Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (9 page)

I am, like, legit nervous. It’s so incredibly bizarre.

I suppose it could partially be that I haven’t been on a real date in I don’t even know how long.

But with Wyatt? I mean, it’s new—sure. But it’s not the same kind of new as a first date without any history. In this case, Wyatt knows enough about my history and my friends that we have a fairly decent structure to build conversations on.

I agree to drive because, well, the other option is that Wyatt takes the shuttle downtown and, considering he wouldn’t do that to go to college, I don’t want to make him do it to get to the bar. I pull up outside of Holly Fields and my heart is practically beating out of my chest. I shift into park and look down at my outfit—black, off-the-shoulder top with metal studs along the neck and hem, a short denim skirt peeking out beneath, black netted stockings, and lace-up Fluevog boots. Sure, it’s a little edgy, but I know exactly the kind of shit I was sporting when I hooked up with Wyatt the first time—no panties beneath tiny dresses and the like—and I guess I feel like I should at least attempt to rival my sexy alter-ego with something equally provocative.

Movement at the automatic front doors catches my eye and I glance up to see Wyatt wheeling out of the building. My breath stutters a bit in my lungs and I force myself to inhale deeply and slowly.

He looks smoking hot. Like, smoking, smoking hot. He’s got on a well-worn concert tee—The Strokes, I think—beneath a faded button-down dress shirt. His jeans are broken in like his boots. It’s an effortless cool that he’s managed to pull off. I don’t know what it is about guys or musicians. I mean, I bet he literally just threw that shit on and decided it worked. I, on the other hand, thought about my outfit all week.

As he wheels closer, Wyatt smiles, and I notice he’s filled the spaces in his ears with thick black plugs that are at least a zero gauge. He’s wearing a ring on each hand—heavy silver pieces that have some kind of carvings—and a thin chain around his neck to boot.

I’ve legitimately never seen anyone look this sexy. And for the first time, the wheelchair is the last thing about Wyatt that I notice—it isn’t until he’s at the passenger door that I remember I’ll need to heave it into the back of the Jeep.

I climb out of the driver’s side and meet Wyatt at the passenger door, where he’s already levered himself up into the Jeep. He gives me a grin.

“Thanks for being my chauffer this evening—you’re way hotter than the shuttle driver, even on his best day.”

Inexplicably, I can feel my cheeks color a bit and I busy myself folding and stowing the wheelchair. I don’t know what it is about Wyatt Sands but he makes me feel young and infatuated and completely incapable of being coy or witty like I normally would be. I manage to pull myself together by the time I get back to the driver’s seat.

“Look, I don’t mind being your chauffer,” I counter, cocking an eyebrow, “as long as you don’t call me Jeeves or Belvedere or something.”

“Deal.” Wyatt holds out a fist and I bump mine against it. I’m about to shift the car back into drive when he wraps his long fingers around my wrist and pulls me closer, until my face his mere inches from his.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he murmurs in a low voice. I nod slowly, hypnotized by those chocolate eyes. He reaches out and brushes a thumb over my cheekbone. “I’ve been looking forward to this night all week long.”

“Oh yeah?” I narrow my eyes a bit as though to examine him. “Even when you were supposed to be finishing that research project?”

He yanks me a little closer and I feel my heart speed its already pounding rhythm.

“
Especially
when I was supposed to be finishing my project,” he almost growls. “All I could think about was the last time you were up in my room with me, straddling my lap and sucking my neck.”

Oh sweet Jesus.

We need to get out of here before I decide going right back upstairs is the best move after all. But even though the idea alone of going back to The Factory makes my heart palpitate a bit too much for my liking, I know that this experience will be completely different than the ones in the past, save our recent lunch there. The last time either Wyatt or I were at The Factory after dark, we were different people in so many ways. Now I hope we can start something new there together.

As we make the drive into town, Wyatt has me laughing with stories about Holly Fields. Cyn’s dad, Gary, has apparently started spending time with a new female patient named Patricia. Rocky, another Holly Fields resident, is also smitten with her, so there’s been an old fashioned courting ritual happening.

“On Wednesday, Gary sent Patricia a dozen roses, so on Thursday, Rocky had two dozen delivered, along with a teddy bear the size of an armchair.” Wyatt shakes his head. “It’s ridiculous.” I grin over at him.

