by Bromberg, K
Time passes. The music becomes louder. The alcohol flows. The laughter in the club becomes louder as inhibitions are left with one more sip, one more drink, one more smile from the guy across the club.
I laugh at one of Ryder’s friends, Frankie, as he attempts to perform a popular dance to a song. Attempt being the operative word. My head’s thrown back, eyes closed, and my hand is pressed to my stomach. It hurts from laughing so hard. But when I open my eyes to find Hayes sitting directly across from me, his gaze a mixture of curious and intense as he stares at me through the dimly lit club, the sound dies on my lips.
The music plays on and yet, despite the brim of his baseball hat resting low on his forehead, my eyes are riveted to his. Words, apologies, excuses for how I acted the other day ghost through my mind and yet none form the proper words to express what I need to say.
Then again, why do I care? It’s Hayes. The man I know from experience will breeze into town and then back out again without a single word.
Yet I do. And I despise that I do.
“Hayes! You made it, brother. Just like you to sneak in without telling a soul and make an appearance.” Our connection breaks. One last narrowing of his brow before the etched lines of his face turn softer, smile spreading, eyes crinkling up, hand reaching out to shake my brother’s. I watch the transformation in his body language as they fall back into a rhythm only they know. I’m left to wonder how he can seem so relaxed when the simple look from him has left my entire body a mess of frenzied adrenaline and unspecified emotions.
I push away the feelings I don’t understand—chalk it up to the drinks I’ve had and the alcohol making me read into things that don’t exist—and deal with the all-consuming presence of Hayes the only way I know how to: by ordering another drink. Hopefully the alcohol will help take the edge off my thoughts. The ones that are struggling over wanting to know what he thinks of me and not wanting to know what he thinks of me all at the same time.
And I hate that I’m sitting here wasting time wondering if he even thinks of me at all. It shouldn’t matter. He has moved so far beyond my orbit. Yet every time I look up from whomever I’m speaking with my gaze finds its way to him.
I loathe it.
And even more confusing, why, when I look his way, is his focus on me?
I love it.
He seems completely unfazed that I’ve caught him staring. It unnerves me. Makes me self-conscious. And after a few times, awakens the defiance in me that has been dormant for what feels like forever. I meet him stare for stare. A lift of my eyebrows. A shrug of my shoulders. A you have no idea who I am anymore or what I’ve been through, so don’t you dare judge me.
I hate that it makes me wonder if what the tabloids have said are actually true. Their countless reports over the past few months accusing him of cheating on his match-made-in-Hollywood girlfriend, Jenna Dixon. And in the typical Hayes you-push-me-too-hard-one-way-I’ll-ignore-you fashion I grew up with, he has not once addressed the comments. No confirming. No denying. Not even a no comment. Nothing whatsoever.
I despise that I know this. That I’ve followed just enough about him that I know the gossip. Even worse, when I look up and meet his eyes again, is that I don’t want it to be true. Because if it’s true, then Hayes Whitley isn’t the Hayes I used to know—Hollywood has changed him—and something about that makes my stomach churn.
My attempts to keep my distance from him fail. Word has gotten out to those in the club that the hometown star, Hayes Whitley, is here. Lucky for him, the club’s bouncers have cordoned off our area to keep the onslaught of admirers from bombarding him and causing a riot in the club. The darkness and our exclusive spot in the VIP corner near a private entrance affording him some privacy from the ever-ready camera phones. Unlucky for me, it means I can’t turn around without noticing him.
I just want to get out of here now.
But I don’t make any effort to leave. For some reason my feet refuse to walk toward the exit. So I decide to ignore him. But after a short time I realize ignoring him is impossible because every little thing about him catches my attention. The strain of his shirt cuffs over his biceps as he lifts his bottle of beer to his lips. The distinct sound of his laugh hitting my ears. How, when he leans over to talk to Ryder who is sitting on a sofa, his pants hug the very nice curve of his ass. The clean scent of his shampoo that hasn’t changed after all this time. His eyes constantly watching me in silent judgment.
He’s everywhere when I want him to be nowhere.
Yet isn’t that why I came tonight? I can tell myself till I’m blue in the face that I agreed to hang with Ryder and his friends because I feel guilty for blowing them off in the past, but I’d be lying to myself. And not a very good lie either.
As I meet Hayes’s gaze yet again from across the small space, I know he is the reason I’m here tonight. The off-chance he would show up to see Ryder, his oldest friend, had me putting more effort into my appearance than I have in a while. Like going through my closet to find something that was non-bakery attire to wear, washing the frosting from my hair, and actually putting on more than my usual, lip gloss and mascara.
The fact that he has me questioning myself infuriates me. And the notion that I’ve spent so much of the past hour and a half thinking more about what Hayes sees when he looks at me than actually having a good time is the last straw.
Screw him. Screw his opinions and his thoughts and his judgmental eyes that are looking my way once again. He’s the one who walked away. He’s the one who gave up a good thing without a fight, and if he’s going to keep staring at me, I’m going to show him just what he’s missed out on.
I take another sip, well aware that my courage is in the form of liquid, but I don’t care.
Pride is still pride.
My laugh becomes a tad louder. My hips sway to the beat a bit more. When I look his way the next time, his jaw pulses and his focus is more intense. My only acknowledgement is a smirk in return.
Another sip. A playful twirl out from another of Ryder’s friends that leaves me pressed flat against his chest when I spin back into him. I’m breathless from the exertion and extremely buzzed so it might take me a bit longer to step away as our chests heave against one another’s. Or I might just be well aware that Hayes has his very fine ass resting against the back of a stool a few feet to our right and his eyes haven’t left me.
The night plays on. My concern over what Hayes thinks or doesn’t think about me slowly fades with each drink I have, each person I chat up, and every laugh that falls from my lips.
Ryder senses something is going on. Notices this unspoken dance between Hayes and me and the invisible barrier of our shared history vibrating between us. My brother catches my eye a few times, asks if I’m okay, and I smile in return.
He told me I had to find my confidence again. Little did he know I’m choosing tonight to do just that.
I’m laughing at something trivial, attention focused on some antic of one of the guys when I feel a hand on the bare nape of my neck. I still, somehow knowing who the hand belongs to.
Heat. It’s all I can feel. All my mind focuses on. From his skin touching mine. From the unexpected presence of his body behind me, his lips to my ear, his breath hitting my skin. From the sudden ache in the V of my thighs.
“I love the laughter much more than the temper.” Hayes’s comment is barely a murmur, and yet I can hear every single word despite the constant boom of the music.
I force a swallow down my throat and nod my head, needing to hold tight to my confidence, and hoping to keep solid ground beneath my feet, because being near him is making it off-kilter for some reason.
“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 nec
k. 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.”
Hayes
“Are 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.
