Dark Notes

by Pam Godwin

  “I got grounded today.” He drags the underwear down my legs and off my feet. “For two months.”

  Nothingness rings in my ears. Everything is too quiet, too lifeless in the absence of Mr. Marceaux.

  “But I’ll find a way to meet up with you.” He pushes me onto my back.

  I can’t do this again. Can’t endure his hands, his thrusts, the sounds of his pleasure. This thing he does with me, it’s not rape, but it still feels forced, unwanted, dreaded. If I tell him no, he will force it. Maybe I can fight him off this time, but what happens to my bills? My future?

  He pries my knees apart, and I jerk them back together.

  “What are you doing?” Kneeling over me, he shoves his trousers down his thighs.

  The outcomes of my choices are so illogical. If I keep my legs closed, I might lose my house and turn into a crack whore like my mom. If I let Prescott do what he wants, I have a chance at something great. How messed up is that?

  I push my hands against him, holding him away. “I don’t want this.”

  But I do. I want this in a non-grabby, non-needy, give-and-take way. I want to connect with a man the way I want my music to connect with an audience. Emotionally. Profoundly. Innately.

  I want this with someone who cares.

  He forces his hips between my legs and wrestles my swinging arms. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “This.” I ram my forearms against his chest. “You.”

  The throaty rumble of an engine sounds in the distance, growing louder, closer, vibrating my body.

  The hairs lift on my arms, and I strain my eyes through the darkness of the back seat, unable to see.

  “Is that…?” I grab Prescott’s shoulders as he mounts me. I try to push him off, a wasted effort. “Is that a GTO?”

  “Fuck if I know.” He grips his dick, poking it around my opening. “Hold still.”

  The rumbling car is close. Close enough to stop on the street. Close enough that Prescott lifts his head to look out the back window.

  “Shit,” he whispers. “Someone’s here.”

  Ice fills my veins. He’s looking for me? I gulp for air and shove against Prescott’s frozen chest.

  He can’t see me like this. He can’t. He can’t.

  I kick and buck, trying to straighten my skirt, unable to move Prescott’s weight.

  “Move!” Oh God, I can’t close my legs.

  The door behind him swings open, and the sudden overhead light hurts my eyes. An arm reaches in, and in a blink, Prescott is jerked from the car and flying backward, vanishing in the pitch-black of night.

  The sounds of pained grunts harmonize with the purr of the idling GTO. I grapple with the skirt, yank it down my legs, my eyes wide and locked on the open door.

  Footsteps close in, the crunch of boots on gravel. Black slacks, a waistcoat, then a tie fills the door frame. He bends down, and when his face lowers into view, all I see is murderous blue.

  I can’t move. Can’t breathe. This is it. He might as well kill me, because my life ends now.

  No Le Moyne. No Leopold. No future.

  No more music with Mr. Marceaux.

  He stabs a finger in the direction of the street and bellows, “Get your fucking ass in my car!”

  The fucker is going to die.

  I leave Ivory to collect her things from the car as I storm back to the moaning piece of shit on the ground. Despite my cloud of rage, I managed to contain all the punches to Prescott’s ribs when I ripped him from the back seat. But as he stares up at me now, arms wrapped around his mid-section, my hands clench to shatter every bone in his contorted face.

  The shadows of Central City’s projects blanket the empty lot. The decrepit walls of apartment buildings are poorly lit, and the groves of overgrowth and garbage stink of abandonment. Thickly-leaved vines climb light poles and crumbling foundations, forming a protective veil in the absence of moonlight.

  Prescott sprawls on his back with his pants bunched around his thighs. One glance at the condom still hanging from his flaccid dick, and my control disintegrates. Madness like I’ve never known explodes hot and thick inside me, constricting my chest and burning my muscles.

  This is the perfect place to kill someone. No one will see. No one will care.

  I crouch over him and wrap my fingers around his throat. “You’re dead.”

  He claws at my hand, sucking for air. “N-not just me. She’s a whore and f…f…fucks everyone.”

