14. Shelby
SHELBY
“By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada and from all of us here at the Ring and Bling Chapel, I now pronounce you, husband and wife… You may kiss your bride.”
A full body shiver runs from the top of my head all the way down to my toes as the scene plays in my mind right in the middle of my practice swing.
I shank my shot, which isn’t surprising considering I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi-truck.
Even with my sunglasses and a visor, the outside is too bright.
My stomach is revolting. I’ve puked twice this morning.
All I want is a greasy breakfast, one thousand bottles of Gatorade, six times the recommended dosage of Advil, and the darkest room I can find.
But no, I have to play golf. With Beau. Who I dreamt about marrying last night.
Dreams are so fucked up when you’re drunk…
I never drink that much before the start of a tournament. Maybe a drink with dinner or a few glasses of wine if I have a later tee time, but I’ve never actually blacked out the night before a round.
The last thing I remember is admitting to Beau what Michael did. I don’t know if it was getting that off my chest, or the shot I took to get me through it, but that sent me over the edge.
Next thing I know, I’m waking up in my hotel room, the bed way more disheveled than it should’ve been for just me sleeping in it, and a cheap gold ring on my right hand that looks like it’ll make my skin turn green.
“Get it together, Shelby,” I scold myself as I tap a ball to where I’m standing at the driving range, doing my best to warm up for our tee time that’s sooner than I’d like it to be. “You can’t fuck this day up.”
If those self-words of encouragement don’t get my act together, I don’t know what will. Because it’s the truth. If I can just figure out my equilibrium—because I might still be drunk—and hit the ball just average, I’ll be able to get through today.
Now Beau, on the other hand? That’s a whole other story.
I look around the driving range to see if I can spot one of his ridiculous colored shirts, but he’s nowhere to be found.
I think he was with me the whole night. I have the vaguest memory of riding in a taxi back to the hotel with him, but then I also have a vague memory of kissing him, so clearly, I can’t trust my memories.
Because there isn’t an amount of liquor in the world that would lower my inhibitions so much that I’d kiss Beau Devereaux.
“Shelby Lynn Devereaux. It has a nice ring to it.”
“It’s a lot of syllables,” I say, but I don’t think Beau can hear me. Or cares. He’s too busy kissing my neck. And I’m too busy liking it to care that he’s not listening to me. “Six. Sex syllables.”
“Did you say sex?”
Did I? “No. I said sex. Six. I said six sex.”
Beau leans in closer, his hand grabbing my thigh, pulling me in so close I’m basically on his lap. “We can make six sex happen, Wife. All you have to do is say the words.”
“What words are those?”
“Dare me.”
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I jump at the sound of the voice. Which thankfully pulls me from a new part of the dream I didn’t remember. Sex with Beau? Absolutely the fuck not.
Wait…is that why it burned a little when I peed this morning?
“Shelby? Hey! What, no hello for me?”
I’m ten-thousand different ways of confused, and still a little drunk, because all I can do is snap at the last person I want to see right now.
And why does he have a black eye?
“Chad? Where the fuck have you been, and was it a boxing ring?”
I haven’t seen Chad since last week when we were in Nashville. He didn’t show up to either practice day. No call. No text. No email. No carrier pigeon. Nothing. And yet, he’s staring at me like I’m the crazy one for asking where he’s been and if that place was Fight Club.
“I’ve been here all week.”
When I was desperate for a swing coach, and when I thought Chad was going to be the best one for me, I ignored a lot of things I don’t like about the man. The biggest one being that he perfected the term gaslighting. Does it better than anyone I know. And it’s exactly what he’s doing now.
Except, I know his tricks. I’ve known them for a hell of a long time. And I’m tired of disregarding them.
“You haven’t been here,” I say firmly, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach.
Because this is a conversation that’s long overdue.
“I’ve had two days of practice where I had to find a new caddy—the job you were hired to do—because you were M.I.A.
No one has seen you on this golf course. Riddle me that, Chadwick.”
“Come on, Belle…” Chad’s slimy smile—and the use of Beau’s name for me—sends an unwanted chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the bottle of whiskey I drank last night. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”
I’ve been with a lot of regrettable men in my lifetime, but without a doubt, dating Chad Ashcroft is my biggest regret.
