by Lily White
Seeing him like this broke my heart. Dad had always been the picture of calm serenity growing up, like a peaceful Brahm’s sonata weaving around me to comfort and soothe. Now my father was like Stravinsky’s Firebird - chaotic, atonal and difficult. The story and music fit him perfectly because The Firebird was a Russian ballet about a man lost in a fantasy world with the one hope of saving the woman he loved. Not usually a composition for the piano, I’d fallen in love with the chaos of the music in certain parts, learning and perfecting how to play The Infernal Dance on the piano.
I couldn’t look at my father without hearing that song.
Despite how badly I wanted to walk in his room and wrap my arms around him in a warm hug, I couldn’t will my feet to move. I stood quietly observing until the sedative kicked in and Ben finally calmed him down.
While dad drifted off to sleep, Ben and I watched with weary eyes, both knowing that the man who’d raised us was gone regardless of whether his body still lived.
It had been six months since he’d had a lucid moment, six months since he’d looked at me and recognized me as his daughter.
Ben stood from the bed and crossed the room toward me. Clutching my arm, he pulled me from the doorway and led me into his room. After closing the door, Ben collapsed over the mattress of his twin bed, his long legs hanging over the end.
“We need money,” he said, his hand scrubbing down his face.
“Do something like this again, and I’ll be sure to redden your ass for it...”
Mr. Carter’s words whispered through my thoughts at my brother’s announcement. If we needed money, whatever we would do to get it wouldn’t be legal.
“What do you have in mind?”
He sat up, his dark hair hanging down over his forehead. Ben had mom’s grey eyes, his facial structure sharp like dad’s. Classically handsome, it was a shame he hadn’t gone to college to make something of himself. His refusal to go to college was mostly my fault. Ben couldn’t leave me alone with dad.
My brother was twelve years older than me, often jumped from job to job, and made better money scamming on the streets or dealing drugs. Most people looked at him like he was a worthless loser, and maybe he was. But still, he helped me support Dad, and he paid the household bills. He’d raised me and protected me during my last years in high school when our father was incapable.
“Same scam. We’ll go to a nice nightclub or bar in Tampa. You’ll lure out some asshole with more money than God, and Jackson and I will take it from there.”
Our eyes locked, his expression apologetic. “I hate asking this of you, Amelia, but after getting fired a few weeks ago, I fell behind on the bills. We need this to catch up.”
My stomach clenched, the taste of bile crawling up my throat because I hadn’t eaten anything. I was used to the empty feeling. Over the years, I’d learned to survive on one paltry meal a day.
Ben had only asked me to go through with this particular scam four times over the last two years, and only when we were in danger of missing a mortgage payment or the power turning off.
Still, I hated the process of it. Hated what I had to let someone do. Hated the screams that followed.
“I don’t like when they touch me, Ben.”
His eyes narrowed, not because he was angry at what I said, but because he hated them touching me, too. My brother was overprotective of me, had chased off every potential boyfriend I had. Mostly because the guys in Sheldon were bad news.
“It’ll only be for a minute or two. You know that. I’ll keep my eyes on you the entire time. Get him out of sight of other people and it’ll be over once I step up. I won’t let anybody hurt you, Amelia.”
Nodding my head, I scuffed the toe of my shoe against the floor, resigned to what I had to do.
“Okay. When do you want to do this?”
“Tomorrow night. Does that work for you?”
Swallowing down my hatred of our situation, I nodded again.
“Yeah, Ben. Tomorrow night works.”
Lennon
Touching Amelia had been a mistake, one I couldn’t take back or forget. The instant her skin met mine - at the moment she submitted by reaching out with her injured hand - a sense of calm rolled through me, the soothing warmth of satisfaction that I’d made a demand and it had been obeyed.
Of course, the only problem with feeling that calm warmth was that the girl who’d evoked it in me was about as off limits as someone could get.
She was too young for me. Too timid despite her attempts at being bold. Not to mention my student - a girl I had to judge with an impartial ear and mind.
Still, I’d enjoyed the transfer of power between us, the surrender I’d witnessed in her just before her body shook for reasons I wasn’t sure she understood. My body reacted to the way she’d trembled, every part of me coming alive with the need for discipline.
Amelia played a good game, but when push came to shove, she wasn’t as sharp-edged as she wanted to lead people to believe. She was the type of woman who would give me everything I demanded, the type who would run and fight until the moment she was caught.
I didn’t want to think about how submissive she could become when trapped by the hands of a dominant man.
Thoughts of her chased me home that night, an image of her dancing in my mind while I tormented the keys of my piano, memories of her wide, sparkling eyes teasing me while I paced the halls of the large house I’d rented while staying in Tampa.
She was trouble in every possible way, the defiance in her bleeding away in the moment she was cornered by a predator.
I wondered if life in Sheldon had forced her to adopt an attitude that went against her nature. And even though it did nothing to help me break free of my fascination with her, I wondered if beneath the hard shell she was as malleable as I preferred my women to be.
