A/N: Good morning, sweets. Happy update Wednesday to you all! I really have to say, again, how unbelievably flabbergasted I am by all of your love and support for this story. So far, (and we're really just in the first 1/3) we've hit more follows than any other story I've ever written. And based on how wonderfully vocal you've all been (lovingly so) we're scheduled to blast my previous review counts out of the water with atomic power. STAND UP AND GIVE YOURSELVES A HAND! And like, buy you some flowers and cupcakes or maybe some pie, if you prefer. All my gratitude.

Thank you, Trogodor19, for beta'ing like the wind for me and for continually being amazingly supportive, even as I whine about the same things, every single day. Oh! And for giving in to my obsessive nature over your story, In Time We Trust, and emailing me future chapters when I send you shouty screamy emails because I have to know what happens next and I have zero patience. LOL It's good to be a beta. It's even better to have the honor of being yours. Socks!

Small recap: Elena has mysteriously showed up at the driving range Damon is chilling at, trying to relax after a bad fatality call sent him spiraling into a panic attack at work.

Enjoy!

Chapter 8: A Perfect Miss

How did she find me?

And why is it that even though I just saw her twenty minutes ago and she's wearing the same casual flower-print dress with a lavender cardigan over it, she looks ten times more attractive without a headset covering her loose waves and a gray cubicle wall in her background?

I glance down and see that she ditched her heels for flip flops again, and her toes are painted neon orange.

Fuck, that's cute.

And yep, I'm totally just staring at her like a creep.

Good going, dumbass.

I clear my throat and hope she doesn't bail, though why I even care, I can't figure out.

"Stalking, are we? Seems a little desperate," I tease, and she smiles.

"Well, you know..." she starts and shrugs. "That's what us hippie chicks do."

"So it seems," I grin, reaching to grab my beer.

"Saw your car," she says quietly as I straighten and take a drink, and Elena takes a few hesitant steps towards me, hands clasped behind her back and probably fidgeting like crazy. "So…he's a golfer."

I shrug.

"Seems a little…" She trails off and tilts her head, eyes doing a quick sweep up and down my body and I take another drink, trying to combat the way her doing that just made my throat feel Sahara dry. She bites her lip and finally finishes with, "Old."

I laugh and her smile grows, and it's the same one that feels like a reward when I can get her to show it.

"I think that may be the most insulting thing you've ever said to me," I tell her and she tucks her hair behind her ear. "Well done."

"I just mean, aren't you supposed to be sixty-years-old with gray hair and a potbelly, wearing like plaid green pants and beret with a knitted ball on the top? I was sure I saw that on the list of rules when I came in…"

"Then no wonder they let you come back here," I wink.

"Ha ha."

"Golf is for the young and smart and sexy, my dear," I tell her, and her eyes automatically narrow at the endearment. "Surprised you don't play yourself."

"Who says I don't?" she says haughtily and I flip my five-iron over so I can hold it by the club face, extending the grip towards her. And she predictably stares at it like it's a poisonous snake. "Damon, I was just…"

"Come on, badass," I taunt. "You're no ballerina: you're a kickboxing, limb-twisting yoga master." I shrug. "This should be a breeze for the Keeper of the Unicorns."

"How much have you had to drink?" she asks with a grin, and I lean towards her conspiratorially.

"Not nearly enough."

She scoffs and I tilt the club back so it's resting against my shoulder, taking another step towards her and handing her the beer.

"Here, lesson one: beer is the most important tool in any golfer's bag."

She rolls her eyes and takes a sip, and I lightly place my hand on her lower back and lead her to the tee.

The silk fabric of her dress slides a little between my palm and her skin, and Houston, we have liftoff. And I know I shouldn't, but I can't help but wonder what she's got on under her innocent little outfit: white cotton bikini cut? Or maybe an orange g-string to match her toes? On second thought, I'm gonna go with lavender lace boyshorts: comfortable and won't show lines under her dress, but perks her up because she feels a little naughty.

Too bad I won't find out how right I am.

"You're really going to make me do this?" she says nervously once we hit the tee, and I trade her the club for the beer.

"Yep," I say and take a swig, then set the bottle down.

"Where did you learn this, anyways?"

"Had the best teacher possible," I tell her and her eyes widen curiously. "Self-taught."

She huffs a quiet laugh, and I don't know why I like it so much that I can get her to do that.

"Yeah, that reminds me," she says and I tilt my head. "You forgot to add 'enormous ego' in your personality description today."

