Sweet Cheeks (9 page)

“Then maybe you shouldn’t piss me off.” I turn my head toward him, eyebrows raised, proud of myself for my comeback, until I realize he’s so close we’re breathing the same breath. I startle back—uncomfortable at his proximity and confused over the sudden awareness of everything about him. His cologne. His fingers still resting on my neck. The scent of mint and beer on his breath.

It has to be the alcohol.
That has to be the explanation for my visceral and very carnal reaction to this man I shouldn’t want to like. Ten years should have curbed this desire.

And yet it didn’t.

His smile is quick and disarming. “Seems like pissing you off is something I know how to do all too well.”

I snort. Can’t think of anything else to do because between the brush of his body against mine and the alcohol swimming in my head, words fail me. All I want to do is hate him—validate the hurt I’ve harbored over the years—while at the same time sag back against him and just remember the feelings I once felt. Feelings he doesn’t deserve.

Stupid alcohol. Stupid feelings.

My defiance remains, but it’s much harder to stand by it when those chocolate-colored eyes are staring at me up close, and I know from memory that those little flecks in them are almost gold in color.

But I will resist you. Because you missed out, Hayes. You didn’t want me.

Or how his lips, now slightly parted and only inches from mine, could kiss me senseless. And that was when he was a teenager. He’s had years of practice now. I’m sure he’s gotten even better at it with age.

I don’t like you. You or your swoony eyes and perfect kisses.

Or what his body looks like. I’m tired. My feet hurt. I bet if I leaned against him his body would feel as muscular as it looks. Because I’ve never watched his movies. Ever. Never seen the sex scenes he acts in or the one where he walks bare-assed to the shower. Never rewound them to watch them again. Nope. Well, at least that’s what I’d tell him.

I giggle as his eyes narrow at me. A slight smirk on those lips again when I don’t want to think about them anymore.

He glances over to my brother and nods at something. I roll my eyes. Here we go again. They see each other for the first time in forever and without missing a beat, fall right back into their silent way of talking without words. Frustrating me because I know whatever they said is about me.

Just like they used to when we were kids.

But this time it can’t be about me because I made Ryder swear to never talk to Hayes about me again. Not even mention my name. Because he’s the reason I met Hayes. And Hayes is the one who hurt me. And so whatever Ryder just agreed to definitely has nothing to do with me.

“It’s closing time, Ships.”

“But they can’t close because I’m not even drunk yet.”

His laugh is loud and distinct, and I hate that it makes me smile.

“You’re plenty drunk. C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

“No.”
I’m not going anywhere with you.

And then his arm is around my shoulders. His biceps firm. His cologne sexy. Everything about him so much more potent than my drinks tonight.

I’m sure I just said no. Or did I just think it and not say it?

“Yes.”

“I have a temper. Remember?”

That laugh again. “God, yes, I remember. It never scared me away before. I assure you it’s not going to scare me now.”

“A
re you serious?” Saylor looks me over with those eyes of hers, wide with surprise, as the giggle falls from her mouth. At least this got a smile out of her, considering she’s been pouting like a damn five-year-old the whole time in the car—hating me one minute, liking me the next. A continuous battle between glaring at me in silence and then laughing with me like old times. “What are we doing here?”

“I wanted to see if it was still here.”

“Of course it is,” she says as she walks on the dirt path with unsteady feet. The certainty in her voice makes me smile. She glances back at me, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the brisk night air, and for a moment, I glimpse the girl I used to know. And it’s funny that even though she’s trying to be a hard ass, hold a grudge (which I deserve), the real Saylor still peeks through. “Did you think my parents tore it down just because we grew up?”

Her voice breaks on the last words, and I feel like such a callous asshole. Bringing her here on a whim. Not being considerate.

“I wasn’t sure what happened to it,” I murmur quietly, suddenly uncomfortable with what to say as we reach the bottom of the tree house just at the edge of her parents’ property. I look toward their old house up the hill and to the left of us.

All the lights are off.

“I’m sorry, Saylor. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

She looks to me, her smile bittersweet. “It’s a good place. Good memories. Ryder lives here now so it doesn’t make me sad anymore.” She stares up to the house for a moment. Nods her head as if she’s trying to accept her own words.

“I wanted to call you when I found out, to come to the service, but I was on location in Indonesia . . .” My words fade off. The excuse sounds lame.
She had just lost both parents—her whole damn world—and I couldn’t make the time to be there?

“. . . And I didn’t know what to say to you.”
Just like I don’t now
.

“It’s okay. Really.” She sniffles softly and reaches out to squeeze my forearm as if I’m the one who needs comforting. “There’s not much you could have said anyway.”

“I could have been there for you.”

The look she gives me—ice mixed in a sea of pain—stops me from saying anything more. Because she’s right. I had no right to offer comfort to her, and yet a part of me hates knowing I never tried.

“I haven’t been up there in years,” she says as she breaks our stare and looks up at the tree house above and then back to me. I can tell she’s desperately trying to change the topic. Can see her push the sadness from her eyes and replace it with the mischief I used to love seeing there, giving me a glimpse of the strong girl I know is hiding somewhere beneath.

