by Pam Godwin
“My brother would never—”
“I’m not suggesting he would.”
My throat closes up. Has he already heard about my reputation? Is he checking for evidence of my behavior?
“You have a fairly dark complexion.” He looks up, studying my expression, too steadily, too deeply. “Easier to hide bruises.”
I choke on a nervous laugh. “My mom tells me I’m too pale. Hell, she complains she’s too pale, and she’s half-Black.”
“Lower your skirt.” He stands, hands anchored on his hips. “Tell me about your mother.”
I straighten the fabric around my legs. “Everyone says she looks like Halle Berry but—”
“I don’t care what she looks like. What does she do?”
Drugs. Men. When she doesn’t have both of those, she sits in her room and cries.
If I share that with him, he’ll probably smile at my misfortune. “She’s between jobs.”
“What was her position on your father selling his business for you?”
She hates me for it, so much so her lip curls whenever she looks at me.
“They argued about it.” I adjust the pin and buttons on my shirt. “She’s not happy about losing that fight, so don’t expect her to show up for parent-teacher conferences.”
“Human beings are miserable disasters. They make mistakes. Do the wrong things.” He rubs the back of his head. “If she doesn’t come around, that’s on her.”
Wow, that was…unexpected. Surprisingly thoughtful and really quite profound. Though now I wonder what kind of mistakes he makes. Hopefully none that will affect my goals.
He lowers his hand and makes a swirling motion. “Turn around and show me your back.”
My pulse spikes. More examinations? Only this time, I won’t be able to see his hands.
I open my mouth to argue, but the hard look in his eyes changes my mind.
With a deep inhale, I give him my back, hook shaky fingers under the shirt, and drag it from hips to armpits.
The creak of his leather shoes, the whisper of his breaths, the heat of his body, everything about him feels like a violation of privacy. I wish I could see his expression, because he’s likely abandoned his search of bruises to stare at the tattoo on my back. The faded scrollwork wraps from one side of my waist, up my spine, and curls around the opposite shoulder.
I brace myself for one of his sharp-voiced reprimands. I’m too young. Tats are too trashy. But I don’t care what his opinion is about this. The tattoo is personal and treasured and mine.
Without warning, his hands land on my back, not on my skin but on the folds of my shirt. He yanks the material from my grasp and shoves it to my waist.
Startled, I spin around. “What’s wrong?”
He’s farther away than I expected, several feet between us, with his hands clasped behind his back and his attention on the doorway.
I follow his gaze just as Ms. Augustin walks in.
She pauses on the threshold, clutching the strap of her purse against her shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were with a student.” She flicks furtive glances between Mr. Marceaux and me, back and forth, up and down, and stops on me. “Hi, Ivory. Did you have a good summer?”
I curl my toes against the marble, longing for my damn shoes. “Sure.”
“Awesome.” She returns her attention to my teacher, her hand lifting to trail up her neck, sweeping up and combing through a tendril of blonde hair. “Mr. Marceaux, will you be…uh…heading out soon?”
She stares at him the way my mom looks at her boyfriends, with over-bright eyes filled with adoration and stupidity.
Of all the music teachers, Ms. Augustin is the youngest and prettiest. She’s also annoyingly nosy, but Ellie raves about her, so I guess she’s a good strings teacher.
Mr. Marceaux cocks his head. “Miss Westbrook has private lessons until seven every night.”
I do?
A sudden lightness lifts my chest. Mrs. McCracken kept late hours to tutor me, but I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him for extra time.
He stands so tall and confident beside me, feet planted wide, every inch of his posture sculpted with authority as he studies Ms. Augustin. “I won’t be heading home soon. Tonight or any other night.”
“Oh.” Her face falls, and her whole body seems to deflate. “Okay. Well…”
The only thing she moves is a long slender leg as she drags the toe of her high-heel backward and rocks it on the floor behind her, lingering. Waiting for him to say something else?
Finally, she straightens. “I’m headed home.” She points down the hallway, laughing softly, smiling, and acting really fucking weird. “So, I guess, have a good evening?”
