by Pam Godwin
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.
Prescott cants forward in the chair with his arm waving in my direction. “Then he tried to strangle me!”
The dean shifts her slivered eyes to me. “Mr. Marceaux, are you aware of the no touching policy?”
“Yes.” I tilt my head. “Are you aware your son is an asshole?”
“See what I mean?” Prescott throws his hands in the air and slumps in the seat. “He’s fucking nuts.”
Beverly walks around the desk, stops at the wall of windows, and stares out over the manicured lawns. “Mr. Rivard and Mr. Roth, you’ll be written up for language and fighting.” She turns, arms folded beneath her chest, and calmly takes in their outraged expressions. “Wait in the hall while I have a word with Mr. Marceaux.”
A turbulence of emotions storms through me, and leading the onslaught is a heavy, foreboding kind of urgency. If they’re lying about the girlfriend, I won’t find the truth in this office. Nor in this school. I need to perform my own investigation of their after-school activities.
When the door shuts behind them, Beverly drops her arms and stands taller, stiffer, her sharp gaze leaping toward mine. “If you ever lay a hand on my son again—”
“That is the protégé you want me to send to Leopold?” I thrust a finger at the door. “That little douchebag won’t last a month there.”
Her head quivers with the force of her shout. “Enough!”
She touches the collar of her blouse and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply.
I amble toward her and stop inches away. Towering over her, I wait for her to look at me.
My insides burn with anxious rage, but I keep my timbre rich, my voice mellow, and my eyes cool. “When he does something I disapprove of, I’ll handle it however the fuck I want. If you don’t like that, our deal is off.”
As I stride toward the door, she says, “I’ll fire you.”
“No, you won’t.” No need to tell her I’m considering quitting. “I’m his only way into Leopold.”
Something’s off today. I feel a weird sort of flux in the air the instant I step into Room 1A. Prescott and Sebastian sit on opposite sides of the classroom. Odd. Almost as odd as the hard and resentful way they’re staring at me. Mr. Marceaux stands behind his desk, also watching me in a hard way. But there’s something else in his expression.
Something I haven’t glimpsed in five weeks.
He looks at me like he’s visualizing spanking me. It’s a subtle smolder contained in his eyes, flickering as if it’s been building for a while, growing and strengthening behind his thick eyelashes, and now, perhaps it’s become too big, too hungry to suppress.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but the dark and heavy bass-type feeling thumping through my insides is most definitely real.
I study him closely as I find my seat, as he begins the lecture, and as he guides the class through the next hour of discussions. In those countless moments when he meets my eyes, there’s a resonance radiating back from his, like he’s experiencing something he’s aching to share with me.
He holds my gaze. “Every minute you’re not in school, you should be practicing your instrument.”
Now that it’s October, we have a number of events to prepare for, the biggest one being the Holiday Chamber Music Celebration. As he brushes over the performance calendar, I’m reminded that he hasn’t chosen the piano soloist. I know I’m the best, but I don’t know if he agrees. His assessment of my skills is so rude and degrading. Even so, his feedback spurs me to try harder, to be better, to please him.
He continues to watch me as he speaks. It’s always me who looks away first, his intensity too potent to take in for long and making me feel dizzy. But when I return to him—and I always do—I notice his fingers trembling or his tongue wetting his bottom lip, validations that I’m not the only one feeling this deeper presence, this vibe, between us.
What changed? How does a man go from spanking and kissing me to five weeks of rejection to vibe-fucking me?
By the time the last bell blares and the classroom empties, I’ve become so sensitive to the flashes of fire in his eyes he doesn’t have to tell me to remain seated. The moment we’re alone, he paralyzes me with a single glance. A silent command. Don’t move.
With strong, measured strides, he approaches my desk, grips the outer edges, and bends over the short distance, invading my space in that predatory way he does.
He looks at me, I look at him, and a woozy tingle sweeps through my limbs.
“Mr. Marceaux?” Jesus, my heart is going to beat right out of my chest. “What are you doing?”
