Sweet Cheeks (10 page)

“Not sure. Maybe being with you makes me feel like my old self. Reminds me of who I used to be before I . . .” I shrug as my words trail off with the realization that I just stepped on a land mine of sorts: acknowledging my life before means having to acknowledge how I left and never looked back. It was when my life was so much simpler without the constant pressure of the paparazzi and fans. When I could get a pizza without cameras flashing or date a woman I knew really liked me for me. When there were no rumors about cheating I had to ignore because I was being the good guy and taking the fall to protect my future.

“Before you walked out and left me confused and heartbroken without saying a word?
You mean that before
?” Her voice rises in pitch with each word. Hurt flashes in her gaze, clear as day through the moonlit night.

I did that to her.

And I fucking hate the sight of it. Maybe that’s because I was too much of a pussy to face it. Then again maybe it was because I took that once-in-a-lifetime shot I was given and ran with it, made a killer life for myself, and if I came back, one look at her might have sucked me back in.

I was right
. There’s no denying the tug on my heart seeing her again. The reemergence of feelings I thought had died.

Shit. I was young and inexperienced back then. Let the allure of Hollywood rule my thoughts and own my heart.

It still owns my heart. The thing is, I’m not young or inexperienced anymore. Could the man I am now handle both her and Hollywood?

Jesus Christ, Whitley. What are you even thinking
?
Do you not see the hurt in her eyes? The defense in her posture?
You’re the one who put it there
.

Guilt returns with a vengeance. The least I can do is give her an honest answer. “
Exactly
. That before
.
” My tone is even; my gaze unwavering.

“Huh.”

“Huh?”
How am I supposed to take that response?

“Yeah.
Huh
.”

“Do you care to elaborate?” My chuckle is strained as I try to figure what she means with the sound. Hell, more like as I try to figure her out.

“Nah. Just trying to gauge how big your ego is to think I’d want to see you ever again.”

“It’s obviously not too big, since I fit in the door to the tree house.” She fights a smile but fails so she looks back to the stars in the sky rather than show me I’ve gotten to her. Cracked that tough-girl façade with the help of her ability to suck down the drinks tonight.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“See. It’s that right there. That’s why you being the old you is what I need. You’re not afraid to call me out. Everyone else just wants to kiss my ass.”

“I’ve got a bunch more names I can call you if you want me to keep going.”

“You always were creative.” Her eyes flicker to mine and then down to where her fingers are peeling some paint on the floor beside her.

“A treasure trove of names, in fact.”

She completely ignores my comment so I adjust my tactics. “Lay them on me, drunk girl.”

“I am not drunk.” Her eyes meet mine, lips pouting, with a crease in her forehead. “Can’t a girl go out and have a good time without getting shit for it?”

She snorts again and it’s fucking adorable. I bite my lip to keep from smiling because right now, I don’t think she wants to be anything close to adorable. She wants to stand her ground and prove to me she doesn’t want anything to do with me. But it’s damn hard not to react when she follows the snort by rubbing the back of her hand over her nose.

Because right now she looks like the pesky Saylor—Ryder’s little sister who used to annoy us when we were playing video games. The whiny voice and skinned knees. The roll of her eyes when I called her Ships Ahoy to annoy her. All that’s missing is the row of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

I stare at her. The memories clear as day. Ryder and I running and her chasing. The two of us tricking her and then sometimes letting her hang with us. Because sometimes she was cool.
For a girl
.

“You’re looking at me like that again,” she warns.

“You haven’t changed, have you? Still bossy.” I’m baiting her. Figure if I get that temper going, she’ll yell at me, and I can figure out what the hell she was trying to do tonight in the club. The extra swing to her hips and the added taunt in her smile wasn’t for nothing.

“Neither have you. Still causing trouble everywhere you go. I figured Hollywood would’ve tamed that side of you, and yet the National Enquirer seems to love you these days.”

I take her dig for what it is. Understand she’s trying to hurt me any little way she can. Shit, she has every right to. My ego likes knowing she’s followed me. My pride hates that she’s noticed the bad press that’s always blown way the fuck out of proportion.

