Dark Notes

Questions about her financial situation marinate in the back of my mind for the next few hours. A beautiful young girl like her, from a neighborhood like Treme, has a slew of undesirable methods to earn fast money. Drugs and prostitution fall on the top of that list, but I refuse to imagine her degrading herself in that way. It’s too appalling.

When the final bell rings, the piano students exit the classroom, except Ivory, who sets her belongings on a desk by the door and looks at me expectantly. “Don’t the others have private lessons?”

“Sebastian Roth and Lester Thierry have their own tutors at home.”

“I know.” Her forehead pinches. “But Chris and Sarah always take advantage of the lessons here.”

“They opted to study under Mrs. Romero’s tutelage.”

I planted the suggestion in my meetings with Chris and Sarah yesterday, hinting that the other piano instructor had some openings after school, and her softer approach may be a good match for them. It’s partially true. Mrs. Romero teaches the younger grades and already has her hands full. But she works for me, and therefore, I determine her schedule.

Ivory’s lips part as she considers the news. “Does that mean I’ll have you all to myself from three to seven every day?”

Fuck me, but I love the sound of that.

Her eyes widen. “Oh damn, I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant, and yes, I’ll be mentoring you.”

As a general rule, I prefer to groom only one or two students at a time. Though my intentions with Ivory have little to do with her personal development. When it comes to torturing myself, I’m the dean of effort, hell-bent on enduring the entire school year with achingly sore blue balls.

I close the door and make my way around the corner of the L-shaped room. Leaning a hip against the Bösendorfer grand piano, I wait for her to join me then rap my knuckles on the sleek black surface. “Four hours every day.”

An enormous grin overwhelms her beautiful mouth. “I won’t waste your time.”

“No, you won’t.” I could stare at her twenty-four hours a day and feel like the most productive pervert in the world. But if I don’t eradicate those thoughts from my head, our time together will be over before it begins. “Did you practice last night?”

“Of course.”

She doesn’t tense up, change her breathing, or convey vulnerability in any way. She’s telling the truth, which might explain her whereabouts last night.

“Where did you practice?” Realizing that implies I know she wasn’t home, I rephrase the question. “You own a piano?”

“Not anymore.” Her dark brown hair escapes the curve of her ear and falls over her shoulder. She gathers it at the bend of her neck and twists it into a rope down her chest. “My mom sold my dad’s piano after he died.”

My dad’s, not Daddy’s. I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my satisfaction.

“There’s a music store down the street from my house.” Facing me, she braces an elbow on the edge of the piano and mirrors my position. “The owner lets me practice on his Steinway until eleven every night.”

Which coincides with the time she came home. So why can’t I shake the feeling she’s leaving something out?

Because she’s not looking at me. She’s toying with the ends of her hair, and wherever her thoughts just drifted, she’s distracted to silence.

I touch a finger to her chin, lifting it to recapture her attention. “Time to finish our earlier conversation.”

Her lips thin.

“Who asked you for an inappropriate favor?”

She turns away and lowers onto the piano bench. “No lies?”

“I don’t mentor liars, Miss Westbrook.”

She nods, her expression grim. “The truth is, I need your help.” Her hands run over the keys without depressing them. “With this. Mastering the piano.” She stretches her fingers. “I’m the best pianist in this school, you know.”

“Is that right?”

She peers up at me through her lashes. “I may even be better than you.”

My stomach swoops in the presence of her tantalizing smile. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“You’re right.” She studies her fingers on the keys. “I have a lot to learn. But with the right teacher and enough focus, I’ll be out of here at the end of the year. Out of Treme. This is the most honesty I can give you, Mr. Marceaux.” She pulls her hands into her lap and stares up at me with pleading eyes. “If you focus on the other stuff in my life, the things not related to my talent, it will hurt my future. And if you involve social services, every opportunity I have here will be taken away.”

She’s all but admitting I won’t like what I find when I poke around in her affairs. I have no intention of involving social services, and she doesn’t need to know the extent to which I’m capable of investigating a person.