Dark Notes

He dips his head, angling closer. “I’m looking for marks on your inner thighs.”

Lorenzo has left marks there, along with numerous other guys. The mean ones always do, grinding and bucking and lasting too long. But Mr. Marceaux doesn’t know about those other guys.

“My brother would never—”

“I’m not suggesting he would.”

My throat closes up. Has he already heard about my reputation? Is he checking for evidence of my behavior?

“You have a fairly dark complexion.” He looks up, studying my expression, too steadily, too deeply. “Easier to hide bruises.”

I choke on a nervous laugh. “My mom tells me I’m too pale. Hell, she complains she’s too pale, and she’s half-Black.”

“Lower your skirt.” He stands, hands anchored on his hips. “Tell me about your mother.”

I straighten the fabric around my legs. “Everyone says she looks like Halle Berry but—”

“I don’t care what she looks like. What does she do?”

Drugs. Men. When she doesn’t have both of those, she sits in her room and cries.

If I share that with him, he’ll probably smile at my misfortune. “She’s between jobs.”

“What was her position on your father selling his business for you?”

She hates me for it, so much so her lip curls whenever she looks at me.

“They argued about it.” I adjust the pin and buttons on my shirt. “She’s not happy about losing that fight, so don’t expect her to show up for parent-teacher conferences.”

“Human beings are miserable disasters. They make mistakes. Do the wrong things.” He rubs the back of his head. “If she doesn’t come around, that’s on her.”

Wow, that was…unexpected. Surprisingly thoughtful and really quite profound. Though now I wonder what kind of mistakes he makes. Hopefully none that will affect my goals.

He lowers his hand and makes a swirling motion. “Turn around and show me your back.”

My pulse spikes. More examinations? Only this time, I won’t be able to see his hands.

I open my mouth to argue, but the hard look in his eyes changes my mind.

With a deep inhale, I give him my back, hook shaky fingers under the shirt, and drag it from hips to armpits.

The creak of his leather shoes, the whisper of his breaths, the heat of his body, everything about him feels like a violation of privacy. I wish I could see his expression, because he’s likely abandoned his search of bruises to stare at the tattoo on my back. The faded scrollwork wraps from one side of my waist, up my spine, and curls around the opposite shoulder.

I brace myself for one of his sharp-voiced reprimands. I’m too young. Tats are too trashy. But I don’t care what his opinion is about this. The tattoo is personal and treasured and mine.

Without warning, his hands land on my back, not on my skin but on the folds of my shirt. He yanks the material from my grasp and shoves it to my waist.

Startled, I spin around. “What’s wrong?”

He’s farther away than I expected, several feet between us, with his hands clasped behind his back and his attention on the doorway.

I follow his gaze just as Ms. Augustin walks in.

She pauses on the threshold, clutching the strap of her purse against her shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were with a student.” She flicks furtive glances between Mr. Marceaux and me, back and forth, up and down, and stops on me. “Hi, Ivory. Did you have a good summer?”

I curl my toes against the marble, longing for my damn shoes. “Sure.”

“Awesome.” She returns her attention to my teacher, her hand lifting to trail up her neck, sweeping up and combing through a tendril of blonde hair. “Mr. Marceaux, will you be…uh…heading out soon?”

She stares at him the way my mom looks at her boyfriends, with over-bright eyes filled with adoration and stupidity.

Of all the music teachers, Ms. Augustin is the youngest and prettiest. She’s also annoyingly nosy, but Ellie raves about her, so I guess she’s a good strings teacher.

Mr. Marceaux cocks his head. “Miss Westbrook has private lessons until seven every night.”

I do?

A sudden lightness lifts my chest. Mrs. McCracken kept late hours to tutor me, but I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him for extra time.

He stands so tall and confident beside me, feet planted wide, every inch of his posture sculpted with authority as he studies Ms. Augustin. “I won’t be heading home soon. Tonight or any other night.”

“Oh.” Her face falls, and her whole body seems to deflate. “Okay. Well…”

The only thing she moves is a long slender leg as she drags the toe of her high-heel backward and rocks it on the floor behind her, lingering. Waiting for him to say something else?

Finally, she straightens. “I’m headed home.” She points down the hallway, laughing softly, smiling, and acting really fucking weird. “So, I guess, have a good evening?”

The question in her voice bugs the piss out of me. He already told her he’s staying for my private lesson. She should go.