by Pam Godwin
Unfortunately, my unresponsive dick refuses to participate in the ploy, so I maintain a sliver of space between me and the apex of her thighs, where she’s covered by the loose material of her skirt.
She grips my biceps and pushes out her tiny tits, but her attention shifts toward the closed door.
I hover my mouth over her neck, exhaling a steam of feigned desire. “Everyone’s gone home for the weekend, right?”
“Yes.”
“Besides, no one can see us from the window.” I recline back. “I’ll give you one chance, Andrea. Tell me exactly what you want.”
Her gaze lowers to the tie around my hand, and her fingers follow, tracing the silk in my grip. “I—I…want what you said. But we can’t. Not here.”
She looks back at the door, licking her lips.
“No, not here.” I move away and return to the desk, leaning on the edge beside the laptop. “Before I decide to take you home, you have to show me how badly you want me.”
Excitement brightens her face. Then her eyebrows dig in. “H—how?
“Show me how wet you are. Go ahead. No one will see.”
Her expression contorts as uncertainty battles desire. I know which will win, but she drags out the silence, working herself into a heaving, flushed jumble of anxiety.
Finally, her breathing quiets, and her hands fumble with the folds of her skirt.
“Spread your legs, Andrea.”
She does, eyes on the door as she feels around the satin crotch. “How do I—”
“Under the panties. There you go.”
She tosses her head and makes some noise.
I’m not really paying attention, but I let her rub around in there for a while. “Now hold up your hand.”
She lifts her arm and smiles at her fingers. I don’t give a shit if they’re wet or not. I have what I need.
I hit a key on the laptop and question the wisdom in telling her what I did.
It’s better to be proactive than reactive.
Gripping the screen, I flip the laptop toward her and back up the silent video to the juicy part.
Shock comes first, paling her complexion and paralyzing her body. Then outrage.
“Wha—” She shoves her skirt into place, fists her hands at her sides, and rushes toward me. “What are you—? Oh my God, you recorded that!”
With the camera on the back of the laptop, I caught it all while remaining out of the frame during the incriminating segment.
I snap the lid shut. “Don’t fuck with me, Ms. Augustin.”
She jerks back, arms wrapping around her mid-section, and stares at me in horror. “Why would you—?” Deep red inflames her cheeks. “Oh God, what are you going to do with it? Is this about Ivory?” She covers her face with her hands, and a sob garbles her words. “I need…job. I can’t lose…you can’t do this.”
“I’ve done nothing with Ivory. But you just masturbated in my classroom.” I store the laptop and tie in my bag then turn toward her, wearing an expression that matches my most intimidating tone. “Stay out of my classroom, out of my business, and no one will see this video.”
She stares back at me, defeated. Betrayed. Yeah, I know the feeling too well. Only I’m not trying to steal Andrea’s job. I simply want to keep the one I have.
Hatred soaks her eyes. “What they say about you is true then.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” I shoulder the bag, flash her a charming smile, and stride into the hall. “Good night, Ms. Augustin.”
Prescott tangles his hand in my hair, holding my face against his lap.
His penis stabs the back of my throat, and I gag.
Yellow-flowered tie. Cinnamon gum.
The buckle of his belt clanks with his thrusts. The console between the front seats digs into my chest.
Chilling blue eyes. The heat of his palm on my backside.
A bass-heavy song thumps from the car radio, and I can’t find my safe place. I’m not numb enough, not far enough away. I’m trying, trying… I can’t gather the notes for Scriabin’s Sonata No.9.
The tick of a mechanical watch. The gentle stroke of his breaths.
Tears well in my eyes and cling to my lashes. I can’t focus. Can’t escape.
All I can think about is the spanking and how I wouldn’t mind another if it ends with an almost-kiss from Mr. Marceaux.
Wedged between Hook ‘Em Up deli and a vintage jewelry shop called Pawn of the Dead resides the only music store in Treme. At least, I think this is a music store. Standing on the broken sidewalk, I hang my sunglasses on the collar of my t-shirt and squint against the glare of the sun.
