Falling For The Forbidden

by Hawkins, Jessica

  I roll off the bed, shove down my skirt, and grab the wrapped bread from the floor. To reach the front door, I have to pass through Shane’s room then the parlor. Maybe he hasn’t crawled out of bed yet.

  With a trembling pulse, I dart into the pitch-black cavern of Shane’s room and— Oomph! I slam into his bare chest.

  Expecting his reaction, I swerve out of the path of his first swing, only to expose my cheek to the hard slap of his other hand. The impact sends me back into Mom’s room, and he stays with me, his eyes drooping in a haze of alcohol and drugs.

  To think, he used to look like Daddy. But that was before… Every day, Shane’s blond hairline recedes farther, his cheeks sink deeper into his pasty face, and his belly hangs lower over those ridiculous workout shorts.

  He hasn’t worked out since he went AWOL from the Marines four years ago. The year our lives went to shit.

  “Why. The. Fuck…” Shane says, shoving his face in mine, “are you waking up the goddamn house at five in the fucking morning?”

  Technically, it’s almost six o’clock, and I have a quick stop to make before the forty-five-minute commute.

  “I have school, dickhead.” I straighten my spine, standing taller, despite the awful fear souring my stomach. “What you should be asking is why Lorenzo is sleeping in Mom’s bed, why he puts his hands on me, and why I was screaming for him to stop.”

  I follow Shane’s focus to his friend. Faded ink scrawls up the sides of Lorenzo’s face, indiscernible beneath the dark shadow of his sideburns. But the fresh tattoo on his throat burns as bold and black as his eyes. Destroy, it says. The way he’s glaring at me, it’s a promise.

  “She came onto me again.” Lorenzo’s gaze stays on mine, his expression an open canvas of malice. “You know how she is.”

  “Bullshit!” I turn back to Shane, my voice pleading. “He won’t leave me alone. Every time you turn your back, he’s pulling off my clothes and—”

  Shane grabs my neck and throws me face-first into the door jamb. I try to dodge it, jerking against the force of his rage, but my mouth connects with the sharp corner.

  Pain bursts through my lip. When I taste blood, I jut my chin out to keep the mess off my clothes.

  He releases me, his eyes dull and heavy-lidded, but his hate stabs through me sharper than ever. “If you flash your tits at my friends again, I’ll cut them the fuck off. You hear me?”

  My hand flies to my chest, and my heart sinks as my palm slips through the gaping V of my shirt. At least two buttons gone. Shit! The academy will write me up, or worse, kick me out. I desperately scan the bed and floor, searching for little plastic dots in the sea of scattered clothes. I’ll never find them, and if I don’t leave now, there will be more blood and missing buttons.

  I turn and run through Shane’s room, his furious shouts propelling me faster. In the parlor, I grab my satchel from the couch where I sleep, and I’m out the door in the next breath, exhaling my relief into gray sky. The sun won’t be up for another hour, and all is quiet on the vacant street.

  As I take a step off the front lawn, I try to shed the past ten minutes from my mind by compartmentalizing it into baggage. The old-style kind, bound in brown leather with those little tan buckles. Then I picture the baggage sitting on the porch. It stays here, because I can only carry so much.

  A short jog takes me toward the 91 line. If I hurry, I still have time to check on Stogie before the next bus.

  Veering around the potholes that dimple the stately tree-lined streets, I pass rows of cottages and shotgun houses, each vibrantly painted in every color and adorned with the trademarks of the deep south. Wrought iron railings, gas lamps, guillotine windows, and gables etched with ornate scrollwork, it’s all there if one can look past the sagging porches, graffiti, and rotting garbage. Empty, overgrown lots pockmark the streetscape, as if we need reminders of the last hurricane. But the resonance of Treme thrives in the fertile soil, in the cultural history, and in the weathered smiles of the people who call the back of town their home.

  People like Stogie.

  I reach the heavily-barred door of his music store and find the handle unlocked. Despite the dearth of customers, he opens the store the moment he wakes. This is his livelihood, after all.

