Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (3 page)

Drool.

It’s the first thought in my head, since it’s all over my face and the pillow beneath it.

And my second thought?

“Am I naked?”

“No, and that’s a damn shame,” Rainey drawls. She snorts a laugh and I shift over on the foldout bed to see her sprawled next to me. I roll my eyes.

“What?” she asks, giving me an innocent smile. “Never woken up with a girl in your bed before?”

“Nah, they’re just usually hotter,” I shoot back.

I push up with both hands, squinting. It takes me a second to remember where we crashed last night. When I do, I want to groan.

The morning sunlight shafts into the room through filmy curtains. Last night I couldn’t see the décor of Wyatt’s apartment. Now I’m sort of surprised with what I find. I’ve seen Mr. Hendricks’s apartment before—some fairly basic furnishings that you’d expect from assisted living. Here, Wyatt’s clearly put his own stamp on things. The durable fabric couches have been replaced with dark leather ones, including the foldout we crashed on. The walls are painted a deep gray and there’s framed artwork on the walls that’s abstract versions of skulls and musical instruments. It’s a lot grittier than the stereotypical pastel flower arrangements or landscapes you find in medical facilities.

I lever myself up and pad over toward an extra-large print on the living room wall. I narrow my eyes at the white splotches, haphazardly thrown against a deep midnight background. When I get closer, though, I realize they aren’t splotches at all.

They’re birds.

Some are falling, some are diving. All of them are slightly blurred, as though made of light.

“Kick ass,” I murmur.

“That’s a Ross Bleckner.”

I jump at the sound of Wyatt’s voice, then turn to find him in the doorway of the bedroom. He’s leaning forward in his wheelchair, both elbows anchored to his knees. He’s watching me in a way that brings my entire body to life.

“It’s amazing,” I finally manage, smiling at him. “I’ve never heard of Bleckner.”

“He’s the shit.”

Wyatt’s eyes haven’t left my face and I start feeling my cheeks grow warm. I take in his casual dress—dark green T-shirt, loose jeans, and bare feet. His hair is wet from a morning shower.

I wonder if the water was hot. I wonder if he showers with a chair or if he takes a bath. Or if he uses soap or shower gel.

And now all I can think about is Wyatt naked and wet.

“So,” Rainey says brightly, breaking into my very explicit daydream, “who’s making coffee?”

Wyatt shoots his sexy side-grin at my best friend and I feel a stab of jealousy that I immediately tamp down. I am too old and have no right to be feeling anything like territorial bullshit. Instead, I inspect my reflection in the glass of the picture and rearrange my short hair into something sort of resembling a spiky P!nk-inspired do.

“Decaf or high-octane, ladies?”

“Ugh, I need
all
the caffeine this morning,” Rainey moans. She pushes herself to standing and bounds over toward the island.

“Yeah, me too.” I move to sit beside her, still looking around at the décor.

“You look confused, Carson.”

Wyatt pushes a full mug of coffee across the counter toward me. I take it, then shake my head.

“No, I just—your apartment looks really different from Cyn’s dad’s. It’s more . . . customized.”

He gives a little shrug, then wheels back toward the coffeemaker. “I got a pretty big settlement after the accident. Figured I might as well deck out my pad if I’m gonna be stuck in assisted living.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you—I can’t imagine not having control over my surroundings.”

As soon as I say it, I realize it sounds horribly insensitive. I mean, isn’t he pretty much out of control of most aspects of his life now? Still, he’s nodding at me, then gestures to a wall of concert posters at the far end of the kitchen.

“That’s why I surround myself with what I know—at least until I get back to it.”

I look down at my hands, unsure about what to say to that. Rainey spins a bit on her stool, taking a sip of her coffee. She motions to the posters.

“Dude. I freaking love Neon Trees.”

I look at Wyatt through my lashes. He’s gazing now at the posters, too. For a second, he looks sad.

“Those are actually mine,” he says. He maneuvers over to the wall and points to a smaller chartreuse flyer. “Mortal Enemy—that’s . . . that was my band.”

I stare at him. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Dude! I totally remember you—I mean, I remember your band. You guys rocked.”

