Lying on the couch where I sleep, I pull my legs closer to my body, curling smaller on my side and holding Schubert to my chest. “H-how? How is what my fault?”
She came home a month ago, crying about the boyfriend who broke up with her. She hasn’t stopped crying.
“If it wasn’t for your…your…” She paces through the parlor and trips over her own feet, yanking on the cropped strands of her hair. “Fucking selfish bullshit!”
She was pretty once, soft and curvy with contentment glinting in her eyes. But drugs and grief have withered her to bones and rancor. Dad would be as heartbroken as I am.
If I don’t get accepted into Leopold, if I never find a way out of Treme, will I end up like that? Whenever my mind flashes forward, I see myself forever chained to Lorenzo and his violent needs. How could I not turn to drugs as an escape from the torment of his touch? That future terrifies me, but it also hardens me. I’ll make it out of here, no matter the cost.
My mom stumbles through the room, clawing at her sunken face as if trying to remove imagined objects. She must be coming down from whatever she poisoned herself with, her entire body tweaking with unhappiness.
She blames me for that. Her unhappiness. I’m the reason she uses, the reason she’s poor, the reason she can’t find a job or keep a boyfriend.
I suppose, in a way, I am responsible for her misery. My chest aches to go to her, to hug and comfort her. But she doesn’t tolerate those things from me.
Multiple footsteps advance from the back of the house. I bury my nose in the comforting kitty smell of Schubert’s hair and steady my breathing.
Lorenzo and Shane push into the parlor, both dressed in jeans and t-shirts. On their way out or just coming home? I glance at my watch on the side table. 3:15 AM. I rub my eyes. I have to get ready for school in two hours.
Lorenzo gives my mom a wide berth as Shane goes to her, pulling her hands from her face.
“Mom, stop. You’re hurting yourself.” He adjusts the straps of her nightie on her bony shoulders and glares at me. “Why are you letting her do this?”
Seriously? I sit up, holding Schubert in my lap. “I’m not the one feeding her drugs.”
Lorenzo reclines on the opposite end of the couch, watching my mom with amusement. I run a trembling hand through Schubert’s fur. Lorenzo won’t try anything. He probably won’t even look at me.
My mom brings a whirlwind of drama when she comes home, but there’s safety in her presence. She and Shane don’t believe my accusations about Lorenzo hurting me, but Lorenzo is always on his best behavior when they’re in the room. I’ve evaded the rumble of his motorcycle on my walks to and from school, and he hasn’t so much as touched me since my mom came home. Even so, the impatience thrumming from him is palpable.
My mom stares up at Shane, her gaze softening for a calm moment before it slashes through the room and lands on me. “You took everything from me.”
My throat tightens and burns.
She steps toward me, scratching at her scrawny arm. “I wish you were never born.”
Tears prick my eyes. It’s just the drugs talking.
Another step, this one stronger, more sober, her eyes hard and clear. “I hate you, you selfish little bitch.”
Moisture blurs my vision, and even though she’s told me those words a thousand times, I still try. “I love you, Mom.”
She launches toward me, screaming, but Shane catches her with the hook of his arm around her waist.
“I hate you. I hate you.” She bucks in his hold, trying to get to me, her boobs bouncing and falling out of her flimsy nightie. “You ruined my life!”
“I know, Mom.” Shane drags her out of the room. “I’ll get you what you need.”
She doesn’t need the drugs he’s about to pump into her. She needs a job, a passion, and a goddamn backbone.
I curl up with Schubert and focus on the tongue and groove ceiling, trying to stop the tears from escaping. Maybe I need a backbone, too.
Her screams echo through the house and eventually ebb into sobs. “He loved her more. He took from us, Shane, and gave it all to her.”
My heart shrivels in my chest, and the tears fall, hard and fast. I wait for the couch to bounce beside me, and when it does, Schubert scrambles from my arms.
Lorenzo’s hip bumps my feet with his movements. He leans over and forces me on my back, the sinews in his neck rippling the Destroy tattoo. “You think you can avoid me forever?”
“That’s the plan.” I push against his chest as a renewed stream of tears tickle my ears.
