Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (17 page)

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.

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-style 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.

I feel my hackles rising.

I stand up and smooth a hand down over my tank top and cut-offs, wishing that I’d put on something a little more professional.

As I weave around the clusters of furniture, all arranged in strategic seating areas, I watch as Jillian rises and comes to kneel in front of Wyatt’s wheelchair.

“Look, I’m not saying things were even close to perfect. Fuck, they were probably much closer to a disaster. But before we sign these divorce papers—don’t you think we deserve to give ourselves another chance?”

I can feel something deep within my chest stutter and stop. I think it must by my heart.

He’s not actually divorced yet?

What. The. Fuck?

I have to force myself not to stomp toward him. When I approach, Jillian glances up at me with a blank expression that morphs into something like a sneer.

“Can we help you?” she asks me. I plaster a sugary-sweet smile on just as Wyatt glances over his shoulder and meets my gaze. The look in his eyes is a mixture of shock and discomfort.

“I don’t think you can, honey,” I say to her, my words dripping sarcasm. “But your husband here can.”

Wyatt opens his mouth to respond, but I put a hand on his shoulder and shake my head.

“Mr. Sands, I’m just here in a tutoring capacity. Perhaps your wife could excuse us for a moment?”

Jillian rises to standing, being sure to show a healthy dose of cleavage as she does.

“I’m going to run and get a beverage,” she says to Wyatt. “I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

As she sashays out of the common area, I force myself to meet Wyatt’s gaze head-on. The shock that was there before now looks a little more like regret. A little more like sadness.

“So, you’re still married?”

I practically spit the words and Wyatt closes his eyes.

“Only legally.”

I bark out a laugh. “Legally. You know, the entire way you can BE married at all? Jesus, Wyatt, what the fuck?”

He rubs a hand down over his face and sighs. “I said I had filed for an annulment, and I did. But she hasn’t signed the papers yet. I keep asking her to, but she is determined to reconcile.”

I have to clench my fists to remain calm. “And you didn’t think that this was necessary information? The fact that you’re still married and your wife wants you back?”

“I really didn’t, Carson, because I have no intention of going back to her.”

“Then, why, exactly, is she here today?”

Something like irritation flashes in Wyatt’s eyes.

“Look, I’m not exactly sure when you decided I had to answer to you, but I think it’s kind of bullshit. You show up here, unannounced, and decide that it’s your business to know who I speak to when? What the fuck is up with that shit?”

“Maybe as your—”

I close my eyes and breathe deep, forcing myself not to punch him in the fucking mouth, which is exactly what I want to do to him. This isn’t what I came here to do. I came here to push Wyatt to be the best he can be, as his tutor and his friend, and his wife shouldn’t have anything to do about that.

“What about Hopkins?” I finally ask.

Wyatt stares at me, then his eyes narrow. “What about it?” I blink at him, frowning. “It’s an amazing opportunity, Wyatt. One that you shouldn’t just blow off without really thinking about it.”

He cocks a brow at me.

“Please don’t speak to me like I’m a fucking child. I’m not one of your middle schoolers, Carson. I know how significant going to a university like Johns Hopkins would be for my future.”

I spread my hands wide.

“Then tell me why Evans called me on my way here to tell me you hadn’t turned in all your work?”

Wyatt sniffs. “Frankly, that shit isn’t any of his concern.”

I snort a laugh of disbelief.

“He’s your goddamn advisor—who else’s business would it be?”

He shrugs. “If I’m not going to his school for much longer, I’m not really his responsibility.”

I open my mouth to respond, but I can’t think of anything to say. I don’t even know who this person I’m talking to right now is. I mean, the Wyatt I tutored and worked with—he wasn’t overly enthusiastic, but he wasn’t this sullen, moody guy.

“Look, Carson,” Wyatt says, leaning forward to brace his hands against his knees, “this isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go—I’m sorry. The last thing I expected was for you to show up today, and if I’d known you were coming, I would have asked you not to.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

His gaze softens. “You know how much you mean to me. I don’t want to hurt you—but I never asked you to do this.”

“Do what?”

He shoves a hand back through his hair. “I don’t know—I guess push so hard. All I wanted was some help finishing my shit at BCC. I haven’t made any decisions about Johns Hopkins and I don’t need those decisions made for me.”

I look down at my hands. I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes and I will them back.

“Carson,” Wyatt says quietly, “you have to let me do things my way.”

I look up at him and glare. “And that means fucking me while you’re still married? That means bailing on an amazing opportunity at top-notch school? That means ignoring repeated calls from your band begging you to come back and play?”

Wyatt freezes and stares at me.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know that Jack and Bentz have been calling you nonstop,” I say, pointing at him. “And I know you haven’t returned a single call.”

His eyes narrow. “Let me guess—they called you, too?”

I shake my head.

“No. I went to them.”

There’s a spark in Wyatt’s eyes that flares with the knowledge of this information.

“Why in the actual fuck would you think you have the right to do that?”

His tone is even and measured, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look this angry. Certainly not this angry at me.

“Wyatt, I just think that there are things that you are really great at—music in particular, but your education too—that you deserve to give another shot.”

I sink down in the chair across from him.

“You’ve done so much for me when it comes to me trying to get a handle on my anxiety and facing my fears. I guess I just wanted the same for you.”

Wyatt’s entire demeanor has changed—it’s like his skin has turned into an impenetrable armor and there’s an invisible force field between him and me.