Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (8 page)

“Carson.”

He says my name and something inside me collapses. Or, more accurately, something inside me rallies—the part of me that demands satisfaction. I lean in and capture his mouth again with mine. I shift my legs to straddle him. I press my body into his and slide my hands up into his hair. I can feel the scar from his surgery beneath my palm and I slip my hand lower so my fingers can run along the smooth skin.

He winces and I pull back immediately.

“I’m so sorry—did I hurt you?” I stammer. But Wyatt shakes his head.

“No—it’s just . . .” he trails off, running a hand over his head. He looks slightly uncomfortable. “No one’s touched me—my scar, I mean—except for medical professionals. And, you know, me, when I shampoo my hair and stuff.”

“Should I not touch it?” I ask. Wyatt gives a shrug, but he’s smiling.

“Honestly? I kind of like it. I think people ordinarily avoid touching me—any of me—as though I’m more fragile now. If anything, I’m stronger.”

God knows I can see that strength. His upper body—forearms, biceps, shoulders, chest—is built like an athlete’s from the physical labor of handling his wheelchair day in and day out.

I lean back in and press my mouth against his, savoring his flavor—a smoky, sexy combination I can’t quite put my finger on. The truth is that I haven’t hooked up with anyone in months, and my hazy night with Wyatt? What I do remember is pretty much the last time I can remember anyone touching my body or making me crazy. I can’t wait to capture that feeling again.

“Hmmm,” Wyatt says, his eyes narrowed. “I’ll take truth.”

We’re lying on his couch, my head in his lap, and the evening has nearly waned to night. I’d intended to take off hours ago but instead we somehow ended up playing an extended, seemingly innocent game of Truth or Dare that’s mostly consisted of stories from our childhoods.

“Truth again?” I raise my eyebrows. “Pussy.”

“Hey, hey, hey—that shit’s fighting words.” He shifts his position, wincing a little when he does.

“Do you need me to move?”

He strokes a hand over my hair. “Absolutely not. Now give me my truth, woman.”

I snort a laugh, then cross my arms over my chest.

“Fine—tell me about the drums.”

“Drums?” Wyatt scratches his head almost comically. “What about them?”

“Why you chose them, I guess? And how you got as good as you are.”

I don’t say “were.” I refuse. I remember how hot and steady and phenomenal he was the night we’d met, and I know that’s the sort of thing you don’t lose from an injury.

“Well, drums were an outlet,” Wyattt says, scrubbing a palm over his face. “My dad took off when I was almost ten, but he left behind a shitty drum kit that was a great outlet for my fury. I couldn’t attack him, so I sure as fuck beat the hell outta that snare and high hat.”

“I can imagine.”

“I never thought drumming was something I could do professionally—that
music
was something I could do professionally. Trust me, my straight-edge mom wasn’t thrilled that I was dropping out of college to go on tour. And now? Well, I guess the college thing seems a little more important since my accident.”

I try to respond, to relate, but mostly I just watch him—how beautiful he is, the way his hair is practically its own light source in the glow of the overhead lamp. Everything about Wyatt is shockingly golden. I’ve imagined myself photographing him on the couch or in bed more than once, and I’ve never once thought of being a photographer.

As I leave an hour later, we make a pact that the next time we meet, it’ll be a business-free date tomorrow night at The Factory. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous at the idea of checking out one of my old haunts as a sober version of myself. Still, I find myself a little excited at the prospect.

But first, I have to get through the rest of the week, and that includes trying to find more stable work and attempting to figure out if I want to finish up my degree program this coming school year, like I’ve been planning. It’s hard to want to go back to school now that I’m out. But I hate the way people look at me, or at least the way I think they’re looking at me. With pity. Like I’m some sort of charity case that couldn’t hack it.

I know the real world doesn’t give two shits about what degree you do or don’t have, but the world I work in—the one that hires me and gives me jobs? Well, it cares a lot.

***

I’m trolling the
Chronicle of Higher Ed
website looking for local tutoring gigs when my cell phone rings. The Baltimore number on the screen isn’t familiar and neither is the male voice I hear on the other end when I answer.

“Ms. Tucker?”

I frown. “Um—yes, this is she.”

The man sighs. “Oh, good—I was hoping I had the right number. This is Dr. Evans.”

“Oh—yes, of course. Hello, Dr. Evans. How are you?”

“Good, good.” Wyatt’s advisor clears his throat. He sounds almost nervous. “I wanted to make sure we were on for our meeting this morning.”

Shit. I totally forgot. My head’s been totally up my ass for, I don’t know, the last month.

