Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel

by Annie Kelly

  Then he leans in and cups my jaw with one hand.

  “Except a little less buddy, I think. At least on my end.”

  And before I can take another breath, before I can even consider protesting, his mouth is on mine.

  Kissing Wyatt is like a revelation. It’s like a miracle. He angles my head with both hands then, his grip both firm and gentle. His tongue slicks over mine without anything close to pretense. He knows how to kiss—that’s for damn sure.

  “I never forgot, you know,” he murmurs against my mouth.

  I frown. “Forgot what?”

  He moves his mouth to my cheek, then flicks that magical tongue out along the sensitive skin just under my jaw. “How you tasted.”

  I pull back, blinking at him. His eyes meet mine and something loosens deep within me. Something like memory, but less sure. Less visible. It’s more like a dream.

  I can remember his face.

  His head with less hair.

  Those eyes, filled with anger, then passion.

  Oh. Holy. Fuck.

  He was the drummer.

  I can remember him playing the drums. I can see it—his body bent almost parallel to his kit as he played. I remember the lines of sinew over his arms, his chiseled abs. I remember dancing with someone else and wishing it were him. I can picture him now, standing before me in a dark hallway.

  I gaze at him, at the heat flashing in his eyes like flames, and I remember. I remember everything.

  It was the night I was at The Factory with Lennon, the night I’d been high as fuck off coke and hornier than I’d like to remember. I’d been watching Wyatt play all night, then ran into him outside of the bathrooms. We’d flirted. He’d left, then come back.

  He’d touched me. We’d touched each other. Right there in that hallway.

  “Oh, god.”

  I say it out loud, still meeting his gaze, and I know he knows what I’m remembering.

  “Did you . . . did you realize it was me?” I ask slowly. He smiles, then nods.

  “I knew.”

  Oh my fucking god. I want to sink right into the floor. Wyatt Sands is the sexy drummer who starred in every one of my sex fantasies since that night. And now I’m sitting across from him, remembering how wet he made me and how dirty his talk really got.

  I stare at him for a long moment, unable to speak. Wyatt’s grin is both spellbinding and infuriating.

  He knows exactly what I look like when I’m about to come.

  He knows exactly how I taste.

  “Carson.”

  He whispers my name and, reluctantly, I meet his gaze.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Wyatt inhales a deep, slow breath. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I ever would. There were a few times I wanted to. Hell, more than a few times. But I also wasn’t sure if it was a moment you’d want to remember.”

  I pull my lips between my teeth and bite hard. Wyatt reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me closer toward him.

  “I thought that starting over was more important than rehashing that night in our past. I’m far more interested in now than I am in then.”

  For a long moment, I just stare deep into his eyes. Then a surge of something hot and fiery and inexplicable rises in my throat. It takes a few minutes for me to realize it’s anger.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Wyatt just stares at me. When he opens his mouth to speak, I shake my head vehemently.

  “All this time? All this time! And you couldn’t just, oh, I don’t know, tell me?”

  I pause to think, to figure out something to say, something brilliant, but the words die in my mouth as his lips coast down to my collarbone. Almost involuntarily, I loop my arms around his neck. Before I know it, he’s slid his arms beneath me in the chair and lifts me onto his lap. My thighs dig into something metal and uncomfortable on one side and I couldn’t care less. That slight bite of pain is a strangely delicious contrast to the wet and wonderful sensation of his mouth sucking and licking my neck.

  “Wyatt,” I moan. I need to stop this before it gets out of hand. “This isn’t—we shouldn’t—”

  He stops then, pulling back to meet my gaze.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  I blink at him. “I—uh, of course. Sure.”

  He moves a tendril of hair off my forehead with his fingers and his touch is incredibly gentle.

  “That night—the night we hooked up—I’ve never in my life felt so many things in one short period of time. There was the adrenaline rush from playing a great set, then the complete and utter devastation of finding my wife wrapped around another man. There was the fury I felt when I punched him and then there was a tremendous, passionate glimpse of time when, somehow, I ended up touching you and kissing you in the hallway outside the bathroom. I felt your body shiver and shake as you climaxed. In that moment, I felt tremendously alive.

  “I left the bar thinking I’d come back to find you—or at the very least that I’d see you there again another time. But then the accident—well, then everything changed. I got an annulment and Zeb was dead. And I—I felt like less of myself than ever. Certainly not like the man you’d met in those few brief moments we had.”

  My breath stutters, then stops as I stare at his expression—part regret, part passion, all intensity. I lick my lips and his gaze flares. He reaches back behind me, sliding his hand up my neck and into my hair. Every so slightly, he clenches his fingers, letting the strands tighten and pull. There’s a delicious sensation when he tugs and I can’t help the groan that slips through my lips.

  “God, you’re so fucking sexy,” Wyatt murmurs. He leans forward and captures my mouth once more and I’m lost in his kiss.

  This is a terrible idea.

  This is a terrible idea.

  My brain is screaming at me, despite the slow, sensuous kiss I’m currently sinking into. I force myself to pull back.

  “Wyatt, I can’t—we . . . you’re a client. It’s . . . unethical.”

  I watch his face, which is almost tense with a desire that’s so obvious, it’s palpable. Suddenly, something inside me, the same something that loved the hair pulling, the same something that remembers every second of my time with Wyatt that night in the bar—despite the drug haze and the music haze and the passing of time—well, that something wants me to just say “fuck it.” To let go. To give in to the same carnal urges I felt in the bar the night we hooked up.

  “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 feelin
g again.

  Chapter Nine

  “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?”