I ask myself again what in the hell I’m doing here. With her. In the middle of the night. Wonder what possessed me to stop by here on a trip down memory lane when I’m supposed to be driving her home. Dropping her off. Then giving Tessa a call back.

“C’mon,” she part whispers, part giggles and while it sounds forced, it’s much better than the look in her eyes, so I let the topic go. Use the moment to allow her to shift her mental arrow on the do-I-like-Hayes scale from hate over to like. And before I can stop her, her high-heeled feet are making their way up the slat-board steps. She looks back at me and gives me a full-fledged smile—heavy topic overshadowed by nostalgia—and fuck if it doesn’t make me think thoughts about that wild child of a girl, who owned my heart.

I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t enjoy the view of her ass as she climbs her way up. Shit, she’s been shaking it all night for everyone except me, and I have a feeling even to spite me. It’s about damn time I get a chance to admire it without others watching my every move. And without others watching
her
every move.

So I stare for no other reason than because Saylor always did have a mighty fine ass. Way back when and most definitely now. It’d be a shame not to appreciate it. In tight black pants that cling perfectly to her curves as she makes her way, rung by rung, in shoes that have no business climbing up a tree, but fuck does it not add to the appeal.

I work my way up the rungs behind her, telling myself I’m just following her because she’s a tad drunk and it’s my obligation to make sure after all this time the old structure is safe. It has nothing to do with the fact that when I’m near her, especially in this backyard where we spent hours upon hours together, that I would follow her anywhere.

So now I’m climbing up a rickety ladder to chase memories down at two o’clock in the morning with my first love. I
should
be steering clear of everything I feel when I look at her: complicated, nostalgic, curious, turned-on, amused.

There’s the familiar creak of the door opening and then Saylor disappears into the darkness. When I boost myself up into the area a few seconds later, she’s on that very fine ass of hers with her back leaning against the trunk of the tree that serves as the center of the structure.

And I swear, when I see her sitting there looking around at the faded paint on the walls with a goofy grin—like she’s so proud she made it up the ladder with her shoes on—I feel like I’ve been transported back to our youth. To those stolen kisses and innocent hopes. To sneaking out on summer nights and having sex down by the lake in the bed of my truck.

And I wonder for the second time, what in the hell I’m doing here. How is Saylor sitting across from me with her wild eyes and a few leaves stuck in her hair that she doesn’t care are there and a flush on her cheeks? How this girl—definitely now a woman—who used to be my world, is making me question everything in my current life: the people, their sincerity, the chaos.

The answer’s simple: I owed Ryder big time.

But hell if I expected to show up to help Saylor, only to get that knocked in the gut feeling the minute I saw her in her bakery. Thinking your old flame will still look the same with her straight lines and tomboy demeanor, then seeing her . . . Curves, filled out, and sexy as sin was something I definitely didn’t expect.

“What’s your problem?” And her eyes are back on me, grin replaced by a sneer, as her question pulls me from thoughts I shouldn’t even be thinking. Brings me back to the present. To the lines I should be memorizing back in the hotel, and the shit I’ve got to do to help my mom tomorrow. To the life I have to get back to. But when I look at Saylor, all I think about is the here and now.
And her
.

“Who said I had a problem?”

She narrows her eyes, glaring at me through the moonlit space, and I wonder how long it’s going to take to make her not angry with me. She started off spitting fire at the bakery the other day to being completely apologetic and then to tonight . . . to I don’t know what she was trying to do. But the one thing I do know is Saylor doesn’t do something unless it has a purpose.

Question is, what exactly was that purpose? Regardless, it’s going to make repaying this favor to Ryder ten times harder if I can’t win her over sooner than later.

“If you’re curious about something, just ask, Hayes. Sitting and staring at someone is not polite. Or cool.”

Ah. There’s a glimpse of that fire and brimstone temper.

“I wasn’t staring at you.”

“Liar.” She snorts. “You kept staring at me in the club and you’re staring at me now. Most people would find it rather creepy.”

I laugh. Can’t resist as she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms across her chest. A chest that now is pushed up by the motion, and luckily it’s dark enough that my wandering gaze of her cleavage isn’t noticed. “Creepy. I’ll remember that.”

“You should. You do creepy well. Maybe it will help you get a part someday.”

“Perhaps. And I’ll owe it all to you. I’ll even give you credit in my Academy acceptance speech.”

“I’ll be watching for it. But, uh, if you weren’t staring, then what were you doing?”

Our eyes hold across the space while I debate the answer to give. I know I can bullshit her, which is probably expected, but for some reason, I don’t want to. Maybe it’s guilt over the past; maybe it’s the sense that I owe her some honesty. “I was trying to see how much of the girl I once knew is still there.”

Her head shakes subtly as if she’s uncertain she likes my honesty. It takes her a second to respond. Both of us treading carefully through the unresolved issues between us. “None of her.”

“I disagree. I see a lot of her.”
And then some.

She purses her lips. Hugs her arms tighter around herself. That temper I know all too well starting to fire. Good. The teenager I was feared that hellcat side of her. The grown man I am kind of likes it. Knowing she can handle her own is definitely a plus.

“Why do you care?” Her question throws me. The defensive tone even more so.