by Pam Godwin
Black curlicues of ink draw a graceful, meandering vine from her waist to her nape, swirling flourishes over her spine and around her shoulder blades. She’s so damn arresting, my chest burns with the reminder to breathe.
Crossing the room until I’m right up on her, I brush my lips along her shoulder. “So beautiful I’m shaking.”
I let her feel the tremors in my fingers as I trace the delicate artwork on her spine.
She hums softly, her head tipping. “The tat was my first arrangement.”
I freeze then resume my caress, my stomach twisting. “You were thirteen.”
“Yeah. I got it after my dad died.” Her hand reaches back and finds the one at my side, bringing it forward to rest on her hip. “Right after Lorenzo…”
Just the mention of his name makes me want to pound my fists into his face until he chokes on his blood.
Her shoulders tense, relax. “The tattoo artist refused me because of my age. Until I suggested a different kind of payment.”
I continue to trace the whorls of ink, letting the softness of her skin calm my rising anger. “You offered him sex.”
She nods. “I needed this tattoo.”
With her back to me, I can’t see her eyes, but the emotion in her voice squeezes my chest.
“My dad claimed he didn’t just hear the notes when he played. He could see them curling through the air like scrollwork. Every song was a graphical image in his mind, and he drew those embellishments in the margins of his music sheets.”
When I was thirteen, I played with my dick while daydreaming about a girl—any girl—touching it.
When she was thirteen, she sold her body to a tattoo artist for a permanent keepsake of her dead father.
I glance down the curve of her back, my finger following the curls of ink with new appreciation. “Which song is this one?”
She gives me a watery smile over her shoulder. “His favorite Herbie Hancock, ‘Someday My Prince Will Come.’”
I’m no prince, but when I’m buried inside Ivory, I will always come.
Stepping around her, I remove a platinum bracelet from my pocket and clasp it around her wrist.
She studies it with wide eyes, holding the tiny frog charm between her fingers. “Edvard Grieg kept a frog figurine in his pocket at all times.”
I curve a hand around her waist, fingers stroking her naked back. “And he would rub it before concerts for good luck.”
She nods and kisses me, breathing against my lips, “Thank you.”
That night, she plays with more passion and skill than all of her peers combined. Stogie watches from the audience, his face stretched in a huge smile. I watch from the stage wings, my heart beating in time with her fingers.
Everything is good.
Joanne, Shane, and Lorenzo are gone. Prescott and Ms. Augustin are contained. The dean has nothing on me, while I have enough blackmail to ruin her career. I’ve been so careful.
Everything is perfect.
Too perfect. Like life has handed me a song filled with soul-deep joy and told me to savor every note.
Because eventually, the song will end.
Christmas comes and goes in a blur of extravagant presents and warm smiles at his parents’ house. Emeric and I spend the rest of our two-week break at home, in bed, tucked in an indestructible bubble of whispering, touching, kissing bliss. Every second with him feels like a dream, like any moment, someone’s going to cruelly shake my shoulder and force me to wake up.
Since I moved in, our trips outside of the house have been limited to school, weekly visits to Stogie’s, and weekend dinners at the Marceaux’s. There are no date nights at the movies, romantic dinners in the French Quarter, or hand-holding strolls along the Mississippi River. We do normal in the privacy of our own world, such as binging on a TV series starring bearded pirates with perfect teeth.
Doesn’t really matter what we do as long as I have him to do it with.
When I graduate, we’ll be free of the student-teacher restriction. No more hiding and living in fear. Then…?
He says Leopold is mine if I want it. I don’t know how. If he breaks his deal with the dean, our entire world will come crashing down. I intend to pursue a spot there on my own. Maybe it’ll take me years. Maybe I’ll move there and knock on the recruiters’ doors every day until they get sick of seeing me.
He says he’ll move to New York with me while I work on my degree. That makes my heart soar, but I can’t ask him to leave his job and his family.
