Normally I pride myself on having a good head on my shoulders and making sound decisions, but agreeing to tutor Garrett? Stupider than stupid.
I’m still cursing myself for it as I make the drive over to his house the following evening. When he cornered me at the Sigma party, I had every intention of telling him to fuck off and leave me alone, and then he’d dangled Justin under my nose like a carrot, and I caved like a cheap tent.
Great. And now I’m mixing metaphors.
I think it might be time for me to face a grim truth: I have zero common sense when it comes to Justin Kohl. Last night I left the party with the sole purpose of forgetting about him, and instead of doing that, I allowed Garrett Graham to fill me with the most destructive emotion known to mankind—hope.
Hope that Justin might notice me. Hope that he might want me. Hope that I might’ve finally met someone who can make me feel something.
It’s embarrassing how besotted I am with the guy.
I park my borrowed car in the driveway behind Garrett’s Jeep and next to a shiny black pick-up. I keep wondering what my old therapist would think if she knew about the deal I’d struck with Garrett. I want to say she’d be against it, but Carole was all about empowerment. She always encouraged me to take control of my life and grab hold of any opportunity that allows me to put the attack behind me.
So here’s what I know: I’ve dated two guys since the rape. I slept with both of them. And neither of them made me feel as hot and achy as Justin Kohl does with one heavy-lidded look.
Carole would tell me that’s an opportunity worth exploring.
Garrett’s townhouse is two stories tall, with a white stucco exterior, a stoop instead of a porch, and a front lawn that’s surprisingly tidy. Despite my reluctance, I force myself to get out of the car and walk to the door. Rock music blares inside the house. A part of me hopes that nobody hears me ring the bell, but muffled footsteps echo behind the door and then it swings open and I find myself looking at a tall guy with spiky blond hair and a chiseled face right off the cover of GQ.
“Why, hello there,” he drawls as he looks me up and down. “My birthday’s not until next week, but if this is an early b-day gift, I sure ain’t complaining, baby doll.”
Of course. I should have known Garrett would be rooming with someone as obnoxious as he is.
I curl my fingers over the strap of my oversized messenger bag, wondering if I can make it back to my car before Garrett knows I’m here, but my dastardly plan is foiled when he appears in the doorway. He’s barefoot, clad in faded jeans and a threadbare gray T-shirt, and his hair is damp as if he’s just come out of the shower.
“Hey, Wellsy,” he says breezily. “You’re late.”
“I said eight fifteen. It’s eight fifteen.” I stare coldly at Mr. GQ. “And if you were implying that I was a hooker, then call me insulted.”
“You thought she was a hooker?” Garrett turns to glare at his friend. “That’s my tutor, bro. Show some respect.”
“I didn’t think she was a hooker—I thought she was a stripper,” the blond retorts, as if that makes it better. “She’s wearing a costume, for fuck’s sake.”
He does have a point. My waitress uniform isn’t exactly subtle.
“PS, I want a stripper for my birthday,” GQ announces. “Just decided now. Get on it.”
“I’ll make a couple calls,” Garrett promises, but the second his friend wanders off, he confides, “He’s not getting a stripper. We all pitched in to get his car detailed. It still reeks after Hollis barfed in the back seat and Dean’s too lazy to get it done.”
When I snicker, Garrett pounces like a mountain lion. “Holy shit. Was that a laugh? I didn’t think you were capable of showing amusement. Can you do it again and let me film it?”
“I laugh all the time.” I pause. “Mostly at you, though.”
He grabs his chest in mock pain as if I’ve shot him. “You’re terrible for a guy’s ego, y’know that?”
I roll my eyes and shut the door behind me.
“Let’s go up to my room,” he says.
Shit. He wants to study in his bedroom? While I’m sure that’s probably a wet dream for every girl at this school, I’m apprehensive about being alone with him.
“G, is that the tutor?” a male voice shouts as we pass what I deduce is the living room. “Hey, tutor, get in here! We need to have a little chat.”
