Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (5 page)

“So.” Dr. Evans shuffles through a stack of papers and I snap my face forward, blinking rapidly. “Wyatt is quite close to finishing his associate degree in psychology—just nine credits away.”

Nine credits. Seems like Wyatt and I have more in common than I thought.

“Once he takes care of these last three classes, he’ll be able to transfer to any college he wants.”

He gives Wyatt a pointed look that I’m not positive I understand, but we quickly move on.

“So, we’ve got your Gen Ed business course, your educational psych, and . . .” Dr. Evans trails off as he flips through his paperwork. “Human sexuality.”

I almost choke on my own breath. I attempt to play it off as a cough, but I can feel Wyatt’s eyes on me.

“Right—well, Ms. Tucker—”

“Carson, please,” I manage to say, smiling at Dr. Evans. I refuse—absolutely
refuse—
to look at Wyatt.

“Carson, of course. Wyatt says you’re a teacher.”

“Ah, not exactly—the two of us are actually in a similar situation. I’m a few credits shy of my master’s degree. I still need to finish my student teaching internship before I actually get into the classroom.”

“So you’re tutoring full-time for now?” Nervously, I lick my lips. I feel like I’m being examined, and it’s not by this student advisor. The heat of Wyatt’s gaze is unavoidable. From my peripheral vision, I can see that he’s smiling at me.

“Basically, yes—I tutor middle and high school students. Wyatt’s my first college-level client.”

Dr. Evans is nodding thoughtfully and he takes down a few notes.

“So, our goal, then, will be to get Wyatt through the remainder of his courses over this summer. By fall, he’ll be able to attend other institutions that have accepted him if that’s the case.”

I turn and blink at Wyatt. “Other institutions?”

His eyes dart from Dr. Evans to me, then he shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

I open my mouth to ask more, but he’s releasing his parking brakes and leaning a gloved hand out to Dr. Evans.

“Always a pleasure, Doc. I’m sure Carson here will keep you posted on my progress.”

Dr. Evans looks as surprised as I am by the abrupt shift, but he stands and smoothes down the front of his jacket before reaching to shake Wyatt’s hand, then mine.

“Of course. Carson, Wyatt gave me all of your contact information. Here’s my card.” He hands me a white business card with black embossing. “Please feel free to contact me anytime with any questions or concerns.”

“Absolutely. Thank you, sir.”

Wyatt is already halfway out the door as I stow the business card in my bag. I walk a few feet behind him, my eyes locked on his neck where I can see the very top of a tattoo peeking out from his collar. In that moment, I’m desperate to find out what it is—script? Symbols? An animal? Something I couldn’t even begin to guess?

That hint of a tattoo reminds me of my dream—the dark sexiness of the long table and ebony chairs. A shiver runs through me and I feel a flush skate across my skin. By the time we make it out of the Student Affairs office and into the hallway, I’m desperate for air.

For more than just air, if I’m being really honest.

“So.”

He pulls this maneuver—I’m not sure what to call it. It’s sort of a skidding swivel until he’s facing me, one eyebrow cocked in a sexy little arch.

“So,” I echo, crossing my hands over my chest. It’s freezing in here and my blouse is about as thin as a whisper. I can feel my nipples hardening and I’m not sure if I should blame it on the cold air or something else entirely.

“You wanna grab a coffee while we’re on campus? I’ve got some time to kill until the shuttle comes back.”

I glance over at the beverage kiosk—a sad little stand with a very sexy co-ed manning it. She’s got shorts on that could hardly pass as underwear. I feel the undesirable need to bare my teeth at her.

“What if—why don’t we run across to Reuben’s?” I suggest. “Their coffee is the best and they’ve got great muffins.”

Wyatt gazes down at his lap and then I realize what he’s looking at—his chair. When he looks back up, he’s asking the question without asking the question. I feel like a total dick, but I’m just nodding and grinning like some kind of vapid cheerleader.