“Gary’s a total sap, too. He still gets Valentine’s Day chocolates for Cyn every year. I can only imagine how much he’s got planned for this poor woman.”

“Nah. She’s eating it up.” Wyatt glances at me, then back out the windshield. “From my experience, I’ve noticed that women like to be overappreciated rather than forgotten.”

I smirk. “Fair enough.”

In the dark car, I feel Wyatt’s palm slide over my upper thigh and squeeze. I swallow hard, forcing myself to look straight ahead at the road and not down at his hand.

Once we make it downtown, I park in an hourly lot that’s open at night. You aren’t allowed to park here all night—I’ve made the mistake of leaving my Jeep here a few times until morning and got nailed with a hefty ticket. I figure tonight should be safe, considering that I’m the designated driver and this night is more about just getting out there again—breaking the social seal, with Wyatt by my side.

Wyatt looks far more relaxed than I feel, so he’s either a fantastic faker or far more confident than I will ever be. I am practically quaking in my boots and I feel the surge of anxiety traveling up into my chest and blooming outward through the rest of my body.

“So, I mean, I know we were here last week,” I say slowly as I shift in to park, “but, I have to be honest—I’m sort of freaking.”

“Yeah?” Wyatt cocks a brow and shifts toward me. “Freaking about what?”

I shrug. “Nothing specific, but . . . It’s been months since I’ve hit this place up at night. We’re going on a weekend when I’m sure I’ll recognize half the clientele—or, more accurately, they’ll recognize me. The me I used to be, that is. Not to mention . . . well, I really don’t want to backslide into any bad habits.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Maybe. But the truth is, Carson, you’ve got a pretty great decoy to distract from that.”

I frown. “Decoy?”

He gestures down at his legs. “I’ll be in a wheelchair, remember? Frankly, most people can’t see past the chair to my face, let alone who is with me. I think you’ll be fine.”

I bite my lip. “You know, when you say shit like that, it makes me feel like a shallow asshole.”

Wyatt grins and his smile is practically a light source in the way it enlivens his face.

“Sorry. It’s a character flaw. You aren’t shallow. Or an asshole.”

“Thanks,” I snort.

“But I meant what I said,” he says, grabbing my hand from the gear shift and squeezing. “People are blinded by disability. They see what they want and that rarely involves faces.”

I swallow. “Okay. Well, then let’s do this shit.”

He reaches out his fist and I bump it. As I pull away, he grabs my wrist gently and pulls my hand to his mouth. He brushes his lips over my knuckles and his eyes never leave mine. I can feel a loosening deep within me and I can’t deny that this simple romantic gesture already has my panties wet.

The music from the bar is practically a physical entity. It spills out onto the street from open doors and windows, mingling with the sound of raucous laughter and conversation. There are at least a dozen people crowding the stoops and smoking cigarettes. There’s a small outdoor seating area that is packed with bodies. If the exterior is any indication of the interior, we may not even make it inside at all.

But despite Wyatt’s warning about people not seeing his face, the bouncer at the front door recognizes him almost immediately.

“No shit! Hot Hands Sands!”

Wyatt grins up at the burly, bald man standing by the door. He reaches up to shake his hand.

“Moses. Fuck man, how ya been? How’s Tracy?”

Moses scrubs a hand over his head and gives us an almost sheepish smile. “Pregnant again, if you can believe it.”

“No shit?” Wyatt smirks. “What is that, number four?”

“Yup.” Moses crosses his arms. He looks almost proud. “What can I say, I got great sperm and we make cute babies.”

Wyatt and I both laugh at that. He glances over at me, then gestures to Moses. “Moses and I have known each other for a decade—Moses, this is Carson, my . . .”

He pauses, watching me, then lets the smile unfurl over his lips.

“My tutor.”

I snort a laugh, then reach out to shake Moses’ hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Moses gives me a look that says he recognizes me and he isn’t entirely sure in what context. I glance down at my shoes as he waves Wyatt and I past the line by the door and into the club.

Once we’re inside, there’s an almost familiar glow about the entire room. Last time we were here for lunch, the environment was cheerful, almost sunny compared to this. This mass of reddish light and shadowed spaces is something almost exactly opposite. The booths we sat at once before are full of men and women in various states of rocker dress. There are ripped jeans and leather jackets, concert tees and fishnets. The entire space is wall-to-wall people and the music coming from the stage is, frankly, less like a melody and more like a mess. I lean down to speak in Wyatt’s ear.

