Sweet Cheeks

by K. Bromberg

  A murmur overheard at the table behind me about how I’m a gold digger. How I dumped Mitch and moved right on to Hayes just because he had more fame and fortune.

  I eat the meal I had meticulously chosen to suit Mitch’s preference of seafood and my like of steak.

  Polite conversation with the members of our table. We’re all the misfits who don’t fit with any of the other guests. And yet their eyes narrow when I speak. Lips pull tight. Judging me through the rumors. And then of course they break out in a smile when Hayes turns his attention on them.

  The clinking of forks against crystal to demand kisses of the newlyweds.

  Sneers of disdain and the roll of eyes when I laugh out loud at one of the many things Hayes murmurs against my ear to bring me back to him. To calm me down. Because even though I was invited, in their eyes, I’m not allowed to enjoy myself.

  And there’s so much irony in the thought it’s ridiculous. Do these people not realize that if I hadn’t walked away, they wouldn’t be here at all celebrating Mitch and Sarah’s happy union? I walked. Mitch moved on and is happy. Sarah’s happy. I think I’m missing something here. Like how they need to move on too.

  Hayes and I are in a world of our own though. He knows no one although they all seem to feel like they know him and want to say hi. I know a lot of people and yet they want to act like they don’t know me and make themselves suddenly seem busy whenever I catch their eye.

  I feel like a pariah. The bits and pieces of comments I overhear confound me: Whore. Homewrecker. It figures. It all makes sense now. How dare she? But I ignore them. Have no choice but to. I knew people would be surprised I was here. I figured there’d be some unwelcome animosity—the charity case who rejected Mitch, and in turn them, and their more elite life status.

  I hide the pang their comments cause me. I continue to smile despite the burn of tears in my throat. I accept the kisses to my temple with appreciation when Hayes offers them. I laugh out loud when he says something funny at our table of misfits to let those judging me know I’m no worse for wear when all I really want to do is head back to the villa to escape.

  And I wonder why they came all this way to enjoy a wedding and are preoccupied with my presence instead.

  I walked in here tonight expecting some vitriol, and yet what I didn’t expect was how all of this was going to affect Hayes. How he bristles every time he catches a snippet from table ten when there is a lull in our conversation. How I can feel the tensing of his fingers on my thighs when he catches the two women with the god-awful dresses blatantly staring at me before laughing out loud to let me know I’m the topic of their discussion. The clench of his jaw at the heads being shaken back and forth as if I’m a sad sight to be had.

  And despite this, his training is a godsend. His acting skills are perfectly timed when he smiles animatedly and waves a hello at the god-awful-dressed women letting them know he’s heard them. Or how he declines an autograph for the daughter of table ten because it’s Mitch and Sarah’s day and we’re here to celebrate them.

  But we’ve had fun. We’ve been playing the “What’s Next?” game where I guess what’s going to happen next during the reception to see how much I remember of my own timeline.

  And each time I’m right, we have to take a sip of our drinks. It’s our way to relax. To make this event something different for us than it is for everyone else.

  We’re laughing over watching the servers begin to prepare for the cutting of the cake—which I accurately predicted would happen next—when I look away from Hayes and meet the eyes of Sarah and Mitch standing before us as they make the rounds to all the tables and guests.

  “Saylor.” Mitch is quiet. Serious. Sarah fidgets beside him with a smile plastered on her face, uncertain how to act when facing her husband’s ex-fiancée. And I understand how she feels because I feel the same discord.

  I know a million eyes are on us right now. The whole room waiting for a catfight from the ex-fiancée, so I do the exact opposite of what they expect.

  I stand. “Hello, Mitch.” Extend my hand to my replacement. “So lovely to meet you, Sarah. You look absolutely stunning. That dress? It’s gorgeous. Thank you so much for inviting us.”

  Silence stretches for the shortest of moments. As if Sarah fears what taking my hand will say to the guests. But manners get the best of her and she reaches out and takes it. Her grip is soft. Timid.

