July 4th #2
“We didn’t cut them off last night, and they had way more. They were drunk, for sure, but those guys can handle their liquor. I think they are trained professionals.”
“All right, good, because I don’t want to have to be the one to tell them the cart is closed.”
“You’ll be good,” Paul says. “You guys coming to watch the fireworks tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it! I hear it’s supposed to be the biggest one ever,” I reply.
“All right. I’ll see you there!” he says, then takes off.
I have fun working with Damon. He seems to be enjoying it and most definitely has the gift of gab. He’s chatting and asking about their games while I ask about what they are looking forward to tonight.
One thing I’ve learned from working here is to talk about everything but their golf game. Because they will do one of two things—not move on to the next hole fast enough or get more irritated over their play. And irritated people don’t tend to tip well.
But thankfully, that doesn’t seem to be the case so far today.
“Can you hold down the fort?” Damon says after the golfers we just served move on. “I need to hit the head. I was trying to wait since there’s only two more foursomes left to come through, but I can’t.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “There’s a restroom back just a hole, by the fourteenth tee box.”
He gives me a kiss and says, “I’ll miss you.”
“You’re silly,” I say, but a smile is plastered on my face.
The second-to-last foursome comes through. They are happy and possibly a little tipsy.
“You guys look like you could use some waters,” I offer, which is our standard line in this case.
And they all take me up on it and move on.
The next group is moving quickly because they are on the green as soon as the others leave.
The hundred-dollar tipper sinks a putt, then saunters over toward me. He gives me a once-over, his eyes drifting slowly down, and I can tell he’s specifically looking at my legs.
A few steps, and he is at my side.
“You look like you could use a water,” I say. “It’s getting pretty hot.”
I get a smirk in return.
“You’re pretty hot.”
“Thank you,” I say politely. “Can I get you anything?”
He moves closer, his eyes boring into mine. “What I want is you.”
I smile. After years of working here, I’ve gotten used to those guys who drink too much and think they have a chance.
“I’m afraid I’m not on the menu,” I say with a stern voice as I hand him the actual menu.
“When do you get off?” he asks.
“Very late. After the fireworks,” I lie.
He slides the back of his hand down my forearm.
“Please, don’t touch me,” I say sternly, backing away. “If you do it again, I’ll be calling security, and you won’t ever play here again.”
His next move is to grip my arm tightly, so much that it hurts. “I can do whatever the fuck I want,” he says. “And what I want is you.”
I want to grab the walkie-talkie on the side of my skirt, but I can’t because he pushes me up against the side of the golf cart.
And suddenly, I’m scared, my heart beating wildly, but I yell out, “Let go of me—now!” just as the guy goes flying backward and onto the ground, Damon standing over him.
By now, the rest of the foursome seems to realize something’s going on, and they rush over to join in the fray, acting like Damon just attacked their friend. The guy on the ground is yelling about how he’s going to sue the resort.
“Why’d you do that to him?” one of the bros asks Damon.
“He assaulted her. She told him to back off, and he didn’t listen. So, I made him do it.”
I quickly radio in an SOS with a specific code that lets the clubhouse know what’s happening.
The guy pops up off the ground and lunges at Damon, telling his friends, “Don’t worry, I can handle a punk like this.”
The guy is barely six foot with a dad bod, but he’s had enough to drink to think he’s some kind of pit bull.
He takes two steps toward Damon and throws a punch at him.
Damon simply sidesteps, much like he probably does to would-be tacklers, causing the guy to miss and fall to the ground again, inertia getting the best of him. At the same time, a security golf cart pulls up with both a hotel guard and a police officer.
They don’t ask many questions since they already know what happened.
I point to the guy, so they grab him, put him in cuffs, tell him he’s under arrest, and read him his rights.
One of the bros decides to be a hero and throws a punch at the security guard, who was leaning down to help the sheriff.
He gets tased, which is something I’ve never seen before, and it doesn’t look pleasant.
The guy who attacked me turns to me and yells, spittle flying out of his mouth, “I’m going to sue you. Sue this hotel and get your skinny ass fired. Do you know who I am?”
