Sweet Cheeks(28)

I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out what she’s talking about until she slowly pulls a dark blue envelope from behind her back and holds it out to me.

“I think he still likes you, Saylor.”

“No. He doesn’t.” I protect those I love. Why do his words choose that moment to return to my mind? “I think you are both off your rockers.” I sigh as I turn the envelope over in my hand, disbelief owning my thoughts and the feeling of being handled fueling my temper.

I take a deep breath, prepare to be irritated, and open the envelope. Inside is a first-class ticket on American Airlines to Turks and Caicos. A paid-in-full reservation for the Seven Stars Resort and Spa under my name.

My pulse thunders in my ears. My hands shake. Tears sting the back of my throat. So many emotions—disbelief, anger, gratitude, irritation, everything—reverberate within me at the sight of these reservations and the amount Hayes must have paid in upgrades.

I move aside the hotel confirmation to find a yellow Post-It note in penmanship I know all too well.



Just in case you want to escape to paradise with me for a few days. It’s not to prove a point to them, but to prove one to you. You’re better than them, Ships. I’d love to help you believe it.

- Hayes



I stare at the note for a few moments and try to identify how I feel. I am so very grateful that Hayes is willing to take time out from his demanding schedule, if I wanted him to, and feel flattered he thinks so highly of me even after the past few days.

And I wonder if he remembers anything about me. In particular, how I hate to have my hand forced at anything. And if it is forced, how I’ll do the exact opposite to prove the point that I won’t be persuaded.

Kind of like how I’m feeling right now.

I look to the ticket in my hands. Know I’m not going to go. Can’t. The past is better left in the past. The bakery will survive somehow without it. So I try to figure out how to get his money refunded. How to thank him but at the same time pass on his offer.

And yet I can’t deny the feelings these little pieces of paper have filled me with: warmth that he’d even think to do this for me, disbelief that he has so much faith in me after how I’ve treated him this week, and peace by giving me the opportunity to make a choice over what to do.

I lift my eyes to see DeeDee waiting patiently and watching my reaction. Her smile tentative, her hope that I opt for the romantic happily ever after her novels provide visible in her eyes.

But we all know books are fiction.

The romance in novels is a crock of shit.

Sometimes the hero still leaves in the end.

And the heroine is once again left to pick up the pieces.





Hands.

His hands are everywhere when I don’t want them to be. Over my mouth. On my chest.

The bite of gravel in my back. The press of his knees between my thighs. His excited laugh as I try to jerk my head free. So I can yell. So I can bite.

The taste of fear. It fills my mouth. Owns my senses.

The sound of crickets. They seem so loud. Screaming at him to stop since I can’t.

The wisp of grass against my legs. Cold. Bitter. Deceptive. Hiding the jagged rocks beneath it that are biting into my skin.

Just like him.

The scent of beer. On his breath. Seeping into the ground beside me from where I knocked it over in my struggle.

The distinct sound of the strap on my new sundress tearing. I saved up for weeks to buy it. And now it’s broken.

I’m not sure why I focus on that. On the rip of fabric.

Because it’s easier than thinking of what comes next.

Oh. God.

The strength in his hands. Holding me down. Preventing my escape.

I struggle. I kick. I fight. But a few things seem so vivid in my mind. The one that’s closing down. That doesn’t want to process what might happen next. Can’t.

“Saylor? Saylor?” The shouts of my name. Hayes. It’s Hayes.

I’m over here. Please. Please find me.

The sensation of warmth as my tears leak out and slide from the corners of my eyes down to my earlobes.

Cool night air on my belly from where he’s pulled up my dress.

A roar of sound. I think. I don’t know. I can’t process anything. But I hear it again and then his weight is gone. Missing.

I’m empty. Hollow.

I scramble up. Crawl—rocks scraping against my bare knees—to escape as quick as I can.

There’s a crunch.

A lot of shouting.

The oomph of an exhale as a fist hits a stomach.

An “I’m going to kill you” through gritted teeth.

The smack of knuckles on flesh.

“Go get help, Ryder. GO now.”

Another crunch of bone against bone.

My ears ring. My body is cold. I can’t stop shaking. Or crying. Or rocking back and forth with my hands holding my knees against my chest.

So I can disappear. From here. In my mind.

So I can pretend. Forget.

“Saylor. Saylor.”

I flinch as hands touch me. Try to fight against them.

“It’s me.”

I push him away.

“It’s me.”

My struggle ceases.

Safe hands run over my arms and back and cheeks. Direct my face up to meet his eyes looking right at me. Blood on his knuckles. A red mark on his cheek. A rivulet of sweat running down his temple.