Dark Notes

by Pam Godwin

  He can’t afford it. I mentally sum up the monthly utilities, mortgage, groceries, and tack on a little extra for school supplies. Shit, that’s a lot of money. Pulling in a deep breath, I give him the number.

  “Done.”

  What? His fucking allowance covers the sum of all my bills?

  I wrap my arms around my midsection. “All I have to do is stop helping other people?”

  “That. And stop fighting me on this.” His fingers wrap around my knee, pulling my leg toward him.

  “I—I…” My breathing quickens as I try to pry his grip away. “I can’t.” My chest heaves, my fight against his hand useless. “Let go.”

  “I’m going to get this anyway. Stop making it so damn difficult.” He releases me and holds his hands up. “What’s it gonna be?”

  I sway against the door and cover my face with my hand. Fuck, what choice do I have?

  I can walk away from Prescott, forget his money, and try to make up the loss with all the other guys who want the same things he wants.

  Or I can tell them all to fuck off and let the mortgage default. I’m not eighteen yet. I can go to social services and explain my situation. Maybe they’ll step in and put me in foster care. But there’s a good chance a new home would be too far away to commute to Le Moyne. Can I put my future in the hands of some grown-up who decides where I go to school? And what about Schubert? A temporary family may not let me bring him. My heart pinches just thinking about that. He’s not just a cat. Schubert is the last gift my dad gave me before he died. He’s the only living form of love I have left to wrap my arms around.

  Or I can accept Prescott’s offer, endure just one high-school dick, and keep my house, my school, and my cat.

  The pressure of tears burns the backs of my eyes as I force my lips around my answer. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” He sits up, his entire body shifting to face me. “Okay…uh…” He twists around, scrutinizing the emptiness of the overgrown lot, and pauses when his gaze lands on the back seat. “Get out.”

  With trembling hands, I put the binders on the floorboard, open the door, and step into a tangle of vines.

  He’s out of the car and around to my side in a flash. A huge grin contorts his face as he opens the door to the back seat. “In there. On your back.”

  No, no, no. My lungs labor for air, and every muscle in my body locks up.

  “Ivoryyyyy,” he growls. “That’s not how this works. I’m not paying until I get my dick wet.”

  Oh God, he already has a condom in his hand.

  Tall grass itches my ankles. The chirrup of nighttime insects creeps from the shadows of broken concrete. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Another joins in. But it’s the godawful sound of a zipper that screeches past my ears.

  He holds his dick in his hand, the bulbous thing swollen to fullness and pointed right at me as he rolls on the condom. Nausea simmers, and saliva rushes into my mouth.

  When he meets my eyes, his determined expression looks ghostly and sinister in the moonlight. “We doing this the easy way or the hard way? One of those earns you more money.”

  A sheen of tears blurs my vision. I made this deal, knowing what came next. Suck it up and eat it, Ivory.

  I turn toward the waiting door, press the heels of my hands against my eyes, and slide into the back seat.

  My brain is already reaching for the dark notes of Scriabin’s Sonata No.9. The melody plays in my head as the weight of his body presses my back against the bench seat. I envision the complicated key strokes as he wrenches my panties to the side and shoves inside me, grunting, thrusting. So dry, so fucking painful, the fire between my legs coaxes more tears from my eyes. I focus inward, blocking him out. I’m nearly lost in the discordant music of my mind when a ring tone chirps from Prescott’s pocket.

  “Fuck.” He fumbles around his legs and pulls his phone from the folds of his trousers. “Goddammit!”

  “Get off me.”

  “No. And I have to answer this, so keep your mouth shut.”

  I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. His hips thrust harder as hatred leaks in huge drops from my eyes.

  “It’s my mom.” He sets the phone on the seat above my head, the cheery ring tone bleeding into my ears. “If she hears you, the most I’ll get is a loss in allowance. But you…” His finger hovers over the screen as his hips drive against mine. “You’ll get kicked out of school.”

  Before I can tell him he’s a fucking moron, he taps the screen and puts it on speaker phone.