“No, I don’t, sir,” I say.
Damon steps between us and says to the guy, “The question you should be asking yourself is, do you know who she is?”
“Who the hell cares? She’s just some dumb bitch. I suppose you two are having a thing.”
Damon moves closer to the guy, who is being held back by the cop, then turns to me and says, “Tell him who you are.”
I stand up straight and look him in the eye. “I’m Ainsley Archibald.”
“As in the Archibald Lodge Archibald,” Damon says. “You should never treat a woman like that, and in this case, you definitely messed with the wrong girl.”
Two more security golf carts show up with more guards.
“Get in,” they tell the other bros. “We’re taking you back to the hotel to gather up your and your friends’ belongings.
Your entire group has been officially banned from ever coming back to this establishment.
Just a few moments ago, two of the waitresses came to our office to report how disrespectful your group was.
This is a family resort, and if you can’t behave yourselves, you get kicked out with no refunds.
Your friends are being retrieved from the club as we speak, and you will all be escorted out together. ”
They take off. The guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer and the Tased one are loaded into a golf cart.
By this time, the hotel manager, Buck Boone, has arrived.
He shakes his head at the guys and tells them that not only are they banned, but that their friend could be facing charges.
Then he comes over to me.
He is in his fifties, has been friends with my uncles since they were kids, and has had the nickname Big Boone for as long as anyone can remember.
He’s a mountain of a man—six-five with hardened muscles.
He retired after a decorated career as a Marine and was recruited to run this place.
Everyone here respects him, and we all know that despite his hard exterior, he has a heart of gold and always treats his employees with great regard.
“Are you okay, Ainsley?” he asks me.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Do you need to be looked at by the doctor?”
I look at my arm. It still has red marks where the guy’s fingers dug into my skin. But other than that, I’m okay. Sort of.
Both Boone and the officer take their phones out and take photos of my arm. Then they take official statements from Damon and me, separately, regarding the events that transpired.
Which leaves me feeling rattled.
Once that’s over and they leave, Damon wraps his arms around me, and I practically fall into them.
“Let’s go home,” he says, walking me to our golf cart.
“I need to take the serving cart back up to the club.”
“Someone else can get it,” he says, putting me in the cart and taking off.
I don’t say anything to him the whole way there.
When we get inside, I tell him I’m going to shower.
He nods.
I go into the bathroom and strip off my clothes, turn the water on, and get in.
Yes, I’m a sweaty mess from being outside all day, but I also feel like I need to get any remnant of that man off me. Cleanse myself.
I’m scrubbing my body with soap when Damon steps in the shower with me.
And it’s then that I start crying.
Damon hugs me tightly, and we stand that way under the water for a really long time.
You look like an angel.
Damon
I squeeze her tightly when all her emotions finally come out. Once her crying slows down, I kiss her forehead, then turn off the shower. I grab a big, fluffy towel and hand it to her. She dries herself off, and then I help her into a robe.
I kiss her cheek, dry myself off quickly, put on a matching robe, then lead her into the bedroom and pull back the covers.
I get in and hold my arm out so she can snuggle up.
She lies on her side, lays her head on my chest, and curls up next to me. “I’m glad you were there today,” she says softly.
“I am too,” I say, gently running my hand from her forehead and then down the length of her hair.
Pretty soon, I can tell by her breathing that she’s asleep. But I don’t stop caressing her. Instead, I’m thinking about my fierce desire to protect her.
I remember a night when Chase and I were in eighth grade.
My sister called him. She was at a party and drunk.
Was going to get driven home by a senior who had been drinking.
Chase was freaking out, worried. But because we didn’t want her to get in trouble, we decided to go get her ourselves, which meant taking Chase’s dad’s car without his permission.
And there was the pesky fact that neither of us had our license yet.
Of course, we got caught by his dad before we left, but once we confessed about the situation, he took us to the party.
Both his dad and I wanted to go inside with Chase, but he said no.
It was just a few minutes later when he texted his dad, told him to call the cops, to pull up as close to the door as possible, and that he’d be out in sixty seconds.
I smile, thinking about how I timed him. He actually was out in forty-seven.