  “Thank you so much for coming. It was very important to me for you to be here.”

  “Oh.” I think I do a good job of hiding my surprise. I glance over to Mitch and while his smile is there, the rest of his expression is the perfect picture of angst and irritation.

  “You see,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning in toward me, “you two broke it off rather suddenly. Lucky for me that happened because then he found me. But I think there are some unresolved issues between the two of you that need to be dealt with. And they need to be dealt with so when Mitch and I leave this reception tonight, he’ll finally be over you. Finished. I love this man with all I have, and frankly, I’m sick of the ghost of you following us around.”

  I struggle to stutter out a response. My eyes are wide and my mind reels at how much I underestimated Sarah by thinking she was spineless and compliant. I guess it’s only at her discretion. Like when it comes to planning her own wedding.

  For some reason, I get the feeling Sarah is just as manipulative as Uptight Ursula.

  “Oh.” It seems to be my go-to response while I blink rapidly and look back and forth from Sarah to Mitch to see him just as unhappy with this situation as I am. Talk about being put on the spot. “Um.” I shift my feet, lift my chin, and make sure my shoulders are squared. I want everyone watching to know I am not the least bit intimidated. “Couldn’t we have done this at a different time other than your wedding? I don’t want to take away—”

  “I had planned on doing it at the rehearsal dinner. There was a reason you were invited to it, after all, but it seems you were . . .” she clears her throat, finds the words to continue, “. . . otherwise occupied last night.” Her smile is tight and her eyes flicker over to Hayes to reinforce her implication. And I know it’s just a lucky guess on her part what we were doing to miss the rehearsal dinner, but I’m sure I blush a little at the assumed accusation.

  “Hayes Whitley. The one who otherwise occupied her.” Hayes extends a hand to Sarah, and I love that he just put her in her place without the blink of his eyes or an inflection in his tone. “It was a lovely ceremony. Great choices all around on the wedding details. You must have had an incredible wedding planner.”

  I cough to cover my snort at his politely phrased insult.

  The muscle in Mitch’s jaw ticks. I’m not sure if it’s because of what Hayes said about occupying me, or the fact that Hayes just called out his new wife to see if she’s going to bite on taking credit for the planning . . . she didn’t do.

  She stares at Hayes. Ice-blue eyes gauging how to take the comment. As sincere or snide.

  “It’s about that time, ladies and gents. Will she or won’t she? Will he or won’t he? Yes. It’s cake smashing . . . er . . . cutting time for Mrs. and Mr. Layton.”

  The room erupts into a nervous chatter of sorts, almost as if they’re uncertain how this little talk between the four of us is going. When his mother starts clapping, the other guests follow suit to encourage Sarah and Mitch to move to the cake table.

  And away from me.

  Sarah’s smile is forced, her gaze unwavering. “Please talk to him. For my sake,” she urges quietly before she hooks her arm in Mitch’s, smile now turning genuine, and heads to the cake table.

  “Well, what do you know? Seems Golf Boy married his mother,” Hayes murmurs under his breath. And this time I do snort aloud because he just hit the nail on the head.

  And before I can process any of the last five minutes, Hayes casually laces his fingers with mine and tugs on my hand to follow suit with how he has now sat down.

 
; “Can’t say I blame her,” he muses casually as one of our table members stops by to pick up their drink and head over to watch them cut the cake.

  “Why?” I ask, even though I already know what he means. I’d want the same undivided attention from my spouse, but I’m not sure I’d go as far as she has to get it.

  “You’re a hard one to get over, Saylor Rodgers.”

  Hayes’s comment is on constant repeat in my head long after we eat cake. We’re sitting politely at our table, waiting for the proper amount of time before we bail on the rest of the reception. If we leave too soon, guests will assume our exchange with Mitch and Sarah rattled me. And so we’re kind of stuck, with comments becoming a little less obscure the longer the alcohol has flowed.

  “C’mon,” Hayes reaches his hand out to me, “if we’re stuck at this damn party, we might as well have some fun.”

