Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (4 page)

A few hours later, I glance up at the clock on the wall, then back at Wyatt.

“Wow, I can’t believe it’s almost ten.”

We’ve only just finished going through the course materials for two of his classes and making a calendar of due dates for all of his major assignments. I hadn’t even noticed the time passing.

“Is it really?” Wyatt glances down at his phone. “Shit, I’m sorry. You’re probably used to hour-long sessions.”

“It’s fine—honestly, it feels sort of weird taking money from you, anyway, since you’re a friend of Cyn’s dad.”

“Oh, really?” He leans back in his wheelchair and crosses his arms. “Weird enough that you’ll do it for free?”

I snort a laugh. “Not that weird.”

“That’s what I thought.” He wears a little smirk like his face was made for that very expression. I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but smile.

“Right—so I’ll take the rest of this stuff”—I motion to the folders and books strewn around us— “and come up with a list of weekly assignments that need to be done and what has to be submitted electronically or delivered in person. Some of the tests—you’ll probably have to go into class to take those.”

Wyatt nods. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

I start stacking the materials, grabbing stray paper clips and Post-its. Then I pause and look over at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

He arches one brow. “Sure—shoot. “

I prop both elbows on my knees.

“Why not just go to the classes? I mean, I get needing a hand on the assignments. But you could sit in on the lectures. It might be . . . fun.”

He chuckles. “You teacher types. You always think school is fun.”

I shrug. “Maybe—I mean, it would get you out of here. Get you out doing . . .”

I trail off. I sound patronizing and I know it, but Wyatt seems to take it in stride.

“Honestly? If I could drive myself there, I probably would. But the idea of taking the Cripple Shuttle all the way to campus and back just doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Seriously? Cripple Shuttle? Way to be PC.” He scrubs a hand over his face, then gives a self-deprecating smile. “I call shit like I see it. Besides, you can use the word when you are one.”

“Please.” I roll my eyes. “That’s ridiculous logic.”

“You’ll learn to expect nothing less from me.”

I shake my head, but my smile is doing that thing where it takes over my face and I know I look a little psychotic. I’m gonna take that as my cue to get out here before I throw myself at my newest client.

I glance up to see Wyatt watching me. I blink at him, then cock my head in question.

“What?”

“I feel like I should tell you something,” he begins slowly, then stops. I raise an eyebrow. He takes a deep breath.

“So, here’s the thing—I need to apologize. If you recall, I was kind of a dick to you at first when Cyn introduced us and suggested you tutor me.”

“How could I forget?” I mutter. “You practically bit my head off when I offered to help when Cyn was in the hospital.”

He nods. “Well, see—the reason is because I . . . actually knew you.”

I blink at him. “Knew
me
? Knew me
how
?”

“Well . . .” he falters a bit. “I actually know Lennon.”

This news makes both my brows rise, but it’s not totally surprising information. My brother hangs at a lot of bars and clubs in Baltimore and he’s been a bouncer at half of them. I’m sure they crossed paths more than once while Wyatt’s band was playing the circuit.

“Okay,” I say, shrugging. “So what’s the big deal?”

Wyatt still looks uncomfortable. I wonder if this is a drug thing. It would makes sense that a musician would be dabbling in some of the hard stuff before an accident.

“Is it . . . substance related?” I finally ask. He shakes his head.

“No—it’s not that.” He sighs. “Lennon slept with my wife.”

I blink at him. “Wait . . . what?”

Wyatt exhales, then nods. “I caught them hooking up at a bar the night of my accident. I knew you were his sister when Cyn suggested that you tutor me, and I pretty much wanted nothing to do with your brother, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“So—lemme get this straight,” I say slowly. It might be the wrong thing to focus on, but my mind sticks on one part of that. “You’re
married
?”

My voice comes out squeaky and practically unrecognizable. Wyatt shakes his head.

“No, no—not anymore. I filed for an annulment after I got out of the hospital.”

