by Annie Kelly
“He’s family, Cyn. He knows how much these things matter.”
She nods, then wipes her eyes with her napkin.
“Well, it wouldn’t be a girls’ night if one of us didn’t end up getting emotional,” she jokes.
“You got that right.” I eat a handful of tortilla chips.
“How about the tutoring stuff? What’s going on with that?” Rainey asks me.
I shrug. I’m not ready to tell them about my potential student teaching position at Sun Valley. It still feels too great to be real and I don’t want to jinx it.
“Well, Wyatt’s finishing up the last few units of his poli sci class. That and his comp class were all online, so he’s been doing the work throughout the day.”
“How many classes is he finishing?” Cyn asks.
“Four—he’s already turned in the last of his music theory work and the only class he still has an exam in is his geography class.”
“Dude, have you even tutored him at all? Kind of seems like he’s doing this shit on his own.”
I grin. “The truth is that I think Wyatt just needed guidance, you know? He wanted to be sure that his ideas made sense on paper and that he could actually finish his coursework without attending the classes. I look over all of his assignments, do some light editing, that sort of thing. But frankly, he probably never needed me to tutor him. He just needed a friend.”
Cyn snorts. “Well, he certainly got a little more than that, huh?”
I pinch her arm and she grins at me. “Just saying.”
“So what’s the deal with Johns Hopkins then?” Rainey asks. I shrug.
“Honestly? I don’t know.” I fiddle with my fork, then set it back down. “I just—I know that he had no interest in going to classes on the BCC campus. I can’t imagine convincing him that he should be hitting up the Ivy League for some face time with professors who have books on the bestseller list. It just seems like too hard of a push.”
Rainey cocks her brow. “But forcing him to keep playing drums doesn’t feel that way?”
I shrug and glance out the nearby window. I wait a beat before answering.
“I guess I feel like getting him back to the music will help with pushing him forward in other ways, too.”
“Kind of a lot of pressure to put on a drum set, Cars,” Rainey says, leaning back in her chair.
“I know.” I sigh. “I know you’re right. But I just can’t help myself. I have to try.”
***
Mortal Enemy isn’t the same band—not even close. Standing in the back of their practice space, listening to them jam, I almost want to cringe. There are only two original members left—Jack Cooper and Bentz Spring—and neither of them were ever the kind of musicians who made you stand up and cheer. They’re great at their instruments—guitar and bass—but Zeb and Wyatt were the core of the band and everyone knew it. I only saw them once, and I could tell it immediately. Zeb was the kind of lead singer who could carry a mediocre group of musicians to stardom with his growling baritone and husky, bluesy croon. And Wyatt—well, suffice it to say that his drum solo was far more impressive, far more mind-blowing than any guitar solo Mortal Enemy ever churned out.
The guy who’s playing drums now is okay—he’s at least keeping time and making his kit work the song. It’s the lead singer they’ve paired up with that’s such a goddamn nightmare. Enemy’s songs were always meant to be low, rumbling tunes with quiet melodies peppered with hard-core instrumentals. This singer is far too whiny, too tightly wound to make their music work. He’s more of an Axl Rose, less of a Chris Cornell. He just isn’t right.
As they reach the end of the song, every single person in the room knows that they’ve got nothing. Guess that explains why they haven’t booked any gigs lately. I knew they were out and about, but when Deena at The Factory mentioned their rehearsal space, she seemed doubtful that they were even practicing together anymore. Like they might be giving up on the band altogether.
“Yo, I gotta jet,” the singer says to Jack, pointing to the clock on the wall. “Maria will freak if I’m not home to help with the twins before eight.”
Jack mumbles something to him and the singer takes off without so much as a handshake or high five to the rest of the group. The new drummer follows and the door slams hollowly behind him.
“Excuse me?”
Jack looks up at me, his expression a mixture of weary and confused. I give him a smile as I move toward him and reach out my hand.