  I trudge behind him at first as he leads me toward the dance floor but then realize he’s right. We are invited guests who have done nothing wrong. Why not enjoy ourselves instead of simply observing from our chairs? I gain more confidence with each step. Heads turn as we walk by. Drinks stop halfway to mouths. Elbows nudge the person beside them to take note of whatever it is we’re doing.

  Watch the bride and groom, people. They are way more interesting. And the reason you’re here in the first place.

  The music is slow and classical when we walk onto the sparsely occupied dance floor. I falter momentarily, unsure how to do anything other than bump and grind or the slow-dance-sway from back in high school. I mean, how many times in your adult life does one actually go dancing to learn otherwise?

  “Take my lead,” Hayes murmurs when he pulls me into him and begins to move. At first I think he’s just doing his own thing, but soon realize there is a definite pattern to his steps. A defined rhythm and timing.

  When I lean back to look in his eyes and question him, I catch the grin on his lips and my heart melts. Right there on the dance floor. With my ex-fiancé and his new wife off to one side of the dance area and a room full of judging eyes directed at us.

  “Dylan Jax. Middleman’s Move. I had to learn it for—”

  “That one scene where you seduce your enemy’s wife,” I finish for him, remembering the movie quite clearly. Besides its complex plot and shocking twist, there were some pretty steamy scenes that may have had me rewind it once—or a hundred times.

  His smile beams bright and eyes light up with pride. “See? You did watch my movies. I knew it.”

  I throw my head back and laugh. It’s so easy to do with him. So natural to feel at ease. “Just that one,” I lie.

  “Yeah. Uh-huh.” He spins me around before I can respond in any other way but laugh. The music changes to a more current song. It’s sexy. Bluesy. Allows me to relax and not worry about messing up his carefully timed steps. Instead I just move with him. Against him.

  He makes it seem effortless. All of this. How he turned on the charm in front of the jerks here. How he’s helped me feel at ease in this awkward situation. How he makes me laugh and feel sexy and appreciated simultaneously.

  Old feelings die hard.

  But then again, I don’t think mine for him ever really died.

  Our bodies move against each other’s. “You know what I keep thinking about?”

  He asks it so casually that my response falls just as nonchalant. “Hmm?”

  “I think you need to relax.”

  “Is that so? How do you propose I do that?” My voice is coy. My body already wanting what the suggestion in his tone implies.

  Hayes leans in, mouth against my ear. “I need to get you out of this dress.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm. While you look sexy as hell in it, I think it looks a bit stiff. Formal. Uncomfortable.”

  He twirls me out. Pulls me back into him. Chest to chest. Our feet move again.

  “And how will being out of this dress relax me?” His thigh moves between mine and rubs against the apex of my thighs. A hint of what’s to come.

  “Because then I can taste you, Saylor. Run my tongue over your clit. Get you all worked up. Make you beg.”

  My chuckle? It’s strained. Desperate. Fraudulent. “I won’t beg.”

  He spins me around. I catch a glimpse of his challenging grin, and then I’m back against him.

  “Oh, you’ll beg.” He presses a tender kiss to my lips that has my insides screaming when he ends it.

  “Sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  “It’s amazing the things a woman will say when her man is working his tongue in and out of her pussy.”

  My mouth goes dry. Between my thighs grows wet. The dark promise of his words seduces every part of me. He spins me out again, makes me more than aware of the audience of disapproving eyes watching us.

  “Is that so?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He even makes that sound seem seductive.

  “What exactly do women say?”

  “Oh, yes. Fuck me. You last longer than I do. Harder. It’s so big. You’re. A. God.”

  I can’t help but laugh again at his breathless voice as he says the words. Know he’s making fun of himself and love that he’s confident enough in his more-than-adept sexual skills to do so. “Really?”

  “Most definitely.” He laughs. “But that’s not how a man knows he’s doing it right. Words are cheap. Actions prove everything.”

  “So how does he know he’s doing it right?”

