Falling For The Forbidden

by Hawkins, Jessica

  He said no sniveling excuses or lies? Fine.

  I wipe the attitude from my voice and give him raw, unpolished honesty. “I live in Treme because my family can’t afford a mansion in the Garden District, Mr. Marceaux. I can’t afford a cell phone or any kind of phone. I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat. And those…those electronic bracelets all my classmates wear when they work out? I don’t know what they do, but I can’t afford one of those, either. And right now, I don’t have the money for school supplies. But I will. I’ll have it by the end of the week.”

  Straightening, he steps back and lowers his head. Is that a fucking smile he’s hiding? I swear to God I glimpsed one. Is he actually enjoying the pathetic appraisal of my life? What a horrible fucking person! This is the teacher I’m supposed to look up to? The one who will make me or break me? My lungs heave and slam together.

  When he lifts his head, his mouth is a flat line, and the frigid depths of his eyes seem to manipulate his entire expression, twisting it into a collage of other faces that haunt me when I sleep. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “Never,” I seethe through grinding teeth. “I never want that.”

  “No? Then what? Seems you expect me to make exceptions for you?”

  “No. Just—” I’ve never met a more callous, self-righteous dick. “Just write me up or whatever you’re going to do.”

  I know something isn’t right the moment he looks down the hall and checks to make sure we’re alone. I know this entire confrontation is inappropriate when he bends toward me and places his hands on the wall, trapping me in. And I know there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do about it as he whispers through the pounding in my ears.

  “Don’t worry about your punishment.” His attention falls to my lips, returns to my eyes. “I’ll take care of that later.”

  Just like that, my strength, my bravery, all the things I wish I had right now abandon me in the heavy arms of fear. I’ve been in this position countless times. This is a first with a teacher, but he’s no different than the other takers. I could report him, but who are they going to believe? The girl with a slutty reputation or the former dean of Shreveport? And while I can’t overpower him, I know I’ll survive it. I might even master my emotions while it’s happening, like a Chopin nocturne in D-flat major.

  I’m startled when his hand lifts, not to grab my breast but to pinch my chin so he can see my lip. “You need to go to the nurse and have her put something on this cut.”

  It’s not until he releases me and slides his hands into his pockets that I realize I’m shaking. He steps back, elbows wide, shoulders loose. A heavy chill diffuses through my body.

  He watches me with those arctic blue eyes, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to head toward the nurse’s office or wait to be dismissed. For some reason, it matters. Like he’s testing me. So I wait.

  He’s a mercurial, heartless asshole, but he also surprised me. He didn’t force his mouth against mine, didn’t dig his fingers between my legs. He…stepped back?

  Maybe I still have a chance to prove I’m not just a poor girl or a five-minute grope in a hallway.

  A recurrent of sharp clicking sounds fills the silence between us. I follow the noise with my gaze, trailing over his tie and waistcoat, visually tracing along the dark dusting of hair on his exposed forearm, and pause on the mechanical watch on his wrist.

  Moving wheels with tooth-like points whirl inside the enormous face, ticking, measuring the rhythm of time, like a metronome. Will each ticking moment I spend with him be an irreversible succession into the future? Or will he hold me here, stuck in the present, in this life?

  “Miss Westbrook.”

  I snap my attention to his face, the angled lines of his jaw, the darker shades of his cheeks where stubble will grow in, and the curve of lips that haven’t been injured by circumstance. He seems untouchable. Maybe his fists are as brutal as his beauty. Just looking at him feels like I’m inhaling a lungful of fire.

  Because he’s dangerous, and he seems to know this, too, as he thrusts an impatient finger in the direction of the nurse’s office, his voice fueled with urgency. “Go.”

  I turn and hurry down the hall with the weight of his gaze pressing against my back.

  Emeric

  As Ivory darts down the hall, she doesn’t look back, doesn’t dare meet my eyes. But the frantic rush of her steps tells me enough. I affect her. Not my professional bearing, but my masculine presence. I terrify her.

  A wide grin stretches my mouth.

