Under Locke

by Mariana Zapata

I didn’t have it in me to look up because I was mortified. Mortified because I was A) an idiot, B) an idiot, and C) an idiot. I didn't know these guys, and that was rude, wasn't it?

“Just let it go, 'kay? It drives me fuckin' crazy you won't look me in the eye,” he breathed. "I don't do this awkward shit, babe."

I wasn’t going to be a pushover again. No. Friggin’. Way. I was done. So I laid it out on him as politely as I could. “When I have bad days, princess,” I whispered, opting at the last minute to leave out the Duke Dickface teasing my tongue, “I cry. I read. I clean. I eat crappy things. I swim or do the yard. I don’t make people feel like crap, Your Royal Highness.”

“You know damn well you don’t come into my shop demandin' shit, callin' my girl a bitch.” In the words of a rap song my neighbor used to play on his boombox when I was a kid: Hold up, wait a minute.

“Iris, why won’t you look at me?” Oh hell. His voice took on that milky, smooth, deep tone that made me feel like a book of matches had been lit inside my gut, and the way he said my name…. Ef. Me. I didn’t even think he knew my name. He hadn’t used it once the entire time I’d been working at Pins.

My eyes went from the text below me and back to him a couple of times before I answered vaguely. “A book from the library.” It was a historical romance novel, so I’d rather tell him that detail in, oh, a million years.

On the occasion that he was in a good mood, he’d smiled at me exactly three times—and, God, it was a smile—and once he touched my hand when he walked by. Not that I was counting or anything.

"You're bein' all quiet, babe. It's weird." Uh… what? "I don't really talk a lot." His eyes narrowed just a little bit. "You talk to everybody else."

He groaned. "Babe, fuckin' look at me. I like your wounded deer eyes."

"Don't even think about it, Ritz," Dex grumbled from his spot. He wasn't paying attention to the screen anymore. He had his gaze locked on me, his eyes intense. "You walk out, and I'll go get you."

"Babe, I've handpicked everythin' and everyone in here. I know what I want, and I get what I want," he breathed. "And I keep what's mine."

His laugh was hard. “Honey, you and me, we’re more than just friends.” And… I was dead. I had to be. Dex scrubbed his fingers over his lips again, his glare violent. “Look at you. I never stood a fuckin’ chance.”

“I can’t ignore this shit between us anymore, and I’m not gonna. Not when it makes so much sense.”

He bit down again before nuzzling the line of my jaw. "You're mine." His lower body pressed into my stomach. Hard, he was so hard. "Your mouth, your face, your ass, your pussy, Ritz. You're all mine."

"The hell you will." His eyes went wide in disbelief and filtered frustration. "You can be pissed off all you want, babe, but you aren't goin' anywhere."

My hands had started shaking just a little bit as I spoke. "I care about you a lot, you big jerk, and you hurt my feelings. So I'm sorry that I made you mad and made you worry, but I'm not sorry that I told you to ef yourself, okay? You deserved it."

"Baby, you make me wanna kill every fuckin' guy that looks at you. You know what that's like?"

And in that moment, I wasn't scared or worried as I followed him to bed. But as we lay down, with all the anxious nerves in the universe pooling in my belly, he touched my forehead with his fingertips in the dark and murmured, “You gotta get it straight, babe. This ain’t just friendship to me.”

“I don't know what I'm doing," I blurted out, slamming my eyes shut. His chuckle was smooth and dark. "I know, my sweet baby."

"But I'm not a good man, and I'm gonna take everythin' you want to give me and everythin' you don't."

He laughed softly. “I kinda think you’re a treasure.”

"Iris," he purred in that silky voice that made me lose my breath all over again. "I already told you I don't give up what's mine." Dex kissed my bottom lip like I'd done his. "Ever."

"Why the hell would you have anythin' to be embarrassed about, Ritz?" he asked. I blinked. "Well, no reason, I guess. It's just an ugly scar." It was Dex's turn to blink. "You had cancer," he hissed angrily. "And you're here. There's nothin' ugly about that."

“But you don’t gotta worry about anything. There’s only a few things I’ve ever given a shit about. Everything else is seasonal, as Ma would say.” He pressed his mouth to my temple, whispering, “Then there’s you.”

"But you"—his nostrils flared—"my sweet, sweet baby, have gotta be my favorite by far. I think you win first through one-hundredth place."

"Went five years without a smoke, babe," he whispered into my ear, his lower lip brushing the shell. "There's shit I want and shit I need. A smoke's not one of ’em, ’specially not when I'm around you."

"Thank you. You're the best thing that ever yelled at me."