Carolina Valdez Hole in One

OLE

…“I want to touch you so badly I can taste it. I don’t want

to share you tonight. I want you all to myself.” Greg rubbed
his swollen cock against River’s and heard a responsive groan
from deep in the man’s throat.

“Then touch me.” River took Greg’s hand and wedged it

inside the front of his workout pants until Greg reached the
warm, satiny skin of his cock and closed his hand around it.
He felt the tie on his shorts loosen and the slow slide of those
and his briefs over his hips and thighs. Releasing River and
breaking the kiss, he stepped out of his thongs and shorts.

River stood with his eyes closed as Greg tugged River’s

pants and boxers all the way down and off his bare feet. Greg
looked at the solid, magnificent man before him, his swollen
cock jutting out, with juices dripping from the slit in a head
the color of the Shiraz.

With a groan, River reached for him. Greg stepped into the

embrace, his right leg between River’s legs where it would
trap his balls, just as his were trapped by River’s. Their wet
cocks, primed for love, were hard against the other’s hips. His
hands behind Greg’s head, River captured his mouth again
with his lips and plundered it. Greg clamped his hands on his
lover’s butt and locked them tight together as they rubbed
harder and harder, taking fierce, hungry pleasure in each
other’s bodies.

Chest against chest, bare thigh against bare thigh, caught

up in a sensual world of sex and pleasure, he unleashed his
passion and took all, gave all to his hot Latin lover as desire
set his blood boiling, then drowned him in a tsunami of heat
and feeling…

LSO

AROLINA

ALDEZ

Avalanche!

Dark Stranger

In Passion’s Thrall

Knight of the Captive Heart

Lure

Passion’s Sweet Ecstasies

Portal To Darkness

Silk Stealth

Silk Stealth: Shadow Warrior

Sweet Chocolate Ecstasy

Tears Of The Dragon

Tie ’Em Up, Hold ’Em Down

View From The Top

Where Vesuvius Sleeps

Woman In Black Lace

HOLE IN ONE

CAROLINA VALDEZ

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

OLE

MBER

UILL

RESS

OOK

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of

the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,

or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

No portion of this book may be transmitted or

reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission

in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief

excerpts used for the purposes of review.

ISBN 978-1-60272-443-3

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To every amateur who has ever played

this game and thought he’d finally mastered it. Tomorrow
he’ll play the worst round of his life. And the heavens will

rumble with the laughter of God.

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CHAPTER 1

“Yes!” Greg Thorenson raised a fist to the sky in

celebration and jerked it back down with a pulling motion,
elbow bent.

He’d been so intent on his play in the tournament he hadn’t

noticed the unexpected mass of thick gray clouds as they’d
darkened and crept across the sun. Only the welcome
lessening of the intense desert heat had broken through his
concentration. He’d already sent his ball rolling toward the
cup on the eighteenth green when a thunderclap rattled the
earth and rain pounded grass and trees with sudden ferocity.
Holding his breath, he’d watched as it trembled with the rattle
of the thunder and then continued on a steady path, spraying

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water as it journeyed toward the target. Now it had dropped
into the hole with the distinctive hollow plop and rattle of a
ball put away.

“Great putt! I think we both made the cut.” Howard

Roland extended his hand and spoke in a soft, southern drawl.
They’d been paired for this round, and he’d finished first.

“Thanks for the game.” Greg hadn’t played with the

slender North Carolinian previously, but he liked him. Roland
had kept score honestly and was a true sportsman. They
grinned as they shook hands.

“Good going, you two. Let’s get out of this storm.

Lightning’s moving this way, and they’ve closed the course.
They’re taking the remaining players in by cart.” Arnie Smith,
Greg’s caddie, reached for his putter. He dried the club and
slipped it into the bag.

For the first time, Greg took in the wet smell of rain tinged

by the sharp scent of distant lightning strikes. Carts had rolled
up as they were speaking, and they climbed on for the short
ride to the elegant clubhouse of the PGA West sanctioned
Oasis Country Club.

* * *

The lounge inside was crowded and noisy with the chatter

of men reliving their games and the sudden storm that day.
With the exception of a handful of females, it was a man’s
world. Greg’s kind of world. He and Roland bought drinks for
their caddies and themselves, then dug into salty peanuts and
pretzels at the bar while waiting for the sandwiches they’d

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ordered for the four of them.

The tournament chairman arrived, and the noise quieted as

soon as he’d been spotted at the door. “My apologies for the
sudden squall. The weatherman failed to notify us in time to
reschedule.”

With meteorologists’ notorious reputation for being

hoodwinked by their own predictions, laughter rang out. A
cheer went up when the chairman added, “You’ll be glad to
know our thirsty desert has soaked up the rain, and we expect
play to resume tomorrow. The names of those who made the
cut will be posted soon, and we’ll assign courses at that time.”

Roland’s man had joined Arnie at the bar, and the caddies

polished off their sandwiches and beers and left as soon as the
names and courses for the next day were up. By four-thirty the
next morning, they’d be pacing off the holes and making
notations for their players.

Roland excused himself, too. “Big day tomorrow, huh?

We’ve been assigned to different courses and times. If I don’t
see you, play well.”

“You, too,” Greg said, clapping him on the shoulder.
He’d just finished a croissant sandwich loaded with turkey,

cheese and tomato and was cleaning his hands on a napkin
when he spotted someone out of his past across the room.

Rio Vargas.
The pulses in his throat throbbed. His mouth went dry.

Images flooded his memory.

They’d been so young—maybe nineteen—playing in an

international collegiate tournament when they’d met. They’d

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had a smoldering, three-night affair. It wasn’t Greg’s first time
with a male, but it was the first and only time it had meant
more than sex to him.

Days, it was a wonder they could swing a club at all after

staying up most of the night talking and fucking their balls off,
but, even though shaky, they’d managed to play. And play
well. At night, they’d laughed themselves silly over how out
of it they’d been and how successful. Then the laughter would
fade into a blend of hungry mouths and hands touching and
rubbing, of cocks pulsing as sensual ecstasy thundered through
them in utter abandon.

The tournament ended. So did the affair. They’d returned

to their respective countries, separated by almost five thousand
miles. Like so many guys that age, they weren’t into writing,
but Greg had sent one letter. When there was no response, he
hadn’t written again. Or called. An overseas call didn’t fit his
wallet, and he wasn’t eager for another rebuff like the
unanswered letter.

He’d always thought the loss of this friendship was

because he’d beaten the gifted Vargas in the final round. It
gave Team USA the win over Team Madrid. Still, he’d wake
from a dream in the night and the image, the feel and taste of
that lover would be there. He’d lie in the darkness for hours
before he could claim sleep again.

When the Americans had learned what Rio meant in

Spanish, they’d nicknamed him “River,” and that was how
Greg still thought of him. Now he drank in the sight of him as
thirstily as the desert had soaked up the rain. Six years had

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passed, but the serious, dark looks and the smooth, olive skin,
the encompassing smile, were the same. The strong fingers
swirling the brandy glass were all too familiar.

He looked for a ring. There was no sign of one, not even

paler skin where one might have been.

The Spaniard was standing next to a man Greg didn’t

recognize, but he looked European. German, maybe? Vargas’s
full attention was on whatever he was saying. Greg
remembered that about him—the ability to shut out everything
else as if what you thought, whatever you had to say was of
major importance, and, by connection, you were a person of
worth.

It was one of the traits that caused men and women to fall

in love with River. Aside from the caressing hands on his balls
and the thick, hard dick satisfying his carnal needs as it
pumped into him, it was one of the reasons Greg had fallen in
love with him, too.

Who knew who the man was today, he told himself. Those

hot nights under the sheets could’ve been mere
experimentation to settle the angst of whether or not he was
gay. They’d never discussed it. They’d played hard during the
day and shed their fatigue by vigorous night activity. Vargas
could have decided he preferred women for all Greg knew.

Damned if his dick wasn’t beginning to stiffen. If he didn’t

leave now, it just might stand up and wave. Pulling his
thoughts out of the past, Greg made a final swipe at his hands
with the napkin and left without introducing himself. There
were some acquaintances it was best not to renew.

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He returned to his room and checked his watch. It was still

early enough to call his financial advisor. That call having
ended, he now had to endure the usual restlessness he
experienced before every tournament. Some men barfed or
had diarrhea. He felt lucky his anxiety didn’t inflict those
annoyances. He’d have dinner in the hotel, and it would stay
in and down. Breakfast would, too.

His knee ached. Surgery for a torn meniscus had kept him

off the circuit for six weeks. Now he was back and playing
well, but it still protested at the end of a day of golf or
practice. The orthopedic surgeon had assured him this would
pass. He took the plastic liner from the ice bucket, walked
down to the ice machine to fill it, then wrapped it in a towel
and held it over his knee.

Switching on ESPN2, he watched coverage of the day’s

play. Watched River’s perfect stance at the tee—feet wider
than his shoulders for added strength in hitting, the
coordinated pull back and powerful swing accelerating at the
moment of impact with the ball. Greg sighed. He was still a
beautiful athlete to watch, no matter what his sexual
preference might be these days.

Right now, he and River were four over par and tied for

the top of the leader board. River was a long-baller. Echoes of
Greg’s coaches over the years rang in his mind—It all comes
down to the short game. That’s the game that wins, and that’s
your strength. Time would tell. Enough. He switched off the
TV.

Shit, the pressure was on. He’d always had difficulty

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sleeping the night before a round of tournament play. They’d
already played thirty-six holes, and this would be the third
night of broken rest. The ice had melted, the pain in his knee
relieved. He left his room and drove to the Shadow Mountain
Country Club where he’d been assigned to play. Arnie would
walk the course at daylight. Tonight it would be all his.

Dusk was settling in. An occasional bird swooped down to

land on its stick feet and peck for worms or whatever else they
found in the grasses to eat. The usual swish and click of Rain
Birds was absent because watering had been halted due to the
heavy downpour of the squall. The fairways were cool and
gave off the sweet scent of having been mowed and groomed
for tomorrow’s play. The trees along the winding swath of
lawns were in shadow. Hands in his pockets, he walked at an
easy pace, trying to let the peace of the evening settle him.

Without warning, a dark figure stepped from a cluster of

trees. Greg’s adrenal glands kicked in, preparing him to run or
fight, causing the veins in his temples to expand and throb,
while his heart bolted.

“Hola, Greg.” The Spanish accent was faint, but it was

there. Vargas waved and walked toward Greg. Above his dark
slacks, his white shirt lay open at the throat. Hair darkened the
area where the shirt formed a vee.

