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CHAPTER TWENTY

VALE

“Not that.”

I step out of the bathroom in my third golf dress, and Nash is fuming.

“What?” I twirl in the black racerback sporty mini. “It’s what women wear to play golf.”

“I said nothing sexy, nothing cute, nothing hot, and you heard me.”

I sashay toward Nash, seated on my loveseat with his arms thrown over the back like a king, while I confess, “I didn’t hear you.”

“I said it right next to you in bed this morning.”

“Yeah, but you were all like words, words, words, and my eyes were all like, ‘Look at this orgasmic man with muscles and ink beside you,’ so I wasn’t listening.”

“Well, then, hear me now; you’re not wearing anything short.”

“What?” I stomp my white golf sneaker. “You think I’m playing eighteen rounds in a hoop skirt? Shall I get the vapors and pass out for you, too?”

I press the back of my hand to my forehead, my eyes rolling while I drawl, “Oh, Naassshh . How can I play golf with all these sticks and balls you men are swinging? And then when you yell, ‘get in the hole,’ I’m overcome. What is a girl to do?”

He narrows his eyes. He wants to laugh. I can see it.

“You know,” he seethes, “it’s arousing for me to see you like this.” He lowers his gaze before combing up my bare legs. “Because no one else sure as fuck will.”

I flit my hand at him. “I like this whole jealous mafia man thing you have going for you. It really brings out your eyes.”

“I’m about to bring something else out to make you shut up and listen.”

I lift the hem of my dress. “Promise?”

“Vale!” he snaps. “We’re going to be late.”

“We’ll be real damn late if you keep freaking out about what I’m wearing because I only have three dresses left from my tournament days, and you popped a blood vessel in your eye at each one, so pick the lesser poison and let’s go.”

His lip snarls.

Damn, is he related to Elvis?

“The white one,” he insists.

“You don’t want me wearing the white one. It’s too thin, and my nipples get hard when I beat men, and then you’ll have to murder them, and all that blood will ruin my dress.”

He doesn’t answer. I’m getting too close to the truth.

“This one.” I smooth my dress. “I’ll match you in all black, and we’ll look cute together.”

“Yeah. That’s the look I’m going for.”

He deadpans because with each minute, Nash is going all Bratva on me. His gun is strapped to his ankle. His stainless steel belt buckle hides two small knives. He’d hide brass knuckles under his golf gloves, too, if he could.

On the drive over the bridge to the golf course, my knee won’t stop bouncing.

Three times, Nash glances over and sees it. “Ask.”

He knows I’m dying to. “Are you going to kill him? It’s killing me to know.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s hiding the truth behind his non-polarized sunglasses. They’re designed not to interfere with his depth perception and to turn me on at the same time.

Who knew I’d fall for a man so good at murder and my former favorite sport?

“Can I say something to him?”

He almost laughs. “Can I stop you?”

“Uh! I can control my mouth for a day.”

“Is it aware of your ability to keep it shut?”

“Are you aware you’re being a big dickhead?”

He turns onto the main road to the country club and course. When the guard at the gate sees him, he nods and quickly lets us drive through.

“Listen.” Nash parks, turning the engine off. “I need to debrief you.”

“You need to take my panties off?”

“Vale!” he barks. “Get serious.”

I exhale, making my habit of snark when I’m nervous pass before I inhale and answer, “Okay. I’m serious now.”

He turns to me. “This man we’re about to play, Claude Olan Turner the Fourth, comes from a long line of violent men. His father was arrested for assaulting an officer. You know her, Cade Bryant.”

“Cade? Yeah, I know her. She’s a loyal Delta’s customer.”

“Well, you also know how Stacey, your boss, was formerly married to the piece of shit senator, Gentry Evans, who was secretly running a trafficking ring using golf tours for men to disguise it. Stacey and Cade helped to bring Evans and his operation down.”

“Yeah,” I reply slowly, my brain processing fast.

“Well, Turner the Third was second in charge under Evans. He secured the contraband.”

“You mean the trafficking victims.”

“Yes,” Nash answers. “But with both men behind bars, it created a power vacuum, and the young Claude Olan Turner the Fourth filled it, and he’s worse than his father. Too preppy to suspect. Too rich to stop. Too young to know when to.”

My pulse doubles. “How do you know all of this?”

“We hear rumors that lead to sources who give us intel.”

“So you and your brothers stopped him?”

