The Deal

“I’m good with that.” I shove my books back in my bag, then duck into the bathroom to pee before I hit the road. When I come out, I find Garrett scrolling through my iPod.

“You went through my bag?” I exclaim. “Seriously?”

“Your iPod was hanging out of the front pocket,” he protests. “I was curious to see what was on it.” His gray eyes remain glued to the screen as he starts reading names out loud. “Etta James, Adele, Queen, Ella Fitzgerald, Aretha, Beatles—man, this is wicked eclectic.” He suddenly shakes his head in dismay. “Hey, did you know there’s One Direction on here?”

“No, really?” I ooze sarcasm. “It must have downloaded itself.”

“I think I’ve lost all respect for you. You’re supposed to be a music major.”

I snatch the iPod from his hands and stuff it in the bag. “One Direction does some great harmonies.”

“Strongly disagree.” His chin lifts decisively. “I’ll make you a playlist. Obviously you need to learn the distinction between good music and shitty music.”

I speak through clenched teeth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Garrett’s tone is preoccupied as he heads to the iMac on his desk. “How do you feel about Lynyrd Skynyrd? Or do you only like bands where the guys coordinate their outfits?”

“Good night, Garrett.”

I’m ready to tear my hair out as I march out of the room. I can’t believe I agreed to a week and a half of this.

God help me.





8




Hannah


Allie calls the next evening as I storm out of the music building fuming over another disastrous rehearsal with Cass.

“Whoa,” she says when she hears my curt tone. “What’s up your ass?”

“Cassidy Donovan,” I answer angrily. “Rehearsal was a fucking nightmare.”

“Is he trying to steal all the good notes again?”

“Worse.” I’m too pissed to rehash what happened, so I don’t bother. “I want to murder him in his sleep, A. No, I want to murder him when he’s awake so he can see the joy on my face when I do it.”

Her laughter tickles my ear. “Shit. He pissed you off good, huh? Want to vent about it over dinner?”

“Can’t. I’m seeing Graham tonight.” Another appointment I’m not keen on keeping. All I want to do right now is take a shower and watch TV, but knowing Garrett, he’ll hunt me down and yell at me if I dare to cancel on him.

“I still can’t believe you caved about the tutoring thing,” Allie marvels. “He must be very persuasive.”

“Something like that,” I say vaguely.

I haven’t told Allie about my arrangement with Garrett, mostly because I want to delay her inevitable teasing when she finds out how desperate I am to get Justin to notice me. I know I won’t be able to hide the truth from her forever—she’s definitely going to have questions when she finds out I’m going to a party with the guy. But I’m confident I can come up with a good excuse by then.

Some things are too embarrassing to admit, even to your best friend.

“How much is he paying you?” she asks curiously.

Like an idiot, I throw out the first number that comes to mind. “Uh, sixty.”

“Sixty dollars an hour? Holy crap. That’s insane. You better take me out for a steak dinner when you’re done!”

A steak dinner? Shit. That’s like three shifts’ worth of diner money for me.

See, this is why people shouldn’t lie. It always comes back to bite you in the ass.

“Sure,” I say lightly. “Anyway, I gotta go. I don’t have Tracy’s car tonight so I need to call a cab. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

The campus taxi takes me to Garrett’s, and I make arrangements to get picked up in an hour and a half. Garrett told me to just let myself in when I come over because nobody ever hears the bell over the blaring TV or stereo, but the house is quiet when I walk inside.

“Graham?” I call out from the entryway.

“Upstairs,” comes his muffled reply.

I find him in his bedroom, clad in sweatpants and a white wifebeater that shows off his perfectly formed biceps and strong forearms. I can’t deny that his body is…appealing. He’s big, not in a bulky linebacker way, but long and sleek and leanly muscular. His sleeveless shirt provides an eyeful of the tattoo on his right upper arm—black flames that curl up to his shoulder and coil around his bicep.

“Hey. Where are your roommates?”

“It’s Friday night—where do you think they are? Partying.” He sounds glum as he pulls the class readings from the backpack on the floor.

“And you’re choosing to study,” I remark. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t party during the season, Wellsy. Already told you that.”