I bite the rebuke on my tongue. Fight the want for her to know I’m not that guy and confess the truth behind the bullshit rumors. And yet, I can’t. I may be having a good time, trying to help her out, and yet she’s a part of my past, and the rumors are trying to protect my present.

“Don’t always believe what you read about me.”

“No worries. I don’t ever read anything about you.” A hint of hurt. A trace of spite.

“I deserve that.”
She’s lying
. The finger twirling in the hair at her neck tells me so. I fight a smile at seeing the simple tell she still has.

“No, you don’t deserve shit from me.”
And here comes the temper
.

“Good thing I don’t want anything from you then.” Why does it feel like I’m the one telling a lie now?

“Then why are you here, Hayes? Why? Not the ‘in town for the funeral’ part but rather I’m talking about tonight. Why come to the club and more so, why are we here right now? If you want nothing from me, then why’d you bring me to the tree house?”

What the fuck am I supposed to say to that when I don’t know the answer myself
?

“I was at the club because Ryder invited me, and I wanted to catch up. I didn’t expect you to be there. Thought you’d be out with your fiancé. What’s his name? Mitch something-or-other?”
Layton
. I know the last name all right. Remember him to be a pompous prick when I played baseball against him in high school.

But let’s see if she takes the bait. Finishes the question. Gives me an in to open the door and start the conversation we need to have.

“Mmm.” That’s all she says in response.

I study her reaction. Notice the purse of her lips. The hair wrapped around her finger again. The sudden shifting of her legs as she fidgets.

I could press her right now. Push those buttons of hers. But there’s something beneath the surface I can’t quite peg. So instead, I opt to finish answering her question. Try to gain her trust so she stops hating me.

“And we’re here . . . we’re here because it’s kind of fitting. After the other day at the bakery and then tonight at the club, I don’t know . . . I needed to apologize to you. Explain why I . . .” I blow out a sigh and run my fingers through my hair unsure myself what I’m going to say. “This was where we always came when we needed to talk.”

“It’s in the past,” she whispers, eyes angled back up to the sky but the contempt in her voice has been replaced by guarded hurt.

It’s not in the past. Not for her. And that’s the bitch of it, isn’t it? Knowing someone so well for so long, even though time’s passed, you still know them. Can read their body language and infer from their tone so you can’t escape the fallout of your actions.

“You don’t owe me anything. No apology. No anything. It wouldn’t matter if you gave me one anyway,” she replies as she lowers her face from the sky so she can meet my eyes. The defiance I see in them wars against my guilty conscience. “It’s a whole lot too late.”

I nod my head in understanding. The split-second decision I had to make back then seemed so simple, but now owns my thoughts as I look at Saylor in the moonlight across this old tree house.

“Saylor.” Her name is part sigh, part apology on my part.

“Just don’t. Save it.” She shifts abruptly, effectively ending the topic by scooting to the floor and lying on her back.

Anything to avoid meeting my eyes.

She’s not going to make this easy on me, is she?

I stare at her. Hair fanned on the floor and eyes toward the sky, irritated as fuck with me, and I’m reminded of that night when things first started between us.

What did I expect when I brought her here? That the memories were going to soften her and
not
affect me?

I should just take her home. Pick up the phone and call Ryder to apologize that I can’t return the favor this time around. Lie that the studio has called, needs me back to reshoot a few scenes before moving to the next location. Get the fuck out of here before shit gets complicated. Because looking at her, being reminded of
before
, is stirring up way more than I expected. Shit I don’t need in my already complicated life. Something I definitely can’t start without walking away and repeating history with her I don’t want to repeat. Can’t repeat.

I’m not that much of an asshole.

Goddamn memories, man. They’re fucking with my head.

So I sigh and do the only thing I can do—try to make this right. I shift onto my knees, cross the space between us, and unfold my legs until I’m lying beside her, just like I did that night. Her body stills and her breath hitches as our arms touch, but she doesn’t pull away.

