Make Me Bad(Private Lessons)

Chapter Two




Madison





“Ugggh.” I moan, rolling over in my warm comfortable bed. Something woke me but I’m not sure what. Then I hear it and feel it again – my phone vibrating under my pillow.

“Hello?” I croak into the phone. I’m not sure what time it is, but I can see the sunlight peeking through my window.

“Hi honey!” my mom says cheerfully. She pauses. “Did I wake you?”

“Umm, yeah, but that’s okay. Hi Mom.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize it was that early over there.”

I glance at the clock. It’s nearly eleven in the morning, Paris time.

“It’s not that early Mom.” I say, my voice sounding slightly more normal.

I have a splitting headache, so much for Advil.

“Daddy and I were just getting ready to go out to dinner and I thought I would give you a call to say hi.”

I sit up in bed, trying to focus on my mom’s voice. Aside from the killer headache, I think I feel all right. It’s clear I’m going to need to build up my tolerance for wine or it's going to be a long semester.

“Thanks, Mom. That was sweet of you to check up on me. Sorry I haven’t called since we arrived. Everything is really great, actually.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. And your apartment is nice?”

“It’s amazing, Mom! I really love it and so does Cleo. Thank you again to both you and Daddy.”

I can feel my mom smiling over the phone.

“Good,” she says happily, “I’m glad we were able to do that for you.”

My parents tried to raise me with somewhat of a normal upbringing, and I never got handouts the way most of the rich kids I grew up with did. But every now and then they splurge on something really spectacular, and this was one of those times.

When I told them that I wanted to spend a semester abroad during my senior year, they were a bit hesitant. I'd traveled and seen much of the world, but always with them. Eventually they had to agree that it would be a good experience and NYU conveniently had a Paris campus.

While most students had to stay with a host family or find inexpensive housing in the city, I was fortunate enough to have an amazing flat in the seventh arrondissement overlooking the Seine River, with a jaw-dropping view of the Eiffel Tower.


Cleo and I shared the two-bedroom flat, which had a spacious floor plan, a huge balcony, and numerous floor-to-ceiling windows. Sometimes, it really paid to have two country music superstars as parents.

“It really is an amazing apartment, Mom.” I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and going to the window to pull open the curtains. The Eiffel Tower greets me and I smile happily.

“Well,” she teases, “don’t have too much fun.”

I laugh nervously. If only she knew.

“Don’t worry. I still have my studies.”

“Do you have classes today?”

“Yep. Actually, I’m going to have to get ready soon. I have to be on campus in less than two hours and I’m not really sure what building.”

“Okay, honey. Well, I just wanted to say hello and tell you that I love you. Please be careful,” she stresses.

“Okay, Mom. Love you too.”

“And please, Maddie, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Mom.”

“You know what I mean. Stay out of the tabloids. Be smart.”

“I will, I will. Love you. Give Daddy a kiss for me.”

“Okay, bye-bye.”

I hang up and sigh.

I slept with my music professor last night.

Oh f*ck.

F*ck. F*ck. F*ck.

Part of me wants to run directly into Cleo’s room and tell her, but the other part of me is terrified to actually speak about it. If I say it out loud, then it’s real and it actually happened. If I don’t mention it, then maybe it didn’t really happen, and I can pretend.

But do I want to pretend it didn’t happen?

No.

And truthfully?

I would do it again in a heartbeat.

It was so hot and raw. It was fast and desperate yes, but it was the best sex I'd ever had and I definitely wanted more...

“Oh my God, I'm a goner.” I moan aloud, burying my head in my hands.

It strikes me that I still haven’t showered, so instead of dealing with my emotions, I hurry into the private bath in my room and jump in the hot shower.

As the water courses over my skin, I try and force myself not to think about Luc’s hands and mouth all over me but I can't help it. The hickies on my tits are the surest evidence that last night really happened but I can't dwell on it, what can really come of such a potentially disastrous affair? Not to mention my parents...

Cleo obviously knows who my parents are and so do a few others, though I don’t think Ava and Grace know. It’s not something I want to broadcast to the study abroad group. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. It’s very possible they all know that I’m the daughter of Paige Lawson and Blake Evans and they just haven't said anything about it to my face.

My mother’s legal last name is Evans, though she's always kept Lawson as her stage name seeing as she was pretty famous by the time she and my dad married. Most people have no idea who my family is; my last name is Evans, which is pretty common, and my parents did a good job keeping me out of the public eye growing up. And it helps that I have my father’s dark hair. Though, I most definitely have my mother’s eyes.

Growing up in Nashville, with my parents being who they are, I lived and breathed country music. And while there's nothing wrong with country music, I always felt like it was my parents’ thing. Though not much of a singer, I showed an early gift for music and I began guitar lessons when I was only four years old. My real passion is writing music and I love my parents for letting me do my own thing.

They always made sure that only one of them toured at a time so I could attend school full-time in Nashville. I even had all four grandparents in Nashville incase my parents needed to make an appearance somewhere together.

When I first told my parents that I wanted to attend NYU, they freaked out. My mother wanted me to stay local of course, and my daddy suggested the West Coast. Neither of them were fans of the East Coast’s fast pace, but I loved it. Every time we visited New York, I felt invigorated by the pulse and energy of the city. I knew I had to end up there someday.

They finally gave in and came to terms with my decision once I was accepted at NYU. I lived on campus the first two years, after which my parents bought me a small apartment off campus. Cleo and I had been roommates since sophomore year, and it seemed only fitting that we would room together in Paris. And while I had also been considering studying abroad in London, my mind was easily made up when I walked into the Paris information meeting.