Now I know why Wyatt’s always looked so familiar—I’m positive I saw Mortal Enemy play at least once in the last year. Wait—was it last year? Maybe the year before? Admittedly, my nights are a little blurry from that time period.

Regardless, I swear I can remember seeing Wyatt play. He’d been just as hot then as he is now, but in a different way. He’d had a shaved head, I think. Definitely still covered in tats.

I close my eyes and I can picture him playing the drums. If I remember right, he was completely adrenalized. Like he could fly if you gave him the chance. He’d seemed fearless.

“Um, Cars?”

I open my eyes at the sound of Rainey’s voice. Wyatt is staring at me with one brow raised.

“Sorry—uh . . . you guys were good,” I finish lamely.

“Thanks,” he responds, sniffing. “It—there are lots of good memories from all of that.”

Which makes me feel like a complete asshole. Probably the last thing he needs is a reminder of all he’d lost and I’d just sat there gushing about it like a fucking groupie.

“Well, listen, thanks for the coffee,” I say, slurping down the rest of my mug. “I’ve got a work meeting later and I should probably at least attempt to go home and put on something presentable.”

I move back over to the armchair where I’d left my purse and shoes. I start lacing up my motorcycle boots, forcing myself not to look up at Wyatt again. Rainey, God bless her, manages to keep a rolling conversation about Cyn and Smith and Mr. Hendricks while I busy myself looking for my car keys.

“The shuttle can take you back to Dino’s for your car,” Wyatt says. He wheels closer to me and I realize he’s holding my key ring in one hand. Smiling weakly, I reach for it. I can feel the tips of his calloused fingers brush against my knuckles as he turns my wrist and places my key ring in my palm.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” he asks.

I blink at him.

“Tomorrow?” It takes me a second to remember our tutoring arrangement. “Oh. Right. Tomorrow. Of course.”

His eyes twinkle a little and he gives a shrug.

“I mean, if you’re rethinking tutoring me, I certainly wouldn’t blame you. I am a huge pain in the ass . . .”

I shake my head, maybe a little too adamantly. “No, no—I’ll be here tomorrow for sure. And thanks—for letting us crash here.”

For a second, I think Wyatt’s going to wheel closer—but after a moment’s hesitation, he just shrugs and gives me a smile.

“Anytime, Carson. Anytime.”

***

Deep breaths.

Inhaling slowly, I run a hand through my hair. I’m sure it’s sticking straight up now. Good thing I can rock a faux-hawk when given the option.

Now I squint up at the building in front of me.

Baltimore City Board of Education.

God, I don’t want to be here.

It’s been almost six months since I decided not to finish my master’s degree in teaching, but I still come to the Board of Ed on a regular basis to pick up my tutoring assignments and my paycheck. I’ve been tutoring for the county’s program for years, but I still find the place to be imposing—and it sort of is with its large gothic-style doorway, a few gargoyles peering down at you from a perch that’s a little too crumbly for comfort. Like most historic buildings in the heart of Baltimore, there’s a lot more falling apart than there is staying together.

This time I guess I do have a little more reason to be nervous. I’m having the come-to-Jesus talk with my boss about getting more work. The one-on-one sessions I’ve been doing? Well, there isn’t a lot of money in them. I could run some college-essay-writing workshops or some SAT study sessions for juniors and seniors in high school, but a lot of tutors who have their master’s degrees, unlike me, are holding similar workshops for free.

And let’s be honest—I can’t afford to do
anything
for free right now.

I know what I need to do. I need to go back to school. I need to finish my degree and get a real job. But that would require me admitting that I need some assistance, some help. That I need to go talk to someone about getting my anxiety in check. And right now? Well, that just feels far too daunting to even attempt.

I swallow hard, then reach for the door handle. If I had any other option, I’d be driving out of this parking lot with my foot on the gas and the Board of Ed in my rearview mirror. It’s times like this when I realize that, despite all the therapy, I still have absolutely no control over my anxiety.

Here’s the thing about having an anxiety disorder—it’s sort of like living in Tornado Alley: You know the storms exist, you know they could come anytime, but you still have to live every day like the tornado will never come. That’s how I’ve always felt when it comes to my panic attacks, even before I realized that they were panic attacks at all. Initially, when they first started happening in high school, I was sure I was dying, that my heart was stopping or about to explode. Now I know better and, usually, I can calm myself down.