  “What’s up, Mom?” He lifts his pelvis and slams back against me, the hunger on his face illuminated by the glow of the screen.

  “Where are you?” The dean’s severe voice barks through the phone.

  “Avery’s house.”

  Who is Avery? I squirm beneath him, aching for this to be over with.

  “You sound out of breath,” she says.

  He cups my breast and squeezes. “Lifting weights. She has a sweet workout room.”

  “Oh? Well, tell her mother I said hi. We need to do tea soon.”

  “Yep.”

  “Keep your hands to yourself, son. I don’t want any problems with her parents.”

  I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. His movements quicken, growing erratic. Thank God, he’s getting close, but how can he do this while holding a conversation with his mother? He’s so disgusting my skin recoils everywhere his heat penetrates my clothes.

  “I saw you talking to that Westbrook girl at lunch,” the dean says.

  My pulse skyrockets, but Prescott’s in a whole other dimension. His mouth hangs open in a silent shout as his body flails and jerks through his release. The moment he’s finished, I shove him off me.

  “Prescott?” The dean exhales through the phone. “Are you listening?”

  “Yeah. Ivory’s nice.” He stares at me and mouths, A nice fuck. Without looking away, he says aloud, “I don’t know why you have a problem with her.”

  “She’s trying to steal your Leopold spot, Prescott. Not only that, she has a reputation with the boys at school. Stay away from her.”

  He drags a finger over his eyebrow. “Yeah, okay. Gotta go.”

  “Prescott—”

  He hangs up and tosses the phone in the front seat. “Did you come?”

  I angle away from him, covertly wiping away the tears as I growl, “Of course, I didn’t come, you idiot.”

  He seriously thinks I enjoyed that? I’ve never had an orgasm, at least not that I know of. But if I’m capable of having one, it wouldn’t be with him.

  I fix my panties and yank my skirt down. “Who’s Avery?”

  He pulls off the condom and adjusts his slacks. “My girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” A thick lump forms in my throat. “Why are you cheating on her?”

  “She’s a prude. But you’re not, are you?” He reaches for the V in my shirt.

  I knock his hand away and grab my satchel from the front seat.

  “Bet you’ve fucked more guys than there are keys on a piano.”

  Eighty-eight guys? Heat tingles my face as I open the door and jump out. Truth is, I’m not sure of the number. Maybe half that? Maybe more.

  He climbs out the other side and meets my eyes over the roof of the car. “Fifty-two white guys at Le Moyne and thirty-six black guys in Treme. Am I right?”

  Fifty-two white keys, thirty-six black keys.

  He thinks he’s clever with his sick analogy, but he has no idea how hurtful his comments are. Yes, I’ve had a lot of sex with a lot of different guys. Not all of my experiences have been like this one. Sometimes I’m too weak and don’t have the physical strength or size to stop it. Other times, I feel tricked, bribed, trapped…sweet-talked. When I was younger, I let guys touch me in my stupid desperation for affection, but I eventually learned there isn’t anything affectionate about a swollen penis. Still, there are moments when I wonder, Will this time be different? Maybe this one will hold me close and love m
e. Maybe it will feel good, and I fall back into the trap.

  But after Prescott’s hateful remarks, I don’t even want his fucking money. I stride away, hooking the strap of the satchel over my shoulder. The projects of Central City stretch out around me, but I know the way, having walked this road every time Prescott fucked me in that lot. Five blocks from here, I can catch a bus home.

  The Cadillac’s engine starts, and a moment later, it rolls up beside me.

  He extends an arm out the window, his hand filled with a wad of bills.

  I stare at it, needing it, hating myself. “How often do I have to do this?”

  “As often as I want.” A strand of blond hair falls over his eyes. “My first assignment is due on Monday, so we’ll meet again this week. Next time, I’ll make you come.”

  A surge of anger scorches through my veins. I hate him. But I need him.

  I swallow my pride and snatch the money from his hand.

  He flashes me a sated smile and drives off, leaving me standing on the side of the road like the whore that I am.