His black eyes grow impossibly darker. “So fucking pretty.”
He shoves a hand between my legs, but the cocoon of blankets protects me. For a fleeting moment, I imagine the front door opening and Mr. Marceaux standing on the threshold with his terrifying eyes. I bet Lorenzo would be scared of him, maybe enough to leave me alone.
But Mr. Marceaux won’t be returning to Treme. Not tonight. Not ever.
In a surge of anger, I kick and shove, hitting Lorenzo’s ribs and trying to free the blankets in my attempt to escape. He grabs my knees and holds them immobile. I scratch at his arms, my lungs panting with the race of my pulse.
The heavy thump of Shane’s tread sounds his approach, and we both freeze.
Lorenzo removes his hands and faces forward just as Shane enters the room.
“Sitting too close, dickhead.” Shane smacks the side of Lorenzo’s head. “Move.”
I exhale a huge breath and adjust the covers around me.
“I’m heading home anyway.” Lorenzo stands and exchanges a palm-slapping, knuckle-tapping handshake with Shane.
When the door closes behind Lorenzo, Shane plops down on the couch beside me and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
Adrenaline lingers in my veins, strumming my nerves. “I don’t want him here.”
“Shut the fuck up, Ivory.” He lights the cigarette and lounges against the back of the couch.
I decide to try out a new word. “He rapes me, Shane.”
His face reddens then turns darker as he stabs the cigarette in the direction of the door. “That guy saved my life in Iraq.” His volume grows louder, his arms shaking. “I wouldn’t be here, breathing, if it weren’t for him. So while you’re prancing around in your little shorts and teasing him with your fucking tits, remember that. Remember that guy is the reason I’m alive.”
I’ve heard the story, but saving someone’s life doesn’t give him the right to have sex with their sister. And aren’t brothers supposed to defend their sisters? Maybe he doesn’t think I’m worthy of that kind of love.
I pull the blankets tighter around me and say quietly, uselessly. “I don’t prance, and I don’t have a lot of clothes. They’re Mom’s shorts.”
“Yet another thing you take from her.”
Maybe he’ll hit me, and maybe Mr. Marceaux will report the new bruise, but dammit, I can’t let this go. “I pay the bills. Not you. Not her. She hasn’t once asked me about school or where I get the money. But I’m out there, working my ass off to make sure we don’t lose this house.”
He takes a drag on the cigarette, his expression tight. “Yeah, I bet you’re working your ass. Where do you get the money?” He casts me a sidelong glare. “You fucking whoring?”
Shame piles up in my throat. I shake my head. God, if he knew? I don’t want to find out what he’d do.
“Fuck this.” He stands and flicks his ashes on the floor. “And fuck you.” He strides to the front door, opens it, and glances at me over his shoulder. “Mom’s right, you know. Dad sold our future to buy yours. He did love you more.”
The door slams behind him, jarring more tears from my eyes.
I get it. I do. Their resentment of me runs two-hundred-thousand-dollars deep.
As I flick off the lights and return to the couch, Schubert joins me, purring and nuzzling against my chest in the dark. Sometimes I think Schubert’s love is an extension of Dad’s. Dad picked him out,
surprised me with him, and died the next day. It’s like he knew what was coming and wanted to make sure part of his heart was left behind, to console me when I need him most.
But I don’t think Dad loved me more than them. He was just trying to do a good thing with my education. I can imagine, though, how they must feel. I can hardly breathe after Mr. Marceaux’s rejection, and that wasn’t even close to love.
At least, Marceaux didn’t take away the private lessons. I should be glad for that, but the last five weeks have only made me angry. Fuming fucking mad. His strictly professional interactions and cold demeanor are daily reminders that I’m not good enough.
Not good enough for Leopold.
Not good enough to risk being with me.
Emeric
Despite my misgivings about Ivory’s future, I focus on my own. I spend the remainder of the weekend putting out feelers for teaching jobs. By Sunday night, I’ve applied for a few mid-year openings out of state.
I loathe the idea of leaving Louisiana without resolving one last thing with Joanne. But I have options, and maybe with a little self-control, I’ll keep things professional with Ivory until those options pan out.
