Dark Notes

“Dude.” Sarah slouches against the wall. “That sounds so hot.”

It does?

“You’re so lucky.” She plays with the ends of her hair. “You have boobs and experience and guys like that falling all over you. I want that. I guess I’ve been scared, but I’m definitely ready to…you know…with Chris.”

There must be something wrong with me, because boobs and sex and everything she just said makes me want to puke my guts out. “Sarah, don’t—”

“Between you and me, the girls around here are only mean to you because they’re jealous. I mean, look at you. Guys want that.” She waves a hand to indicate my body. “No wonder you’ve slept with half the school.”

Bile hits the back of my throat, and I swallow repeatedly to keep it down.

“Oh, look. He’s done.” Sarah jumps to her feet, grabs her books, and rushes through the room, making a beeline for Chris.

Part of me wants to tackle her to the floor and beg her to stay away from him. But the other part, the selfish part, craves her acceptance. If she has sex with Chris, she’ll be just like me. Maybe she’ll talk to me more, confide in me. Maybe I can share other things, scarier things, about men and their needs.

“Miss Westbrook.” Mr. Marceaux stands from his chair, fists on his hips and a chill in his eyes. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

I attempt to read through her student file, but the words run together. I’m too distracted, my every thought funneling toward the girl on the other side of my desk. I sent the other students home, and now it’s just Ivory and me and this inconvenient attraction.

Her slender fingers fold together in her lap, her back straight and dark hair falling around the graceful lines of her neck. A smile anchors her lips, an expression that seems to come naturally to her, but this one is smaller than its predecessors. Shakier. The kind of smile little girls wear when they’re scared.

I drop the file on the desk and lean forward, breaching her invisible bubble of tension. “What are you worried about?”

I know the answer, but I want to hear what it sounds like on her lips.

“Nothing.” She brushes a finger against her nose. A tiny, telling gesture. She’s lying.

I slam a fist down on the desk, hard enough to make her gasp.

“That was the last time you will ever lie to me.” I’ll whip the godforsaken truth out of her if I have to. “Tell me you understand.”

A vein bulges and flutters in her throat. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” My gaze dips to the V of her shirt, the deep line of cleavage, and the safety pin precariously holding it all together. Just as quick, I avert my eyes, training them on her face. “Now answer the question.”

She rubs her palms on her thighs and holds my gaze. “You, Mr. Marceaux. You worry me.”

Ahh, much better. I want her to spoon-feed her honesty to me, breath by trembling breath. “Explain what you mean.”

She nods to herself, as if summoning her courage. “You’re smart and strict like other teachers, but you have the approach and temperament of a barbaric di—” She clamps her lips together.

“Language is permissible in my classroom, Miss Westbrook.” I narrow my eyes. “As long as it’s used in a constructive manner.”

She narrows her eyes right back. “I was going to say dickhead, but I’m not sure that’s constructive.”

At least she’s thinking about a dick.

“Give me an example of my alleged behavior, and I’ll decide how constructive it is.”

Her mouth falls open, as if flabbergasted by my response. “How about when we were out in the hall? When I told you my financial situation, and you…you smiled?”

Fuck, she saw that?

I can’t tell her I smiled because her vulnerability made me high on lust and hard as a fucking rock. But I can give her sincerity.

“You’re right. I was wrong, and I apologize.” I pick up the file and flip through the printouts. “Let’s talk about your circumstances.”

I scan the bio page and confirm her Treme address. Skipping over the summary of her exceptional GPA and SAT scores, I latch onto the facts I care most about.

Date of birth?

She’ll be eighteen in the spring.

Parents?

William Westbrook. Deceased.

Lisa Westbrook. Unemployed.

That explains her shortage of funds, but not how she pays for private school. Wait…

I jump back to her father’s name. “William Westbrook?”

Her eyes drift closed. I look back at the page, trying to connect the details. Westbrook, dead, from Treme, daughter plays piano…

Jesus, I can’t believe I didn’t place her name earlier. “You’re Willy Westbrook’s daughter?”

Her eyes flash open, bright and hopeful like her smile. “You’ve heard of him?”

“I grew up in New Orleans, sweetheart. Everyone around here’s heard of Willy’s Piano Bar.”

Her gaze turns inward, her smile softening. “I hear it’s a cool place. Tourists love it.”