“Tell me about Prescott Rivard.”
My heart stops in its tracks. “Sorry?”
He slams a fist on the desk, and the echo bangs in tune with the low D of his timbre. “Answer me!”
My shoulders curl forward, and my throat seals shut. Did he find out? I’m supposed to meet Prescott again tonight. What if that fucking prick told on me? But why would he? Prescott would be just as screwed as me.
Play it cool. Mr. Marceaux doesn’t know anything.
“Prescott’s my biggest competitor for Leopold. But I’m better—”
“Not that.” His voice evens into a calm tessitura. “Tell me about your relationship with him outside of school.”
I open my mouth to form a lie, but the words don’t come. I can’t be dishonest with him. I don’t know why. So I settle on the simple truth. “I hate him.”
“Why?”
“He drives around in his fancy car, wearing his too-good-for-everyone smile and being his tampon-ish self.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Tampon-ish?”
“Yes. Like a tampon. A used, gross, sticky…tampon.”
He rubs a hand over his mouth, staring at me like I’m speaking another language. Dropping his hand on the desk, he narrows his eyes. “Explain what you mean.”
“You really want me to—? Okay, fine. A tampon is repulsive. It bulges and expands with blood. It drips all over the place and smells bad and—”
“Stop. Why is Prescott repulsive?”
“You have to ask?”
He straightens, tucks his fingers in his front pockets, and for the first time in weeks, gives me a half-smile. “No, I guess I don’t.”
Silence wraps around us, but it’s not quiet. The air is so charged and full of heartbeats I get lost in the music that thrums between us. The look in his eyes… My God, it’s overwhelmingly sexual. Not in an I-want-to-fuck-you way. He’s probably thinking that, but his gaze exudes the kind of sensuality that promises more, like if we spent the rest of eternity just sharing eye contact, it would be intimate and mind-blowing and perfect, with or without sex.
It’s a concept I struggle to comprehend. Just thinking about sex with him twists me up in a conflicted heap. But I don’t need to understand or analyze it. I feel it.
The cadence of our breaths plays a soft song of w
ant and hunger and desire in the background, and while those sexual undertones aren’t necessary in our silent communication, they add rhythm and flavor to the heart of our music.
“Mr. Marceaux?” I rub my palms on my thighs, holding his gaze, and whisper, “You’re sharing your notes.”
Lines form on his forehead as he grips the back of his neck. “What?”
“I feel your notes. Here.” I touch my breastbone, my voice shaking. “They’re dark and hypnotic, like your breaths and your heartbeats.”
He takes a step back, then another step, and another. Distance doesn’t matter. I still hear him. Still feel him. He’s inside me.
Turning away, he wanders through the front of the room, zigzagging, switching directions, as if he doesn’t know where he’s going. He ends up at his desk, fumbling with his laptop.
“You’re working on Prokofiev’s Concerto No.2 today,” he says with his back to me. “Go get warmed up.”
Damn. That’s such an intense piece that requires an incredible amount of focus. Is that why he chose it? To distract me?
Disappointment burrows into my chest as I stand from the desk and follow his order.
For the next four hours, I endure his swatting hands and harsh criticism of my piano performance, all the while regretting telling him about the way he makes me feel. I should’ve focused first on preparing and nurturing those words before chucking them out, half-formed, into the winds of his volatility, with the ridiculous hope it would snag and hold his affection for me.
He sends me home at seven o’clock, not a minute after, with an immutable and heart-breaking, “Good night, Miss Westbrook.”
Only I can’t go home. Thirty-minutes later, I’m sitting in the vacant lot in the projects in the back seat of Prescott’s Cadillac, watching him roll on a condom for the seventh time since school started.
I can do this. As long as he doesn’t fuck my ass—something he’s never attempted—I’ll endure. I always do.
“I’m not supposed to be here.” He reaches under my skirt.
My body is numb, but not numb enough. I feel his fingers yanking down my panties. I smell the greed he exhales onto my face.