  The bell overhead jingles as I enter, and my attention compulsively darts to the old Steinway in the corner. I’ve spent every summer since I can remember pounding the keys on that piano until my back ached and my fingers lost feeling. Eventually, those visits turned into employment. I handle his customers, bookkeeping, inventory, whatever he needs. But only in the summers when I don’t have the means to earn my other income.

  “Ivory?” Stogie’s raspy baritone warbles through the small store.

  I set the banana bread on the glass counter and holler toward the back. “Just dropping off breakfast.”

  The shuffling sound of his loafers signals his approach, and his hunched frame emerges from his living quarters in the back room. Ninety-years-old and the man can still move fast, crossing the store like his frail body isn’t wracked with arthritis.

  The cloudy glaze in his dark eyes denotes his poor eyesight, but as he nears, his gaze instantly finds the missing buttons on my shirt and the swollen cut on my lip. The wrinkles beneath the rim of his baseball cap deepen. He’s seen Shane’s handiwork before, and I’m so grateful he doesn’t ask or offer pity. I might be the only white girl in this neighborhood, and I’m definitely the only kid with a private school education, but the differences end there. My baggage is as common in Treme as tossed beads on Bourbon Street.

  As he takes me in from head to toe, he scratches his whiskers, the little white hairs stark against his coal-black complexion. Visible tremors skate across his arms, and he squares his shoulders, no doubt an attempt to disguise his pain. I’ve been watching his health decline for months, and I’m helpless to stop it. I don’t know how to support him or ease his suffering, and it’s slowly killing me inside.

  I’ve seen his finances. He can’t afford medication or doctor’s visits or even basic things, like food. He certainly can’t afford an employee, which made my last summer on his payroll bittersweet. When I graduate from Le Moyne in the spring, I’ll leave Treme, and Stogie will no longer feel obligated to take care of me.

  But who will take care of him?

  He tugs a hankie from his shirt pocket, his hand trembling as he lifts it to my lip.

  “You look mighty smart this morning.” His shrewd eyes bore into mine. “And nervous.”

  I close my eyes while he blots the blood away. He already knows my strongest ally at the academy resigned from her position as the head music instructor. My relationship with Mrs. McCracken was three years in the making. She was the only person at Le Moyne who had my back. Losing her endorsement for a scholarship is like starting over.

  “I only have one year.” I open my eyes, locking onto Stogie’s. “One year to impress a new instructor.”

  “And all you need is a moment. Just make sure you’re there for it.”

  I’ll catch the 91 line a few blocks away. The bus ride lasts twenty-five minutes. Then a ten-minute walk to the campus. I check my watch. I’ll be there, missing buttons, lip busted, but my fingers still work. I’ll make every moment count.

  I run my tongue over the cut and cringe at the fatness around the broken skin. “Is it noticeable?”

  “Yes.” He slides me a narrowed glance. “But not nearly as noticeable as your smile.”

  Unbidden, my lips curl up, which I’m sure was his intention. “You’re such a charmer.”

  “Only when she’s worth it.” He opens the clutter drawer at his hip and digs a quivering hand through the guitar picks, reeds, nails... What is he looking for?

  Oh! I snatch the safety pin beside his probing finger and search for another. “Do you have any more?”

  “Just the one.”

  After a few strategic adjustments, I manage to pin the front of my shirt together and give him a grateful smile.


  With a soft pat on my head, he makes a shooing motion. “Go on. Get up outta here.”

  What he’s really saying is, go to school so I can get out of that house. Out of Treme. Out of this life.

  “I plan on it.” I slide the bread across the counter.

  “Oh no, now. You take it.”

  “They’ll feed me at school.”

  I know he hears the lie but accepts it anyway.

  As I turn to leave, he grabs my wrist with more strength than I thought he was capable.

  “They’re lucky to have you.” His dark eyes flash. “Damn lucky sons-a-bitches. Don’t you let them forget it.”

