Dark Notes(94)

He swings his arm around and slaps my ass. “I’m not finished with you, but we need to eat.”

We make it through half a gourmet pepperoni pizza before he bends me over the kitchen island and proves exactly how he’s not finished with me.

I hope he never is.





The following evening, I stretch behind the piano during the intermission of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony and tug at the strangling bow tie. The tux is one of many from my private collection, tailored and designed with quality workmanship. Doesn’t matter how f*cking expensive it is. The restricting fabrics make me itchy and overheated. The whole pretentious look just doesn’t suit me.

Neither does the music.

Joanne never attended my performances, claiming boredom in hearing the same masterpieces on concert programs year in and year out. Can I blame her?

While I appreciate the classics, I doubt Gustav Mahler intended for his symphonies to become commercialized affairs of mindless repetition. In his fifty-one years, he only conducted his second symphony ten times.

I scan the Beaux-Arts style of the philharmonic theater, surrounded by an orchestra of pompous old farts and full-time musicians, most of which have their own resident halls. Rather than composing passionate modern music, they seem to be content wasting their extraordinary talents on routine recycling of classical repertoire.

But I am not content. Not even a little.

So why am I here, wallowing in this jeremiad?

Securing a seat in the symphony was a natural progression in my musical career, a highly notable one. It was a means of self-justification, a validation of all my hard work and talent. It wasn’t until the goal was achieved that I realized it was the wrong aspiration for me.

I want to create my own music, tap into my imagination, and transform classical piano into something fresh and wild. And I want to share that passion, teach it, and open eager minds to new ideas.

Sitting behind the strings section, I take in the shadowed silhouettes of concert-goers in the balcony seats. A grin twitches my lips as Ivory’s question teases my mind.

Do you eye f*ck women in the audience?

There were several months after Joanne when the highlight of my concerts was finding my next f*ck. Now?

My gaze connects with the most attractive feature in the theater, the only reason I’m smiling tonight.

She sits in the front row, glowing like a bright aria surrounded by dark instrumentals. Her red Versace dress follows the sinuous lines of her body from tits to toes, the thigh-high slit bordered with Swarovski rhinestones.

I know every detail because I handpicked it myself—just like I did all her clothes. But I chose this particular dress for a night just like this one, imagining her wearing it while watching me perform.

Despite my misgivings about her attending the concert, seeing her in that evening gown almost makes the risk worth it. Almost.

The parents of Le Moyne Academy students frequent these venues, and though Ivory drove separately with Stogie in tow, I worry about the wrong people making the right connections about our relationship. But she begged to be here, seducing me with Please on her lips. So I secured two front row seats and lined up her date.

Seated beside her, Stogie reluctantly wears the tux I bought for him, his big hand repeatedly rubbing his bald head, as if lamenting the absence of his beloved baseball cap. What a pair they make. Two musicians passionate about classical interpretation, and this is their first philharmonic performance?

I wonder if it meets their expectations. I’ll pay close attention to Ivory’s reaction after the show, as well as her responses to the other things I have planned for her in the coming months. She claims she wants to attend Leopold, that her ultimate dream is to sit where I’m sitting now, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights.

But what does she really know about the music world and the opportunities available to her? I intend to enlighten her. Then, if she still wants to go to Leopold, I have a plan to make that happen.

Two sections away, my parents occupy their season-ticket seats, heads bowed together in conversation. I asked them not to approach Ivory tonight, in order to maintain her disassociation from me outside of school.

Ivory and I willingly accept the risks of our entanglement. But it also puts my parents’ livelihoods in jeopardy. If I’m caught with her, no one would go to a doctor whose son is a convicted sex offender. And my mom? Leopold would burn her at the stake. So I’ve been holding Mom off from introductions.

The concert ends, and the next three weeks float by in a blissful fog of Ivory.

When Thanksgiving arrives, I finally give in to Mom’s demands to meet her.

As I drive my seventeen-year-old student to my parents’ house for turkey dinner, I’m on tenterhooks, not feeling any easier about the secrecy of our relationship.

The moment my mom opens the door and stares at my hand where it grips tightly to Ivory’s, my hackles go up.

Yes, I’m her teacher. Yes, I shove my cock in her, rigorously and with unadulterated depravity, morning and night. But the depth of my feelings for her goes so far beyond bullshit laws I really don’t give a f*ck what anyone thinks.

But my parents worry. They’re also overly supportive and devoted to my happiness. That’s why I brought her here. She had a parent like mine once.

I want her to experience that kind of love again.





After dinner, I lean back in the couch, shifting the waistband of my skirt to ease my aching belly. I don’t know if it’s from my overindulgence of turkey, mashed potatoes, and buttery bread, or if I’m riddled with plain old nerves about being alone with Laura Marceaux.