“Hey, I’m Carson Tucker—I’m a big fan of your band. I’m also a good friend of Wyatt Sands.”
At the sound of Wyatt’s name, Bentz comes out from behind the amp he was tooling around with.
“Yeah? You know Hot Hands? How the hell is that kid? I swear, I must have called him a dozen times since . . .”
Bentz trails off, then scrubs a hand over his spiky, multicolored Mohawk. There’s a bleakness to his expression that tugs at my heart. I give him a smile then look between him and Jack.
“Have you all been in touch with Wyatt since the accident?”
Jack shakes his head slowly. “Not for lack of trying, believe me. I think I called him every day for the first three months after he got outta the hospital.”
Bentz’s expression is somber. “Me, too. He never picked up, never called back. I pretty much got the fucking message.”
I inhale a shaky breath and try to think. This wasn’t what I’d expected—I’d really thought that maybe the guys thought Wyatt couldn’t play or that he’d lost interest, not that he had completely cut them out of his life.
“Would you all want to grab a drink with me? Maybe we could chat?”
I don’t miss the once-over Bentz gives me and my tight black skirt.
“I don’t got nowhere else to be at the moment,” he says, grinning at me. Jack nods in agreement.
“There’s a pub about a block from here. We’ll lock up and meet you at the bar if that’s alright.”
I smile at them, unable to tamp down my enthusiasm. “That sounds perfect.”
The “pub,” it turns out, is little more than a two-booth hole-in-the-wall with a ten-seat bar and a handful of beers on tap, but it suits my purpose and I’ve definitely drunk at worse places. When the guys come in through the door, they fist bump the bartender and get drafts of Miller Light before snagging stools to my left. Once we’re all settled, I decide the best course of action is brutal honesty—and I start with the brutal served loud and clear.
“Your new singer sucks.”
Both Bentz and Jack blink at me, sort of gob-smacked, and I want to slap myself across the face. Way to go Carson, really. Nicely played. But when Bentz barks out a laugh and Jack starts grinning, I feel slightly better about my faux pas.
“Sorry—I could have phrased that better,” I say. But Jack shakes his head.
“Naw, it’s all good. We were getting close to firing his ass anyway. We just can’t find anyone even close to what Zeb was. He was something else, man. Impossible to replace.”
“Your drummer doesn’t seem terrible,” I say, attempting to be nice. But Bentz snorts a disbelieving laugh.
“He isn’t terrible in the sense that he can actually play, but he sure as shit ain’t good. Nothing like Sands. That fucker could play like no one I’ve ever seen before or since.”
I nod slowly, sipping my draft beer. I try to consider my next words carefully.
“So, you say you reached out to Wyatt and he never responded . . . Why do you think that is?”
Both men glance at each other, then back at me and shrug.
“Fuck if I know, man. I mean, after the accident, we were all reeling. We all mourned Zeb and we didn’t know if Wyatt would ever wake up. It was like a living nightmare that none of us could claw our way out of. Once he woke up though, once we realized that he was down but not out, we all tried to get him to talk to us. Our friends at the bar, our manager, everyone we could think of that might talk some sense into him. He wouldn’t talk. At fir
st, we figured it was just the injury—that he was upset about the accident and not being able to walk. So we let it be, hoped he’d get over it. But then we hear that he’s showing up at the Factory with some chick—once for lunch and again at night—and that he’s all getting up out of his wheelchair and shit. Our buddy Moses actually called me that night to get me to come down and see Wyatt face-to-face, but he’d already jetted by the time I made it down there.”
I chew on my bottom lip, trying to make heads or tails of what he’s saying. I was there both of the times he mentioned Wyatt coming out to the bar again. I just had no idea that Wyatt’s friends and bandmates were so desperately trying to connect with him. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t be calling them back or coming to visit.
“So, like, are you two . . . together? Bentz asks me, eyebrows raised.
I can’t help the smile the spreads widely over my face and I give a half shrug.
