Miss Baxter's Girls Box Set

Book 1: Julie the PianistI’m lying supine on the massage table again. This time there’s a sheet between me and its vinyl-clad surface—to keep my bare flesh from sticking, I suppose. “Are you ready, Julie?” I raise my gaze to her, this amazing woman who has opened my eyes to so many things, challenged me in so many ways in the year since my arrival. “Yes, Miss Baxter.” “Before we begin, Julie, I’d like you to tell me your safe word one more time, please.” “Yes, Miss Baxter. It’s peaches.” “Ah, peaches.” Miss Baxter reaches out to cup my cheek in her hand. “Fitting. Juicy and ripe. And so very sweet.” I smile and turn my head just a bit to more easily rub against the tender warmth of her fingers. “Yes, Miss Baxter, that’s what you always say.” I watch the corners of Miss Baxter’s mouth turn down ever so slightly. The change was almost imperceptible, and probably would have been overlooked by most people, but this was not my first session with Miss Baxter. I knew I had done something wrong. I was still searching my mind as to what it might be when I felt the familiar leather of the riding crop lightly touching the inside of my bare thigh. “I don’t recall asking you a question, Julie.” I almost say “No, Miss Baxter,” but stop myself when I realize that she still hasn’t asked me a question—that she was just testing me again. Instead, I hold my lower lip between my teeth and shiver as I feel the crop sliding slowly over my tender skin. There would be a price to pay for my mistake—a small price, for it was a small mistake, and Miss Baxter was nothing if not fair—but a price nonetheless. That’s what I loved about Miss Baxter and that’s why I had let her strap me to this table in her extra-curricular room, as she calls it. I draw a breath and hold it as I wait for the inevitable. I know it’s going to sting, but I also know that I will welcome it in my own way. Being here was my idea after all. My reward for another week well done. I smile and think about that as I wait. “Have you been having naughty thoughts again, Julie?” “Yes, Miss Baxter.” “Tell me all about it, dear.” * * * * I remember the day that I stood on the front porch of Miss Baxter’s boarding house with nothing more than a duffle bag slung over my shoulder, and very few alternatives if things didn’t work out. I pressed the bell and waited. A short time later I was greeted by a stunning middle-aged woman, perfectly coiffed and elegantly dressed in a dark trouser suit and heels. Her warm smile had a way of putting me at ease. “You must be Julie, my pianist,” she said as she offered her hand. I was a little surprised by her way of addressing me. I vaguely remember listing piano as one of my talents on her application, but it was mostly as an afterthought, something to avoid leaving too many things unanswered. There were a lot of odd little questions like that, and I hardly thought it would be the first thing she brought up. “Um, yeah, I guess.” That was the first time I saw that tiny downturn of Miss Baxter’s mouth that was the closest thing to any indication of her displeasure. “Julie, my dear, I have three rules here at my boarding house. First, as stated on your application, no drugs or alcohol of any kind. Second, I ask that my girls take the utmost pride in themselves and their talents. This means responding with confidence and surety when someone asks you about something you are proficient in, like your piano playing.” She’s really taking this piano thing a bit far, I thought. Sure, Mom and Dad had sent me to lessons for years, but regular practicing was certainly never on my list of priorities. “And third, I ask that you always try your very best in everything you do. That’s all really. If these rules are something you think you can aspire to, then please come in and make yourself at home.” “Okay,” I said. “And Julie, you may address me as Miss Baxter in your responses. Not one of my rules, only a little courtesy that I ask. Will you be alright with that?” “Yes, Miss Baxter.” “Good girl.” She laid a finger aside my cheek. “I’ll take you to your room. Once you’re settled in, I’ll show you to the piano so that you may practice a bit before your performance this evening. Have you decided what it is you’ll be playing for us?” “Um…” I shivered a little. Something about her touch threw me off and I missed about half of what she said. This evening? Performance? Me? I don’t remember ever agreeing to anything like that. Miss Baxter slid her finger down to the center of my chin and used it maneuver my head so that I was looking directly at her. Her eyes bored directly into mine in such a way that I felt I had no choice but to shift my gaze to the floor. Some sort of ingrained response to ancient dominance rituals of our cave-dwelling ancestors, I suppose. Whatever it was, I already knew that I wasn’t the alpha here. I thought back to her last two rules as I contemplated the floorboards. Confidence. Try your best. I looked up just a little. “Yes, Miss Baxter. I’ll be playing Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’…if you think that’s appropriate.” “Oh, Julie, it’s one of my favorites. I’m sure the other girls will absolutely love it.” Miss Baxter released her hold on me—if you can classify a finger laid across my chin as a hold—and I felt myself breathe just a little easier. “I’ll give you thirty minutes to get settled and then send someone ‘round to collect you for practicing.” I almost said okay again, but caught myself just in time. “Yes, Miss Baxter.” She turned and left me alone with my thoughts. I listened to the staccato rhythm her heels tapped out on the floor as she strode down the hall. Confidently, I thought. Miss Baxter certainly strode confidently. And while she was standing here with her finger touching my face, some of that confidence had seeped into me. But now that she was gone it