by Pam Godwin
Despite Ivory’s minimal mistakes, she brilliantly manipulates the rhythmic flexibility within the measures while following the rubrics with her own artistic convictions. I find myself exhaling with her at the end of every phrase and bending closer as she falls on strong beats, completely mesmerized by the leap of her hands. She breathes life into the notes, beams, and bar lines, making it the best performance I’ve heard on this piece.
She finishes with a sweep of her arms and releases a silent sigh. Perspiration dots along her hairline, and her hands tremble in her lap.
A long moment passes before she drags her gaze to mine and clears her throat. “Well?”
“You hit the notes too hard. Your rubato is rough, too fast. Way too many mistakes.”
She nods, her shoulders slumping.
“This is an instrument, Miss Westbrook, not a gun. You’re making music, not shooting notes at the audience.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “Projection is an art, one I’m still…trying to…” Her chin quivers, and tears sheen her eyes before she looks away and whispers under her breath, “Shit.”
If she requires an instructor who gives praise just to balance the criticism, she has the wrong guy. I’m a dick, and like I told her yesterday, I respect constructive feedback. I’m also not finished with my appraisal.
I approach the piano bench and move to sit, forcing her to make room. She scoots to the edge, the seat barely holding the two of us. Our shoulders, hips, and thighs touch, and it’s not accidental. I want her to feel every contact point and learn to trust it. To trust me.
“What did I say about sniveling?”
Her shoulders snap back, and she stares straight ahead, her voice reedy. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I…I got a little overwhelmed there. I guess I wanted you to—”
“Stop talking.”
She presses her lips together.
I shift to face her, and the position pushes the length of my thigh against hers. The heat from her leg seeps into mine, and I fold my hands together in my lap to keep from reaching out and inching up the hem of her dress. “I didn’t develop the skill to even attempt Islamey until college, and I couldn’t play it all the way through until my final year of graduate school.”
Her eyes flash to mine, huge and round and brimmed with moisture.
I cup the delicate curve of her jaw and swipe my thumb to catch a tear. “Very few people can play that piece. In fact, Balakirev admitted there were passages in his composition even he couldn’t manage.”
She leans into my hand, seemingly unaware she’s doing it as she clings to my words.
“Your interpretation is extraordinarily passionate and stunning.” Just like you. “I’m moved.”
Her breaths come faster, heaving her chest. “Oh Jesus, for real? I’m—” More tears fall from her eyes, and she pulls away to wipe her face. “Dammit, I’m not sniveling. I swear.”
“Why did you choose it?”
“Islamey?”
“Yes.”
She gazes up at me with a relieved smile. “The owner of the music store I told you about, the one where I practice? His name is Stogie and—”
“What do you give him in exchange for practicing there?”
Her smile falls as she realizes what I’m implying. “Nothing! He’s the kindest man I know.” She winces. “No offense.”
“We both know I’m not a kind man. Continue.”
She bites her lip, but her grin reappears, tugging at the corners. “He’s also very old and stubborn and refuses to take his medicine. So he made me a deal. If I learned Islamey, he would take his pills without my nagging.” She shrugs. “It took me all summer. All day, every day.”
“Dedication.”
Her smile lingers. “My hands still hurt.”
“Get used to it. While you played that piece beautifully, it wasn’t perfect. Let’s start with Chopin’s Etude Op 10 No.5 to get you more comfortable with the appropriate amount of pressure on those black keys.”
As she pulls out the music sheet and dives into the etude, I don’t move, don’t give her space. I’m reluctant to give her any leeway at all.
I sat with Prescott Rivard this morning in an impromptu session with his guitar tutor. Then I made the rounds with other top musicians at Le Moyne. The talent is impressive, but none are as proficient or driven as Ivory Westbrook.
I intend to cultivate, polish, and discipline her, while deriving every twisted ounce of pleasure I can from it. But I can’t give her the one thing she desires. I want this job, which means there will be no Leopold in her future.