“Not yet. I found the money trail. I figured out his last … shipment ,” Nash uses the word with disgust, “but we were too late. They were already sold.”

“Sold?”

“A dozen girls sold at Myrtle Beach.”

My face bends. My heart breaks. “And the cops don’t stop him?”

“They can’t catch him. He’s an evil fucking genius.”

“So now what?”

“We were getting the intel to stop him, to uncover his entire ring and associates. I was on his money trail, in his online accounts, figuring out how he operates, and that’s how he found me. He detected me hacking and found me through a VPN that wasn’t so well encrypted after all.”

“And that’s who was following us that night? He’s the man who tried to kill us?”

Nash reaches out, his fingertips brushing my cheek. “I’m sorry I got you into this. Bet you wish you took that Uber.”

I lean my cheek into his touch. “Bet the driver wouldn’t have made a minivan look as hot as you did.”

He grins … barely.

“This is serious, Vale. This is the hunter being hunted. He’s aiming for me; he’ll recognize you, but he won’t blow his cover in front of his date. To the rest of Charleston, he’s just a wealthy asshole, so he’ll play along. He’s a gambling addict and an average golf player. We need to play him until he’s our pawn. I need him in the clubhouse after the tournament. I need him right where we can get him.”

I nod. For all my snark and sass, I can set it aside and get damn smart. “What do I say?”

“Nothing about my brothers. Nothing about Alena. Nothing about yourself other than you’re a beautiful woman who’s about to beat the shit out of him in golf.”

“Who is he playing with?”

“He registered to play with a woman. Daisy Lantry. We looked her up. She’s a former debutante and Southern royalty. She has no idea who Turner really is.”

I grin. “Oh, this will be fun.”

“It’s not fun, Vale, it’s work.”

“Oh, I’m gonna work him alright.”

Finally, Nash smiles.

“Best of luck today, and we look forward to seeing you at the after-party!” The course’s golf pro finishes his welcome speech, kicking off the tournament as Nash and I turn for our golf carts.

“Here we go,” he mutters because our cart is parked next to Turner’s.

Together, our foursome is supposed to drive our two carts to the first hole and play like friendly competitors.

So much for that.

After we secure our bags to the back of the cart and turn toward him, it’s almost amusing watching furious recognition fire across Turner’s blue eyes before he hides it.

“Hi!” His date offers her hand to shake. “I’m Daisy. This is Olan, and I guess we’re a foursome today.”

“Hi.” I shake her hand. “I’m Vale, and this is Nash, and let me apologize in advance for today because I have a case of the shanks.”

She smiles, tipping her head, confused.

“I’m overthinking my swing,” I explain. “I’ve been shanking the ball into the rough for years.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” She seems genuinely nice. “I’m not the best player, either.”

But she is gorgeous, and Claude Olan Turner the Fourth looks like a tall, sandy-haired Abercrombie model who hides his evil under the navy sweater jauntily draped over his narrow shoulders.

He even reeks of fierce cologne and perversion, too. He doesn’t shake our hands. He doesn’t introduce himself. He’s got to be wondering why Nash is here, covertly confronting him, but Turner’s ego is too big to back down.

“Let’s play,” Nash offers coldly, so I take the passenger seat in our cart. Nash glares at Turner, then smirks, gesturing with his hand as he taunts, “We’ll follow you this time.”

Good god, Nash is so sexy when he’s a smartass. Wonder who’s the bad influence on him lately?

While we follow them down the cart path, he quietly asks, “So that’s how you’re playing this? That you suck at golf now?”

“You know me. I’ll suck at it, then stick it in his ass.”

He huffs, amused by my reference to the mind-blowing blowjob I gave him, “That stays between you and me, poison.”

“Not today. Today, I’m going to make Turner think I suck at golf until we take the turn to the back nine, and then I’ll ram our win up his ass.”

At the first hole, I play off the women’s tee with Daisy.

“Whoops!” I shout after I shank my drive left, off the fairway, and into the rough, exactly where I wanted it.

Then I step away from the tee-box and Turner makes a production of helping Daisy with her first drive. He stands behind her, mounting her like a perv while he shows her how to “swing better.”

I watch, rolling my eyes. Mansplaining is an epidemic nowadays.

Daisy doesn’t need help. She hits a decent drive without him. Then Turner drives, hitting the ball two hundred and twenty yards. Not bad. It’s average. So Nash does the same.

