Under the Bleachers: A Novel

by K. K. Allen

  I start saying my goodbyes. I’ve just finished hugging Justin when Zach appears out of nowhere. “I need to borrow you,” he says gruffly. And before I know what’s happening, he slips his hand into mine and pulls me around the corner into the empty theater hallway.

  My heart is all over the place when I meet his glowing eyes. He’s pissed.

  He’s pissed?

  “What are you doing?” I demand.

  “So you won’t date me—you won’t even acknowledge we’re friends—but you’ll bring a date to my event?” There’s fire in his tone, but it’s the catch in his throat that burns me. “For a second I thought maybe you were here to see me.”

  What the—?

  “Justin isn’t my date, but I can see why it may look like that.” His eyes soften. “The truth is, you didn’t invite me here tonight, but I did come here to see you. And you’re the one with the date on your arm!”

  “She’s not my date.”

  “That’s not what it feels like when I watch you with her.” My voice cracks, but it might as well be my mask finally bleeding the truth.

  The tension falls away at my confession, and it’s replaced with something else. Understanding, regret, determination. Zachary’s face hardens, his eyes narrow, and then he grabs my hand again, tugging me into the nearest theater. He sits on the back of a seat and in a swift move pulls me between his legs.

  His clean citrus scent hits me like a splash of ice water. It’s a shock to my system, and it makes everything come alive. I’m trying to find my breath when his hand reaches my face.

  “You are making me crazy, Cakes.” His knuckles brush my cheek as his grip tightens around my waist. I want him to pull me closer so that I can feel him. I need to know he still wants me—the way I want him. “I meant what I said earlier. You always look beautiful, but tonight especially.”

  I blink while registering his words. Because I’m sick of telling myself I can’t be with this man who I so clearly want to be with—and because he’s the first man I’ve ever spent an entire week with and missed at the same time—I close the gap and take hold of his tie, playing with it so I have something to focus on while his face is only an inch from mine.

  “Do you like her? Meredith?” I look up, my face tilted, begging for honesty.

  “No, Cakes,” he whispers. “I like you.” The rush of breath leaves his mouth and enters mine. My eyes flutter shut for half a second, but when I breathe in, my strength fills me again.

  I smile against the unleashed butterflies that come alive in my chest. His eyes blaze with intensity, telling me I’ve asked the right questions to justify his next move.

  A hand runs gentle circles in the arch of my back, while his other hand cups the back of my neck, a finger lightly running across my cheek.

  We’re like this for a while, staring into each other’s eyes, silently challenging the other to back down. Neither of us do, and I get a desperate feeling in my chest. One that tells me to kiss him without permission. To dip my tongue into his mouth and feel everything I haven’t felt in over six months. I’ve never wanted anyone to kiss me so badly.

  “When do you leave tomorrow?” I realize my voice is husky. So embarrassing—I hate when I sound like a phone sex operator.

  Zachary, on the other hand, seems to love it. His nose skims the slit between my lips and then moves to my ear, releasing air into the canal before biting down on my lobe. My body goes tense with pleasure and a moan climbs up and out my throat.

  “Six in the morning.” He moves to the other ear and does the same thing, causing my body to shake. “Sorry to leave you stranded, Cakes. It’s horrible timing, I know.” The hand that was circling my back slides down to cup my ass. I gasp.

  Swallowing back my fear, I plead with his eyes first. “Drive me home.”

  He takes a ragged breath and watches me for a second before leaning in to brush his lips across my cheek before softly kissing it. This time, I feel everything. The sparks. The passion. It all pours over me like molten lava cake. I want more.

  “I want to,” he admits. His lips move to my neck, and I can feel the effects cascade over my body. He groans as my lips part for him, panting with need. His hand lifts the bottom of my dress as fingertips feather over the rise of bare skin. His mouth presses harder into my neck, sucking and nipping, adding to the rising heat of my body.

  He moves so his forehead is on mine and he’s looking me square in the eyes. “If I were to come over tonight, I wouldn’t leave. Ever.”

  Leaning against his forehead, I smile. “Then you should definitely come over.” My finger hooks into the top of his jeans, slides around to his front, and tugs, making myself completely clear.

  He groans before stopping my hands with his. “Wait, Cakes.” He leans back slightly to meet my eyes. I can almost see the cloud we’ve just been riding on begin to lose opacity. “I know you too well already. I’ll wake up tomorrow, leave for a week, and that will give you far too much time to regret whatever were to happen if I took you home tonight.”

  Damn him.

  “But I missed you this week.”

  He smiles the most adorable smile and kisses my nose. “Good. Note to self: playing hard to get works.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t want to play games.”

  Shaking his head, he breathes in deeply, and lets it out as if he’s relieved. “No games. Not anymore. But we’re not doing this tonight. A few hours won’t be enough for what I have planned.”

  Oh.

  I’m on my third selfie of the day. It’s only Monday, and Zach keeps asking for things. A photo of me holding one of the flyers. A photo of me holding one of the shirts. A photo of me wearing the shirt. This boy cannot let go.

  Monica: Don’t you trust me? I’ve got this!