“Who’s playing?” I ask him, unable to prevent my grimace.

He glances at my face and chuckles. “It’s the Stone Masons. They’re . . . not exactly refined musicians.”

I cock an eyebrow, but don’t say anything to that. Instead, I motion to a small table along the wall with a single empty chair.

“Let’s snag that while we can, then I can grab a few drinks.”

Wyatt nods and we start to move, but the trek across the floor, only fifty feet or so from the door, proves almost impossible with a wheelchair involved. I start in front of him, tapping on shoulders and asking people to move over or shift or step aside. The music blasts, though, and many people can’t hear me or just ignore me completely.

When I don’t make any progress, Wyatt grabs my hand and pulls me to one side of the bar a few feet away. He motions to an open stool.

“Hop up there and order us a few drinks.”

I glance around at the throngs of people, all of whom tower over Wyatt in his wheelchair. When my eyes meet his again, he shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he yells out. “Seriously.”

I bite my lip, but nod, then turn toward the bartender. There are a few of them tonight—all busy, all sweating, and I know the easiest thing to ask for are bottles of beer, so that’s what I order.

“Two PBRs, please,” I half shout at the man behind the bar. He gives a curt nod, then places the bottles in front of me. It isn’t until he sees Wyatt behind me that his eyes sparkle to life.

“Wyatt-motherfucking-Sands!”

He drops everything and comes darting out from behind the bar. Without even a pause, he dives into Wyatt’s arms and practically sits on his lap as he hugs him.

“Goddamn it, it’s been a long time. I heard you were in here for lunch and I about shit myself—where the fuck you been hiding, man?”

Wyatt gives a shrug and smiles up at his friend. “I’ve been around, Danny. I just had to get my head on straight.”

Danny the bartender nods, his expression fading into something far off and sad.

“I’m so sorry about Zeb. About the accident. About—”

Wyatt waves a hand and shakes his head. “Naw, man, it’s fine. I’m here to relax and hang out. Let’s leave the past in the past.”

Danny nods at that, then motions at the bar.

“Well, anything you want tonight is on the house, brother. Welcome back. Welcome home.”

Danny hops up, then starts barreling forward toward the stage. Before I realize what’s happening, The Stone Masons’ amp makes a loud whine and Danny’s got the microphone gripped in one hand.

“Yo—The Factory has a special guest with us this evening. Mr. Wyatt ‘Hot Hands’ Sands, former drummer of Mortal Enemy and all-around badass is up here at the bar. Come buy him a shot or two or seven!”

There’s a collective whoop from the crowd and at least a dozen people come moving toward Wyatt. When our eyes meet, I duck down and ask, “Is this okay? Do you want me to get you out of here?”

I’d like to think that this is a selfless question, but I know the truth. My heart is slamming against my chest and my breath is coming in short, choppy gusts. I’m starting to panic and I want to run, but Wyatt is shaking his head.

“I’m fine—don’t worry about it.”

I nod, inhaling as slowly as possible, just as a girl teeters over on high-heeled boots and squeals as she leans down to hug Wyatt. She manages to shove her cleavage right into his face in the process.

“Wy, baby, how are you? God, I can’t believe you’re stuck in this thing!”

The girl motions to his wheelchair with an expression of distaste and I seriously consider decking her. Or at the very least slapping her across the face. But Wyatt just shoots her a sexy half grin and shrugs.

“I dunno, Presley, I think it puts me at just the right level.”

He gives her ample bosom a significant look and she giggles. I roll my eyes at him, but he winks back at me, then reaches to grab my hand.

“Meet my girl, Carson,” he says, pulling me closer to him. “Carson, this is Presley. She dates Danny, the bartender.”

“Howdy!” Presley wraps her arms around me in a hug I’m barely able to reciprocate, mostly because I’m still thinking about Wyatt’s introduction.

His girl, huh? Is that what I am?

“Wy-Guy here is, like, a total sweetheart,” Presley says, nodding emphatically and chomping on her gum. “Like, he’s one of the only guys who’s never tried to grab my tits and, trust me, that says something.”