by Pam Godwin
“No, I got the car back yesterday.”
Though that put me in one helluva mood. After watching Ivory walk away, I made my way back to the parking lot, and the GTO was gone. Stolen. Fucking jacked. I had to call Deb to take me to the police station. When she dropped me off at home, I stood on the doorstep, vibrating with turmoil as I told her, No, I’m not going to fuck you. I should’ve been nicer to her for helping me—with the ride and with Beverly Rivard’s husband—but I was too fucking distraught to let her in.
The GTO wasn’t the only thing I lost in the park that day.
The cops recovered my car, the interior gutted and body stripped. It took weeks to bring it back to mint condition.
But Ivory… My hand clenches around the bottle. I’m making every effort I can to ensure the thing between us isn’t recovered. The attraction remains, stronger than ever, burning like a red-hot ember. It sizzles to be stoked when I sit beside her on the piano bench, hisses with sparks when I slap her wrists for missing a note, and crackles and pops every damn time our eyes connect.
Our first week together moved so fucking fast my nerves are still running wild with hunger. If I hadn’t pulled back, she would be in my bed right now, her seventeen-year-young body bowing and flushing beneath my belt and her huge adoring eyes begging me for things I’m unable to give her. Leopold. An open, lawful relationship. My heart…
She’s too young to separate sex and love, and I’ve lost interest in anything beyond physical pleasure.
Once you have what you want, her distrust in men will be irreparable.
Mom watches me in that intuitive way she does, her soft expression framed by black hair that curls above her shoulders. She reaches up to pinch the ends of a loose lock, brushing the tuft back and forth along her jaw as she studies me. I chug the beer and pretend to ignore her.
She drops her hand and tilts her head. “You met someone.”
Here we go. “No, I—”
“Emeric Michael Marceaux, don’t you lie to your mother.”
I stand and move to the counter, leaning against it and balancing the bottle on the ledge. “Not talking about this with you, Mom.”
I want to, but voicing it makes it real.
Footsteps approach the kitchen doorway.
“Not talking about what?” Dad wanders in, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, his face buried in his phone.
“Emeric met someone.” She smiles over the rim of her wine glass, eyes locked on me.
Without looking up from his phone, he walks past her and glides his fingers along the back of her neck. “Let’s hope she’s better than the last one.”
Better? Joanne is reality. Ivory’s an intoxicating dream, the kind that visits a man at night, veiled by the darkness of dusk and safely pursued in the secret corners of the mind. But in daylight, she’s a dangerous fantasy, tempting a man to do things with his eyes wide open.
“Who is she?” Mom sips her wine.
“She’s off-limits,” I say quickly and turn to Dad. “How’s that new physician you hired at the clinic?”
“He’s…fine.” Reservation deepens his voice.
Of course, he knows I’m evading.
He pockets the phone and lowers into the chair across the round table from Mom. “Is this woman married?”
I shake my head and direct my eyes to my Doc Martens.
It’s Saturday night. I’m supposed to be in a French Quarter hotel room, trussing up Chloe’s huge tits, flogging Deb’s ass, and reeking of sex. But the moment I climbed into the GTO, my mind drifted to Ivory. My subconscious took hold of the wheel and a few minutes later, I was sitting in the driveway of my parents’ estate in the Garden District.
Because I need to talk about this. If there’s anyone in this world I trust enough with this conversation, they’re in this room. They know about the deal I made with Beverly, as well as every dirty detail of my relationship with Joanne. Not once have they judged me. Hell, they hired the team of lawyers that convinced Joanne to drop the rape charge.
“Is she…?” The question in Mom’s tone pitches with alarm. And realization. “Oh no, Emeric.”
Before Mom climbed the ranks to Provost of Leopold, she was a high school teacher. When I was younger, Mrs. Laura Marceaux was too pretty for my comfort, with her gaggle of teenage admirers, including the guys I ran around with. Even in her fifties, she still turns heads with her youthful face, warm smile, and gentle eyes.
