Page 36 of Perfect Praise

I blanche. “Nice.”

Though Iamthinking 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,sleepwith 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 actuallysupposed 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.”

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