But it doesn’t lessen the intoxicated feeling in my body. As I cross the campus parking lot the next morning, my anticipation in seeing her has me whistling “Patience” with Axl Rose’s contagious buoyancy. My blood pumps hotter and my muscles flex tighter with each step toward Crescent Hall.
The mind works in funny ways, making me rationalize all kinds of shit as I enter the building. If I’m leaving, it won’t hurt to touch her today. Just once. Another taste of her lips. That’s all. Man, why am I considering quitting? I can’t abandon her. How will I fucking breathe? This is bullshit.
My strides turn away from my classroom and veer toward Campus Center for reasons that can only be described as obsessive.
I run a hand through my hair and slow my gait. I don’t remember feeling this wild and out-of-control with Joanne. But I didn’t pursue her, either. Not in the beginning and certainly not after. I’ve never chased a woman. Never had to. That alone is enough to make me question why I’m craning my neck and scanning the crowd of students, hoping to catch a glimpse of long dark hair. Ivory Westbrook is fucking with my head.
A few halls later, I spot her leaning against a wall of lockers and smiling at Ellie Lai.
The sight of her sends a shot of warm satisfaction through me, locking my legs and paralyzing me twenty feet away. My infatuation might be ridiculous, but it’s no less real. I’m completely and thoroughly hypnotized by her.
She stands out among everyone in this school. Not because of the drab style of her white button-up and tattered black skirt, but because she shines above her financial limitations, radiating the kind of beauty that can’t be bought. Everything looks lackluster in comparison to the glow of her skin, the brightness of her eyes, and the potency of her aura. I’m so fucking drawn to her I can’t see straight.
The flow of students streams between us, but it only takes a moment for her to sense me. When her eyes find mine, her smile slips. Her lips separate, and her hand forms a fist at her side.
She resents me for putting space between us, but she understands why I did it. Even so, we both know that space hasn’t accomplished anything. With every passing day, it becomes tauter, thinner, straining to seal up and fall away. Like now.
Her gaze holds mine, piercing me with a vulnerable plea. Take the risk. Find a way. I need you. Maybe those are just reflections of my own thoughts, but I want to grab her wrist, pry her fingers open, and wrap them around mine, while promising to give her anything she wants.
Ellie pokes Ivory’s arm, and just like that, Ivory looks away, the trance broken.
I blink and suck in a frustrated breath as Ellie’s attention bounces between Ivory and me. Fuck.
Relaxing my shoulders, I give them a small chin nod and turn down the hall. Thank Christ, none of the other students seem to have noticed my frozen fixation. I swipe a hand down my face and fight the burning urge to glance back at Ivory.
By the time I reach Crescent Hall, my mind is a mess of disjointed arguments. I can give us both what we want. But can I keep her safe from the fallout? Is she safe now? Without her at my side every damn second, I have no idea who or what is threatening her. I fucking hate it.
I approach an empty intersection in the corridor and pause at the sound of a familiar voice around the corner.
“I don’t care what she agreed to do.” Sebastian Roth’s high-pitched whine grates across my skin.
She who? I hover at the bend and remain out of sight.
“Dude, let go of me.”
I’d recognize Prescott Rivard’s nasally voice anywhere. These two pencil dicks are inseparable friends, which piques my curiosity about their argument.
“I’ve had an arrangement with her for-fucking-ever,” Sebastian whispers, angrily. “She doesn’t belong to you.”
Paranoia punches behind my ribcage. There’s only one girl in this school I would fight over, and I know exactly how they look at her in class every day. I hope, for their sakes, they’re arguing about someone else.
Their heavy grunts echo through the hall, followed by the squeak of their shoes. If they fall around the corner, they’ll see me, and I’ll interrogate. But I wait, listening to them struggle while holding my breath. Say the girl’s name. Say her fucking name.
“Stop! You’re wrinkling my shirt,” Prescott says. “We can’t do this here. If my mom hears us—”
“I don’t give a shit!” Sebastian shouts.
Down the hall, a few girls round the corner and freeze mid-stride. I give them a stern point in the opposite direction, and they turn and rush away.