I scoff. "That's like saying I'm hot. Some things shouldn't have to be explained."

"Oh, Lord give me strength," she mumbles.

I clear my throat. "He can't hear you."

"What?"

"God doesn't listen to golfers," I say seriously. "We take his name in vain too much and with the amount of prayers coming off the course?" I shudder. "It would be like the loudest rock concert on earth for Him."

She giggles and I snatch the five-iron away from her.

"Hey!"

"Change of plans, I don't want you messing up my iron. You want…" I say and turn around, dropping my club in the bag and taking out my driver. I turn around and hold it out to her. "Mr. Big Stick."

"Oh, 'cause we all want 'Mr. Big Stick.'" She rolls her eyes and takes the driver reluctantly, and I snort.

"Yeah, I'm just gonna let that one go," I tell her, and she blushes like crazy. "Alright, you ever played baseball or tennis or anything like that?"

Her mouth slips into a worried frown. "No…"

"Good," I tell her. "Less shit for me to fix."

"So glad I could get your stamp of approval," she says sarcastically, and I smirk.

"Okay, I need you to pay very close attention to me," I say seriously and she straightens a little, looking like she's in class or a meeting or something. "Exactly how flexible are you?"

"Jesus, Damon!"

"See? Golfer already," I say smoothly and she shoves at my shoulder. "I just don't want you to hurt yourself," I explain.

"If those old yuppies can do this, I can," she says sharply and I nod once in agreement.

"That's the spirit," I say with a grin. "Swing."

"What?" she bursts out, completely panicked. "You haven't shown me anything!"

"It's so you can get a feel for the club," I tell her calmly. "Just act like there's a ball, and swing like you've seen on TV or whatever reference you have to go on, that way I can see what we're working with."

And because this is gonna be better than any form of entertainment imaginable.

"Ridiculous," she mutters and I step back, crossing my arms and watching as she positions herself over an invisible golfball.

She waggles her butt a little and I try to control my grin. Newbies always waggle. Especially women.

She checks down range and bites her lip, both her elbows bent and her shoulders almost touching her ears. She winces and closes her eyes as she starts her backswing, a technical wreck by the time she hits the top and then swings forward, squeaking her surprise when the face of the driver eats a chunk of grass that could feed a cow for a week.

"Yeah, I can't do this," she says all embarrassed and I smile at her, stepping forward and replacing the divot.

"Not bad," I lie. "Just a couple of pointers?"

"Damon," she whines, "this is-"

"Supposed to be fun," I finish and step around her side so I'm standing behind her.

I scoot forward a little so I can barely feel the outline of her body against mine, and she just sorta…fits. Her shoulders are narrow enough that I can hide her whole back in my chest, her hair tickling my jaw and my hips matching hers and she smells incredible.

"Fun for who?" she mumbles, and I ignore her.

"Okay, my clubs are a little long for you, so choke up your grip a little." I'm looking down over her shoulder, and when my breath brushes her neck, she shivers. I reach around her sides and place my hands over hers, moving them a few inches down the rubber grip towards the ground, reworking the placement of her fingers. "Loosen your hold just a tad, so the club's just resting gently in your hands. No death grips."

"Uh-huh," she says, squirming at how close we are with my arms basically hugged around her, and her little shimmy isn't doing anything but making me glad I'm wearing boxers. Although I wouldn't be surprised if she can still feel my response through the thin fabric of her dress. But she should take that as a compliment.

"Better," I tell her quietly. "Lock your left arm," I correct, and she does as I instruct, "and we're going to keep that tight the whole time."

"How am I supposed to swing if my arm is locked?" she asks and I smile.

"Because, the left arm is your control. The right is just to keep everything steady."

I keep my left hand over hers, pulling our right ones off the rubber grip completely and letting them hang beside her hip. And with my left arm only, I guide her to lightly swing the club back over our right shoulders, and then smoothly back through.

"Huh…" she says breathily, giving me the sneaking suspicion that the elevation I can feel in her pulse has everything to do with me taking control over her movements and not her excitement at the game of golf.

Because as much as she acts like I'm some wet-behind-the-ears constant pain in her ass, she's not resisting me the slightest bit. If anything, she's melting into me.

"See?" I whisper. "You could have one arm and play golf, no problem."

"Nice," she laughs quietly, and I place our right hands back on the club.

"Okay, light grip…good," I tell her when her hands immediately loosen. "Now, when we swing back, keep that left arm straight, and everything else should fall in line naturally."

"Doesn't feel natural," she grumbles.

"Ready?"