  Primal rage smothers me, blinding my vision and fogging my mind. I move on instinct, rearing back and driving my knuckles, hard and fast, into his chest.

  A scream coughs from his lungs. “Oh God, please, please…”

  “You will never…” I connect with his stomach. “Touch her.” Another hit, high on his ribs. “Again.”

  Then I attack. The sounds of his cries, the pain in my hands, the exertion of my breaths, all of it fades away as I bring the wrath of hell upon him. His arms shoot up, warding me off, but I pummel through it, hitting every exposed inch of his torso.

  “Mr. Marceaux!” Ivory’s shout comes from behind me.

  My insides seethe at her defiance. “Get in the goddamn car!”

  Prescott tries to roll away, and I jerk him back, pounding my fists against his chest.

  “Mr. Marceaux, stop!” She screams, closer now, inches away.

  I’m in a zone, my tunnel vision consumed with blood and vengeance and broken bones. With each smack of my fists, her pleas and shouts no longer register…until her mouth moves so close, her breath brushes my ear.

  “Emeric.”

  I freeze mid-swing, my veins on fire to finish this.

  Bending behind me, she snakes her arms over my shoulders, her chest against my back and her fingers digging into my shirt. With her face alongside mine, she whispers, “You won’t just lose your job. You’ll go to jail. He’s not worth it.”

  I reach up and grip her hand against my heaving chest. “But you are. You’re worth it.”

  She whimpers and squeezes my fingers. “I’m so sorry. I never meant—” She tries to pull me back. “Please. Take me home.”

  Please. King of hell, that word on her lips.

  I launch to my feet, knocking her backward with the surge of my body. With a hand on her arm to balance her, I thrust the other in the direction of my car. “I won’t tell you again.”

  Eyes wide and glassy, she hugs the strap of the satchel against her shoulder and drags her feet to the GTO.

  The sound of retching draws me back to Prescott. With his pants in place, he rocks on hands and knees and empties his stomach into a snarl of weeds, sobbing between each heave.

  As I wait for him to finish, I pull in deep breaths and try to summon some semblance of control. I’m not a murderer. Hell, before Ivory, I hadn’t swung my fists since I was a testosterone-fueled teenager.

  I glance at her, taking in her defeated posture and horrified expression as she lowers into my car. I shift my attention to my swollen hands, shocked to find them violently shaking. She’s turned me into a homicidal animal.

  She’ll pay for letting this asshole into her body. But the bruises that’ll cover his torso for the next couple weeks? That’s on me.

  “Get up.” I grab his hair, relishing his wailing cries as I haul him toward the Cadillac and shove him into the driver’s seat.

  Tremors twitch along his skinny arms, his face pale and tear-soaked as he stares straight ahead. There’s no visible blood or swelling on any part of his exposed skin. If it weren’t for his pained expression and dirt-smeared clothes, no one would know I just beat the shit out of him.

  With an arm braced on the top of the door, I lean in. “Look at me.”

  He cowers, and his hands fly up to block his head. “Don’t hit me.”

  My fists flex to strike, to feel his body giving beneath the force of my anguish, but I bury it, saving it. For Ivory.

  Once he realizes I’m neither swinging nor going anywhere, he drags bloodshot eyes
to mine.

  “You have two choices.” I enunciate each word, softly, deliberately. “One. Tell no one what happened. Not a word about what you’ve been doing with Miss Westbrook. Let those bruises heal without revealing them to anyone, and that’ll be your only punishment for paying a girl for sex.”

  His eyes narrow into a scathing glare.

  I match his glare with one that makes him wither. “Two. Limp around like a fucking pussy. Tell the dean what you did to earn those injuries, and say goodbye to Leopold. Doesn’t matter how powerful my connections, there isn’t a conservatory in the world that will accept an applicant facing charges for buying sexual services.”

  His eyes bulge. “I’m only seventeen!”

  “That’s old enough to be charged as an adult and young enough to be the belle of the ball in state prison.”

  “Oh God, oh God, this can’t be happening.” He wraps an arm around his stomach and gives me a pleading look. “You won’t tell my mom?”

