Dark Notes(38)

“Wha—” She shoves her skirt into place, fists her hands at her sides, and rushes toward me. “What are you—? Oh my God, you recorded that!”

With the camera on the back of the laptop, I caught it all while remaining out of the frame during the incriminating segment.

I snap the lid shut. “Don’t f*ck with me, Ms. Augustin.”

She jerks back, arms wrapping around her mid-section, and stares at me in horror. “Why would you—?” Deep red inflames her cheeks. “Oh God, what are you going to do with it? Is this about Ivory?” She covers her face with her hands, and a sob garbles her words. “I need…job. I can’t lose…you can’t do this.”

“I’ve done nothing with Ivory. But you just masturbated in my classroom.” I store the laptop and tie in my bag then turn toward her, wearing an expression that matches my most intimidating tone. “Stay out of my classroom, out of my business, and no one will see this video.”

She stares back at me, defeated. Betrayed. Yeah, I know the feeling too well. Only I’m not trying to steal Andrea’s job. I simply want to keep the one I have.

Hatred soaks her eyes. “What they say about you is true then.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” I shoulder the bag, flash her a charming smile, and stride into the hall. “Good night, Ms. Augustin.”





Prescott tangles his hand in my hair, holding my face against his lap.

His penis stabs the back of my throat, and I gag.

Yellow-flowered tie. Cinnamon gum.

The buckle of his belt clanks with his thrusts. The console between the front seats digs into my chest.

Chilling blue eyes. The heat of his palm on my backside.

A bass-heavy song thumps from the car radio, and I can’t find my safe place. I’m not numb enough, not far enough away. I’m trying, trying… I can’t gather the notes for Scriabin’s Sonata No.9.

The tick of a mechanical watch. The gentle stroke of his breaths.

Tears well in my eyes and cling to my lashes. I can’t focus. Can’t escape.

All I can think about is the spanking and how I wouldn’t mind another if it ends with an almost-kiss from Mr. Marceaux.





Wedged between Hook ‘Em Up deli and a vintage jewelry shop called Pawn of the Dead resides the only music store in Treme. At least, I think this is a music store. Standing on the broken sidewalk, I hang my sunglasses on the collar of my t-shirt and squint against the glare of the sun.

Security bars crisscross the glass front. There’s no open sign or any kind of advertisement, and the grime on the windows obscures my view of the dark interior. Since it’s Saturday, the store might not be open. Finding Ivory inside is even less likely.

But I’m not here for her. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about where she gets her money and who put those unsettling shadows in her eyes. This Stogie guy might be an avenue to answers, and hopefully, this visit will soothe my nagging need to meet the man she spends her time with.

I check my phone, confirm the address, and try the door.

The jingling bell overhead announces me as I step into a cluttered room of instruments. Voices whisper from the back, guiding my feet through the maze of shelves, drum sets, and miscellaneous junk.

“You need to eat more.”

I can’t see her around the rows of display racks, but her sexy lilt speeds my strides and buzzes my body with excitement.

Coming here to meet a man named after a cigar, I expected to walk into a stale cloud of leather and smoke, but instead, the air is remarkably fresh, especially for such an old building.

“Stop nagging,” a deep voice says, “and let an old man nap.”

“But you have a customer.” Her sigh drifts from behind a tall shelf filled with books.

I step into view and find her sitting on the floor, back to the wall, and bare legs stretched out before her. My hands flex as I silently thank the fashion Gods for short-shorts. She’s a half-naked fantasy of bronzed skin and devious curves. An illegal fantasy.

Lids lifting, her eyes collide with mine and widen. The textbook in her hands tumbles to the floor to join the dozen others surrounding her. “Mr. Marceaux?”

“Miss Westbrook.” I’m struck with the wild urge to grin like a jackass, but I manage to maintain a stoic mask.

Her gaze sweeps from my disheveled hair and t-shirt to my dark jeans and Doc Martens. I wish I could read her thoughts as she takes me in for the first time without the pageantry of waistcoats and ties. She makes another head-to-toe pass, nibbling her lip and stirring a torrent of sensations inside me.

The old man beside her sits taller on the metal chair. A frayed baseball cap perches high on his bald head, and horizontal wrinkles crease the broad bridge of his nose, deepening into more lines on his dark-skinned brow. His closed-mouth smile is the kind men wear when they’re toothless and…eighty? Ninety? I don’t know, but this guy is ancient.

His arm trembles as he reaches for the wall in an attempt to stand.

“Don’t get up.” I step toward him, offering my hand to shake his. “I’m Emeric. You must be—”

“Stogie.” He clasps my hand with a surprisingly strong grip and sits back.

Ivory bends to stand, and her tiny tank top flashes me a sinful view of her full tits. Jesus, f*ck, if she doesn’t adjust that shirt, I’ll be swinging from six to midnight with no way to hide it.