She jerks away. “Stop it.”
The hipster boy on her other side angles toward her, his skinny body squeezed into tight pants, a checkered shirt, and a plaid bow tie. He stares at her mouth through black-framed glasses and whispers something too low for me to hear.
Her lips thin into a line, and the dark expression on her face seems to come from a place much deeper than simple irritation.
I need to know what he’s saying to her. It’s a weird sort of curiosity, pulsing in my chest, as I level a look at the whispering boy. “What’s your name?”
He reclines, flippantly slouching with his legs stretched out beneath the desk. “Sebastian Roth.”
I walk toward him and give the toe of his shoe a warning kick that propels him to sit straight. “What did you say to her, Mr. Roth?”
He leers at the girl, rubbing his mouth to hide his grin. “I was just commenting on how big her…uh…” He looks at her chest and lifts his gaze to her mouth. “Her lip. How big her lip is.”
Prescott bursts into laughter, followed by several boys sitting around him.
That’s when I notice the segregation in seating. Girls on one side. Boys on the other. With the exception of the girl who looks like a woman. Whether she chose her seat out of urgency or to deliberately sit where hard-dicked boys could flock around her, I intend to find out.
With the tips of my fingers in my pockets, thumbs out, I shift to stand before her. “Your name?”
Her bottom lip is, indeed, cut and swollen. She sucks it between her teeth as her shoulders make a slow decent to self-assurance. Then she raises her chin and meets my eyes. “Ivory Westbrook.”
Ivory. That conjures an image of paleness with hard, worn edges like piano keys or teeth. Doesn’t fit her at all. She’s a dark portrait of soft curves and chestnut hair with deep golden skin that seems to absorb shadows in the room I hadn’t noticed until now.
Fuck, I’m definitely going out and getting laid tonight.
“Miss Westbrook, find a seat with fewer distractions.” I point toward the girls.
Ivory’s enormous doe eyes stare up at me, as if caught in the glare of stage lights. She blinks, glances at the girls, and looks down at her desk when they cast her uninviting sneers. That answers my question about her seating choice.
“I’m not here to indulge in your sensibilities.” I slam a hand on her desk, making her jump. “Move.”
With a ragged inhale, she grabs her satchel and walks toward the snickering girls, her gait leaden yet determined.
Every male in the room watches her stride along the front row of desks, and I don’t have to follow suit to know what they see. Stripper-pole legs, tits almighty, and a high, round ass that flexes with each step.
The primitive, hungry part of me wants to join in their appreciation while the protective part wants to cover her with an over-sized coat. Instead, the disciplinarian takes over and lands an admonishing smack on the back of the closest juvenile head.
Sebastian flinches and casts me a startled look. “What was that for?”
I pluck his phone from his hand and toss it in the vicinity of my desk. It overshoots, slides off the other side, and hits the floor.
The rest of the room erupts in a flurry, shoving phones into pockets and bags. Everyone except Ivory. Hands folded together on the desk and no phone in sight, she watches me with a guarded expression.
Sebastian plays with a clump of his over-oiled hair. “If you broke my phone…”
I arch my eyebrow, my tone hard. “Go on.”
He shrugs. “My dad will buy me a new one.”
Of course, and it would be hypocritical of me to condemn this kid for being an entitled prick. I was no different at his age, with wealthy parents and an inflated sense of self-importance. Hell, I’m still a prick, only now I’m held accountable for my actions.
I move to the front of the room, hands clasped behind my back. “Welcome to twelfth-grade Music Theory. I’m Mr. Marceaux, and I’ll be your music director for your last year here at Le Moyne Academy. After this class, you’ll head to your master classes in specific disciplines. Piano students will remain with me. Before we begin, what do you want to know about me?”
The Asian girl who Ivory chose to sit by raises her hand.
I gesture toward her. “Introduce yourself, please.”
She stands beside her desk. “Ellie Lai. Cello.” She bounces on her toes. “What’s your background?”
I give her a nod and wait until she settles in her seat. “I hold a Master of Music from Leopold Conservatory of New York. I’m a member of the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra. And my most recent employment was Head of School at Shreveport Preparatory, where I also directed the music program.”
Prescott makes a show of stretching and smiling. Then he nonchalantly tosses an arm in the air and speaks without my prompt. “What are you, like…twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?” His voice drawls with antagonism. “How did you get a master’s, do the teaching thing and become dean, all in such a short amount time? What’s up with that, Mr. M?”
I worked my fucking ass off, you lazy little cocksucker.
And to think, in one hasty slide of a zipper, I lost it all, including something I never set out to have, which ended up being the only thing that mattered.
The very thought of Joanne sitting behind my desk in Shreveport makes my rib cage vibrate with rage. But imagining her continuing her life without me evokes a toxic fume of poison so invasive I can smell the betrayal with every choking breath.
I slowly roll my neck, clearing my thoughts and reining myself in. “I received my undergrad early and taught high school in Manhattan while I worked on my master’s. Any other questions?”
Ivory raises her hand.
“Yes?”
She remains seated, doesn’t fidget, and her dark gaze hones directly into mine. “You play piano? I mean, of course you do, since you’ll be my tutor. But you play piano in the Symphony Orchestra?”
Christ, her voice… It’s not lazy and high-pitched like girls her age. It’s complex and entrancing, like raindrops at midnight.
“Yes, I play piano in the Orchestra.”
Her smile is a slow-building nocturne, a tranquil expansion from her mouth to her eyes. “Solo?”
“Sometimes.”
“Wow.”
Not only am I shocked by her line of questioning, but the reverent way she’s looking at me makes my goddamn skin hum. I don’t like it. I’m proud of my achievements, but not when that lofty feeling distracts me from my hard-earned bitterness.
I dismiss the remaining raised hands with a sharp tone. “Open your Music Theory books to chapter three. We’re going to jump right into…” My attention snags on Ivory as the entire room follows my directive except her. “Do you need a hearing aid, Miss Westbrook?”
“No.” She drops her hands in her lap and meets my gaze head-on. “My other teachers gave me the week to buy my books.”
“Do I look like your other teachers?”
“No, Mr. Marceaux.” A female voice pipes up in the back. “You definitely do not.”
A chorus of giggles follows, and irritation curls my fingers.
I swipe my text book from my bag and drop it on her desk. “Chapter three.” I lean in, putting my face in hers. “Try to keep up.”