The question in her voice bugs the piss out of me. He already told her he’s staying for my private lesson. She should go.
But then I would be alone with him again. How is it possible that I feel both possessive and terrified of him?
He ends her embarrassing shuffle with a firm, “Good night, Ms. Augustin.”
As she vanishes into the hallway, I replay their conversation with subtext. “She just asked you out, didn’t she?”
He turns toward me with an irritated frown on his face. “That’s none of your business.”
Probably so, but I feel wonderfully dizzy about the whole exchange. I mean, he told her no. Not tonight or any night. Because he would be with me, helping me.
Maybe I didn’t screw things up as badly as I thought. “We’re doing piano lessons tonight?”
Cords twang in his neck. “No.”
“But you just said—”
“Here’s tonight’s lesson.” He erases the distance between us and leans into my space. “Don’t question me. Don’t lie to me. And never look away from me.” He straightens. “Sit down.”
Those are ridiculous demands, but I find myself falling into the chair and locking my eyes on his.
He scratches a finger down his whiskered throat and yanks on the collar behind his tie. Giving up on his attempt to loosen it, he crouches before me. “When did you get the ink?”
There’s no way I can answer his questions about it without lying, but I can give him this. “I was thirteen.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Comprehension? He knows how old I was when I lost Daddy— My dad. My father. God, even in my thoughts, I’m trying to please Mr. Marceaux. But maybe he’s right about my immaturity. If my dad were alive today, would I still be calling him Daddy?
Instead of asking questions about the tattoo, Mr. Marceaux reaches under my chair and drags my shoes toward his feet. His bend puts his face inches from my lap, but he keeps his eyes on mine as his arms move around my calves.
With his knees on either side of my legs, I don’t feel trapped, but my stomach squirms all the same. I don’t understand why he’s holding my beaten up ballet flat, why he’s examining the inside, or what he has planned for me next.
With my shoe in one hand, he reaches for my foot. The moment his fingers graze the back of my ankle, I jump in the seat.
He pins me with a flinty glare, his scowl at odds with the tender stroke of his hand. Unhurried, he caresses along my ankle, traces the bony knobs on the sides, and cups the heel of my foot, lifting it.
I’m tongue-tied, confused by the gentleness, lost in the sensation. The entire world narrows to the warmth of his palm, the careful way he slides my toes into the shoe, and the absolute concentration he gives the task.
He lowers my foot to the floor, and I exhale a chestful of air. Then he shifts toward my other leg.
Why is he doing this? What does he get out of it? Will he expect me to show him my boobs? Give him a blow job? Sex?
I jerk my foot out of his reach. “I can do this.”
He fists his hands on his legs and imprisons me with those frigid cobalt eyes. “What’s tonight’s lesson?”
“Don’t question you?”
Maybe this is a small thing to him, but it’s not to me. Men don’t touch me unless
they want something, and his touch is freaking me out. It’s too nice. Too intimate. Way too intimate for a student and teacher.
He holds his palm out, waiting. I want to ask him what he wants from me, but that would be failing the lesson.
I move my foot toward his hand, and he gives it the same attention as before. Fragile strokes. Fingers like velvet wrapping around my breakable bones. Taking? Giving? I don’t know what this is. Every brush of his fingertips shoots tingles up my legs, making my heart flutter and my whole body hyper-aware. It scares me. He scares me.
When he slides the other shoe on, I tuck my feet beneath the chair, knees pinched together, dreading what he’ll demand next.
He rises, his expression dark beneath black brows and his breathing noisier than it should be. I know that needful look, that hungry sound. My blood runs cold.
Now is the time to run, but my feet aren’t moving. Why? I need his permission, I think.
I want his permission.
Turning toward the desk, he presses his hands against the surface. “Go home, Miss Westbrook.”
Relief shimmies down my spine, but it gets cut off by my next thought.
I can take any one of the exits out of Crescent Hall, race through the parking lot or the park, zigzag along the streets to the bus stop. Doesn’t matter which way I go. Prescott will catch up. He’ll find me. He always does.