"Yep."

I guide her through a slow, full backswing, and my instincts and twelve years of playing have my gaze trained over her shoulder at the invisible ball on the ground. But Elena must be watching the head of the driver come back, because without warning her face turns towards me, soft pink lips brushing my cheek.

She squeaks and jumps, and my hands tighten over hers to keeping the club from dropping, but it also ends up locking her in place.

I glance at her and she's completely frozen, her mouth an inch from mine as she stares at me in shock.

"That's not part of the game, Elena," I breathe and her cheeks blaze, her gaze dropping to the ground. "Left arm locked," I tell her and carefully guide the club back down to strike nothing, taking her through the finish.

She blows out an unsteady breath, and I barely keep from laughing.

"This time, keep your eye on the ball," I tell her and reset us to take another swing.

She delicately clears her throat and shakes out her hair, her ass rubbing against my cock when she waggles.

Love the wagglers.

I take us through the backswing a little quicker this time, and when she hits the top, I stop us in place. "Pause," I tell her and she sighs.

"What now?" she whines, no doubt a little uncomfortable at the angle with her arms extended over her shoulder.

I take my hands off the club and put them on her hips, and she jumps forward out of my reach.

"Seriously?" she snaps, whipping around to glare at me, and I roll my eyes.

"You need to keep your hips forward," I tell her honestly, "and you were all sorts of yoga twisted."

"Like you couldn't have just said that?"

"Well," I shrug, "I'm not one to waste an opportunity." I grin wickedly and she scowls at me. "Oh, come on," I wheedle, "if I wanted to really feel you up, I could've. It's not like I looked down your dress."

She sucks in a breath and glances down, and her cardigan is buttoned up to her collarbone. No view possible.

I smirk at her and she stomps her foot. Ooh.

"You're just-" she starts, pointing at me threateningly, and I cut her off.

"I know, the worst," I say dramatically, and she cracks a small grin. "But you're not going to forget to keep your hips forward, are you?"

"Shut up," she says, a scandalized smile escaping her.

"Back to work," I command playfully, and go to retrieve my beer.

I take a drink as retakes the spot she leapt from, and her eyes widen a little when I come back and crouch down in front of her, teeing up a ball.

"Okay, hot stuff…"

"Cool it with the nicknames," she gripes and I roll my eyes, standing up and taking a step back.

"Line up your pumpkin big toe on your left foot with the ball," I tell her, indicating to her with my beer bottle.

"Don't make fun of my nail polish. It's cute," she says snootily, but still does as I told her.

"Adorable," I say and bat my eyelashes, and she purses her lips against a smile. "Okay, fair warning: you're going to miss the ball completely when you swing."

"Damon!"

I hold up my hands in surrender. "It's just the truth, everyone misses their first time. If you nick it, I'll buy you a beer."

"You're on," she grins and gets right to waggling. She stops suddenly and her head pops up, eyes narrowing at me. "I can't do this with you staring at me."

I snort. "No dice. You're susceptible to cheating."

"I am not!"

"Are too," I say mockingly, and she pouts at me.

And that shit is just plain unfair, but it's a slam dunk in accomplishing her mission of labeling me as a sucker for doe eyes.

Well played, Elena.

I shake my head and turn around so my back is to her.

"Lock your arm," I tell her and she chuckles softly.

"No peeking."

"Whatever you say."

I wait a second and slyly peer over my shoulder, and she's focused entirely on the ball. And her left arm is actually straight as she hits the height of her backswing, but then her lips pull into a grimace as she swings forward, using ten times the effort necessary and the club sweeps predictably right over the top of the ball with a whisper as it passes by its target.

She sucks in a breath and I turn around to face her, finding her glaring at the ball and glancing at the driver in her hands like it let her down.

"Nicely done," I tell her and extend the beer out to her, and she snatches it with a huff. She takes a deep drink and my eyes widen.

"Now I know why golfers have potbellies," she grumbles and I snicker.

"Not that I was looking," I lie and she arches an eyebrow at me. "But your swing?" I make the hand gesture for perfect and she blushes a little, while rolling her eyes at me and taking another drink of my beer. "I'm serious, Elena," I grin. "Not bad at all for your first time. And now, you have my permission to actually hit the ball."

"Oh Jesus," she mutters and I jerk my chin at her.

"What did I tell you about that?" I warn playfully and she laughs a little before she hands me the beer, blowing out a breath. "Nothing to it," I tell her with a snap of my fingers, and when her eyes narrow at me again, I snort and turn around so my back is to her.