  Zach: I just want pictures of you.

  I laugh and toss my phone on my desk so I can run to marketing and check on the rest of the new proofs. The deadline for all revisions is five o’clock today, and I’d hate to miss it and add dollars to the budget. We’ve been doing a great job so far keeping costs down while sponsorship money is rising.

  Taking my time, I move through each piece and mark up anything that needs to be changed. Deb, the creative director, is waiting for my stack of pages with a hopeful expression. “They look awesome,” I say with a smile for encouragement. “Just a few tweaks. Can you give it to Bethany to review before I send everything to Zach? I don’t trust my eyes at this point.”

  “You got it.”

  My phone buzzes just as I’m walking back into my office. When I click into my messages, Zach’s pouty face appears. I scroll above to see that he’s at it again.

  Zach: I need another pic.

  Zach: Cakes?

  Zach: [Pouty Zach Selfie]

  Monica: Of what?

  Zach: Your lips.

  A fierce blush lights up my cheeks.

  Monica: I’m working!

  Zach: And your boss just asked for a Cakes original. I need a close-up of those lips.

  Monica: I’m suing for sexual harassment, boss.

  Zach: Fine. You’re fired. Now send me a selfie and we can settle this outside of the courtroom. I’ll make it worth your while.

  I bite back a grin.

  Monica: You should let me get back to work before I slip up and send these shipments to China.

  Zach: You play dirty. Fine.

  It’s silent for the rest of the workday, even as I stay late to proof everything before emailing Zach and Trevor for final approval.

  I’m finally home and still no word from the selfie king, so I shower and then slip under the covers, moaning at the warmth. As I lie in bed, I find myself scrolling through our text exchange from the day, laughing at his reactions to some of the photos I sent over.

  A yawn captures me, and I frown realizing it’s way past my bedtime. But I can’t go to sleep without hearing his voice—and making sure the project is still on track. I find
his number and hit the call button.

  “Perfect timing,” Zach answers. “I just got back to the hotel.”

  “I wanted you to know that I sent about thirty pieces of artwork that need your approval. The clothing and brochures need to be ordered as soon as possible, and we’ll be spending the rest of the week finalizing the production schedule.”

  “Looks like you didn’t need me around after all.”

  I can almost hear him pouting. I grin.

  “Cakes, if you’re smiling I can’t see you.”

  I laugh. “Yes, I’m smiling. Because you’re right! Turns out I’m quite capable without you around.”

  He huffs. “As true as that may be, I think you realized how much you like it when I am around.”

  “True. Then you wouldn’t be blowing up my phone all damn day.”

  “You loved every second of it.”

  I smirk. “So confident.”

  There’s silence on the line, and then I hear another ring. Looking down at my phone, I see that he’s transferring the call to video chat. Pulling the blanket across my bare chest, I answer it and face the phone toward the ceiling.

  “Cakes, I need to see you,” he demands.

  “Nope,” I say plainly. “I’m not camera ready.”

  He growls. “I don’t give a fuck.” Whoa. That’s language I don’t hear from Zach that often. He must mean business. “I miss your face, Cakes. Let me see you.” And just like that, his tone is smooth, melting whatever resistance I had.

  I turn the phone so he can see one of my eyes, and I can see him. Holy hotness. Zach’s unshaven face is so close. I want to lick him. And it doesn’t look like he’s wearing a shirt. Sigh. “Cakes,” he warns with a growl, this time making me laugh.

  I give up the battle and turn the camera fully on to me. “Fine. You win. Happy?”

  An arm moves to rest on the back of his head as he leans against a pillow. Yup, he’s not wearing a shirt. “Very happy,” he answers with a smile. “Beautiful.” His eyes scroll the frame and I notice when his eyes catch what I’m hiding. His head falls against the bed with a thud before he groans. “Not fair, Cakes.”

  I laugh. “Next time warn me and I’ll put some clothes on.”

  He shifts around his bed and pulls his phone in closer. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Is that what you wear to bed?”

  I roll my eyes, ignoring his question, and pull the phone in so he can only see my face. “How was your day?”

  “Would have been better if I was with you.”

  I grin. “So corny.”

  His eyes narrow. “Careful. I’m coming straight for you the moment I land. All that sassiness will come back to haunt you.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Another busy day tomorrow?” His eyes twinkle, and I know he’s coming up with a list of potential selfies to request.

  I grin. “No, actually. I’m taking the day off to visit the Art Institute. I’ve been slacking. I need to pick a program and enroll this week. There won’t be much time after camp, and I hate procrastinating.”

  He sits up in bed, and I can see in full detail how his skin rolls over the rungs of his muscles. Damn. “I was going to ask you if you’ve made any progress with that. I guess you’ve been distracted by work.” I swear I hear some guilt in his tone.

  “No way. You don’t get to take credit for my lack of direction when it comes to school. It’s just a tough decision, you know? It’s a big commitment. I feel like I’m in a cage full of butterflies and I’m being forced to choose one. They’re all so pretty.”

  “Which one will you have the most fun studying? There has to be something you wanted to be when you grew up, before modeling came into the picture.”

