Page 22 of Summer Lessons

“Yes!” Jefferson crowed, pumping his fist. “Bring on the clubs and the ball!”

Fierce words—oh yes they were.

They came to a halt and got out of the cart; then Mason set up the ball and chose his driver, explaining all the way. “See, this one’s my driver. I’m picking a three-iron because this hole isn’t very deep, and iron gives me control. If it was a longer distance, I’d pick wood, because wood hits farther. Kay?”

Jefferson grunted, busy turning a full circle at the tee. “There’s no woods,” he said. “I mean, there are a few trees, but I was sort of hoping there’d be deep woods somewhere.”

Mason looked around Diamond Oaks and grimaced. “There’s some willow trees over there,” he said. “Uh, you have a thing for trees?”

Jefferson rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Mason. I really want to blow a tree.”

His words hit Mason in midswing. Mason scratched, glaring helplessly at Jefferson as he recovered the ball.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding reasonably contrite.

“Just… just let me hit a couple of rounds,” Mason found himself pleading. “Let me teach you how to swing the club—”

“Heh heh!”

“—at the very least!” he begged. “Then we can go out to pancakes after nine holes. My treat.”

Jefferson squinted and cocked his head. “Like a date?”

“You can blow me in the car at the pancake place,” Mason offered, feeling like he was imposing. But it was okay, because Jefferson perked up at the mention of the sleazy sex behind a restaurant in broad daylight.

“Sure,” Jefferson said cautiously. “But… the sex has to be meaningless.”

A little part of Mason’s heart shriveled, but he was used to that. “Okay. Fine. Maybe I can give this time.”

“You’d want to?”

Mason sighed and set up to swing. “If you just let me beat the crap out of the ball with the stick, I’dloveto.” He pulled back and paused to see if Jefferson had anything to add.

Beat… beat… beat… and swi—

“Do you really like giving?”

And scratch.

Mason sighed and turned around, checking to see if next party was coming their way. So far, so good—apparently only diehards went golfing when it was still dark and cold as fuck.

“I’mgay, Jefferson. You name a thing about a penis, and I’m pretty sure I’m a fan. Now can I hit the damned ball?”

“Gay?” That narrow harlequin face compressed, one eyebrow going up and the other dipping down, skewing the shape of him, making him look like a polygon instead of a rectangle.

“Aren’tyougay? Or at least bi?”

“Well… I like blowing guys,” Jefferson said hopefully. “And getting blown by them. And butt sex is great. But I can’t be gay or my mother would kill me.”

So. Much. Wrong. With. That.

Mason’s brain blew a fuse—he turned back, fucked his form, and whacked the holy shit out of the little ball.

TWO HOLESlater, the sun was rising and the chill dew was soaking in through their shoes, socks, and the cuffs of Mason’s jeans. Jefferson was dancing at every hole while Mason tried to instruct him in golf, and Mason had to concede.

This wasn’t working.

He stood behind Jefferson, hands on his thighs, as he corrected his stance, his back, his arms, his grip, and his swing.