Sweet Cheeks

by K. Bromberg

  I take my time getting ready. Fight the endless flyaway hairs from the humidity until I give up and just pull my hair back into a clip. After adding some mascara and lip gloss, I lather on the sunblock, unsure what adventure The Captain has for me today.

  Just like that, he brings a silly smile to my face, even when he’s not in front of me. It’s like old times. When I’d wake up on summer break and he’d be at the front door, telling Ryder and me what adventures we were going on for the day.

  And as if on cue, I hear him shout through the closed door. I can’t make out any words, but hear more than just a growl of frustration. Finally, my curiosity prevails and I leave my room to go satisfy it.

  I hear his voice immediately and can see him out on the patio from where I stand in the hallway. He’s turned sideways, body obscured by the pillar, face angled as he talks to someone.

  “Did you really think I’d give in so easily? Walk away without a fight?” He shakes his head and laughs but there’s no amusement in it.

  Keeping against the wall, I take a step closer, craning my neck to see who he’s speaking to, but I can’t see or hear whoever it is.

  “You don’t get it, do you? I begged, borrowed, and lied to get this chance again. To stand here in front of you one more time. To right my wrongs. To make you see why I am, can’t—SHIT!” There’s a bang as he hits his fist against the side of the pillar. His sigh is loud, his frustration evident in the sound alone. He steps back, and I can see him fully now. Board shorts, no shirt, a baseball cap slung low over his forehead with dark hair curling out at the back, and blue sheets of paper in his hand.

  “Hayes?” I step out from my spot in the hallway and into the great room. His head snaps up at the sound of my voice through the opened pocket doors. He blushes immediately and it gives me pause because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hayes Whitley blush.

  Be still my heart. Because Confident Hayes is one thing, but Shy Hayes? That’s a whole other stratosphere of attraction. Like I’m-screwed type of attraction.

  But then I remember him being embarrassed means I’ve caught him with someone or doing something and now I feel like an idiot. Serves me right for being nosy.

  “Hey.” He sets the papers in his hand down and leans against the pillar behind him. His smile soothes away my unease.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and . . .” My voice fades off as I step out onto the patio and am surprised to find no one else out there.

  He laughs at the perplexed look on my face. “Sorry. I was running lines and got frustrated trying to figure out how to play this scene.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought . . . never mind.” When I look back up from where he just hung his thumbs into his board shorts—my mind temporarily dazed by the abs and happy trail and the V—our eyes meet and hold.

  Something about the fact that he actually has to practice at his craft kind of throws me. He’s always been perfect at everything he tries first time around and the notion that he is practicing, rehearsing, tells me he truly does care about what he does. That he takes it seriously. It’s such a change from the fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants mentality he used to have.

  Practice before baseball try-outs? Of course not. And then he made starting lineup. Study before his final exams? Why would he? He aced them anyway.

  So I just stare at him as the realization hits home: he’s the same boy I once knew and yet so very different. He’s matured. Changed. But in a good way.

  Luckily he speaks and interrupts my overthinking. “I usually run them with my PA. She’s an aspiring actress.” He rolls his eyes as if everyone is in his life. “Rehearsing is hard when it’s one-sided.”

  “Can I help?” His face reflects the same shock that I feel in asking.

  He stifles a laugh but lets the lopsided smile spread across his lips and studies me. “You want to help?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked, Whitley. I know I can’t act worth a shit, but I’ll help if you need me to. What’s the movie about?” I step closer, the breeze hitting my face and the view catching my breath momentarily as if I’d forgotten the paradise outside.

  His lopsided grin turns sly. “It’s a romantic suspense project. This scene . . . is about the main characters. They’ve fought their attraction for what feels like a lifetime.”

  “Why would you fight it?” The question is off my lips before I can pull it back, and it earns me a quirk of his eyebrow.