  “That’s the thing,” I admit. “The modeling stuff kind of threw me off track. I never had a chance to explore much else.”

  He doesn’t look convinced. “Keep searching, Cakes. You’ll figure it out. I think it’s great that Sandy’s being flexible with work and school. It takes some pressure off so you can focus on both. She’s smart.”

  I can’t argue with that. Sandra’s taking a chance on me, and because of that, I feel a bit more pressure. But maybe pressure is exactly what I need at this point. Without it, I wouldn’t be planning on starting school this summer at all.

  “I’ll let you know how it goes. But I want to hear how the other side lives. Other than drooling over my selfies, did you do anything else today?”

  The side of his mouth curls, and I know he’s drawing up a mental image of my photos. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “Solidified an endorsement deal and flew to New York. I’ll be here for a couple days at a press event with Meredith.”

  A lurch of anxiety ricochets across my chest. My face must show my obvious discomfort because he leans into the phone and sighs. “Cakes, I didn’t tell you that so you’d be jealous. I just wanted you to know.”

  I shake my head, swallowing back my embarrassment. “God, no, it’s fine. Sorry.” My cheeks are so hot I could melt a block of ice in seconds. Giving him a wink, I turn to my side and stifle a yawn. “I’ll make sure to bother you tomorrow with endless selfies and status updates. But I better get to sleep.”

  He pouts. “Okay, Cakes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Night, Zach.”

  It’s done. I’m enrolled at the Art Institute.

  Holy shit, I’m back in college. After spending countless hours over the past week buried in brochures and touring the school’s many offerings, I picked my program. It came to me in an aha moment while preparing wardrobe for one of our shoots. Richland was working on a low budget project—again—and needed lingerie for an upcoming Mardi Gras-themed shoot. It was pure instinct to drag my sewing kit to work and stitch something together myself using recycled décor from old shoots. That’s when the lightbulb went off.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve considered it, but this time it hit me like news of a BOGO sale at Nordstrom.

  Fashion design.

  I’ve been designing and altering everything I wear lately anyway. I’ve been sewing ever since I could hold a needle, and with the amount of experience I have from being on runways and production sets with my sister and mom, the entrance essays were a breeze to write.

  On my trek home from work on Friday, I’m taken back to my childhood. To a time when I had the brightest stars in my eyes, the biggest dreams. Since the moment I was born, fashion was my first language. Of course, that was thanks to my mom constantly reminding us of her successful modeling days and how she gave it all up for her family after marrying her high school sweetheart—who’d just happened to become an NFL superstar.

  Maggie was four when Mom enrolled her in her first beauty pageant, and the competition was fierce. She was dragged from one personal coach to another, each one with specialties ranging from stage presence to wardrobe to facial beauty. Yup. At four years old, my sister could apply her own false eyelashes. At least that’s what my mom claims.

  My first vivid memory was when Maggie was eight and I was six. She’d landed her first runway gig. It was for a local designer in Texas coming out with a new children’s line. Not a big deal, but at the time, it felt like the biggest deal. It was the first time I’d ever been backstage among a chaotic medley of laughter, demands, zipper pulls, and the clattering of little girls’ heels.

  I watched that show with the highest of admiration for my beautiful sister, so confident and perfect at everything my mom made her do, like a precious little doll. I thought I wanted all that too. Why wouldn’t I? It wasn’t enough at the time to watch the madness unfold before my very eyes backstage. I wanted to be the one everyone was fussing over.

  My mom figured it would all work the same for me, and for a while, it did. Pageants did wonders for my confidence at that age. The oohs and ahs from the crowd of strangers validated my beauty. I loved the attention. In fact, I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t crave it. And even
to this day, I kind of miss it.

  When I got a little older and my sister got busier, booking modeling gigs left and right, my mom pulled me from the pageants, assuming the next logical step would be to have me model too. For years, the agency strung me along with broken promise after broken promise. Impatient, my mom asked them why I wasn’t booking any jobs like my sister.

  Their answer?

  I was too short for the runway, and I would never fit into the clothes. They didn’t have the confidence to work with me anymore.

  My heart was broken. Not just by the agency, but also by mom. She lost interest in me and focused solely on my sister’s career. I became the shadow. The one who would never be good enough. And even though I moved far away from my mom and sister nearly three years ago, I’ve continued to live in that shadow. I became the girl who used to have dreams because I haven’t created any new ones.

  Until today. The decision was easy once I walked through the fashion design department at the Art Institute and saw the exact things I fell in love with during my childhood at runway events: the high-pitched hammering of sewing machines hard at work, fast-paced seamstresses pinning fabrics for a tapered wear, and the colorful array of designs fluttering by. Never a dull moment, behind the scenes. I imagine it’s a lot like how Zach’s dream unfolded as he watched the games from under the bleachers.

  Although I didn’t realize it at the time, it wasn’t the way the models looked or walked or presented themselves that captured my attention. It was about the process and the excitement—the details in the art and the reactions from the crowd. It was about working with the models to bring fashion to life, to develop a creative narrative using style to elicit a desired reaction from the crowd.