8. Locke

She has a praise kink.

And I'd bet my Masters green jacket that she doesn't even know it.

Fucking hell.

What the fuck has Russell been doing? He couldn't even figure out what gets his girlfriend off?

I run a hand over my face and glare at him over Maren's head before he mouths a fuck you to me, which I ignore. I don't actually need to ask him the question because I know exactly what he's been doing—being a self-absorbed jackass. He gets up and slinks over to his table when the hostess tells him his party is here.

Say what you want about me being an asshole, but I'm not selfish. I put the people I care about above myself—which, yes, I can happen to count on one hand—and I notice things.

For instance, I noticed how Maren's breath caught in her throat, how she had to shift from one leg to the other to try to ignore how much my words affected her. I noticed that she looked at me with shock, lust, and shame behind her eyes before she quickly looked away.

Shit, the things I would do if she'd let me, if I'd let myself. I'd bring her into the back hallway, the coat closet, even the fucking bathroom and call her my good girl, compliment her like she deserves until she's begging and shaking and then begging again. Erase every fucking doubt from her mind that Russell put there.

To think, she doesn't even know how good I could make her feel just with words. This dress is so thin I can feel that she's not wearing any underwear, and she's probably wet from my unintentional little discovery—I should think about anything else right now.

My grandmother.

My upcoming tax return.

Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California…

Presidents? George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson… this is what two years of college gets me.

But my hand is still on her. I don't really want to let go, even though I should, because I've already gotten a fix after trying so hard to stay away, and I want to ride the high. So, I simply will.

And fuck Russell Ashe. I'll make Maren forget he even spoke to her tonight.

"I'm looking forward to my peaceful, quiet, picture-free day tomorrow," I tease, sliding her newly deposited wine glass closer to her. She eases herself up on the now empty seat behind her and comes inches closer to my face. I run a hand down her arm.

"How far away do I have to stand?" she asks.

Fuck, if my fingers don't tense against her involuntarily before I break contact. "I have very good hearing."

"I don't believe you." She places a palm against my chest and tries to playfully push me backward, but I don't budge. "Did you even want to play golf professionally?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Things," she says and waits for my answer that isn't going to come. "Okay… did you want to graduate from college?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"Just like I say a lot of words." The challenge in her voice rises at the end, throwing my own words back at me.

For someone who does both, she certainly listens well too .

"I never said that it was a bad thing," I tell her.

She bites her lip in thought. "I guess you didn't. Is it a bad thing?"

"No," I tell her truthfully.

She gasps and smiles. "You can answer questions."

"I can do lots of things."

Maren's ears go pink at the tone of my voice.

The woman sitting behind me gets up, so I pull the stool closer to Maren and sit back on the edge.

She tenses when she glances over my shoulder, eyes a mix of torture and worry, and I turn to see Craig has walked in, thankfully with his camera at his side.

I raise my hand and let myself wrap a palm along her jaw. "Focus back here. You're safe with me. I'll sue them if they air any footage of me."

She rolls her eyes like I'm joking. "You made the right choice not being a part of it."

"Forget it's there. And I will sue."

When she studies my very serious face, she nods, her cheek just slightly pressing into my hand like she's reassuring herself that I'm real.

I'll deal with Craig later.

"So, you really don't like golf?" I ask her playfully.

"I mean… no?" she says, unsure. "I don't know. I've never played. I've always just watched, sat in a golf cart. It's not that fun watching. What's your favorite part of playing?"

"It's personal," I say.

Her huff makes me laugh.

"Not like that," I add. "I mean it's literally personal. Most of the time, it's like I'm playing against myself if that makes sense. Always trying to beat yourself. No team that relies on you. And you can never reach perfection."

She nods. "That actually does make sense."

"What if I taught you how to play?" I chuckle .

"What? No!" she scoffs. "You're the last person I'd want watching me learn to play golf."

"Why's that?"

"I—" Maren hesitates then smiles sweetly, brings her wine glass to her lips, and says instead, "You know why."

"I do?"

"You're the best golfer, like… ever. Is that what you want to hear?"

"No," I challenge her, "I want to hear what you were initially going to say."

She sighs, almost as if she's about to melt to the floor, but she tells me anyway. "Your eyes kind of scare me."

I don't think she would be saying any of this if she wasn't on her third glass of wine. "I scare you?"

"Your eyes scare me," she says, tipping her chin up with confidence. "The way you look at me, I mean. They're really dark. And I'm scared of the dark. And they… they're almost black. The way you look at me is really intense." Her giggle gives away how nervous she is.

"It's fun to be scared sometimes though, right?" I ask her rhetorically, leaning in. "Then you feel proud and brave that you faced your fears." My voice is low, and I'm so close to her face, I can smell her shampoo. It's a mix of strawberries and peaches, and the thought of her in the shower flashes across my mind. She swallows, licks her lips, gives herself away—that she agrees with me but doesn't really know why. "And why are you always wearing those little golf dresses if you don't like golf?"

Maren flushes. "Because they're cute—because I like them, and they're comfortable."

"Because they're cute?"

She takes another sip, and somehow this is the sip that pushes her over the flirty line. "You tell me."

"Snarky, tipsy Maren is moderately cute," I say.

"Look at me going from mild to moderate," she jokes, scrunching her nose, "but stop calling me cute. "

God, her freckles do something to me. I want this woman under me, on top of me, bent over for me.

"Maybe eventually I will," I whisper, leaning down until my lips hover just above the shell of her ear. "I know what you do want to be called now."

I crossed a line last night.

Though I don't know what the line was.

Fake friends to… fake friends I want benefits with?

A tiny part of me cares that I let this happen. This isn't what I set out to do. And a huge slice of me doesn't give a shit, which easily wins out when I see her sticking her tongue out at me and taking a step closer to me as Conrad and I find my ball on the fairway of the third hole.