“Jeeze, River, you startled me.” He didn’t know how else

he was supposed to react, but he knew how he wanted to. Greg
wanted to tongue River, to taste and feel his naked body
against his, hear their hearts beat in sync as they hugged. To
find the tight hole between his butt cheeks and enter. Heat

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rushed to his face and he wiped his damp palms on his slacks.
Damned memories.

“Sorry.” River held up a white sphere in his left hand. His

face broke into an apologetic grin. “New ball.”

Greg laughed. “Good Lord. As much money as you must

make on the European tour and you’re stomping through the
brush to retrieve a three-dollar ball.” He shook his head. “How
the hell are you, River? It’s been a long time.”

He added his laugh to Greg’s. “Habit from the days when

money was tight. River, is it? I haven’t been called that for
years. I’m great, amigo. How goes it with you?”

“I’m doing good. I still think of you as River.” Greg

extended his hand. When River pulled him into a bear hug,
Greg hugged back, shutting his eyes as feelings and memories
streamed through him again. He tried not to inhale the faint
scent of aftershave and he didn’t let his groin touch River’s.
He broke the hug first and stepped back.

They continued down the fairway to the next hole, walking

side by side. “It’s a difficult course. We’re paired tomorrow,”
River said.

“And tied for the top of the leader board.”
“Just like old times.”
“Yes.” He wondered just how much of the old times River

was remembering. Christ, it was as if they’d never been apart.
Easy talk. No awkwardness. He doubted this camaraderie was
because of him or the three hot nights as college guys with
their cocks in each other’s asses. It was River being River.

“If you have no plans for dinner, come with me to my

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friend’s house for a little party. Have some fun. We’ll talk.
You’ll like her. It’ll get our minds off tomorrow.”

Since Greg could think of only one thing he’d like to do to

take his mind off golf, he said, “I’ll take a rain check. We start
early tomorrow.” He hated the clutch of his heart at the
mention of a woman.

“Come with me. We’ll have a good dinner, share a bottle

of Merlot, catch up on our news. You know this course. Don’t
need to walk it. Marleena likes meeting new friends.” River
put an arm around Greg’s shoulder and swept him along. That
arm felt so good, so natural. Greg didn’t resist.

Marleena’s home sprawled across an acre of land. The

front door was open, and no doubt it was a Bose Wave sound
system that sent Vivaldi’s music spilling into the air as they
entered. The long foyer led to a living room that was glass
from floor to ceiling and looked out on the patio and pool.
Greg could see the sharp, lavender rise of the San Jacinto
mountains in the dusk. The house said “money,” with its thick,
light-colored carpets, soft brown leather furniture and
expensive artwork on the walls. He recognized a decorator’s
touch—another sign of wealth.

“Rio! So glad you came. Who’s your friend?” Marleena’s

blonde hair was a casual cap that flattered her fine features and
drew out the Irish moss green of her eyes. Her dress brought to
mind Marilyn Monroe’s in the famous scene in Seven Year
Itch— white, held up by wide straps around her neck, a v-
neckline exposing a generous amount of breast, and a skirt
whose soft folds ended just below her knees. Her feet were in

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sandals, however, not spike heels. Her legs were bare. She
kissed River and reached a hand out when he introduced Greg.

Her hand was slender, the shiny nails the color of scarlet

ribbons. Their handshake was followed by a chaste brush of
her lips across his cheek. “Hello, Greg, Rio’s friend. Come.
We’re eating outside.” Linking an arm with each of theirs, she
ushered them out and introduced them.

There must have been thirty men and women helping

themselves to the food on a buffet table, while the smell of
beef barbecuing filled in what the scent of desert flowers,
perfume, aftershave, liquor and beer didn’t. People stood or
sat around the pool, talking and eating. He didn’t recognize
anyone from the golf tournament. In fact, although people
were nice to him, no one here appeared to be a golf enthusiast
or even sports minded.

Grinning, he commented to River, “I don’t think a single

soul here recognizes they have two of the top golfers in the
world in their midst.”

River chuckled. “So much for fame, eh?”
“Sigh. I guess we’ll just have to be satisfied with the

money.” The winner’s purse in this tourney was three hundred
fifty thousand dollars. The runner up would receive half that
amount. Not bad for four days of play.

As the shadows around the patio lengthened, Greg spotted

a young man and woman who stood apart from the crowd,
deep kissing in the darkest shadows. The man was in full
sexual cry, he thought, for he ran his hands frantically up and
down her sides, letting his palms graze the sides of her breasts

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until his hands settled on her butt cheeks. He pulled her hard
against him, and Greg thought she’d slipped her hand between
them. Probably to jerk him off. Their movements grew more
and more active, and now he thought he could see the man had
run his hand up her skirt in front.

He glanced up to see River looking at him.
“I think he’s getting him some pussy, don’t you?” River

whispered. A smile played on his lips.

Greg grinned back. “Yes, and I think it’s all over.” He

nodded toward the now-still couple.

“I do believe you’re right.”
They laughed together.
Before River looked away, Greg studied his mouth and

fought to banish the wish to dance a wet tongue over those
sensual lips to find out if they tasted the same as they once
had. To distract himself, he asked, “How long have you and
Marleena known each other?”

“We met two years ago on the European tour. Marleena’s a

sports journalist. As happened this weekend, sometimes her
assignments coincide with my tournaments, and we have a
chance to be together.”

The three of them chatted, and Greg liked her warmth and

friendliness, but he wished he knew how much togetherness
they shared on those visits. Oh, hell. I wouldn’t like it if I did
know, so stop speculating.

“It’s getting chilly. Shall we go into the house?” She rose,

and they followed her into the room with the view of the
mountains.

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Others joined them, crowding in. Going over to the sound

system controls, she punched some buttons and the music
changed to upbeat. A short, pretty woman began to dance in
the middle of the small, open area. Greg expected others to
join her, but she became the center of attention as if people
knew what was to come next.

“Have most of your guests been here before?”
Marleena nodded.
Arms raised, smiling and cheerful, the dancer turned and

wiggled her fanny.

“Go, Ginger, go!” came from the audience.
Ginger continued with impromptu hip bumps and pelvic

grinds as the crowd continued to call out and cheer her on.
Finally, she danced over to a man and took him by the hand.
To applause and light-hearted catcalls, she led him to the stairs
winding up from the foyer.

More people danced, sometimes two women at once, but

Greg noticed it always ended with a woman sitting on a man
to lap dance or a couple heading down a hallway or upstairs,
apparently looking for a place to be alone to fuck.

As if reading his mind, River leaned in to say, “Most of

her parties are like this. Two fingers short of an orgy.”

Greg didn’t know if he meant two fingers of a hand or two

fingers of whiskey, but he nodded. Some party, he thought.

Beside him, Marleena kicked off her sandals and walked to

the sound system to punch more buttons. When the music
changed to something Middle Eastern, she took the spot of the
previous dancer. He thought somewhere in her travels she

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must have learned to belly dance because one of his sisters had
taken up the tribal form and he recognized the circling hip and
back movements. The crowd whistled and cheered Marleena
on. She faced River and, locking her gaze on his, danced raqs
baladi style with graceful arms and a belly that swayed around
and in and out. Greg knew this was the social form of Arabic
dancing. When she curled her fingers in invitation, River
joined her. For a time he danced with her, hands at his waist,
but when she mimicked the veil across the lower half of her
face with two fingers, Greg watched as she shimmied her
shoulders and her breasts shook like bowls of smooth custard.
Her hips and belly slowed their circling and it became raqs
sharki, the dance of seduction. It didn’t take long for River to
respond. He grabbed her and his mouth closed on hers.

The kiss lasted too long for the partygoers, and they began

to stamp and clap in rhythm. Marleena got the message and
broke the kiss to take hold of River’s hand and pull him
toward the stairs.

The crowd roared in approval, but Greg didn’t join in. This

evening had been a mistake. He set his cordial containing the
remnants of Kahlúa, a coffee liqueur he’d enjoyed after
dinner, on a table. Its sweetness now sickened him. He’d had
enough of playing third-man-out. Turning, he headed for the
door.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked down to see

bright red nails. Greg stared at the hand, then looked over into
the dark eyes of the man who’d been his teenage lover. The
need to touch him again had never died, and he decided to

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respond to this invitation to play, even if he had to share him
with this woman.

Marleena stood on tiptoes to press a light kiss on Greg’s

mouth, then took his hand and tugged both men up the stairs.
She led them to a bed the size of Greg’s hotel room. Stars
glittered in a sky swept clear of clouds through a skylight
above it.

A strong hand slid behind Greg’s neck and River pulled

his face to his and kissed him. Greg shut his eyes and
remembered, but he didn’t devour the mouth, didn’t respond
to the tongue coaxing him to open. If he did, he wouldn’t want
this woman. He’d only want the man whose hot mouth pressed
on his. And that wasn’t the game they were playing tonight—
the game for which he’d have to settle if he was to have any of
River at all.

Marleena pulled the men until they stood side by side. She

ran a hand down each jaw line, then pressed her fingers to her
lips and touched them to theirs.

The gaze from her green eyes never left them as she took

time sliding her dress from her shoulders to her waist. No bra.
She stood still, giving them time to study her lush tits with
pale tips the color of pink roses. She pinched her nipples until
they tightened into buds.

Stepping toward River, she removed his belt and unzipped

his slacks. His gaze locked on hers as he slid his boxers and
slacks down to his thighs.

Greg caught his breath as he watched his friend’s cock

spring free. It was larger than it had been as a teen, and he

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imagined how it would fill him, pleasure him at this age. He
felt his own dick swell and strain against the restriction of his
clothing.

It was River, not Marleena, who reached for Greg’s belt

buckle.

“No,” Greg said. He stopped his hands.
“Oh, yes. Yes.” After the belt was gone, River slid the

slacks down with slow and deliberate care. He knelt and
tugged at the waistband of the white briefs.

Greg shut his eyes.
River’s warm breath washed over his sensitive, bare cock.

Greg inhaled and tried to think of something safe, anything
except River’s warmth and his strong golfer’s hands wrapping
with gentleness around Greg’s tumescent dick, then rolling
and tugging.

When the Spaniard’s lips closed around his dick’s head

and a tongue licked away the drops of pre-cum from his slit, it
was sheer torture to resist the tumult of emotions racking him.
Greg’s eyes remained closed and he forced himself to
stillness, despite what he wanted to do to and with River.
“Don’t tease,” he managed to mutter.

Marleena interrupted River’s play by separating them and

dancing raqs sharki. They watched her breasts bob as she
shimmied, inviting their touch, their mouths. Her hips circled
and her belly swayed as she turned. Finally, she lifted her
skirt, treating them to a full view of satin, shaven pussy lips
and an enticing, round ass.

