There’s no way I can answer his questions about it without lying, but I can give him this. “I was thirteen.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Comprehension? He knows how old I was when I lost Daddy— My dad. My father. God, even in my thoughts, I’m trying to please Mr. Marceaux. But maybe he’s right about my immaturity. If my dad were alive today, would I still be calling him Daddy?
Instead of asking questions about the tattoo, Mr. Marceaux reaches under my chair and drags my shoes toward his feet. His bend puts his face inches from my lap, but he keeps his eyes on mine as his arms move around my calves.
With his knees on either side of my legs, I don’t feel trapped, but my stomach squirms all the same. I don’t understand why he’s holding my beaten up ballet flat, why he’s examining the inside, or what he has planned for me next.
With my shoe in one hand, he reaches for my foot. The moment his fingers graze the back of my ankle, I jump in the seat.
He pins me with a flinty glare, his scowl at odds with the tender stroke of his hand. Unhurried, he caresses along my ankle, traces the bony knobs on the sides, and cups the heel of my foot, lifting it.
I’m tongue-tied, confused by the gentleness, lost in the sensation. The entire world narrows to the warmth of his palm, the careful way he slides my toes into the shoe, and the absolute concentration he gives the task.
He lowers my foot to the floor, and I exhale a chestful of air. Then he shifts toward my other leg.
Why is he doing this? What does he get out of it? Will he expect me to show him my boobs? Give him a blow job? Sex?
I jerk my foot out of his reach. “I can do this.”
He fists his hands on his legs and imprisons me with those frigid cobalt eyes. “What’s tonight’s lesson?”
“Don’t question you?”
Maybe this is a small thing to him, but it’s not to me. Men don’t touch me unless they want something, and his touch is freaking me out. It’s too nice. Too intimate. Way too intimate for a student and teacher.
He holds his palm out, waiting. I want to ask him what he wants from me, but that would be failing the lesson.
I move my foot toward his hand, and he gives it the same attention as before. Fragile strokes. Fingers like velvet wrapping around my breakable bones. Taking? Giving? I don’t know what this is. Every brush of his fingertips shoots tingles up my legs, making my heart flutter and my whole body hyper-aware. It scares me. He scares me.
When he slides the other shoe on, I tuck my feet beneath the chair, knees pinched together, dreading what he’ll demand next.
He rises, his expression dark beneath black brows and his breathing noisier than it should be. I know that needful look, that hungry sound. My blood runs cold.
Now is the time to run, but my feet aren’t moving. Why? I need his permission, I think.
I want his permission.
Turning toward the desk, he presses his hands against the surface. “Go home, Miss Westbrook.”
Relief shimmies down my spine, but it gets cut off by my next thought.
I can take any one of the exits out of Crescent Hall, race through the parking lot or the park, zigzag along the streets to the bus stop. Doesn’t matter which way I go. Prescott will catch up. He’ll find me. He always does.
Then home. Where Lorenzo might be waiting. Where Shane might be fucking on my bed.
Which is scarier? Prescott? Lorenzo? Shane?
Mr. Marceaux.
I grab my satchel and hightail it toward the hall.
The muggy air clings to my skin as I make the ten-minute walk from Le Moyne to the 91 line. Oh man, it feels good to get a breather from that classroom. I don’t know if it’s Mr. Marceaux or the frightening sensations he inflames in me, but I couldn’t run from there fast enough.
He’s aggressive and powerfully built like other men. More so. But he had numerous opportunities to take and didn’t.
Because he’s a teacher? Or because he’s not like other men?
I’m not ready to trust those thoughts or the way they make me feel.
The crescent moon hangs high in the sky, painting a dim glow over the antebellum mansions that fringe Coliseum Street. The brick sidewalk is paved in a herringbone pattern and bordered on one side by wrought iron fences, gas lamps, and blooming vegetation that infuses the air with the fragrance of summer.
The foundations of the towering homes butt right up against those fences, and illuminated windows give me a peek of interiors twinkling with chandeliers, grand staircases, and rich woodwork. Luxury cars line the narrow street and pristine gardens adorn the side-yards. Everywhere I look boasts generational wealth, the kind that came from sugar, cotton, and shipping.
Does Mr. Marceaux live in one of these mansions? Maybe his family is old money? Le Moyne attracts a lot of residents in the Garden District, including Beverly Rivard.