I’d rather cut off my 5-4-3 fingers than jump around in a mirrored room with disapproving girls. “Nah. I’m going to run the track outside.”
We say our goodbyes, but my curiosity about Marceaux has me calling after her.
“Ellie? How pretty exactly?”
She turns around, walking backwards. “Shockingly pretty. It was just a glimpse, but I’m telling you, I felt it right here.” She pats her stomach and widens her angular eyes. “Maybe a little lower.”
My chest tightens. The prettiest ones have the ugliest insides.
But I’m pretty, aren’t I? I’m told I am, less so by people I trust and more often by people I don’t.
Maybe my insides are ugly, too.
As Ellie bounces away and flashes her pretty smile at me over her shoulder, I stand corrected in my generalizations. There’s nothing ugly about Ellie.
In the locker room, I change into shorts and a tank top then head outside to the track that encircles the twenty-acre campus.
The humidity deters most of the three-hundred students from venturing out of the A/C this time of year, but a few laze on the park benches, laughing and eating their lunches. A couple dancers practice their synchronized warm-ups beneath the imposing steeples of the Campus Center building.
As I stretch my legs under the shade of a large oak tree, I stare out over the lush green grounds and rubberized walking trails. The same trails I walked with Daddy when my head barely reached his hip. I can still feel his big hand swallowing mine as he led me along. His smile was so full of sunshine when he pointed out the old cathedral-like stonework of Crescent Hall and speculated on the grandeur of the classrooms within.
Le Moyne was his dream, one his parents couldn’t afford. He never seemed sad about that. Because he wasn’t a taker, not even when he dreamed. Instead, he gave his dream to me.
Bending at the waist, I reach for my toes and let the stretch heat my hamstrings as the memories warm my blood. I look like Mom with my dark hair and dark eyes, but I have Daddy’s smile. I wish he could see me now, standing here on the campus, living his dream, and wearing his smile.
I grin wider, because his dream, his smile…they’re mine, too.
“Holy mother of God, I missed that ass.”
I snap straight, smile gone and my body too stiff to turn toward the voice that makes my shoulders hike around my ears. “What do you want, Prescott?”
“You. Naked. Wrapped around my dick.”
My stomach caves in, and a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I straighten my spine. “I have a better idea. How about you tuck your dick between your legs, dance like Buffalo Bill, and go fuck yourself.”
“You’re so nasty,” Prescott says with a smile in his voice as he prowls into my line of sight.
He stops an appropriate distance away, but not far enough. I step back.
His long hair stops at his jawline, the blond strands bleached by the Caribbean sun or wherever he spends his summers. If his tie and button-up are stifling him in this heat, he doesn’t show it as he takes his time unnerving me with his wandering gaze.
I don’t understand why the girls at Le Moyne fight over him. His nose is too long, his front tooth is crooked, and his tongue squirms like a worm whenever he shoves it in my mouth.
“Jesus, Ivory.” His focus zeroes in on my chest, burning my skin beneath the top. “Your tits grew another cup size over the summer.”
I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “If you’re asking for my help this year, try again.”
His eyes remain locked on my chest, his long fingers tightening around his sack lunch. “I want you.”
“You want me to do your homework.”
“That, too.”
The huskiness in his voice makes me shiver. I wrap my arms around my chest, hating how noticeable my boobs are, hating the way he flagrantly stares at them, hating that I depend on him.
His gaze finally lifts, landing on my mouth. “What happened to your lip? Catch it on a cock ring?”
I shrug. “It was a really big…ring.”
His expression darkens with jealousy, and I hate that, too.
“You should get one.” I tilt my head at the forced sound of his laughter. “Why not? It increases the pleasure.” I don’t know anything about piercings, but I can’t pass up the dig. “If you had one, you might actually make a girl come.”
His strained laugh cuts off with a cough. “Wait, what?” His eyes harden. “I make you come.”
Sex with him is a lot like removing a tampon. A quick tug that leads to a repulsive mess, one I discard from my mind until it has to be done again. I don’t bother telling him this. He can see it all in my glare.
“That’s bullshit.” He charges forward, crossing the boundary of what onlookers would consider friendly conversation.
When he reaches for my arm, I glance up at the Campus Center building and find the empty window of the dean’s office. “Your mom’s watching.”
“You’re a lying bitch.” He doesn’t look up, but his hand drops.
“If you want my help, I’m going to need an advance.”
He barks out a disgusted laugh. “Hells no.”
“Suit yourself.” I take off at a sprint, keeping to the grass along the track where it doesn’t burn my bare feet.
It only takes a couple seconds for Prescott’s long legs to catch up. “Hang on, Ivory.” Sweat forms on his face as he jogs beside me in his collared shirt. “Will you just stop for a minute?”
I slow my strides, anchor my fists on my hips, and wait for him to catch his breath.
“Look, I don’t have any cash on me right now.” He pulls at the pockets of his slacks. “But I’ll pay you tonight.”
Tonight. My stomach buckles, but I smile through it and pluck the sack lunch out of his hand. “This will do until then.”
Lunch is the only advance I needed anyway. He has an unlimited balance in the cafeteria, so it’s not like he’ll go hungry.
He looks at my bare feet, at the paper bag in my hand, and pauses on my busted lip. For a guy who struggles with algebra, he’s not stupid. More like disinterested. Disinterested in my problems. Disinterested in the curriculum.
None of us are here to study quadratic equations or cell biology. We came for the arts program, to dance, to sing, to play our instruments, and to get accepted at the music conservatory of our choosing. Prescott would rather devote his time to fucking and playing classical guitar, not writing a history report en Français. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to bother with academic coursework. Not when he can pay me to do it for him.
He isn’t the only entitled prick at Le Moyne, but I limit my services to those with the biggest wallets and the most to lose. We all know the risks. If one of us goes down, we all go down. Unfortunately, my little circle of cheaters is largely made up of Prescott and his friends.
And sometimes they take more than they pay for.
I peer into the lunch sack, salivating at the sight of roast beef on crusty bread, grapes, and chocolate cookies. “Tonight where?”
“The usual.”
Which involves picking me up ten blocks from school, parking his car in a vacant lot, and doing a lot more than homework. But I’m the one who established the rules. No swapping homework assignments on school property or public places. It’s too risky, especially with the way the dean watches her son.