  With the address from Ivory’s file mapped on my phone, I turn my old GTO onto her street. This doesn’t feel stalkery, but it doesn’t seem completely sane, either. What can I say? I’ve never needed an excuse to beat someone’s ass. I just didn’t imagine the ass I’d be beating tonight would belong to her brother. Yet here I am.

  I don’t have a plan, only that Ivory can’t know I’m here. I should’ve reported her swollen lip. I damn sure shouldn’t have searched her body for bruises. But this? Showing up at her house? Definitely crossing into what-the-fuck-am-I-doing territory.

  Dusk grays out the horizon, and there aren’t any street lamps. Maybe I can coax her brother outside without her seeing me and punch his lights out before he has a chance to memorize my face. Of course, if she glimpses my car, she’ll know. The 1970 Pontiac GTO is too recognizable. If she didn’t see it in the school parking lot tonight, she will before the year’s over.

  I should’ve taken a cab, but I wasn’t exactly thinking when I left the classroom and drove straight here.

  Following the GPS, I sneak along a row of sagging houses. No, not sneaking. The American muscle under the hood is a 455 V8, and its thundering dirty rumble has residents leaning forward on their porches. Pedestrians stop walking and gawk. It occurs to me that I won’t be able to leave the car on her street. It would be jacked within minutes.

  Just a couple blocks north of the French Quarter, Treme is the place tourists are warned not to go, not in daylight and definitely not at night. I haven’t visited this area since I was a rebellious teen. I forgot about all the graffiti, boarded-up windows, and huddles of men on the street corners looking around like they’re hiding something. How does she live here and not get mugged every day?

  She has nothing of value to steal.

  Except her innocence. Though I’m certain that was stolen long ago. The niggling question is, how much damage was done? I understand her reactions to me, the looks of both fear and desire to please. They’re her natural reflexes to a dominant man. But layers of obscurity lie beneath her expressions, experiences that strengthened her and tolls that warped her. Not just an abusive brother or a dead father, but something else. Something traumatically sexual.

  Anger plunges through my veins, spurring me toward her house and the unknowns that wait there.

  I spot her street number on the weathered siding of a narrow shotgun building. The peeling white paint gives way to rotten wood, and the drooping roof over the porch doesn’t look safe enough to stand beneath. The houses are too crammed together to accommodate driveways, and there are no cars parked out front. No lights on inside. No movement in the windows. Unless she’s sitting in the dark, she’s not home.

  On my way here, I envisioned the worst. But one could argue the house next to hers is much worse, the exterior veneered in scraps of plywood and the entire structure slanting on its foundation. Someone even spray-painted on the neighbor’s door: Home is a fleeting feeling I’m trying to fix.

  As I idle in front of her house, imagining the dilapidated conditions within, a knot of unease forms in my gut. Maybe she doesn’t have electricity? If her mother’s unemployed, who pays the bills? Her brother?

  I don’t linger, afraid Ivory will come home and notice my car. A few blocks away, I pull into a crowded parking lot, operating on a hunch and a perverse sense of curiosity.

  The bluesy notes of a solo trumpeter vibrate through me as I amble into Willy’s Piano Bar. I’ve never been here, but it’s not unlike the other seedy New Orleans bars I’ve frequented over the years. Grungy and cave-like, the scarce lighting and exposed brick walls give it a basement tavern feel. The kind of tavern men get shot in.

  Where did her father die? Near the piano? Or over by high-top tables? Or right here, where I hover between the door and the bar?

  This place sees its share of nosy tourists, so I’m not surprised no one spares me a glance. I scan the low-key crowd and zero in on the only other white guy. It’s too dark to make out details, but he appears to be close to my age with blond hair and a pale complexion. Matches the Google image I found of a young Willy Westbrook on my way to Ivory’s house. Can I be this lucky?

  Adjusting the curled brim of my favorite fedora lower on my head, I stroll toward the bar and wave down the bartender. “Is that Willy’s son?”

  She lifts her eyes to follow the direction of my nod, her white hair forming an ethereal glow around her dark complexion.

  “Mm hmm.” She returns her attention to the drink she’s preparing. “That’s him, sugar.”