We let Turner win the first hole at one over par. “That’s a thousand,” he boasts at the green after putting his ball in. “At this rate, you’ll owe me eighteen by the end.”

Nash nods. He’s an iceberg while I’m hot and tempting, “Let’s make it interesting. Let’s double it on the back nine.”

Turner raises a brow. “Twenty-seven thousand? That’s how much you want to lose today?”

Arrogant little prick.

I shrug. “Maybe I’ll play better if I’m under pressure. Anything to cure these shanks. If not, I’m playing Army golf all day.”

“Army golf?” Daisy asks.

“Yeah,” I joke. “Left. Right. Left. Right. That’s my game lately. I can’t drive it down the middle to save my life.”

“You need to adjust your hips when you swing.” Turner ogles them.

No, shit.

“Oh, is that it?” I sound dumb while Nash clears his throat, fuming at Turner noticing my form.

“Yeah,” Turner sneers, raking his glare up my bare legs before boldly staring right at my cleavage. “Bet those get in the way of your swing, too.”

“God, Olan, you’re such a bad boy,” Daisy giggles. “Keep your eyes where they belong.”

“Your mouth, too,” Nash warns.

Shit, we won’t make it eighteen holes in four hours if Nash murders Turner on the first green. Thankfully, the attendant at the drink cart calls out, asking if we want anything, and Turner takes the rookie bait. He orders a John Daly—lemonade, iced tea, and vodka—and I turn, winking at Nash.

We’re off to a good start.

During the next five holes, I get to know Daisy. We let our “stupid little gossip,” as Turner calls it, annoy him and fill me with hopes that I can get some intel for Nash.

“So, where did you two meet?” I whisper to her while we watch the men take their swings. They’re silently ignoring the other.

“Hemingway’s Bistro down in Beaufort,” Daisy whispers back. “I was there with my sister. She spotted Olan first, but once I saw him, I told her he’s mine.” She elbows me. “But I’m making him work for it. This is our third date. He won’t get lucky until the seventh.”

Beaufort. I note. Maybe that’s where Turner has been hiding.

“Good for you,” I tell her. “Don’t show him the promised land until he’s ready to worship it.” She winks at me, sipping from her water bottle. “Where did he take you on your first date? That’s how they prove themselves.”

“The Ribault Social Club,” she answers, and I nod approvingly.

“Did he top it with the second date?”

“Not really,” she answers. “We met up with some of his friends at Ladys Island Dockside. The place is cute, but I swear some of his friends are slicker than owl shit. They were hitting on me like I’m fair game. I made Olan take me home. He was in the doghouse until this date, so we’ll see how it goes.”

Yep, Beaufort, South Carolina. That’s where he and his crew were hiding.

“What about you and Nash?” she asks. “Where was your first date?”

Do murderous car chases followed by a quarter pounder with cheese qualify as a date?

I roll my lips. “It’s complicated.”

“Honey,” she whispers, eyeing them, eyeing us. “That man of yours is so fine, bringing all those hot zaddy vibes when he looks at you. Girl, he could complicate me like a Sudoku puzzle.”

Mental note: once Daisy’s wicked date is dead, take her out for mint juleps and gift her with a real date—a Vibe from Maude vibrator.

At the seventh hole, I need a needle and thread to sew my lips shut. I’m dying to say something. I want to bust Turner in front of Daisy because he’s eye-fucked me so many times Nash is gnashing his teeth.

Wonder if that’s how he got his name?

“I’m going to kill him,” he hisses under his breath while we drive to the eighth tee.

“Don’t kill him yet,” I whisper. “I want the satisfaction of beating him first. Oh, and check Beaufort. That’s where he’s been hiding.”

Nash stops the cart and looks at me, questioning, “How do you know?”

“I asked Daisy where they met, where he’s taken her on dates. He’s going to all the trendy spots, so he’s got to be local. It sounds like some of his assholes live there, too.”

Nash cocks a grin. “Damn, my woman, you’re getting hotter with every hole.”

I wink. “If you’re lucky.”

As the four of us walk toward our tee-boxes, I call out, “Watch out for the water hazard on the left. It’s a doozy.”

“Thanks,” Daisy calls back.

Turner stays silent, walking ahead of us.

“What was that?” Nash side-whispers while I clean my driver.

“A trick my dad taught me. Put it in their head, and their ball will follow.”

“Good god,” Nash mutters, grabbing my ass while no one’s watching. “I’m going to thank you so hard tonight.”

