Page 66 of Perfect Praise

“No, still just sex.”

For her, I don’t add, and there’s certainly no way for me to come out and say,I’m fucking addicted to her.

She insisted on going back to her house last night, all in the spirit of being fuck-buddies, which left me alone in my bed staring at my ceiling fan and wishing she was beside me.

Not somewhere I want to be when I’m in my head, coming down from the high and already itching for another hit.

Now, I’m standing here like a shell of my former self, jealous of some kid talking to her, texting her while I’m in the middle of a professionalround of golf, and worrying that she will get scared of the dark if the lights go out at her place—on top of watching her look like a confident little ray of sunshine that makes me so proud I want to push her up against a palm tree and fuck her back into submission.

“Well,” Conrad starts, “try not totalkto her.”

“She slept in her own bed last night,” I say. “No talking.”

Except for before, where I’m spilling my secrets to this woman in a pitch-black closet while she cries into the hollow of my neck.

Iknewthis would be a bad idea. I’m too close already—to everything and everyone involved, her especially.

“No moretalking, anyway,” I clarify.

Immediately, I regret it when Conrad cocks his head and holds up a hand to block the sun in his eyes. “What does that mean, ‘nomoretalking?’”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I say.

He squints. “What’d she do?”

“She didn’t do anything.” The anger swells momentarily—she’s done nothing to deserve hate from Conrad. “Get off her fucking back.”

Conrad seems surprised for a split second before his eyes clear. “I’m guessing you shared something else about yourself then.” He searches my face, reading it like only he can do. “Locke,” he says slowly. Almost like a question. Like so much hangs on my name.

When he doesn’t continue, I say gruffly, “What?”

“Nothing.” More searching my face for god knows what. “Do you think maybe you should tell her?”

“Are you insane? She will think I’m insane.”

“You think?” He shrugs his shoulders up and down in a wave motion. “She might not.”

I inspect where my ball landed, survey from here to the green. “Can we focus on this little round of golf instead of my sex life?”

“Then quit looking at her,” Conrad quips.

I can’t, I think.It’s almost impossible.

Like a moth drawn to a flame—to their death.

Maren’s in yellow today—her favorite color. It’s not even tight, just sort of flowy, but I already know she’s got shorts attached underneath. Her white tennis shoes with a light blue stripe look brand new, one lace about to untie. Her hair is in a messy knot on top of her head, but she still has a light pink scrunchie on her right wrist. Her two huge cameras are slung over each shoulder, and she keeps switching back and forth, though I have no clue what makes her choose one over the other, and now I desperately want to know. I want another piece of her. All the pieces, I’d hoard them like a fucking lunatic.

But mostly, I’m pissed at myself for noticing every little damn thing.

“Just be my caddie,” I mutter angrily, “and tell me golf things.”

“Golf things? Okay,” Conrad says slowly under his breath like I’ve lost my mind. “So, if we’re two oh four, let’s hold it with the wind.”

I lean down and pinch a few blades of grass between my thumb and index finger before I let them go in the wind. They fly back toward my stomach.

“See the pin,” Conrad tells me, consulting his book. “You’ve got twelve feet behind it.”

“Seven-iron, you think?”

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