The problem, of course, is that for a long time calming myself down meant self-medicating. Without that—well, it was more challenging to work through my struggles.

Still, it’s only really stressful situations that make me start to sweat—like a meeting at the Board of Ed. Or intense situations—like spending the night at Wyatt’s last night.

Just thinking about Wyatt again gives me a physical reaction—but I can’t exactly call it panic. More like arousal.

I shake my head now, as though to shake him out of it. Thinking about Wyatt Sands isn’t going to do me any favors now. I just need to keep my composure long enough to convince my contact here that I need more hours and more clients.

I throw my shoulders back and with a last glance at myself in the mirrored glass, I pull open the door and walk inside.

“Fuck me.”

I tear at the edge of my now-soggy napkin, trying to hold back the tears. Cyn gives me a sympathetic look, but she doesn’t say anything. She knows better than to try and placate me when I’m this upset. It’s been two days since my meeting at the Board of Ed and I’m still a hot mess. Right now I’m weeping into cocktail napkins and vodka tonics at an early afternoon happy hour. And it hasn’t been much different for the past forty-eight hours.

“I mean—I get what he was saying,” I admit. “They aren’t going to give me more work when they want highly qualified tutors. Almost everyone in the program has a master’s degree, except for me.”

“I didn’t realize tutoring was so competitive,” Cyn says.

I shrug. “The work is steady, it’s good money, and you make your own schedule. I think a lot of teachers are tutoring on the side for extra cash. And, of course, their credentials look a lot better than ‘grad school dropout.’”

Cyn clucks her tongue. “You didn’t
drop out
. You just haven’t finished your degree. You’re—what—twelve credits away?”

“Nine,” I mumble. I go back to picking at my napkin.

“Nine, then. That’s three classes—not even a full semester.”

I give a half shrug. She’s right in the sense that it’s not a heavy load. The problem, of course, was that I never quite made it through my student teaching, which is three credits in itself. I got through a few weeks of observations, but by the time it was actually my turn to stand up there and teach a bunch of unruly middle schoolers—well, let’s just say the threat of full-on panic attacks came back with a vengeance.

“I guess,” I finally say. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just get a part-time job somewhere else. Isn’t the Starbucks on Lombard hiring?”

Cyn shakes her head. “Absolutely not—you are meant to be a teacher, Cars. You know it. I know it. All you have to do is finish your degree and I guarantee the city will hire you for next semester.”

“Maybe.”

Assuming, of course, that I even
want
to work as a teacher.

What Cyn doesn’t get—what I can’t even really articulate to her—is that tutoring is a whole other animal. It’s one-on-one, with more personal attention and less wrangling. It’s about the material you’re teaching and not some sort of arbitrary state test that measures absolutely nothing but memorization or luck. The truth is that I lost a little faith in teaching after seeing how teachers were required to hold students to a standard that they didn’t even set themselves. To go back, I’d need to conquer both my anxiety and my disgust for the system, which feels even more impossible at the moment.

But I don’t say that to Cyn. She’s a great teacher. She loves her job, even though she teaches some of the toughest students in Baltimore at the Franklin School. And she’s great at it.

Me? Not so much.

I mean, Cyn has the fight reflex. I have the flight one. Some people think that my short, jet-black hair, leather accessories, and rocker vibe make me tough as nails, but the truth is that my exterior is lying like a boss. I cower at horror movies, I cry at weddings, and there’s nothing I hate more than feeling like I don’t belong—which is exactly how I felt in the front of that middle school classroom.

And it’s how I felt in my boss’s office yesterday when he told me there wasn’t any more work for me. Sighing, I toss back the remainder of my vodka tonic.

Cyn watches as I set down my glass.

“Isn’t your tutoring session with Wyatt tonight?” she asks. Her eyebrows are raised so high they’re almost at her hairline. I just shrug and swallow down the lump of nerves that’s already beginning to take root in my throat.

“Yeah, at eight.”

I say it as nonchalantly as I can manage, but Cyn looks almost knowing. She smiles and stirs her drink with her straw.

