Falling For The Forbidden

by Hawkins, Jessica

  Stretching my legs out, I rest my head against the wall. “I was thirteen.”

  “Wow.” Her face glows with wonderment. “Who? How? Tell me everything.”

  The words come easily, pouring from a memory that’s tattooed on every cell of my body. “My brother had just come home after serving time in the Marine Corps, and he brought one of the guys from his squad with him. His best friend.”

  I was so taken with Lorenzo then, so giddy over his good looks, battle-honed muscles, and rugged charm. And he looked at me like I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

  He still looks at me, and I dread it down to the marrow of my bones.

  Sarah covers her mouth, her smile escaping around her fingers. “You gave your virginity to your brother’s best friend?”

  Prickles race up my spine. “He was staying with us until he could get his own place. I woke one night, couldn’t fall back asleep, so I stepped outside to sit on the back deck.”

  Daddy had only been gone a month, and the loss was still so very painful, a constant constriction in my chest. He used to say, Nothing is inconceivable, and everything is possible. The proof is in the magic of music. So there I was, humming his favorite Herbie Hancock song, wishing for the inconceivable, and willing him to come back.

  Sarah crowds in, her expression radiating far more enthusiasm than the reality of that night deserves. “What happened?”

  “My brother’s friend came outside and pinned me on the stairs. He was so big. Big everywhere. And strong. He knew what he wanted, and I couldn’t stop him from taking it.”

  Couldn’t stop the concrete steps from scraping my chest and legs as he took me from behind. The hand on my mouth muffling my screams. The ripping sound of my nightie. The smell of his breath rotting the air. And the hurt between my legs…the tearing, the blood, the soreness for days after when he took me again and again.

  “Dude.” Sarah slouches against the wall. “That sounds so hot.”

  It does?

  “You’re so lucky.” She plays with the ends of her hair. “You have boobs and experience and guys like that falling all over you. I want that. I guess I’ve been scared, but I’m definitely ready to…you know…with Chris.”

  There must be something wrong with me, because boobs and sex and everything she just said makes me want to puke my guts out. “Sarah, don’t—”

  “Between you and me, the girls around here are only mean to you because they’re jealous. I mean, look at you. Guys want that.” She waves a hand to indicate my body. “No wonder you’ve slept with half the school.”

  Bile hits the back of my throat, and I swallow repeatedly to keep it down.

  “Oh, look. He’s done.” Sarah jumps to her feet, grabs her books, and rushes through the room, making a beeline for Chris.

  Part of me wants to tackle her to the floor and beg her to stay away from him. But the other part, the selfish part, craves her acceptance. If she has sex with Chris, she’ll be just like me. Maybe she’ll talk to me more, confide in me. Maybe I can share other things, scarier things, about men and their needs.

  “Miss Westbrook.” Mr. Marceaux stands from his chair, fists on his hips and a chill in his eyes. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Emeric

  I attempt to read through her student file, but the words run together. I’m too distracted, my every thought funneling toward the girl on the other side of my desk. I sent the other students home, and now it’s just Ivory and me and this inconvenient attraction.

  Her slender fingers fold together in her lap, her back straight and dark hair falling around the graceful lines of her neck. A smile anchors her lips, an expression that seems to come naturally to her, but this one is smaller than its predecessors. Shakier. The kind of smile little girls wear when they’re scared.

  I drop the file on the desk and lean forward, breaching her invisible bubble of tension. “What are you worried about?”

  I know the answer, but I want to hear what it sounds like on her lips.

  “Nothing.” She brushes a finger against her nose. A tiny, telling gesture. She’s lying.

  I slam a fist down on the desk, hard enough to make her gasp.

  “That was the last time you will ever lie to me.” I’ll whip the godforsaken truth out of her if I have to. “Tell me you understand.”

  A vein bulges and flutters in her throat. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good.” My gaze dips to the V of her shirt, the deep line of cleavage, and the safety pin precariously holding it all together. Just as quick, I avert my eyes, training them on her face. “Now answer the question.”

  She rubs her palms on her thighs and holds my gaze. “You, Mr. Marceaux. You worry me.”

  Ahh, much better. I want her to spoon-feed her honesty to me, breath by trembling breath. “Explain what you mean.”

  She nods to herself, as if summoning her courage. “You’re smart and strict like other teachers, but you have the approach and temperament of a barbaric di—” She clamps her lips together.

  “Language is permissible in my classroom, Miss Westbrook.” I narrow my eyes. “As long as it’s used in a constructive manner.”

  She narrows her eyes right back. “I was going to say dickhead, but I’m not sure that’s constructive.”

  At least she’s thinking about a dick.

  “Give me an example of my alleged behavior, and I’ll decide how constructive it is.”

  Her mouth falls open, as if flabbergasted by my response. “How about when we were out in the hall? When I told you my financial situation, and you…you smiled?”

  Fuck, she saw that?

  I can’t tell her I smiled because her vulnerability made me high on lust and hard as a fucking rock. But I can give her sincerity.

  “You’re right. I was wrong, and I apologize.” I pick up the file and flip through the printouts. “Let’s talk about your circumstances.”

