The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(6)

“Really,” he goes on. “I think I can just call triple A, and…”

I ignore him. That seems to be the best option at this point and, since I chose it to begin with, I’m staying the course. His battery terminals are caked and I can tell from just looking at one that it’s loose. I’m surprised he’s been driving at all, though maybe he hit a bump or something and jarred it. I go back to the truck and grab a screwdriver, a wire brush, and a rag.

“What are you doing now?” he asks, sounding put-out.

“Cleaning your terminals. For someone who was worried I might get grease on his sweet leather interior, your battery posts are horrible. You got to clean under the hood sometimes too, Ace,” I tell him. Once I have one of the posts clean, I tighten the connector to it and do the same to the other. The battery could be bad, but somehow I doubt it.

“It’s not the battery. I told you the lights are on. Hell, even the radio still plays.”

I ignore him. Yet again.

“Get inside and see if it will start,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes at me and I briefly imagine stabbing him between those eyes with my screwdriver. The engine turns and tries to hit, but it doesn’t have enough juice. I go back to the truck and get out the cables, pop my hood, and get ready to jump the engine. Just as I’m about to attach the ends to his battery, he grabs them out of my hand.

“Whoa, now. I don’t think you should be doing that.”

“Seriously?”

“Listen, I appreciate your help and all, but I told you my lights and things come on. If the battery was dead, that wouldn’t happen. I’m pretty sure it’s something more mechanical. I’ll just call triple A and have them send a tow out, you can go back to drowning yourself in oil, and everything will be fine.”

I sigh. “Listen. You’re obviously not from here. So let me explain a few things. First of all, I’m the only tow service for at least sixty miles. Which means if you call roadside assistance, they’re going to call me, and I’ll have to come out anyway. Second of all, the nearest garage besides mine is at least two hundred miles away, which means your tow bill, while nice for my pocket, is not worth it. Plus, I have things I need to do today and I really don’t feel like driving into the city. Third—and this might be the most important—I really would like to get you back on the road just to get rid of you,” I tell him, taking the cables out of his hand. “Now, this is obviously not your area of expertise, but things work according to amps. That means, your radio or lights might work with just a little juice in your battery, but there might not be enough to, say, run your car at the same time, or even start it,” I explain, attaching the cables. “It also means if there’s not a good connection, the output of the battery might not be strong enough. Understand?”

“Listen, I just don’t think you—”

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” I mutter, walking around and going to start his vehicle. When it fires right up, I slam the door—hard. He stands there looking at the car like it has Martians surrounding it and is getting ready to take him back to the mother ship. I proceed to take everything back to my truck while he stands there still looking at his car. When I slam his hood (again too hard), he turns around to look at me, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He looks a little embarrassed, and that makes me feel marginally better. Now if he apologizes for being an ass, I might feel better about the weekend I spent with him. I’ve seen the signs and maybe it’s because I’ve dealt with them over and over, but I really get tired of men who think I don’t understand how to do my job because I’m a woman.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks as he goes to his wallet, no apology in sight.

Okay, then. If that’s how he’s going to play it.

“Hundred bucks.”

“You’re kidding me! You weren’t out here but for ten minutes! That’s highway robbery. With prices like that, I’m surprised you get any business at all,” he grumbles, handing me a hundred dollar bill.

“Oh, what I did here was free.” His mouth goes tight again. Strangely enough, this time I smile.

“If that’s free, then why am I giving you money?”

“Because you were really that annoying. So I charged ten dollars for every minute I had to be around you. I probably should have charged more, but I’m feeling charitable.” I jump up in my truck and leave Gray standing there with his mouth open.

Yeah, I liked him better when his head was buried between my legs.





As I watch Claude drive back to her shop, I can’t shake the feeling that I know her from somewhere. There’s something about her voice … and that face—well, what I could see of it that wasn’t covered with oil. I have the strangest urge to follow her, but I can’t because I have to meet with Riverton.

This is bullshit. I’m not Green after all. Being in the majors like he is, he has to deal with bullshit sponsors. Golf is completely different from baseball, and it’s one thing I’ve always been thankful for. I’m also unbelievably f*cking good at it. That’s not ego, though I will admit to having that at times. It’s just the truth. My sport is filled with middle-aged men; there’s a reason they call me the young stud of the sport. I like that title. Fuck, I live up to that title. I’ve become the face of the industry in just a few short years. I took a bunch of ribbing because I went into golf—most of it from my own f*cking brothers. But I silenced them by bringing home the bank. Shit, I make more than Green and I don’t have to tow the line like he does. That might be the very reason I’m resenting the fact that Seth has me out here playing nice with Riverton. I am not a f*cking yes man. I am who the f*ck I am and I like being me. Kissing up to some man just so his company can smooth the way with the big wigs in charge of the tour pisses me off. Everyone thinks money greases the wheels, that it’s all about the money, but the truth is … it’s politics. In the big leagues, everyone has full pockets. They just want to show off who has the bigger dick. The people in charge of getting me exposure, ensuring my rank and position for the tournament, are major dicks.