He says I can do whatever I set my mind on. I believe him.
December ends a discordant passage in my life, a coda to Treme and my broken family.
January is the prelude of a new song, promising a year of hard decisions.
February glides by in a glissando of homework, piano lessons, and quiet evenings with Emeric.
March kicks off with a countdown to spring break, unseasonably warm weather, and…
A bladder infection.
Squatting on the toilet, I hunch over in pain. I haven’t moved for thirty minutes, every teeny trickle of pee burning fire between my legs. “I’m going to be late for school.”
Emeric crouches in front of me and rests the back of his hand on my forehead, concern darkening his blue eyes. “Still no fever, but you’re staying home, and that’s final.” He shoves a glass of water in my hand. “Drink.”
More water means more urinating, which means more burning. “No more.”
He arranges my fingers around the glass, forcing me to hold it. “Dehydration is the reason you’re sitting here.”
“And too much sex.” I manage a grin and take a sip.
“No such thing.” His palms slide up my bare thighs, stroking tenderly. “Keep drinking.”
I force down the fluid with a glare. The black hair on top of his head is a finger-raked rebellion of sexiness, while the trimmed sides scream clean-cut Mr. Professor. With his freshly shaved jawline, potently masculine scent, and swank gray waistcoat and jacket, he’s ready to take on the world. Or at least, a school full of privileged teenagers.
My dirty ponytail hangs down the front of the only thing I’m wearing—his Guns N’ Roses t-shirt. I won’t be ready to go anytime soon. My stomach sinks. For the first time in four years, I’m going to miss a day of school.
“I know it hurts.” He takes the glass, sets it on the floor, and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “My dad’s bringing medicine.”
My body clenches against a sharp wave of pain, releasing another stream of pee. I groan, my eyes watering through the godawful burn.
“Fuck this.” He reaches for the knot on his tie. “I’m staying here.”
“What for?” I grab his hand, stopping his attack on the shirt collar. “What would you do? Sit in here and watch me pee all day?”
His eyes flash. “Yes.”
“Terrible idea.” I tangle our fingers together and hold them between my knees. “How will it look if we’re both gone? Neither of us ever miss school. People will notice.”
He drags his free hand down his face, his expression pained. The secrecy of our relationship, seeing me sick, leaving me alone, all of it torments him.
I lean in and kiss his mouth, wishing my teeth were clean. “This is embarrassing enough without your hawk eyes all up in my business.”
It’s really not that bad. I’m well-adjusted to his invasiveness. Whether I’m on my period or using the bathroom, he has no concept of personal boundaries, always hovering, interrogating, and examining me inside and out. I get it, though. Because I’m just as obsessed with him.
Straightening my back, I use one of his favorite commands. “Go.”
I expect his jaw to harden and his voice to crack the walls in his outrage. But what I find in his eyes is something wholly different. Something that’s been expanding between us for months, doubling in size when we’re together, and growing in strength when we’re apart. As if finally bold enough, everything we’ve ever felt for one another gather
s into one monumental sentiment and shines from his gaze.
He wraps his hands around my hips. “I love you.”
There it is. Spoken without fireworks, received without weepy tears, and absorbed without the ricochet of distant thunder.
It’s simple, real, and right there in the open.
In a bathroom.
I grip his face, eyes connected, hearts beating in sync. “You waited until now to tell me that?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s not like you didn’t already know.”
“Yeah, but a girl doesn’t forget the first time her crush says those words.” I fight a grin. “I’ll always remember this moment with the image of a toilet seat imprinting a ring on my ass.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “Did you say crush?”
“Not just any crush.” I touch our lips together. “A crush on my hot teacher, who also happens to be my cocky Master. And the man I love.”
Doesn’t matter if I’m sitting on a toilet, splayed on his piano, or straddling his lap. This is our secret world, and it’s more meaningful than every aspiration I’ve ever set for myself. Our relationship isn’t practical or convenient. And it’s not just physical. We need each other, not because our bodies fit so well together, but because our hearts beat the same tune, for the same reason.