Then home. Where Lorenzo might be waiting. Where Shane might be fucking on my bed.
Which is scarier? Prescott? Lorenzo? Shane?
Mr. Marceaux.
I grab my satchel and hightail it toward the hall.
The muggy air clings to my skin as I make the ten-minute walk from Le Moyne to the 91 line. Oh man, it feels good to get a breather from that classroom. I don’t know if it’s Mr. Marceaux or the frightening sensations he inflames in me, but I couldn’t run from there fast enough.
He’s aggressive and powerfully built like other men. More so. But he had numerous opportunities to take and didn’t.
Because he’s a teacher? Or because he’s not like other men?
I’m not ready to trust those thoughts or the way they make me feel.
The crescent moon hangs high in the sky, painting a dim glow over the antebellum mansions that fringe Coliseum Street. The brick sidewalk is paved in a herringbone pattern and bordered on one side by wrought iron fences, gas lamps, and blooming vegetation that infuses the air with the fragrance of summer.
The foundations of the towering homes butt right up against those fences, and illuminated windows give me a peek of interiors twinkling with chandeliers, grand staircases, and rich woodwork. Luxury cars line the narrow street and pristine gardens adorn the side-yards. Everywhere I look boasts generational wealth, the kind that came from sugar, cotton, and shipping.
Does Mr. Marceaux live in one of these mansions? Maybe his family is old money? Le Moyne attracts a lot of residents in the Garden District, including Beverly Rivard.
I don’t know which house is Prescott Rivard’s, but he knows which paths I take home. There are only so many options between school and the bus routes. My legs itch to walk faster, to put him off for another day. But the longer I delay touching base with him, the harder it will be to cover this month’s bills.
Halfway to the bus stop, the familiar rumble of a motorcycle interrupts the quiet street. It approaches from behind, growing louder, faster.
The tiny hairs on my nape stand on end. I peer over my shoulder and glimpse a black helmet, black jacket, and obnoxious orange fairings. My heartbeat slams into overdrive, and I pick up my pace. If the rider lifted his chin, I would see Destroy inked across his throat.
Every step hammers vibrations through my thin soles. I should’ve known Lorenzo would come looking for me. He often does when he grows tired of waiting. It’s been two weeks since the last time he took from me, and I bled from my butt for hours after.
My stomach cramps as my mind spins through my options. The next cross-street is a thirty-second sprint down the road. Maybe I can lose him.
I quicken my gait, scanning for a cut-through between the mansions. I won’t find one. Fences encircle the generous plots, equipped with security cameras and alarms. Wrought iron and brick brackets the street on both sides. I have nowhere to go as he motors up beside me.
“Get on the bike.” Even muffled by the helmet, his shout is hard and unkind.
“I’m taking the bus.” I walk faster, hunching my shoulders with my satchel banging against my leg.
He revs the engine, rolling the bike alongside me. My legs shake, and the toe of my shoe catches on a chipped brick. Momentum whirls me forward. I maintain my balance but…goddammit, I lose the shoe.
I spin back, my pulse thrashing in my throat, and shove my foot inside the cracked vinyl.
A pair of headlights emerge on the road behind Lorenzo’s crotch rocket. I stare blindly into the beams of light, waiting, hoping. For what?
Black hair, blue eyes, commanding presence…
As if.
Lorenzo stops beside me, just out of arm’s reach, his helmet tipping in my direction. “Not gonna tell you again. Get your ass on the bike.”
The approaching car slows, veering around Lorenzo. Wide front grill, metallic silver paint, fat tires, the Cadillac CTS Sedan makes the perfect toy for rich juvenile idiots to cruise around in.
Idiots like Prescott.
He pulls to a stop in front of Lorenzo, bends across the front seat, and swings open the passenger door.
Lorenzo’s helmet swivels toward the car. “Who the fuck is that?”
That is a diversion. Thank God. I won’t be able to evade Lorenzo forever, and I certainly don’t relish climbing into Prescott’s car. But right now, I’ll take Prescott over Lorenzo. Prescott never forces himself from behind and in my ass.