  He’s right. Just because my family can’t offer wealthy donations or powerful connections doesn’t make me a charity case. My four-year tuition was paid in full when I was ten-years-old, and I passed the required auditions when I was fourteen, just like my peers. As long as I continue to outshine the others in coursework, recitals, essays, and behavior, the academy might not be so hard-pressed to drop me.

  With a kiss on Stogie’s wrinkled cheek, I head toward the bus stop, unable to stop the dread from returning to my stomach. What if my new music instructor hates me, refuses to mentor me or support me in the matriculation process for college? Daddy would be devastated. God, that’s my greatest ache. Is Daddy watching me? Has he seen the things I’ve done to make ends meet? The things I’ll have to do again, as soon as tonight? Does he miss me as much as I miss him?

  Sometimes the terrible hole he left behind hurts so badly I can’t bear it. Sometimes I want to give into the pain and join him, wherever he is.

  Which is why I’m moving my biggest challenge to the top of my task list.

  Today, I’m going to smile.

  Emeric

  As the early morning faculty meeting adjourns, my shiny new colleagues file out of the library in a monochrome of starched suits and clicking heels. I remain seated at the table, waiting for the herd to disperse while watching Beverly Rivard out of the corner of my eye.

  She hasn’t shifted her authoritative stance from the head of the table, hasn’t given me so much as a glance since she introduced me at the beginning of the meeting. But she will, as soon as the room clears. No doubt she has one more agenda item to discuss. Privately.

  “Mr. Marceaux.” Her eyes cut to mine as she glides across the marble floors, surprisingly quiet in her pretentious pumps, and closes the doors behind the last staff member. “A quick word before you go.”

  It’ll be more than a word, but I won’t use semantics to unbalance the position she thinks she holds over me. There are more inventive ways to put her on her knees.

  Folding my hands in my lap, I recline in the leather chair, an elbow on the table and an ankle on my knee. I give her the full force of my gaze, because she’s the kind of woman who wants something from everyone, something powerful she can manipulate according to her own will and vision. For now, all she’s getting from me is my attention.

  Beverly strolls around the long table, her modest skirt-suit tailored to fit her slender frame. Twenty years my senior, she carries her age with remarkable elegance. High, pronounced cheekbones. Narrow, aristocratic features. Barely a wrinkle in her pale complexion.

  Hard to tell if her hair is gray or blonde where it gathers at her nape. I bet she never wears it down. Attracting attention from men isn’t her especial vanity. No, her ferocious pride lies in her sense of superiority in giving orders, and watching subordinates scramble to kiss her ass.

  Our first and only face-to-face meeting over the summer exposed some of her nature. The rest I deduced. She didn’t become the dean of Le Moyne through the goodness of her heart or by shrinking from competition.

  I know firsthand what it takes to oversee a prep school like this one.

  I also know how easy it is to lose that position.

  As she saunters toward me, her sharp eyes pass over the nooks between the mahogany bookcases, the empty librarian desk, and the vacant couches at the far end. Yes, Beverly. We’re alone.

  She lowers into the chair beside me, legs crossing at the knees, and regards me with a calculated smile. “All settled in your new house?”

  “Let’s not pretend you care.”

  “Fine.” She drags trimmed fingernails over her skirt. “Barb McCracken’s attorney contacted me. As it turns out, she decided not to leave quietly.”

  Not my problem. I shrug a shoulder. “You said you’d handle it.”

  Perhaps Beverly isn’t as competent as I assumed.

  She hums, holding on to her smile, but it’s tighter now. “I handled it.”

  “You threw more money at it?”

  Her smile slips. “More than was warranted, the greedy bit—” Her lips thin as she leans back in the chair and stares across the room. “Anyway. It’s finished.”

  I relax my mouth in half-smile, a deliberate signal of amusement. “Second guessing our arrangement already?”

  She flicks her gaze back to me. “You’re a risk, Mr. Marceaux.” Her eyes taper into frosty slivers as she swivels her chair to face me. “How many job offers have you had since your fiasco in Shreveport? Hmm?”

  Her taunting awakens a torrent of anger and betrayal that kicks up my pulse. My throat burns to lash out, but all I give her is an arched eyebrow.

