Dark Notes(47)

His black eyes grow impossibly darker. “So f*cking pretty.”

He shoves a hand between my legs, but the cocoon of blankets protects me. For a fleeting moment, I imagine the front door opening and Mr. Marceaux standing on the threshold with his terrifying eyes. I bet Lorenzo would be scared of him, maybe enough to leave me alone.

But Mr. Marceaux won’t be returning to Treme. Not tonight. Not ever.

In a surge of anger, I kick and shove, hitting Lorenzo’s ribs and trying to free the blankets in my attempt to escape. He grabs my knees and holds them immobile. I scratch at his arms, my lungs panting with the race of my pulse.

The heavy thump of Shane’s tread sounds his approach, and we both freeze.

Lorenzo removes his hands and faces forward just as Shane enters the room.

“Sitting too close, dickhead.” Shane smacks the side of Lorenzo’s head. “Move.”

I exhale a huge breath and adjust the covers around me.

“I’m heading home anyway.” Lorenzo stands and exchanges a palm-slapping, knuckle-tapping handshake with Shane.

When the door closes behind Lorenzo, Shane plops down on the couch beside me and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Adrenaline lingers in my veins, strumming my nerves. “I don’t want him here.”

“Shut the f*ck up, Ivory.” He lights the cigarette and lounges against the back of the couch.

I decide to try out a new word. “He rapes me, Shane.”

His face reddens then turns darker as he stabs the cigarette in the direction of the door. “That guy saved my life in Iraq.” His volume grows louder, his arms shaking. “I wouldn’t be here, breathing, if it weren’t for him. So while you’re prancing around in your little shorts and teasing him with your f*cking tits, remember that. Remember that guy is the reason I’m alive.”

I’ve heard the story, but saving someone’s life doesn’t give him the right to have sex with their sister. And aren’t brothers supposed to defend their sisters? Maybe he doesn’t think I’m worthy of that kind of love.

I pull the blankets tighter around me and say quietly, uselessly. “I don’t prance, and I don’t have a lot of clothes. They’re Mom’s shorts.”

“Yet another thing you take from her.”

Maybe he’ll hit me, and maybe Mr. Marceaux will report the new bruise, but dammit, I can’t let this go. “I pay the bills. Not you. Not her. She hasn’t once asked me about school or where I get the money. But I’m out there, working my ass off to make sure we don’t lose this house.”

He takes a drag on the cigarette, his expression tight. “Yeah, I bet you’re working your ass. Where do you get the money?” He casts me a sidelong glare. “You f*cking whoring?”

Shame piles up in my throat. I shake my head. God, if he knew? I don’t want to find out what he’d do.

“Fuck this.” He stands and flicks his ashes on the floor. “And f*ck you.” He strides to the front door, opens it, and glances at me over his shoulder. “Mom’s right, you know. Dad sold our future to buy yours. He did love you more.”

The door slams behind him, jarring more tears from my eyes.

I get it. I do. Their resentment of me runs two-hundred-thousand-dollars deep.

As I flick off the lights and return to the couch, Schubert joins me, purring and nuzzling against my chest in the dark. Sometimes I think Schubert’s love is an extension of Dad’s. Dad picked him out, surprised me with him, and died the next day. It’s like he knew what was coming and wanted to make sure part of his heart was left behind, to console me when I need him most.

But I don’t think Dad loved me more than them. He was just trying to do a good thing with my education. I can imagine, though, how they must feel. I can hardly breathe after Mr. Marceaux’s rejection, and that wasn’t even close to love.

At least, Marceaux didn’t take away the private lessons. I should be glad for that, but the last five weeks have only made me angry. Fuming f*cking mad. His strictly professional interactions and cold demeanor are daily reminders that I’m not good enough.

Not good enough for Leopold.

Not good enough to risk being with me.





Despite my misgivings about Ivory’s future, I focus on my own. I spend the remainder of the weekend putting out feelers for teaching jobs. By Sunday night, I’ve applied for a few mid-year openings out of state.

I loathe the idea of leaving Louisiana without resolving one last thing with Joanne. But I have options, and maybe with a little self-control, I’ll keep things professional with Ivory until those options pan out.

But it doesn’t lessen the intoxicated feeling in my body. As I cross the campus parking lot the next morning, my anticipation in seeing her has me whistling “Patience” with Axl Rose’s contagious buoyancy. My blood pumps hotter and my muscles flex tighter with each step toward Crescent Hall.

The mind works in funny ways, making me rationalize all kinds of shit as I enter the building. If I’m leaving, it won’t hurt to touch her today. Just once. Another taste of her lips. That’s all. Man, why am I considering quitting? I can’t abandon her. How will I f*cking breathe? This is bullshit.

My strides turn away from my classroom and veer toward Campus Center for reasons that can only be described as obsessive.