Sweet Cheeks(17)

He winks at me as he steps back, a boyish grin on his face that transforms as a pretty brunette walks up to him. He slides his hand onto her lower back, his laugh becomes a little louder, his free attention taken. I watch mesmerized, wondering when the last time was I felt like he looks: carefree, young, confident. I also wonder when I last felt like a woman who holds a man’s attention. Attractive. Alluring. Someone to claim. Was I ever that girl?

Be everything Mitch wouldn’t let you be.

Ryder’s words strike a chord within me. One I’m not sure I’m ready to face yet, but can’t stop thinking about as I sit and watch the other patrons in the club from our coveted position in the rear corner. The couples who came together and are having a night out with friends after a long workweek. The pack of women standing in the opposite corner, acting as if they don’t care to be approached by any men but whose eyes are constantly roaming over the bachelors in the club and then suddenly acting coy when they finally approach. The men on the prowl: cocky in swagger and with a drink in hand, trying to find someone to hook up with. I watch them all as I sip my drink and chat idly with my brother’s friends and acquaintances. Enjoying myself but still feeling out of place in this scene I stopped being a part of six years ago.

The funny thing is most people would want to sow their wild oats. And maybe in time I will, but for now, I’m still trying to settle the ever-shifting world beneath my feet.

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.