The Deal (Off Campus #1)(14)

"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."

He had, but I hadn't really believed him. How is he not partying every  night? I mean, look at the guy. He's drop dead gorgeous and more popular  than the Bieber. Well, at least before Beebs went off the rails and  abandoned his poor monkey in a foreign country.

We settle on the bed and get right down to work, but each time Garrett  takes a few minutes to read over a theory, my mind drifts back to  tonight's rehearsal. Anger continues to simmer in my belly, and although  I'm ashamed to admit it, my bad mood leaks into the study session. I'm  crabbier than I mean to be, and much harsher than necessary when Garrett  misinterprets the material.





  

"It's not that complicated," I mutter when he completely misses the point for the third time. "He's saying-"

"All right, I get it now," he cuts in, aggravation creasing his forehead. "No need to snap at me, Wellsy."

"Sorry." I briefly close my eyes to calm myself. "Let's just move on to  the next philosopher. We'll come back to Foucault at the end."

Garrett frowns. "We're not moving on to anything. Not until you tell me  why you've been biting my head off since you got here. What, did  Loverboy ignore you in the quad or something?"

His sarcasm only intensifies my annoyance. "No."

"Are you on your period?"

"Oh my God. You are the worst. Just read, will you?"

"I'm not reading a damn thing." He crosses his arms. "Look, there's an  easy fix for this bitch fest of yours. All you have to do is tell me why  you're mad, I'll assure you you're being ridiculous, and then we can  study in peace."

I've underestimated Garrett's stubbornness. But I really ought to know  better, seeing as how I've been bested by his tenacity on more than one  occasion. I don't particularly want to confide in him, but my argument  with Cass is like a dark cloud over my head, and I need to dispel the  stormy energy before it consumes me.

"He wants a choir!"

Garrett blinks. "Who wants a choir?"

"My duet partner," I say darkly. "AKA the bane of my existence. I swear,  if I wasn't afraid I might break my hand, I'd punch him right in his  smug, stupid face."

"You want me to teach you how to throw down?" Garrett presses his lips together as if he's trying hard not to laugh.

"I'm tempted to say yes. Seriously, this guy is impossible to work with.  The song is fantastic, but all he does is nitpick every microscopic  detail. The key, the tempo, the arrangement, the frickin' clothes we're  going to wear."

"Okay … so what's this about a choir?"

"Get this-Cass wants a choir to accompany us for the last chorus. A  fucking choir. We've been rehearsing this piece for weeks, Garrett. It  was supposed to be simple and understated, just the two of us showcasing  our voices, and suddenly he wants to make a huge production out of it?"

"He sounds like a diva."

"He totally is. I'm ready to rip his head off." My anger is so visceral  it coats my throat and makes my hands tremble. "And then, if that's not  infuriating enough, two minutes before rehearsal ends he decides we  should change the arrangement."

"What's wrong with the arrangement?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong with the arrangement. And Mary Jane-the girl  who wrote the fucking song-is just sitting there saying nothing! I don't  know if she's scared of Cass or in love with him or who the hell knows  what, but she's no help at all. She clams up whenever we start fighting,  when what she should be doing is voicing an opinion and trying to  resolve the issue."

Garrett purses his lips. Sort of like the way my grandma does when she's deep in thought. It's kind of adorable.

But he'd probably kill me if I told him he just reminded me of my grandmother.

"What?" I prompt when he doesn't speak.

"I want to hear this song."

Surprise filters through me. "What? Why?"

"Because you've been babbling about it since the moment I met you."

"This is the first time I've ever brought it up!"

He responds with that flippant hand-waving thing again, which I'm  starting to suspect he does often. "Well, I want to hear it. If this  Mary Jane chick doesn't have the balls to offer legitimate criticism,  then I'll do it." He shrugs. "Maybe your duet partner-what's his name  again?"

"Cass."

"Maybe Cass is right and you're just too stubborn to see it."

"Trust me, he's wrong."

"Fine, then let me be the judge. Sing both versions of the song for  me-the way it is now, and the way Cass wants it-and I'll tell you what I  think. You play, right?"

I furrow my brow. "Play what?"

Garrett rolls his eyes. "Instruments."

"Oh. Yeah, I do. Piano and guitar … why?"

"I'll be right back."

He ducks out of the room and I hear his footsteps thud in the hall,  followed by the sound of a door creaking open. He returns with an  acoustic guitar in hand.

"Tuck's," he explains. "He won't mind if you play it."





  

I grit my teeth. "I'm not serenading you."

"Why not? You feeling self-conscious or something?"

"No. I just have better things to do." I give him a pointed look. "Like help you pass your midterm."

"We're almost done with postmodernism. All the hard stuff starts next  session." His voice takes on a teasing note. "C'mon, we've got time. Let  me hear it."

Then he flashes that boyish grin, and damned if I don't cave. He really  has mastered that little boy look. Except he's not a little boy. He's a  man with a big, strong body and a chin that lifts in determination.  Teasing grins aside, I know Garrett will harass me all night if I don't  agree to sing.

I accept the guitar and plop it in my lap, giving it a few test strums.  It's in tune, a bit tinnier than the acoustic I have at home, but the  sound is great.

Garrett climbs on the bed and lies down, resting his head on a mountain  of pillows. I've never met anyone who sleeps with so many pillows. Maybe  he needs them to cradle his massive ego.

"Okay," I tell him. "This is how we're doing it now. Pretend there's a  guy joining me in the first chorus, and then singing the second verse."

I know a lot of singers who are too shy to perform in front of  strangers, but I've never had that problem. Ever since I was a kid,  music has always been an escape for me. When I sing, the world  disappears. It's just me and the music and a deep sense of tranquility  that I've never been able to find anywhere else, no matter how hard I  try.

I take a breath, play the opening chords, and start to sing. I don't  look at Garrett because I'm already somewhere else, lost in the melody  and the words, wholly focused on the sound of my voice and the resonance  of the guitar.