“Um—sure, I can swing that.” I glance at the clock on the microwave. “I’ll be there within the hour.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Ms. Tucker.”

“Sure thing. Oh, and Dr. Evans?” I pause.

“Yes?”

“It’s Carson—the only people who call me Ms. Tucker are about eight years old and are much shorter than you.”

He chuckles at that. “Of course, Carson. See you soon.”

But when I make it to the office to visit him, Dr. Evans looks anything but cheerful. In fact, he looks downright concerned, which of course makes me concerned. He sits down in his leather club chair and tents his fingertips below his chin.

“I’m worried about Wyatt.”

Fuck. He knows. He knows about Wyatt and me and he’s going to totally bust me and I’ll never get another tutoring position—

“And, frankly, I think you might be able to help him,” Dr. Evans finishes.

I blink rapidly at the older man. “Oh—well, I’m not sure about that. I mean, we’re not really even friends. I’m just his tutor . . .”

But Dr. Evans nods enthusiastically at that. “Exactly. Everyone else in his life—friends, former bandmates, even family—well, they want something from Wyatt. They want him to play music again. They want him to be the Wyatt of old. And the truth is that this Wyatt—the Wyatt you and I see before us? Well, he’s not the same person he was. And focusing on his education will allow him some other avenues that music wouldn’t have allowed.”

My brow furrows as I try to follow Dr. Evans’s train of thought. Clearly he’s not about to bust me for fucking around with his student. And, now that I’m sure that I’m not busted, I feel like a moron for worrying about it in the first place. I mean, seriously. We’re all adults.

Dr. Evans gets up and walks over to his filing cabinet where he pulls out a slim brown folder. He comes to the other side of the desk and hands it to me.

“Open it,” he urges.

Still confused, I do as he asks and glance down at the first page.

Mr. Wyatt Sands

3223 Clover Court

Baltimore, MD 21332

Johns Hopkins University

Baltimore, MD 21218

Dear Mr. Sands,

It is with great pleasure that we formally accept your transfer from Baltimore Community College. Having a talent such as yours join our program will be a fantastic addition to the John Hopkins campus and we’re delighted to be offering you a place here . . .

The letter goes on, describing Wyatt as an asset to the school, and I just stare at it, dumbfounded.

“Wyatt was accepted to Hopkins? For real?”

“For real,” Dr. Evans confirms.

I shake my head slowly. “This is amazing. Just . . . amazing. Have you told him?”

He gives me a sad smile. “Look at the date of acceptance, Carson.”

I blink rapidly, then glance up to the top of the letterhead.

It’s from over a year ago. Before the accident.

Dr. Evans sighs, then walks back around the desk to sit across from me.

“You see, the plan then was that Wyatt would finish out the semester here at BCC, then transfer over to JHU. Despite Wyatt’s belief to the contrary, he was a brilliant student—absolutely insightful. But he deferred the acceptance almost immediately, after he found out that his band had been offered an east coast tour. I tried to talk him out of it at least a dozen times. But Wyatt couldn’t let his buddies down.”

I bite down hard on the inside of my lip. I hate hearing that Wyatt would have passed up on such an amazing opportunity. Hate, but somehow understand it, too.

“So that’s why I need your help,” Dr. Evans continues. “Once he’s finished these credits, JHU has agreed to take him into their fall semester. But Wyatt has to finish these courses. They’re imperative in order for him to keep this acceptance.”

The professor leans forward and meets my gaze.

“Wyatt is a nontraditional student in every sense of the word. He’s older than the average undergrad by almost ten years. He’s a disabled drummer who is a transfer student. When it comes to JHU caliber, Wyatt breaks the mold. I just don’t want to see him lose this chance.”

“And what is it he would be going in for?” I ask, looking back down at the folder. “Does he have a major?”

Dr. Evans nods.

“Psychology—specifically music therapy, I think, but he was also looking into studying anxiety disorders, things of that nature.”

I inhale slowly. So when he saw me panic in his apartment—is his interest in me purely sexual? Or am I some kind of weird case study? Or both?

I shake my head. “Okay—so what can I do to help?”

Dr. Evans smiles and there’s a little gleam of mischief in his eye.

“Oh, I’m so very glad you asked.”

***

I’m staring out the window when Rainey gets home. In fact, I’m staring out the window when Rainey gets home, gets in the shower, and makes herself a sandwich. It isn’t until she sits down next to me and snaps her fingers an inch from my face that I manage to come back to present focus.

“Dude. What is
up
?” she asks, her eyes wide. “You’ve barely moved since I got home.”