  Separated by the length of the corridor, I still feel the what-ifs firing between us. I know she imagined us together when I corralled her against the wall. I’m certain she felt the power exchange, maybe even detested it, as it stuttered her inhales and dilated her pupils. And still, she waited for my permission to leave.

  Knowing that, watching her run away, the sight of her curvaceous body swaying innocently, all of it ignites a predatory need inside me. The need to chase.

  But I won’t. Not here. Not ever. I release a breath and wait for my hard-on to receive the message.

  The moment she vanishes around the corner, I slouch against the wall.

  She’s exactly the kind of woman I’m drawn to. A woman who flees when hunted and comes alive when she’s caught. A woman who bends beneath punishments and seeks acceptance in her humiliation. A woman who bites at a heavy hand, only to melt around the unforgiving grip when it cuts her air.

  I demanded her honesty—no sniveling excuses or lies—and expected her to recoil, disobey, or tell me to fuck off. But she didn’t, couldn’t. It was the moment I realized it’s her nature to give me what I want. When she exposed the embarrassing details of her poverty, offering up her vulnerabilities for me to mock at, heaven help me, it was beautiful and tragic and seductive—a trinity of temptation.

  A greedy throb tightens the front of my pants, but the reaction means fuckall. It’s simple, really. I want sex. Filthy, kinky sex. Nothing more. As raw and enraged as I am about my last mistake, I’m unwilling to move on, unable to let go of Joanne. But I’m also vicious in my resentment and vindictive enough to fuck as many women as possible with the brutal dominance Joanne craves and can no longer have. Maybe she’ll choke on her poisonous jealousy.

  Which makes Ivory a tantalizing tease. I can give her exactly what she needs. I can train her, objectify her, and defile her, and she’d let me, because surrender is the very fabric of her sexuality.

  But I could also lose myself in her, because she’s the kind of woman I make mistakes for.

  Except she’s not a woman.

  As a senior, she’s at least seventeen, the legal age of consent. But she’s still a child, ten years my junior, and sexual conduct between teacher and student is punishable by imprisonment, regardless of age.

  The notion is sobering, deflating my dick and making it a hell of a lot easier to keep my hands to myself.

  Back in the classroom, the students bombard me with questions about the chromatic scale and the circle of fifths. Slowly, my fixation with Ivory slips into the recesses of my mind.

  Until the door opens, and her dark eyes instantly find mine.

  I continue the lecture as she slides behind her desk, her bottom lip glazed in a sheen of ointment. I don’t give her more than a half-second glance. I’m the adult here, the one in control of our interactions. Ignoring my fascination with her, pretending I don’t want to devour her with my gaze, sets appropriate boundaries. I’m here to teach her, and that doesn’t include instructions on how to properly suck my cock.

  To be honest, despite my disgraceful end as Head of School in Shreveport, I’m excited to be back in the classroom. Nothing fills me with a sense of belonging like standing before a rapt audience and commanding attention with the sound of my voice. This isn’t a job. It’s a creditable use of my need to influence and dominate, a place where I can discipline weaknesses, mold trustful minds, and inspire students with my passion for music.

 
; My veins thrum with energy as I listen to the class discuss the application of an invariant hexachord. I straddle a chair at the front of the room, nodding in encouragement and interjecting only when they stray off topic. They look to me for knowledge, shiver beneath my directives, and I get off on it.

  This is why I didn’t fight to keep my job in Shreveport. I need this…this freedom to leave all the administrative bullshit behind and focus on my love of teaching.

  The class discussion grows in volume, voices clashing, as a debate arises about the use of tone rows. I’m seconds from putting an end to it when Ivory jumps in.

  “You guys, ordinary relations of tones are stereotypical.” She furrows her brow. “But you can still obtain an emotional thrill from the music.” She quickly backs up her points with valid examples in Schoenberg’s Concerto for Violin.

  Not once does she reference the textbook. Not even as she cites ornamental compositions by opus number. The classroom listens quietly, and by the time the bell rings, she’s brilliantly persuaded the debate.

