11. Maren

In ninth grade, Camille and I took an internet quiz to find out how kinky/vanilla we are.

I thought I was paste—the plainest vanilla. Not even vanilla bean. It told me I liked my vanilla ice cream with a cardboard cone.

And it's not that I'm some inexperienced woman who saved herself for the man she loved. I've been having sex since my first awful high school experience, with boyfriends and flings alike. Things were good, got even better—it's just always been… regular?

Well, look at me now, random internet quiz. Turns out, I might be more adventurous in bed than I previously thought because, according to Google, I have a praise kink.

I never knew two small words—good girl—could open up this entire new world for me.

The only problem is I don't know where to go from here. I haven't seen Locke in over two weeks, and I'm not about to make some dating app profiles just so I can tell a man to call me his good girl. Which also makes me realize, there's something specific about Locke that makes me come alive because I throw up in my mouth when I think about Russell calling me that.

Locke wasn't at the tournament in Pebble Beach last week or Scottsdale this week .

I've gotten exactly zero texts or calls from Hottie Icicle.

And I think I saw him speed away on a golf cart when I got here this morning to drop my camera equipment off at the club.

I'd say he was avoiding me if I also didn't think this was his entire personality at the same time.

Maybe I'm not cut out for the no-strings-attached sex with the sexy but emotionally unavailable man—kink or no kink. I still have a heart, one that desperately wants the all-consuming love… but I also kind of want to experiment with my newly found sex drive.

I can't get Locke's deep voice out of my mind. Sex for me in the past had always been rather quiet. Now my body wants to do everything and anything just to hear Locke talk to me like that.

I don't know if I should be thankful or embarrassed, maybe it's a little bit of both. But I've definitely been overthinking.

My phone dings as I'm locking up the closet.

Camille

Is he there?

Me

Won't matter if he is. But I think I saw his blond head scurry away.

Camille

Make him talk to you. He can't avoid you forever.

Me

I'm telling you, him not thinking it's a good idea is all I'm going to get. He probably thought that it was generous of him to say five words.

And it's not a good idea.

And I need to move out of your house, so apartment hunting is more important right now.

As I walk out to the parking lot, I stuff my phone into my purse without bothering to wait for Camille's reply.

I don't need Locke's explanation, and he obviously isn't the best communicator, so I don't expect him to want to talk to me. I know how he feels.

He inadvertently discovered something about me, and he wanted to have sex. But in the middle of a hospital stairwell was the last place that should have happened, and he's thankful he got reminded how much I talk and how much I feel and how much I ask questions and how much we see each other before it went too far. There's nothing more to it.

I throw my purse into the passenger seat and slip the key in the ignition, but my car rumbles and goes dead.

My day goes straight to shit when I try three more times and each time it sounds like my car is squealing from the depths of hell.

In a moment of sheer nuttiness, I punch the steering wheel before I lay my forehead on it gently and whisper to myself. Well, my car.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, and I need you to be okay. I need to go find an apartment so my sister can have all the sex before her baby is born and she becomes a mommy zombie. Just give me a win. I love you, and I'll never hit you again. Please start."

I close my eyes, pray to the saint of engine mechanics, and turn my key one more time only to get such a low guttural churning sound that I think the engine might fall out from the bottom of my car.

I groan and scream, "Fuck!" at the same time I lift my head to see Locke standing directly in front of my car .

My face flushes immediately, and I hope there's somehow a reflection bouncing off my windshield that prevented him from witnessing that. Maybe if I'm really still he won't even notice I'm sitting here.

He rolls his eyes after a second. I know you're in there , he mouths.

Right, the entire golf course heard my traitorous car.

And I can see you, he adds.

I scream another Fuck! in my head.

"I'm just going to get an Uber," I say after I open my car door, stand, and stretch in that way you do when you're uncomfortable and you just need to make your body move, which always turns into the most unnatural thing ever.

He blinks. "You're not getting an Uber."

"I've got things to do. Lots of stops. It will take a while," I say, waving a hand and going back in for my purse.

He waits patiently while I dig around in my glove compartment, my center console, under my seat. I check some random knobs, even though I have no clue what they do. I can't think of anything else to do to stall.

"Done?" he asks, amused.

"Yeah," I mumble as I unlock my phone to see if he'll finally leave. I can't afford a million Ubers anyway, so I'm going to shamefully have to call my little sister to pick me up in her nice new BMW.

"If you think I'm letting you get in some stranger's car to drive you all over the city, you're insane."