Because….fucking ew.
His smile is too white. I know he spends a lot of time on a golf course, but this has to be a spray tan.
And of course, he’s a douchebag. I hate that he was my first boyfriend.
I hate that he was my first kiss. But that’s what you do when you’re young, dumb, and have a crush on your best friend's brother who only sees you as his golfing buddy.
Except…he didn’t last night.
No. One crisis at a time.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, now just getting pissed. “Actually, you don’t have to say anything. I don’t need you this weekend. You can go back to whatever strip club with a good buffet you slunk out of this morning. And get your eye checked out. I’ll be just fine.”
His eyes narrow for a second, but then he remembers he’s in public with people he knows he needs to impress. I mean, how else is he going to convince them he should be their swing coach with his fucked up grip?
“Nonsense. I’m here to work.” I watch in mild shock as he walks closer to me, leaning down and picking up my bag. “Come on. Let’s go check in.”
“Absolutely the fuck not,” I yell a little too loudly as I step in front of him. “You’re not caddying for me.”
"On the contrary," he says in a low voice, the semi-charming gaslighter tone. “I found your backup caddy in the clubhouse. Thanked him for covering for me, but that since I’m here now, his services are no longer needed. Handed him a hundred bucks and sent him on his way.”
I’ve been pissed off about a lot of things over the last twenty-four hours. Seeing Michael. My body still having a damn reaction when Beau is near me. How I wanted to slap Courtney for no other reason besides her existing. A dream so real it’s fucking my world up.
But the anger I’m feeling right now can’t be measured. Because not only am I for sure never using Chad’s weird-ass grip method again, but I’m firing his ass immediately.
“I want you gone,” I say with a bite. “Leave now. You’re fired.”
I’ve never had to fire anyone before, but on a scale from one to ten, I think that was a solid eight and a half.
So why is Chad smiling? No…sneering.
“You want to fire me? Fine,” he says low enough so only I can hear him. “But you tee off in twenty minutes and your rent-a-caddy is gone. Where are you going to find one? You won’t, Shelby. So I guess you’re stuck with me.”
And now I’m pissed about that. Because he’s right.
“One day,” I say, leveling him with a stare. “Tomorrow, I don’t want to see your face anywhere near me.”
“Whatever you say, Belle.”
“Don’t call me that.” I’m about ready to pop my elbow back so I can ram it into his rib cage, when he swiftly picks up my club bag and starts walking away.
Oh, he knew what was about to happen. Guy might be a douchebag of epic proportions but he’s not dumb.
“You should probably know something,” I say, needing to get ahead of this now before he makes a scene on the course. “I changed my swing.”
“I saw,” he says, purposely not making eye contact with me as we walk toward the first tee box. “I was watching. Looked familiar. But not in a good way.”
“I need to read your definition of good,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know so you didn’t make a big deal of it on the course.”
I nearly trip over my feet because of how quickly he stops and turns to me. “Why would you do that, Shelby? We were making so much progress.”
I’m blinking rapidly because I’m confused on about ninety-two levels.
Not only is this man a premier gaslighter, he's also golf's version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Not even a minute ago we were biting each other’s heads off. I fucking fired him. He said a phrase that wasn’t threatening per se, but had the tone of a threat.
Now his words are soft? Curious? Wondering why I would do such a thing?
Note to self: Call Bubba and ask where the hell his recommendations for Chad came from, because either this is the special treatment he only gives me, or somehow he’s conned the entire golf world.
“It wasn’t working, Chad. You had to have seen that.
Or are you so narcissistic that you couldn’t care that you were making me worse?
” Saying all of this feels good, though I doubt minutes before my tee time is the best place to have this out.
“If I swung like that this weekend, I would be an embarrassment. And guess what? You would’ve been too. ”
“Me?” Why is he acting like a dramatic southern grandmother right now? If he had pearls on, he’d be clutching them. “It’s not my fault the proven Ashcroft Method wasn’t working for you.”
“Ha!” I laugh so loud, heads turn. Also, when the fuck did he coin the term Ashcroft Method?
Out of all the douchy things the douchebag could do, this is the douchiest by far.
“But isn’t it your fault? A good coach would help his player.
