We bump along the course, and Sulli starts twisting her hair in a high-bun—Akara hits the brake. “Sulli, down!” “What? Kits?” He pulls her down over his lap. A golf ball flies at the cart and I lean back. It dings the frame and bounces off. My pulse skids. A few inches lower and that would’ve hit Sulli in the face. “What the…fuck?” Sulli lifts her head slowly, cautiously. Hair falling out of a half-done bun. She’s staring at Akara’s lap. I mean, her face was in his crotch.