  He spins me out and then back against him. In the few seconds apart, I’m already ready for the warmth of his body. His mouth is near my ear so the heat of his breath teases me. “A man knows he’s doing the job right when a woman pushes him away, tells him to stop licking her, and begs for his cock.”

  That slow, sweet ache that has been simmering during this whole conversation—hell, who am I kidding, since he walked out of his room looking mouth-wateringly delicious in his suit and tie—has just been stoked brighter.

  “Oh.”

  He chuckles in my ear and I feel the rumble of it against my chest. Love the feel of his thigh rubbing between mine. “You still think you’re not going to beg, Saylor?”

  “Words are cheap, Whitley. Actions prove everything.”

  “Hayes Whitley? Seriously, Say? That’s who you left me for?” Mitch’s voice from behind me so bitter in tone, startles me, and yet I outwardly remain calm as can be.

  So many responses flicker through my mind.

  Married after only eight months?

  Carbon-copy-of-Saylor-Sarah?

  Still an asshole, huh?

  I wish that were the truth.

  I choose the higher road. Know even in the thirty seconds I’ve been in his presence that I made the right decision. I have absolutely zero love for him, and I can’t believe I wasted six years of my life with him.

  So I don’t answer his question but rather decide to let him believe whatever he wants about Hayes being here with me and how that came to be. I’m not lying per se, rather just not giving any answers.

  “You always did resent him, didn’t you?” I murmur softly, figuring it to be my best plan of approach and more than aware of the sudden shift of attention over to us despite the music playing loudly.

  I think back to the few times Mitch would see Hayes on television or a magazine cover and make some snide remark. Criticize him. For no other reason than because Hayes had me first. Caveman theory at its best, and Mitch’s fragile ego at its worst.

  “Seems I had every right to resent him, didn’t I? I love Sarah. I really do. And yet all of her blabbing on about the ghost of you hanging around was driving me crazy so I’m here trying to give her what she’s asked of me.”

  “My ghost?”

  “Yeah. She says you’re still everywhere even though you’re not.”

  “That’s because you moved on before the scent of my perfume even cleared the bedroom.” There’s a bite to my voice and I don’t try to hide it.

  “You’re the one who left.
”

  “Yes. I did.” There is not an ounce of apology in my tone. Why should there be when he was the one who made it clear he didn’t care if I did? And is already married.

  Silence smothers the space between us. I take a sip of my wine and look toward the door to see if Hayes is back from the restroom yet. Shift in my chair.

  “If you wanted to get rid of my ghost, then maybe you should have had your own wedding, instead of ours.” I turn to look at him. Raise my eyebrows. “A little originality makes a girl feel a whole lot more secure.”

  “It’s complicated.” He shuffles his feet, looks down at his beer, and then back up to me. “You know how my mom is.”

  “Yes, I do.” He hasn’t changed. He never will. Maybe I thought my leaving might help him realize that while he can love his mother and want to appease her, having a wife means you put her first, and not your mom. “Let me give you an opinion from someone who has in fact walked in Sarah’s shoes. Your mom can’t control your marriage, Mitch. You gave her a good start thinking she will by letting her orchestrate this entire wedding. The funny thing is, you were so busy being Golf Boy with your buddies and not caring about the details I was planning, that you have zero clue about how identical your wedding today is to the one I had planned. For us. Surely you realize the location and the invitations were the same, but did you notice everything else? The color scheme, the linens, the flowers? All my choices. And Sarah just happily accepted all of that?”

  His features shift and evolve from disbelief to anger. And I know him well enough to know that as pissed as he is, he’ll never confront his mom over it. God forbid, he ever stands up to her. Instead, he’s about to take the brunt of his anger out on me.

  I guess he’s never heard the saying, “Don’t kill the messenger.”

  “You don’t get to have any opinion, Saylor. You don’t get to criticize or judge or say anything other than thank you for inviting me, Mitch.”

  Asshole. I bite my tongue. Make the conscious decision not to engage when I’d prefer to stand and shout and accuse and purge the lingering bitterness I feel toward him. Let everyone know the real reasons we’re not together.