“Oh, sure, yeah, no worries, that’ll fit in the Jeep, no problem.”

Jesus, Carson. Babble much?

“Cool.” Wyatt gestures in front of me with a gloved hand. “Please, lead the way.”

I start for the double doors, feeling a nervous little ball of energy travel from my throat to my belly. I mean, I’m used to guys who are assholes not doing things like driving me places or opening doors. As I hold the door for Wyatt to wheel through, I wonder about the line between patronizing and necessary. Helpful and fucking annoying. I’d imagine that line gets awful blurry when you can’t walk or drive for yourself.

We get to the Jeep and, to his credit, Wyatt’s clearly got this shit down to a science. I click the unlock button on my key fob and he swings the passenger door open. He kicks up his foot rests, then manages to push up with both arms and leverage himself into the Jeep’s front seat. He seems to be putting some weight or pressure on his legs as he adjusts, then reaches down to fold up his wheelchair, pulling up on the seat until it flattens into a slightly more manageable version of its former self.

“Should stash right into the back,” he says, smiling. I bite my lip on my own little grin. This guy’s confidence is such a killer for me—I mean, not only is he hot and a musician, but he also rocks the wheelchair like it’s just another part of him. Like he owns it, not the other way around.

It’s lighter than I expected it to be and, like he said, easy to tuck it into the back compartment of the Jeep. Once I’ve got it lodged in place and the trunk door down, I come around to the driver’s side and open my door.

“So, we’re good with Reuben’s?”

He shrugs, then glances at his watch. “Actually . . . would you mind if we went a little farther? I know a great lunch spot.”

“Oh—sure. That works.” I should probably be working on drumming up more tutoring work or finding a job to supplement my income, or maybe attempting to meet with my own advisor about my delayed graduation date, but lunch with Wyatt is far too tempting to pass up.

Still, it isn’t until we’re on the expressway and headed into Baltimore city that I finally manage to speak. Starting first, of course, with an uncomfortably garbled and awkward throat clearing.

“Um,” I cough, “where did you want to go?”

“It’s down in Federal Hill—there should be plenty of parking.”

“Oh. Um, great.”

Because that’s what I was worried about—traffic and the accommodations of my vehicle. Totally.

“Your band used to play locally, right?”

Wyatt glances at me. I can see a small smile play over his lips.

“Yeah. You hang around that scene a lot still?”

“Now?”

He nods and I snort a little laugh.

“No, not really. I mean, there was a time that I went out a lot—it was easier than facing the pressure of school. But I’m trying to get my shit together and all that.”

“Right,” he says. “Well, that’s a good thing.” He turns to look out the window and I want to swallow my own tongue. As hot as he is full-on, that profile is beyond sexy. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to take a guy home, to hide under my covers with him until all my problems have seemingly disappeared.

Wyatt makes me want to be that girl again, but different. Better. A better version of the girl I used to be.

He directs me through the downtown streets and I’m only half paying attention when we pull up to The Factory. I blink at the flat black building a few times and feel my stomach drop into my feet.

This used to be my spot. I would hit The Factory every Friday, and like clockwork I’d be walking out after an hour, drunk or high, only partially dressed, sucking on some guy’s neck while trying to hail a cab. It was my worst-of-my-worst place. It was my depths of anxiety-riddled despair.

And yet, here it was, in the daytime. Small bistro tables and chairs peppered the front and side porches. There was a sandwich board sign with specials written in chalk on the corner. It was an innocent, innocuous restaurant.

Only it knew all my worst secrets.

“You in the mood for burgers?” Wyatt’s gazing at me and I swallow hard, then nod.

“Sure. Burgers sound great . . .”

And they do. From anywhere but here. Still, what am I supposed to say to that, really? Hey, Wyatt, I got loaded here more times than I can count and slept with half the bar staff?