Pulling the men toward her, she pressed their faces to her

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breasts, and they each took one and toyed with it, rubbing and
rolling the nipples into tight buds again. Greg slid his hand up
from her waist to cup one tit. Lifting it, he squeezed as he
settled his mouth over it and sucked. He could feel her
excitement build as they stimulated her, and even though
making love with a woman wasn’t his first choice, he found
his own excitement growing. When he released her for a
moment, she pulled his face up and kissed him deeply,
pushing her tongue into his mouth as she ran a hand over his
hips. He found himself responding to her, wanting her to touch
his dick. He took her hand and pushed himself into it, felt her
enclose it in her grasp.

Instead of pumping him, she kissed River and guided his

hand under her skirt. Greg guessed she wanted him at her
pussy with his fingers inside her and his palm massaging her
clit.

“Yes, yes. That’s the spot.” She moaned and wrapped a

hand around River’s dick, too, then stroked and thumbed both
dripping cocks. She made the circling moves of raqs sharki
against River’s hand, and pumped what she held in hers to the
same measured, erotic rhythm.

Her palm and fingers were warm and silken, her touch

softer than that of a man. The pull on his prick seduced and
aroused, but it was River’s face he watched—the closed eyes,
the dark lashes grazing his cheeks, his mouth tight as he
strained toward orgasm. Mesmerized by the raqs sharki
undulations of her hips while an image of what River was
doing with his fingers under that skirt enlarged in his mind,

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Greg reached inward for the climax that would send waves of
pleasure pounding through him.

He was almost there, just on the cusp, when River cried

out. Greg let himself go, felt his balls tighten and contract to
send his stream into the living warmth of Marleena’s hand.
Her shudders echoed theirs, and he knew it had happened for
all of them.

Greg continued to stand after the pulsations had faded. The

weakness in his knees refused to let him move. Marleena
released him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw her
smearing the pungent cream from her hands over her breasts
as if to keep the memory of the men on her body.

“Thank you for the dinner and the wonderful party,” he

said when his heart beats had slowed and strength had
returned to his knees. He leaned in and brushed his lips across
the soft, perfumed skin of her cheek.

“Gracias, querida.” River leaned in and kissed her other

cheek, his voice soft.

“Y tu,” she responded.
The Spanish form of you she’d used with River was only

for family members. And lovers. Greg thought he knew now
how things stood between them. It saddened him.

River leaned in and whispered in Marleena’s ear. Greg

couldn’t hear what was said.

They showered together in a glassed-in stall big enough for

six, and Greg saw all of the man whose ass he wanted to
penetrate. He was a little heavier than Greg, a more solid build
with firm upper chest, shoulder and leg muscles of a

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professional athlete who worked out. Fine dark hairs sprinkled
River’s chest and arms and spread down his torso to a dark
nest between his hips hiding much of his limp prick, which
was now almost all glorious head. Greg turned away,
wondering how soft those hairs would feel against his naked
body and if River shaved around his manhole. It was less
painful if you shaved.

As soon as Marleena had stepped out of the shower, Greg

felt lips on the slope of his neck, and a nip of strong teeth. He
didn’t speak, didn’t move, just let feelings slide through him.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful you are. I think I like you

even better as a man than as a teen.”

River slipped his hands around Greg’s waist and pulled his

butt up against him, then spread his hand over his gut and
traveled evocatively down and over Greg’s package. It should
have aroused them, but both dongs remained inert.

With a sigh, River released him. “The difference with

leaving our teen years behind and becoming adults is we can’t
get our dicks up again this soon after sex. Pity.”

Greg laughed, feeling a lightness he hadn’t experienced

until River had pulled him close because he wanted Greg—
without Marleena between them. “Luckily, that’s true for both
of us.” He stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.
“See you tomorrow on the course.”

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CHAPTER 2

Rio left the practice driving range, then took easy half-

swings with his club to keep his shoulders loose.

“¿Qué hora es?” he asked Jorge, his caddie.
“Relax. There’s plenty of time.”
Greg hadn’t been in the dressing room when they’d left it,

but it was still early for their eight o’clock tee-off. Rio didn’t
want to compete against anyone else. The others were three
and four strokes behind them, and he, like most athletes,
accepted as fact that you played your best game when you
competed against the best players. In addition to that, it was
this one man he most wanted to beat. He had a long-standing
score to settle.

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His chest tightened when he saw Greg and his caddie at

last making their way through the crowd. Above his visor,
Greg’s naturally blond hair appeared even lighter under the
sun’s rays. He checked in with the official and greeted the
starter, then turned his smile on Rio as he extended his hand.
The color of his eyes, an unusual shade of blue with depths
and glints he’d never seen on anyone else, was heightened by
his light blue golf shirt. They stirred memories in Rio’s center.

Fortunately, they didn’t stir his dick. This wasn’t the time

or the place, but he determined he’d make sure there would be.
Greg hadn’t given him the look that invited sex in the shower
episode, but he hadn’t rejected Rio’s hands on his flaccid cock
and hanging balls, convincing Rio he wanted to party. The two
of them alone. Rio wanted that, too.

Rio stepped up to show his badge to the official again and

then to the starter. On the tee, he was glad he had first honors
because he didn’t want to be psyched out by watching Greg
drive before he did. The guy had beaten him by one stroke the
last time they’d played, and Team USA had won the
tournament over Team Madrid. It would be nice to get even
after that defeat. It would be even nicer to win three hundred
fifty grand.

The starter motioned him to the teeing box between the

blue championship markers and announced, “Ladies and
gentlemen, Mister Rio Vargas of Madrid.”

Rio touched the bill of his cap to acknowledge the

gallery’s applause. It was loud because he was one of the
leaders in a major tournament. Rio figured they’d paid dearly

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for their tickets, and it was up to him to play well for them. He
teed up his ball and stepped back. Rio addressed it. The crowd
quieted, and he knew an attendant had held up a “Silence,
please” sign.

The worst of the summer heat hadn’t hit the desert yet, and

he sent his first drive three hundred yards straight down the
fairway into a clear sky under a brilliant sun. Amidst oohs and
ahs, the gallery clapped again as he stepped off the tee and
joined his caddie on the sidelines.

“Nice,” Greg said as he passed him to take his place

between the blue markers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Greg Thorenson of San

Diego.”

Relaxed now, Rio watched as Greg was introduced and hit.

He didn’t have the power Rio did, and his ball landed in the
fairway twenty yards shorter, but Rio watched the slender but
muscled body in tan slacks and white golf shoes as bronzed
arms swung the club and struck the white sphere with perfect
precision and coordination. The swing ended with the uplifted
right heel, and the artistic arc and twist of his back, the club
head ending angled downward behind his back. Like the
hollow pop when a tennis racket hit a fuzzy yellow ball dead
center, the sound of a club hitting a golf ball right on and the
swish of the shaft as it followed through, brought satisfaction
to anyone who’d ever played the game or watched.

Rio wanted to touch him then. To enclose him in his arms

as if to capture some of that athletic grace and make it part of
him. Particularly the part about his control of the short game?

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He smiled. He was mixing needs now.

Jorge picked up his bag and they started for the next hole

while studying the small notebook of drawings and comments
he’d penciled in when he’d walked the course this morning.
Arnie and Greg walked ahead because Greg’s ball was farthest
from the cup. The away person always hit first.

Despite the difference in lengths of their drives, they were

both on the green in two strokes, and Rio parred the hole with
two more. Greg sank his putt from fifteen feet away for a
birdie—one under par—and was three over for all the holes
they’d played so far. Rio frowned. He was still four over.

Greg would have the honors, hitting first on the second

hole because he’d had the fewest strokes here. That was okay
with Rio. He’d gotten over his sense of awe and wouldn’t be
nervous hitting after him. Besides, as far as drives went, he
really had nothing to learn from watching Greg.

As they left the green, Rio touched Greg’s shoulder. “Nice

putt.”

“Thanks. Kinda liked it myself. The greens are slow today,

still moist because of yesterday’s rain.” A wide smile broke
across his competitor’s face. A tiny scar at the corner of one
eye accentuated the crinkling of the smile.

Rio remembered that childhood scar, remembered how

fascinating he’d found that face, all lines and angles, six years
ago. It could go from serious to happy in half a breath. Greg
could also tell a joke with it absolutely straight. “Remind me
never to play cards with you,” Rio had teased.

It was time to settle down to business. He couldn’t think

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about Greg’s golf abilities or Greg. He needed to concentrate
totally on his own game. In a tournament, you didn’t have to
worry about people crowding or hitting into you. Officials
controlled the pace. You weren’t allowed to dawdle, but there
was time to line up a shot before you addressed the ball and to
consult with your caddie and the notations in his notebook.

What there wasn’t time for was thinking about Greg

Thorenson and hot, juicy asses.

“You’re smiling,” Jorge said.
“It’s nothing.”
Gradually, he caught up with Greg in scoring and they

whittled their scores down until they were par for the rounds
played. Then he bogeyed two holes. That put him two strokes
over par. If he couldn’t make those up, he’d end this round
with Greg at top of the board. Not good. He’d have to play
catch up tomorrow in the final round of the tourney, and that
wasn’t good either.

On the next hole, his drive faded and his ball landed in the

rough behind a rise. Tempted to say “shit,” which would get
him in trouble with the officials, he tempered it to
“¡Caramba!” under his breath.

“It’s not out of bounds, so no penalty.” Jorge was at his

shoulder. “This is a dogleg to the right, but there’s a water
hazard on that side of the green. You don’t want to startle the
ducks.”

His caddy was advising him to take a shot that might land

farther from the green but keep him out of the drink. He was
telling him not to aim blindly over the rise because the penalty

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for hitting into a water hazard—whether you disturbed the
ducks or not—would be an added stroke. If you couldn’t hit
out of the water, it also meant a loss of distance and he’d have
to hit from this very spot a second time. Aiming blind could be
a losing situation and wasn’t worth the risk.

“Which club?” He trusted Jorge to choose the best one for

the distance he needed to hit.

Jorge pulled an iron from the bag and handed it to him.
The words had steadied Rio, as Jorge had no doubt sensed

they would. It was what caddies did for their players—all part
of the job. Rio birdied the par four hole. Now he was only one
over. He took the towel Jorge offered and wiped the sweat
from his face.

“You’re a good man, amigo. Thanks.” He handed the

towel back to Jorge.

The morning ended with the two players even at par. The

other players’ scores would have to come in before they’d
know for sure if they were still at the top, but it was pretty
much understood they would be.

They went into the scoring tent.
“Here’s your score card,” Greg said as he handed it to Rio.

Rio handed Greg’s to him.

