“I saw you talking to that Westbrook girl at lunch,” the dean says.
My pulse skyrockets, but Prescott’s in a whole other dimension. His mouth hangs open in a silent shout as his body flails and jerks through his release. The moment he’s finished, I shove him off me.
“Prescott?” The dean exhales through the phone. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah. Ivory’s nice.” He stares at me and mouths, A nice fuck. Without looking away, he says aloud, “I don’t know why you have a problem with her.”
“She’s trying to steal your Leopold spot, Prescott. Not only that, she has a reputation with the boys at school. Stay away from her.”
He drags a finger over his eyebrow. “Yeah, okay. Gotta go.”
“Prescott—”
He hangs up and tosses the phone in the front seat. “Did you come?”
I angle away from him, covertly wiping away the tears as I growl, “Of course, I didn’t come, you idiot.”
He seriously thinks I enjoyed that? I’ve never had an orgasm, at least not that I know of. But if I’m capable of having one, it wouldn’t be with him.
I fix my panties and yank my skirt down. “Who’s Avery?”
He pulls off the condom and adjusts his slacks. “My girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” A thick lump forms in my throat. “Why are you cheating on her?”
“She’s a prude. But you’re not, are you?” He reaches for the V in my shirt.
I knock his hand away and grab my satchel from the front seat.
“Bet you’ve fucked more guys than there are keys on a piano.”
Eighty-eight guys? Heat tingles my face as I open the door and jump out. Truth is, I’m not sure of the number. Maybe half that? Maybe more.
He climbs out the other side and meets my eyes over the roof of the car. “Fifty-two white guys at Le Moyne and thirty-six black guys in Treme. Am I right?”
Fifty-two white keys, thirty-six black keys.
He thinks he’s clever with his sick analogy, but he has no idea how hurtful his comments are. Yes, I’ve had a lot of sex with a lot of different guys. Not all of my experiences have been like this one. Sometimes I’m too weak and don’t have the physical strength or size to stop it. Other times, I feel tricked, bribed, trapped…sweet-talked. When I was younger, I let guys touch me in my stupid desperation for affection, but I eventually learned there isn’t anything affectionate about a swollen penis. Still, there are moments when I wonder, Will this time be different? Maybe this one will hold me close and love me. Maybe it will feel good, and I fall back into the trap.
But after Prescott’s hateful remarks, I don’t even want his fucking money. I stride away, hooking the strap of the satchel over my shoulder. The projects of Central City stretch out around me, but I know the way, having walked this road every time Prescott fucked me in that lot. Five blocks from here, I can catch a bus home.
The Cadillac’s engine starts, and a moment later, it rolls up beside me.
He extends an arm out the window, his hand filled with a wad of bills.
I stare at it, needing it, hating myself. “How often do I have to do this?”
“As often as I want.” A strand of blond hair falls over his eyes. “My first assignment is due on Monday, so we’ll meet again this week. Next time, I’ll make you come.”
A surge of anger scorches through my veins. I hate him. But I need him.
I swallow my pride and snatch the money from his hand.
He flashes me a sated smile and drives off, leaving me standing on the side of the road like the whore that I am.
With the address from Ivory’s file mapped on my phone, I turn my old GTO onto her street. This doesn’t feel stalkery, but it doesn’t seem completely sane, either. What can I say? I’ve never needed an excuse to beat someone’s ass. I just didn’t imagine the ass I’d be beating tonight would belong to her brother. Yet here I am.
I don’t have a plan, only that Ivory can’t know I’m here. I should’ve reported her swollen lip. I damn sure shouldn’t have searched her body for bruises. But this? Showing up at her house? Definitely crossing into what-the-fuck-am-I-doing territory.
Dusk grays out the horizon, and there aren’t any street lamps. Maybe I can coax her brother outside without her seeing me and punch his lights out before he has a chance to memorize my face. Of course, if she glimpses my car, she’ll know. The 1970 Pontiac GTO is too recognizable. If she didn’t see it in the school parking lot tonight, she will before the year’s over.
I should’ve taken a cab, but I wasn’t exactly thinking when I left the classroom and drove straight here.
Following the GPS, I sneak along a row of sagging houses. No, not sneaking. The American muscle under the hood is a 455 V8, and its thundering dirty rumble has residents leaning forward on their porches. Pedestrians stop walking and gawk. It occurs to me that I won’t be able to leave the car on her street. It would be jacked within minutes.