DREARY UNDERTONE

Chapter 6

“Holy mother of God, I missed that ass.”

I snap straight, smile gone and my body too stiff to turn toward the voice that makes my shoulders hike around my ears. “What do you want, Harry?”

“You. Naked. Wrapped around my dick.”

My stomach caves in, and a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I straighten my spine. “I have a better idea. How about you tuck your d**k between your legs, dance like Buffalo Bill, and go f**k yourself.”

“You’re so nasty,” Harry says with a smile in his voice as he prowls into my line of sight.

He stops an appropriate distance away, but not far enough. I step back.

His long hair stops at his jawline, the blond strands bleached by the Caribbean sun or wherever he spends his summers. If his tie and button-up are stifling him in this heat, he doesn’t show it as he takes his time unnerving me with his wandering gaze.

I don’t understand why the girls at Le Montaigne fight over him. His nose is too long, his front tooth is crooked, and his tongue squirms like a worm whenever he shoves it in my mouth.

“Jesus, Noemi.” His focus zeroes in on my chest, burning my skin beneath the top. “Your t**s grew another cup size over the summer.”

I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “If you’re asking for my help this year, try again.”

His eyes remain locked on my chest, his long fingers tightening around his sack lunch. “I want you.”

“You want me to do your homework.”

“That, too.”

The huskiness in his voice makes me shiver. I wrap my arms around my chest, hating how noticeable my boobs are, hating the way he flagrantly stares at them, hating that I depend on him.

His gaze finally lifts, landing on my mouth. “What happened to your lip? Catch it on a c**k ring?”

I shrug. “It was a really big…ring.”

His expression darkens with jealousy, and I hate that, too.

“You should get one.” I tilt my head at the forced sound of his laughter. “Why not? It increases the pleasure.” I don’t know anything about piercings, but I can’t pass up the dig. “If you had one, you might actually make a girl come.”

His strained laugh cuts off with a cough. “Wait, what?” His eyes harden. “I make you come.”

Sex with him is a lot like removing a tampon. A quick tug that leads to a repulsive mess, one I discard from my mind until it has to be done again. I don’t bother telling him this. He can see it all in my glare.

“That’s bullshit.” He charges forward, crossing the boundary of what onlookers would consider friendly conversation.

When he reaches for my arm, I glance up at the Campus Center building and find the empty window of the dean’s office. “Your mom’s watching.”

“You’re a lying bitch.” He doesn’t look up, but his hand drops.

“If you want my help, I’m going to need an advance.”

He barks out a disgusted laugh. “Hells no.”

“Suit yourself.” I take off at a sprint, keeping to the grass along the track where it doesn’t burn my bare feet.

It only takes a couple seconds for Harry’s long legs to catch up. “Hang on, Noemi.” Sweat forms on his face as he jogs beside me in his collared shirt. “Will you just stop for a minute?”

I slow my strides, anchor my fists on my hips, and wait for him to catch his breath.

“Look, I don’t have any cash on me right now.” He pulls at the pockets of his slacks. “But I’ll pay you tonight.”

Tonight. My stomach buckles, but I smile through it and pluck the sack lunch out of his hand. “This will do until then.”

Lunch is the only advance I needed anyway. He has an unlimited balance in the cafeteria, so it’s not like he’ll go hungry.

He looks at my bare feet, at the paper bag in my hand, and pauses on my busted lip. For a guy who struggles with algebra, he’s not stupid. More like disinterested. Disinterested in my problems. Disinterested in the curriculum.

None of us are here to study quadratic equations or cell biology. We came for the arts program, to dance, to sing, to play our instruments, and to get accepted at the music conservatory of our choosing. Harry would rather devote his time to f*****g and playing classical guitar, not writing a history report en Français. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to bother with academic coursework. Not when he can pay me to do it for him.

He isn’t the only entitled prick at Le Montaigne, but I limit my services to those with the biggest wallets and the most to lose. We all know the risks. If one of us goes down, we all go down. Unfortunately, my little circle of cheaters is largely made up of Harry and his friends.