“I’ve been helping him finish some school assignments for his degree—we’ve got a lot in common, I guess.”
When I look back at Bentz and Jack, they’re staring at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“Degree?” Jack shakes his head. “Wyatt’s in fucking college?”
I blink at both guys and nod slowly. “Uh . . . yeah. He’s just finishing up his sophomore year worth of credits so he can transfer to another school.”
Bentz shakes his head and huffs a laugh.
“Damn, man. That guy is always full of surprises. You think you know someone and you find out they’re in fucking college and banging a hot-ass Pink look-alike.”
He gives me a pointed look, but my head is spinning and I feel like I’ve entered an alternate reality. And I have—Wyatt’s alternate reality. These men were a part of his musical existence, which he clearly never blended with his educational pursuits.
“Man, how many lives was that cat living?” Jack mumbles, taking another gulp of his beer.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I say quietly. If he kept these lives apart, how many other lives could he have without me knowing? And there’s only one person I can possibly ask.
Chapter Twenty
Never in my life have I ever had trouble being confrontational. When it comes to getting people to deal with their shit, I’m a pro—I don’t sugarcoat it and I don’t mince words. Period.
But in all ways, Wyatt Sands is a game changer. So much so that I left the bar last night after talking to his bandmates and was completely unable to confront him with any of the new information I’d found out. I needed time to sort through things in my head. I needed to decide what I wanted to say.
Because the truth was simple—so simple it was fucking complicated. I was in love with Wyatt. He made me the best possible version of myself I could be—he managed to get me to face my anxiety, to go see my counselor, to work on my school shit, to move forward with my student teaching. He forced my hand and made me better—made me stronger. And that’s what I want for him—I want to be able to inspire him to move forward into greatness the same way he inspired me.
I may have been the tutor, but he was the teacher. In every way. In the best possible ways, he taught me all about how I can be exactly who I need to be exactly when I need to be it. No excuses. No regrets.
So now, driving over to Holly Fields, I’m trying to encapsulate all of his wisdom into something that will sway him—that will make him want to finish what he started with both his music and his education.
But I’ve still got no fucking clue what that wisdom should actually say. When I woke up this morning, I was hoping that a good night’s sleep would have made me put things in perspective. Instead, I think I’m as lost as I was last night.
My phone vibrates and I glance down at the screen. The number that pops up is familiar, but I can’t put my finger on how I know it. I pick it up on my Bluetooth and answer.
“Ms. Tucker—it’s Dr. Evans. Wyatt Sands’s advisor at the college.”
“Oh, of course. Hi, Dr. Evans, how are you?”
He clears his throat. “I’m well, Ms. Tucker. I was wondering if you’d heard anything from Wyatt about his last two assignments. They were hand-delivered to him; they replaced the exams on the syllabus.”
I frown. “I’m not sure . . . I don’t think I knew about those assignments.”
“He’s been quite expeditious at submitting all of his work through you over the last several weeks, but he’s missing two of his final projects.
I blink rapidly. “I—uh—I’m not sure, sir. Can you tell me what the assignments are?”
“An annotated bibliography was one of them. The other was a narrative journal. I know he was more reticent about completing that one—he had to discuss a life-changing experience, and I think he felt that the only option would be discussing his accident. He certainly wasn’t thrilled at the prospect.”
I swallow hard. I’d been careful about keeping track of what Wyatt had to turn in when. So had Wyatt, in fact. If he hadn’t turned something in, it was on purpose. I can guarantee it.
“I realize that Wyatt isn’t a grade school student you are tutoring,” Dr. Evans says gently, “but he is certainly a reluctant student all the same. I just suggest that you check in with him. He only has a few more weeks before Johns Hopkins makes their final decision about his transfer. I’ve pulled all the strings I can with the registrar, but if he misses his final deadlines, there isn’t much any of us can do for him.”
“I understand,” I say woodenly. “I’m actually on my way to see him now, so I’ll be sure to discuss this with him.”