You kept your opponent’s score card in a tournament, and

it was up to Rio to check what Greg had written down for him
and compare it to what he knew he’d shot. It matched hole by
hole. He added it up on a calculator, wrote in the total, and
signed the card, confirming the total was correct. Rio handed
it to an official.

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Greg had removed his visor, and Rio watched the top of

his golden head, his hair damp with sweat, bent over the card
he’d kept for him, watched his long fingers punch the
calculator numbers without even looking at them. He and
Arnie rechecked the calculations, and Greg signed it after
having written in the total. He handed it in, and they left for
the clubhouse dressing room.

The news media crowded around, sticking microphones in

their faces and often asking stupid questions. Sometimes Rio
pretended he didn’t understand English so well. He kept his
irritation in check when he observed Greg’s patient answers.
Finally, they escaped.

“I need a shower. It’s muggy out there and I feel sticky,”

Greg said when they were in the dressing room. He pulled his
shirt off and sat to remove his shoes.

When he unbuckled his belt and reached for his zipper, Rio

turned away. Other golfers would be drifting in as they
finished their round, and he didn’t want to be spotted with a
hard-on or cuddling a nude Greg.

He waited until Greg was in a shower before he undressed

and entered another. Slinging his towel over the shower door,
he turned on the water and let it pummel his head and back
while he lathered up and washed. The tension of having
played was still there, but he felt refreshed and less tired after
the mugginess of the day had been sent down the drain.
Finished, he reached for his towel and dried off inside the
stall, then wrapped the towel around his waist before stepping
out. Greg was dressed.

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“Arnie told me we’re still the leaders, but they disqualified

Gustaffson,” Greg said.

“What? Why?”
“Apparently he was careless about calculating his score.

Arnie says he wrote down a total that was one stroke less than
the real tally for the round. I think he must’ve thought he knew
what his score was and didn’t bother to use the calculator.
Cripes, I’ve never played with a more honest guy.”

“What a nightmare for him.” Rio’s empathy was genuine.

“I’ve played against him and agree with you. He was our main
challenger, but I hate to see him disqualified over what was no
doubt a careless mistake. Those who know him will know he
didn’t, but strangers will think he cheated.”

“He may have needed some prize money in order to

qualify for next year’s tour. Boy, you can bet everyone’ll take
extra care with their score cards now. Let’s eat.”

The golfers always treated their caddies to lunch or dinner,

depending on when they completed their rounds, and the
clubhouse dining room was filling up. Two golfers and their
caddies from Great Britain and Ireland signaled to Rio and
Jorge to join them.

There wasn’t room for Greg and Arnie, but when Rio

turned to suggest they find another table and eat together,
Greg said, “That’s okay. We’re being hailed by a group in the
corner.”

Rio was disappointed, but it would have been rude not to

respond to the invitations. As he exited the now-crowded
dining room after he’d finished, Greg caught up with him.

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“See you at two for the clinic with the high school golf
teams?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Have dinner with me tonight at the

condo I’ve rented. Unless you’d prefer going to Marleena’s
again. I’ll cook Spanish for you.”

“You cook?”
“My father owns a chain of restaurants in Madrid and

Andalusia, and he’s a great chef, but it was his mother who
taught me. It’s relaxing, and I find it’s healthier. I get tired of
fast food and restaurants, don’t you?”

“As long as I don’t have to cook, I don’t mind them. But

home cooked food? My stomach’s already growling, stuffed
or not.”

“How about six o’clock? We can visit a little before we

eat.” Visiting wasn’t exactly what he had in mind as an
aperitif, but he’d have to see how Greg responded to his
particular sexual fantasies. He might not go for it, might not be
the same man he’d been as a teen. He just knew he wanted
him. Bad. He gave him the address.

* * *

They met on the Temescual course because it wasn’t being

used for the tournament. The golf teams and coaches from two
high schools were hitting balls on the driving range when they
arrived. After a coach had introduced them, Rio looked into
young eyes filled with hero worship.

He smiled. “You’re looking at me just like I once looked at

the top players in my country. If you’re serious about playing

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for a career, look at Greg and me and realize you can do it. If
you don’t care about tournaments, learn to play as well as you
can. You can enjoy this game the rest of your life.”

Greg added, “Out in the open, playing on green grass lined

by big trees, water, wild ducks and geese. Making friends.
You can’t beat it.”

Rio worked with the teens on their drives and fairway

shots. Sometimes he’d stop and direct them to observe Greg as
he demonstrated a pitch or a putt, while Rio pointed out all the
correct things he was doing with his club and his body. He did
this not only for the kids, but because he enjoyed watching
Greg hit, and he couldn’t take time for it in a competition with
so much riding on the outcome. Besides, it stirred something
deep inside his heart.

“Having talent in any sport isn’t enough to be successful.

You have to want to win. To have the drive to get there. Ask
Mr. Thorenson how many hours a day he practices.”

Greg instructed them on their short game skills. Rio

thought they made a great team as they shared with the eager
teenagers what they’d spent years perfecting. They entertained
them with golf stories, and the plus here was he and Greg were
filling in a few of the blanks on what life had been like for
them in the years they’d been apart.

At the close of the clinic, Greg told them about meeting

Rio. “We Americans nicknamed him River because that’s
what rio means in Spanish. I still think of him as that and call
him River. After that tourney, when we were not much older
than you, our coaches encouraged us, and we returned to our

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own countries and dedicated ourselves to becoming pros.”

“Here we are, playing in a major together all these years

later and renewing that friendship,” Rio added. “Remember
what we’ve each told you about your potential. Now’s the
time for you to decide if you want a future in this game and
are willing to work for it or just want to have fun with it.”

“Who’s gonna win tomorrow?” A sassy kid who was the

finest driver in the group asked.

Rio smiled. “I am, of course.”
Greg laughed. “Oh, no, you aren’t. I am.”
The session ended with laughter.
Marleena had arrived with her camera crew to cover the

final moments of the clinic, then she conducted brief
interviews with the coaches, teens and the men.

Greg finished first, so he excused himself and left.
“Swim at my place?” Marleena asked Rio after the others

had left and the news crew was packing up.

“Sounds good. I have a long distance call to make from my

room, but then I’ll meet you there.”

* * *

Rio swam easy laps in the cool water, letting the tension

roll out of him. Marleena left the pool after a short time and
went into the house. He assumed she’d gone in for cold drinks.
He was sunning himself, stomach down on a towel, when he
caught the coconut smell of sunscreen and felt Marleena’s
hands smooth lotion over his back and arms.

“Hey! That’s cold.”

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“Coward. Relax. It’ll warm up.”
It did, and he let her massage his shoulders and the

muscles of his back with long, pressured strokes to work out
any remaining tightness from the day’s golf. When her hands
moved under his swimsuit and pummeled his buttocks, he
sighed, enjoying the sensation of his dick filling.

Marleena removed her hands and wiped them thoroughly

on a towel before returning to the separation between his
buttocks. She slid a finger down his spine and squeezed each
butt cheek. She played with his manhole, trolling around it,
then pressing gently before brushing her fingers over it. She
found the tender flesh between it and his balls and squeezed
again.

On the edge of pleasure bordering on pain, his cock

finished lengthening. “Lord, but you’ve got good hands.”

“Roll over, and I’ll do your front.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We’re not private out

here.”

Her laugh was pitched low and throaty. “Oh, really? What

do you care?” Straddling him, she licked his neck and nipped
it, while rubbing her pussy over his butt and fingering his
manhole again.

She stood, and, unable to resist the need building in his

groin, he rolled. His jumped-up Johnny felt crowded in his
swim trunks. He noticed she’d changed into a short after-swim
cover of a sheer material. The pink of her nipples and areolae
peeked through. He looked up and had a view under her cover
of nude pussy lips at the juncture of pale satin thighs and hips.

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Staring down at him, she said, “You looked good enough

to eat out there on the course today. I could hardly wait for the
games and the clinic to end so I could have you all to myself.”

She knelt, and her mouth found his. The kiss was

voracious, searching, deep. He responded by opening his
mouth wide, hungrily pressing and biting her lower lip
because he wanted the release of sex so badly. When she
reached to slide his trunks down, he lifted his hips to help.
After spotting the turquoise-colored condom in her hand, he
kept his eyes closed, zeroing in only on the sensations she
created as she suited him up and sank slowly onto his large,
aching dick.

He sucked in air as he felt her hot, dripping pussy leaves

rub his cock and her tight heat wrap around him as she took
him into her cunt. Her passage pulsed rhythmically, milking
him. Then Marleena rode him so fast and hard he had to grasp
her hips so she wouldn’t fly off his rod. The hard flesh of her
cervix slammed repeatedly onto the head of his dick, driving
him to hover on the brink of erupting like Vesuvius.

To hell with the lack of privacy. She was right…who cared

if anyone saw them? He reached for her breasts and let himself
explode.

As they showered later, he thought about the sex they’d

just shared. It’d been exciting. It’d been good. Although they
were seldom together, it’d been familiar. This was the first
time he’d recognized what it had not been; it hadn’t been
satisfying in the deepest meaning of the word because it
wasn’t truly who he was at the deepest sensual part of him.

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At the front door, she said, “Come for a late dinner tonight.

Bring Greg. It’ll just be the three of us.”

He ran a finger down her jaw, lifted her chin with it and

brushed his lips across hers. “Rain check?”

She looked puzzled before she nodded. “Rain check.”
He didn’t owe her an explanation, but he wondered if it

would it upset her when he didn’t return. He convinced
himself that by evening tomorrow she’d leave with the rest of
her news crew because the tournament would have ended. It
wasn’t as if they had a permanent commitment or
arrangement. To him, she was a casual friend and an
occasional good lay when he wasn’t in a relationship with a
man. Since she’d readily accepted Greg in the ménage, he
assumed she didn’t see herself as exclusive to Rio. Who knew
how many other men she played with between her times with
him.

No, he didn’t believe she’d miss him, and other things

occupied him this evening. Tomorrow he had a tournament to
win. Tonight there would be Greg.

* * *

Greg left Temescual and drove to the Oasis Country Club,

where he hauled his bag out of the trunk and hit on the
practice range. He spent the least amount of time on his
pitching and putting, the most solid part of his game, and,
although he’d probably never match River’s distance, the
majority of his time was spent polishing his drive. Every little
bit would help tomorrow.

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At five o’clock, he returned to his hotel and showered. As

he dressed, memories of a naked River in the shower at
Marleena’s caused his nerves to tingle. He’d had to resist
running his hands over the solid butt cheeks and narrow hips,
of tracing the valley running down his spine until it ended in
the tight sphincter behind his balls. When Rio had spread his
hand across Greg’s package, he’d been disappointed his dick
hadn’t responded and been ready to go again. After all, they
hadn’t used that big bed. But cocks were like that. At least at
this age.