And sometimes they take more than they pay for.

I peer into the lunch sack, salivating at the sight of roast beef on crusty bread, grapes, and chocolate cookies. “Tonight where?”

“The usual.”

Which involves picking me up ten blocks from school, parking his car in a vacant lot, and doing a lot more than homework. But I’m the one who established the rules. No swapping homework assignments on school property or public places. It’s too risky, especially with the way the dean watches her son.

“See you in class.” He strides away, his attention locked on the dean’s window and the shadowed silhouette within.

He swears she doesn’t suspect anything, but she’s been gunning against me since she stepped in as Mother Superior my sophomore year. Maybe it’s my slutty reputation or lack of wealth. Or maybe it’s my choice of college.

Lambert Conservatory of New York is the most selective university in the country and only accepts one Le Montaigne musician each year. That is, if they accept any of us at all. Dozens of my peers have applied, including Harry, but Mrs. Wilson said I’m the best. I’m the one she was going to recommend. Which makes me Harry’s biggest competitor. At least, I was. Without her referral, I may very well be back to square one.

Curled up beneath a tree, I devour Harry’s lunch and convince myself not to worry about him. De la Croix will like me. He’ll see that I deserve the spot. And tonight… Tonight, I won’t get in Harry’s car. We can go over his assignments on the sidewalk, and if he has a problem with that, I’ll leave. Let him fail his coursework and drop out of the running for Lambert. I’ll find another slacker to make up for the loss in income.

As I run the three-mile track that winds around the tree-covered property, I strengthen my mind and body with the solidity of that plan.

When the five-minute warning bell rings through the buildings, I’m showered, dressed, and weaving through the crowds in Crescent Hall, my stomach lurching into a roil.

All you need is a moment.

Liam’s confidence in me lightens my steps, but it’s the memory of Daddy’s energy that lifts my lips. If he were in my shoes, walking the halls he dreamed about, he would’ve been humming with unrestrained enthusiasm and gratefulness. I can feel it, his infectious dynamism, pumping my blood and hurrying my strides as I enter Room 1A, the same music room I was in last year.

An impressive display of brass, string, and percussion instruments line the far wall. Six or so of my fellow musicians gather around the desks at the center of the huge L-shaped space. If I walked around the corner, I would see the Bösendorfer grand piano in the alcove. But my attention snags on the man in the front of the room.

Perched on the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, he watches the congregation of students with a brooding, irritated expression. Thank God he hasn’t noticed me yet, because I can’t seem to unglue my feet from the floor or look away.

He’s unexpectedly young, not student young but perhaps my brother’s age. His profile is ruggedly sculpted, his jaw cleanly shaved, yet so dark I suspect the sharpest razor doesn’t scrape away the shadow.

The longer I stare, the more I realize it’s not his face that looks youthful. It’s his style, so unlike other teachers with their conservative suits and modest demeanors.

It’s the way his black hair is arranged, short on the sides, long and messy on top, like a shove of his fingers left it falling across his brow in perfect chaos. His long legs appear to be encased in dark jeans, but closer scrutiny confirms he’s wearing slacks that are cut like jeans. The sleeves of his plaid button-up roll up to the elbows, and his tie has a different plaid design, which doesn’t match but somehow totally works. His brown fitted waistcoat is the kind a man wears beneath a suit jacket. Except there is no jacket.

His overall look is casual cosmopolitan, professional with personality, challenging the dress code without violating it.

“Take a seat.” His booming voice reverberates through the room, jarring my insides, but it’s not directed at me.

I exhale a moment of relief before he swivels toward me. His blue eyes move first, followed by his whole body. His hands grip the edge of the desk as his face comes into full view. Sweet merciful f**k, words like shockingly pretty dilute the effect of his image. Yeah, the first glimpse is a shock, but it’s not just his attractiveness. It’s his presence, his projection of self-assurance and command that makes me feel disoriented, breathless, and really f*****g weird deep in my core.

He stares at me for an eternal second, expressionless, and his dark eyebrows pull into a V.