Security bars crisscross the glass front. There’s no open sign or any kind of advertisement, and the grime on the windows obscures my view of the dark interior. Since it’s Saturday, the store might not be open. Finding Ivory inside is even less likely.
But I’m not here for her. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about where she gets her money and who put those unsettling shadows in her eyes. This Stogie guy might be an avenue to answers, and hopefully, this visit will soothe my nagging need to meet the man she spends her time with.
I check my phone, confirm the address, and try the door.
The jingling bell overhead announces me as I step into a cluttered room of instruments. Voices whisper from the back, guiding my feet through the maze of shelves, drum sets, and miscellaneous junk.
“You need to eat more.”
I can’t see her around the rows of display racks, but her sexy lilt speeds my strides and buzzes my body with excitement.
Coming here to meet a man named after a cigar, I expected to walk into a stale cloud of leather and smoke, but instead, the air is remarkably fresh, especially for such an old building.
“Stop nagging,” a deep voice says, “and let an old man nap.”
“But you have a customer.” Her sigh drifts from behind a tall shelf filled with books.
I step into view and find her sitting on the floor, back to the wall, and bare legs stretched out before her. My hands flex as I silently thank the fashion Gods for short-shorts. She’s a half-naked fantasy of bronzed skin and devious curves. An illegal fantasy.
Lids lifting, her eyes collide with mine and widen. The textbook in her hands tumbles to the floor to join the dozen others surrounding her. “Mr. Marceaux?”
“Miss Westbrook.” I’m struck with the wild urge to grin like a jackass, but I manage to maintain a stoic mask.
Her gaze sweeps from my disheveled hair and t-shirt to my dark jeans and Doc Martens. I wish I could read her thoughts as she takes me in for the first time without the pageantry of waistcoats and ties. She makes another head-to-toe pass, nibbling her lip and stirring a torrent of sensations inside me.
The old man beside her sits taller on the metal chair. A frayed baseball cap perches high on his bald head, and horizontal wrinkles crease the broad bridge of his nose, deepening into more lines on his dark-skinned brow. His closed-mouth smile is the kind men wear when they’re toothless and…eighty? Ninety? I don’t know, but this guy is ancient.
His arm trembles as he reaches for the wall in an attempt to stand.
“Don’t get up.” I step toward him, offering my hand to shake his. “I’m Emeric. You must be—”
“Stogie.” He clasps my hand with a surprisingly strong grip and sits back.
Ivory bends to stand, and her tiny tank top flashes me a sinful view of her full tits. Jesus, fuck, if she doesn’t adjust that shirt, I’ll be swinging from six to midnight with no way to hide it.
Clutching the low neckline in a subtle tug, she studies me with a bewildered expression. “What are you doing here?”
I meet Stogie’s watchful gaze and let him see the questions in mine. Do you know who I am? How well do you know Ivory?
He hooks his thumbs under the elastic of his red suspenders and blatantly stares me up and down. His smile fades, and his skeletal frame locks up. Apparently, his cloudy eyes see a lot more than
they let on. “Ivory, why don’t you go on in the back and warm up one of them frozen meals?”
She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed. “Oh, now you want to eat?”
“I’d love a fresh pot of coffee and some of that cobbler you made, too.” He grips the seat of the chair and scoots forward. “Don’t keep an old man waiting.”
She huffs and steps out of the pile of books, pointing a finger at him. “Be nice.”
Then she looks at me, her expression vulnerable and hesitant, as if begging me to do the same.
The moment she disappears in the back room, he makes a painfully-slow attempt to climb to his feet while holding my gaze. “I know your kind.”
My hackles go up, but the manners my mother ingrained in me has me reaching out to help him stand.
He glares at my hand, scoffs at it, and rises on wobbly legs.
I swallow down my irritation. “Enlighten me on my kind.”