My alarmed gaze flies to Garrett, but he just grins and guides me to the doorway. The living room just screams bachelor pad with its two leather couches set up in an L-shape, a complicated-looking entertainment system, and a coffee table littered with beer bottles. A dark-haired guy with vivid blue eyes rises from the couch. He’s as handsome as Garrett and GQ, and from the way his long body saunters my way, he’s fully aware of his appeal.
“So listen,” Blue Eyes announces in a stern voice. “My boy needs to ace this test. You better make that happen.”
My lips twitch. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll be very, very upset.” His sultry gaze does a slow and deliberate sweep of my body, lingering on my chest before traveling back up. “You don’t want to upset me, do you, gorgeous?”
Garrett snorts. “Don’t waste your time, man. She’s immune to flirting. Trust me, I’ve tried.” He turns to me. “This is Logan. Logan, Wellsy.”
“Hannah,” I correct.
Logan thinks it over before shaking his head. “Naah. I like Wellsy.”
“You met Dean in the hall, and that’s Tucker,” Garrett adds, pointing to the auburn-haired guy on the couch, who—surprise, surprise—is as good-looking as the rest of them.
I wonder if “sexy as fuck” is a requirement for living in this house.
Not that I’d ever ask Garrett. His ego is big enough as it is.
“’Sup, Wellsy,” Tucker calls out.
I smother a sigh. Wonderful. I guess I’m Wellsy now.
“Wellsy is the star of the Christmas recital,” Garrett tells his friends.
“Winter showcase,” I grumble.
“Isn’t that what I said?” He waves a dismissive hand. “Okay, let’s do this shit. Later, boys.”
I follow Garrett up the narrow staircase to the second floor. His room is at the end of the hall, and from the sheer size of it and the private bath, it must be the master bedroom.
“You mind if I change out of this uniform?” I ask awkwardly. “I’ve got my street clothes in my bag.”
He flops on the edge of the monstrous bed and leans back on his elbows. “Go right ahead. I’ll sit here and enjoy the show.”
I clench my teeth. “I meant in the washroom.”
“That’s no fun.”
“Nothing about this is fun,” I mutter.
The bathroom is a lot cleaner than I expect, and the faint traces of woodsy aftershave hang in the air. I quickly change into yoga pants and a black sweater, tie my hair into a ponytail, and shove my uniform in my bag.
Garrett is still on the bed when I return. He’s engrossed with his phone, doesn’t even glance up when I dump an armful of books on his bed.
“To quote your annoying self, are you ready to do this shit?” I say sarcastically.
He speaks in an absent-minded tone. “Yeah. One sec.” His long fingers tap out a message, and then he drops the phone on the mattress. “Sorry. I’m paying attention now.”
My seating options are limited. There’s a desk under the window but only one chair, which is buried under a mountain of clothes. Same goes for the armchair in the corner of the room. The floor is hardwood and looks uncomfortable.
The bed, it is.
I reluctantly sit cross-legged on the mattress. “Okay, so I think we should run through all the theories first. Make sure you know the important points of each one, and then we can start applying them to the list of conflicts and moral dilemmas.”
“Sounds good.”
“Let’s start with Kant. His ethics are pretty straightforward.”
I open the binder of readings Tolbert handed out at the start of the year and flip through the pages until I find all the material on Immanuel Kant. Garrett slides his big body to top of the bed and rests his head on the wooden frame, letting out a heavy sigh as I plop the readings in his lap.
“Read,” I order.
“Out loud?”
“Yep. And once you’re done, I want you to summarize what you just read. Think you can handle that?”
There’s a beat, and then his bottom lip quivers. “This might be the wrong time to tell you, but…I can’t read.”
My jaw falls open. Holy shit. He can’t be seri—
Garrett barks out a laugh. “Relax, I’m fucking around with you.” Then he scowls at me. “You actually thought I couldn’t read? Jesus Christ, Wellsy.”
I offer a sweet smile. “Wouldn’t have surprised me in the slightest.”