"Don't even get me started on that, Mr. 'I don't know how to snap.'"

"Stop staring at my ass and hit the ball, Elena," I tell her, glancing back to make sure she's not going to smack me over the head with my driver.

But she's lined up and ready to go, and this time when she swings more gracefully than any newbie should be able to, she connects and the ball soars up into the air and down the range, before hooking a hard left about 100 yards in.

"Oh my God!" she squeals, and when I face her, she is completely lit up. "I actually hit it! It flew and everything!"

"And everything," I grin widely. "Sure you haven't done this before?"

"Nope," she says proudly and stands a little taller.

"You wanna go again, don't you?" I chuckle and she bites her lip.

"It's just…yeah, I totally do," she giggles.

"I'll be right back," I smile at her. "Feel free to keep making the rest of us look bad."

"Where are you going?" she asks when I'm a few steps away, and I turn around and walk backwards.

"You think I'm gonna let you drink all my beer and hit all my golfballs? Fat chance. I'm greedy," I wink at her and turn back around, heading into the office.

I get another bucket of balls and two more beers, coming back out to find Elena having a total blast.

I wait until after she's done topping a ball right into the tire of the Volkswagen before I hand her a beer, and she takes it from me with a polite, "Thanks," tapping the bottleneck against mine before she takes a drink.

"Addicted yet?" I ask and she grins, nodding excitedly. "Yeah, tell me about it."

I step away and retrieve my five-iron from my bag, setting up on the space next to her.

"Bet you a taco you can't hit the roof of the car again," she taunts and I peek over my shoulder at her.

"You're on."

"These are good," Elena mumbles, setting down her hard shell taco made implausibly without any trace of meat, then wipes her mouth daintily with a napkin.

"Not sure how you can say that when all you're eating is lettuce, but sure," I tease and take a bite of my own. Loaded with beef, like any sane human being eats.

It only took an hour to go through both buckets of balls, and another beer each, before we called it quits and moseyed into the office. Well, I strolled, Elena was practically skipping she's so amped up and I don't blame her. She kicked ass and giggled and victory-danced her little booty off the entire time we were out there.

And now here we sit, tucked into the corner of the driving range office that smells like dirt and sweat, sitting in crappy little plastic seats at a patio table that needs to be put out of its misery. But the owner does make some damn fine tacos, and a bet is a bet. One that she totally lost.

"It's not just lettuce," she tells me haughtily. "I also have cheese and tomatoes."

"Ooh," I tell her and flare my eyes, finishing my taco. "Wait a minute," I rattle off around a full mouth, like the classy boy I am. I swallow quickly and try not to choke, and she chuckles at me and hands me a napkin. "You got tomatoes?" I ask, affronted, and she smiles.

"Yep."

"Yo!" I call out to the owner, looking over my shoulder at where he's counting the money in the register. "Where were my tomatoes?"

"She got the last of 'em," he tells me and I roll my eyes.

"Bullshit," I mumble, and Elena giggles as I finish the last of my beer.

"How often do you come here?" she asks, and I shrug.

"Not often enough," I admit and lean back, stretching out and lacing my hands behind my head.

I yawn and shake out my head, trying to wake the fuck up because I'm all full of beer and tacos and relaxed after getting some good shots in and breathing in her perfume for the last hour and a half, and I'm suddenly super sleepy. And sleepy is not sexy.

Not that I'm trying to be sexy, because it's Elena and we're only friends, but I just…whatever.

She sits forward and rests her chin in her hand with her elbow on the table, watching me curiously. "Long day?"

I scoff. "Aren't they always?"

"Sure," she agrees quietly, then looks down at the beer label her other hand is absently picking at. "Can I ask you something?"

Her eyes flash up to mine and I clear my throat.

I'm fairly surprised it took her this long to get to the interrogation, because it only took me about thirty seconds after she showed up to figure out why she had the concrete ovaries to come find me tonight.

"No, I don't wear contacts," I deflect and flare my eyes at her.

She sags a little like she's frustrated with me and folds her arms on the table, because we both know the question that's burning a hole in her tongue and it has nothing to do with the color of my eyes.

"What was that call today?"

I sigh and meet her gaze head on, even though I'm dying to look away. "Just a call, Elena."

"Fatality?" she confirms and I nod once. "Was it bad?"

"Yep," I say quickly and sit forward, gathering all our foil wrappers and napkins and balling them up.

"And you won't tell me?"