His hunched frame shuffles past me and toward the front of the store. I follow, glad to be moving out of Ivory’s range of hearing.
He circles behind the front counter and settles on a tall stool. Unhurried, he examines my expensive watch, fit physique, wide-stance, and raised chin. I know what he sees. A wealthy, cocksure man in his sexual prime standing in a run-down neighborhood for one reason.
He’d be right.
Finally, he stoops forward and rests weathered forearms on the counter. “That girl has had a rough go of it, and you’re the kind of man that’ll make it worse.”
There’s a treasure-trove of answers beneath his words, and I need to discover every one of them. “Explain.”
“You’re the kind of man that sets his sights on something and doesn’t let go till he possesses it.”
He’s far too shrewd for pretense, so I don’t bother playing dumb. “Doesn’t matter what I’ve set my sights on. I’m her teacher.”
“Yes.” Judgment creases his eyes. “You are.”
I measure my breaths, expressionless. “She talks to you. About me.”
“She’s said nothing incriminating, but she doesn’t have to. She’s mentioned you more in the past week than all her other teachers combined in three years.” He drums gnarled knuckles on the glass counter. “Whatever you’re doing with her, she wants to trust you.” His hand quiets, eyes unblinking. “The kind of trust she gives no one. But once you have what you want and discard her like your kind do, her distrust in men will be irreparable.”
An ice-cold wave of dizziness overtakes me as my mind jumps to sickening images of older men, brutal men, raping her.
I place my palms calmly on the counter and lean in. “Tell me what happened to her.”
He looks away, his attention on the back room. “She doesn’t talk about the bad things. I’m not sure she even distinguishes between the bad and the not-so bad. What happens to her is life. It’s all she knows.” His overcast eyes return to mine. “She’s not just financially poor. She’s short of love, affection, and protection. She needs a good example in her life, someone with a selfless interest in her.”
“You’re not that example?”
“I’m just a broke old man with one foot in the grave. I can’t buy her textbooks and fancy gadgets. I don’t hold her dream of attending a music college in my hands. And I don’t have the power to steal her heart.”
An overwhelming swell of respect rises in my chest. I can’t begrudge this man for caring about her enough to say that shit to my face. I can’t even argue with him, because in some ways, he’s right. I have nothing to offer her except heartache and disappointment.
“But you give her a place to practice.” Glancing behind me, I spot the only piano in the store and thrust my chin toward the old Steinway. “Is it for sale?”
The strained look in his eyes says no, but the splintered floorboards, rickety display racks, and overall dilapidated appearance of the shop tells me he needs the revenue. Desperately.
“She doesn’t know I get offers for it.” His hands clench on the counter. “I won’t sell her piano.”
But someday, maybe soon, he’ll be forced to accept one of those offers because it’s the most valuable merchandise in his inventory.
I pull the wallet from my back pocket and place my credit card on the counter. “Charge it to my card, as well as the cost to have it delivered to her house.”
He glares at the black American Express then lifts his glassy eyes to me. “She doesn’t want a piano at her house. She’s here because she doesn’t want to be there.”
My stomach sinks with dread. “Fine. Keep it here. Put the receipt in her name, and don’t tell her she owns it or who bought it unless she asks.” I slide the card toward his trembling hands and wait for him to look at me. “What is she avoiding at her house? You know her well enough to have a damn good guess.”
He picks up the card and swivels to the cash register. “What do you get out of this?” He nods at the piano.
“Peace of mind. Answer my question.”
He rings up the purchase, lips pinched between his gums, refusing to talk.
Ivory emerges from the back room with a tray of food and sets a disposable dish of noodles and some kind of bastardized pastry on the counter.
“I…um…” She stares at the charred edges of crust. “Burnt it? Or maybe…” She pokes a finger in the doughy center, and the whole thing caves in. Her cheeks flush. “I should stick with what I’m good at.”
Like receiving spankings and playing piano? Or even better, playing piano while I spank her.
She looks at Stogie, the card in his hand, and meets my gaze. “What did you buy?”