Tossing and turning all night, I’d woken the next morning with the hope that Amelia would crash and burn during her performance in class, hoped that she’d give me a valid excuse to cut her loose so I could forget I’d ever known her.
I didn’t need her kind of temptation staring at me every day for the next several weeks. I wasn’t sure I could resist tasting it.
Now as I stood waiting for the students to file in to class, my eyes zeroed in on a brown haired beauty walking through those doors wearing a fitted, button up shirt that revealed just how generous Mother Nature had been to her, and a pair of black slacks that did nothing to hide the curves of her hips and ass.
For a moment, I regretted that she hadn’t worn her baggy jeans and hoodie.
The students took their seats, settling in with a chorus of scraping chairs and anxious whispers. I stood in front of my desk, feet at shoulder width, my hands locked behind my back.
“Good morning.”
Every student’s eyes were on me, yet none of their lips were moving.
“I said: good morning.”
Waking up, they responded, a synchronized and robotic response.
Inclining my head, I went through roll call, careful to avoid looking at Amelia directly when I called her name. The moment her voice snapped out in response to mine, I wanted to bend her over my desk and show her why little girls shouldn’t speak to me with disrespect.
That thought alone disturbed me.
I wouldn’t let her win this power struggle, wouldn’t allow her to see that her attempts at defiance bothered me.
Addressing the class, I explained, “Today will be more of the same as yesterday. Half the students here still need to perform their piece. Unlike yesterday, everybody needs to remain in class because I’ll be selecting who stays and who goes by the end of the day.”
Glancing up, I grinned, “No pressure, right?”
In fact, it was a lot of pressure, enough to fill the room with a heavy cloud of trepidation, each student eyeing me with fear even though they answered me with hesitant laughter.
“Let’s begin. Haley Kline. You’re up and you’ll be playing Chopin.”
A tall, leggy blond stood to her feet. Yesterday, her hair had been pulled up into a knot at her nape, her face free of makeup, and she’d been wearing a black dress of modest length. Today, her hair was loose down her back, the neckline of her tight, red dress inappropriate, and her makeup was what you would expect from a stripper working a stage.
“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”
Brown eyes met mine with so much heat behind them she was melting the cheap plastic chairs beneath the other students’ asses.
It never failed. On the first day of class, girls showed up expecting a typical boring old guy or a female teacher. They were conservative with their appearance as a result. But by day two, after they’d had a chance to meet me, they morphed into vixens far too young to understand that, to attract, it was better to be subtle.
A quick glance around and I determined there were seven more girls just like her. Amelia, however, wasn’t one of them. Rather than large doe eyes, smoldering with youthful adoration, Amelia looked at me with wariness that transitioned into sharp antagonism the minute our eyes met.
It would be fun breaking her of that habit.
Ignoring Haley’s attempt at holding my attention, I walked to my seat, turned my back to the piano and kicked my feet up onto the surface of the desk.
When evaluating the music produced by every individual player, it was easier for me not to watch, my eyes closed as I allowed their sound to sink through me.
Most students find the routine hard to accept, not understanding that, despite the appearance of not paying attention, my focus was solely on them.
I was a slave to sensation, sound conjuring in me emotion, the music pulsing inside my head.
With my eyes closed, I could pick up every missed note, every rushed beat, every mistake in technical skill, while also savoring the heart of the player.
As for Haley Kline, there was no heart at all apparently, her skill suitable for the knowledge it took to understand the music, but her soul utterly absent.
Chopin’s Nocturne should be played with a gentle hand, the melody rolling through you with sensual grace, lulling a person into willful abandon if it’s played right.
Haley’s hard plunking of keys did nothing for the piece, not that this particular composition did much for me anyway. It was too simple, too pure. Absent of the discord and dark, pleading notes I preferred.
When her performance was done, I made my notations, called the next student and assigned them their piece. The routine repeated over and over until, in the end, there was just one student left.
“Amelia Dillon. You’ll be playing Debussy.”
So far, every student had butchered this song, their heavy hands too forceful over a pianissimo piece. The Clair De Lune was a slow mating dance of sorts, at least in the way I saw it; the treble a feminine whisper in answer to the male demand for dominance.
When played correctly, you could see the seduction that came with a woman dancing away from the man who pursues her, only to crawl back when she understood that she belonged to him. Ebbing and flowing. Back and forth. A tease that draws the eye. Temptation too alluring to deny. They meet in the middle, their opposition coming together to create a harmonious and unbreakable bond.
I had no clue if that had been Debussy’s intent when writing the music, but still, it was the image painted in my mind’s eye to hear it.
When the first notes of the song floated through the room, my eyes opened in surprise to hear Amelia’s soul resonating through them.
It took everything I had not to turn and watch her play. If there weren’t forty-nine pairs of eyes locked on my reaction, I would have lost the battle to turn and watch.
Jesus Christ, Amelia, why not just open your legs and tease me with all there is to see?
Amelia didn’t just feel the music, she made love to it, every muscle in my body tense with the desire to watch her play - to see if she moved her body as beautifully as the sound she produced.