  “Thanks.” Hooking my thumbs in my front pockets, I wander over to the half-circle booth and tower over his table.

  A girl on each arm, he drags his gaze up my relaxed posture and locks on my face. “Do I know you?”

  The shadowed corner of the booth obscures his expression, but his delayed movements and slurred speech are hard to miss. High or drunk, he’s probably too blitzed to remember me tomorrow.

  “Are you Willy’s kid?”

  “Yyyyup.” He reaches for his beer, sloshing it on the table. “What of it?”

  I want to tell him the reason I’m here, that I am what happens when he hurts his sister. But if I mention Ivory, he might retaliate against her.

  Keeping my face angled away from the dim light, I bend over the table and slam my fist into his nose.

  The girls fly apart and shoot out of the booth as his head falls back and lolls on his shoulders. The whites of his eyes roll and disappear behind his lids as his body slides down in the seat.

  The blood from his nostrils forms twin rivers over his lip and splatters on his shirt. His intoxication probably has more to do with the knock-out than my nonexistent boxing skills. I hoped to see him writhe in agony but take pleasure in knowing he’ll wake to the throbbing pain of a broken nose.

  The crowd doesn’t seem to have any allegiance to Willy’s son, because no one makes a move to defend him as I stride toward the door. I know this is a rough neighborhood, but damn, they don’t even look my way when I slip out as inconspicuously as I entered.

  A couple of minutes later, I find myself parked down the street from Ivory’s house with the engine off and my attention glued to her front door. She should’ve come home by now, but all is dark beyond the front and side windows. Where the fuck is she?

  I consider leaving when an orange sportbike pulls up to her curb. The rider removes the helmet, revealing black hair and a dark complexion. Black or Latino? He’s too young to be dating Lisa Westbrook. He fucking better not be Ivory’s boyfriend.

  I pitch forward against the steering wheel, craning my neck as he strolls to the porch and peers in the window. He doesn’t knock on the door and instead meanders into the narrow alley between the houses and disappears around back.

  My nerves tighten. Is he a family friend? A cousin? A fucking burglar? I type the bike’s license plate number in my phone, and a moment later, he emerges from the alley, p
uffing on a cigarette. A leg goes over the bike, helmet on, engine roars, and he’s gone without a glance in my direction.

  That was weird.

  I should go. I have no business here.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m still telling myself that.

  With each hoodlum that walks by, with every car that cruises down the street, my impatience multiplies, twisting through me with spastic fits and starts. Eleven o’clock on a school night, and she’s out there somewhere doing God knows what. I want to tie her to her bed and belt her for being so reckless. Where the hell is her mother?

  This isn’t my problem. I reach for the ignition just as my phone beeps with a text message.

  Deb: We still on for tonight?

  When I messaged her between meetings while staring at Ivory’s tight body, I was raring to go. But now?

  Me: Another time

  Deb: I’ve been such a bad girl today. Spank me!

  My cock doesn’t even twitch.

  Deb: I can pretend to be her again.

  By her, she means Joanne. Only Joanne isn’t the her that’s fucking with my head.

  Me: You sound needy. The opposite of sexy.

  Deb: *pouts*

  Me: Also not sexy

  Deb: I’m sorry, sir.

  Me: You can make it up to me by moving forward on that favor I requested.

  Deb: The GM guy?

  Beverly Rivard’s husband, Howard, owns a chain of GM dealerships. I hear his business practices are as sleazy as his wife’s, but I’ve yet to confirm if he cheats on her. If anyone can seduce him, Deb can.

  Me: Yes. Use discretion and pay attention to lighting. His face needs to be clear on the video.

  Deb: Yes, sir.

  Deb: I can’t change your mind about tonight?

  Me: Good night, Deb.

  What am I doing? Why am I here? To make sure she arrives home safely?

  Fuck me, I just want to see her again. Just a glimpse before I face the emptiness of my house.

  Ten minutes later, my wish materializes on the sidewalk up ahead. Even in the faint moonlight, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and the flare of her hips are distinguishable. Erotic. So goddamn captivating.