We lie there for some time staring at the stars that light up the night sky despite the full moon. Crickets chirp around us but there’s not a word spoken between us.

Seconds turn to minutes. Her perfume hits my nose. Our history owns my thoughts. My mind veers to shit I shouldn’t be thinking.
Hands off, Whitley
. Much easier said than done when I’m lying in the dark with a gorgeous woman.

And she is just that,
gorgeous
. And all woman. Yet, despite the years that have passed, this feels normal. The being here with her. The feeling that she still knows me better than anyone else when that can’t be possible.

She did back then though. She could finish my sentences. Had loved me unconditionally. Had encouraged me to chase my dreams despite my doubts.

Until I allowed my dreams to consume me. Rip us apart. Leave her.

Leave us.

“Look!” She saves me from my thoughts when she points to a shooting star as it streaks across the sky.

“Make a wish,” we both say in unison and laugh. A throwback to another night, another time, and I feel her body tense the minute she says it. As if she realizes she accidentally let her guard down, but the small moment is enough to break up the tension filling the space around us. Giving me an in.

“I made mine,” she whispers after a few seconds and has me immediately wondering what her wish was. Ten years ago I would have known the answer without question. But not now. Not with the grown woman, so very different but all the same, beside me.

“Me too,” I finally say but know my dreams have already come true—I’m a lucky son of a bitch—so I throw my extra wish her way. Use the lapse in her guard to my advantage. “See that constellation? The one right there?” I point to the sky, to a trio of stars that I make my own pattern out of.

“Like you really know astronomy,” she scoffs, remembering how much it bored me when we were in school.

“No seriously. I do. I had to learn it for a role I played.”

“Is that so?” The exasperated tone is back in her voice and I’m glad to hear it. Annoyed I can deal with much better than sadness. “If that’s the case, then what is that one right there?” I follow her finger as she points to what looks like someone shook a salt shaker filled with glitter to the sky . . . little flecks of bright lights everywhere.

I smile wide knowing exactly what I need to do. I lift my finger and point. “That right there is the constellation named ‘I’m Sorry.’”

Her sigh fills the tree house. “Oh, please.”

“No. Wait. I get the one named ‘I Was a Dick’ confused with the one ‘I’m Sorry’ so give me a minute. Nope. I’m right. That’s definitely, ‘I’m Sorry.’”

“That’s very convenient.”

“First rule of acting is learning how to improvise.” Her laugh fills the night and I might have gotten my foot in the door.

“Seems you’ve got that down pat.”

“I mean it, Saylor. I’m sorry.” The explanations I had worked out in my head die on my lips because they’d just sound like bullshit excuses. I can see that now, so I leave it at that. I hope she hears the apology and knows how much I mean it.

But she doesn’t say anything for a while. Just stares quietly at the stars while I try and figure out what to do next. In reality, I’m perfectly comfortable on this hard wooden floor with my legs folded like a pretzel so I can fit in this small space beside her.

“Mitch’s last name is Layton.” Saylor’s sudden comment surprises me.

“I think I remember him.”
How could I not
? The popped collar, egotistical, trust fund baby. Even in high school he thought he was better than everyone else. I can’t imagine how he is now. I tread carefully. “How’s he doing?” Feign interest. Pretend I care.

She laughs but the sound isn’t lighthearted. “He’s getting married.” I hesitate in response because I haven’t thought this through far enough ahead, and I’m not sure if I should play that I know this yet or act like I don’t. “
And not to me
.”

“Oh.” My response is as much shock that she’s just confessed, as it is an act. And I decide to keep quiet. To let her take this conversation where she wants to ease my guilt over lying to her once again.

“Yep.” Her laugh holds no humor at all. “I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t marry him. Over six years, Hayes. Six years down the fricking drain and all because I looked at him and . . . I don’t know.”

“You looked at him and what?” I can’t help it. I have to ask. Have to pry. Have to find out why it sounds like she still loves the prick when she’s the one who broke things off.

That much I do know from Ryder. He had sounded proud as hell of Say when he told me she dumped the sorry ass.