Love Locked

by Highcroft, Tess

  “Don’t be disgusting Sam. I stink.”

  “You stink like sweat and … something else … something that, actually, is making me think we’re both going to need showers before going out for brunch, aren’t we?” He raises his eyebrows when he says “showers.”

  She hesitates. It’s true she and Sam called off having sex a while ago. OK, it’s true she called it off. She had a minor crush on a guy from work and her mind did the whole, ‘What if he asks me out Monday morning, and he finds out I was shagging Sam all Sunday afternoon? What if we get married? He’ll hate Sam, and we’ll have to stop being friends …’

  “It’s better for both of us,” she’d told Sam, and even though he’d disagreed at first, they’d kept a bit of physical distance between themselves when he visited and it had been OK. Until this trip. Until Lucas got her revved up, needing sex, and Sam was there.

  So, a shower with Sam? We shouldn’t, battles in her mind with We already have — this weekend, anyway — we might as well finish it off.

  She glances at her watch as though knowing the time will make her decision easier. 10:10 a.m. That number thing again — so weird.

  Before she can work her decision all the way through, a familiar form runs around the corner. Familiar because, following the old cliché pick–up line, he’s been running through her head all night, every night, for quite a while now.

  Lucas.

  Shit. Yay. Which is it? She doesn’t know.

  She also doesn’t know if she wants Sam nearby, hovering, sniffing her like a dog in heat, or if she wants him far away where nobody — Lucas — can make a connection between them.

  What’s better? What works to her advantage? Does she want to come across as taken, as highly desirable? Or should she be more highly available?

  As if she’s going to get to decide. Sam will do what Sam will do and she’s just going to have to live with it.

  Lucas isn’t slowing down anyway. Maybe he won’t recognize her. Maybe he will, and pretend he doesn’t. Maybe … “Hey.” He slows. Stops. He’s sweaty, too, although maybe not quite as drenched as she is.

  “Oh, hey.” Oh wow. He is much, much hotter than she remembered. His legs are so strong. She wants to touch them. Wants to be in a position, possibly under him, where she’d be reaching up and grabbing onto them, and pulling his crotch tight to her face …

  The leg supporting her quad stretch wobbles, and she lowers her raised foot to solid ground.

  She cannot be natural. Can’t think what to say. Finally she points at the sign where it all started. “I’m behaving today.”

  “What?”

  Stupid Jocelyn. Ridiculous. She holds her empty hands out. “No bike? No lock? Not locking some random stranger’s bike up …”

  “Oh. That. Listen. I’ve been thinking …”

  “What?” Sam’s left the tree he was stretching against. “What’s up over here?” He suddenly seems ridiculously tall and unnecessarily good–looking. Like a mannequin or a cardboard cut–out — except neither of them would talk.

  Breathe, Jocelyn. “Lucas, I’d like you to meet Sam. Sam’s a very old friend of mine; he’s just home for the weekend. And Sam, I met Lucas when I mistakenly locked his bike up using my lock and made him late for an important meeting.”

  Sam grins. “Wow Joss, I knew you were desperate to meet men, but that’s taking it a bit far.”

  She grits her teeth. “Thanks, Sam.”

  Maybe her cheeks are already too exercise–flushed to show any more red, because Lucas doesn’t react. He runs a hand through his hair, and both Jocelyn’s knees give, because she’d love to get her fingers in his hair and, short as it is, grip any of it she can, and … but Lucas is speaking. “I’m afraid you caught me in a bad mood that day. I was pretty unreasonable. I should never have let you pay for everything at the pub. I’ve been feeling quite badly about it.”

  “Pub?” Sam’s eyes are popped wide open. “Was it by any chance that big one up on the main street with the huge patio and the yellow umbrellas?” He pulls his foot away just as Jocelyn stomps where his toes were.

  Lucas furrows his brow. “Uh, yeah, that’s the one … anyway, Jocelyn, I feel like I owe you …”

  “Excellent!” Sam says. “Jocelyn does let herself be taken advantage of sometimes, don’t you Joss?”

  Jocelyn tries to ignore Sam. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything. Please don’t worry.”