“I know—sorry.” I shake my head a bit, as though to clear the cobwebs or at least my ever-present thoughts. “Today’s been . . . enlightening. To say the least.”

Rainey props both feet up on a nearby table and digs into her PB&J.

“So, lay it on me, then.”

I pick at my chipped purple nail polish, not meeting her gaze.

“Well, I guess I should probably start at the beginning. You remember back when I used to party all the time with Lennon? I was hitting up those biker bars and shit every weekend?” Rainey’s lip curls as she nods. “How could I forget?”

I shrug. “Well, so it turns out that I ran into Wyatt back in the day—like, ran into him in a . . . not exactly platonic sort of way.”

She blinks at me. “Dude, for real? You hooked up?”

I lick my lips, then nod. “Yeah. I don’t remember it all that well, to be honest.”

Rainey clicks her tongue at me. “Man. Forgetting a hookup with a hot piece like that is such a damn waste.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “I don’t exactly remember a lot from that time period, let’s just put it that way.”

“Fair enough.” Rainey takes a sip of her drink. “Anyway, so you hooked up and—what, he remembered and called you on not remembering?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s . . . um, well, we sort of started back where we left off when I was at his apartment.”

She lets out a gleeful whoop and dives in to hug me. “That’s my girl! I’m telling you, getting laid is good for the soul.”

I shake my head. “We didn’t take it quite that far.”

“Well, why the hell not?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair and letting it spike up in the front. “I mean, I’m his tutor, which I feel like is a little weird.”

“Please.” Rainey eyes me. “Cyn was Smith’s teacher and they’re practically married.”

“Well, I mean, she wasn’t really his teacher, considering he was working undercover.” She shrugs. “You know what I mean. Tutoring a guy who is finishing his college shit isn’t even close to being inappropriate So, when are you seeing Wyatt again?”

I can’t help but grin. “Tomorrow—we’re hitting up The Factory. Wanna come with?”

“Hmm, maybe.” Rainey checks her phone, her lips pursed in thought. “I’m not sure I’ve got someone to cover the shift at the Teen Scene gathering that night, but I can always come later on once the Y closes.”

I shake my head. “You know, Rain, I gotta hand it to you—you’ve really put yourself out there for these kids.”

She shrugs. “They need it—they need someone and, for a lot of them, it seems like I’m all they’ve got.”

I watch her face carefully when I ask, “Your parents still not talking to you?”

She shakes her head once.

“Still not talking. Still not taking my calls and still cutting off my credit cards.”

I sigh and grab her hand. “I’m sorry. I wish I understood where they were coming from.”

“Yeah, you and me both.”

She gets up, patting my shoulder, then walks back down the hall toward her room. I try to be diplomatic when I talk to Rainey about her family, but the truth is I could fucking throttle them for the way they’re treating her. Rainey comes from money. Like, crazy money—the kind that built this country and got passed down through generations. Her father’s family was in oil and her mom’s was in ships. I think their marriage was actually arranged, if you can believe that.

Anyway, Rainey’s sisters have all followed her parents’ very strict guidelines for college then marriage—and the only acceptable degrees were in law or medicine. When Rainey told her parents that she was entering a social work program instead of pursuing law school, they were furious. But when she actually graduated with the degree? Well, that’s when they finally cut her off.

So now Rainey continues to head to a downtown YMCA every day to run their extracurricular after-school program, and the day camps in the summer. She works her ass off and the pay isn’t great, but the truth is that I know she’s happier making her own rules and living her own life. She keeps saying her parents will come around. For her sake, I hope she’s right. I know what it’s like to be alienated from family.

Which reminds me . . .

I promised my mom I’d call Lennon last week and I never managed to get around to it. Well, the actual translation of that is that I pretty much avoided it at all costs. That being said, though, I sort of feel like I owe him the call. If nothing else, just to make sure he’s alive and kicking.

The phone only rings twice before going to voice mail and I roll my eyes—that’s a pretty obvious hang-up tactic that redirects the call instead of letting it continue ringing. I walk back to my bedroom and close the door before the beep sounds. When it does, I keep it short and sweet. Well, at least short.

“Yo, Lennon—it’s Carson. Long time no talk. I just wanted to check in and see how you were . . . what you were up to. Give me a call back.”

The truth is that, while I don’t really want to talk to my brother, I would like to know what the odds are that I could run into him on Friday with Wyatt. The last thing this relationship needs—assuming it’s a relationship at all—is a blast from the past reminding either of us of the downfalls of our former lives.

Instead, I just want to look at this as a chance to move forward.

And maybe, just maybe, the two of us moving forward together.