  I scan the bio page and confirm her Treme address. Skipping over the summary of her exceptional GPA and SAT scores, I latch onto the facts I care most about.

  Date of birth?

  She’ll be eighteen in the spring.

  Parents?

  William Westbrook. Deceased.

  Lisa Westbrook. Unemployed.

  That explains her shortage of funds, but not how she pays for private school. Wait…

  I jump back to her father’s name. “William Westbrook?”

  Her eyes drift closed. I look back at the page, trying to connect the details. Westbrook, dead, from Treme, daughter plays piano…

  Jesus, I can’t believe I didn’t place her name earlier. “You’re Willy Westbrook’s daughter?”

  Her eyes flash open, bright and hopeful like her smile. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “I grew up in New Orleans, sweetheart. Everyone around here’s heard of Willy’s Piano Bar.”

  Her gaze turns inward, her smile softening. “I hear it’s a cool place. Tourists love it.”

  She says this as though she’s never been, which contradicts the image I have of her sitting behind Willy’s famous piano after-hours and dreaming of filling his talented shoes.

  I rest my elbows on the desk, angling closer. “Don’t you live down the street from there? You’ve never been?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “It’s an eighteen-and-over bar. I can’t get in.”

  My brain chugs through a cloud of confusion. “You don’t go there when it’s closed to help run the business? It’s still in your family, right?”

  Except her file says her mother’s unemployed?

  Her stare falls to her lap. “Daddy sold the bar when I was ten.”

  I hate when I can’t see her eyes. “Look at me when you’re talking.”

  She snaps her head up, her voice quiet, flat. “The new owner kept the name and let Daddy continue to play piano there until…”

  Until a fight broke out in the bar, shots were fired, and Willy caught one in the chest while trying to subdue the brawlers.


  My familiarity with the story must be written on my face, because she says, “You know what happened then.”

  “It was all over the news.”

  She nods, swallows.

  Willy’s death garnered a shitload of attention. Not only was he a white jazz pianist in a black neighborhood, he was also adored and respected by the community. His bar brings a great deal of tourist dollars into Treme, and from what I hear, its popularity has kept the surrounding businesses afloat for years.

  I specifically remember watching the televised reports of his murder while visiting New Orleans—that particular visit back home had been a pivotal point in my life. It was…four years ago? I’d just received my master’s from Leopold and was waffling on whether to keep my teaching job in New York City or look for work closer to my hometown.

  That same week, I accepted a job offer at Shreveport Preparatory. And met Joanne.

  I was twenty-three then, which means Ivory was thirteen when her father was murdered.

  She sits across from me, watchful and quiet. As the silence stretches, a subtle transformation works its way into her posture, curling her body into itself and making her appear smaller. She picks at a thread on her sleeve, bringing my attention to the stitching in her shirt and all the places the seams are unraveling. Her clothes are cheaply made, old, or worn from use. Probably all of the above.

  There’s not a smudge of makeup on her tan face. No rings, bracelets, or jewelry of any kind. Not a whiff of perfume, either. She certainly doesn’t need enhancements to make her pretty. Her bare beauty outshines every woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. But that’s not why she goes without.

  I won’t pretend to understand what it’s like to live in poverty, let alone to lose a parent the way she did. My father’s a successful physician, and my mother retired as Provost and Dean of Leopold. When I returned to Louisiana after college, they moved back with me to remain close to their only child. Their love and support for me is as dependable as their fortune, and to say they’re wealthy is an understatement. The Marceaux family holds the patent on the wooden bracings used in pianos. I’m set for life, as are my children, and their children, and so on, as long as pianos are in production.

  Old money is rife among Le Moyne families. Except Ivory’s. So why did Willy Westbrook sell his booming business only to continue working there as an entertainer, earning the kind of menial salary that left his daughter destitute?

  I leaf through her file, searching for the payment schedule of her tuition. A small notation on the last page indicates all four years were paid in full seven years ago.

  Daddy sold the bar when I was ten.

  I meet her eyes. “He sold his business to send you here?”

  She shifts in the chair, back hunching, but she doesn’t look away. “He received an offer that was just enough to cover the four-year program, so he…” She closes her eyes, opens them. “Yeah. He sold everything to secure my position here.”

  And three years later, he died, leaving her so goddamn broke she can’t afford textbooks.

  I don’t bother hiding the contempt in my voice. “That was extremely stupid.”

  Twin flames ignite her eyes as she jerks forward, her hands clutching the lip of the desk. “Daddy looked at me and saw something worth believing in, long before I believed in myself. There’s nothing stupid about that.”

  She glares at me like she’s expecting me to jump on the bandwagon and believe in her, too. But really she just looks like a defensive, angry little girl. It’s unbecoming.

  “You’re not thirteen anymore. Grow up and stop calling him Daddy.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t call him!” Her face reddens in a lovely shade of vehemence. “He’s my father, my life, and it has nothing to do with you!”

  Christ, this girl has baggage, and given the cut on her lip, it goes beyond Daddy issues. Physical abuse is easy to detect. Sexual trauma, however, is a huge leap. But I’m suspicious by nature and far too curious about her. Despite those bold sparks in her eyes, her posture has a tendency to curl inward in self-defense, evidence that someone in her past or present hurts her.