I harden my eyes in a silent None of your business. “Have you eaten lunch?”
She shakes her head.
“Gather your things and join me.”
“Oh, I…” At my impatient expression, she rubs the back of her neck. “Okay.”
As soon as she walks out of earshot, I turn back to Stogie. “How do her living expenses get paid?”
“I believe she covers the bulk of it.” He watches me warily. “I employ her in the summer to help with some of that.”
“And when she’s in school?”
He sets the receipt and a pen on the counter and scratches his whiskered cheek. “I don’t know.”
The conflict in his dark eyes affirms she doesn’t share these details, but… “She may not tell you, but you know.”
He offers my card back. I grip it, but he doesn’t release it, his focus on the square plastic connecting our hands. Then he lets go and looks up. “You know, too.”
Admirers. Stalkers. Creepers. Men with money and needs and the immorality to trap a beautiful young girl?
I feel the muscles pulling and tightening in my neck as anger burns in my throat. “I didn’t buy that piano to—”
“I know. Which is why I sold it to you, and why I will never tell her you bought it, even if she asks.” He bends closer, hands braced on the counter. “She owes you nothing.”
“Whether or not you trust me, I am concerned about her well-being, specifically pertaining to her home life.” I sign the receipt and scribble my phone number at the top. “Call me if anything suspicious, anything at all, arises with her.”
Ivory returns to the front with an overstuffed satchel bundled in her arms. I move to take the heavy weight from her, but she shakes her head.
“I’ll be back tonight.” She stores it behind the front counter and says her goodbyes to Stogie.
Holding the door for her, I glance at the old man. “Nice to meet you.”
He nods, his mouth pulling down at the corners.
Yeah, he has every right to not trust me. I don’t trust me, either.
“Is the deli next door any good?” Mr. Marceaux holds the door as I follow him out of Stogie’s shop.
“Only the best sandwiches in New Orleans.” My stomach flutters with butterflies. Because I’m hungry. For food. Not because I’ll be eating food with Mr. Marceaux.
Instead of
turning toward the deli, he steps to the curb and unlocks the passenger door of a shiny black muscle car. “Stay here while I grab lunch.”
I take in the GTO badge on the door panel, the 70’s-style woodgrain dash, and the black vinyl interior, wondering why he drives such an old ride. “We’re not eating there?”
He removes the aviators from the neck of his t-shirt and slides them on. “No.”
Everything inside me melts. From the heat of the blinding sun? Definitely the sun.
I lower into the bucket seat and give him my order while he starts the engine and turns on the A/C.
As he walks with long fluid strides toward the deli, I can’t not stare at him, because sweet Jesus, I never imagined him in anything except a tie, waistcoat, and buttoned shirt with rolled-up sleeves. But he wears blue jeans like a second skin. The denim was made for his body, cupping his ass and stretching across his thighs as he lengthens his gait. The thin gray t-shirt clings to ridges of muscle in his back and shoulders, the sleeves straining around the bulges of his biceps, just like those models in fitness magazines.
I like the fancy clothes better. They’re safer, like a professional barrier to remind me he’s my teacher.
When he disappears inside the deli, I shift my attention to his car. The loud rumble of the engine and burnt-oil fume of the exhaust. The scent of warm cinnamon wafting from the pack of gum that bakes in the sun on the dash. The stiff seat beneath me, vibrating with the strength of the motor. The silver knobs of the old radio and Axl Rose crooning through the speakers. It’s all so distinctive and different, fascinating and masculine. Like him.
It feels surreal, sitting here. In his personal space. Willingly.
It’s just lunch.
With my teacher. On a Saturday.
I wipe clammy palms on my thighs, wishing I wore something nicer. And less revealing.
Why is he here? In my neighborhood? No one from Le Moyne ventures into my world, as if the poverty might stain their expensive shoes or something. Yet here he is. What does he want?
By the time he returns, my nerves are twisted to nauseous levels.