Except Garrett does end up surprising me. Not only does he read the material in a smooth, articulate voice, he proceeds to summarize Kant’s Categorical Imperative almost word-for-word.
“Do you have a photographic memory or something?” I demand.
“Nope. I’m good with facts.” He shrugs. “I just have a tough time applying the theories to the moral situations.”
I cut him some slack. “It’s total bullshit, if you ask me. How can we be sure what these philosophers—who are all long dead—would think about Tolbert’s hypotheticals? For all we know, they’d evaluate it on a case-by-case basis. Right and wrong isn’t black and white. It’s more complex than—”
Garrett’s phone buzzes.
“Shit, one sec.” He glances at the screen, frowns, and sends another text. “Sorry, you were saying?”
We spend the next twenty minutes going over the finer points of Kant’s ethical views.
Garrett sends about five more texts during that time.
“Oh my God,” I burst out. “Am I going to have to confiscate that thing?”
“Sorry,” he says for the zillionth time. “I’ll put it on silent.”
Which achieves nothing because he leaves the phone on his binder and the damn thing lights up every time a new message comes in.
“So basically, logic is the backbone of Kantian ethics—” I halt when the phone screen flashes again. “This is ridiculous. Who keeps texting you?”
“Nobody.”
Nobody, my ass. I grab the phone and click on the message icon. There’s no name, just a number, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the messages are from a female. Unless there’s some guy out there who wants to “lick Garrett all over.”
“You’re sexting during a tutoring session? What is wrong with you?”
He sighs. “I’m not sexting. She’s sexting.”
“Uh-huh. Let’s blame her, shall we?”
“Read my responses,” he insists. “I keep telling her I’m busy. It’s not my fault she can’t take the hint.”
I scroll through the conversation and discover he’s telling the truth. All the messages he’s sent in the past thirty minutes have involved the words busy and studying and talk later.
Sighing, I start typing. Garrett protests and tries to seize the phone from my hand, but he’s too late. I’ve already pressed send.
“There,” I announce. “All taken care of.”
“I swear to God, Wellsy, if you…” He trails off as he reads the message.
This is Garrett’s tutor. You’re annoying me. We’re done in thirty minutes. I’m confident you can keep your pants zipped until then.
Garrett meets my eyes and laughs so loudly I can’t help but smile.
“That ought to be more effective than your half-assed leave me alones, don’t you think?”
He chuckles again. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Hopefully that shuts your girlfriend up for a while.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s this puck bunny I hooked up with last year and—”
“Puck bunny?” I echo in horror. “You’re such a pig. Is that actually what you call women?”
“When the woman is only interested in sleeping with a hockey player so she can brag to all her friends that she bagged a hockey player? Yeah, that’s what we call ’em,” he says with a bite to his voice. “If anything, I’m the one being objectified in this scenario.”
“Whatever helps you sleep better at night…” I reach for the binder. “Let’s move on to utilitarianism. We’ll focus on Bentham for now.”
Afterward, I quiz him on the two philosophers we’ve discussed tonight, and I’m pleased when he answers everything correctly, even the curveballs I throw at him.
Fine. So maybe Garrett Graham isn’t as dumb as I thought he was.
By the time our hour is up, I’m confident that he didn’t just memorize the information and spit it back at me. There’s genuine comprehension there, as if the ethical ideas have truly sunk in for him. It’s a shame the makeup exam isn’t multiple choice, because there’s no doubt in my mind he could pass it with flying colors.
“Tomorrow we’ll tackle postmodernism.” I sigh. “Which, in my humble opinion, is probably the most convoluted school of thought in human history. I’ve got rehearsal until six but I’m free afterward.”
Garrett nods. “I’m done with practice around seven. So how about eight?”
“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 phone.
“You went through my bag?” I exclaim. “Seriously?”
“Your phone was hanging out of the front pocket,” he protests. “I was curious to see what kind of music you like.” 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 phone 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 laptop 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.
