by Pam Godwin
In a student-teacher affair, the student is a victim and therefore immune to school punishment or criminal action. All Ivory had to do was say my name, and she would’ve been exonerated.
Instead, she let Beverly assume her sexual misconduct was with another student, knowing it would result in her own expulsion. Four years at Le Moyne, and she gave up her high school diploma. A Le Moyne diploma. One that her father sacrificed everything for her to receive.
And she walked away from it.
To protect me.
I’ll rectify that right now.
“That’s me.” I tap the video screen.
Beverly blinks. “Mr. Marceaux—”
“Surely you figured that out based on the substantial size of the cock.” I grin. “I can pull it out if you need proof.”
She looks like she’s going to throw up, but beneath the disgust, there isn’t a hint of shock. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t believe for a minute you intend to ruin your career and go to jail for that…that…” She winces at my murderous glare. “Girl.”
The evidence of how deep I will go for Ivory is rotting at the bottom of a Louisiana swamp.
I pull the phone from my pocket and call her.
Beverly stretches an arm across the desk. “What are you doing?”
“Emeric.” The sound of Ivory’s tear-soaked voice makes my chest cave in.
I press the phone tighter to my ear. “Where are you?”
“Sitting in the parking lot.” Her tone rises an octave. “Oh God, Emeric. I wanted to call you, but I was afraid you would be with the dean and—”
“I’m with her now.” I smile at the sight of Beverly viciously grinding her jaw. “Come back inside.”
“But I’m—”
“You’re not expelled. Go directly to her office.” I end the call.
Beverly jerks forward, hands fisted on the desk and eyes hard and tapered. “I’m going to turn you in to the authorities.”
Except she hasn’t made the call yet.
Because she still needs my referral for Prescott. And because misconduct between a student and teacher would be bad publicity for Le Moyne.
“Let’s get to the point, Beverly.” I set the phone on my knee and drum my fingers against it. “It’s clear you pulled this video out of your arsenal to get rid of Ivory. Tell me why you chose today, of all days, to do it.”
She straightens and draws in a deep breath. “I received a disturbing call last night.” An angry flush rises up her neck. “You took her to Leopold. For an audition.”
My assumptions were right about her double-dealing connections. “Who called you?”
“Someone who has access to the admittance records. The Leopold faculty is all in a buzz about the young virtuoso from Le Moyne. Yet not one person there has mentioned Prescott’s name.”
I’m going to go out on a limb here. “Prescott set up that camera and gave it to you months ago. You didn’t want to use it because you didn’t want the scandal. Now you’re panicking, because you realized I have no intention of pushing your worthless son past the auditions.”
One, he’s not good enough for Leopold. Two, I’ve drawn attention to myself after Ivory’s audition. The Leopold faculty would question why I didn’t bring Prescott for an audition as well. Someone would dig, and it would lead to my mom’s involvement.
Beverly called me in so she could deliver Ivory’s unfortunate news herself and gloat over having the upper hand. She expected me to let Ivory take the fall alone and push Prescott through to keep my job.
Now, in a weak grasp at straws, she’s threatening to call the authorities. Except the video doesn’t implicate me.
She’s got nothing.
I pull the tablet closer and launch a browser. “Ivory will graduate from Le Moyne, and you will treat her with the utmost respect.”
“No!” Beverly glares at me so hard I think her eyeballs might burst. “I want her out of my school.”
Logging onto a cloud storage platform, I access the account I set up in the event Beverly decides to be a bitch.
Kicking Ivory out of school? Definitely a bitch.
I cue up the first video and turn the tablet, rather enjoying the symbolic turning of tables.
Beverly snatches it from my hand. As she stares at the screen, her fingers clench around the plastic casing.
A fist knocks softly on the door.
I leave Beverly to watch her husband pile drive Deb’s ass and open the door. I’m met with huge brown eyes, red-rimmed and swollen.
Ivory silently steps in. I shut the door, tangle our fingers together, and guide her to one of the chairs in front of Beverly’s desk.
