by Pam Godwin
That same week, I accepted a job offer at Shreveport Preparatory. And met Joanne.
I was twenty-three then, which means Ivory was thirteen when her father was murdered.
She sits across from me, watchful and quiet. As the silence stretches, a subtle transformation works its way into her posture, curling her body into itself and making her appear smaller. She picks at a thread on her sleeve, bringing my attention to the stitching in her shirt and all the places the seams are unraveling. Her clothes are cheaply made, old, or worn from use. Probably all of the above.
There’s not a smudge of makeup on her tan face. No rings, bracelets, or jewelry of any kind. Not a whiff of perfume, either. She certainly doesn’t need enhancements to make her pretty. Her bare beauty outshines every woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. But that’s not why she goes without.
I won’t pretend to understand what it’s like to live in poverty, let alone to lose a parent the way she did. My father’s a successful physician, and my mother retired as Provost and Dean of Leopold. When I returned to Louisiana after college, they moved back with me to remain close to their only child. Their love and support for me is as dependable as their fortune, and to say they’re wealthy is an understatement. The Marceaux family holds the patent on the wooden bracings used in pianos. I’m set for life, as are my children, and their children, and so on, as long as pianos are in production.
Old money is rife among Le Moyne families. Except Ivory’s. So why did Willy Westbrook sell his booming business only to continue working there as an entertainer, earning the kind of menial salary that left his daughter destitute?
I leaf through her file, searching for the payment schedule of her tuition. A small notation on the last page indicates all four years were paid in full seven years ago.
Daddy sold the bar when I was ten.
I meet her eyes. “He sold his business to send you here?”
She shifts in the chair, back hunching, but she doesn’t look away. “He received an offer that was just enough to cover the four-year program, so he…” She closes her eyes, opens them. “Yeah. He sold everything to secure my position here.”
And three years later, he died, leaving her so goddamn broke she can’t afford textbooks.
I don’t bother hiding the contempt in my voice. “That was extremely stupid.”
Twin flames ignite her eyes as she jerks forward, her hands clutching the lip of the desk. “Daddy looked at me and saw something worth believing in, long before I believed in myself. There’s nothing stupid about that.”
She glares at me like she’s expecting me to jump on the bandwagon and believe in her, too. But really she just looks like a defensive, angry little girl. It’s unbecoming.
“You’re not thirteen anymore. Grow up and stop calling him Daddy.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t call him!” Her face reddens in a lovely shade of vehemence. “He’s my father, my life, and it has nothing to do with you!”
Christ, this girl has baggage, and given the cut on her lip, it goes beyond Daddy issues. Physical abuse is easy to detect. Sexual trauma, however, is a huge leap. But I’m suspicious by nature and far too curious about her. Despite those bold sparks in her eyes, her posture has a tendency to curl inward in self-defense, evidence that someone in her past or present hurts her.
I want to dig around inside her, carve out the useful facets of her misery, and obliterate the rest. “He was your father, and you have your own life. Move on.”
A twitch bounces in her cheek. “I hate you.”
And I hate how badly I want to punish her mouth by shoving my cock in it. “You’ve succeeded in showing your immaturity, Miss Westbrook. If you want to remain a student under my tutelage, you will stop bellyaching like a schoolgirl and start behaving like an adult.”
She sniffs, shoulders squaring. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me.” She stares across the room, her gaze roaming the wall of instruments. “I’ve really screwed this up.”
“Look at me.”
She does, instantly.
The cloying perfume of her obedience licks along my skin. I want to bathe in it, taste it, and test it. “Why are you here? Because your father decided when you were ten that you would become a pianist?”
Her brows pull together. “No, this is my dream, too, and ‘I’m obliged to be industrious.’”
She can quote Bach. Good for her.
“What is your dream, exactly?” I open the file to the college acceptance section. “According to this, you have no goals, no ambitions. What are you going to do after high school?”
“What?” Outrage screeches through her voice. She launches across the desk and rips the page from my hand, her gaze flying over the empty columns. “Why is this blank? There must be some mistake. I’ve…I’ve… God! I’ve been adamant about—”
“Sit down!”
“Mr. Marceaux, this isn’t right. You have to listen…” Her voice weakens, trailing to frightened silence under the force of my gaze.
She lowers into the chair, face flushing and quivering hands rustling the paper.
I steeple my fingers against my chin. “Now tell me, in a calm voice, what you expected to see on that page.”
“I’m going to Leopold.”
Not a chance in hell.
Except the unwavering strength in her glare argues she has the determination to make it happen, and the lift of her chin challenges me to claim otherwise.
I accept that challenge. “You realize only three percent of the applicants are accepted each year? Dozens of your peers have applied, even though Leopold hasn’t accepted a Le Moyne student in three years. Maybe, just maybe, one of you will make it in next year.”
There’s no maybe about it. My mother still holds a seat on Leopold’s Board of Trustees and has the means to push one of my referrals through. I’m confident she’ll do it. For me.
However. While slipping one student application past the stringent acceptance process won’t raise suspicion, two would most definitely sound alarms and put my mother’s integrity in question. I would never ask that of her.