Figure out what was wrong with them. You didn’t.
You doubled down. And then today, when I would’ve played like shit—because it was going to happen—I would’ve been asked why I wasn’t hitting the ball better.
Everyone knows we’ve been working together.
And you know I won’t lie, Chad. Never have, never will.
So I would’ve told them that my new swing, the apparent Ashcroft Method, is why my drives barely cracked two hundred yards.
How would that have gone for your reputation?
Would you still get clients rolling in if you couldn’t fix one of the top women's players in the world?”
I rarely flex my status. I've worked hard for what I’ve accomplished over my career. Bragging isn't my style. But right now, I will use every piece of clout I have to show him I am not fucking around on this.
And for the first time since he walked up to me, I see his true self come out. And it happens with one bobbing Adam’s apple.
“I’m sorry, Shelby,” Chad says, the swinging of his personality pendulum now at contrite. He even puts his hand on my shoulder in a failed act of…comfort? Remorse? Not sure. “Let’s talk about this after the round.”
“Nothing to talk about,” I say.
And just as I’m about to shrug out of his touch, his hand is ripped off my shoulder.
“Get your fucking hands off of her.”
Chad’s eyes go wide, and I watch as every single ounce of blood drains from his face. Even with his shitty spray tan, you can tell how pale he’s gone at the sound of Beau’s booming voice.
Who…oh shit…Beau’s pissed.
Hungover. But pissed.
My body shivers as I feel the anger radiating off of him, which is a screwed-up way to feel. Beau’s hero complex has always annoyed me, but right now? Watching Beau tower over Chad. His breathing heavy. His fists bunching at his side. It’s hot.
Like really hot.
Like I want to find out if the dream could be true hot.
“Easy there,” Chad says, holding his hands up in surrender. “No need for a repeat performance.”
Repeat performance? What is he talking about?
“I told you to stay away.”
I know I’m hungover, but did he just say what I think he said? “You told Chad to stay away? When?”
My confusion only makes Chad’s sneer return. “You didn’t tell her we saw each other last night?”
I snap my gaze to Beau, and even though the sudden movement makes me almost fall over, I regain my bearings to shoot him a scathing look. “What’s he talking about?”
Beau doesn’t answer my question. But even though my memories from last night are hazy at best, I do remember that his knuckles were red. And I’m wondering if they have anything to do with the shiner Chad’s sporting.
“Do you want him here?”
Beau’s question is directed to me, and I know what he’s doing. If I wanted Chad gone, it would be Beau’s personal mission to remove him.
I wish I could tell him ‘Yes. Get him the hell out of here.’ But I can’t. And I hate it.
“I don’t have a choice. It’ll be fine. He knows the rules.”
Beau looks at Chad before turning his focus back to me. “Does he? You know him, Shelby. He’s a fucking snake.”
“Hey! I’m right here!”
“Exactly,” Beau spits at him. “And no one is talking to you.”
Okay, the hero thing was hot a few seconds ago, but now I’m done with it. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.”
I try to walk away from him, but he grabs my elbow, pulling me back. “Will you though, Shelby? You have no idea about this guy.”
“I don’t!?” I scream out. “Trust me, I know what a mistake I made—many times—choosing this man for anything. But thank for pointing out my poor decision making.”
“Still right here.”
“We know!” Beau and I scream out in unison.
The outburst draws the attention of other golfers and fans near us, who all stop and look. We need to clean this up and head to our tee box. The plethora of questions still swirling in my head will have to wait for later.
“It’s one day,” I say in a much lower tone. “We’re all going to get along. Beau, just golf. Chad, just do as I say. Let’s make it through today without killing each other, shall we?”
“Easier said than done,” Beau grumbles.
“Buck up, Big Boy,” I say, giving him a semi-playful, not-hard punch in the arm to get it together. “We’ve got golf to play.”
We both stop immediately and look at each other curiously.
“What did you just call me?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, even though we both know damn well what I just said.
But the wording isn’t the strangest part, it’s how familiar it felt. Like I’ve done it before. But I haven’t. Right?
What the hell happened last night…
“Awe, look at you two bickering with each other, just like old times.” Chad picks up my bag and starts walking to the tee box. “Today oughtta be a blast.”