Those eyes bore into me now, wide and unblinking, because she knows exactly what I’m not saying.
I pivot toward the counter and brace my arms on the granite surface, my shoulders slumping with the weight of my words. “It’s over.”
“What, exactly, is over?” Her voice floats behind me, full of concern.
“Sit down,” Dad says with less tenderness.
I finish my beer, grab another, and sit in the chair between them. “She’s a senior at Le Moyne.” I let that settle on the table before continuing. “When she walked into my classroom on the first day…swear to God, I thought she was a teacher.” I rub a hand down my face and swallow another swig of hops. “She doesn’t look like a high school student.”
Mom reaches across the table and rests her hand on my wrist.
They don’t interrupt as I explain Ivory’s financial situation, musical talent, my suspicions of abuse, my visit with Stogie, and her desire to attend Leopold. They share anxious looks when I mention the kiss in the park and the past five weeks of hell. I even admit to driving the streets after her private lessons, trying to track her path to the bus stop. But she never takes the same route, and most often, I don’t spot her at all.
I wrestle with the urge to leave out the most implicating part, but my need for full disclosure wins. “I spanked her. In the classroom.”
Their faces pale, but neither asks if it was consensual. Their trust in me is infinite, which makes the final piece easier to spit out.
“I was caught with her in my lap afterward. By a colleague.” Fucking Shreveport all over again. “I blackmailed the teacher.”
Mom reaches for her wine and finishes it off.
When I meet Dad’s eyes, he sits back, removes his glasses, and cleans them with the folds of his shirt. “Blackmail how?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Well.” Mom stands and walks to the counter to refill her glass. “You certainly know how to test the limits of social acceptance, but I know where you get it from.” She returns to the table, her eyes glimmering at Dad. “Your father loves to spank—”
“Mom,” I groan. “Don’t make this more awkward.”
She lowers into the chair, her expression sobering. “You said she’s a gifted pianist? Is she more deserving of Leopold than the one you want me to push through?”
Though retired, Mom still flies out to New York once a month for board meetings. Even after everything I told her, I know she’ll guarantee a placement for one of my referrals.
The deal with Beverly has been plaguing me for weeks. Ivory belongs at Leopold. Not because she’s beautiful and genuine and in desperate need of saving. She’s all those things, but I owe her my referral because she’s the best goddamn musician at Le Moyne.
“Without a doubt, she deserves that spot.” My chest lifts with passion in my voice. “She’s incredible.”
“You’re in a tough position.” Mom’s hand finds mine, squeezing my fingers. “I don’t envy you, but honey, if you pursue a relationship with her, it won’t turn out like Shreveport.”
Because I didn’t commit a crime with Joanne. Our relationship was consensual, not illegal. But Ivory? Student-teacher misconduct doesn’t just get swept under the carpet. It makes headline news. The best lawyers in the world couldn’t save me from the charges that would follow if I were caught with her.
“You need to cut your losses, son.” Dad sets his glasses on his nose and folds his arms on the table, leaning in. “Quit that damn job, end things once and for all with Joanne, a
nd move out of state if you have to. The shit at Shreveport can only follow you so far.”
Mom shakes her head. “Frank, don’t tell him that. Our family is finally back together in New Orleans and—”
“No, Mom. He’s right.” I shove away from the table and empty my unfinished beer in the sink.
I’m already deliriously drunk on Ivory Westbrook, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll last without giving in.
I can keep the job, try to ignore this forbidden attraction, ultimately fail, and risk going to jail. Or I can quit Le Moyne, remove the temptation from my life, and fuck me, never see her again.
My chest hurts with the agonizing truth. I know… God help me, I know what I need to do.
“This is all your fault!”
My mom’s tear-drenched screech cuts through me, but it’s the hatred in her dark eyes that makes my insides bleed.
I don’t even know what I’m being blamed for. It’s the middle of the night, and she stormed in here, flicking on the lights and waking me with her crazy wailing.
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.
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.