The Deal (Off-Campus #1)(24)
“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.”