We sit side by side, hand in hand. She moves her gaze from our fingers to Beverly then to my face, her eyebrows lifting in question.
I would love to kiss her, but that might be pushing it. “Beverly was just about to tell you to return to class.”
Beverly looks up from the screen, her complexion a sheet of white. She doesn’t cry or rage or freeze up. I suspect she already knew her husband cheated. But given her strong need to maintain an image that captivates and impresses everyone around her, she wouldn’t want anyone to know her marriage is a steaming pile of shit.
I imagine right about now she’s mentally shitting herself as she thinks through the fallout if those videos were ever made public. Her career as dean? Fucked. Her husband’s face on all his car commercials? Forever associated with the money shot on Deb’s ass. Prescott’s connections to other colleges? As worthless as his musical ability.
With a look of defeat, she powers off the tablet and sets it down. “What do you want?”
I squeeze Ivory’s hand. “I already told you.”
Beverly sets her jaw. “I can’t allow this…” She waves a hand between us. “To go on in my school. End things with Miss Westbrook.”
Like hell. But I’m willing to compromise. “Ivory stays. I’ll submit my resignation immediately.”
Ivory flinches beside me. “Emeric, don’t—”
I cinch my fingers around her wrist in a tight shackle, reminding her to trust me. I have her.
My unwavering gaze narrows on Beverly. “Tell Ivory to return to class.”
Beverly stares at me from across the desk, her eyes deep cauldrons of hatred. “Miss Westbrook, return to class.”
I wake the same way I do most mornings. Drowsy, happy, horny. Except today is different.
Today, I’m a drowsy, happy, horny Le Moyne Academy graduate.
Yesterday’s ceremony was held in the campus theater. The very same theater that almost cost me that diploma. Stogie and Emeric’s parents were there. The dean demanded Emeric not show his face, though I’m certain I glimpsed his fedora in the crowd. When I asked him about it, he kissed me into a warm, gooey stupor. I’d love one of those kisses now.
I reach behind me, expecting to bump into warm skin. Instead, I encounter cold, vacant blankets.
Blowing out a breath, I sit up and glance at the clock. 7:13 AM.
Damn him. He told me the morning workouts would stop. I hate waking up alone.
I climb out of bed, wrap a robe around my nude body, and set off to find him.
Ten minutes later, I come up empty and check the garage. The GTO is gone. Maybe he’s picking up breakfast?
As I shuffle into the kitchen, something moves in my periphery. “The hell?”
I spin just as a tiny streak of black darts across the floor and disappears around the island. Is there a rat in the house?
Cautiously, I tiptoe around the corner and gasp. “Oh my… What?” I cover my smile with trembling fingers.
One look at those bright yellow eyes turns my vision into a wet blur.
A kitten. He brought a kitten home. My throat closes up.
Coal black fur covers the cat’s body from the peaks of the ears to the tip of the tail. I press my lips together as a sob rises up.
In the next heartbeat, I’m fucking crying. A damn mess of soggy snivels,
runny nose, and noisy hiccups for no reason that makes sense. I did the same thing when my dad gave me Schubert.
I wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands and slowly lower into a crouch, careful not to scare… Him? Her? Knowing Emeric, he’d want another male in the house.
Excitement races through me when I spy two charms hanging from the black collar.
I offer my hand in greeting. He sniffs my fingers, marks them, and makes me his. I melt.
Scooping him up, I nuzzle him against my neck and sink into the vibrating purr. I missed this so much.
With shaking fingers, I examine the silver charms. The first is a round ID tag with a name engraved. Kodaline.
The Irish pop band I played at my audition.
I shake my head, grinning. God, I love that man of mine.
The second charm is a heart-shaped locket with a raised treble clef on the front. I open the latch and a tiny folded note falls into my palm.
Sliding into the nearest stool, I set Kodaline on my lap and unravel the teeny piece of paper.
It’s an address in the French Quarter. Scrawled beneath the street name in his sexy male penmanship is, Don’t keep me waiting.
What has he done now?