was beginning to leak out again. I thought about the last time that I had played Für Elise. My senior year recital, before my parents got tired of my lackadaisical attitude about practicing, and informed me they were done burning money on piano lessons. And how after an equally lazy and booze-filled summer they told me they were no longer inclined to burn money on my college tuition either. And that left me here, unpacking my meager belongings in a tiny room at Miss Baxter’s home for wayward girls. It wasn’t actually called a home for wayward girls, that was something I invented myself when I first found out about the place. A friend of mine—one of the girls I used to hang out with while I was busy throwing my life down the drain, as my parents called it—she actually discovered the place first. That was at the beginning of the summer. She had already managed to get herself thrown out before I arrived in what was now August. I’m guessing that it was Miss Baxter’s rule number one that got her. I was determined not to make the same mistake. I may not be known for turning down a drink or two—or three—but I had never used drugs and had no intentions of starting now. Plus, for whatever reason, I couldn’t face the thought of disappointing Miss Baxter. I don’t know why. I certainly had no trouble disappointing my family at every turn, but somehow this woman I had known for a total of five minutes drew my respect. Maybe that was because of her rule number three—try your best. Not absolute perfection as everyone else in my life seemed to demand, but simply to try my best. That was something I could do. And if I were being honest with myself, that’s something I had been doing in the beginning—before I realized that the perfection that others demanded of me was unattainable and I quit trying all together. I pondered that thought as I unpacked my clothes and my iPod, the only things I brought with me. I had my phone too, but per the stipulation in Miss Baxter’s application, it was kept in her office and was available only when I left the house or for emergencies. Apparently, she didn’t want us girls with our noses buried in a screen at dinner. I had just begun contemplating the effects of internet withdrawal when I heard a light rapping on my door frame. I turned my eyes to spy a tall and lanky blonde sporting low-rise jeans and a babydoll T-shirt with ‘Got Snow?’ boldly printed across the front. She also had a faceful of the cutest freckles I’ve seen in a while. If ever there were a living incarnation of the sweet girl next door, this was her. She smiled and gave me a little wave. “Hi, I’m Anise. I’m here to collect you for your piano practice.” She held out her hand. “Julie,” I said, taking her hand in mine. Anise had a muscular grip that I hadn’t expected, especially with her slim build. I took another look and noticed the rippling muscles of her arms. Anise works out. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you to the parlor.” Anise led the way as I traipsed along behind. Miss Baxter’s boarding house has a parlor. Of course it does. At home we just have a living room, but even in the short time I had been here, I could already tell this place was going to be much different than home. As I followed Anise down the grand staircase to the parlor, her shirt had ridden up a little bit and that’s when I noticed a small bruise just barely peeking up from just above the waistband of her jeans. I found myself intrigued by the regular shape of it, more squared off than I would have expected. Not that I was an expert on bruises or anything, but there was something a little off about it. I was just thinking about whether it would be rude to ask her about it when Anise gave the hem of her shirt a tug and hid the bruise from view again. I flushed just a little when she turned and caught my eye, obviously connecting my stare to her injury. And then she did the oddest thing, Anise gave me a little wink right before she dropped her gaze and smiled. Odd, but I couldn’t give it any more thought. We had arrived in the parlor and Miss Baxter was there waiting for us, impeccably dressed, sitting at a beautiful baby grand and playing Für Elise, of all things. She stopped playing and rose to greet us. Anise got a thank-you-dear and a peck on the cheek before being dismissed, and I got my hand wrapped up in Miss Baxter’s as she led me over to the piano. “Please have a seat, my dear.” “Yes, Miss Baxter.” After I got over the absence of her hand—that curious lingering warmth that I had been enjoying probably more than I should—the first thing I noticed was the lack of any sheet music. Oh boy, I thought as I sat there frozen, wondering what to do. “Any time you’re ready, Julie.” “Um, Miss Baxter.” I frowned. “There’s no music.” I think that was the second time I witnessed the corners of her mouth turning downward ever so slightly. I wondered if she even realized that she did it, or if it was an entirely involuntary reaction. I quickly decided that there was probably very little that Miss Baxter did not do according to some sort of plan, even if that plan was lost on a girl like me. I’m sure her disappointment probably had its own list of three rules. And that brought my mind around to rule number three again. Try your best. I decided that I should at least try to pound out a few notes of Beethoven. It was my recital piece after all, it was probably still rattling around in my head somewhere as muscle memory. I just needed to get started. And if I messed up—well I didn’t think Miss Baxter would fault me for trying. “Yes, Miss Baxter.” I laid my hands on the keys and began to play, and to my surprise I made it through several bars before I began to lose my train of thought. Though I think some of that distraction may have been due to Miss Baxter’s hands on me—one on my shoulder and the other at the small of my back.