“I’m going to Leopold.” I pause the marker mid-scrawl, the tip pressed against the whiteboard, as the creak of Mr. Marceaux’s shoes approaches from behind.
The sheer height of him casts a shadow over my back as his breaths stir my hair, his whisper like a satin ribbon trailing over my shoulder. “Less talking, more writing.”
It’s only the fifth day of school, and I’m already plotting all the ways to murder him.
I want to poison his coffee for beginning today’s private lesson with a punishment. While I forgot all about disrupting his class on the first day, he was happy to remind me by shoving a marker in my hand and leading me to the wall-length whiteboard.
I want to strangle him with his obnoxious yellow-flowered tie for making me write an endless loop of I will not waste Mr. Marceaux’s time.
With large, angry lines, I scribble another sentence and say, “I’m seventeen, not seven.”
Whack.
A sharp sting burns across my bicep, and my hand flies up to rub the hurt.
I want to rip that conductor baton from his fingers and impale it in his throat. Because seriously, where is the orchestra? There isn’t one, yet he’s twirling the damn thing like Pherekydes of Patrae and slapping it against my arms like a ruler-wielding nun.
“This is wasting time for both of us,” I mumble, scrawling another sentence that states the opposite.
Whack.
A snap of heat blooms on my back, right above my tailbone. Motherfucker, that hurts. But it’s not the worst pain, either. If anyone else raised a baton at me—Lorenzo or Prescott, for example—I’d snarl and throw punches. But this is my mentor, and I want to please him. While plotting his death.
I want the teacher back from three days ago. The one who touched my face so tenderly and said my performance moved him. Where did that guy go?
Maybe it’s my fault. I’ve been off-kilter, dreading tonight all week. I can’t put off Prescott any longer. His homework is done, and I’m a twisted-up bundle of nerves and anger. And with the weekend starting tomorrow, I’ll have two days at home. Two days with Lorenzo and his outrage at not being able to track me down all week.
“What did I say about questioning me?” Mr. Marceaux’s footsteps pace behind me, his icy eyes shivering the hairs on my nape.
If I didn’t know him better, which I don’t, I’d think he’s enjoying this. “Telling a student not to question her teacher is the worst rule in the history of rules.”
I tense for another swat, but it doesn’t come.
He leans a shoulder against the unwritten section of the board beside me, his hands behind his back and a smirk on his too-pretty face. “I’ll rephrase. Don’t question my methods.” His sharp gaze moves to the board. “Erase the last five sentences, and try again with penmanship befitting a seventeen-year-old.”
I thrust the eraser over the board with belligerent swipes and begin again. “I can write and talk at the same time, and I want to talk about Leopold.”
“You’re not good enough for Leopold.”
I whirl toward him as the crescendo of my heart crashes past my ears. “You said my interpretation of Islamey was extraordinarily passionate and stunning.”
Standing a couple of feet away, he watches me with hooded eyes—Bored? Sleepy?—and shrugs half-heartedly. “Those are meaningless superlatives, which I now regret using.”
My muscles quiver as a
rush of fury slams into me. My hands ball into fists, and before my brain catches up, I rear back the marker and hurl it. Right at his forehead.
It bounces off his scowl lines and rolls across the floor beside his Doc Martens. He glares at it, shocked to terrifying stillness, before flinging the conductor baton across his desk and leveling me with glacial eyes.
Ohshitohshitohshit. My face catches fire as I stumble backward. My shoulder hits the whiteboard, but I keep going, sliding along the wall and toward the door. What the hell is wrong with me? I never lose my temper. Holy fuck, I never throw markers at my teachers!
He reaches up, wipes his forehead, and glowers at his fingers. Yes, Mr. Marceaux, the fat black dot of my shame is now smeared across your furiously creased brow.
“I’m sorry.” I glance at the closed door, wishing I were on the other side, down the hall, and far away from whatever comes next.
