17. Maren

This used to be my favorite tournament every year. Familiar faces. Familiar surroundings. It was easy to feel comfortable.

But something doesn't feel so comfortable anymore. More eyes are on me than usual. I'm not blending in to the room full of reporters. Men keep stopping to smile and tell me hello.

One of the two women at this press conference is giving me a catty side-eye, and I'm trying to remember if she knows Russell and what I could have possibly done to her.

I haven't seen or heard from Locke since I floated into the guest house last night high on an endorphin rainbow, and I've been nearly out of my mind since.

It's funny that a few weeks ago I felt suppressed and depressed over Russell Ashe, and now, Russell is an afterthought and Locke Hughes' balls have been in my mouth. How the hell did I get from point A to point B?

I wonder if he's finished practicing yet or hiding in my photography closet avoiding this crowd. The thought sends blood up to my cheeks and down between my legs.

I could slip in and slip out in under three minutes and leave satisfied based on how incredibly and constantly turned on I've been in the last twenty-four hours .

Locke knows what he's doing to me, but I don't want to touch myself because I can be good at following his directions, and I know whatever Locke is going to do to me will be one thousand times better.

He could just push me up against the wall in the dark…

"Maren," a reporter, based on the media badge around his neck, says.

I snap back to reality and blink into his squirrelly face. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"We missed seeing you in Mexico." He winks.

"Oh," I say as he turns away. "Thank you?"

My co-photographer Jeffrey ("No, not Jeff, Jeffrey"), who's been taking professional golf shots since before I was born, glances at me, and with a smirk, goes back to looking through his viewfinder.

"What was that about?" I ask.

He stares first, then rolls his eyes. "Probably something to do with your relationship."

"People still care about me and Russ?" I huff. " Why ?"

I don't even seem to care anymore. Is this what sex does? Well, the kinky friends with benefits kind? Because I haven't had a second to fit Russell in on top of my thoughts about Locke.

"Not him," Jeffrey says amusingly. "The other one."

"What oth—" My scoff comes out too forced. "Locke and I aren't in a relationship."

"I don't really care," he chuckles. "Not my business. These people, though, want the scoop."

"There is no scoop , Jeffrey. They never cared about me before when I was with Russ."

"Locke is very different from Russ. Locke won't tell anyone anything, so they need to pry. Anyway, like I said, don't care." He turns to take some candid shots as two golfers walk into the room and take their seats at the long table. "I did just order this amazing lens. Check it out. "

He steps aside slightly to let me look through his camera so I can geek out.

"The sharpness is excellent. Awesome autofocus. I can't wait to take it birding," he tells me.

"Birding? Is that a modern slang term for birdie?"

"Birdwatching."

I smile, eyebrows raised. "I love that you love that."

"Don't look so surprised. It's fun," he laughs.

My phone buzzes against my thigh in the little pocket of my shorts.

Hottie Icicle

Flirting with older men? Are you into calling me Daddy?

I look up to see Locke sitting at his spot at the end of the table, nodding at a production assistant and fooling with his microphone. I think he's joking, although I have no way to really tell through text message—it's just something I feel. After thinking, I decide it does nothing for my body.

Me

No, I don't think so. Are you volunteering as a test subject?

Hottie Icicle

I am thirty you know.

Me

Soon you'll be into birding just like my boyfriend Jeffrey.

Hottie Icicle

Too late. I do that with him occasionally after I practice.

Me

You bird watch? Who are you?

Hottie Icicle

Don't look so surprised. It's quiet. No talking involved. And Jeffrey knows how to keep his mouth shut.

As if on cue, a reporter in the crowd asks Locke the first question cheerfully. "Home course, Locke. How are we feeling?"

Locke stares at him like he's an idiot. "I don't know how you're feeling."

The room collectively murmurs in various laugh levels.

"Of course," the reporter says before humorously correcting himself. "How are you feeling? I imagine you've played this course the most out of all in the world."

"Never counted," he replies, shrugging. "I guess."

"And Russell, you were out here yesterday putting and chipping. How are the greens treating you this week?"

Russell launches into a long-winded response about how they're slow right now, so I take a look around.

One glare from the only female reporter here reminds me that the entire room seems to be aware of me.

I probably shouldn't be texting Locke in the middle of a press conference in front of so many people who will put two and two together, but whatever.

Me

Do you realize everyone here assumes we're in a relationship just like I told you they would?

Hottie Icicle

Does that matter? They thought the same thing weeks ago when they were incorrect and we'd hardly ever talked.

Me

Oh my god. They're still incorrect. Or are we officially fake-dating???

Hottie Icicle

We will never be fake dating. Get the idea out of your pretty little head.

Me

And why does Miss Tight Bun hate me?

Hottie Icicle

Because we used to hook up sometimes, and I didn't want to sleep with her in Mexico.

"Back to Locke," a man to my right says when Russell finally finishes his novel. "Same question for you. Russell says the greens are playing slow. How are you feeling about them this week?"

I zone out when Locke says something about how he's preparing for the course and what his strategy with Conrad will be.

I pretend to take a few pictures until I find the profile of Locke's sometimes hook-up. She's incredible close up. Tan skin, sleek dark hair, and model-worthy cheekbones. She definitely knows how to contour, while I slap some bronzer on my cheeks and pray it looks like I know what I'm doing .

Her tight black dress shows just enough cleavage, and she's crossing her legs back and forth that end in gorgeous four-inch heels. Her shoulders are pulled back, exuding straight confidence I only see on celebrities.