I smile as I shower, fix my hair, and slip on a casual black rockabilly dress with gray rose print. The strapless bodice seductively hugs my cleavage. A flirty bow ties at the waist, and the skirt flares at the knees. I pair it with comfortable red pin-up pumps—as comfortable as heels can be anyway. The flats would be more practical, but I want to look good for him, for whatever he has planned.
My grin grows bigger and bigger on the drive there, making my cheeks ache in its refusal to go away. Smiling is as much a part of me as the clothes he picks out, the pain he pleasures me with, and the music he resonates in my heart.
With the address mapped on my phone, I follow the directions to a popular breakfast place in the French Quarter. The warm breeze kisses my face as I walk quickly along the flagstone passageway, surrounded by the ambiance of New Orleans’ salient history and architecture.
Sunlight glints off the steeples, gables, and dormered rooftops. Dew clings to the gas lamp posts. Eager tourists gather around the vendors setting up booths beneath the blooming trees in Jackson Square. It’s a beautiful southern morning. How could I have ever moved away from this?
I step into the restaurant and immediately spot him in a corner booth sipping his coffee. His blue eyes find mine, and for the second time this morning, I melt.
He watches me intently as I cross the busy dining room, his gaze roaming up and down and deep inside me.
When I reach the table, he stands and laces our fingers together. “You look ravishing.”
Black hair falls over the cropped sides in disheveled strands, no doubt molested by his fingers since the moment he woke. His cobalt blue button-up matches his eyes and hangs open over a white t-shirt. The relaxed denim of his jeans sits low on his tapered hips, a fit so perfect it’s as if every thread was woven to embrace his long-legged strides and cup his impressive bulge.
He looks like a man who intends to spend a lazy day strolling along the pier. Maybe that’s the plan?
“You look damn fine yourself.” I smile up at him. Rather than sitting across from him, I follow him in on his side, wrap my arms around his wide shoulders, and hold my lips to his. “Thank you for Kodaline.”
“Fast friends, I take it?”
“Insta-love.”
He steers the conversation through breakfast, keeping the chit-chat carefree and unassuming. He hasn’t told me how he spent my last three weeks of school, but his entire demeanor has been focused and fueled with purpose. When I pry, it’s always the same response. Trust me.
I’m getting that look now, the wait-and-see glimmer in his eyes. I don’t care what he’s keeping from me. I’m content to simply enjoy his company, holding his hand as his girlfriend and kissing his lips in public. No more hiding or living in fear. We’re finally free.
After breakfast, we meander along the narrow streets of the French Quarter, fingers intertwined, sharing lingering glances and smiles.
With shops below and homes above, the rows of buildings dazzle with scrolling brackets of hand-wrought iron, fluted ionic columns, and balconies famous for bead tossing.
He stops in front of one of these structures, pulls a keyring from his pocket, and tilts his head up. I follow his gaze and lose my breath.
A huge, round sign dangles on metal chains from beneath the towering overhang. Framed in black wrought iron scrollwork, the name of the business makes my mouth go dry.
EMERIC AND IVORY
DUELING PIANO BAR
My breath returns in a whoosh, only to be taken again as Emeric swoops me off my feet. Cradling me against his chest, he unlocks the glass door and carries me over the threshold.
“Holy shit.” My heart pounds. My arms shiver. My entire body floats through a dream. “How did you—? When did you—? This is ours? I can’t even.”
“Easy.” He sets me down on wobbly legs and locks the door behind us. “Deep breaths.”
My chest heaves as I take in the deep mahogany walls, Gothic mirrors, and black and ivory mosaic floor tiles. It’s classy and sophisticated, trendy and cocktail lounge-ish. Right in the heart of the French Quarter, the property value alone on this place must’ve cost him millions. I’m stunned into stupefied silence.
Two grand pianos sit on a platform at the center, facing away from each other. The keyboards are close enough together to share the long bench between them. Those will be our pianos? Where we’ll play together? With the lights, the audience, the music?
“Oh my God, Emeric. Pinch me.”