“Say it,” he breathes.
“I love you.” I’m not the first woman who’s said those words to him, but I’ll make damn sure I’m the last. I comb my fingers through his hair. “The kind of love that doesn’t end in betrayal.”
His hands clench against my hips. “It won’t end at all. Ever.”
He kisses me passionately, achingly, his mouth molding against mine as if trying to convey the depth of his words. He kisses me until my bladder howls again.
Lingering longer than he should, he tucks me into bed and piles the nightstand with food and water. Then he leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with Schubert bundled in his arms.
I curl on my side, grinning despite the discomfort. “You thought of everything.”
“Not everything.” Settling Schubert beside me, he pets the kitty into a lazy purr of contentment. “I haven’t figured out a way to stay home with you.”
“You’re late, Mr. Marceaux. Get out of here.”
He presses a longing kiss to my lips. “Dad has his own code to get in, so stay up here. Get some sleep. He’ll be by soon.”
I close my eyes and stroke Schubert, trying to ignore the irritating urge to pee again. I sense Emeric hovering in the doorway for a silent moment before his footsteps fade down the hall.
The beep of the alarm tells me he armed it. The slam of the door punctuates his frustration about leaving.
Sleep pulls me under within minutes. It’s a disorienting, uncomfortable kind of slumber that bounces me between awareness and dreamland. Minutes pass, or maybe hours, as my mind replays Emeric’s tenderness while my body begs me to release my bladder.
At some point, the alarm system sounds its thirty-second entry delay, snapping my eyes open. I force myself up and make a mad dash to the toilet. After a great amount of trickling relief and scorching pain, I debate hunting down a pair of shorts. At the very least, I should put on underwear.
Fuck it. I’m sick, he’s a doctor, and the closet is too damn far away. Stretching the t-shirt down my thighs, I roll beneath the covers and wait for the blessed delivery of medicine.
I must’ve fallen asleep. Schubert leaps off the bed, startling me into a blinking state of grogginess as I try to make sense of the silhouette in the doorway.
Blue jeans. Black V-neck t-shirt. Dark skin. Beefed-up arms… I stare at the Destroy tattoo on his neck and choke.
Am I dreaming? Having a nightmare? This can’t be real. Inwardly, I give myself a once-over. My heart is pounding, lungs panting, throat tight. This is really happening. A spasm convulses through my body.
Lorenzo stares right back with wide eyes. “You’re supposed to be at school.”
Ice saturates my veins as I scramble backward, dragging the sheet with me. “You’re supposed to be in jail!”
He cocks his head and takes a step into the room. “How do you know about that?”
“Why are you here? What do you want?” With rasping breaths, I shove a hand beneath the covers and dig around. Where’s my phone? Fuck, I know Emeric left it right next to me. Where is it? Where is it?
He slinks into the room and pauses in front of the closet. The bed sits in the center with the bathroom on the other side of the door. There’s a lock on that door. I inch my way across the mattress in that direction.
Keeping his body angled toward me, he glances inside the closet, his vile gaze staining everything he looks at. “Shane and I have been casing the place.”
Shane…? Casing…? My head spins as I covertly pick through the blankets. Where is the goddamn phone?
His eyes latch onto my trembling hands, and I freeze. I don’t want to give him any reason to attack me.
Is Shane in the house? Are they here to rob Emeric? Lorenzo was arrested for burglary, but… “How did you get in?”
I slowly shift my legs beneath the covers, hoping to bump into the phone while subtly moving closer to the edge nearest to the bathroom.
Lorenzo crosses his arms over his chest and studies me. “I know these alarm systems. There’s a master code, as well as codes assigned to each user. Shane guessed yours on the third try.”
The date my dad died. My heart caves in.
He tsks. “The weakest link in security is always the human.”