  I find myself…impressed. She knows the material, almost as well as I do. If she plays piano with the same aptitude, I’ll have to punish her just for making me so goddamn enamored.

  Her eyes catch mine as the classroom thins out. Five students remain, but I’m too focused on one to make note of the others. There’s something recognizable in her gaze. Distrust? Accusation? Abuse. Whatever she’s exposing is both offensive and haunting.

  I harden my eyes, a silent reprimand. She looks away, her emollient-lathered lips rubbing together, as she surveys her peers.

  Three boys and two girls make up the senior pianists at Le Moyne, including the hipster fuck, Sebastian Roth. He moved seats between classes, sitting closer to Ivory while leaving a row between them. I’ll let it go as long as he doesn’t look at her, not one fucking glance.

  Since the student files didn’t land on my desk until lunchtime, I haven’t had a chance to read them. But I knew the final classes in my schedule would be an intimate group. The perquisites of forking out an expensive tuition are many, all illustrated in Le Moyne’s glossy brochure with an entire page dedicated to its 1:5 teacher-student ratio.

  “So this is what Le Moyne’s top pianists look like?” I pitch my voice with doubt, making it clear they’ll have to prove themselves. “You think you have what it takes to become piano virtuosos, composers, professors…something other than privileged, snot-nosed brats?”

  Except Ivory. Her tattered clothes and shoes, her inability to buy textbooks, nothing about her reeks of privilege. How does a girl from a poor neighborhood land a spot here? It’s bizarre. And distracting.

  Forcing her out of my mind, I stroll along the rows, hands folded behind my back, and study each of the five students without registering individual features. I don’t give a shit what they look like. I’m searching for straight spines, parted lips, and alert gazes.

  Five pairs of eyes lock on me, their bodies angled to follow my movements, breaths hitching, waiting, as I pass each desk. I have their attention.

  “We’ll be spending three hours a day together, every day, for the rest of the year. Music Theory, Piano Seminar, Performance Master Class, and for some of you, private lessons… This is what Mommy and Daddy shelled out the big bucks for.” My leisurely walk ends at the front of the room, and I turn to face them. “Don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste your parents’ money. Don’t take me seriously, and I will seriously fuck up your prospective futures. Are we clear?”

  I can almost smell the mix of trepidation and startled respect in the silence that follows.

  “I’m not going to lecture or put you on a piano bench today.” I glance at the student files on my desk. “I’m going to use the next few hours in one-on-one conferences with each of you. Don’t think of it as an interview. Just a brief meeting to help me become acquainted with your backgrounds and academic goals.”

  Unbidden, my thoughts dart to Ivory and all the ways I can’t become acquainted with her. I push a hand through my hair, avoiding the prick of her gaze. I’m itching to talk to her again, to learn how a girl from Treme affords one of the most expensive tuitions in the country.

  Maybe I don’t want to know.

  But I do know I need a moment to gather some damn self-control. “Mr. Roth, I’ll start with you.”

  I’ll save the temptation for last.

  Ivory

  I twirl a pencil between my fingers and try not to chew a hole in my lip. Sitting on the floor in the back corner of the L-shaped room, I watch Mr. Marceaux through the maze of chair legs while he conducts private meetings at his desk.

  A huge space separates us, the length of two normal classrooms filled with desks and instruments. But when he glances my way, which he does unnervingly often, I can see him. I can also shift ever-so-slightly and obstruct the eye contact.

  Sometimes I don’t move, my gaze paralyzed under the force of his. Why? It’s the strangest thing, this preoccupation I have with him. I want to learn more about him—what he eats, the music he listens to, and where he goes when he’s not here. I want to study his calculated movements, watch the path of his fingers along his jaw, stare at the hard angles of his face, and memorize the way his slacks outline the shape of him. He’s enchanting, distracting, and positively terrifying.

  Why can’t I just focus on something else? This has nothing to do with my ambitions for college and his role in it. Good lord, I haven’t even thought of that. I just want… What? For him to look at me? I hate his eyes, yet I watch them, wait for them to shift my way. That’s so fucked up.

