Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’ve lost my mind, but goddammit, I’m convinced she’s been sexually abused. Someone from her past? Is it happening right now? Who the fuck is hurting her?
I fist my hands on my hips and glare down at her as everything inside me simmers to blow up. “Has another teacher asked for inappropriate favors?”
“No!”
A small relief, but it leaves me with nothing. “Who then?”
She steps back just as several students mill into the classroom, laughing and oblivious. The conversation will have to be postponed, but there’s something else that can’t wait. I join her at my desk as she gathers the stack of textbooks.
Under the guise of powering up my laptop, I watch her out of the corner of my eye and lower my voice for her ears alone. “I trust your brother didn’t touch you last night.”
Her grin is reluctant, dimpling the corner of her mouth and crawling across her lips. “Shane stumbled in with a broken nose, whining about a headache until he passed out. Guess that’s karma, huh?”
“Yes.” My mouth twitches. “Karma.”
Arms loaded with books, she turns toward the room full of students, pauses, then pivots back to me.
“Thank you.” She stares at my tie, her chin pinning the tablet atop the tower of books in her arms. “I’ll reimburse you as soon as I can.”
Nodding, I return to the whiteboard.
Maybe I made things more difficult for her. Whatever she does to earn money, she has to do more of it to pay me back. But school supplies are a requirement. Besides, I don’t intend to accept her reimbursement.
While I know her sense of self-worth arises from paying her own way, from not taking handouts, I spend the next three hours obsessing over how I can beat that idea out of her without crossing the line.
If her mother’s unemployed, how will she pay me back? Performing arts students can’t work regular jobs. They don’t have time for anything outside of school and practice. Hell, students are required to practice their instruments at least four hours a day, every day, for years. If they don’t, they fall behind, lose their competitive edge and any hope for a musical career.
Questions about her financial situation marinate in the back of my mind for the next few hours. A beautiful young girl like her, from a neighborhood like Treme, has a slew of undesirable methods to earn fast money. Drugs and prostitution fall on the top of that list, but I refuse to imagine her degrading herself in that way. It’s too appalling.
When the final bell rings, the piano students exit the classroom, except Ivory, who sets her belongings on a desk by the door and looks at me expectantly. “Don’t the others have private lessons?”
“Sebastian Roth and Lester Thierry have their own tutors at home.”
“I know.” Her forehead pinches. “But Chris and Sarah always take advantage of the lessons here.”
“They opted to study under Mrs. Romero’s tutelage.”
I planted the suggestion in my meetings with Chris and Sarah yesterday, hinting that the other piano instructor had some openings after school, and her softer approach may be a good match for them. It’s partially true. Mrs. Romero teaches the younger grades and already has her hands full. But she works for me, and therefore, I determine her schedule.
Ivory’s lips part as she considers the news. “Does that mean I’ll have you all to myself from three to seven every day?”
Fuck me, but I love the sound of that.
Her eyes widen. “Oh damn, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant, and yes, I’ll be mentoring you.”
As a general rule, I prefer to groom only one or two students at a time. Though my intentions with Ivory have little to do with her personal development. When it comes to torturing myself, I’m the dean of effort, hell-bent on enduring the entire school year with achingly sore blue balls.
I close the door and make my way around the corner of the L-shaped room. Leaning a hip against the B?sendorfer grand piano, I wait for her to join me then rap my knuckles on the sleek black surface. “Four hours every day.”
An enormous grin overwhelms her beautiful mouth. “I won’t waste your time.”
“No, you won’t.” I could stare at her twenty-four hours a day and feel like the most productive pervert in the world. But if I don’t eradicate those thoughts from my head, our time together will be over before it begins. “Did you practice last night?”
“Of course.”
She doesn’t tense up, change her breathing, or convey vulnerability in any way. She’s telling the truth, which might explain her whereabouts last night.
“Where did you practice?” Realizing that implies I know she wasn’t home, I rephrase the question. “You own a piano?”
“Not anymore.” Her dark brown hair escapes the curve of her ear and falls over her shoulder. She gathers it at the bend of her neck and twists it into a rope down her chest. “My mom sold my dad’s piano after he died.”
My dad’s, not Daddy’s. I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my satisfaction.