“Rainey said you guys crashed there Sunday night? Sounds cozy.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because we were trashed. I slept on a pullout couch with our mutual best friend who, as you know, hogs the covers. And likes to sleep naked.”

Cyn grins.

“That she does.” She stretches her legs out in front of her and picks at the lint on her dress pants. “She also said that you and Wyatt were basically having sex with your eyes over coffee all morning.”

I shake my head.

“No, it’s not like that. I mean, there’s definitely chemistry between us. At least—I think there’s chemistry. He’s hard to read.”

I start playing with my napkin again and Cyn takes a sip of her amaretto sour.

“I know this goes without saying, but he’s been through a whole hell of a lot, Cars. I’d imagine he has a lot of demons to face. I’m sure it isn’t easy recovering from brain surgery, let alone a car accident that killed your best friend.”

Cyn’s gaze meets mine and I know there’s no use in hiding the curiosity in my expression. She would be able to see right through my bullshit and bluster.

“Tell me about the accident,” I say. “About . . . about what happened to him.”

Cyn sighs and fiddles with a bracelet. “I only know what Dad’s told me. Wyatt doesn’t really talk about it.”

“Yeah—I guess that would be hard.”

She nods. “Apparently he and a bandmate were heading home after a gig at a bar downtown. They were both drinking and the bandmate was driving. Somehow, they skidded off the road and ended up flipping over. Wyatt was pulled from the car, but I don’t think his friend made it out. And I know that he didn’t survive it.”

There’s a twinge of something—something like familiarity.

“And Wyatt’s injuries were obviously serious,” I say. Cyn sniffs.

“Yeah. Head injury. He had brain surgery within the first few hours after the accident, then a bunch of other procedures since then. Now he’s done with surgery, but he still has trouble with everyday tasks—using a fork or a pen, typing, tying his shoes. That’s why he’s still at Holly Fields.”

I wince. “Christ. That’s just so depressing—I mean, he’s
our
age.”

Cyn’s expression is grim. “I know.”

I think about how it would feel to lose the ability to do something as simple as checking my email or buttering my toast. I shake my head.

“That’s brutal.” I glance at my phone, then feel a surge of something like trepidation. In a few hours, I’ll be sitting with Wyatt, working with him, and trying not to remember how much he’s suffered. His struggles make mine feel self-indulgent. Maybe I can start to forget the hurt I’ve endured or the pain I’ve caused myself and my family by beginning to help someone else.

I just need to force myself not to hook up with him before that kind of redemption can occur.

***

When you walk into Holly Fields Assisted Living, it doesn’t really look hospital-like. Or even nursing home–like. Frankly, it just looks like a really nice apartment building but, instead of a doorman, there’s a friendly-looking lady sitting at a desk near the front.

“Who you here to see, hon?” she asks with a Baltimorean lilt. I smile at her.

“Um, I’m meeting—”

“Carson.”

I turn to see Wyatt sitting in the common area to the left of the front desk. For a second, my mouth goes a little dry. Somehow, I seem to forget how unbelievably gorgeous he is every time I’m away from him. Then, as soon as I see him again, it all comes rushing back to me.

Or rushing into me, like a smoking-hot brick wall.

I move in his direction, trying to think of something intelligent or witty to say.

Wyatt’s hair is dark blond and, in the sun filtering in through the large bay window, his short-shorn locks look almost golden. Today, he’s wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt and his forearms are a riot of color, completely sleeved with tattoos. I shift my gaze to his biceps, which are practically bulging out of the sleeves. I’ve heard that about guys in wheelchairs, that their upper bodies build ridiculous strength. Honestly, though, I bet Wyatt was in amazing shape prior to his accident. His chest and shoulders are built like a wrestler’s and they taper down into a slim waist. I’m not sure how tall he is, but his legs are long and he’s wearing black leather boots beneath ripped jeans.

Now he gives me a lopsided smile. He’s got a dusting of dark stubble and his tan is deep, despite it barely being the beginning of summer.

“Hey,” I finally manage to spit out. “I—uh—wasn’t sure if I was supposed to come up or . . .”

I trail off and Wyatt shrugs.

“I figured we could work down here—considering I haven’t really explained what I’m looking for. I thought we could walk through the basics.”