Tonight he’d have sex with River. For a moment, Greg

wondered if he’d be disappointed. Maybe he’d blown what it
had really been six years ago all out of proportion. Memory
could do that to you. Well, I’m going to find out, and it’s
worth the risk. If it’s not as good as I thought it was six years
ago, then it’ll be a relief to let it go.

He pulled on a pair of Bermuda shorts made of a soft,

casual material with a tie at the waist. Nothing restricting,
nothing to unzip or unbutton. River would describe them as
muy cómodo—very comfortable. It was nice to get into
something cooler. Caddies were allowed to wear short pants
on hot days in tournaments, but the code for players required
something dressier, like slacks or polished cotton long pants.

He looked at his collection of clean, collared golf shirts

and frowned. The style held little appeal after three days of
wearing them. It would get cool as the evening wore on, so he
pulled on a light blue, designer T-shirt with a crew neck.
Stepping into leather thongs, he was ready.

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As he reached for the door, he realized he wasn’t quite

ready after all. Turning, he went back into the bathroom, took
four packaged condoms from the medicine cabinet and loaded
them into his wallet.

He smiled as he pulled his red Porsche out of the parking

space. Wouldn’t it be something if a cop pulled him over,
asked to see his driver’s license, and a handful of condom
packages popped up when Greg opened his wallet?

River was watching him from the balcony of a white

stucco town house with a red tile roof. Very Californian, very
Spanish. He waved. “Hola, Greg. I’ll be right down.”

He answered the door wearing lightweight workout pants

and a matching waffle-weave shirt with a stripe down each
long sleeve. He exuded sensuality. Instead of being “dressed
for success,” he looked dressed for sex. Even his bare feet
turned Greg on, and a trickle of electricity shot through him.

“Come in. Mi casa es su casa. Dinner’s not quite ready.”
The Spanish greeting of “my house is your house” rang in

his ears. River was always polite, always gracious in a man’s
way. That was something that hadn’t changed.

“I like your car. Guards red—isn’t that what Porsche calls

that color? And a convertible. Very flashy. Lots of fun.”

Greg stepped inside. “I splurged. And you’re right, it’s

flashy and fun. I’ve broken out of my shell with that one.
Hmm. Something smells good.”

“Andalusian stew. It’s one of my favorites. Since I made it

yesterday, all the flavors have mingled and intensified. It’s
very filling. Very satisfying.”

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“I understand it’s an old Spanish custom to bring a gift.

My compliments.” Greg handed him a tall, brown sack.

River smiled as he withdrew a bottle of Shiraz. “Gracias,

amigo. You may visit me anytime.”

Greg watched strong fingers with practiced skill uncork

the wine bottle and decant the dark ruby, almost purple liquid
into a glass without disturbing any sediment there might be.
He handed the glass to Greg, who swirled the wine and sniffed
its bouquet before tasting it. “Hmm. I think the vintner who
sold me this was right. What do you think?” He offered him
the goblet.

River accepted the glass and repeated the ritual.
When he drank, Greg noticed he placed his mouth where

Greg’s had been, and he watched the dark wine touch lips
meant for kissing.

“Perfecto.” Rio handed back the glass and poured one for

himself.

Greg lifted his drink. “Salud.”
“Salud.”
Greg started to bring his glass to his mouth, but River

interrupted him by putting his arm through Greg’s so they
would drink with their arms entwined. As they sipped, their
gazes met like a bride and groom at a wedding reception. The
gesture sent Greg’s blood swimming. When River set his glass
on the counter, Greg put his beside it and stepped toward him.

The kiss was inevitable. Greg just hadn’t known how soon

it would happen. He’d thought sometime after dinner, but now
he wasn’t going to wait any longer to act on his longing to be

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with this man. Time was too short and not to be wasted any
longer. Who knew how long they would be together this time?

River didn’t back away. He leaned in. Their lips met,

pressed and slid, sharing the full-bodied taste of the wine.
Greg didn’t know which of them had opened their mouths
first, but soon their tongues had invaded to explore and delight
in the warm moisture inside. The intensity of the kiss
heightened into deep pressure and a frantic tangling of their
tongues.

“Take off your shirt,” Greg murmured against lips puffy

from their kisses.

A trembling River yanked his shirt up and over his head.

He reached for Greg’s and almost ripped it off.

Greg wrapped his arms around River’s neck, and River

slid his around Greg’s waist and pulled him close. Greg
inhaled the masculine scent and paused to enjoy the tingling
that began where their nipples touched, but the soft brush of
fine dark hairs across his chest sent flaring, churning need
through to his core. “I want to touch you so badly I can taste
it. I don’t want to share you tonight. I want you all to myself.”
Greg rubbed his swollen cock against River’s and heard a
responsive groan from deep in the man’s throat.

“Then touch me.” River took Greg’s hand and wedged it

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River stood with his eyes closed as Greg tugged River’s

With a groan, River reached for him. Greg stepped into the

This was what it was like with a man, Greg thought. Too

often with a woman you had to hold back, bringing her to
orgasm before you could satisfy yourself. With some, it took
too damned much time for her to peak. He supposed some
hetero men felt a certain power from knowing they were
skillful enough to pleasure a woman and had the control to
hold back their own finish. Fucking with a man was different.
You could let your fantasies fly and concentrate on your own
sensations without worrying about the pace of your partner.
Orgasm often happened simultaneously without planning or
struggle.

Shutting out everything else, he focused on River’s velvety

skin, on River’s tongue inside his mouth and the feel of his
bones as Greg rubbed against them with all his strength. Chest

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against chest, bare thigh against bare thigh, caught up in a
sensual world of sex and pleasure, he unleashed his passion
and took all, gave all to his hot Latin lover as desire set his
blood boiling, then drowned him in a tsunami of heat and
feeling.

When the torrent hit, his balls tightened and the pulsations

began, sending his cream spurting onto River, just as he felt
River coming on him. They stood locked together until the
wave had faded and they could function again.

“I hope the stew didn’t burn.” Greg’s voice was hoarse.
“Mmm. I think we were too fast for that.” River reached

around him to switch off the burner, and they left for the
bathroom to clean up.

Dressed again, they sat on bar stools around the kitchen

counter after River had dished up fragrant bowls of the stew
and taken thick brown bread slices from the warming oven
and set out a bowl of whipped butter. He also put a round of
manchego, a popular Spanish sheep cheese, on a cutting board
with a knife. As he set Greg’s bowl in front of him, he pressed
his lips to the top of Greg’s head and ran a hand over his
shoulder as if he couldn’t get enough of touching him. Greg
soaked it up.

“Mind telling me what’s in the stew? Nothing exotic, I

hope. I think I recognize green beans and chick peas.”

Pleased, River laughed. “Yes, those. Plus pork, a Spanish

ham called jamon Serrano, chorizo, white beans, potatoes, red
pepper, garlic, cloves and sweet smoked paprika. I couldn’t
find fresh pumpkin, and I left out the morcillo.”

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Greg blew on a spoonful to cool it, then ate. “Hmm. That’s

delicious. Too early for fresh pumpkin. What’s morcillo?”

“Blood sausage.”
“And that is…”
“A sausage made with fresh blood.”
Greg gagged and put his spoon down.
“Cool it, amigo. I told you I left it out. Personally, my

response to the idea’s about like yours. I never eat it. If I order
out, I always ask if it’s in there. If it is, I say forget it and order
something different.”

Having polished off the stew, bread and cheese, they took

their coffee to the patio and munched on small cookies called
magdalenas. Greg thought they tasted a bit like the Milanos
they sold in the States. He loved them, and these were
delicious, too. Passion spent, they still sat close together, hips
and thighs touching.

“When did you first pick up a golf club?” River asked, his

rugged features softened by the fading light.

“Mom tells me I was two. My father was a scratch golfer,

and he worked with me because I was fascinated by a club and
a ball. Determined to get that ball in the cup as I’d watched
him do. He was the first person to tell me how good I was.
What potential I had.”

“My uncle was the one who did that for me. My father was

too involved in business deals and making money with his
restaurants. He was away a lot.”

“My dad was killed in a freak accident when a crane doing

street work collapsed and fell on his car as he was driving by.

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I was almost nine. Mom immediately took me to a pro because
she wanted to foster what Dad had begun and cement any
memories I had of him coaching me.”

“How tragic. I’m so sorry. Do you remember him?”
Greg smiled. “Yes, I do. Very clearly. If Mother only

knew, some of the memories aren’t so great. He was a hard
taskmaster with a sharp tongue when, as any little kid does, I
fooled around or didn’t pay attention. Sometimes my brain
replays those scoldings.”

“Despite the pain you and your mom went through, I’d say

you turned out okay. You do your parents proud.”

Greg choked up and couldn’t respond for a few moments.

Finally, he asked, “How was it for you?”

“My mother’s brother Roberto, a golfer, noticed my hand-

eye coordination and became my coach when I was four. He
filled the void of my father’s absences from our home. When
the time came, he hired a pro for me. Paid my entry into the
first amateur tournament.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The coffee was hot

and bitter on his tongue, the cookies buttery and sweet.

“Uncle Roberto was my golf mentor. He’s also gay. He

noticed the signs in me and guided me through understanding
what I am. He protected me from my strict Catholic father’s
confused wrath. Same-sex marriage has been legal in my
country for about thirty years, but the church had opposed the
law strenuously. That it’s an abomination and against God’s
laws is still preached. My father doesn’t like me being
homosexual, but we have a fragile truce now. Partly because

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of my uncle and partly because of my golf successes, I think.
They bring him prestige.”

“California’s Supreme Court ruled same sex marriage legal

here, but voters overruled them in a recent election. I had to
figure my homosexuality out for myself. By the time I was in
third grade, I’d sensed I was different, but I thought it was
because I didn’t have a dad anymore. It all became clear to me
when I experimented with fondling guys in middle school. My
mom knows. She loves me without reservation.”

“My mother loves her children that way, too. We’re lucky,

aren’t we? I’m aware it’s more difficult here. Just so you
know, I wouldn’t have invited you to Marleena’s if I’d thought
anyone who knew us would be there. Wouldn’t have let her
pull you into the ménage if someone had recognized us.”

Greg’s throat tightened. “She addressed you as tu. I know

what that means.”

He watched surprise cross River’s face, then a slow,

delighted smile. “It matters, does it? I like that. I guess you
didn’t hear me correct her, telling her it wasn’t appropriate and
she should have used su, the term used with friends and
strangers. I don’t plan to see her again now I’ve found you.”

“I’m glad about that.” Greg planned to enjoy this time with

River as long as he could.