I close my eyes. Leave it to Lennon to make every single encounter in my life awkward as fuck. For years now, my brother’s been messing things up for me. Money, jobs, school—it’s always coming down to Lennon and his constant crises. For the most part, I’ve washed my hands of him and his drama, including the pills he’d been selling me on the sly when I’d been trying to push through my classes and finish my degree.

I’ve been clean for six months and I’m going to keep it that way. If I spend time with my brother, I’m not sure I could maintain that commitment.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, I guess.”

Wyatt shrugs.

“It’s all good. I just figured I should tell you—you know, in case he said something about it to you.”

“Well . . . thanks. I guess.”

“Sure.” He leans down toward the table, then grabs an envelope, which he hands to me. I stare at it like an idiot until he helpfully supplies, “Your fee.”

“Oh. Right. I didn’t know that you’d be giving it to me in an envelope, you know. It seemed sort of businesslike . . .”

Stop talking, Carson.

“Right.” Wyatt glances at his phone again. “Well, I’ll let you get out of here.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll see you.”

I heave my bag, now full of books and folders, onto my shoulder and turn to face Wyatt. For a long moment, we stare at each other. What am I supposed to do here? Handshake? Nah, way too formal. Hug? What if he doesn’t want one and I look like a spastic clinger?

I decide on a fist bump. It’s a last-minute decision and one I almost immediately regret when I hold out my balled fist. Wyatt raises both brows and grins, then meets my fist with his own.

“Until next time, Carson.”

“Until next time,” I echo.

***

Two Weeks Later

I’ve gone home with another stranger, another rando from the bar. You’d think I’d learn, but I haven’t yet—not with the promise of a chemical intervention waiting for me back at his place. From the doorway where I’m standing, I see him sitting at a dining room table that is somehow both gothic and modern—black and glossy, like ebony or really dark marble, but with chairs whose finials were capped with silver fleur-de-lis. He’s sort of slouched in the chair, running his thumb along the rim of a crystal goblet of red wine. A heavy chain with a large cross pendent sits on his bare chest.

I don’t remember what bar we were at when we met. At this moment, I don’t care. I’m buzzing so hard that I could probably fly if I tried hard enough.

When he looks at me, his eyes flash with lust—strong enough that it physically pulls me toward him. The closer I get, the clearer my view of the table. He’s already cut another few lines and I am salivating.

“Stop.”

I freeze, my bare feet skidding to a stop on the cold marble tile.

“Take off your clothes.”

I bite my bottom lip, but I don’t hesitate. I’ve done this before—stripped for the pleasure of another hour or minute or moment feeling high as a kite and like anyone but myself. Anyone but the chick failing graduate school, the woman with the useless brother and enabling mother. The girl whose father took off and never came home again. My hands fly to the buttons at my bustline and unhook them from their threadlike loops. The filmy fabric falls away, clinging slightly to my breasts as it glides off my body and to the floor.

I’m not submitting, exactly. My head is up and my shoulders are back. I meet his gaze with something like defiance. He meets mine with something like desire.

“Come here.”

I resume my slow stride toward him and he shifts in his chair, scooting it farther back from the table and spreading his legs apart. I walk up to him and stand in the space between them, staring down into his eyes and forcing myself to stay still, to maintain eye contact and to be as quiet as possible, despite the fact that my heart is pounding loud enough for both of us to hear.

He tells me to get on my knees. He tells me to undo his pants. As I descend, he takes a finger and touches it to the tiny hoop that’s piercing the upper skin of my belly button and I shudder. It’s not a good sensation. Still, I unzip his pants.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asks.

I look up at him. I
want
to want that, but I don’t. What I want are the drugs that are spread out on the table behind me, the expensive white powder that keeps me flying high.

“Of course,” I lie. He grins, then pushes my face toward his cock.

Which is when I wake up.

“Fuck.”

I sit straight up in bed. My sheets, my T-shirt, everything around me is soaked in sweat. I’ve had a nightmare.
The
nightmare.

Every time I start to think about getting my shit together—every time I’ve kicked my bad habits in favor of pursuing a normal, productive life, the nightmare returns. It’s a combination—a collage, really—of a handful of experiences I’d actually had during my worst-of-days drug haze. It’s like my body is still punishing me by replaying my most terrible mistakes like a movie in my mind.