I manage to parallel park without hitting a curb or neighboring car, but I take my time doing it, just like I take my time pulling the key from the ignition, then fiddling with my purse, then climbing from the car. By the time I’ve gotten Wyatt’s wheelchair set up and ready for him, I can feel the sweat gathering along my hairline. My psychologist in college always said that I should do this—that I should face my fears and the places I’d been the most troubled in order to conquer my demons and harness my panic. Right now, though, my panic feels out of control and I feel anything but capable.

Deep breaths, Carson. Deep breaths. But not big obvious deep breaths that make you look like you’re hyperventilating or a psychopath.

“You okay?”

I let my gaze slide over to Wyatt’s face, which, to his credit, looks genuinely concerned. And that makes me want to fold in on myself and collapse. But I manage a smile and shake my head.

“I’m good. Sorry. I’m just tired.”

With an ease and agility that’s pretty damn impressive, Wyatt shifts himself from the higher Jeep seat to the much lower wheelchair. He uses his feet to lower the foot rests and I can’t help but notice that they move—I mean, like they work. Which is when I decide this is a brilliant thing to say out loud.

“Your feet work.”

He glances up at me, eyes wide, then down again at his scuffed black chucks.

“Um . . . yes? Is that a problem?”

“No, I—”

I shove a hand through my hair, and tug on it a bit, until I feel the soreness in my scalp like a small chastisement.

“Sorry—I guess I thought that when people are in wheelchairs, they can’t use their legs at all.”

Wyatt grins and releases his parking break. “Mine work—just not well enough for me to rely on them. I do physical therapy, but the chair’s a little more steady and stable than my stems. I still have a ways to go with all that.”

“Of course—I wasn’t trying to be nosy.”

He waves a hand as though to dismiss my concern. “Nah, it’s fine. You should hear the shit people ask me on the regular—like if I can still swim or shower or fuck. It’s pretty ridiculous.”

I can feel the color washing up over my neck. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t wondered if all of his parts are useful. But hell if I’m going to ask.

“Yes.”

I blink over at him as he starts to wheel away.

“Yes what?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, I can still swim. And shower. And fuck.”

I open my mouth, then close it. Twice. Like a fish. He barks out a little laugh, then shakes his head.

“Come on, Carson. Let’s get that burger. If we wait long enough, it’ll be noon and we can grab a beer, too.”

I raise a brow. “They don’t serve beer before noon?”

“Oh, I’m sure they do—but we have to have some moral boundaries, don’t we?” he asks.

“I suppose,” I say, faking a dramatic sigh. The truth is that alcohol is sounding really appealing right about now. Especially considering I’m not exactly sure what I’m walking into here—The Factory, harmless lunch spot, or The Factory, scene of my unending crimes of passion.

Once we’re inside, it’s hard for me to reconcile that this is the same place I used to get trashed at every weekend. It looks bright and clean and cheerful, like a diner. There’s red vinyl booths and black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the tables. In my mind’s eye, this place is one big black light. Today, it feels more like a Cracker Barrel.

“Yo, Deena!”

Wyatt calls out to a woman behind the bar—she’s petite and wearing horn-rimmed glasses that scream
librarian
, not
bartender
. Her curly red hair is pulled up off her face and she’s wearing a legit frilly apron with a pattern of tiny red cherries and little pink flowers. She’s not one of the staff I recognize, but that doesn’t mean the opposite isn’t true.

“Well, look what the fucking cat dragged in!” Deena squeals.

Okay. Less Librarian now.

She hurries over to hug Wyatt and, rather than bending down to do so, literally crawls into his lap and squeezes him hard. He laughs and pats her back.

“Long time no see, lady. How’s tricks?”

She gives him another squeeze, then blows a stray curl from her face.

“You know—same shit, different day. Been quiet lately. Less drama than . . . you know. Before.”

I’m chewing my lip when she glances over at me, then cocks her head.

“I know you,” she says, narrowing her eyes. I give a forced smile and shrug.

“I’ve been here a few times.”

