Whistleblower ✓

36 | fire in the hole

When we returned to the clubhouse, I was the human equivalent of an enchilada: hot, damp, and floppy.

I hardly cared.

Bodie trusted me.

Inside, Vaughn and Sterling went straight to the bar. For the first time all day, I was glad PJ was out sick, for the sole reason that I didn't want her anywhere near the human manifestation of an overturned Porta Potty that was Truman Vaughn.

He ordered something off the top shelf, on the rocks. Rebecca ducked behind the bar to make it for him. I wasn't sure how she'd managed to escape the grueling afternoon hike with nothing but a light sheen of sweat on her face.

Because I, on the other hand, was dying.

While the four men congregated around the bar, I padded over to a table across the room and lowered myself into a plush faux-leather dining chair. My calves were cramping and I could still feel the ghost of the strap of Gordon's golf bag digging into my shoulder. I shook out the front of my shirt, trying to dry up the river of sweat between my boobs, and watched the Garland crew flip through channels on the TV over the bar before settling on football. Shocker.

Bodie turned over his shoulder and spotted me at my table.

And then he was marching over, and all I could think about was the fact that my foundation was probably dripping down my neck. I straightened in my chair to keep up the pretense that I was the kind of person who could totally handle a few hours of physical exertion in direct sunlight.

"'Sup," I croaked as Bodie stopped beside my table.

He lifted his hand like he was going to touch my shoulder, then seemed to think better of it—smart call, considering every inch of my shirt was soaked through with sweat.

"Do you want some water?" he asked.

"I can get it mys—"

He was already heading back to the bar to ask.

I must've looked as rough as I felt.

What I really wanted was to slip away to the women's bathroom, unnoticed, and blot my armpits with paper towels. But I wasn't going to look Bodie in the eyes and tell him that.

I peeled my hair off the back of my neck and bunched it up in one hand, longing for PJ and her infinite supply of hair-ties.

Bodie returned with two plastic bottles of water, both so cold they were clouded and speckled with condensation.

"Really, I'm good," I insisted. "I could've—"

I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth as Bodie pressed one of the bottles to the back of my neck. My shoulders pinched up to my ears.

And then I slumped over the table.

"Too cold?" Bodie asked.

"No, s'perfect."

It dawned on me after several long, euphorically cooling seconds that, should Rebecca look over, she'd see her least favorite employee draped face-down over a table during the middle of her shift.

I reached back, fumbling for hold of the bottle.

If I happened to grab Bodie's wrist, first, and then traced my fingers over his knuckles, it was entirely accidental.

"I got it," I told him.

"I don't mind," he said.

"No, no. I'm good. Go be my spy."

I lifted my head to check if it was too early to crack jokes like this, but Bodie was smiling. He shot me a wink over his shoulder as he sauntered back to the bar and took a seat in the empty stool beside Sterling.