They sat in comfortable silence as the light faded and

darkness closed in. The night air chilled, and River rose and
offered his hand. Threading his fingers through Greg’s, he led
him inside and drew him into the bedroom.

As they undressed in the dark—slow and deliberate now

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that they’d exploded earlier and satisfied a repressed hunger—
Greg pulled the condom packets from his wallet and slipped
them under his pillow. They lay together and embraced.

Greg ran his fingers through River’s silken hair. “I love

your hair. Love the way it feels, love the smell of it and the
way it waves so naturally.”

“Your hair’s as bright as a sun god’s. Lighter than I

remember.”

“The sun does that. I’m outdoors so much now.”
They touched and kissed, avoiding their cocks as they

explored other parts of each other’s body, drinking in the
essence of the taste and measure of the other man. By the time
their hands at last reached their groins, it was to find dicks that
were big, long and hard.

Aching for love, Greg handed a condom to River and

unrolled one on him. When both protective skins were in
place, River slid a tube of cream into Greg’s hand. He rolled
onto his back and drew his knees up.

Desire made Greg’s voice almost too throaty to speak.

“You always wanted to be on top before.”

“Because I wanted you so much. Wanted to overpower

you, protect you, cover you with my body and push myself
into the most personal part of you and be inside you. I wanted
to take you to the sun, the moon, the stars, and even beyond
the galaxies. Wanted to go there myself. But only with you.”

“God, River, but I’ve missed you.” Leaning in, his mouth

sought River’s as he prepared him to be entered. When he was
ready, a sudden yearning to be part of this man shot through

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Greg’s chest like wildfire. He trembled as he pushed inside,
schooled himself to wait for the tightness to relax, and then,
with a sigh, penetrated all the way home. Caressing his lover’s
cock with his hand, he was the one who took them to the
moon and stars, through the galaxies and beyond, to the
cosmos itself. Their cries of satisfaction probably reached that
far themselves.

River still slept when Greg prepared to leave. The sheet

was a jumble at his feet, and Greg pulled it up. He leaned in
and kissed his lover’s shoulder. River stirred but didn’t waken
as Greg pulled the cover up to his neck.

As Greg let himself out, his chest ached and his head hurt.

In the clinch, he knew he was the better golfer and, barring
unforeseen circumstances, he’d win tomorrow in a repeat of
what had happened six years ago. If he won, River would
leave. As before, they’d live separate lives, travel on different
tours five thousand miles apart. Greg would never see him
again.

He wasn’t sure he could live with that—especially after

tonight and knowing what he’d lost before. Conflict surged
inside him. Winning any major tournament put you on the
map, and this wasn’t his first. He tried to rationalize he was
there anyway and didn’t need it. He tried to convince himself
he didn’t need the first-place money. The purse for the runner
up would be just fine. But everything competitive in him
shouted in his brain that he’d always played to win, whether
he did or not.

How did you throw a golf game anyway?

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But a tiny voice advised him that River would stay in

touch with him if River won. It all came down to that. More
prestige and more money, or River?

The conflict set his head to throbbing. Back in his hotel

room, he swallowed two aspirins with a big glass of water, put
ice in a plastic bag and rubbed it over his forehead and neck
before wrapping it around his knee.

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CHAPTER 3

On the practice range the next morning, as he bagged

Greg’s clubs in readiness for the beginning of play, Arnie
spoke quietly. “Watch the greens. They’re faster today.
They’ve dried out after the rain.”

Greg nodded.
River joined him, and they left the range together and

entered the locker room.

“Did you see the size of the gallery?” River pushed his hair

back from his face and settled a white golf cap bearing the
Shadow Mountain logo on his head again.

“Yes.” Greg’s heart had thudded when he’d first seen

River this morning. He was dressed in a black-and-white

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striped shirt and dark slacks, and looked so good Greg wanted
to fuck him. That he’d even have such thoughts this morning
shocked him. Resisting the temptation even to hug him, and
feeling gloriously like a teenager again, he clapped him on the
shoulder instead. “This is the big day, and we’re the stars.
How does it feel?” He sat on a polished oak bench and leaned
down to tighten his golf shoe laces.

“My nerves are brittle.”
“I hear you. That’ll disappear once we step onto the tee.”
As they headed for the door, River wrapped an arm around

Greg’s shoulder and hugged. “Play well, U.S.A. Knock their
shirts off.”

“Socks.”
“Socks?”
“It’s knock their socks off, not shirts.” Greg was laughing,

and it felt good. It lightened some of the tension that went with
anticipating a competition. With a quick look to determine no
one watched, he touched his lips to River’s neck. “Y su, mi
amigo. Knock their socks off.”

“No, no, no, Gregorio. Es y tu, no y su.”
Little sparks of happiness trickled through Greg at hearing

the phrase designating how close River felt to him.

Once in the box, he hit first because he had honors. After

Rio had driven, Greg’s ball was only ten yards short of River’s
instead of his usual twenty. Had he driven so well because of
his happiness? He couldn’t say, but he took the distance
gladly.

Greg parred the first hole to remain even, and was happy

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River scored an eagle and went minus two. Greg made eagle
on the next hole for two under. River birdied it and remained
ahead by one stroke at a minus three. They parred the next two
holes. By the midway point, River still led by one stroke under
par. By hole twelve, they were tied at three strokes under.

The air was hot, but above the San Jacinto mountains,

rising stark and beautiful from the desert floor, hovered
cumulus clouds pregnant with water. Rain wasn’t predicted on
the golf course, but the clouds permeated the air with their
moisture. Greg removed his visor and wiped his face and hair
with a towel Arnie provided. His shirt was damp. His trousers
over his butt were wet because sweat rolled down his spine
and soaked into them.

“No reason to be embarrassed. Everyone’s duds look the

same,” Arnie said as he slapped a cold bottle of Arrowhead
Mountain Spring Water into Greg’s hand.

Greg drank it down, then wiped the handle of his club with

the towel and prepared to resume play.

For the next three holes, he and River remained tied and

were now at four under. Their caddies reported they were still
the leaders.

Greg was so uncomfortable in the muggy air he jokingly

threatened to end it all with a quick rap on his head with his
two-iron. As they approached the eighteenth, and final, hole,
he said under his breath to Arnie, “Thank heavens this is a
short hole. I’m ready to hit the showers.”

This was the hole for the championship, and River finished

first with a birdie. This put him one stroke under Greg, and

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River sank to his knees as he shook his fists at the sky in
triumph over his shot. Rising, he removing his cap and waved
it to the applause of the gallery as he left the course. Then he
turned to watch Greg.

Greg’s ball landed uphill on the sloping green, but an

unintended backspin and the fastness of the green sent it
downhill, past and beyond the hole. It stopped on the edge of
the green twenty-five feet from the cup. It would be next to
impossible to put it away and match River’s score. A groan
rolled through the crowd in sympathy for Greg when it was his
turn.

Disappointment and relief warred in him. Disappointment

because he realized how very much he really wanted to
win…and relief because he very much wanted the win to be
River’s. For a moment, he thought the conflict might split him
in half. But there was a game to finish, and so he lined up his
last shot.

Stepping onto the apron, with Arnie behind him, he sat on

his haunches and held his putter up to act as a plumb line to
read the green. They talked in quiet voices, then he walked
first to one side of the green, then to the other. He walked to
the hole and studied the line from there to the ball, then went
back to do the plumb line thing again.

The crowd fell absolutely silent as he approached the ball.

He closed his mind to everything but his body, his putter, the
white sphere and the line to that all important opening in the
ground. He heard only the pulses in his neck, felt only what
his body must do as he stroked the ball and sent it to the right

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of the cup. He watched it roll sure and steady in a path that
would have seemed off line to anyone who hadn’t studied the
green as he had. Or listened to Arnie’s soft advice.

At the perfect moment, the ball broke left and changed

course. The crowd gasped. Then the hollow plop of a ball
sinking into a cup and dancing off its walls sounded. The
crowd roared.

“Yes!” Greg threw his visor in the air and pumped a fist.
He had tied River.
“Told you you could do it.” Arnie threw an arm around his

shoulder and squeezed. It was their moment to share this small
triumph together.

River was laughing when Greg stepped off the course. He

caught him in a huge bear hug. “¡Caramba! but you’re good. I
was afraid you’d do that, you son of a gun. Spoiled my
chances for the win today. Now I’ll have to do it tomorrow in
a playoff.”

“Considering who you’ve played the last two days, I’d say

you were pretty damned lucky to tie me twice,” Greg teased.

When they broke the hug, Greg saw no sign of envy or

irritation in River’s face. To his surprise, he saw genuine
happiness. He wrapped an arm around River’s shoulder.
“Let’s turn in our score cards, better be damned careful about
those, then shower, drink a beer and have lunch. I’m dirty,
thirsty and hungry. In that order.”

For a brief moment, they were alone in the shower room,

and Greg backed River against the wall and kissed his full lips
quick and hard.

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“¡Cuidadito! amigo,” River admonished his friend. Be

very careful.

“Shh. No one’s here, and I wanted to taste you. Now get in

a shower before I get a hard-on.”

Before they could escape after leaving the men’s lounge,

news crews cornered them and confirmed they were still the
leaders. Greg felt so good he didn’t even mind some stupid
questions. Questions like, “How do you feel…” and “Did you
think you could…or “Why didn’t you…”

At last, they broke away and took their caddies out to eat,

bypassing the club’s restaurant for another one for fear the
sports paparazzi would descend on them again.

After a lunch large enough for a dinner, the four of them

swam in the pool at Greg’s hotel and sank into the spa
afterwards as the faint smell of chlorine bubbled up around
them. After Jorge and Arnie had left, River and Greg drifted
up to his room. They shed their swim trunks and stepped into
the shower.

Greg backed him against the wall and trapped him with a

hand on either side. “I’ve got you where I want you. No
voyeurs possible here. No warnings to be very careful
needed.”

River closed his eyes and stood motionless. Greg could

feel he waited. Waited to be caressed and loved. Greg kissed
the tip of his nose and his eyelids, pushed his hair back from
his ears and slipped his tongue into them. Happy when River
squirmed with the tonguing, he nipped one lobe and slid his
lips down the wet, slick side of his throat to graze the tender

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curve of River’s his neck where it flowed into the hard muscle
of his shoulder with his teeth. His hands followed the other
curves of his tautly muscled body, down the arms where he
lifted his lover’s hands and burrowed his face in the palms to
kiss them. Knowing how sensual it would feel, he ran a finger
up the side of each of River’s fingers, running it down again
on the other side and into the vee between them. When his
hands reached hips, they tangled in the dark curls between
them and moved down to caress the tender inner thighs.