I shake my head. "Death usually isn't pretty, Elena," I tell her and her mouth tugs down. "Working next to me probably earns you plenty of nightmares as it is."

I smirk, but she doesn't buy it.

"You don't have to protect me, Damon," she says earnestly, and a little irritated. "I know plenty about death, and sometimes it helps to talk about it."

"Fine, then talk about it."

"About what?" she asks, confused. "You're the one that got the call."

I jerk my chin at her. "I meant talk about whoever taught you so much about death."

"Oh," she says quietly, then her face falls, something dimming in her eyes.

"Oh," I repeat, exaggerated.

"I…um…" she fumbles, her hands moving to her lap.

"Exactly," I tell her quietly. "We've all got skeletons in our closet, Elena. No need to dig 'em out in front of a couple of beers and some tacos. The tacos don't deserve that."

"Okay," she nods, staring down at her hands.

"Thanks, by the way," I tell her and she peeks up at me.

"For what?"

"For drawing me a unicorn," I grin and the corner of her lips turns up. "Even if it looked like a squid," I tease and her mouth gapes.

"It did not look like a squid!" she protests, but at least she's smiling again.

"Yeah, it did," I laugh and she wrinkles her nose at me.

"Jerk," she grumbles and sits back, crossing her arms indignantly. "See if I ever perform a supernatural feat of amazement for you ever again."

"Next time, do I get to pick the creature?"

"No, you get a big fat sticker that says, 'Ungrateful Womanizer' in red letters."

"Better than a squid," I tell her and she throws a napkin at me.

"It was a unicorn!"

"If y'all are done flirting about squids and whatever weird stuff you kids are into these days, I would like to go home," the owner tells us and Elena turns beet red, covering her face with her hands while I flip him the bird.

"Losing patrons," I sing-song and get up from my seat, waiting for Elena as she does the same.

I gather all our trash and throw it away, listening to her go over and apologize to the owner for staying so late, and thanking him for making the tacos. And fuck me running if he doesn't fawn all over her, telling her she's welcome back anytime, but his wife is pregnant and as much as he'd love to stay open later, he needs to get home and that just melts Elena like a Milky Way on a dashboard. And then it's ten thousand questions of when is his wife due and is it a boy or girl and do they have a name yet, and God help the guy Elena marries, because I can hear her biological clock ticking all the way from the damn door.

"Elena, let the guy go home," I tease from where I'm leaning against the doorframe, and she blushes, turning back to thank him again before she finally wrenches herself away.

"He's nice," she tells me cheerfully as we head to the parking lot.

"Chatterbox. You are so in the right career," I taunt, setting my golf clubs in the trunk of my car.

"Actually, I have a Masters in Counseling," she says coyly, biting her lip.

I close the trunk, trying to scrape my jaw off the ground. "No shit?"

"Yep," she says, fully beaming. "I'm kinda excited, I just graduated two years ago."

"Then what the hell are you doing taking claims?" I laugh and lean against the side of my car, crossing my arms.

She shrugs, opening her mouth as if to answer, then closes it again.

She finally sighs and gives me, "Complicated."

I arch an eyebrow at her.

"Alright," I nod, not pressing because God knows there's a bunch of shit I certainly don't want to tell her about my life, and fair is fair.

"Thanks," she whispers and glances down.

She hugs her arms around herself, peeking up at me, and hello awkward-goodbye time.

I snicker and that seems to get her to relax, because she rolls her eyes at me with a smile, looking out towards the cars passing by on the street.

It's not like we both don't know what's happening here. And what's not.

"This was a lot of fun," she finally says with a grin I can't help but to match.

"It was fun. We may make a golfer out of you yet," I tell her. "But no plaid pants," I add with a wink.

"Okay," she agrees with a blush. "I guess I'll see you at work..."

"Goodnight, Elena," I tell her quietly, and she blushes a little more before she turns and heads to her car.

I watch her slowly back out, and when I get in and start my own car after she pulls away, I can only wonder what she would've done if I had tried to kiss her.

Probably better for both of us that I didn't.

A/N: Whoo! So much fun! When I first started dating my husband, we had many a flirty date at driving ranges... Oh memories... Can't wait to hear your thoughts about Delena's first non-date/date (hint, it won't be the last ;) And I'm LOVING how excited everyone is for Damon backstory, so because I'm feeling like dropping more than one hint this morning, here's a clue: if you follow, you will not be disappointed. Because the Damon backstory reveal/bomb is dropping circa chapter *cough-9-cough*

Hope to see you guys next chapter!

-Goldnox