I lean back in the chair, flipping through the printouts to make sure I didn’t overlook notes on Ivory’s college goals. “You should’ve applied for the matriculation process by now. There’s nothing here indicating you have an interest in pursuing such an impossible venture.”
“Everything is possible, Mr. Marceaux.” She tosses the blank page on my desk. “And I did apply. Three years ago. In fact, Mrs. McCracken intended to refer me as the leading applicant.”
That explains why Beverly forced Barb McCracken into retirement and brought me here as her replacement. When I accepted the deal, I knew there would be students more worthy of my referral than Beverly’s son. But I didn’t expect to feel this much guilt tangling in my gut.
Ivory Westbrook poses a moral dilemma, and I haven’t even heard her play. Maybe her talent is mediocre, and I can shove this conflict of interest aside.
She stares at my tie, a fugue of thoughts flickering in her eyes. Long seconds pass. Somewhere down the hall, a clarinet plays in perfect key.
Finally, she meets my gaze. “My presence isn’t exactly wanted around here. I don’t wear the right clothes, drive the right car.” She laughs. “I don’t even have a car. And I certainly don’t bring endowments or glamorous connections. The only thing I have to offer is my talent. It should be enough. It should be the only thing that matters. Yet this school has been against me since day one.”
Nothing she said surprises me. She’s a little lost lamb among a pack of cutthroat wolves. So why doesn’t she aim a little lower? Try for an easier college and remove herself from the cross-hairs? Why Leopold?
I hold my expression impassive, deferring my questions until she’s finished.
She touches the blank page and scoots it toward me. “Someone deleted my proposition for Leopold, along with all the prep work I’ve done to support my eligibility. Mrs. McCracken told me she pu
t it all in my file. I don’t want to point fingers, but someone in this school doesn’t like me, and that someone has a son who is competing for my spot.”
Beverly Rivard wiped her file, a conclusion I’d already come to. “Why Leopold?”
“It’s the best conservatory in the country.”
“So?”
“So?” Her eyes light up. “The rigorous education students receive there is unparalleled. They have an elite faculty, top-notch facilities, and the best track record in propelling students into musical careers.” Ticking off names on her fingers, she lists notable alumni, such as world-renowned composers, conductors, and pianists, then adds, “And you, Mr. Marceaux. I mean, you’re in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra.”
I’m about to call her out for being a brown-noser, but then she surprises me.
“I don’t just want to perform.” She clasps her hands together, her gaze losing focus. “I want to occupy a principal chair in a major symphony and sit beside the best of the best, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights. I want to be there, part of it all, when the music begins.”
This isn’t a pitch she prepared in advance. The passion in her voice is a thousand decibels of intensity, her entire body vibrating with the prospect of her words.
She lowers her hands and meets my eyes. “Also, as you already know, every single student accepted into Leopold receives a full-tuition scholarship. Doesn’t matter who you are or what your background is…”
We share a look, and in that space of understanding, I mentally finish her sentence. Leopold has enough prestige and wealth that it doesn’t concern itself with student bank accounts. The school evaluates its applicants on talent alone.
“Very well.” I rub the back of my neck and hope to hell she’s a terrible pianist. “I’ll update your file, and we’ll go from there.”
Under normal circumstances, being best in her class would get her into Leopold. But Beverly hired me to ensure that wouldn’t happen. Leopold will accept Prescott Rivard because I’ll make it happen. Everyone else from Le Moyne will be overlooked. That sucks for Ivory, but life’s a bitch.
“Thank you.” She smiles, her posture loosening.
“We have one more matter to discuss.”
I tuck the file away, rise from the chair, and walk around the desk to sit on the ledge beside her, facing her.
With her legs pinched together, she stacks her feet—one bare foot atop the other—against the leg of my desk. I scan the floor and spot her beat-up shoes beneath her chair. I suspect the torn plastic edges irritate her skin after wearing them all day.
When she looks up, I place a finger beneath her chin, holding the position of her head. “What happened to your lip?”
As expected, she tries to lower her chin. An evasive response. Every instinct in my body tells me someone hurt her.
I apply a small yet unmistakable pressure against her soft skin. “Stand up.”
Her breaths quicken as she lifts from the chair, guided by my touch beneath her jaw.
When she reaches her full height, I drop my hand. “I asked you a question, and before you answer, remember what I said about lies.”
She presses her lips together.
I try another tactic. “As your teacher, I’m a mandated reporter. Do you know what that means?”
Her eyes, like liquid ebony, blink. She’s distressingly beautiful, and I’m so fucked.
I unfold from my perch on the desk. Standing over her, I’m a head taller and a lot bigger. “It means I’m required to report suspected child maltreatment to protective services.”
“No!” Her fingers fly to the cut on her lip. “You don’t need to do that. My brother…he and I got into it this morning, like siblings do. It’s totally normal.”
Normal? I don’t think so. “How old is he?”
She leans a hip against the edge of the desk, a casual pose, but she’s not fooling me. “He’s twenty-six.”
Twenty-six is ten years past knowing better. If the fucker hit her, I won’t report him. I’ll find him and break his fucking face. “Did he hit you?”