  “There she goes again,” Sam says. “Too nice for her own good. Since she won’t stand up for herself, why don’t I give you her cell number and you guys can sort this out later?”

  Jocelyn’s torn between hating Sam and loving him.

  “I, uh, I didn’t bring my phone,” Lucas says.

  “That’s fine. I have mine.” Sam pulls it out of his running armband. “Give me your number and I’ll text Jocelyn’s to you.”

  Jocelyn gives up. There’s no point trying to figure out if this is wonderful, or terrible. Sam’s taken over, and resistance is futile. Lucas seems to have accepted it — later he’ll probably wonder why he gave some strange guy his number on a running path, but right now he’s obediently reciting digits while Sam punches them in. “Great!” Sam grins. “All done. You can get in touch with her later.”

  He puts his arm around Jocelyn’s shoulders. “But right now this girl and I need a shower, so nice meeting you.”

  “Showers,” Jocelyn says.

  “What?” Both Sam and Lucas say it at the same time.

  “Nothing. I was just saying ‘showers.’ Like, plural. Like, he needs a shower, and so do I …” They’re both staring at her. She’s making this much worse. Maybe nobody was thinking about who might be showering with whom until she made a big deal of it. “Forget I said anything. Sorry.”

  A yellow lab, leash trailing behind him, runs straight over to Sam and, while he’s blocking the dog’s wet nose from thrusting between his legs, Jocelyn turns to Lucas. “So, uh …”

  “Yeah, uh … I’m glad I ran into you.”

  Jocelyn racks her brain for something smart to say. Something witty and clever, and just a tiny bit risqué without being obvious. Something that will make him think about her for the rest of the day, with a smile on his face. Nothing. She’s sucked dry of inspiration.

  So, instead, desperate, she leans in and kisses his cheek. She has to do something. Has to feel his body warmth. Has to know what that stubble feels like under her lips — what it would feel like if it were trailing across more sensitive, hidden parts of her skin.

  He stiffens. “I’m gross. Hot. Sorry.”

  She lifts her eyes to his. “You’re perfect.”

  He takes a sharp inhale, and his eyes flash, then he presses his lips to her cheek.

  “Oh! I’m sweaty,” she says.

  “No,” he says. “Also perfect.”

  He clears his throat. “OK, bye!” and he’s gone, spinning on his heel, shoulders square, arms relaxed, feet hitting the pavement with a rhythmic one–two. Tired as she is, she’s envious of him — of the physical exertion he still has ahead. She’s wound tight as a spring now — coiled — and another two or three kilometres might be the best way to get the energy out.

  Sam’s long fingers squeeze the back of her neck. “Come on now, about that shower.”

  She dances sideways. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “We’ll talk about it,” Sam says. “I feel like we have a lot to talk about.”

  “Mmmm … whatever.” There’s only room for two words in Jocelyn’s head right now.

  Also perfect, also perfect, also perfect …

  Chapter Five

  (5:55)

  ON WEDNESDAY, JOCELYN STEPS out of the office into the kind of rain that’s clearly visible in long vertical lines slicing through the air. The kind of cold spring rain that reminds her it was winter not that long ago as it seeps through the seams of her coat (because of course she didn’t bring an umbrella to work this morning) and splashes onto her optimistic
ally bare legs.

  It’s hard to give even the smallest, tiniest of cares though, because life in general sucks, and so why shouldn’t this particular Wednesday afternoon also suck?

  She can’t face getting on a bus full of steaming, wet people to stand and contribute her own dampness to the disgusting communal atmosphere.

  That’s a lie. She can’t face getting off the bus at her stop and walking past the signpost she now feels belongs to Lucas and her, and can’t stand knowing how pathetic that makes her.

  Because he hasn’t called. Or texted. He has her number — Sam sent him her number — and he hasn’t called.

  She hates him. She hates him for getting her hopes up. Almost perfect, my ass.

  She hates him for making her feel so confident that she turned Sam down and shooed him into the shower on his own. Who knows when she’ll have a chance to have sex again? Sam may not be perfect, but he’s extremely good–looking, and very fit, and they get along fine, and he loves her, in his own peculiar way. She loves him, too.