I can't see a single flaw, even with my lens, and the stark contrast between me and her is unnerving. She's all black cat vibes—mysterious, slightly villainous, could probably really bitch someone out with zero remorse and could absolutely fuck someone and keep her feelings out of it. She looks like she'd dominatrix the shit out of a man. I wonder if that's what Locke is secretly into.

Russell gets another question before my phone buzzes again.

Hottie Icicle

Don't do that.

Me

Do what? I'm not doing anything.

Hottie Icicle

You are. You're comparing yourself. Stop.

Me

I mean, look at her.

Hottie Icicle

I don't need to.

Me

Okay, I believe you. Pay attention, silly.

Of course, I don't believe him, but a reporter just asked Locke what club has been his favorite lately.

"Hold on," Locke tells him impatiently and drops his head to focus back on his lap.

His message pops up a minute later, but it feels like an eternity in a silent room with a million pairs of eyes watching Locke, who looks like he doesn't have a care in the world.

Hottie Icicle

You don't realize how sexy you are. Your little freckles drive me insane. I love that I just discovered that those tiny shorts under your golf dress have pockets. You gave me the best blow job of my life, and I've been obsessing over you every minute of the last twenty-four hours. And longer than that. So, no, Maren, Miss Tight Bun does not compare to you, and I won't stop until you believe it. I'll have you naked and panting on my bed in a matter of hours, where I'm going to drill it into that gorgeous head of yours.

"Am I interrupting?" the reporter jokes.

"Yes," Locke says, "but please, continue."

I'm too stunned to move. To think. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, unable to return to baseline until the next six questions Locke has been asked are answered.

Back in the comfort of my closet, I fold my tripod up and lean it against the wall before I detach my lens from my camera and crouch down to lay them both in their respective slots of my black camera suitcase.

When the door opens, I expect to see Locke coming to tell me his meeting is over, but I find Russell looming over me instead.

His blue eyes are deep, wild-looking.

"What do you want?" I sigh.

He crosses his arms. "You won't answer my calls."

"Yeah." I fake gasp. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Whatever you're doing, it's working. Dating him, fucking him, living with him?"

"I'm not doing anything," I seethe, sitting back on my calves. "And how do you know where I'm living?"

"You thought you could both show up here this morning in the same car and people wouldn't talk?" He crouches too, lowering his voice to pillowy soft. "I'm jealous out of my fucking mind, Maren. Is that what you want? Is that what you want to hear? That I want you back? Because I do."

Weeks ago, I would've fallen into his arms and cried tears of happiness. I would have been happy for the earlier "girlfriend" Freudian slips. I was that pathetic, but not anymore.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't want you," I say before I change my mind. "Actually, never mind. I'm not sorry. I just plain don't want you back, without the ‘I'm sorry.' Because I'm not."

His eyes hold steady on mine until they drift down to my waist and back up. "It's just sex for him," he says plainly, his eyes flickering over me as if I'm a disgusting fleck of dust.

It's just sex for me too , I correct him in my head, and technically, we haven't even had sex.

I pretend like I'm Locke at a press conference. "It's not your business if we're having sex or not. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. I don't owe you anything, and I certainly don't have to tell you what I'm doing in my personal life or who I'm dating or where I'm living."

"Maren, it's me ," he says, tone sincere like that alone should sway me. But I don't see him the same way anymore. "This entire thing has made me realize how crazy things were getting. The camera always filming us, nothing was personal anymore. Maybe I let it get a little bit into my head. Opened up my life too much. "

I laugh and cough out a deep scoff at that, but Russ curves a hand around the back of my head.

"I bought you a ring, Maren. Before you moved out. I wanted to marry you, and it was going to be filmed for the show." He smiles softly, and his blue eyes hold onto me with purpose. "But now they can film us getting back together. We can get back to that place, be in love, engaged, married. I've only ever wanted that with you."

Tears burst out of me. Those same eyes used to make my stomach flutter—while they looked at every other girl. I'm not sure this man has ever truly cared about me, and the realization is crushing. He used me just to use me—just because he could, because I was there at his side smiling and trusting him. And I think he wanted to marry me because I went along with whatever he said, ignorant enough to let him get away with whatever he wanted.

"I'm not getting back together with you," I manage to say in a blubbering whisper. "Locke or no Locke."

I don't even know why I'm crying—maybe it's for the version of me who was too weak and fell for this.

He slides his hand across my thighs and lowers his voice, laced with concern. "You know his mom is a drug addict. He's probably addicted to something too. I don't want you living there. Come home."

"You're disgusting," I say, pushing his hands off me.

"I'm looking out for you."

My back straightens, but I'm still whispering. "No, I don't think it's about me at all. You want to take me from Locke just to say you won."

Russ narrows his eyes. "What did he tell you?"

I open my mouth to tell him it doesn't matter just as the closet door opens.

Locke's eyes fall on me first, bounce to Russ crouched down in front of me, and then back to me in panic, assessing my tear-stained cheeks and the situation he's just walked into.

I jump when Locke lunges and yanks Russ up by the back of his shirt. "What the fuck are you doing, Russell? "

"Get off me, asshole," Russ hisses, throwing elbows as he's dragged out the door. "There are people watching us. Craig is right there."

Locke lets him go outside the doorway, and Russ immediately starts fixing his polo shirt while I sit in shock.

"I'm not doing anything. I was having a conversation with Maren that doesn't involve you," Russ says, staring down Locke.

Locke lowers his voice so deeply it sounds as dark as his eyes. "I fucking swear to god if you talk to her again, I will go to jail."

Then he steps back into the closet with me and slams the door behind him.