She has on a black golf dress with these straps crisscrossing along the span of her tan back, and when she leans down to fix something on her white tennis shoes, her already short dress reveals the tight little shorts attached underneath.

I lift one side of my lip up at her in pretend disgust. Well, half pretend disgust because I can't hear her camera anymore, and it is nice. But I also want my face between those long legs.

"What is happening right now?"

"Mind your own damn business." I glare back at Conrad. "What's the slope on the green?"

He laughs. "I am. I just told you the slope, and you're too busy flirting with the photographer you half-hate to hear me."

"I don't hate her, and her name is Maren. Tell me again."

"You made Maren stand over there. One and half percent-ish maybe. Not a ton."

"I hate her camera," I argue. "She needs a tripod and an automatic button and she can stand as close as she wants. "

Conrad smirks.

"You know what I mean. Is it going to spin back?"

"Yeah, probably some. It's too windy, so keep it low. Did something happen between you two last night?"

"Fuck no," I say, surveying my clubs. "What're you thinking? A wedge?"

"Nah, the seven. Something happened," he counters.

I consider his suggestion and slide the wedge out of my golf bag before I take a few practice swings.

I know deep down something shifted last night because I was this close to pushing her up against the side of my car, kissing her, and asking if she wanted to come back to my rental house. Conrad does not need to know that. Though I deserve a trophy for my self-control.

"You know how I get. How many yards are we out?"

"Hundred and fifteen, maybe. Locke, please do not fixate on sleeping with her," he lectures me.

Too late , I think.

I want to find out if her inner thighs are softer than her arms. I want to see how much she will let go. I want to hear what she sounds like when she moans my name. I want to teach her how to explore every fantasy she doesn't know she has. I want to fuck the name Russell out of her mind.

I want it so much that I need it.

Fixation is an understatement.

"Is this about Russell?" he asks.

"I don't give a shit about Russell."

"She does," Conrad drawls.

She wouldn't…

Conrad reads my mind before he taunts, "You're going to fuck it out of her?"

"She shouldn't," I stress. "He's been cheating on her since the beginning, and you and I both know it. "

"She's too nice," he says. "Which means you of all people should stay away. She will not be able to keep sex and feelings separate, and you kind of have to work with her."

I ignore him, change out my wedge for the 7-iron, and swing the nicest hit. My ball lands on the green beautifully and rolls maybe eight yards from the hole. "Nice call on the seven," I scowl. "Stay out of my head."

"Gladly," he laughs and looks up from his notebook. "Gorgeous shot."

"Emmie's clapping for her daddy on TV," I joke. My heart suddenly drops to my feet as I frantically remember we're televised and feel around the collar of my shirt. "Shit. Are we mic'd up? I don't even remember."

"No," Conrad laughs. "I shot them down when they asked."

"God," I breathe out and relax. I could never live with myself if I blasted that over airwaves for someone to record and post on YouTube.

I'd be no better than Russell, who is waiting impatiently by the looks of his stance, for us on the green.

He gives us a sarcastically cordial, "Took you fucking long enough," when we reach him.

Conrad and I ignore him and put our heads together to discuss where my ball landed, which only infuriates him more.

"What are you doing?" he demands in his insufferable voice.

I look up. "About to chip in for a birdie. What are you doing?"

"What are you doing with my girlfriend?" he tries again like I didn't know what he was asking the first time.

We're going to do this little dance where we look like we're joking around, our voices light, so it doesn't actually look like we're pissed off at each other.

"Why do you keep calling her that?" I ask curiously.

"Is this about us?" He doesn't answer my question, but I suspect he's trying to keep her close, close enough that whenever he feels like it, she'll thankfully welcome him back with open arms, happy and blissfully unaware that he's manipulating her.

"Contrary to what you think, Russell, you hardly ever cross my mind," I say with a smirk.

"Stay away from her," he says, almost scared.

"Well, since you have zero control over me, I'll go on doing whatever the hell I feel like doing."

"You can't do whatever the hell you feel like doing with her," he sing-songs.

I blink. "Like you didn't?"

"She's not like that," he offers, looking like he's either about to crawl out of his skin or punch me. He settles for a smug smile instead. "I bet she won't even sleep with you. She sees you with your girl of the month every now and then."

"She also sees you now," I reply. "And I don't need your advice. One, my caddie doesn't pick girls out of the crowd for me. Two, I don't cheat . And three, she'll forget who you are the second my name leaves her lips "

"Bullshit," Russ laughs. "She still loves me, and she'll take me back when I'm ready."

"Maybe if you weren't so busy being an asshole, she wouldn't have outgrown you. You don't deserve her."

"Like you fucking do."

"I didn't say I did, but it's not my fault you didn't know how to keep her satisfied. You don't even know her." I shake my head and inspect the club I just slid out of my bag. I let my voice take on amusement. "Too busy with your side fucks to know how to get your own girlfriend off. You've always been careless."

I stand rooted when Russ flares with anger, forgets where we are, and takes a step toward me. "If this is about revenge—" Conrad slides in between us, cutting off Russell mid-sentence and making him step back .

One glance at Maren tells me she's been watching us and trying incredibly hard to read lips. Her face is covered in confusion, eyes worried, in disbelief that we're actually having a conversation that looks like two friends joking around that suddenly turned near-violent.

But I don't even know what I'm doing anymore.

I cross in front of Conrad and brush as close to Russell as I can without actually touching him. He's radiating hatred but has his look of fake camaraderie plastered on his face. My laugh comes out low.

"I don't give a fuck about you, Ashe, and eventually, she won't either." I give him my best dimples. "No one will care."

Which is probably his worst nightmare.