I pick my chin up and challenge him back. "It's not like they're going to murder me."

"I wouldn't let you take the slightest chance."

Coincidentally, I'd probably take the chance on someone murdering me before inconveniencing Locke.

"Let me?" I scoff, then promptly blush at the thought that I was asking him to call me his , turned on by his possession of me, when he had me pinned against a wall and his erection pressed against me .

God, don't look at his crotch, I think as soon as my eyes hit the zipper of his pants.

Locke's eyebrow dips, one dark eye narrows below it. "Besides, we need to talk."

He turns like he expects me to follow him—which I do because that paints one hell of a compelling picture.

Locke Hughes wants to talk.

Not that I particularly want to talk about it. I can't even keep myself from melting into a puddle of embarrassment when I harbor my own thoughts, so I have no idea how he expects me to say words out loud about this situation.

His car is large and black, and I have to practically climb into the front seat.

I'm delighted to find seat warmers, which Locke quickly condemns me for. "It's not that cold outside."

"I like my butt toasty. And if I'm going to sit in this car, I'm going to get the perks."

Locke smirks. "Where do you need to go?"

"Oh," I say, "home is fine."

I'm not about to bring him along to look at the cheap apartments I can afford. I can't imagine what Locke's house looks like. He just got one of those huge checks that you hold up for the cameras, and it had two commas in the number.

"Quit lying," he says, starting the car. It makes a nice loud but smooth sound. Probably a V8. Something where a hundred thousand dollars alone lives under the hood. "You said you had lots to do. Such as…?"

I sigh. "Remember my sister is having a baby?"

He nods.

"Right. So, I need to move out. She and Parker, her husband, have let me stay with them long enough. I was going to go look at some apartments, but I'll call the landlords and reschedule. "

He stares straight ahead, maneuvering out the parking lot and onto the main road. "Which way to the first one?"

"I'm not letting you chauffeur me around to the crappy places I might live."

He glances at me for a little too long that I almost want to tell him to keep his eyes on the road. But I know that wouldn't be very much appreciated.

"Give me the address to the first one," he insists. "You will probably need me as back up in case you don't stand up for yourself. It will be a good lesson in how not to give a fuck and gain some confidence."

My mouth forms an oh. "Are we still doing that?"

"I want to, Maren. Are you embarrassed to bring me to these places?" He's not really asking, because he knows that I am, so I don't bother answering. He scrunches his forehead up as he types away on the screen in between us. "Address?"

I cave and ramble off the address from the ad I saw. The landlord is expecting me in ten minutes, and the robotic woman tells us we'll arrive at our destination in twenty-four. Hopefully he doesn't take that to mean I'll be late on rent too. Also, it's twenty-three minutes too long to spend with Locke in a car.

"How was Pebble Beach and Arizona?" he asks.

"Fine," I say curtly.

He stops a little too abruptly at a red light, his hands a little tense on the wheel. "Did something happen?"

"Nope. Uneventful." Which it actually was. Craig and company seem to think I'm now boring, and I like it this way. I get in what little obligation I have per my contract, but there's nothing fun about me anymore so I'm sure they won't even air it. "Where were you?"

His grip relaxes. "Home. Spent time with my niece, Emmie. Played golf. Stayed away from cameras."

"Why didn't you go? "

I sit on my hands and look out the window when he doesn't answer. Of course, I take that to mean that I'm the reason he didn't go. Maybe that's self-centered of me though, and I'm overthinking it like always.

You shouldn't care , I remind myself. I can't control his feelings, and we're adults who kissed and made a mistake.

Locke seems to sense where my mind has strayed. "I'm playing in fewer tournaments this year. Conrad just had a baby, and I want him to be able to be with her. Traveling all year is tough."

I smile at how sincere he sounds—like I just got a real answer, like somehow, I earned it. "You don't want to play with another caddie, do you?"

He shakes his head. "Absolutely not. And I can afford to not play every damn week. I'm calling it the year of less, but it might just be the rest of my life of less." Locke winks at me. "Don't tell Graham that though."

That wink goes straight between my legs in a thundering roar only I can hear, and I've forgotten how to form thoughts. I clench my thighs, willing my body to settle down.

"But," he goes on, "I do owe you an explanation."

I whip my head back around, but Locke is calmly merging onto the interstate.

"We don't have to talk about it," I say hurriedly.

"I know I… don't say a lot of words, and I know that you don't actually believe that, and I know you've been giving a big shit about it for two weeks."

Two weeks and one day, but who's counting?

