Which is scarier? Prescott? Lorenzo? Shane?
Mr. Marceaux.
I grab my satchel and hightail it toward the hall.
Ivory
The muggy air clings to my skin as I make the ten-minute walk from Le Moyne to the 91 line. Oh man, it feels good to get a breather from that classroom. I don’t know if it’s Mr. Marceaux or the frightening sensations he inflames in me, but I couldn’t run from there fast enough.
He’s aggressive and powerfully built like other men. More so. But he had numerous opportunities to take and didn’t.
Because he’s a teacher? Or because he’s not like other men?
I’m not ready to trust those thoughts or the way they make me feel.
The crescent moon hangs high in the sky, painting a dim glow over the antebellum mansions that fringe Coliseum Street. The brick sidewalk is paved in a herringbone pattern and bordered on one side by wrought iron fences, gas lamps, and blooming vegetation that infuses the air with the fragrance of summer.
The foundations of the towering homes butt right up against those fences, and illuminated windows give me a peek of interiors twinkling with chandeliers, grand staircases, and rich woodwork. Luxury cars line the narrow street and pristine gardens adorn the side-yards. Everywhere I look boasts generational wealth, the kind that came from sugar, cotton, and shipping.
Does Mr. Marceaux live in one of these mansions? Maybe his family is old money? Le Moyne attracts a lot of residents in the Garden District, including Beverly Rivard.
I don’t know which house is Prescott Rivard’s, but he knows which paths I take home. There are only so many options between school and the bus routes. My legs itch to walk faster, to put him off for another day. But the longer I delay touching base with him, the harder it will be to cover this month’s bills.
Halfway to the bus stop, the familiar rumble of a motorcycle interrupts the quiet street. It approaches from behind, growing louder, faster.
The tiny hairs on my nape stand on end. I peer over my shoulder and glimpse a black helmet, black jacket, and obnoxious orange fairings. My heartbeat slams into overdrive, and I pick up my pace. If the rider lifted his chin, I would see Destroy inked across his throat.
Every step hammers vibrations through my thin soles. I should’ve known Lorenzo would come looking for me. He often does when he grows tired of waiting. It’s been two weeks since the last time he took from me, and I bled from my butt for hours after.
My stomach cramps as my mind spins through my options. The next cross-street is a thirty-second sprint down the road. Maybe I can lose him.
I quicken my gait, scanning for a cut-through between the mansions. I won’t find one. Fences encircle the generous plots, equipped with security cameras and alarms. Wrought iron and brick brackets the street on both sides. I have nowhere to go as he motors up beside me.
“Get on the bike.” Even muffled by the helmet, his shout is hard and unkind.
“I’m taking the bus.” I walk faster, hunching my shoulders with my satchel banging against my leg.
He revs the engine, rolling the bike alongside me. My legs shake, and the toe of my shoe catches on a chipped brick. Momentum whirls me forward. I maintain my balance but…goddammit, I lose the shoe.
I spin back, my pulse thrashing in my throat, and shove my foot inside the cracked vinyl.
A pair of headlights emerge on the road behind Lorenzo’s crotch rocket. I stare blindly into the beams of light, waiting, hoping. For what?
Black hair, blue eyes, commanding presence…
As if.
Lorenzo stops beside me, just out of arm’s reach, his helmet tipping in my direction. “Not gonna tell you again. Get your ass on the bike.”
The approaching car slows, veering around Lorenzo. Wide front grill, metallic silver paint, fat tires, the Cadillac CTS Sedan makes the perfect toy for rich juvenile idiots to cruise around in.
Idiots like Prescott.
He pulls to a stop in front of Lorenzo, bends across the front seat, and swings open the passenger door.
Lorenzo’s helmet swivels toward the car. “Who the fuck is that?”
That is a diversion. Thank God. I won’t be able to evade Lorenzo forever, and I certainly don’t relish climbing into Prescott’s car. But right now, I’ll take Prescott over Lorenzo. Prescott never forces himself from behind and in my ass.