Minutes later, “Fucking bitch!” Olan spews after he shanks his drive … and plunk! Right into the pond on the left of the green it lands.

Bullseye, Bridge Bastard.

Turner whips around, charging my way, poking the handle of his driver at me. “That was your fault. Keep your fucking mouth closed!”

“Me?” I mouth, smiling and pointing to myself.

But Nash growls, “Speak to her again that way,” gripping his driver tight, “and I’ll drive your fucking skull down the fairway.”

I reach for Nash’s bicep, tugging him back, just in time for a tournament marshal to pull up in his cart.

“Gentlemen? Do we have a problem?”

“No,” I chirp. “We’re just giving our balls a bath.”

Daisy giggles, and Turner collects himself, not wanting to make an ass out of himself when he wants a piece of her ass tonight.

Good luck with that.

On the ninth hole, Turner tries my trick on me. “Watch out for the three sand bunkers on the right,” he yells. “You little ladies have been shanking right all day.” But I also hear the four vodka drinks he’s pounded down too.

It was particularly delightful when he pissed in the hedgerow on the seventh hole. Dang, the dick jokes I wanted to make, but I’m making my man proud, so I told them to myself.

Your dick’s so small you’re pissing on your nuts.

Are you gonna get that wart lanced?

So you’re the expert on micropenises.

Those got me through it. I didn’t snark once. But now?

“Thanks for the advice,” I tell him. “Maybe if I shoot from the men’s tee, I’ll do better.”

He scoffs, “Women can dream, but they can’t drive.”

“Wanna bet?” I sound like Nash, standing behind me.

“Yeah,” Turner jibes, “let’s bet. One thousand says you can’t shoot from the men’s tee and outdrive him or me on this hole.”

I twirl my braid. “Ten thousand says I can outdrive you on every last hole.”

He laughs, and it’s evil. Turner looks like every other preppy prick on this course, but it’s in his eyes—he’s sick and twisted. He hides his perversion behind power and privilege. It’s not enough that he has so much; he wants to take what is never his to have. Evil entitlement is wired into his violent DNA.

God, I know his type so well.

Suddenly, a memory I fight to forget fires across my mind. My ripped prom dress. My tears. My screams swallowed by Chad’s forced kiss. Taken by Chad’s brutal assault.

The mind is a beautiful thing that way.

If you’re a survivor, you can smell the next predator a mile away … or look him dead in the eye and know it.

I’d warn Daisy about her bad boy Olan, but thankfully, he won’t live that long, and I can’t find guilt anywhere in my body about it.

“You’re on.” He takes the bait before leering at my cleavage for the umpteenth time.

Whatever.

I set up for my drive off the men’s tee, adjusting my grip, checking my stance.

“Watch your hips,” Turner taunts.

“Watch your mouth,” Nash warns.

“Olan,” Daisy chides, “you’re not supposed to make a sound while someone swings.”

“Yeah, Olan,” I say, eyeing the ball. “Did you forget?”

He can’t faze me. My dad trained me. He’d try to distract me all the time. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

Like now.

I drive the ball, watching it sail high and long as I smile. It lands dead center on the fairway, and Nash admires, “Huh. Almost three hundred yards. The men haven’t hit that far all day.”

I turn to see Turner’s jaw on the ground.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you.” I adjust my cleavage for him. “I don’t have a bad case of the shanks; I have a big case of about-to-beat-your-ass.”

“That’s impossible,” he seethes.

“Not when you’re playing a Rolex Junior Player of the Year,” I answer. “You know, like Tiger was, too?” I furrow my brow. “Did I forget to mention that?”

He clenches his teeth, his thin lips spitting, “You sharked me.”

I shrug. “All’s fair in golf and bridges.”

I make a covert reference to our car chase, and Turner narrows his eyes, threatening about more than this golf game, “You’re going to look pathetic when you lose.”

I smile. “Then, finally, we’ll have something in common.”

I win the next five holes, outdriving him from the men’s tee on each. Then I put cherries on top of his eat-shit-sandwich and eagle every hole. That’s two under par for those who are bored by golf.

In other words, I’m damn good.

At first, I only played to have time with my father. The only hours I had his attention were when a golf club was in my hand. I hoped if I could win games, I could win my daddy’s heart.

Maybe I was driven, maybe it was genetic, or maybe I just needed a father. I became a young champion, and it went to my dad’s head.