"You don't know me," I say, scrunching my nose.

Locke's eyes fall to the motion and sweep over the bridge of my nose, inspecting my freckles, before he snaps his attention back to the road. "Look. Russell and I have a history. I know you assume that now. We used to be friends and some college stuff happened a long time ago. This thing between me and you, I couldn't have you thinking that I was trying to get revenge on him by fucking his ex-girlfriend. "

I blanche. "Nice."

Though I am thinking that would be more than nice—Locke's voice saying gruff things in my ear. I like the rough edges and the blunt cuts, the way he makes it sound primal.

"Sorry, sleep with his ex-girlfriend," he corrects himself, and it loses its luster. "I don't lose any sleep over Russell anymore, but I don't want you questioning my motives and not knowing what happened between me and him. I would never use you like that. Like I said, I'm too much, and I'm already a little too…" He chooses his next words carefully. "Preoccupied with you. So, we're mature adults, friends who kissed. I think that's a better place for us, and I'm not looking for a relationship, or maybe I just can't be in one. You don't seem like the kind of girl to…" He doesn't finish that thought.

As much as I want to badger him, pepper him with endless questions, I bite my tongue. I think you get more with Locke by being patient. I can respect that he puts golf first, that he's closed off, that we're not compatible.

I can also ignore how much he makes me forget I have a brain because I could just lean over and give him a blow job while loving every second of the filthy words he would call me. I'm not sure I know myself anymore.

"Hey, who said anything about mature? I'm not thirty yet," I joke.

Locke laughs, slides his arm across the console, and grabs my thigh. His fingers squeeze between my legs. "Sorry," he rushes out like I've electrocuted him. "Friends who also don't touch."

"Friends who don't touch," I repeat, even though I feel like he plugged himself into me.

Brain. I have a brain. Capable of rational thought, though it doesn't feel like it when we fall into a weird silence for the next ten minutes.

"Take a right here," I say just as the car's voice tells us to take a right at the stop sign .

Locke studies his little screen as he turns, us as a little yellow triangle on the map with street names zigzagging back and forth. Then he looks up out the windshield at the building half a block down.

For once, I can read his face: he's judging me.

I'll admit it looks a little run down. Paint is peeling off the sides of the brick, and the stairway in the front is littered with trash. The street looks almost deserted, and there's an empty lot across the street that looks sketchy. But it's all I can afford really.

Still, he doesn't say anything—just parallel parks as I gawk internally at how hot he makes it look to turn a steering wheel and glance over his shoulder.

His frown is still present while he gets out of the car and follows me up the stairs.

"I texted him, so I hope the landlord waited for me," I say.

Locke doesn't respond but what he's thinking is all in his eyes: I hope he didn't .

I stop in front of the white door with a gold 5A above the peephole. There's dirt caked into it, but I can clean it, add a cute doormat, and make it mine.

Thankfully (I guess), the landlord opens the door when I knock. He's tall and lanky with no smile. Bags hang from underneath his eyes like he hasn't slept in days.

He grunts in greeting, gives Locke a head nod, and his greasy brown hair falls in front of his eyes. "Morning," he says, pointing to himself. "Henry. This is it. About seven hundred square feet. Take a look around. I'll wait in the kitchen."

He steps back to allow us to enter and stands off to the side in front of the ‘90s refrigerator.

I immediately regret this terrible idea. Locke has probably never even laid eyes on an apartment in this price range. It smells wet. As I step into the small living room, I'm questioning if they've cleaned the gray carpet since the last tenant moved out and if it's actually supposed to be white. Maybe Henry will let me rip it up. I'm sure I could YouTube how to DIY it.

Locke follows me, close on my heels, as I amble around the small living room thinking of what to say before he veers off to the first door on the left. I stand in place and do a three-sixty turn before I follow him in and find him staring at the dirty white wall.

"Maren," he says, voice deep.

He's looking at a giant grayish-green spot of something on the wall that's climbing up and spreading across the ceiling like it's crystalizing.

"What's that?" I ask.

Locke's shoulders visibly tense as he traces the pattern back down the wall with his eyes. "Black mold."

I step closer to the wall and peer closely at it. "It doesn't look black."

He reaches out with lightning speed and pulls me back practically by the neck. His forearm drops to my collarbones, and I'm flush with his entire body.

"Are you crazy? Don't get that close to it."

"We're touching," I say.

He holds me tighter against him to make a point. "You're not living here."

"I don't have many options."