I lurch forward, running a wide circuit around the bike, and slide into the front seat of the Cadillac. “Go.”
The motorcycle’s engine sputters as it jerks forward. I slam the door shut on the noise.
Prescott leans over the console, twisting his neck to glare at Lorenzo. “Who is that guy?”
“Just some creep. Let’s go.”
He hits the gas, and the burst of propulsion presses my body into the leather seat. My anxiety and fear tumbles behind us in a fume of exhaust. I relax, a small degree anyway. Now I’m stuck with Prescott.
His long body sprawls in the leather seat, his finger punching through various glowing gadgets in the dashboard. I can’t begin to guess how much this car costs. His parents certainly have to make bank for them to be able to buy it for him. Is it a badass car? Absolutely. Am I jealous he has it?
I prefer not to be jealous of anyone, especially Prescott. I peek over at him, taking in the sharp angle of his jaw, the tuck of blond hair behind his ear, and the long, straight profile of his nose. He’s skinnier than Mr. Marceaux. Less developed muscle. Smaller hands. Smaller dick. Not that I’ve seen Marceaux’s dick, but I bet it’s bigger.
That’s not a good thing.
My heart skips. Why the hell am I thinking about that? Why am I even comparing them?
Prescott shifts gears then reaches over to hook a finger beneath the hem of my skirt. “I’m going to make you come tonight.”
I smack his hand away. Jesus, I never should’ve baited him with that comment about piercings. Stupid, stupid, stupid! “Where’s your homework?”
He downshifts around a curve and thrusts a thumb over his shoulder. The seat belt indicator screams as I kneel backward through the gap in the front seats.
I gather his binders from the floorboard, and a single headlight fills my view through the back window. “He’s following us.”
Prescott throws the car into high speed. Mansions blur by. Stop signs and intersections come and go. Guess he’s not worried about breaking the law. Thankfully, Lorenzo doesn’t share his recklessness. The motorcycle maintains the speed limit and stops at every stop sign. Maybe Lorenzo has drugs on him or outstanding warrants. Whatever the reason, he falls behind and eventually out of sight.
Releasing a heavy breath, I collect the rest of Prescott’s folders. “You lost him.”
Prescott yanks my skirt up to my hip and pinches my pussy through the crotch of my panties. “Baby, I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight.”
I spin back toward the front, falling into the seat, and try to control my breathing.
My hand shakes as I buckle the seat belt. “No, you’re not.”
There’s a heavy dose of conviction in my response. And maybe a tiny smidgen of doubt. I’ve escaped Prescott’s advances before, but I can count those times on one hand.
He laughs. “We’ll see.”
When he turns onto Jackson Avenue and heads away from the river, I don’t have to ask where he’s going. During the six-minute drive to our usual spot, I use one of the overhead lights to skim through his assignments and notes. He’s pretty organized for a guy who’s not interested in homework, his tasks outlined in neat penmanship and notated with due dates. Everything he’s detailed is doable, easy enough to work in with my own assignments.
He pulls into an empty lot, hemmed in by a jungle of weeds and boarded-up homes that didn’t survive the last hurricane.
Shutting off the engine, he turns to me. “I have a proposition.”
A tremor shivers through my insides. Anything he has to offer comes with a painful price.
He bends toward me, his face inches aw
ay and cast in darkness. “I know you’re doing homework for a lot of my friends and who knows how many others.”
I haven’t had a chance to talk to the other guys about schedules and assignments. Another dreaded task on my to-do list.
His hand snakes over my thigh, making its way to the gap between my knees. I jerk away, and my legs collide with the door.
With a grunt, he faces forward, posture stiff, his fingers curled around the steering wheel. Fingers I don’t want anywhere near me.
He tips his head against the headrest. “I don’t want to share you.”
“Too bad.”
“Fuck, Ivory! You’re so—” He rubs his hairless cheek and softens his tone. “I got an increase in my allowance. I’ll pay you more, enough to cover what you’re making from everyone else, if you stop seeing them. Give me a price.”
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 me. 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.
Emeric
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.
Falling For The Forbidden Page 8