He coached me, then bet on me, screamed at me when I rarely lost, and mocked me when he made me cry about it.

The worst day was the afternoon I was awarded the Junior Player of the Year trophy. At the banquet, I overheard my dad telling one of my teammates she could be better than me. That he could coach her and “show her a few things.” She was nineteen, my dad was preying on her, and something broke inside me.

He loved golf more than me. He loved himself more than me. He loved any other woman more than me, his first daughter.

That day, I gave up on him, the game, and love and never looked back.

It gives me a lump in my throat now, but I play through it like the pro I could’ve been.

Before I take my next swing, I glance at Nash.

He keeps giving me that look. It’s one no other man has given me. It’s the one that admires me, respects me, cares for me, and desires me, too. It’s the one that says, “I’m so goddamn turned on watching you beat this man’s ass; I’m kissing yours tonight.”

It also reminds me of the objective. Why we’re really here.

So I pull back on the power in my swing. I let Turner match my drives and shots. Nash? He’s too amused to give a shit. But what’s really amusing is Turner is so invested in our bets and game, that he’s forgotten about Nash. All his focus is on me, and that’s the plan.

“Tired now?” Turner mocks after the fifteenth hole—the one I let him tie. “You know women don’t have stamina like men. It’s proven.”

“Yeah,” I put my putter in my bag, “I read that too. It was on the cover of Full Of Shit magazine. But here…” I take out my 7-wood. “Let me break your hand so you can feel the pain of childbirth and show us how much stamina you have.”

Daisy giggles.

You know, even if this fucker were going to live to see tomorrow, I think I’ve ruined his chances of ever getting lucky with her.

“Bitch,” Turner mutters, and I can’t stop him.

Nash charges toward him, his hand aiming for his throat, choking him as he lifts Turner’s toes off the ground. “Say that again to her so I can choke you on your last word.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Some guys on the cart path stop.

But Nash only squeezes Turner’s throat harder, shaking his jugular in his grasp. “Is this what you want?” Nash sneers, “A piece of me? A glimpse into my eyes before I kill you right in front of her?”

“Do it,” Turner coughs. “Show them who you really are.”

“Guys, guys.” One of the other players runs over. “It’s just a game. Calm down.”

“Nash,” I soothe his name. “My king, I’m a proud bitch, so let him go.”

Nash drops his hand and Turner. Angrily, he glances around, then at me. It’s not like Nash to lose his shit, and now I see one of the reasons he didn’t want me here.

He’s too protective of me. He forgets his mission if I’m involved. So, I keep us focused.

“They’re fine,” I tell the man rushing over. “They’re fine, upstanding gentlemen who just forgot themselves because the wagers are so high.”

I direct my question at Turner. “Right? We have ten thousand that says I can eagle the last three holes.” I cock a brow at him. “Each.”

“Thirty thousand?” The other player is shocked. “That’s too much. No wonder you guys are losing your shit out here. Who do you think you are? Duncan Monroe?”

“Better,” I answer him and Turner. “I’m his daughter.”

Turner’s nostrils flare. I’ve sharked him again, and he’s furious but also hooked. “You good for it?” he challenges.

“She is,” Nash answers as if he’d bet millions to watch me win.

The other player walks away, shaking his head. Daisy’s shaking hers, too. She looks half proud of my tactics, half betrayed that I lied about who I am.

Sorry, Daisy. We’re playing by Bratva rules now.

That’s who I feel loyal to—Nash and his brothers—not the legacy of my father, his name, or even my ego.

I eagle the sixteenth hole. That’s two strokes under par.

For an extra fuck-you, I double-eagle the seventeenth hole at three strokes under par. Yes, a winning score that low is extremely rare, but I’m an extreme bitch today.

So much so that on the eighteenth hole, I shank my drive. I aim my ball for the water hazard by the green and give Turner his victory.

His very last victory.

He’s mocking, laughing, loving that he’s getting the applause from the crowd gathered around the final hole before they give him back-slaps and usher him into the after-party.

Nash grabs my hand as I drop my putter in my bag. I turn to find his eyes in a storm of heat and ice.

“Why did you call me your king?” he demands to know.

I lift my chin. “Because that’s who I want you to be, my king. I want to be your queen. No matter what.”

He steps to me, looming and lovely. “I’ve never been so aroused and irate at the same time,” he says. “You earned your name today because you’re definitely my poison, and you’re about to be his.”