Dark Notes

Which is scarier? Prescott? Lorenzo? Shane?

Mr. Marceaux.

I grab my satchel and hightail it toward the hall.

The muggy air clings to my skin as I make the ten-minute walk from Le Moyne to the 91 line. Oh man, it feels good to get a breather from that classroom. I don’t know if it’s Mr. Marceaux or the frightening sensations he inflames in me, but I couldn’t run from there fast enough.

He’s aggressive and powerfully built like other men. More so. But he had numerous opportunities to take and didn’t.

Because he’s a teacher? Or because he’s not like other men?

I’m not ready to trust those thoughts or the way they make me feel.

The crescent moon hangs high in the sky, painting a dim glow over the antebellum mansions that fringe Coliseum Street. The brick sidewalk is paved in a herringbone pattern and bordered on one side by wrought iron fences, gas lamps, and blooming vegetation that infuses the air with the fragrance of summer.

The foundations of the towering homes butt right up against those fences, and illuminated windows give me a peek of interiors twinkling with chandeliers, grand staircases, and rich woodwork. Luxury cars line the narrow street and pristine gardens adorn the side-yards. Everywhere I look boasts generational wealth, the kind that came from sugar, cotton, and shipping.

Does Mr. Marceaux live in one of these mansions? Maybe his family is old money? Le Moyne attracts a lot of residents in the Garden District, including Beverly Rivard.

I don’t know which house is Prescott Rivard’s, but he knows which paths I take home. There are only so many options between school and the bus routes. My legs itch to walk faster, to put him off for another day. But the longer I delay touching base with him, the harder it will be to cover this month’s bills.

Halfway to the bus stop, the familiar rumble of a motorcycle interrupts the quiet street. It approaches from behind, growing louder, faster.

The tiny hairs on my nape stand on end. I peer over my shoulder and glimpse a black helmet, black jacket, and obnoxious orange fairings. My heartbeat slams into overdrive, and I pick up my pace. If the rider lifted his chin, I would see Destroy inked across his throat.

Every step hammers vibrations through my thin soles. I should’ve known Lorenzo would come looking for me. He often does when he grows tired of waiting. It’s been two weeks since the last time he took from me, and I bled from my butt for hours after.

My stomach cramps as my mind spins through my options. The next cross-street is a thirty-second sprint down the road. Maybe I can lose him.

I quicken my gait, scanning for a cut-through between the mansions. I won’t find one. Fences encircle the generous plots, equipped with security cameras and alarms. Wrought iron and brick brackets the street on both sides. I have nowhere to go as he motors up beside me.

“Get on the bike.” Even muffled by the helmet, his shout is hard and unkind.

“I’m taking the bus.” I walk faster, hunching my shoulders with my satchel banging against my leg.

He revs the engine, rolling the bike alongside me. My legs shake, and the toe of my shoe catches on a chipped brick. Momentum whirls me forward. I maintain my balance but…goddammit, I lose the shoe.

I spin back, my pulse thrashing in my throat, and shove my foot inside the cracked vinyl.

A pair of headlights emerge on the road behind Lorenzo’s crotch rocket. I stare blindly into the beams of light, waiting, hoping. For what?

Black hair, blue eyes, commanding presence…

As if.

Lorenzo stops beside me, just out of arm’s reach, his helmet tipping in my direction. “Not gonna tell you again. Get your ass on the bike.”

The approaching car slows, veering around Lorenzo. Wide front grill, metallic silver paint, fat tires, the Cadillac CTS Sedan makes the perfect toy for rich juvenile idiots to cruise around in.

Idiots like Prescott.

He pulls to a stop in front of Lorenzo, bends across the front seat, and swings open the passenger door.

Lorenzo’s helmet swivels toward the car. “Who the fuck is that?”

That is a diversion. Thank God. I won’t be able to evade Lorenzo forever, and I certainly don’t relish climbing into Prescott’s car. But right now, I’ll take Prescott over Lorenzo. Prescott never forces himself from behind and in my ass.

I lurch forward, running a wide circuit around the bike, and slide into the front seat of the Cadillac. “Go.”

The motorcycle’s engine sputters as it jerks forward. I slam the door shut on the noise.

Prescott leans over the console, twisting his neck to glare at Lorenzo. “Who is that guy?”

“Just some creep. Let’s go.”

He hits the gas, and the burst of propulsion presses my body into the leather seat. My anxiety and fear tumbles behind us in a fume of exhaust. I relax, a small degree anyway. Now I’m stuck with Prescott.