River groaned when Greg cupped the sensitive sac where it

hung between his thighs. Where Greg’s hands went, his lips
followed.

Not waiting for more, River framed Greg’s face and pulled

it up, kissing him hard, forcing his tongue between Greg’s lips
until he opened. When Greg’s hand closed around River’s
cock, he groaned. “Not here. Not this way. I want my mouth
on you.”

Greg shut the water off, and they toweled down. In his

bedroom, they sank to the bed, mouth to cock and mouth to
cock. When River caressed Greg’s sac and took his cock into
his wet heat, liquid silver rolled through Greg’s center. He
tongued the tip of River’s before taking it slowly in. They
tangled the sheets with their shifting, sucking and moans, and
then Greg felt himself go off at the moment River did.

They slumped and slept.
When they wakened, Greg ordered room service. While

they ate, they switched on ESPN2, but when the golf news
turned to them, they shut the TV off.

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River planned to leave, but when they kissed goodbye,

Greg felt a hand slide into his pants, and the magic began
again. Deep, deep kisses that didn’t want to say goodbye,
clothing that didn’t want to remain on bodies, dicks that didn’t
resist swelling and straining.

“Not here,” Greg said. Mouths still locked, they walked to

the bedroom while ripping off their clothes.

His hands shook with the heat of desire swirling in his

belly as he sheathed himself before kneeling on the bed and
presenting his butt cheeks. The slide of River’s hands across
his body and the wet touch of his lips on his butt almost made
him come, he was so eager for what would happen next.

When River entered him, he cried out as lust uncoiled deep

in his belly. River’s strong hands on his hips anchored their
bodies together, closed his hand over his cock and pumped as
River plunged into him. A turbulent maelstrom of sensation
sucked him in, and he was awhirl in sexual feelings, at once
tender and demanding, voracious, soft and hard. And then he
was rushing, rushing toward climax, and, when it broke, the
groan issuing from him came from the depths of ecstasy.

They slumped, and as he drifted off he dreamed he heard

River say, “Te amo, mi corazón.” I love you, my heart. It had
been one terrific dream.

* * *

“Good morning,” River said with a new softness in his

voice and eyes. Looking down at his practice club, he spoke so
only Greg could hear. “Has it ever been that wonderful for

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you?”

Greg felt his face flush. “No. Not even six years ago. And

you?”

River took a couple of casual quarter swings as if they

weren’t having a conversation. “Never.”

Arnie’s voice broke in as he approached. “It’s an amazing

crowd today for a Monday, especially when most people had
expected to leave yesterday.” He’d just arrived and was setting
Greg’s bag up.

“Si,” Jorge added. “They are here to watch the great

Vargas y Thorenson. And you will make them happy by
playing well. Knock their shirts off.”

Greg and River looked at each other and laughed.
On the tee, they shook hands as they were introduced.

They lifted cap and visor, turning to acknowledge the thick
crush of people who formed the gallery. What they owed these
fans as sportsmen and professionals hit home for Greg for the
first time with the same impact as a ball dropping into the cup
for a tournament win. He felt humble.

River had first honors. His smile was broad, but as Greg

turned to step past him and let him hit, he heard, “To the
death, mi amor.”

The words caught him up short. Had River guessed Greg

had thought of throwing the match? Maybe not, but still,
shame washed over him for having had such thoughts. He was
slow, but his arrogance at thinking he was the better golfer,
even though he had no idea of River’s standing on the
European circuit, and that River couldn’t beat him, sifted

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through what he now thought was his pea-size brain and even
smaller heart. How belittling it would have been if Greg had
made himself lose. It wouldn’t have been a clean win for a
talented man who deserved the best.

Oh, God, talk about destroying a friendship and losing a

love. I was that kind of nineteen-year-old, wasn’t I? I didn’t
lose him because I won, but because I thought I was better
than he was and slyly taunted him when I thought I’d proved
it. It’s a wonder he ever had anything to do with me again.

The thought of having almost made the same mistake

yesterday horrified him. Thank heavens, he’d grown up. At
last.

He smiled at the man he now recognized as his equal in

every way, his better in many, and chuckled. “To the death,
then. Just remember, you called it.” Now they touched fists.
“En garde.”

With no thought of anything but winning, Greg readied

himself for his turn.

They were the only players on the course and, despite the

too-brilliant sunlight and wilting heat, there was a certain
glory in that. As in the previous two rounds, their scores see-
sawed between even-even or first one and then the other in the
lead with a minus one or two. Right now, they were at minus
one. There were no congratulatory remarks, no casual repartee
today. Both were intent on the course and what they needed to
do to win.

On the fourteenth hole, River landed in a sand trap, and it

looked as if he wasn’t going to stay at one under. That would

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give Greg the edge. River was down in the bunker, and as
Greg approached his own ball, all he could see was the top of
his white cap. Soon an explosion of tan spray flew up and out
of that trap. Amidst the sand was a ball whose trajectory arced
up, over and down, right into the cup for a birdie. Flag and all.

Greg was hard pressed to match that score, but he did—

with a twenty-five foot putt that shot across the hard, closely
cropped grass and dropped in. Arnie pounded on his shoulder
in congratulations as the gallery clapped and cheered.

The golf wasn’t always that great. The tension was there,

expressed in shots that went into the trees or into the rough.
Once River’s ball went into a water hazard, and the mallards
swimming there rose in the air, protesting flashes of iridescent
green and black, brown and white. He lost a stroke and
distance, but Greg’s ball landed out of bounds. He lost a
stroke, but putted poorly. They ended tied, still at one under.

As they approached the final hole, Greg was hoping they

wouldn’t tie again and have to play again tomorrow. The
stress was getting to him. He noticed the flag that ruffled in a
slight tailwind was red. That meant the cup had been moved to
the front of the green. Yesterday it had been blue and at the far
end.

“If the hole had been where it is today, yesterday your

damned ball might’ve rolled in without the need of that last
putt,” Arnie said.

Greg nodded. “And I’d have won. But I didn’t, and here

we are, my friend.”

River drove first.

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“He’s at the far end of the bunker to the right of the flag,”

Arnie whispered to Greg.

In the bunker, and tied with me, Greg thought. “Am I

supposed to feel good about that? Have you forgotten his
bunker shot on the fourteenth?”

“No, but you should. Concentrate on what you need to do.

Concentrate and mind the wind. It’s blowing straight from
your back toward the hole at about six miles an hour.”

“Which club do you think?”
Arnie pulled one from the bag and handed it to him,

reminding him as he did of how many yards it was to the flag.
Greg checked the club and disagreed with the caddie’s choice.
He requested a different iron.

He walked to his ball and checked the height he’d teed it

up. He stepped back. For a moment he paused, picturing River
when he drove, his gaze never leaving the ball through the
fluid pull back and then the rapid swing down-and-through the
ball, with the sudden jump in speed just as it slammed into the
white sphere and sent it hurtling on its way.

For the greatest distance, that’s how it’s done.
That was how Greg did it.
He watched the path of his ball, feeling satisfaction when it

landed on the green. He leaned over and retrieved his tee, then
turned to hand his club to Arnie. He looked into a face
blooming with the widest grin he’d ever seen on anyone. Only
when the caddie triumphantly bumped his chest against Greg’s
did he become aware of the cheers and shouts of the crowd.

“You won!”

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Confused, Greg said, “I won?”
“You hit a hole in one! Your drive landed, then rolled into

the cup. You’re minus two. River’s minus one, and he doesn’t
get to hit again. The playoff’s over. You just won.”

“And a good thing, too,” Greg muttered. “You saw how he

managed that bunker shot on the fourteenth, didn’t you?” Only
then did it sink in. “I made a hole in one? I won? Hot damn. I
wasn’t even looking when it went in. Missed the glory of it all.

But the glory was there. He and River, side-by-side,

accepting gigantic checks and individual trophies made of
Waterford crystal, Greg holding up the huge sterling silver cup
where his name as a PGA Tour winner would be engraved, the
somewhat smaller trophy of the runners-up, which would bear
River’s name.

They were feted at a huge dinner that evening, but they

were separated by the speaker’s stand, and afterwards, the
media surrounded Greg in a crush. He was interviewed ad
infinitum.

He noticed there was no personal word from River,

however, and no congratulations, no bear hug. The lack of it
tempered his joy at having won.

Greg could hardly wait until the evening ended and he

could find River. He wasn’t going to let him go this time. No
private moments with River since the tourney ended wouldn’t
do. He wouldn’t let it be acceptable. The condo was dark
when he drove past. A tenant yelled at him because he rang
the bell so many times. No River.

He drove to Marleena’s house and saw River’s rental car

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parked in front. There was a single light on in the living room.
No party. Just two lovers. Pain laced through his chest. Still,
the first thing he checked for in his hotel room was messages,
but the light wasn’t on. He called River, but had to leave a
voice mail.

Greg’s chest continued to ache with disappointment. He’d

opened himself up to vulnerability, knowing what the cost
might be. Now he wondered how he was going to endure a
repeat of what had happened six years ago.

* * *

Rio hadn’t been able to get to Greg after he’d won. The

crush of reporters and gallery people sort of swallowed them
up and pulled them apart. The same had been true after the
dinner. He’d managed to slip away, hoping to find Greg alone
at some point, but he’d found Marleena waiting for him next
to his car instead.

“Thank God, you don’t have a microphone in your hand or

I’d run so fast you’d never catch me.”

“See? Only my car keys.” Her laughter sparkled in the

fading light. She stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with
her lips. “I wanted to congratulate you privately. Maybe even
console you a little, even though you won a hefty purse prize.
You were magnificent out there. Luck, not superior talent,
won the day. The next time it’ll be you.”

He wasn’t so sure about that. This was the second time

Greg had beaten him by one stroke, but at least it’d been by a
hole in one this time. Marleena was right about that always

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being part luck.

“Come to my house. No one else…just the two of us.

We’ll have a drink.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but he looked into her

face, watching the moonlight glint off her blonde hair. She
was a looker, there was no doubt about it, and she knew how
to party. People liked her. Rio liked her, but Greg’s place in
his heart cancelled out room for any other lovers. He softened
when he saw the concern in her face because he hadn’t won,
and it came to him he owed her an explanation about breaking
things off after all. It was the honorable thing to do.

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Rio said, feeling reluctant and

apprehensive about how she might react.

When she opened the door, she’d changed into a flowing

caftan in greens and yellows that deepened the green in her
eyes. He stepped inside, and she drew him in her arms and
kissed him. His return of the kiss lacked passion.

She stepped away and studied him for a moment, and he

thought she’d noticed the difference in the kiss. “What’ll you
have…beer, wine, a liqueur?