  “Right. Well.” She sniffs with insolence. Or uncertainty. Probably both. “Le Moyne has an inimitable reputation, one I’m responsible for upholding. McCracken’s departure and my willingness to hire you as her replacement have stirred unwanted suspicion.”

  While Shreveport destroyed my professional reputation, the reason for my resignation was never made public. Nevertheless, people talk. I suspect most of Le Moyne’s faculty and student families will hear the whispers. I’d rather air the truth than subject myself to judgments based on twisted rumors. But Beverly’s terms for the job offer require my silence.

  “Remember our agreement.” Her elbows press against her sides, her eyes overly bright, almost glassy. “Keep your mouth shut and let me herd the sheep and their frivolous chatter.”

  She says this as if I should be impressed by her unethical business practices. But what she’s inadvertently done is shown her hand. Her fear is palpable. She wrongfully fired a tenure-track teacher and paid the woman to shut up, all to bring me here for her personal gain. If she truly had control of the situation, she wouldn’t have felt the need to initiate this conversation. She’s cold-blooded enough to destroy people’s lives, but that doesn’t mean she’s prepared to play this game. My game.

  I rub a thumb over my bottom lip, delighting in the way her eyes reluctantly follow the movement.

  The skin above her buttoned collar flushes. “It’s paramount that we keep the attention on your achievements as an educator.” She lifts her chin. “I expect you to set a professional example in the classroom—”

  “Do not tell me how to do my job.” I was a well-respected instructor before I climbed the administrative ranks. Fuck her and her self-righteous audacity.

  “Like most teachers, you seem to have a problem with learning. So try to pay attention.” She angles forward, her tone low and clipped. “I will not have your perversions darkening the corners of my school. If your misconduct at Shreveport is repeated here, the deal is off.”

  The reminder of what I lost sparks a fire in my chest. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Shreveport. Why? Are you curious?” I level a challenging look at her. “Go ahead, Beverly. Ask your burning questions.”

  She breaks eye contact, her neck stiffening. “One does not hire a whore to hear about his exploits.”

  “Oh, I’m a whore now? Are you changing the terms of our deal?”

  “No, Mr. Marceaux. You know why I hired you.” Her voice raises an octave. “With the explicit stipulation that there would be no indiscretions.” She lowers her tone. “I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  I’ve allowed her the upper hand since the moment she contacted me. It’s ti
me to see how she navigates through a little humiliation.

  Angling forward, I grip the armrests of her chair and cage her in. “You’re lying, Beverly. I think you want to hear all the dirty details of my indiscretions. Shall I describe the positions that were used, the sounds she made, the size of my cock—?”

  “Stop!” She sucks in a breath, a hand trembling against her chest before clenching her fist and plastering on the dignified expression she shows the world. “You’re disgusting.”

  I chuckle and rest back in the chair.

  She jumps to her feet, glaring down at me. “Stay away from my faculty, specifically the women in my employ.”

  “I checked out the offerings in this morning’s meeting. You should really update the scenery.”

  There were a few tight-bodied teachers, plenty of interested glances my way, but I’m not here for that. I have dozens of women ready to bend over at my call, and my mistake at Shreveport… My jaw stiffens. It’s one I won’t make again.

  “You, on the other hand…” I let my gaze travel over her rigid posture. “You look like you could use a good hard fuck.”

  “You’re out of line.” Her warning tone loses its effect with the wobble of her heels as she backs away.

  She turns and flees toward the head of the table. The farther she moves away from me, the stronger her gait becomes. A few more steps and she glances over her shoulder as if expecting to catch my eyes on her flat ass. I shudder. The arrogant bitch actually thinks I’m interested.

  I stand, slide a hand in the pocket of my slacks, and stroll toward her. “Is Mr. Rivard not meeting your demands in the bedroom?”

  She reaches the end of the table and gathers her papers, refusing to meet my eyes. “Continue this behavior, and I’ll make sure you never see the inside of a classroom again.”

  Her illusion of control makes it damn hard to keep my proverbial teeth sheathed.