I nod. “Okay. Sure.”

He motions for me to sit in a comfortable-looking armchair across from him. I attempt to sidestep his wheelchair and, in the process, my skirt gets caught on the brake lever.

“Shit—I’m sorry.”

Flustered, I reach down to pull the cotton fabric away, but it snags even worse on a metal bolt. I start to yank hard just as Wyatt grabs my wrist. His touch is gentle but firm as he guides my hand away, then deftly extricates my skirt from his chair.

“Not the first time I’ve gotten clothes caught in this thing,” he says, clearly amused. Carefully, he pulls the rest of the fabric from the wheelchair’s grip and lets it fall down against me. When the cotton brushes my bare skin, a tingle moves up my leg and settles right into my belly.

“Sorry,” I say again, feeling a flush travel over my cheeks. I wish I could wipe it away.

“It’s not a problem,” he assures me.

“Okay, good. Well, why don’t we sit?” I say, attempting a bright smile, which then completely falters when I look down at Wyatt.

Sitting.

In a wheelchair.

“Oh, God. I—um—I didn’t mean—”

Wyatt grins and shakes his head, then leans forward to balance both elbows on his knees.

“Okay, Carson—clearly we’re gonna need to have
the talk
.”

“The talk?”

He nods and I close my eyes before sinking down into the chair, wishing I could just keep on going and exit out beneath it. I wait for the “Thanks for being an insensitive asshole” opener. Instead, I hear Wyatt chuckle and I look at him.

“Listen, I’m in a wheelchair. I
know
I’m in a wheelchair. You getting your clothing caught in my chair isn’t any kind of reminder that I can’t walk. Neither is asking me to sit down when I’m already sitting. So, chill, okay? Seriously, it’s all good.”

Yeah. I’d like to disappear right now.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. But Wyatt holds up a hand.

“Nope. None of that. Remember, you’re doing me a favor by helping me out with this.”

I snort a little laugh. “Um, yeah—a favor you’re paying me for.”

Wyatt grins. “Fair enough.”

“So,” I say, toying with a lock of my hair, “can I ask you a question?”

“Sure—shoot.”

I cock my head, taking in Wyatt’s relaxed, easygoing demeanor. He really is incredibly easy to talk to.

“I was thinking about your band, your music—you were really great.”

He raises a brow. “Thanks, but that’s not actually a question.”

I shake my head. “No, what I meant was—well, what is it that made you want to finish your degree? I mean, you’ve found so much success musically?”

Wyatt smiles, then shrugs. “You know how your teachers always tell you to have a backup plan in case your dreams don’t work out? Well, drumming was my everything—I had no backup plan. Now, I need to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”

I watch his expression. I wonder if that means he’s going to stop playing music entirely. It would be such a waste. He was so incredibly talented.

“So, should we get started?” he asks, slapping both thighs with his palms.

“Sure.”

He motions to the table beside me at a stack of folders and two large books.

“So, I’ve met with my advisor, and basically it looks like I just need—well, help, really. Typing papers, taking stuff to the college, keeping track of when assignments are due. It sure as shit ain’t glamorous, but I can double whatever you’re making tutoring now, if that helps. I’ve got the cash—just not a lot of people willing to do the work.”

I pick up one of the folders and start flipping through the pages inside, which, by the look of them, are for some kind of musical theory course.

“So, it sounds like it’ll be a lot of dictation, right? Typing what you say out loud, delivering the work to your professors . . .” I trail off, shrugging. “Doesn’t sound too taxing.”

“It shouldn’t be, just time-consuming.” Wyatt tilts his head to one side. His eyes crinkle at each corner as though he’s got a permanent laugh reserved, just waiting to be used at the exact right moment. I really can’t get over how someone who lives in Central Maryland could look so much like a California surfer.

“So, are you in?” he asks, watching me. I look down at the folder in my hands, then back up at the beautiful man in front of me. I consider the facts:

Hot guy.

Quick cash.

Easy work.

“Yeah,” I say, matching Wyatt’s grin with one of my own. “I’m in.”

“Great!” he looks thrilled and I feel a ripple of pleasure run over my spine “Let’s get started.”