  “Good question.” He shrugs, his gaze never wavering. “The way I see it, sometimes things happen in life and love’s put on hold. But if someone’s your soul mate, nothing is going to stop you from being together in the end.”

  His words throw me. This introspective opinion so unexpected. The notion that I know him, and yet don’t know him, becomes more and more clear. It makes me want to talk to him that much more. Understand who he’s grown into. See the depth in his thoughts. The maturity in his opinions. Sure I loved him before. Loved the teenager he was—playful, loyal, sincere, funny—but I’ve changed and matured too. The things I look for in a man have evolved with that. Insight. Compassion. Security. Character. Integrity. All of those things in a man are important to me.

  And as I look at him standing before me, I realize the more I discover about the almost thirty-year-old version of him, the more I realize he embodies all of those traits.

  His comment repeats through my mind. If someone’s your soul mate, nothing is going to stop you from being together in the end.

  “Is that you speaking or the character?”

  “There’s a little bit of me in every character I play.”

  “Nice deflection.” I laugh, thankful for it too. “I’ll make sure to remember when I need you to lift something that you have the superhero strength of that Marvel character you played last year.”

  He just laughs and hands me the script. “Cute, Ships. You want to help, or not?”

  “Ah, it’s all fun and games until someone makes fun of the tights you had to wear,” I tease, knowing his superhero costume received quite a lot of buzz over the Spandex pants and definitive bulge they showed.

  “Hey, whatever pays the bills.” His smile tells me he’s heard it all before and it doesn’t bug him. And it shouldn’t, considering the rumors regarding the paycheck he earned for wearing those tights. As should any man having to walk around in very tight Spandex. “You ready?”

  Shit. I guess I better focus. And not on him. Or his bare chest. Or his biceps. Or the thought of his bulge in Spandex.

  “Is it ridiculous that I’m suddenly nervous?” I ask with a skittish chuckle to boot.

  “Not at all. I know something—a role, an award, an anything—is worth the trouble it causes if it makes me nervous.”

  “Good to know.” I take a deep breath and glance down at the script in front of me. Ignoring the staging I don’t understand, I make a quick study of the exchange between the two characters, Gabby and Noah. “Okay, I think I’ve got it.”

  I can’t read the smile he gives me. It’s almost as if he knows something I don’t. I shake the thought and just play it off as he finds me helping him humorous. And he most definitely will laugh at my attempt to act, but I don’t care. How many people get the chance to say they rehearsed lines with an Oscar winning actor?

  “Let’s take it from right here,” Hayes says as he leans over and points to a line. “And why don’t you sit on the edge of the chair for me. It will help me with blocking.”

  “Okay.” Nerves suddenly flutter to life. Stupid really, but they do. I take a seat, my eyes skimming the lines over and over. Trying to figure out the context of the scene when I haven’t read the entire story proves rather difficult, but I’ll just go with it.

  “That’s bullshit, Gabby, and you know it.” The expression on Hayes’s face transforms instantly and catches me completely off guard. He’s angry, frustrated, and tormented. His voice and posture reflect all three.

  I stumble for my line as I look back do
wn, knowing there is no way I can even match how seamlessly he slipped into his character. “I don’t know anything anymore.” My voice seems flat compared to his, but I keep going. “All I know is after tonight . . . after watching . . . never mind. It’s probably best if you just go now.”

  “Huh.” He shakes his head. Disappointment is reflected on his face as he takes two steps toward me. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “You lost the right to know what I’d like and not like when you walked out.” My voice breaks. Life imitating art in a way I never expected when I told him I’d run lines with him. I swallow over the lump in my throat, because I know that pain. I start to talk and stop. “I didn’t make you leave, Noah. I didn’t start the fire. I didn’t hurt anyone. I wasn’t the reason shit went south. And more than anything, I didn’t make you erase me from your life.”

  “I never erased you!” he shouts with shoulders squared and eyes alive. We stare at each other for a beat before his defensive posture slips away. His shoulders slump, head drops, and voice lowers so I can barely hear him. “I could never erase you, Gabby.”

