18. Locke

My brain is searing, fire lighting along its pathways. I can't remember the last time I've seen red like this.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone to that meeting and left you alone," I whisper, dropping to my knees in front of Maren and brushing my thumbs over her cheeks, her freckles. "What did he do?"

She shakes her head and sniffles. "It doesn't matter. I don't want to waste my time thinking about him."

"It does matter," I insist, but she shakes her head again. "You can tell me."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Respect that , I tell myself. I can't push her to talk when I don't even talk myself, and we're not in a relationship. She doesn't owe me anything.

"Can I turn off the light?" I ask.

The darkness will make this easier, more comfortable for me. I don't want to have to look her in the eye when I explain what happened, and I don't want her to be able to see my face. This is hard enough without the bright white lights over-saturating this tiny closet.

Her eyebrows pinch, but after a second, she nods like she gets it—gets me .

After I stand and flip the switch, we're surrounded by pitch black. I step carefully and feel my way around the room until I've found the back wall without shelving. I sink down against it before I fumble around, searching for a body part of Maren's I can grab.

When I've found her arm, I tug her gently. "Are you scared? Come here."

She's breathing heavily, trying to get her crying under control, but when she finds my lap and straddles me, she buries her face into my neck and whimpers.

I hold her until her breaths become steady, and then I let out a heavy breath of my own.

"In college, Russell and I were friends," I start. Maren's body tenses, but I rub my palms along her thighs reassuringly. "Or I thought we were."

"You don't have to tell me," she says into the crook of my neck. "I promise, and I understand why you keep so much to yourself."

"I want to, Maren," I insist. She melts into me and nods, so I continue, "I was a sophomore, he was a freshman. We were even roommates the second semester. I told him about my mom because I mistakenly thought I could trust him."

Maren hugs me tighter, because she knows exactly how that feels—trusting Russell Ashe when you didn't realize you shouldn't. But she stays quiet, giving me the silence I need.

"I didn't realize he hated me, resented me for being better than him. I think it started when I was selected as captain over him. Anyway, months later, he borrowed my car one night and drunkenly hit a parked car. I didn't know until the next morning when I got called into our coach's office to watch the footage of my car smashing into another one, backing up and running over a sign, and then taking off."

"Locke," she gasps uncontrollably.

I find the ends of her hair cascading down her back and twirl it around my fingers in comfort .

"It's okay," I assure her. "I told my coach that I was home sleeping, that I wasn't driving, but refused to tell him who was. I wasn't about to rat Russ out."

"You should have," she sniffles into my neck.

I chuckle. "That's just not me, but naturally, as my roommate and best friend, Russ was called in next. He didn't waste any time throwing me under the bus and telling them that I was probably an alcoholic or high on something like my mother. My coach didn't believe him, but there was no proof of anything—just my word against Russ'. I had to take a drug test, which came back clean, so I was allowed to stay on the golf team on probation, but I lost my scholarship."

"How did you not end up in jail then?" she mutters under her breath.

"That's not even the end of it," I add, squeezing her closer. "Russ knew how poor I was, that I needed every scholarship I applied for to stay in college, so he started applying for the same ones and cheating in school to win them. He wanted me gone, didn't want to compete against me since he hardly ever won. He knew I didn't want to play golf professionally. After the year was up, I decided I should just go pro for the hell of it, pay for my family to live, make enough money for the rest of my life, even though that was never the plan. I wanted to be the first in my family to get a college degree."

"Locke," Maren sobs. Her tears have been soaking into my polo. "I'm so sorry."

"I promise I don't regret it. I'm happy." I laugh. "I have an extremely addictive personality which turns out to be great for professional sports. I channel my obsessive energy into winning, and I can pay for my mom to go to rehab however many times it takes for her to stay clean. She's tried twice already, so I'm just waiting for her to want a third chance. I like my life, and yes, I'm a closed-off asshole, but it's better that way."

"You're not an asshole," she says. Her tears fall faster against my skin. "I'm ashamed I loved him, that I didn't know who he really is. How could I have been so blind? I can't believe he treated you that way." She pauses. "I feel like I'm in shock."

The room falls silent. I listen to Maren breathing, feel her chest rising and falling against mine. My mind twists back and forth wondering what she's thinking, how she's processing all of that, as she hugs my waist and runs her fingers over the notches of my lower spine. She's the first person outside of my family I've ever told the story to, but I'm not sure she'll ever realize that.

"Thank you," she whispers eventually, "for telling me and trusting me." She kisses my neck lightly. "Will you take me home now?"

After our eyes have adjusted to the bright lights of the country club and then the brighter sun outside, Maren sits in the passenger seat of my car and stares out the window.

Her face is still a little puffy, and she wears a slight frown as her eyes scan the passing trees and houses.

Maybe I made a mistake telling her my and Russell's history. I never want her to doubt that I'm not in this to get back at Russell, and I have no idea if she believes that I moved past it a long time ago.

In hindsight, we shared a way too intimate moment, and I made myself incredibly vulnerable. Even more disturbing is I'm thinking about her reaction, her own vulnerability that I want to see, and craving more.

I can't help but keep glancing at her brown hair curling over her shoulder. Her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip. Her hands stuffed under her thighs.

My body is buzzing with the need to touch her. All while I wonder about every question I won't ask her, because women don't want a man who is addicted to them. They want a man who loves them .

We stop at my gate for me to punch in the numbers on the keypad, and when it swings open slowly, Maren takes a deep breath in through her nose and leans her head against the window with her eyes closed.

She has a small smile playing on her lips. I hope my house feels safe for her, that she loves it here, that she's breathing in the fresh air breezing in through the open window because it calms her.

When we pull into my garage and the door starts to close behind us, the room slowly turns dim.

Maren is still sitting there with her eyes closed.

"How old are you?" I ask, breaking the silence.

She opens her eyes slowly and swivels her head toward me. "Twenty-nine," she says with a bright smile.

It's not much. Just the tiniest bit of information. But I feel a thud against my sternum, and I want to feel it again.

"What's your middle name?"

"Ruth. After my grandmother."

"When's your birthday?"

"May second."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Yellow."

I nod. "Just curious."

She unbuckles her seatbelt and lets it slap back against the side of the car before she climbs into my lap. Unlike before when her hips were straddling me in the closet, this time they're desperate. She bears her weight into me, and I feel myself sinking like quicksand, molding around her, trying to claim her. I want her somehow inside my body like my own personal drug.

"You're allowed to be curious," Maren whispers breathily, wrapping her hands around my neck as I grip her ass hard under her dress. Her kiss that comes next is light. "Make me forget."