Sweet Cheeks(85)
Relationships are hard enough as it is. New ones especially. And to have all of this outside pressure on us from the get-go? To constantly worry about anything I do or say and how it will be misconstrued and posted in the press makes me panic. I don’t want to be a liability for Hayes.
I don’t want that added stress in my life.
Pressure can cause even the strongest person to crack, so I know it can break relationships too.
Let him be the judge of that, Saylor.
I know it’s not fair to think all this without talking to Hayes about it, getting his input, and yet I can’t bear to talk to him just yet. Reading his continuous texts is hard enough. I miss him. I love him. I just need to know I can walk into this relationship with open eyes and enough strength that when the shit hits the fan, I’m secure enough to be the person Hayes needs me to be in his crazy world.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch my nose as the taxicab exits the freeway. I’m overthinking all of this. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about between the bouts of tears and the constant doubt when all I want is the strength to believe in us.
When we turn down State Street, the usually quaint road is lined with cars. The parking lot of the strip mall just to the right of Sweet Cheeks is completely full.
There must be another high school event or craft show. Shrugging it off, I sigh with relief when I see the welcomed sight of the pink and white striped awning of Sweet Cheeks in front of us. Of DeeDee’s red Ford Escape parked in the lot, and knowing my bed is upstairs.
Empty.
Without Hayes in it.
And I hate the thought immediately.
A new No Trespassing sign catches my eye as we pull into the parking lot but I’m so preoccupied swiping my credit card to pay for the ride that I’m completely oblivious to what’s going on outside the cab. But when I open the taxi door I’m startled by the sight of a group of camera wielding men and their tidal wave of sound as they call my name.
I’m momentarily stunned. And I think I stand there blinking for several seconds as my emotionally spent mind tries to catch up with what’s actually happening. But seconds feel like minutes in this alternate reality I’ve stepped into where the click of the shutter is a constant sound.
Click, click, click.
Saylor, this way. Is it true?
How does it feel stealing Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor away from Jenna Dixon?
Click, click, click.
Are you moving the bakery to Hollywood now?
Is it true he’s only with you because you’re pregnant?
Click, click, click.
Why would you do that to Jenna?
Is he as good in the sack as rumors state?
Click, click, click.
Before I can blink, DeeDee is there in front of me grabbing my hand in hers. She takes control, gets my luggage from the driver, and steers me into the bakery—my bakery—and closes the door behind me.
I expect the noise to end. The shouts and clicks and the flashes so bright they feel like they are screaming at me to stop too. But they don’t. They’re muted now. Still a chorus of chaos outside, but not as loud.
When I look up, people are at the tables inside. With cups of coffee and empty cupcake wrappers and notepads. Customers.
“They may be paying for food, but don’t trust them. They’re one of them,” Dee says with a lift of her chin to the photographers outside who are now directing their lenses toward the plate-glass storefront window where I stand. “Ryder says they may be *s but we sure as hell will take their money.”
I look at her. Shell-shocked. Overwhelmed. Wondering how they knew I’d be here when my original flight wasn’t slated to land for another two hours.
And then it hits me.
It doesn’t matter.
They’ve been waiting.
Wanting a piece of me.
Needing a new shot to sell so someone can create more lies about me.
Shit.
Welcome home to me.
“I don’t care. Issue the statement. Set up the exclusive. Do whatever the f*ck it takes to fix this or I’ll break the NDA and take my chances . . . if I don’t get paid, then you don’t get paid.” I look out the window to the city below, and chew the inside of my cheek as my comment hits my agent, Benji, where I want it to: right in the hefty mortgage he just acquired when he bought that house off Laurel Canyon.
“Hayes . . .”
I grit my teeth at his placating intonation and his this will blow over attitude. He didn’t see her face or watch her hand fly up to cover her mouth as she stood in front of the damn magazine rack in the airport and read the bullshit headlines he had already warned me about. He didn’t hide in the shadows and watch the woman he loves wipe the tears from her eyes as she touched the tabloids as if to see if they were actually real before skimming the fronts to read what they had printed about her.
Because, f*ck yeah, I followed her to the airport. I would have followed her all the way home if I could have but her plane was full. Not even bribery or my celebrity status was able to buy me a seat on the flight. My fight was subdued in comparison to how I felt inside. My need to not draw more attention to her by any lurking paparazzi readjusted my focus. No way in hell was I going to let her head to the airport and face a possible slew of photographers on her own without being there to step in if need be.
But it killed me to watch her hiding beside the trashcan, presumably reading the stories on her phone. Enraged me to know she gave an ounce of her attention to the lies.