  He told us we could use the free block of time to study, but I can’t concentrate. I can’t think about anything except the enigma in the front of the room.

  Two of the students, Sebastian and Lester, left after their meetings. Sarah chose to hang out after hers, and Chris is up there now, perched stiffly on the edge of his chair, nodding at whatever Mr. Marceaux is saying.

  That leaves me, and the wait for my turn is flaying my insides.

  “Psst. Ivory.”

  I turn toward Sarah, who mirrors my cross-legged position—our loose skirts stretched over knees for modesty—at the other end of the back wall.

  “C’mere,” she whispers.

  I shake my head, unwillingly to give up my view.

  With a sigh, she sets her textbook down and crawls toward me.

  This should be interesting. I think she’s talked to me twice in the last three years. I gave up trying to be friends with her when she said the hamburger I was eating was made of greed, lies, and murder. I don’t have the luxury to choose food that saves farm animals and boycotts political agendas.

  Her brown, stick-straight hair is so long it drags along the floor as she edges toward me on hands and knees. She has an old-school hippie look about her, with ropes of multi-colored beads dangling from her neck, a long flowing dress that she hitches up her thighs, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra, but she has the kind of svelte build that doesn’t require one.

  She tumbles into a sprawl beside me, all arms and legs and smiles. What is she up to?

  In a volume too low to be heard beyond our huddle, she asks, “What do you think of him?”

  Kill me now. I’m not going there with her. “He’s stern.”

  She glances at Mr. Marceaux, and lines form in her forehead. “Not him. I mean, yeah, he’s stern and sexy and… hello? Didn’t you hear about his other uses for his belt?”

  His belt? I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just hearsay. I want to talk about Chris Stevens.”

  I don’t have an opinion on Chris, other than he tried to sleep with me sophomore year, and I’ve been avoiding him since. “What about him?”

  “Have you fucked him?”

  My cheeks burn. “What!”

  Mr. Marceaux cuts his splintery eyes at me.

  Shit. I lower my voice, clipping the words. “I haven’t d
one anything with him.”

  “Sorry, sorry. It’s just….” She separates a lock of her hair and proceeds to plait it into a skinny braid. “I know you’ve been with Prescott and Sebastian and…others. They don’t shut up about it, and well, never mind. It was rude to assume.” She drops the braid and flashes me a pair of dimples. “Are we gravy?”

  “Yeah, we’re good.” I guess?

  “Cool, because I need some advice.” She lowers her chin, whispering, “On sex. And since you’re…um…”

  A slut? A tramp? A dirty whore? I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “I’m what?”

  “Experienced.”

  I grit my teeth.

  She doesn’t seem to notice. “Chris and I are kind of a thing. Like, we’ve made out and stuff, and I’ve been…I don’t know, saving my V-card for something special, you know?”

  No, I don’t know. I can’t imagine anyone or anything being special enough to go through that for.

  She puts her face so close to mine all I see is freckles. “What’s it like?”

  I tilt back, growing increasingly uncomfortable by the second. “What? Sex?”

  “Yeah.” She licks her lips. “That.”

  Just the thought of sex makes my stomach swarm with a thousand bees. Enduring it is worse than licking an oozing cold sore covered in dead skin and pus. But I don’t know if it’s like that for everyone—people act like girls are supposed to like it—so I shrug.

  She cocks her head. “Does it hurt? The first time?”

  “Yeah.” My voice cracks, and I clear it. “It hurts.” It never stops hurting.

  “How old were you?”

  I don’t want to talk about this, but at the same time, my chest aches with an overwhelming need to share. No one has ever asked me about my sexual experiences. Definitely not my mom, and I’ve never had a close friend. Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? Girl talk without judgment?

  I search her face for signs of cruelty and find only bright-eyed curiosity. It produces a warm sensation deep in my core. She’s interested, maybe even envious. Because I have something she doesn’t. Experience.