“He…uh, well, we were arguing and uh…” She picks her words carefully, forehead pinched in concentration, no doubt trying to avoid a lie. “I ended up eating the frame of a door.”
“Did. He. Hit you?”
She releases a breath. “He backhanded me. This”—she points at her lip—“was the door frame.”
A raging fire erupts inside me, rushing to the surface and searing across my skin. “How often?”
She hugs her midsection, eyes on the floor, further enraging me.
“Answer me!”
“Don’t do this. I can’t…I have enough problems to deal with right now.”
“Lift your shirt.” What am I doing? Fuck, this is a bad idea, but I have to know. “Show me your ribs.”
She peers around me, her eyes locked on the hall.
“If someone walks by, they can’t see around my body.” I bend my knees, putting my face in hers. “I’m required to hotline you, Miss Westbrook. Prove to me you’re not covered in bruises, and I won’t make a report.”
I’ll beat the shit out of her brother instead.
Her fingers grip the hem of her shirt, her expression tight, eyes squeezed shut. She’s so still I’m not sure she’s breathing.
“This is just an examination, for your own good. Nothing inappropriate.” It’s illegal as fuck, but I can’t stop myself. “I’m waiting.”
She directs her gaze on the buttons of my waistcoat, up to the knot of my tie, lingering there, before she drags her focus upward in a painfully slow trip over my mouth. When she connects with my eyes, a sharp hum rattles in the back of her throat.
Then she raises her shirt.
He’s a teacher. He won’t hurt me.
Slowly, shakily, I gather the hem of the shirt above my navel.
He’s just doing his job.
Goosebumps shiver across my skin from the unwavering press of his glare, the rush of my heartbeat, and the chilly air as I inch the cotton higher, baring my ribs.
He promised nothing inappropriate.
So why does this feel so wrong?
It is wrong.
I shove the shirt down and turn to collect my belongings. His hand catches my upper arm, fingers digging in as he swings me back into position. “Show me or I’ll report the injury.”
His voice ricochets through my skull, sharp and uncompromising. If he reports me, I could lose my home, my education, and my cat. And Shane… God, my brother would strike back with a wrath of pain.
My stomach quivers as I lift the shirt. He releases my arm as I hold the fabric beneath the weight of my breasts and meet his eyes.
All I see is blue ice, an endless arctic landscape, like I’m staring into an unknown world.
His nostrils flare, and the muscles in his face harden with emotions I don’t understand. I’m not hiding anything. Nothing under my shirt anyway. Other than the cut on my lip, Shane hasn’t left a scratch on me since the night I walked in on him fucking some poor girl on the couch—on my bed. Failing to knock on my own front door earned me a nasty bruise on my stomach. But Mr. Marceaux won’t find that. The discoloration faded last week.
He lowers into a squat, his glacial gaze traveling over my torso, the low waistband of my skirt, then dropping to the knee-length hem. “Now raise your skirt.”
I snap my attention toward the doorway and the empty hall beyond. His bent position puts him eye-level with my pelvis, his body no longer shielding me from hallway traffic. The final bell rang an hour ago, but lots of kids stay after for private lessons. Even now, the legato of a clarinet sings down the hall.
Anyone can walk by and assume the worst. Here I am, the resident slut, flashing my body for the teacher.
The cold floor beneath my bare feet makes me feel even more naked. I wish I hadn’t slipped my shoes off during our meeting. “There’s no privacy. Someone might see me.”
“That’s for
me to worry about.” His arms drape over his bent knees, his strong hands flexing in the V of his thighs. “I won’t give the order again.”
I shove the blouse down and cover my stomach. Now the skirt? Holy smokes, what should I do? Physically, he’s in an unusual position for a man, lower than me, his face below my waist. More vulnerable, right? Yet he’s still trying to take in a way. I could knee him in the nose and run. But I’m not sure I need to. Or want to.
Shit. I curl my fingers around the front of the skirt, bunching and lifting until my legs are exposed to mid-thigh.
“Higher.”
I raise the hem another inch. Surely he can see my legs shaking? How high does he want me to go?
“Higher.”
His voice whispers roughly into the foot of space separating his face and my thighs. His hands are right there, too, dangling between us, close enough to grab me between the legs if that’s his plan. A slight tremble twitches through his fingers, and my muscles tighten.
But he’s a teacher. He’s not allowed to touch me.
As his student, I’m supposed to trust him and do what he tells me.
I wad the loose material of the skirt against the crotch of my panties and cup my hand there, giving him a full view of my legs without revealing too much. “What are you looking for?”
“Widen your stance.”
I slide my feet out, wobbling with the effort.
“Just like that,” he breathes. “Good girl.”
His praise wraps around me like a warm hug. I can’t remember the last time someone embraced me without hurting me, but if Mr. Marceaux spends the next nine months calling me a good girl, I might never need a hug again.
He dips his head, angling closer. “I’m looking for marks on your inner thighs.”
Lorenzo has left marks there, along with numerous other guys. The mean ones always do, grinding and bucking and lasting too long. But Mr. Marceaux doesn’t know about those other guys.