The cadence of our breaths plays a soft song of want and hunger and desire in the background, and while those sexual undertones aren’t necessary in our silent communication, they add rhythm and flavor to the heart of our music.
“Mr. Marceaux?” I rub my palms on my thighs, holding his gaze, and whisper, “You’re sharing your notes.”
Lines form on his forehead as he grips the back of his neck. “What?”
“I feel your notes. Here.” I touch my breastbone, my voice shaking. “They’re dark and hypnotic, like your breaths and your heartbeats.”
He takes a step back, then another step, and another. Distance doesn’t matter. I still hear him. Still feel him. He’s inside me.
Turning away, he wanders through the front of the room, zigzagging, switching directions, as if he doesn’t know where he’s going. He ends up at his desk, fumbling with his laptop.
“You’re working on Prokofiev’s Concerto No.2 today,” he says with his back to me. “Go get warmed up.”
Damn. That’s such an intense piece that requires an incredible amount of focus. Is that why he chose it? To distract me?
Disappointment burrows into my chest as I stand from the desk and follow his order.
For the next four hours, I endure his swatting hands and harsh criticism of my piano performance, all the while regretting telling him about the way he makes me feel. I should’ve focused first on preparing and nurturing those words before chucking them out, half-formed, into the winds of his volatility, with the ridiculous hope it would snag and hold his affection for me.
He sends me home at seven o’clock, not a minute after, with an immutable and heart-breaking, “Good night, Miss Westbrook.”
Only I can’t go home. Thirty-minutes later, I’m sitting in the vacant lot in the projects in the back seat of Prescott’s Cadillac, watching him roll on a condom for the seventh time since school started.
I can do this. As long as he doesn’t fuck my ass—something he’s never attempted—I’ll endure. I always do.
“I’m not supposed to be here.” He reaches under my skirt.
My body is numb, but not numb enough. I feel his fingers yanking down my panties. I smell the greed he exhales onto my face.
“I got grounded today.” He drags the underwear down my legs and off my feet. “For two months.”
Nothingness rings in my ears. Everything is too quiet, too lifeless in the absence of Mr. Marceaux.
“But I’ll find a way to meet up with you.” He pushes me onto my back.
I can’t do this again. Can’t endure his hands, his thrusts, the sounds of his pleasure. This thing he does with me, it’s not rape, but it still feels forced, unwanted, dreaded. If I tell him no, he will force it. Maybe I can fight him off this time, but what happens to my bills? My future?
He pries my knees apart, and I jerk them back together.
“What are you doing?” Kneeling over me, he shoves his trousers down his thighs.
The outcomes of my choices are so illogical. If I keep my legs closed, I might lose my house and turn into a crack whore like my mom. If I let Prescott do what he wants, I have a chance at something great. How messed up is that?
I push my hands against him, holding him away. “I don’t want this.”
But I do. I want this in a non-grabby, non-needy, give-and-take way. I want to connect with a man the way I want my music to connect with an audience. Emotionally. Profoundly. Innately.
I want this with someone who cares.
He forces his hips between my legs and wrestles my swinging arms. “What’s wrong with you?”
“This.” I ram my forearms against his chest. “You.”
The throaty rumble of an engine sounds in the distance, growing louder, closer, vibrating my body.
The hairs lift on my arms, and I strain my eyes through the darkness of the back seat, unable to see.
“Is that…?” I grab Prescott’s shoulders as he mounts me. I try to push him off, a wasted effort. “Is that a GTO?”
“Fuck if I know.” He grips his dick, poking it around my opening. “Hold still.”
The rumbling car is close. Close enough to stop on the street. Close enough that Prescott lifts his head to look out the back window.
“Shit,” he whispers. “Someone’s here.”
Ice fills my veins. He’s looking for me? I gulp for air and shove against Prescott’s frozen chest.
He can’t see me like this. He can’t. He can’t.
I kick and buck, trying to straighten my skirt, unable to move Prescott’s weight.
“Move!” Oh God, I can’t close my legs.
The door behind him swings open, and the sudden overhead light hurts my eyes. An arm reaches in, and in a blink, Prescott is jerked from the car and flying backward, vanishing in the pitch-black of night.
The sounds of pained grunts harmonize with the purr of the idling GTO. I grapple with the skirt, yank it down my legs, my eyes wide and locked on the open door.
Footsteps close in, the crunch of boots on gravel. Black slacks, a waistcoat, then a tie fills the door frame. He bends down, and when his face lowers into view, all I see is murderous blue.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. This is it. He might as well kill me, because my life ends now.
No Le Moyne. No Leopold. No future.