I lurch forward, running a wide circuit around the bike, and slide into the front seat of the Cadillac. “Go.”
The motorcycle’s engine sputters as it jerks forward. I slam the door shut on the noise.
Prescott leans over the console, twisting his neck to glare at Lorenzo. “Who is that guy?”
“Just some creep. Let’s go.”
He hits the gas, and the burst of propulsion presses my body into the leather seat. My anxiety and fear tumbles behind us in a fume of exhaust. I relax, a small degree anyway. Now I’m stuck with Prescott.
His long body sprawls in the leather seat, his finger punching through various glowing gadgets in the dashboard. I can’t begin to guess how much this car costs. His parents certainly have to make bank for them to be able to buy it for him. Is it a badass car? Absolutely. Am I jealous he has it?
I prefer not to be jealous of anyone, especially Prescott. I peek over at him, taking in the sharp angle of his jaw, the tuck of blond hair behind his ear, and the long, straight profile of his nose. He’s skinnier than Mr. Marceaux. Less developed muscle. Smaller hands. Smaller dick. Not that I’ve seen Marceaux’s dick, but I bet it’s bigger.
That’s not a good thing.
My heart skips. Why the hell am I thinking about that? Why am I even comparing them?
Prescott shifts gears then reaches over to hook a finger beneath the hem of my skirt. “I’m going to make you come tonight.”
I smack his hand away. Jesus, I never should’ve baited him with that comment about piercings. Stupid, stupid, stupid! “Where’s your homework?”
He downshifts around a curve and thrusts a thumb over his shoulder. The seat belt indicator screams as I kneel backward through the gap in the front seats.
I gather his binders from the floorboard, and a single headlight fills my view through the back window. “He’s following us.”
Prescott throws the car into high speed. Mansions blur by. Stop signs and intersections come and go. Guess he’s not worried about breaking the law. Thankfully, Lorenzo doesn’t share his recklessness. The motorcycle maintains the speed limit and stops at every stop sign. Maybe Lorenzo has drugs on him or outstanding wa
rrants. Whatever the reason, he falls behind and eventually out of sight.
Releasing a heavy breath, I collect the rest of Prescott’s folders. “You lost him.”
Prescott yanks my skirt up to my hip and pinches my pussy through the crotch of my panties. “Baby, I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight.”
I spin back toward the front, falling into the seat, and try to control my breathing.
My hand shakes as I buckle the seat belt. “No, you’re not.”
There’s a heavy dose of conviction in my response. And maybe a tiny smidgen of doubt. I’ve escaped Prescott’s advances before, but I can count those times on one hand.
He laughs. “We’ll see.”
When he turns onto Jackson Avenue and heads away from the river, I don’t have to ask where he’s going. During the six-minute drive to our usual spot, I use one of the overhead lights to skim through his assignments and notes. He’s pretty organized for a guy who’s not interested in homework, his tasks outlined in neat penmanship and notated with due dates. Everything he’s detailed is doable, easy enough to work in with my own assignments.
He pulls into an empty lot, hemmed in by a jungle of weeds and boarded-up homes that didn’t survive the last hurricane.
Shutting off the engine, he turns to me. “I have a proposition.”
A tremor shivers through my insides. Anything he has to offer comes with a painful price.
He bends toward me, his face inches away and cast in darkness. “I know you’re doing homework for a lot of my friends and who knows how many others.”
I haven’t had a chance to talk to the other guys about schedules and assignments. Another dreaded task on my to-do list.
His hand snakes over my thigh, making its way to the gap between my knees. I jerk away, and my legs collide with the door.
With a grunt, he faces forward, posture stiff, his fingers curled around the steering wheel. Fingers I don’t want anywhere near me.
He tips his head against the headrest. “I don’t want to share you.”
“Too bad.”
“Fuck, Ivory! You’re so—” He rubs his hairless cheek and softens his tone. “I got an increase in my allowance. I’ll pay you more, enough to cover what you’re making from everyone else, if you stop seeing them. Give me a price.”