I scrub a hand over my face and glance at the clock. I’ve got a ten a.m. appointment with Wyatt and his college advisor and it’s already almost nine. Wyatt has already rescheduled the appointment twice—something about it interfering with physical therapy. It’s been almost two weeks since our first tutoring session and, aside from taking some work to campus and submitting assignments online, I haven’t felt like I’d done all that much for Wyatt’s new crusade to finish his degree.

I force myself into the shower, then dig through my closet for something semi-respectable to wear. That’s the one thing I’ve always had trouble with—the teacher/tutor dress code I should be adhering to. Look, I own far more skinny jeans and concert T-shirts than the average twenty-five-year-old. Most chicks kick that habit by that age, at least when it comes to their daily wardrobe.

Me?

I say fuck it. I’ve only got the kind of body to rock this shit for a little while—I figure that I might as well appreciate it while I can.

Still, I feel compelled to tone it down a bit for a meeting with a college advisor. I manage to pull myself together into a somewhat respectable version of a college tutor. I comb my short hair into a piecey but conservative style and wear smaller silver feather earrings rather than my typical skull dangles that I love so much. By the time I’ve arrived at Baltimore Community College, I’m feeling a little more confident and a little less—well, horny, frankly.

I haven’t been to BCC in years. I remember taking a class here when I was a senior in high school during the open campus program, but since then, I haven’t really had a reason to be back. Still, walking the halls to the Student Affairs office brings me back to a time when I was a little less myself. Back then, at eighteen, I was still attempting to appease my parents to balance out Lennon’s antics. I dressed conservatively, I took AP courses, and, as a general rule, followed every direction I was ever given. By anyone.

It wasn’t until college that I gave up trying to make up for Lennon’s descent into loserdom. It started with cutting my hair short and dyeing it black, which horrified my mother to no end. She’d always been a fan of me as a strawberry blonde. Still, I think she’d been able to live with that change, dramatic though it was, a little better than the streaks of green or purple or pink, the piercings in my nose and eyebrow, and, once I’d graduated college, the tattoos I’d gotten slightly addicted to. Now, I’ve got seven. All of them mean something to me and all of them are completely gorgeous. Not that my parents see them that way. But, I guess since Lennon’s practically covered in ink and has been since the day he turned eighteen, he sort of paved the way for me a little more than it might have been otherwise.

I step inside the overly air-conditioned SA office and smile at a lady behind the front desk.

“Hi, I’m here to meet with Dr. Evans.”

She glances at her computer screen, then smiles at me. “Of course—they’re expecting you.”

She directs me down a small corridor to an office tucked back in the corner. I knock softly on the dark wood door and hear a muffled “Come in” from the other side.

“Ms. Tucker, I presume?”

I’ve barely gotten the door halfway open when the space is filled with the really large and frankly rotund body of whom I’m assuming is Dr. Evans. He’s got a red face and, I swear to you, if this man doesn’t dress up like Santa Claus every winter, he’s missing his calling. He extends a hand and I shake it. His appearance is so damn jolly, you just can’t help but grin at him.

“Yes—Carson, please. Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Evans.”

“Of course, of course.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Wyatt here has been saying wonderful things about you.”

As Dr. Evans moves back toward his desk, I see Wyatt sitting on the left side of the room. He’s got his head cocked a bit and a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. I just blink at him for a second before I manage to come up with the power of speech.

“Oh—well, great.”

Dr. Evans settles himself in his leather chair and motions for me to sit in one of the embroidered wingbacks next to Wyatt. I sink down slowly, profoundly aware of how close our bodies are in proximity. Last night, we were across from each other with a table in between us. That space felt important. It felt necessary.

Now our knees are hardly an inch apart. I know I’m imagining it, but there’s magnetism in that limited space. Something is pulling me closer. Something in me—everything in me—wants to touch him. But this isn’t the setting for those desires, even if I were to give in to them elsewhere—which I can’t. Not while I’m his tutor.