  “Don’t do this to me. Don’t waltz back into town like you own this place with that chip on your shoulder. I’ve moved on, Noah. I’ve made my own life. One that has no place for you in it.”

  He lifts his head, strides across the patio with determination, and slams his hands onto both sides of my chair. I jolt at the sound, at the force that moves my seat, at the unmistakable virility of both Noah and Hayes combined in the eyes of the man looking at me. “Anywhere you are is my place, Gabriella.”

  I snort. Know Gabby would do just the same and catch the flicker of surprise in Hayes’s reaction. “No. It’s not.” I can barely speak the words. Hate the pang I feel in saying them. Shit. Shit. Double shit. Do I feel the same way about him in real life?

  “Tell me you don’t love me.” His hands are on my chin directing my face up. His eyes are so honest, so true, that I almost forget I have a script in my hand. Silence stretches between us and I convince myself I need to look down at the lines. Yet I can’t find it within me to break the hold he has on me, let alone breathe.

  Script, Saylor. The script.

  I force myself to look down to the papers. To the words I need to say. I exhale unsteadily when I read them and then look up to meet Hayes’s eyes. “I don’t love you, Noah. I’ve met someone else. Another man who I know won’t leave.” I avert my gaze. Push down the emotions rioting through me. How funny. I thought I was going to feel so silly doing this and yet everything I am is in the tone of my voice right now. “Like I said before, it’s over. It’s best that you leave.”

  “You’re lying,” he grits out between clenched teeth as he pounds a fist on the arm of the chair again. “Lying! Did you really think I’d give in so easily? Walk away without a fight?”

  I’m mesmerized. Can’t take my eyes off him. “You did before.” My voice is a whisper of sound. My emotions raw in a scene that has nothing to do with me.

  This is Noah and Gabby. Noah. And. Gabby.

  Not Hayes and Saylor.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” He’s exasperated. Frustrated. Pleading. He reaches out and tilts my face back up to his again. I hold my breath as he leans forward ever so slowly and puts his lips right to my ear. I smell the signature Hayes Whitley clean scent of soap and shampoo. Feel the heat of his breath. Warm under the touch of his hand. “It’s you. It’s only ever been you. I begged, borrowed, and lied to get this chance. To stand here in front of you again. To right my wrongs. To make you see why I am . . . why I can’t just walk away this time without knowing, Gabby.”

  “Without knowing what?” I’m glad I remember the line because if I lean forward to look, I’ll come face first with his chest and that’s not something I need right now. The situation, the lines we’re rehearsing, the man before me—all three are powerful enough, and I don’t need the physical aspect of him to intoxicate me even more.

  Hayes leans back so that our lips are inches apart. “Knowing what my forever tastes like.”

  Neither of us move. Or breathe. And when he finally takes a step back, his mouth slides into a satisfied grin.

  “You’re good, Say. Gotta hand it to you.” He ruffles a hand through his hair. “I’ve been running that line all morning and hadn’t figured it out. I was going in too hard, too angry. Having you to bounce it off made it easier. Let me see I needed to be softer with the delivery. Thank you.”

  I remain motionless in the chair, completely affected and unsure how he can go from the exchange we just had to, well, to him being him. And I’m reminded of his cryptic smile when I offered to run the lines. Wonder if he thought I would find this scene ironic, considering the history between us. And ironic is definitely one way to describe it.

  Hitting too close to home is another way.

  “I’m glad I could help,” I say when I find my voice again.

  “Do you mind if we run through it a few more times so I can tweak a few more things?”

  Oh, hell.

  And so we do. Each time through, my own emotion becomes more transparent. More vulnerable.

  My body more turned on.

  The constant repeat of the scene, in the intimacy of the words between two characters longing for each other is almost like foreplay in its own right. The emotion in his voice and reflected in his posture feels so real. So tangible. That with each take I forget he is acting.