  I should’ve broken him. Should’ve left him in a bloody pile for the vultures to feed on. “This is between you and me. Keep your mouth shut, stay the fuck away from Miss Westbrook…and when I say stay away, I mean don’t think about her. Don’t talk to or look at her. Erase her from your fucking mind. Do that, and the dean won’t hear of your crime.”

  “Okay.” He grips the steering wheel, nodding, swallowing. “I can do that.”

  I’m not convinced. If he’s half as addicted to Ivory as I am, he won’t be able to stay away. But for now, scaring the shit out of him is the best option I have.

  I slam the door and stalk toward the GTO.

  Did she enjoy fucking him? Will she hate me for breaking them up?

  No way. She compared him to a bloody tampon.

  But what about other boys? Other customers?

  Deep in my gut, I know she didn’t want to be here. She didn’t even understand the concept of sexual desire until she met me. But finding her with someone else is a crushing hit to my pride. Christ, I can’t even bring myself to look at another woman, yet here she is…with him.

  Jealous rage claws its way through my chest, stealing my air and speeding up my gait.

  She should’ve come to me, confided in me, asked me to help her. Instead, she chose this. Him.

  Flashbacks of the back seat crash through my mind, tormenting me with images of her spread legs, his bare ass, the condom.

  My legs tense to turn around, my fists tingling to pulverize his throat until he stops breathing. But I keep walking, focused on her, on what I intend to do.

  Of all my passions, disciplining a woman is the most exhilarating. The most arousing. The reason I work and fuck and breathe. I can do this without destroying her. If I keep my temper in check, I’ll be able to open something inside her she has no idea exists. Pain and pleasure. Fear and arousal. Give and take. Once she understands how these things work together, it will change her, strengthen her, and tie her to me irrevocably.

  The rational part of my brain demands I take her home, quit my job, and end this dangerous infatuation. But I’ve reached the point of no return.

  It’s no longer a matter of if or when.

  Tonight, she’ll bend for my punishment, tremble for my touch, and I’ll risk it all to show her exactly what she means to me.

  The tension in the GTO is as stifling and disorienting as my anger. I welcome Ivory’s silence, but the secrecy of her thoughts winds me tighter and tighter with each passing street.

  When I speed past the turn off for Treme, she twists in the seat and points.

  “My house is…” Her gaze flies to mine. “You’re not taking me home?”

  Pulling up to a stop light, I turn toward her. “Will anyone notice if you don’t return home tonight? Your mother? Brother?”

  I thought her eyes were dark before, but now they’re the color of nightmares. Even in the passing headlights, they coax me in and chill me to the bone.

  She looks at her lap, shakes her head, her voice a soft shivering pianissimo. “What are you going to do to me?”

  She’s thinking the worst. I hear it in the serrated gusts of her breaths, and it infuriates me. But I can’t blame her. She watched me lose my shit with Prescott, and as sure as I can feel her fear, she can sense my vibrating need for atonement.

  I reach over and grip the hand in her lap. “Listen very carefully, Ivory.” I squeeze her trembling fingers. “I would never hit you in anger. When I welt your ass, you’ll love it as much as you hate it. Tell me you understand.”

  Her breath catches, and a sob hangs on the edge of her voice. “You won’t hurt me in anger.” She touches the broken skin on my knuckles. “How did you find me?”

  “Sebastian Roth was all too willing to give up his friend’s favorite parking spot.” A torrent of animosity invades my throat, and I’m unable to stop it. “You’re fucking him and Prescott? How many others?”

  She attempts to pull her hand away, but I hold tight. Her fingers fall limp while mine continue to shake from the lingering adrenaline.

  It’s probably best that she doesn’t answer while I’m driving. Seconds from detonating, I’m liable to jerk the damn car off a bridge.

  Lasalle Street, fifteen blocks, two turns, and a high-security gate later, here I am, sitting in my driveway, about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

  A nearby gas lamp illuminates the interior of the car, but we’re parked around back, shrouded by massive oaks and hidden from the street.