Luc had been sitting there in the front of the room, his guitar case on the floor, brooding and looking a little bored as the prospective students filed in. His hair was a little too long then, and he was dressed in black jeans and a blazer. At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was obviously not a student, he looked to be in his early to mid thirties, but he seemed way too attractive to be faculty in the music program.

After he introduced himself in his deep sexy voice, it suddenly clicked. He was Luc Pascal, a gifted composer and guitar virtuoso. I had heard of him before but had no idea that he was now part of the NYU staff.

That was the moment I decided Paris was the study-abroad city for me.

What have I gotten myself into?

I finish my shower and tie my hair back in a sloppy bun; I don’t have time for the blow dryer. Paris in the Fall is lovely, but it’s been unseasonably chilly, so I throw on a pair of leggings, tall boots and a heavy sweater. I want to look good since I’ll be seeing Luc, but I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard.

I head out into the kitchen for some coffee and food. I expect to find Cleo, but she’s nowhere to be found. A quick peek in her room tells me that she either never came home last night or she’s already left for the day.

I can't help but feel annoyed as I force down two pieces of toast and go to grab my satchel. It's now noon, and I need to leave to make it to class by 12:30. Cleo's going to get it when I see her, I really don’t feel like searching for the building on my own.

Just as I’m about to grab my keys and leave, Cleo comes flying into the apartment, still dressed in last night’s clothes.

“Don’t leave!” she cries, “I’m here. Just give me ten minutes. I swear, Maddie, I’ll be ready in time!”

I don’t have time to ask questions or comment on the fact that she never came home before she dashes into her room and slams the door. Seconds later, I hear her shower turn on.

Shaking my head in bewilderment, I sit down at the kitchen table and wait for her. I realize that she may not have eaten, so I make two pieces of toast with butter and wrap them in a paper towel. I grab a water bottle from the fridge.

True to her word, Cleo appears twelve minutes later, her face bare and her wet hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing jeans, a sweater and flats. I’m impressed that she’s managed to pull herself together so quickly.

“Let’s go!” she says, grabbing her bag from the stool.

“Did you eat?” I ask wryly, as we leave the building.

“No! Shit!”

I hand her the toast and water and she smiles gratefully.

“What the hell would I do without you?’’ she asks, taking a huge bite out of her toast. “Oh my God, I’m starving,” she moans happily.

I raise my eyebrows at her. “How was Philippe?”

She grins broadly. “Amazing.” She holds up the half-eaten toast. “I certainly need to re-fuel after last night.”

I roll my eyes.

“You left in a hurry last night,” she points out.

I shrug. “I was tired.”

I chicken out. I’m not ready to tell her about Luc. I tell myself that I just want to see how Luc behaves in class today before I share any details or think too much on things.

“You need to drink more. Let loose.” she says, punching me on the shoulder.

“I do.” I admit.

We get on the Metro and fifteen minutes later, we're walking onto campus. Together, we find the correct building and classroom. There are only a handful of students in the room, and I have a feeling that this composition class won’t be even close to full.

We take our seats in the middle of the classroom, and Luc looks over at us blankly. He gives me no sign of recognition, no wink, no smile – nothing.

Oh my god, what if he doesn’t remember?

What if he was actually really drunk and has no recollection of what happened?

Blushing, I sink down into my seat, mortified at the thought.

“What's with you?” Cleo whispers.

I shake my head at her.

Cleo waves at Luc but he averts his gaze and looks down at the papers in front of him.

“What’s up Luc’s ass?” she whispers, “He was fun last night and now he’s acting like he doesn’t even know us. Stuck up prick,” she mutters.

Okay, so maybe it isn’t just me. Maybe it is weird that he won’t acknowledge us, even though we all went out drinking together last night. Then again, he is our professor so maybe he shouldn’t be socializing with us in the first place, but what the hell? We're all over twenty-one and in Paris you can drink at eighteen, so we’re all legal consenting adults.

Although, I’m pretty sure there's a rule against screwing your students.

Class is starting and I don’t have any more time to worry about the implications of sleeping with Luc. He begins the class, and I find myself hanging on his every word. He’s incredibly intelligent and within minutes it’s obvious to everyone that he’s a genius at what he does.


Before I know it the class is over. Cleo and I gather our books, and just as we’re about to leave the room, Luc speaks up.

“Miss Evans? A word please?”

I look over at him, searching his features for a clue as to how he's feeling but he gives up nothing.

I nod and turn to Cleo. “Wait for me outside?” I say, my heart pounding.

“Sure.” She waves at Luc and disappears out into the hall.

I walk over to Luc's desk and stand there patiently while he ignores me until the classroom has emptied out.

This is it. He’s going to bring up last night. He’s going to tell me what a mistake it was. Yet, I secretly hope that he’s going to tell me he wants to do it again.

“I hear you play guitar.” he says, more of a statement than a question.

What? I'm so caught off guard it takes me a moment to respond.

“Umm, yes.” I manage.

“And you compose?” he says, gathering his things into his bag.

“Yes, obviously.” I smile.

“I’ve heard that you’re very good.” He says the words very good slowly and sensually and I know that I’m not imagining the double meaning. He raises his eyebrows as if to challenge me. He pulls out his guitar and hands it to me. “Play something that you composed.”

He’s not asking, he’s ordering.

I breathe deep and take the guitar from him, unable to steady my trembling hands.