  I want to dig around inside her, carve out the useful facets of her misery, and obliterate the rest. “He was your father, and you have your own life. Move on.”

  A twitch bounces in her cheek. “I hate you.”

  And I hate how badly I want to punish her mouth by shoving my cock in it. “You’ve succeeded in showing your immaturity, Miss Westbrook. If you want to remain a student under my tutelage, you will stop bellyaching like a schoolgirl and start behaving like an adult.”

  She sniffs, shoulders squaring. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me.” She stares across the room, her gaze roaming the wall of instruments. “I’ve really screwed this up.”

  “Look at me.”

  She does, instantly.

  The cloying perfume of her obedience licks along my skin. I want to bathe in it, taste it, and test it. “Why are you here? Because your father decided when you were ten that you would become a pianist?”

  Her brows pull together. “No, this is my dream, too, and ‘I’m obliged to be industrious.’”

  She can quote Bach. Good for her.

  “What is your dream, exactly?” I open the file to the college acceptance section. “According to this, you have no goals, no ambitions. What are you going to do after high school?”

  “What?” Outrage screeches through her voice. She launches across the desk and rips the page from my hand, her gaze flying over the empty columns. “Why is this blank? There must be some mistake. I’ve…I’ve… God! I’ve been adamant about—”

  “Sit down!”

  “Mr. Marceaux, this isn’t right. You have to listen…” Her voice weakens, trailing to frightened silence under the force of my gaze.

  She lowers into the chair, face flushing and quivering hands rustling the paper.

  I steeple my fingers against my chin. “Now tell me, in a calm voice, what you expected to see on that page.”

  “I’m going to Leopold.”

  Not a chance in hell.

  Except the unwavering strength in her glare argues she has the determination to make it happen, and the lift of her chin challenges me to claim otherwise.

  I accept that challenge. “You realize only three percent of the applicants are accepted each year? Dozens of your peers have applied, even though Leopold hasn’t accepted a Le Moyne student in three years. Maybe, just maybe, one of you will make it in next year.”

  There’s no maybe about it. My mother still holds a seat on Leopold’s Board of Trustees and has the means to push one of my referrals through. I’m confident she’ll do it. For me.

  However. While slipping one student application past the stringent acceptance process won’t raise suspicion, two would most definitely sound alarms and put my mother’s integrity in question. I would never ask that of her.

  I lean back in the chair, flipping through the printouts to make sure I didn’t overlook notes on Ivory’s college goals. “You should’ve applied for the matriculation process by now. There’s nothing here indicating you have an interest in pursuing such an impossible venture.”

  “Everything is possible, Mr. Marceaux.” She tosses the blank page on my desk. “And I did apply. Three years ago. In fact, Mrs. McCracken intended to refer me as the leading applicant.”

  That explains why Beverly forced Barb McCracken into retirement and brought me here as her replacement. When I accepted the deal, I knew there would be students more worthy of my referral than Beverly’s son. But I didn’t expect to feel this much guilt tangling in my gut.

  Ivory Westbrook poses a moral dilemma, and I haven’t even heard her play. Maybe her talent is mediocre, and I can shove this conflict of interest aside.

  She stares at my tie, a fugue of thoughts flickering in her eyes. Long seconds pass. Somewhere down the hall, a clarinet plays in perfect key.

  Finally, she meets my gaze. “My presen
ce isn’t exactly wanted around here. I don’t wear the right clothes, drive the right car.” She laughs. “I don’t even have a car. And I certainly don’t bring endowments or glamorous connections. The only thing I have to offer is my talent. It should be enough. It should be the only thing that matters. Yet this school has been against me since day one.”

  Nothing she said surprises me. She’s a little lost lamb among a pack of cutthroat wolves. So why doesn’t she aim a little lower? Try for an easier college and remove herself from the cross-hairs? Why Leopold?

  I hold my expression impassive, deferring my questions until she’s finished.

  She touches the blank page and scoots it toward me. “Someone deleted my proposition for Leopold, along with all the prep work I’ve done to support my eligibility. Mrs. McCracken told me she put it all in my file. I don’t want to point fingers, but someone in this school doesn’t like me, and that someone has a son who is competing for my spot.”

  Beverly Rivard wiped her file, a conclusion I’d already come to. “Why Leopold?”

  “It’s the best conservatory in the country.”

  “So?”

  “So?” Her eyes light up. “The rigorous education students receive there is unparalleled. They have an elite faculty, top-notch facilities, and the best track record in propelling students into musical careers.” Ticking off names on her fingers, she lists notable alumni, such as world-renowned composers, conductors, and pianists, then adds, “And you, Mr. Marceaux. I mean, you’re in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra.”

  I’m about to call her out for being a brown-noser, but then she surprises me.

  “I don’t just want to perform.” She clasps her hands together, her gaze losing focus. “I want to occupy a principal chair in a major symphony and sit beside the best of the best, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights. I want to be there, part of it all, when the music begins.”

  This isn’t a pitch she prepared in advance. The passion in her voice is a thousand decibels of intensity, her entire body vibrating with the prospect of her words.