He does, right on the nipple, hard enough to make me yelp.
Leading me to the ornate wrap-around bar, he leans against the edge. “When I bought it a few months ago, I tried to find a loophole, but because of this”—he points at the shelves of liquor on the wall—“your name won’t be on the business license until you’re twenty-one.” He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my fingers. “By then you’ll be Mrs. Ivory Marceaux.”
My heart sings a swooning melody. “You sure about that?”
“You bet your sweet ass.” He slams his palm against my butt with an echoing whack. “Go explore.”
There’s so much to take in I’m trembling against the significance of it. A piano bar. Just like my dad.
Shivery, joyous tears fall down my cheeks as I make a circuit around high-top tables, soft red velvet chairs, and black leather settees. Candlelight chandeliers illuminate the space in a warm glow. And the pianos…
I pause beside one of the Steinways, and my finger instantly finds a familiar scratch on the lid. My watery gaze latches onto Emeric across the room.
Braced against the bar, he slides a stick of gum in his mouth and crosses his ankles. “I bought it the day I met Stogie. It’s yours.”
I glance back at the piano and swallow around the happiness swelling in my throat. “You’re going to make me ugly cry.”
“I’ll buy you a piano every day for the rest of your life just to see your beautiful tears.” He prowls toward me, hands clasped behind his back.
That look in his eyes, the devotion rimmed in desire, is my centering pitch, my musical note, the one that induces the perfect wave of vibrations inside me, balancing me.
He moves up behind me, slips an arm around my waist, and holds me against him, his cock hardening against my ass. “Stogie sold his shop.”
I glance back at him, startled.
He brushes his mouth against my ear. “Pain in the ass won’t retire, but we worked something out. He’s helping me with the inventory and hiring, and I set him up in one of those Creole townhouses a block away.”
Overcome with emotions, I try to unscramble my brain, parsing through everything he’s done and the future he’s spread out before me. “What about your teaching? How does this bar fulfill that?”
“I still have you. When you outg
row me—”
“I’ll never outgrow you.”
“—there’s a full second floor with a separate entrance in back. I’ll open a School of Old-guy Rock to the public and teach metal on the piano.”
Wow. He’s thought of everything, which leaves me with only one thing to say.
Thank you. I could vocalize it a million times over, but I don’t have to. He sees the salty rivers coursing down my cheeks. He feels the trembling of my body against his. He hears the rushing whistle in my breaths.
Words aren’t needed because we have something better. Our own notes. It’s just us and our song, the tune pulsing between us, nourishing, fusing, and making us one.
He turns me in his arms and clutches me snugly against him. I lock my hands behind his back, rest my cheek on the warm wall of his chest, and close my eyes as he sways us to the beat of our hearts. Someday soon, we’ll do this, right here, as the crowd applauds and cheers and pleads for an encore.
I sigh. Reality is better than any dream I imagined.
He hooks a finger beneath my chin, lifts my face, and puts his mouth on mine. He tastes like cinnamon and desire, his firm lips a devouring comfort of familiarity.
He passes me his gum with a roll of his tongue. The next sweeping stroke reclaims it. The bite of his teeth on my lip holds us together.
His hands slide beneath the dress and grip the backs of my thighs, lifting me to the edge of the piano so he can deepen the kiss. So he can tease his fingers between my legs. So he can rip—
There go my panties, tossed in a shred of silk behind him.
I grasp at his sexy hair as his fingers sink inside me, my tissues rioting beneath the sensual affection of his touch. His other hand yanks down the bodice of my dress. Then his lips are there, wrapped around my nipple, sucking it deep into his hot mouth.
My head falls back, my spine bowing against the brace of his arm at my back as moans spill from my mouth. Jesus, he knows how to work those fingers. On the piano. In my pussy. Around my heart.
I love this man. I love him, and when he’s ninety and I’m eighty, I’ll still love him. I grin at the image of his wrinkly body.
His eyes lift to mine, and his mouth releases my nipple. “What’s so funny?”