She nods slowly, still watching me carefully.

“Uh-huh—that must be it.”

I’m already cringing, waiting for an embarrassing anecdote that outs my former self—but, no. Instead she gestures for us to take a table near the back corner where there’s a large alcove for Wyatt’s wheelchair. I slide into the booth and settle myself, immediately flipping through the menu as I try to chase down my breath and wrangle it into something slow.

“We’re gonna have burgers, Deena. And fries?”

Wyatt’s looking at me. I nod, swallowing.

“Fries,” he repeats, then lowers his voice. “And two PBRs—cans are fine.”

“And a water,” I call out as she turns her back. The little head bob she gives me lets me know she’s heard my request, but I still feel a little twitchy. I take my time smoothing my sweating hands over the vinyl seat and letting them slide from the back to front.

“Damn, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good burger,” Wyatt muses, glancing around the room. “Even longer since I’ve had one here. How about you?”

His gaze—both lusciously smooth and completely piercing—nails me back against my seat. I blink at him.

“I’ve never had a burger here.”

He tilts his chin up a bit and regards me. “But you’ve been here?”

“Once or twice.”

I start fiddling with my napkin. I know it’s a tell—that I’ve given away my discomfort. But I just can’t keep my hands still.

“How come I think that’s a lie?”

I blink at the table, the napkin, and my shaking hand. Then I shrug.

“I don’t know why you think that.”

Wyatt is watching me closely and I feel prickly under his scrutiny. Refusing to back down, I meet his gaze, one brow arched. A few seconds later, he breaks.

“Okay, be mysterious.” He splays his hands out wide on the table. The span of his fingers is massive. I can imagine both of those hands spread wide on my body—stroking by back, cupping my ass. God, I could visualize that shit all day.

I inhale through my nose, then exhale hard.

“Well, you’ve certainly been here more than once or twice,” I counter.

Wyatt pulls his hands down into his lap and leans slightly closer. The visible sinews of his neck tighten beneath his skin.

“I’ve been here a lot. A whole fucking lot. Most of the time, I wasn’t sober. At least half the time, I only know I was here because I woke up somewhere in the back the next morning at the ass-crack of dawn.”

“You slept here?” I sort of smirk at him, crossing my arms. “The least you could have done was claimed a booth to crash in.”

Wyatt chuckles.

“Yeah, well—most of the time I was drunk or high or both and I couldn’t remember shit. Thankfully, I didn’t get behind the wheel all that often. Although, I can’t really say I never did at all. After Zeb though . . .”

His eyes cloud over a bit and we both go silent.

“We all make mistakes,” I finally say quietly.

He sort of leans back, then folds both hands behind his head and sort of peers at me, like he’s waiting for me to continue. I purse my lips.

“I sort of had a problem . . . with drugs. I still associate this place with those nights when I was higher than any kite you could possibly imagine and I couldn’t consider coming down for a second.” I look up and Wyatt’s eyes narrow a bit as he drums two fingers on the table before scrubbing a hand over his short-shorn locks. I try not to focus in on his scar when he does that. Instead, I lock in on his eyes as he opens his mouth.

“How long have you been clean?”

I watch him as he leans in toward me, his elbows now planted on his knees and his hands tented in front of his lips. Then I look down at my hands.

“Five months, twenty-three days . . .” I trail off as I glance at my watch. “And maybe about twelve hours? Give or take.”

I shrug then and try to smile as I say, “Not that I’m counting or anything .Sorry.”

Wyatt cocks his head. “That’s amazing, Carson.”

I frown at him. “What’s amazing?”

“Your sobriety. I mean, wow . . . that’s an achievement—not something to be taken lightly.”

Tears—red and hot and lightning fast—prick at the corners of my eyes. I feel his words like a physical force and I have to hold myself back from launching my body at Wyatt in gratitude for his recognition. Right now, the smile playing his lips is less sexy and more sweet. More honest.