  When I turn in the seat to face her, she’s not staring at my enormous estate with envy in her eyes. She’s not surveying the million-dollar landscape with parted lips. She’s looking at me. Like I’m the only thing that exists in the world. Like I’m more important than all the wealth surrounding her.

  I fall helplessly into her gaze, lost in the shadows of tragedy and fear and neglect. But there’s a glint of light in the dark depths. As she sways closer, seeking, my heart kicks with realization. That tiny glimmer in her eyes is trust.

  That’s when I hear it.

  The tempo of our breaths. The drum of our heartbeats. The crackle in the air.

  The exquisite cadence pulses through me, awakening sensations I’ve never felt, composing a melody I’ve never heard.

  Our hypnotic, dark notes.

  This is so much more than punishment or forbidden pleasure.

  She could never be a mistake.

  “Are we going to…” She tilts her head and searches my face. “Do the vibe thing all night? I’m okay with that, but not knowing what comes next has me…um, a little jumpy.”

  I trail a finger across her cheek and along her bottom lip. “Tell me you trust me.”

  She nibbles the corner of her mouth. “You’ve given me every reason not to.”

  I drop my hand, but she catches it and lifts it back to her face.

  “You’ve also shown me every reason I should.” She holds our hands tightly against her cheek. “Thank you for finding me.” Her fingers trace the cuts on my knuckles, and her eyes shimmer with tears. “For protecting me.”

  Christ, this girl… She’s my music, my place in this life, my part in it all.

  I move in and touch my lips to hers. “You’re going to follow me inside.” I slide a hand into her thick hair. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.” I tighten my grip and yank her head back. “Then I’m going to test the depth of your trust. Say yes.”

  Her eyes flicker with vulnerability and desperation. Then she blinks, breathes, and relaxes in my hold. “Yes, Mr. Marceaux.”

  I follow Mr. Marceaux through the wide, echoing passages of his monstrosity of a mansion. Between the questions I’ll have to answer and whatever punishment that will follow, my legs threaten to buckle with each step.

  He touches my lower back and steers me forward. Oddly, the tremors in his hand give me strength. Like maybe he’s as freaked out as I am.

  His fingers have been shaking since he climbed into the GTO, his breaths fluctuating in
volume and tempo all the way here. I’m well-acquainted with the indicators of a man in need, but this feels different, safer somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s not attacking me like the other men I’ve encountered. Or perhaps it’s because the hand on my back is guiding me, not forcing me.

  We pass a living room filled with plush leather furniture, a hearth room with more couches, and a massive kitchen gleaming with stainless steel. Compared to the gloomy Victorian Gothic exterior of stone and steeples, the inside is warm and bright, flaunting the kind of luxuries I’m not sure a teacher’s salary can afford.

  Wrought iron chandeliers, long heavy draperies, shiny wood floors, black damask wallpaper, it’s all so old-world-ish yet modern at the same time. Such a profound reflection of his personality. He seems like such an old noble soul in the sense that he loves knowledge and truth—those pursuits interest him far more than the latest gossip or high-tech car. But after two months of lectures, I’ve learned he also appreciates the transience of life, the fleeting trends, and the way people and music change over time.

  After countless rooms, a spiraling staircase that wraps around the atrium, and a maze of corridors, I’ve lost my bearings. Why would a single man need so much space?

  I really don’t care how much money he has or where it comes from. I’m more interested in the man himself, what he has planned, and where he’s taking me.

  “Mr. Marceaux?”

  “It’s Emeric.” He stops, turns me to face him, and strokes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “I’m Mr. Marceaux when I’m your teacher.”

  His touch races a shiver across my skin and electrifies my heart. “If you’re not my teacher right now, what are you?”

  The mechanisms in his watch tick beside my ear as he slides his fingers through my hair and holds my head in the frame of his hands. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear that.”

  Maybe not, but I think he’s showing me. As I stare into the stormy blue of his gaze, the wall sconces, arched doorways, and dark woods in the hallway all melt into oblivion. He’s wearing his dead serious face, the one that says I want to fuck you and so much more.