Sweltering pain grips my chest. Why is this happening? I can’t bear it if he touches me again. What the hell am I going to do?
My eyes blur with tears. “You have to leave. I’m expecting a delivery any second.”
He prowls closer. “Your brother is outside on lookout.”
And Shane doesn’t know I’m home? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I scoot closer to the edge, untangling my legs from the blankets.
Lorenzo stops ten feet from the bed, watching me. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ivory. I know the suit you’re shacked up with is at school. We have hours before he comes home.” His smile forms a vicious fissure across in his face. “You owe me months.”
Changing course, he veers toward the foot of the bed. Anticipating my escape to the bathroom? He’s faster, stronger. If I run, he’ll beat me there.
“Where’s the safe?” he asks as he circles the mattress.
It’s in Emeric’s office, and I know the damn combination. But he won’t just take money. Not now that he’s seen me. I jerk my attention at the closet.
He follows my gaze, his body turning, distracted.
I waste a half-second scanning the sheets for the phone before shoving off the bed and running like hell into the bathroom. Heart racing, I skid through the doorway as he chases, screaming, “Ivory!”
I’m hyperventilating by the time the door slams. I hit the lock. Punch it again. And again. Then I step back, dizzy, nauseous, struggling to breathe. Will the door frame hold? The molding looks thick and sturdy. But will it keep out Lorenzo?
Not for long.
His fist pounds on the door. “Ivory! Open it the fuck up!”
I spin, scanning the bathroom for escape, self-defense, a weapon. The half-moon window is too high, too small, too unbreakable. I rip open drawers and cabinets, digging for something, anything.
Oh God, this can’t be happening. How did he get out of jail? Why did he target this fucking house?
Shane.
That selfish motherfucker knew I lived with Emeric. He’s been gone for three months. More than enough time to find out where I live. Or maybe he’s known all along.
The heavy banging on the door hardens my stomach. “Ivory, if you don’t open the goddamn door, we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
A chill sweeps down my spine. The banging stops.
I hold up a toothbrush and discard it for a hairbrush. What
the fuck am I going to do with this?
“Here, kitty kitty,” Lorenzo calls, softly.
The hairbrush thumps to the floor as all the blood in my body rushes to my feet. No no no.
“Come on out, Schubert.”
His sickening sweet voice and gentle coaxing sounds twist my gut and flood my eyes with tears. Then he whistles, using the same cat call he’s heard me use for years.
Everything inside me curls up in horror. I fly at the door and press my palms against it. Run, Schubert. Oh God, please run.
My heartbeat thrashes past my ears as silence draws tightly on the other side. I stare down at the handle. Emeric would whip my ass just for thinking about turning it. But Schubert…
His long, pained howl penetrates the door and rattles me to the bone.
A sob rips from my throat, and violent tremors wobble my legs. “Let him go!” My hand falls to the door handle, squeezing it in a death grip. “Let’s talk about this. Just…please, let him go.”
Schubert lets out another keening scream, this one louder, more frenzied.
I yank open the door and stumble out, eyes frantically searching.
Lorenzo leans a shoulder against the wall beside the bathroom, his hand around Schubert’s neck as the cat’s body flails and contorts in pain.
“Stop!” I launch at him, screaming and shaking with hysterics. “You’re hurting him!”
He kicks me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me and sending me sprawling across the floor. His hand clenches around that tiny neck so hard Schubert’s back arches, legs spread out and thrashing against the restraint.
I scramble to my feet, fear tearing me apart as I throw myself at him again.
“Please, let go. Please,” I wail uncontrollably, clawing at his arm, unable to remove his torturous hold. “He can’t breathe. Oh God, stop!”
“Get on your hands and knees, ass in the air.”
Every muscle in my body locks up in terror as the vulnerable hole in my backside clenches in remembered anguish. I can’t. Not there. I can’t. I can’t.
“Do it!” he roars.