Without removing his eyes from mine, he lifts his chin and loosens the knot of his tie. Fuck, that can’t be good.
As his hands slide over the silk, I recall another rumor I heard this morning about the depraved ways he uses his ties, belts, and other miscellaneous accessories. I don’t believe gossip, but as I stare into those cruel eyes, I plummet into the chasm of whispered images with a sinking stomach.
With the knot hanging loosely beneath his collar, he crooks his finger. “Come with me.”
Three words, spoken without effort, yet they have the power to devastate my future. Fear jolts through my stomach. If he takes me to the dean’s office, will it be a suspension? Or is hurling objects at my teacher grounds for expulsion?
But he doesn’t walk toward the exit. He strides deeper into the back of the room and around the corner, out of sight. I look through the small window in the door, into the empty hallway, and tremble with indecision.
Running will only make this worse.
I push myself forward on wobbly legs and weave through the rows of desks. Every inch of my body is strung-out, running on a live wire that connects the path of my feet to whatever awaits me around that corner. By the time I reach the piano and find him sitting sideways on the end of the bench, my pulse is a reedy, struggling vibration in my veins.
He points at the floor beneath the space of his spread thighs and flicks his wrist, as if adjusting the position of his heavy watch.
The sleeves of his gray and white pinstriped shirt gather around his elbows. He’s wearing another one of those waistcoat-vest things, this one black with little gray buttons. My attention shifts from the yellow tie to the dark shadow of his jaw, the flat line of his lips, and as I fall into the chilling trap of his eyes, I realize with renewed panic that I’m making him wait.
I hurry forward and stand where he indicated, swaying unsteadily between his spread feet.
There’s that crooking finger again, gesturing me closer, closer, and lord help me, when I’m finally in the position he wants, my boobs are right in his face. I curve my spine, attempting to rein them in, but dammit, they’re there and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Heat tingles across my cheeks as he blatantly stares down the scoop of my shirt. It makes me feel gross, cheap, and really fucking angry.
I grab the neckline to yank it up.
His hand catches my wrist, pulling my arm back to my side. “Stop fidgeting and straighten your back.”
I do as he says, even as I’m about to implode with anxiety over the position of our bodies and his silence on the marker incident. “Are you going to report me to the dean?”
“I administer my own punishments.” He gestures at his forehead. “Fix this.”
“Fix it?” A swallow sticks in my throat. “Like rub it off?”
He glares up at me like I’m the dumbest girl in the world. Yes, well, only a dumb girl puts herself in this situation.
With a trembling hand, I press the pad of my thumb against the ink above his eyebrow. I don’t know what I expected—cold, reptilian scales?—but his skin is smooth and warm and human. As I press harder, my free hand catches the back of his head, and my fingers slide through soft black strands. It feels so…personal, affectionate, abnormal.
His face hovers inches beneath mine, the muscles in his cheeks relaxed, lips slightly parted and thick lashes fanning downward. He really is handsome, even if everything about him is potently male. From the woodsy scent of his shampoo and the boxy shape of his jaw to his tapered waist and the way his muscular legs stretch the lean cut of his black slacks, it’s all there to remind me my future hinges on the whims of a man.
A man with ink on his forehead.
I rub harder. “It’s not coming off.”
“Use spit.”
My internal ick-meter swivels toward Eww, but I’m already up to my tits in trouble, so I lick my thumb and resume scrubbing. “What’s my punishment?”
“Is it coming off?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, Mr. Marceaux.” I wipe away the final traces and drop my arms. “It’s gone.”
“Put your hands back where they were.”
Why would he want my hands in his hair? On his face? It feels so…foreign. Improper. But he asked. No, he ordered. Dammit, why is it so hard to disobey him?
I return my hands exactly where they were, and for some reason, it’s easier this time, less awkward. He stares up at me, and the multi-shades of blues in his eyes glimmer beneath the fluorescents. His mouth is kind of pouty, not in a displeasing way. His full lips make him appear softer somehow. I think they’re my favorite attribute.