  God, it’s a good thing her face is soaking wet so nobody walking by her on the sidewalk can tell there are horribly self–indulgent tears running down her cheeks.

  Not just self–indulgent, but stupid, too, because Lucas has a girlfriend. Jocelyn’s always known Lucas has a girlfriend. In fact, it was the very fact of Lucas having a girlfriend, who she made him late to meet, that made him so angry with her in the first place.

  “So, what the hell did you expect, you idiot?” Nobody even looks at her twice as she strides through the puddles muttering to herself. They probably all think she’s reaming her boyfriend out via some kind of invisible headset.

  She’d like to ream Lucas out right now. She’d start with You made me like you! and then move on to I’ve never been this distracted by anybody before … nobody, and then say Why did you even come to the pub with me? You should have said no. And why did you let Sam send you my number? It was really unfair of you. And then, because she’s so super–pathetic, and she truly has never been so distracted by anybody else before, she’d whimper and say, Please, please, please just let me suck your cock? Or at least give you a hand job? Hell, I’d even just look at it and say nice things about it …

  Oh, Lord. Desperate. So, so desperate.

  And what is she doing? Is she really going to walk all the way home in this rain that feels like ice–cube drippings trickling down her back?

  Wednesday. She’s sure there’s a 6:30 spin class at the community centre today. She checks her watch: 5:55. Of course it’s 5:55 — the matching numbers conspiring to make her think of Lucas — but instead she’s going to focus on the fact she has time to make the class. If there’s room in the class.

  She pulls out her phone to call the centre, and sucks in her breath. She has a text. Ohmygod she has a text from an unknown number. With a local area code.

  She wants to open it so badly she fumbles the phone and just manages to scoop it to safety by pinning it against her wet coat. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.

  She dekes into the recessed doorway of a nearby shop. Opens the message. Hi Jocelyn. Sorry not to text sooner. I had to go to a conference for a couple of days (no, not glamorous) and I forgot my phone at home. Just catching up now.

  Ooohhh. That’s better. That’s OK. That’s not what she would have expected. Maybe she doesn’t quite hate him.

  There’s another message from the same number. Sorry. Realized you might not know who this is. It’s Lucas. You know — bike–lock Lucas.

  As if she wouldn’t know it was him … but if he really thought she might not know, then she must have come across as less desperate than she felt. Phew.

  She checks the time of the texts. When her phone’s in her coat pocket on vibrate, she never notices texts coming in. These must have arrived even before she left the office — when she was going to the bathroom in preparation for her walk home. They’re about forty–five minutes old.

  Is that too soon to reply? Will she look over–eager? Should she wait longer?

  Who’s she kidding? There’s no way she can wait. “Fuck it!” She looks into the window of the store behind her — a knitting shop — hopes none of the yarn–perusing ladies inside could hear her language.

  Hi Lucas. Sorry your conference wasn’t glamorous. Life here has been very glam. You should have stayed.

  There. Light. Easy. Carefree. And not jumping to conclusions about why he was texting in the first place. Ball back in his court. Perfect.

  Jocelyn pulls her coat more tightly around her shoulders and steps back out into the rain. She’s going to spin class. She’ll flirt her way in if the class is full. She has a life. She’s busy. Lucas can chase her — tell her why he’s texting her, what he wants. She’s cool.

  Of course she’s also got her hand deep in her coat pocket with a firm grip on her phone. There’s no way she’s missing another text.

  ***

  Oh yeah? he texts right before her class starts. Glam? Do tell …

  Details will have to wait. I’m going into spin class right now.

  Damn, she thinks as she sweats her guts out. That last message broke the “ball in his court” rule. She’s the one who suspended the conversation; she’s going to have to start it up again. She pedals harder, rockets her heartrate higher. If she sees him again — when she sees him again — she’s going to be as fit as she can be.

  She spends the class thinking of a dozen witty, or suggestive, or long–winded messages. In the end she keeps it simple: Done.

  The reply comes back almost instantly. What now?

  She grins, bites her lip. Shower.

  Last time I saw you, you were heading for a shower.

  Oh snap. She sinks down on the bench in the change room. Must be something about you …

  Why do you say that?

