by Annie Kelly
“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.
Chapter Ten
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 shr
ug 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.