  But he is acting, Saylor. There is no hidden message he is trying to convey about how he feels about you. And soon he will be running through this scene with another actor. Another woman. Not you. It’s just a role to him. Watch how easily he bounces back when the scene’s over and he steps out of character.

  And so when he finally feels satisfied with the delivery of his lines, I need a break from his presence. From the thoughts this entire scene has evoked. From the sexual tension that coats my skin so thick I almost feel it. From the pressure in my chest making it painful to draw in air despite being out in the open.

  I opt to go for a walk on the beach to gain some physical distance from him and to quiet the unexpected emotions of the morning.

  Funnily enough, the entire time I’m on my walk, I’m thinking of him.

  “This place is everything I’d imagined it would be,” I murmur more to myself than to Hayes.

  “When you planned your wedding?”

  I bristle, but deserve the straightforward question considering we are in the very hotel I had spent hours ruminating over for my wedding plans. I glance over to where he sits beside me at the hotel’s outdoor bar. The drinks are stiff and the food is westernized but it feels good to be out and about in the hotel. Especially because I can enjoy the resort without feeling like I’m being watched since the entire wedding party is supposedly playing golf or at the salon. At least they’re supposed to be according to the handy itinerary on the villa’s kitchen counter.

  “Yeah, but there was more to my decision to come here than just wanting a destination wedding. This was one of my mom’s dream vacations. It was always their ‘next trip’ but it never happened. Money got tight. They had Ryder and me. Then came saving for college for us. They just kept putting it off and said they’d go after they retired. . .” My voice fades off, the memories so poignant and real all these years later.

  “But they never made it to retirement.” Hayes’s voice is quiet, empathetic as he finishes the phrase for me. He places a hand on top of mine and squeezes it in support. “They were the best. Always fair. So full of love but also strict when they needed to be. Everything I wanted my parents to be like but weren’t. I think of them often.”

  “They loved you, too, you know.” It’s important he knows that.

  He nods his head as my heart hurts at the thought of them. I miss them every day but something about being here with Hayes—in the place they always wanted to visit—makes it a bit more poignant. And I think of how pleased they’d probably be, knowing I came here with Hay
es. Especially since my mom used to always tell me one day I was going to marry that boy. Even after he left when she was nursing my broken heart, she was his biggest cheerleader telling me he was just off growing up but that he’d come back for me someday.

  The smile is bittersweet. The memory even more so. The void in my heart from their absence a permanent fixture but feeling a little less empty when I look at Hayes.

  I clear the emotion from my throat. “There were so many things they put off doing, waited for, or said they never had the chance to do once they had kids and I . . . shit, I don’t know, Hayes . . . I don’t want to be that way or feel like they did, and never fulfill the things I dream of doing. I don’t want to be in the car on the way to dinner and get hit by a drunk driver and as I die, realize I never knew what those things I wanted to do felt like.”

  “I can understand that. Hell, anyone can, Saylor.”

  It feels like emotion after emotion is being churned up today and my parents’ death is just the next thing to add to it. The memories hit me like photographs on a reel: the policemen at the door; my screams when I fought Ryder’s arms as he tried to comfort me, when really, he had no comfort to give; the two caskets side by side lowered slowly into the ground. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. The constant cloud of inconsolable grief.

  And then, meeting Mitch at a mutual friend’s party seven months later. He was kind, paid attention to me, and took me places I’d never been before. Places that held no memories of my parents when everywhere else I went was flooded with them. Those things combined with the positive feelings he evoked in me slowly overshadowed the grief that had owned me.

  Is that why I stayed with Mitch for so long? Because he took the pain away—more like put it on a backburner—and helped me slowly crawl out of the haze of grief? Did a part of me—the non-rational part of me—fear if there was no Mitch, that the pain might return?

  Had he ever really known the real me? Was it once I felt more like myself—less meek and agreeable—that things started going downhill?