no one better piss me off,” I warn, meeting Jonesy’s smiling eyes across the table. “I’m not in the fucking mood.”
When I arrive home, I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of Poppy in the kitchen.
Dressed in a pair of tiny shorts and a bikini top, her back is to me, and she has a pair of noise cancelling headphones covering her ears, so she’s completely unaware of my presence.
And I don’t know what music she’s listening to, but the way she stands at the stove doing fuck knows what, moving her hips and shaking her ass, I’m forced to bite down on my bottom lip as I lean my shoulder against the doorway while I watch, knowing full well I shouldn’t.
And I know this is bad and borderline creepy, especially considering the way my dick is starting to stir, but I can’t stop staring at her. She’s like an eclipse; you know it’s dangerous, but you can’t help but stare directly at it.
“Oh shit!”
I startle, pulled from my trance by Poppy’s uncharacteristic profanity. And it’s only when she slaps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, that I realize this is the first time I’ve actually heard her cuss. And I can’t help but laugh.
“You scared me half to death!” She gasps, tugging her headphones off and tossing them onto the island counter.
I clear my throat, trying to act casual while hoping the tent pitching in my shorts isn’t as obvious as it feels. I tug down the hem of my t-shirt, just to be sure.
“What are you making?” I ask, looking at the pan instead of where my traitorous gaze is trying to wander to her ass barely contained in those tiny shorts.
“Scrambled eggs.” Poppy turns back to the stove. “Want some?”
“No. Thanks.” I turn away quickly, busying myself with opening the fridge and looking through it for what, I don’t know.
“I didn’t realize you were home,” Poppy says.
“I can tell.” I chuckle.
She spears me with a pointed look. “You’ve been gone so often, I was starting to think I’d ran you out of your own house.”
“Nah, I’ve just been busy with meetings and interviews and shit. Everyone wants a piece of me after Oklahoma.” I take a bottle of Gatorade and close the fridge, resting back on the door and watching her cook.
“You free tonight?”
“Yeah,” Poppy says with a laugh. “Of course I am.”
I frown at that. “You know you’re not… contracted to me twenty-four-seven, right?”
She turns, cocking her head to the side as she regards me.
“You can still have a social life.”
Poppy shrugs. “Well, I don’t really have a social life. Rodrigo is pretty much my only friend in the entire state of Florida, but he’s all loved up with his boyfriend.”
I nod slowly, feeling a little bad that she doesn’t have any friends. I mean, I don’t have many friends but that’s by choice. Poppy is so fun and kind and sweet; who wouldn’t want to be friends with a girl like her?
“I have a dinner meeting tonight with the assholes from Royale who severed ties with me after Hilton Head.”
Poppy quirks a brow, clearly intrigued by the development.
“Seems they want to… negotiate a new deal.” I roll my eyes.
“Those guys are the biggest d-bags, and Cam can’t come with me, so I—” I rub at the pinch at the back of my neck.
“I was kinda hoping that you might come with me because I’m scared I might lose my cool and, well, since I can’t risk making headlines, not now while everything is going so good…
” I knock my knuckles against the wooden cutting board for luck.
“I can come with you. Lori and her friend June helped me pick out a few different dresses the other day, so I have some options,” Poppy says. “Just let me know when and where so I can make sure I look the part.”
I feel my heart tug at that. As confident as Poppy is, there’s a self-conscious side she tries to hide, and I hate that. She doesn’t need to look the part… she is the part; I just wish she could see that.