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She laughs at that. “Yeah, basically.”
I shake my head. “We’re ordering wings and you’re going to enjoy the hell out of them.”
She rolls her eyes, but in a good-natured way. “Okay, fine.”
The waitress returns and she impresses me when she brings a divider marking off the area by our bay as private. I guess Autumn was right. She gives us our drinks and takes our order then tells us that the people at the bay next to us are almost out of time and when they leave, that bay will remain empty to give us more privacy.
“Told you she would take care of us,” Autumn says when the waitress is gone.
“I have to say, she surprised me.”
“She’s probably not the one who blabbed. Or she did out of excitement then realized her mistake. True fans…well true normal fans, only want to be your friend. They hope that you’ll walk away remembering them, at the very least.”
“And the not normal fans?”
“Well, there’s the true psychos and there’s no explaining them. Then there’s the ones that feel you owe them something. Like if they’re friendly to you or they’ve had a hard life, then you should do something for them.”
“That sucks. Does that happen often?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. The ones with the hard luck stories are harder, because I want to sympathize. But they’re mostly there for freebies or money. That or they won’t stop after one thing.”
After everything I grew up with, I don’t like not knowing if someone is genuine or playing me. And actors to me are just a legit form of con-men and women. I’ve never given much thought about the actor being played, especially by the people who claim to love them.
“Come on, let’s play the game.”
We get everything set up and Autumn goes first. She’s quiet, and I can’t tell where her mind is at. She said she hasn’t been to a Top Golf before, so I have no idea if she’s ever hit a golf ball before. With us being in the last bay, most of the holes are at an angle. She picks a club and puts a ball on the tee. She lines up and her stance is pretty good. I don’t know a lot about golf myself, but I know enough to hit the ball off the tee at Top Golf. She pulls back and hits the ball with a solid whack. Her swing and hit are a thing of beauty, at least to me, and the ball curves through the air and makes it in one of the center holes.
“Um, damn.”
She turns to me then with a big smile on her face. “When you play a rich socialite daughter for five years, you learn a few things about golf.”
I now recall some golf course scenes inSunset Beach. “I see that. You’re going to kick my ass, aren’t you?”
“Probably. Is that a problem?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to come back with some sort of teasing and slightly sexual remark, but I hold back. We have a good, casual vibe going between us and I don’t want to screw it up. But we do need a tender touch moment, so I get up and walk over to her. I give a piece of her hair a gentle tug then run my hand down her arm.
“Not a problem at all, wildcat.” I lean in and kiss the top of her head.
When I pull back, there’s a slight pink hue to her cheeks as she gives me a shy smile. She moves away so I can have my turn. I hit the shit out of the ball because I have the muscle behind it, but there’s no finesse and the ball stays on the green, never finding one of the holes.
We have some fun banter as we take turns, I even make her laugh twice and I’m pretty sure it was genuine. She kicks my ass, as expected, and while I’m not a sore loser, I am competitive, so when our food arrives, I’m thankful for the break from losing.
“So, chicken wings are a no go, but queso fries are okay?” I ask as I look down at the mess of fries covered in melted cheese, pico de gallo, guacamole, and sour cream.
“I can eat those with a fork.” She demonstrates by taking a fry off the plate with a fork and setting on her own then cutting it in half before putting it in her mouth. It’s perfectly neat.
I grab one and drop it in my mouth then give her a little wave with my messy fingers. She shakes her head. “You have your way. I have mine.”
We continue to eat, and I’ve downed three wings while she still hasn’t touched them.
“Come on, try a wing.”
She doesn’t look happy, but she takes one and puts it on her plate. Then she studies it.
“You are not dissecting that thing with your fork.” She looks at me with an annoyed expression. “Move over there,” I say gesturing toward another part of the couch where her back will be to the rest of the place. She does then looks at me expectantly.
“Now people can only see your back.”
