Dark Notes(40)

He picks up the card and swivels to the cash register. “What do you get out of this?” He nods at the piano.

“Peace of mind. Answer my question.”

He rings up the purchase, lips pinched between his gums, refusing to talk.

Ivory emerges from the back room with a tray of food and sets a disposable dish of noodles and some kind of bastardized pastry on the counter.

“I…um…” She stares at the charred edges of crust. “Burnt it? Or maybe…” She pokes a finger in the doughy center, and the whole thing caves in. Her cheeks flush. “I should stick with what I’m good at.”

Like receiving spankings and playing piano? Or even better, playing piano while I spank her.

She looks at Stogie, the card in his hand, and meets my gaze. “What did you buy?”

I harden my eyes in a silent None of your business. “Have you eaten lunch?”

She shakes her head.

“Gather your things and join me.”

“Oh, I…” At my impatient expression, she rubs the back of her neck. “Okay.”

As soon as she walks out of earshot, I turn back to Stogie. “How do her living expenses get paid?”

“I believe she covers the bulk of it.” He watches me warily. “I employ her in the summer to help with some of that.”

“And when she’s in school?”

He sets the receipt and a pen on the counter and scratches his whiskered cheek. “I don’t know.”

The conflict in his dark eyes affirms she doesn’t share these details, but… “She may not tell you, but you know.”

He offers my card back. I grip it, but he doesn’t release it, his focus on the square plastic connecting our hands. Then he lets go and looks up. “You know, too.”

Admirers. Stalkers. Creepers. Men with money and needs and the immorality to trap a beautiful young girl?

I feel the muscles pulling and tightening in my neck as anger burns in my throat. “I didn’t buy that piano to—”

“I know. Which is why I sold it to you, and why I will never tell her you bought it, even if she asks.” He bends closer, hands braced on the counter. “She owes you nothing.”

“Whether or not you trust me, I am concerned about her well-being, specifically pertaining to her home life.” I sign the receipt and scribble my phone number at the top. “Call me if anything suspicious, anything at all, arises with her.”

Ivory returns to the front with an overstuffed satchel bundled in her arms. I move to take the heavy weight from her, but she shakes her head.

“I’ll be back tonight.” She stores it behind the front counter and says her goodbyes to Stogie.

Holding the door for her, I glance at the old man. “Nice to meet you.”

He nods, his mouth pulling down at the corners.

Yeah, he has every right to not trust me. I don’t trust me, either.





“Is the deli next door any good?” Mr. Marceaux holds the door as I follow him out of Stogie’s shop.

“Only the best sandwiches in New Orleans.” My stomach flutters with butterflies. Because I’m hungry. For food. Not because I’ll be eating food with Mr. Marceaux.

Instead of turning toward the deli, he steps to the curb and unlocks the passenger door of a shiny black muscle car. “Stay here while I grab lunch.”

I take in the GTO badge on the door panel, the 70’s-style woodgrain dash, and the black vinyl interior, wondering why he drives such an old ride. “We’re not eating there?”

He removes the aviators from the neck of his t-shirt and slides them on. “No.”

Everything inside me melts. From the heat of the blinding sun? Definitely the sun.

I lower into the bucket seat and give him my order while he starts the engine and turns on the A/C.

As he walks with long fluid strides toward the deli, I can’t not stare at him, because sweet Jesus, I never imagined him in anything except a tie, waistcoat, and buttoned shirt with rolled-up sleeves. But he wears blue jeans like a second skin. The denim was made for his body, cupping his ass and stretching across his thighs as he lengthens his gait. The thin gray t-shirt clings to ridges of muscle in his back and shoulders, the sleeves straining around the bulges of his biceps, just like those models in fitness magazines.

I like the fancy clothes better. They’re safer, like a professional barrier to remind me he’s my teacher.

When he disappears inside the deli, I shift my attention to his car. The loud rumble of the engine and burnt-oil fume of the exhaust. The scent of warm cinnamon wafting from the pack of gum that bakes in the sun on the dash. The stiff seat beneath me, vibrating with the strength of the motor. The silver knobs of the old radio and Axl Rose crooning through the speakers. It’s all so distinctive and different, fascinating and masculine. Like him.

It feels surreal, sitting here. In his personal space. Willingly.

It’s just lunch.

With my teacher. On a Saturday.

I wipe clammy palms on my thighs, wishing I wore something nicer. And less revealing.

Why is he here? In my neighborhood? No one from Le Moyne ventures into my world, as if the poverty might stain their expensive shoes or something. Yet here he is. What does he want?

By the time he returns, my nerves are twisted to nauseous levels.