“Thank you, Ms. Tucker. Wyatt is very lucky to have you advocating for him. I promise you that.”
As we hang up the phone, my head is spinning. Part of me wants to cry. Another, larger part of me wants to punch Wyatt in the fucking face. What is he thinking? Why in the world would he think it’s a good idea to blow off any assignments?
When I walk through the double doors into the Holly Fields main entrance, I make a beeline toward Wyatt’s unit. The receptionist either recognizes me now or realizes that I’m in no mood to chat because she just waves me through rather than making me sign in on the clipboard where I normally have to check in. When I get to Wyatt’s door, however, I pause and take a deep breath. I don’t need to come busting in there like some kind of psycho. I should be calm but firm. I try to school my face into a tutoring expression—understanding, but serious. Scholastic. Not the kind of face that says, “Throw me down and fuck me sideways, you sexy man.” Because I have a feeling that’s the kind of face I’ve been showing him lately. I need to remind him that I’m his tutor as well, and that’s a responsibility I take seriously.
I knock—a confident, staccato rapping at the door, and I feel sort of satisfied by the businesslike sound. At least for the first ten seconds. When there isn’t an answer, I try again. Nothing.
Well, fuck. It’s kind of hard to be indignant and disappointed when my target isn’t even here.
I mean, sure, it’s not like I gave him notice that I was coming, but it’s pretty rare that Wyatt takes off on his own. I can only assume he’s around the building somewhere. Maybe the cafeteria or Gary’s room.
Chewing on my lip, I start in the direction of the first floor cafeteria. It reminds me of the times Cyn and I had dinner here with her dad. That was the first time I saw Wyatt again after our encounter at the bar. He’d been kind of a dick when we first met—of course, that was before I’d realized our connection. Before I’d learned that Lennon fucked his wife. Before I’d remembered our night in the hallway at The Factory.
I’m almost to the cafeteria doors when I’m distracted by a high-pitched giggle coming from the common seating area. I glance over, then freeze. There’s a woman sitting on of the couches in the far corner—the same couch where I’d sat during my first tutoring session with Wyatt. She’s gorgeous in every sense of the word, and the worst part is that you can tell she isn’t even trying. She’s wearing jeans and a loose peasant-s
tyle top and her platinum blond hair is piled on her head in a messy updo. She’s wearing large earrings and perfectly applied makeup. When she laughs, she has a dimple in one cheek. She’s got her legs tucked up underneath her and she’s smiling from ear to ear at the man sitting across from her.
And that man is Wyatt Sands.
I lick my lips, unsure of how to proceed. Do I walk away? Do I approach him? Instead, I decide to do the single most chicken, cowardly thing I can do.
I spy.
I try to be nonchalant as I move around the other side of the room, out of sight but well within earshot of their conversation. I sink down in an armchair, my back ramrod straight and try to steady my breathing as I listen to Wyatt’s gravelly voice. The idea of him using that soft sexy tone with her makes me feel nauseous. That soft sexy tone is something reserved only for me—or, at least, I like to think of it that way.
“Wyatt, I hate thinking of you here—this isn’t where I picture you. I’ll always picture you home with me, in our apartment.”
Her voice is dripping with something both lusty and saccharine-sweet, but that doesn’t even really register. The only thing I’m focusing on now is her words.
Our apartment.
Home with me.
Wyatt is shaking his head.
“We were toxic together, doll. You and I both know that. You knew it enough that you moved on before we’d even officially split.”
Blondie huffs out a sigh.
“Lennon Tucker was a mistake. A huge mistake.”
I think I knew that this was Wyatt’s wife, Jillian—my brother’s easy lay. Same difference, I guess. But seeing her before and now hearing her babyish, whispery voice, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt less feminine in comparison.
Self-consciously, I run a hand over my shortly shorn hair. A longer blue lock falls in my face and I almost want to cringe. I’ve never felt like another woman could take a man from me, but this chick, with her blond bombshell-ness? She’s a whole other deal.