“You’re the one that’ll get in trouble.” Sebastian lowers his voice, his breaths rushed. “Seeing how you’re the only one fucking her anymore. Maybe I’ll pay a visit to dear ol’ Mom and let her know how you’re spending your allowance.”
My hands clench and my vision clouds as I connect the motivations of horny rich boys to that of a beautiful girl with an unknown source of income.
Adrenaline shakes my body and shortens my breaths. I want to hit something. My fingers dig into my palms. I want to fucking kill them.
“You wouldn’t,” Prescott says, his tone venomous.
“Try me,” Sebastian growls.
The sound of knuckles smacking flesh reaches my ears right before Sebastian falls into view. He lands at my feet, his plastic-framed glasses hanging lopsided on his forehead.
Cupping his mouth, the scrawny hipster groans and rolls to his side. “You fucking psycho!”
Prescott pounces from around the corner. Neither of them notices me as Prescott crouches over Sebastian and rears back his fist—
“Stand up!”
They freeze at the whip of my voice and lift their eyes, their faces blanching into colorless hues of Oh shit.
Sebastian recovers first, scrambling out from beneath Prescott and jumping to his feet. He adjusts his glasses and points at the dean’s son. “He hit me. You saw that, right?”
The little pussy isn’t even bleeding.
Prescott smirks, taking his time straightening his tie without standing. Refusing to acknowledge me. I can change that.
I grab his necktie and yank him up. He staggers as I whirl him around. I slam his back against the wall and wrap my hand around his throat. “Her name.”
Blond hair falls over his eyes, his lips pulling away from his overbite. “What?”
So help me God, if he stuck his dick in my girl…
Don’t go there, Emeric.
I put my face in his and let him feel the fury of my breaths. “The girl you’re fucking. Give me her name.”
His throat bobs against the compress of my hand. We’re the same height, but I have at least thirty adult pounds on him. Because I am the adult, the authority figure who’s supposed to be breaking up hallway fights, not engaging in them.
I loosen
my grip, but refuse to let go. I want to crush his gangly throat just for infecting my head with images of him with Ivory. “Sexual misconduct will get you expelled, Mr. Rivard. Who’s the girl?”
“Avery,” he chokes out. “But just to be clear…we’re n-not…having sex.”
Avery, not Ivory. The names are too similar, like he was thinking Ivory and spit out something else.
I glare at Sebastian. “Who’s Avery?”
He stares daggers at Prescott. “Avery Perrault is his girlfriend. She goes to St. Catherine’s.”
Is he lying? I’m wound too tight to pick up on hints. “Tell me about the arrangement you have with her.”
Sebastian’s eyes flash behind his glasses, his tone low and pungent. “She used to hang out with me, but not anymore.”
If hang out isn’t a euphemism for sex, I don’t know what is. And if this is about Ivory, why would they lie? So she can’t contradict their story? Is there more to it? Paying her for sex goes beyond expulsion. If caught, all three would be charged as consenting adults for violating prostitution laws. My chest constricts at the thought of Ivory arrested.
I return my attention to the imbecile wheezing in my grip. “How are you spending your allowance?”
“I-I…b-buy Avery things.” He paws at my hand. “Because she’s my girlfriend.”
Every inch of my body twitches with edginess. I release him and hold out my palm. “Unlock your phones and give them to me. Both of you.”
They bandy hostile looks and do as I say. A quick scroll through the logs confirms they both communicate with a contact named Avery. Neither phone has Ivory stored in the lists.
Because she doesn’t own a phone.
I return their devices and scrutinize their tense postures and indignant expressions, searching for a glimmer of untruth. I want to say Ivory’s name, bring her into the conversation somehow, just to study their reactions. But I can’t do that without making my own interests glaringly obvious.
However, I can write them up for fighting.
Twenty minutes later, I stand beside Beverly Rivard’s desk with my hands behind my back. I don’t say a word as the boys explain their dispute over Avery Perrault, how it’s all just a misunderstanding, and everyone’s virtues are still intact, blah, blah, fucking blah.
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