Dark Notes

I clasp my hands behind my back, stifling the urge to yank at the strangling tie around my neck.

“Miss Westbrook.” I force my attention above her mouth. “You’re here early.”

She stabs a finger at textbooks stacked on the desk between us. “I found these in my locker.”

I glance at the supplies I purchased from the school bookstore this morning. “You’re welcome.”

“So it was you.” She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and her glare returns. “I won’t take—”

“You will.”

“This?” She snatches the unopened tablet from the stack of books and holds it out to me. “I can’t accept this.”

“You can.” I turn away and begin writing next period’s discussion topics on the whiteboard.

Her footsteps approach, pausing beside me. I don’t look at her, but I feel her proximity like an electric hum. A cacophony of emotions pulse from her quickening breaths and grinding teeth. She may as well just tell me she’s an anxious mess.

Instead, she says, “I don’t take handouts, Mr. Marceaux.”

Damn her pride. I prefer to not belabor this simple thing, but nothing is easy when it comes to this girl.

I move the marker over the board, the felt tip squeaking through the silence. “You presume too much, Miss Westbrook. You will pay me back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She mumbles it so quietly I’m not sure I hear her correctly.

I cap the marker and glower down at her. “Repeat that.”

“I’m…” She holds her arms at her sides, as if forcing herself not to fidget. “What kind of payment?”

My pulse takes off as alarms blare in my head. She has a wealth of assets most warm-blooded men would value more than money. Whether or not she’s aware of her seductive beauty, her question isn’t birthed from naivety. Experience has shown her what men want from her, and the thought boils my blood.

“Cash. Personal check.” My voice whips through the room, brash and angry. “Something along those lines.” I soften my tone. “What kind of payment were you expecting I’d want?”

“Oh, I…” She swallows and stares toward the doorway. “I don’t know.”

The distant din of voices trickle in from the hall, a reminder class will resume in a few minutes.

“The truth, Miss Westbrook.”

Her eyes dip to my groin and dart away.

Fuck. I won’t make her say it out loud. At this point, I can’t bear to hear it.

She’s aware of my inappropriate interest in her, and now she knows I know she’s aware. But she’s misjudged the way I operate. I would never coerce a woman into sex, let alone a student. While that infuriates me to a level that has my hands shaking, the ease at which she jumped to sex as a method of payment makes me want to kill someone.

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’ve lost my mind, but goddammit, I’m convinced she’s been sexually abused. Someone from her past? Is it happening right now? Who the fuck is hurting her?

I fist my hands on my hips and glare down at her as everything inside me simmers to blow up. “Has another teacher asked for inappropriate favors?”

“No!”

A small relief, but it leaves me with nothing. “Who then?”

She steps back just as several students mill into the classroom, laughing and oblivious. The conversation will have to be postponed, but there’s something else that can’t wait. I join her at my desk as she gathers the stack of textbooks.

Under the guise of powering up my laptop, I watch her out of the corner of my eye and lower my voice for her ears alone. “I trust your brother didn’t touch you last night.”

Her grin is reluctant, dimpling the corner of her mouth and crawling across her lips. “Shane stumbled in with a broken nose, whining about a headache until he passed out. Guess that’s karma, huh?”

“Yes.” My mouth twitches. “Karma.”

Arms loaded with books, she turns toward the room full of students, pauses, then pivots back to me.

“Thank you.” She stares at my tie, her chin pinning the tablet atop the tower of books in her arms. “I’ll reimburse you as soon as I can.”

Nodding, I return to the whiteboard.

Maybe I made things more difficult for her. Whatever she does to earn money, she has to do more of it to pay me back. But school supplies are a requirement. Besides, I don’t intend to accept her reimbursement.

While I know her sense of self-worth arises from paying her own way, from not taking hand-outs, I spend the next three hours obsessing over how I can beat that idea out of her without crossing the line.

If her mother’s unemployed, how will she pay me back? Performing arts students can’t work regular jobs. They don’t have time for anything outside of school and practice. Hell, students are required to practice their instruments at least four hours a day, every day, for years. If they don’t, they fall behind, lose their competitive edge and any hope for a musical career.