Gone were my hopes to cut her in the first round. Within the first few measures, it was all too apparent she was one of the best students in the class.
This summer, it seemed, was going to test every bit of resolve I had to avoid making the mistake of dragging her to my bed.
The song ended, the room rendered silent as the last notes echoed and bled away.
Taking a moment to collect myself before turning to the anxious students, I made my notations, dropped the roster onto the surface of my desk and cleared my throat before dismissing them for break.
“You all have thirty minutes free time while I make my decisions.”
Shuffling past me, the students cleared the room, giving me a moment to sit back and absorb what I’d just heard.
Was Amelia’s performance perfect? No. She still had much to learn. But was her soul written into the sound? Yes, and it was as soft and tender as it was disastrous and profound.
There was dissonance inside of her, a dark, dreary, cacophony of longing that called to and caressed all the similar parts in me.
Scrubbing my knuckles down the stubble along my jaw, I circled her name as a student who would stay, even if it would be the worst thing for me. My eyes drifted to the blank space where no high school or your orchestra was listed. Where had Amelia learned to play?
Thirty minutes passed and the students returned, a mixture of anxious and hopeful faces.
I hated this part, the rejection, the heartache, the loss I knew each one experienced when their name wasn’t called. Standing from my seat, I rounded my desk to lean against the front, one hand clutching the roster, the other gripping over the edge.
“Before announcing who stays and who goes, I want to take a second and commend you all for having made it this far, for dedicating yourselves to music, for loving the art of sound. For those who are leaving today, please do not take this as a sign that you should quit or give up that love. Keep going. Keep practicing. Keep immersing yourselves in your art. You were all very good and the decisions I made were not easy ones.”
Pausing, I fought not to look at Amelia.
“I’ll call the names of those who will remain. If your name is not called, do not return tomorrow. Once I’m done, all of you are excused to go home.”
It took me five minutes to announce the twenty-five who would go forward, Amelia’s name saved for last. Watching her through my peripheral vision, I saw the moment of relief wither her shoulders to learn that she had made the cut.
“All of you can go. Have a good night.”
Haley Kline, a student I was all too happy to boot from the program, flashed me a vicious look of contempt as she passed by. The early bird kid who couldn’t hold down his breakfast did his best not to cry. Several other students had tears slipping down their cheeks as they gathered their bags and headed to the door.
Behind them, Amelia hitched the strap of her bag up her shoulder, her eyes finding mine between the movement of students.
“Miss Dillon,” I called out. “I’d like a word with you.”
Stilling in place, Amelia refused to approach. I could understand her reluctance. The last time she came near me, I’d caged her against a wall and threatened to spank her ass.
The threat was becoming a bad habit.
After the remaining students had cleared the room, silence was heavy between us. Tapping my finger against the roster, I lifted my eyes to her and attempted to ignore the desperate need I had to demand she come closer.
“Who taught you to play? The roster fails to list a high school program and youth orchestra, but that-,” I pointed to the piano as if the keys she’d mastered were still humming with the notes of her soul, “-that wasn’t a performance a person picks up as a hobby.”
Ducking her head, her cheeks flamed crimson.
“My, um,” toeing the floor, she spoke low, her voice barely loud enough to cross the space between us. “My parents taught me. They both graduated Hastings and had played with the symphony before retiring to take up teaching priva
te lessons.”
Recognition flooded me, the name Dillon resonating in my mind as part of a memory I fought hard not to let haunt me.
Stunned, I gripped the edge of the desk with both hands. “Are you Lila and James Dillon’s daughter?”
How had I not made the connection before?
Peering up, her eyes flashed with warmth, the first time I’d seen her face come alive to look at me. “You know them?”
Nodding, I couldn’t believe how the gods were fucking with me.
“They-“
My throat was clogged, emotions I’d been pushing away for over ten years were a knot blocking my ability to speak. What are the odds that this girl would be the one to try and mug me? That this girl would be the one to call to me on a carnal level I was desperate to avoid? That this girl would be connected to the worst moment of my life merely by existing?
They taught my sister...
I shook my head. Talking about Emaline was too close, too much to add to an already difficult situation.
“I saw them play in the symphony when I was a kid. Grew to love their work when I was at Hastings. I now understand where your talent comes from.”
Her eyes rounded and she took one hesitant step toward me. Just the mention of her parents made her appear thirsty for more information.
“My mom taught me, starting at the age of two. I couldn’t do more than bang my fingers on single keys, but eventually my hands grew. After she died, my father took over, but then he-“
Voice trailing off, shadows appeared in her eyes, the moment lost to whatever bothered her.
“Well, anyway, yes. That’s how I learned.”
Yet she hadn’t studied in high school, hadn’t joined a youth orchestra or similar program. Instead, she was picking the pockets of people in one of the worst areas of town.
Fingers gripping harder over the edge of the desk, I asked, “With talent like that, why in the hell would you risk throwing it away by committing crimes?”
The question shut her down, all sense of warmth gone until the air between us could have iced over with her scorn. “That’s none of your business.”