"Here isn't an option," he says, grabbing my arm and leading me back out through the inch-long ‘hallway' to the kitchen. "Henry, there's black mold in the bedroom."

Henry startles, his face going pale, because Locke's voice is what I'd describe as nastily angry.

Locke doesn't give him a chance to respond. "You need to have that cleaned before someone moves in here." He opens the door and practically shoves me out. "Don't think I won't call the city to report it and inspect it. And I'll absolutely be checking up on you to make sure it gets done, Henry." His tone isn't lined with a threat—it's all threat.

When he steps outside and slams the front door in Henry's face, my mouth gapes .

"Don't look at me like that," he scowls. "You were not going to breathe that air for another second."

"You didn't have to be mean," I say, following him down the stairs. "I definitely can't live here anymore, or Henry will treat me horribly."

"Too mean to the landlord putting people at risk? Good. And yes, I did. Otherwise, he won't fix the problem." Locke opens the passenger side door for me in a weird show of chivalry. "Next," he says, slamming the door.

Next isn't any better. Locke won't even let me see the actual apartment after I get out of the car and a group of twenty-somethings loitering in the hallway harasses me.

The one after that he drives by and doesn't stop since he doesn't like the neighborhood.

"Locke," I say, exasperated. "I'm running out of options."

"Where did you live before you moved into your sister's?"

I stare at him.

"Before that," he adds.

"I checked," I sigh. "I can't afford it anymore. My landlord raised my rent as soon as I moved out and that was years ago. It was even more than I imagined it would be."

"What'd you do with the money from your little show?"

"It's not my show," I say, even more exasperated, "and I paid off my student loans on top of a little present for myself in the form of a camera. Now I need to fix my car, which will probably break again, so I'll have to buy a new one, and the last time I checked I didn't get a check bigger than my wingspan a few weeks ago. I live on a photographer's salary, so these are my options, Locke. I'd appreciate it if you'd stop judging me and help me by not ruining every place we look at."

"I'm not judging you," he says softly, "but I also can't live with myself knowing you're sleeping underneath black mold or getting hit on every time you step out your door." He looks around skeptically when we pull into the parking lot of my last option. He gives me a pained look. "I'll try."

Locke keeps his word and does try. This one isn't as horrible as the others. There does seem to be a lot of people coming and going when we get out of the car, but the apartment is fairly clean.

There are some projects I can attempt to make it better, and the kitchen actually has shiny new appliances.

He sticks his nose in every door, inspecting every inch of the place, checking under the sinks for leaks, and testing every hinge on the doors.

"It's not so bad, right?" I whisper when he steps back into the living room. I motion to the sliding glass door where a potted plant with nearly dead pink flowers inside is hanging from the edge of the roof. "It has a balcony."

"It's loud," he says, pointing to the wall where we can hear the neighbor's television and shouting and maybe something else we shouldn't be listening to. "But it doesn't smell. If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it."

I smile and clap my hands. "Okay, a win."

"Okay, let's go sign the paperwork," Locke says with a grimace in his smile that doesn't look convincing.

He trails behind me when I walk out the door and run into a woman who just emerged from my next-door neighbor's door.

"I'm so sorry," I say, stepping back into Locke's chest. His arm snakes around me, holding me to his chest tightly, back in protective mode over this tiny woman whose arms are so scrawny she wouldn't be able to punch a piece of paper.

She sways, eyelids heavy, and waves me off nicely but in a tired and slow way of doing it. I'd peg her as early fifties, but the long years she's lived have etched themselves into her face. Her dirty blonde hair is gathered in a low, messy ponytail, and her dark brown eyes do look kind, but with a far-away look, like she's out of it .

"That's okay, swee—" Her eyes fly above my head in a look of shock. She immediately shrinks. "Locke?"

"Hey, Mom," he says harshly.

I can now feel his heart racing against my back in double-time. The plane of his body is one hard contraction of muscle.

Her eyes go even wider. "What're you doing here?"

"We were just leaving."

His voice makes me hold tight to his thighs, like I'm unsure what his mother is capable of.

Locke is brushing past her so quickly with me in his arms that he's as close to carrying me as he can be without actually carrying me. I'm not sure my feet are technically touching the ground, and I'm fuming and squirming in his iron grip.

When we reach the car, he places me in the passenger seat like I weigh nothing and closes the door before I can say anything.

Locke leans his back against my door, his shoulders rising and falling sharply.

"Mom? Mom ?!" I shriek as soon as he opens his own door and slides behind the wheel. "I thought your parents were dead!"