“Nothing, thanks. We need to talk.” He took her hand and

drew her toward a couch in the living room.

They sat, and her face sobered. “This is going to be bad,

isn’t it? I’m going to lose a friend.”

“Not a friend. Never a friend. A sometimes lover.”
She released his hand and sat with hers folded in her lap.

When she finally looked up, the wash of tears in the party
girl’s eyes surprised him. Unnerved him. He hadn’t realized

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she’d had romantic feelings for him. He’d thought their
relationship had been about fun and casual sex. A sigh escaped
him. At least he’d never lied to her about who and what he
was at his core.

Marleena broke the silence. “It’s Greg, isn’t it? I saw the

softening of your face whenever you looked at him. I must’ve
sensed what that meant, and that’s probably why I invited him
for the threesome.”

He nodded and told her their story. Then he put an arm

around her shoulder and pulled her to him the way a brother
might. “I’m sorry if this hurts you. I didn’t think you had any
feelings for me beyond friendship and fun. I’ve always been
upfront with you about being gay first and foremost, haven’t
I?”

Now it was her turn to sigh. “Yes. I guess I just had trouble

believing it. Probably didn’t want to.”

“Any time you’ve been around when I was involved with a

man, I was faithful to him. Greg’s the only boyfriend I’ve had
who was interested in a ménage, and I think that was because
we’d been apart so long and he wasn’t sure about me. When I
touched him in the shower, he didn’t reject me, and I hoped I
knew how he still felt about me.”

She nodded.
“Marleena, I hope you can you be happy for me. I’ve loved

this man from afar for a long time, and now we may have a
chance for something. I’m not sure what, not even sure if he
wants me in his life, but I want to try.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “Sorry about getting all

HOLE IN ONE

weepy on you. Of course, I’m happy for you. Just remember,
if the two of you ever want to get a little something going, I
may be available.”

Rio stood and laughed. “I’ll tell him that.”
She walked him to the door, and he kissed the top of her

head. “Thanks, Marleena. You’re the best friend a man could
have. See you around sometime?”

“You bet.” She squeezed his hands. And let him go.
As he drove to Greg’s hotel, the lightness he’d felt at

having cleared this up with Marleena faded as anxiety
ratcheted up in his chest.

* * *

After showering, Greg went out onto the balcony and sat

with a glass of wine, staring at the sky and wondering why the
stars had lost their glitter.

The doorbell rang, and his heart sped up. He looked out the

door’s peephole. River stood there, hands in his pockets.
Looking good enough to eat.

Greg flung the door open, but a greeting died on his lips

when River stepped inside without looking up, hands still in
his pockets.

“Where did you go?” Greg asked. “I tried to find you

afterwards, but you’d left. You weren’t in your condo and you
didn’t answer your phone.”

“I had some business to attend to.”
“I was afraid you’d flown back to Madrid.” The next

words came tumbling out, trying to make it okay because he

HOLE IN ONE

feared he’d lost him to Marleena or had driven him away.
“I’m sorry I won. It was such a fluke shot. That hole in one.”

“Where will you go?” The eyes River turned on him shone

with unshed tears.

“I don’t understand what you mean.” Latins were so

emotional, he thought, and yet he felt tears forming behind his
lids, too, because so much was at stake here.

“Last time you won, you left me. You were an arrogant kid

who rubbed it in, and I believed I wasn’t good enough for you.
When I didn’t hear from you again, that convinced me.
What’ll it be this time?”

“Not hear from me? I sent a letter you never answered. I

couldn’t afford a long distance call.”

“I never got any letter.”
“You must have. If I’d made a mistake on the address, it

would’ve been returned, but it wasn’t.”

River was quiet, then he sighed long and deep, and Greg

could see him relax.

“My Catholic father must’ve found it. Just before the

tournament, my uncle had broken the news I was gay, and
Papa was having a hard time with it. I think he recognized
how happy I was during that tourney and must have guessed I
was in love. He’d have probably destroyed any mail that
arrived from a male without telling me.”

Greg took him in his arms and they rocked together. “I

gave up because I thought you didn’t share the feelings I had.
That maybe you weren’t even gay and it was all an
experiment. I thought you didn’t want to keep in touch

HOLE IN ONE

because I’d beaten you. In fact…”

“What? Not keep in touch just because I lost? That’s

ridiculous. Golfers lose every day, but they don’t give up on
friendships. Or loving.”

River looked at him as if he was loco. Greg could see it in

his face. He thought about explaining, but stopped. They’d
been kids then. There was no reason to dredge it all up when
they had a chance to start fresh from here and leave old
wounds behind. “I’m not going anywhere now. This is my
territory, remember? I’m starting a golf camp in San Diego for
young people. There’ll be scholarships for underprivileged
kids. I’ve been talking with my financial advisor while I’m
here. The drafts are in my suitcase, and tonight I wanted to ask
you if you’d look at them and make suggestions. I was hoping
I could talk you into doing some clinics like we did at
Temescual Country Club.”

“Son of a gun. I have rough ideas for a country club I’d

like to place somewhere in southern California. I’ve been in
touch with my business advisor, and we’re working to find
backers and a designer. I wanted you to see them.”

They laughed. Greg released him and offered him a glass

of wine. They sat out on the balcony, and River draped his
arm over the back of the couch behind Greg, who felt the heat
of that arm as if it were his own. They didn’t need to talk. Just
being together was enough. Finally, with some trepidation for
fear of what River would say, but he had to know, he spoke. “I
drove past Marleena’s house tonight. Your car was there.”

His reward was a smile. “That was the business I had to

HOLE IN ONE

attend to. I wasn’t going to see her again, but I hadn’t told her.
I knew she and the news crew would be heading back to L. A.
tonight, and since our relationship had always been an on-
again, off-again thing, it didn’t seem necessary. But when I
found her waiting at my car when I left, I decided I needed to
make it clear that I loved you. I don’t want anyone between
your body and mine, male or female.”

“Neither do I!” Greg set his glass on the wrought iron

coffee table and took hold of River’s hand. “How did she take
your news?”

“I hadn’t known she had feelings for me, so it was

difficult…”

Greg interrupted. “River, everyone has feelings for you.

You are one appealing guy.” Even in the faded light he could
see the flush of embarrassment on his partner’s face.

“She came close to crying, but agreed she wanted me to be

happy. She let me go. However, we do have an invitation for a
ménage if the three of us are ever at the same event again, and
we’re willing.”

“That’ll be the day,” Greg said with a smile.
They sat again in comfortable silence as the soft desert

night closed around them and the scents of sage and yucca
sweetened the air.

River broke the quiet. “When you walked Shadow

Mountain the night before we played, my being there wasn’t
accidental. I’d seen you in the clubhouse, but you hadn’t
noticed me. I remembered how you always walked the course,
and I was waiting for you. I couldn’t have stayed away from

HOLE IN ONE

you even if you’d rejected me.”

“Oh, I noticed you all right. You’d been in my head and

my gut for six empty years, but I thought you weren’t
interested. I didn’t approach you because I didn’t want to be
rebuffed again, and I wasn’t sure whether you were really gay
or if you’d just been experimenting with me.”

River threw his head back and laughed from deep in his

belly. “As hot as our passion was for those three nights, how
could you have had any doubts I was gay!” His laughter died,
his voice softened. “Damn, I should’ve tried to find you.
We’ve wasted all this time.”

Greg leaned in to find River’s mouth and said against his

lips, “Shh. Don’t think about a past we can’t change. This is
today. This is our future. That’s all that matters. Now will you
look at my plans for the golf camp?”

River pulled him onto his lap. “Later, Thorenson. For the

moment, all I’m interested in is seeing if you can manage
another hole in one.”

AROLINA

ALDEZ

Carolina Valdez, author of the popular Amber Heat Wave
winner Dark Stranger, composed her first stories at the age of
eight. That was about the time Santa left the first books she
had in her home-abridged versions of the Wizard of Oz for
children. She has happy memories of trips to used bookstores
with her mother to locate and buy the full versions when she
was ten or twelve.

Captivated by the odd characters and their adventures,
Carolina wrote a letter to L. Frank Baum, the author. Ruth
Plumly Thompson replied, enclosing a map of the Kingdom of
Oz. Sadly, the letter and map have disappeared over the years,
but the love of writing and creating her own fictional worlds
have remained. Carolina has a collection of Oz books, one of
which, given to her by her mother when it was new, has
recently been appraised at $350.

Before writing for Amber Quill Press, Carolina had more than
sixty publications to her credit, ranging from children’s stories
to articles in professional journals. A public health nurse with
an advanced university degree, she won RN Magazine’s First
Award for Writing, and has been published also in the
American Journal of Nursing. She was a Guideposts Writers
Workshop and Guideposts Reunion Workshop winner, and her
work has appeared in that periodical and several Daily

Guideposts books. Among her other wins are the Soul-Making
Literary Prize for Essay, the Marjorie Davis Roller Award for
non-fiction, Della Crowder Memorial and Millenium awards
for poetry, and the Norman E. and Marjorie J. Roller first
prize for a story about a horse that can float on water.

She contributed (under the name Carol Holman) to Mean Girls
Grown Up, a book regarding adult female relational
aggression.

Dark Stranger was her first venture into sensual romance. Her
first attempt into the murder genre can be read on-line at
Mysterical-E. Her latest can be found in the 2006 crime
anthology, LAndmarked for Murder.

Valdez is a member of the Orange County, From The Heart,
and Hearts Of History chapters of Romance Writers of
America and Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles.

She resides with her husband in sunny Southern California.

* * *

Don’t miss Tie ’Em Up, Hold ’Em Down,

available at AmberAllure.com!

They knew it was dangerous to be gay in the all-male, macho
world of firefighting, but when Dane Garrison and Robert

“Bear” Barrington are stranded in a shack and forced to
sleep together to keep warm, the barriers to expressing their
love and satisfying their hidden lust for each other break
down. Terrified for them both of being outed, Bear shuts Dane
out of his life after their brief time together, as if their passion
had never existed.

Dane, however, wants this man in his life forever. More
aggressive and secure, he fights against Bear’s resistance to
their relationship.

How Dane will win, or if he will win, will seal their fate
forever…

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

OLD

TANDARD IN

UBLISHING

UALITY

OOKS

OTH

RINT AND

LECTRONIC

ORMATS

CTION

DVENTURE

USPENSE

HRILLER

CIENCE

ICTION

ARK

ANTASY

AINSTREAM

OMANCE

ORROR

ROTICA

ANTASY

GLBT

ESTERN

YSTERY

ARANORMAL

ISTORICAL

IRECT

AVE

www.AmberQuill.com

www.AmberHeat.com

www.AmberAllure.com

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