The fact that I have a favorite attribute on any man gives me pause, but I don’t remember ever seeing someone as attractive as Mr. Marceaux. Not on TV or in magazines or in person. Certainly, not this close up. I’m acutely aware of the press of his thighs against the outsides of my legs, the crotch of his slacks brushing my knees, and the warmth of his breath whispering across my collarbone. But it’s his head in my hands that makes me want to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
I’ve never touched a man in this way. The tickle of his hair between my fingers, the brawny lines of his face beneath my palm, the scratch of his barely-there stubble, every sensation beneath my fingertips fills me with fear and excitement and all the chaos in between.
I wonder again about the rumor, about why he left Shreveport. Can the same thing happen here, with me? My fingers clench against his head.
He licks his lips. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I want to yank my hands away, but I don’t dare. “I overheard a couple girls whispering about you in first hour.”
“Go on.”
“They said your first name is Emeric.”
“Hardly enough to whisper about.” His wrists rest on his thighs, his fingers dangling behind me, and the proximity causes them to graze my legs. “What else?”
“Shreveport.”
“Ah.” His fingers brush the backs of my knees, and this time I’m certain he’s doing it deliberately. “Miss Westbrook, don’t make me drag every detail from you.”
“They said you were fired.” My palm feels too clammy against his cheek, so I drop my hands to the crisp collar of his shirt. “Because someone walked into a classroom and found you with a woman.”
He arches a brow. “Is that all?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Supposedly, her mouth was gagged with your tie.”
“And?”
“Her wrists were bound by your belt.” I rush forward with the rest. “Her body was bent over the desk while you had sex with her from behind. That’s the extent of what I’ve heard.”
His hands close around the backs of my knees. “Wow.”
Wow is right. The crazy things people say…
A smirk slithers across his lips. “That is surprisingly accurate.”
“What?” My chest heaves as I push against his shoulders.
But he anticipates me, his arms hooking around my legs then shifting upward to circle my waist as he stands. He kicks the bench out of the
way and spins us toward the closest wall.
My back presses against the bricks with his chest flush with mine, pinning me there. “Deep breaths, Ivory.”
Ivory. The most intimate word I’ve heard from his mouth. My skin shivers with bizarre delight.
He touches his lips to my neck. “You’re not breathing.”
I fill my lungs, but it doesn’t help. I feel so small and insubstantial in his strong arms, fastened against his huge body. His chest, biceps, stomach, thighs…my God, he’s hard everywhere I’m soft. And hot. Too hot. I think I’m running a fever. I’m definitely going to puke if he removes his tie and belt.
With my hands clenched on his shoulders, I try to shove at the unmovable muscle. “Please don’t do those things to me.”
He sighs, stroking his nose along my jaw. “It was consensual. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head, not sure, but maybe I do know. “Like an agreement?”
“Yes. Only she didn’t just agree. She begged.”
“Why? Why would she want that?”
“Joanne is…” He looks away and stretches his neck to rub his chin against his shoulder. His brows pull in, and his entire demeanor seems suddenly and strangely subdued. When his gaze returns, so does his intensity, and his arms tighten around my waist. “She’s like you.”
“Me?” I squirm against him. “I don’t want those things. You don’t even know me.”
“Tell me what you feel right now.”
“Scared. You’re scaring me.”
His lips hover a kiss away, the hint of cinnamon gum scenting his breath. “Yes, but there’s something else. Describe it.”
“My heart’s pounding. I’m burning up, and my stomach feels like an ice block.”
“Your heart and stomach. Where else? Describe the feeling in your nipples.”
A flash of heat sweeps across my neck, through my chest, and builds between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, humiliated by the reaction, confused by the flush of weird emotions, but I latch onto the feeling I understand. “This is wrong.”
“Not wrong. It’s inappropriate. But we went way past inappropriate the first day. Tell me how your nipples feel. I won’t criticize your answer as long as it’s the truth.”
