“Honey.” She places her hand on my forearm and gives it a firm squeeze. “Does Joanne know it’s over?”
Joanne is still texting me, but her messages go unanswered. I know what she wants, she knows what I want, and neither of us is willing to compromise.
“She still stubbornly refuses to accept my terms.” I shove a hand through the overlong strands touching my forehead. Christ, I need a haircut. “This has nothing to do with her.”
“Oh.” Mom’s persistent blue eyes roam my face, searching for answers. “This isn’t about your car, is it?”
“No, I got the car back yesterday.”
Though that put me in one helluva mood. After watching Ivory walk away, I made my way back to the parking lot, and the GTO was gone. Stolen. Fucking jacked. I had to call Deb to take me to the police station. When she dropped me off at home, I stood on the doorstep, vibrating with turmoil as I told her, No, I’m not going to fuck you. I should’ve been nicer to her for helping me—with the ride and with Beverly Rivard’s husband—but I was too fucking distraught to let her in.
The GTO wasn’t the only thing I lost in the park that day.
The cops recovered my car, the interior gutted and body stripped. It took weeks to bring it back to mint condition.
But Ivory… My hand clenches around the bottle. I’m making every effort I can to ensure the thing between us isn’t recovered. The attraction remains, stronger than ever, burning like a red-hot ember. It sizzles to be stoked when I sit beside her on the piano bench, hisses with sparks when I slap her wrists for missing a note, and crackles and pops every damn time our eyes connect.
Our first week together moved so fucking fast my nerves are still running wild with hunger. If I hadn’t pulled back, she would be in my bed right now, her seventeen-year-young body bowing and flushing beneath my belt and her huge adoring eyes begging me for things I’m unable to give her. Leopold. An open, lawful relationship. My heart…
She’s too young to separate sex and love, and I’ve lost interest in anything beyond physical pleasure.
Once you have what you want, her distrust in men will be irreparable.
Mom watches me in that intuitive way she does, her soft expression framed by black hair that curls above her shoulders. She reaches up to pinch the ends of a loose lock, brushing the tuft back and forth along her jaw as she studies me. I chug the beer and pretend to ignore her.
She drops her hand and tilts her head. “You met someone.”
Here we go. “No, I—”
“Emeric Michael Marceaux, don’t you lie to your mother.”
I stand and move to the counter, leaning against it and balancing the bottle on the ledge. “Not talking about this with you, Mom.”
I want to, but voicing it makes it real.
Footsteps approach the kitchen doorway.
“Not talking about what?” Dad wanders in, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, his face buried in his phone.
“Emeric met someone.” She smiles over the rim of her wine glass, eyes locked on me.
Without looking up from his phone, he walks past her and glides his fingers along the back of her neck. “Let’s hope she’s better than the last one.”
Better? Joanne is reality. Ivory’s an intoxicating dream, the kind that visits a man at night, veiled by the darkness of dusk and safely pursued in the secret corners of the mind. But in daylight, she’s a dangerous fantasy, tempting a man to do things with his eyes wide open.
“Who is she?” Mom sips her wine.
“She’s off-limits,” I say quickly and turn to Dad. “How’s that new physician you hired at the clinic?”
“He’s…fine.” Reservation deepens his voice.
Of course, he knows I’m evading.
He pockets the phone and lowers into the chair across the round table from Mom. “Is this woman married?”
I shake my head and direct my eyes to my Doc Martens.
It’s Saturday night. I’m supposed to be in a French Quarter hotel room, trussing up Chloe’s huge tits, flogging Deb’s ass, and reeking of sex. But the moment I climbed into the GTO, my mind drifted to Ivory. My subconscious took hold of the wheel and a few minutes later, I was sitting in the driveway of my parents’ estate in the Garden District.
Because I need to talk about this. If there’s anyone in this world I trust enough with this conversation, they’re in this room. They know about the deal I made with Beverly, as well as every dirty detail of my relationship with Joanne. Not once have they judged me. Hell, they hired the team of lawyers that convinced Joanne to drop the rape charge.
“Is she…?” The question in Mom’s tone pitches with alarm. And realization. “Oh no, Emeric.”
Before Mom climbed the ranks to Provost of Leopold, she was a high school teacher. When I was younger, Mrs. Laura Marceaux was too pretty for my comfort, with her gaggle of teenage admirers, including the guys I ran around with. Even in her fifties, she still turns heads with her youthful face, warm smile, and gentle eyes.