  She hesitates. How far can she push this? Oh, who cares. They’re just texts … Because I keep needing cold showers.

  She waits. And waits. The phone doesn’t buzz back. Crap. She pushed it too far. She screwed up. He has a girlfriend, Jocelyn. She knew she shouldn’t have sent that text.

  She peels her shorts off. Yanks her shirt over her head. Struggles out of her tight sports bra. The truth is, she doesn’t want a cold shower. She wants a long, steamy shower — not alone.

  But there’s no chance of that.

  She scoops up her towel and toes her feet into her flip–flops, and the phone buzzes.

  Shit Jocelyn. Now I need a cold shower.

  Is that the kind of text a guy with a girlfriend sends? Her heart double–thumps as she thumbs her response: Well, I’m getting into one right now. Just sayin’ …

  There’s no going back now.

  ***

  By the time she’s made it home and changed into warm, dry leggings and a hoodie, there’s no restraint left between them.

  What do you want? Lucas asks.

  I want you to tease me.

  Tease? How? Explain.

  Move around me. Not touching, but I want to feel your breath on my skin.

  Which skin?

  Neck first. Then, I’ll take my shirt off. Back. Shoulders. Chest. Breasts … Jocelyn’s hand slides across her shirt at the thought, tugs the neck open so she can swipe her thumb across her erect nipples.

  Oh …

  No touching, she reminds him.

  It’s hard.

  What is?

  You know.

  Say it.

  My cock. It’s rock hard.

  I want it.

  What do you want it for?

  To look at. To lick. To suck. To put inside me. To ride. She’s on her knees now, grinding her pussy across her heel.

  You are so hot. I’m dying here.

  Her phone buzzes again while she’s composing her reply — a new message popping into the middle of her exchange with Lucas: Hey. What’s up?

  Sam. Bloody Sam. With all due respect, Sam, could you please fuck off right now?

  Are you fucking bike
–boy?

  Something like that …

  You can thank me later.

  GOOD BYE!

  The phone vibrates again. Lucas this time: Did I lose you?

  She grins. Right back on track. Nearly. Hands down my pants. Soaking wet.

  Holy shit. Can’t believe you. I’m going to lose it.

  Jocelyn laughs out loud. Perfect. Really? Are you close?

  Have been all night.

  Let’s do it together.

  Yeah?

  I’m … oh … so wet … rubbing my clit. Two fingers inside. Oh, oh, oh …! And the thing is, it’s true. He’s had her so on edge all night, it takes about three seconds to send the orgasm fizzing through her core, tingling her limbs.

  When several shivers have passed through her, she picks up her phone. Lucas? You there?

  I’m done. Near dead. That was amazing. Sleep now.

  She smiles. Sweet dreams. Talk tomorrow?

  Definitely. Good night.

  As she climbs into bed, Jocelyn thinks it wasn’t such a shitty Wednesday after all.

  Nope, not bad at all.

  Chapter Six

  (4:44)

  ABOUT THREE, OR MAXIMUM four, times a year Jocelyn sleeps right through the night. She doesn’t need to pee, or have a drink of water. A nagging running ache doesn’t give her a cramp in the middle of the night. The neighbour’s dog doesn’t rouse her at 4:00 a.m.

  When she wakes up Thursday morning, Jocelyn realizes she’s had one of those rare nights and she smiles, stretches, and savours the astonishment of having been, really and truly, completely dead to the world for eight whole hours, and then she thinks of Lucas.

  It’s because of him, for sure. Because of that amazing, core–twisting, blood–pumping, breath–shortening orgasm he gave her. Because of how close she felt to him. So much intimacy through a smartphone — who knew?

  She wonders when he broke up with Charlotte. It must have been fairly recent. She doesn’t want to be his rebound. Who’s she kidding, though? If he wants to rebound with her, she’ll let him. Lucas, to her, is irresistible.

  She fumbles for her phone and pops the screen to life.

  What had he said, when she’d asked if they’d talk today? “Definitely.” She sighs a happy sigh, right out loud. She definitely wants to talk to him today and, look, there’s his name — now in her contacts — all bold and lovely and fresh with a nice new message for her.