DREARY UNDERTONE

Chapter 8

Her bottom lip is, indeed, cut and swollen. She sucks it between her teeth as her shoulders make a slow decent to self-assurance. Then she raises her chin and meets my eyes. “Noemi Carter.”

Noemi. That conjures an image of paleness with hard, worn edges like piano keys or teeth. Doesn’t fit her at all. She’s a dark portrait of soft curves and chestnut hair with deep golden skin that seems to absorb shadows in the room I hadn’t noticed until now.

Fuck, I’m definitely going out and getting laid tonight.

“Miss Carter, find a seat with fewer distractions.” I point toward the girls.

Noemi’s enormous doe eyes stare up at me, as if caught in the glare of stage lights. She blinks, glances at the girls, and looks down at her desk when they cast her uninviting sneers. That answers my question about her seating choice.

“I’m not here to indulge in your sensibilities.” I slam a hand on her desk, making her jump. “Move.”

With a ragged inhale, she grabs her satchel and walks toward the snickering girls, her gait leaden yet determined.

Every male in the room watches her stride along the front row of desks, and I don’t have to follow suit to know what they see. Stripper-pole legs, t**s almighty, and a high, round ass that flexes with each step.

The primitive, hungry part of me wants to join in their appreciation while the protective part wants to cover her with an over-sized coat. Instead, the disciplinarian takes over and lands an admonishing smack on the back of the closest juvenile head.

Nicholas flinches and casts me a startled look. “What was that for?”

I pluck his phone from his hand and toss it in the vicinity of my desk. It overshoots, slides off the other side, and hits the floor.

The rest of the room erupts in a flurry, shoving phones into pockets and bags. Everyone except Noemi. Hands folded together on the desk and no phone in sight, she watches me with a guarded expression.

Nicholas plays with a clump of his over-oiled hair. “If you broke my phone…”

I arch my eyebrow, my tone hard. “Go on.”

He shrugs. “My dad will buy me a new one.”

Of course, and it would be hypocritical of me to condemn this kid for being an entitled prick. I was no different at his age, with wealthy parents and an inflated sense of self-importance. Hell, I’m still a prick, only now I’m held accountable for my actions.

I move to the front of the room, hands clasped behind my back. “Welcome to twelfth-grade Music Theory. I’m Mr. De la Croix, and I’ll be your music director for your last year here at Le Montaigne Academy. After this class, you’ll head to your master classes in specific disciplines. Piano students will remain with me. Before we begin, what do you want to know about me?”

The Asian girl who Noemi chose to sit by raises her hand.

I gesture toward her. “Introduce yourself, please.”

She stands beside her desk. “Leah Wu. Baio.” She bounces on her toes. “What’s your background?”

I give her a nod and wait until she settles in her seat. “I hold a Master of Music from Lambert Conservatory of New York. I’m a member of the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra. And my most recent employment was Head of School at Coventry Preparatory, where I also directed the music program.”

Harry makes a show of stretching and smiling. Then he nonchalantly tosses an arm in the air and speaks without my prompt. “What are you, like…twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?” His voice drawls with antagonism. “How did you get a master’s, do the teaching thing and become dean, all in such a short amount time? What’s up with that, Mr. D?”

I worked my f*****g ass off, you lazy little cocksucker.

And to think, in one hasty slide of a zipper, I lost it all, including something I never set out to have, which ended up being the only thing that mattered.

The very thought of Dalia sitting behind my desk in Coventry makes my rib cage vibrate with rage. But imagining her continuing her life without me evokes a toxic fume of poison so invasive I can smell the betrayal with every choking breath.

I slowly roll my neck, clearing my thoughts and reining myself in. “I received my undergrad early and taught high school in Manhattan while I worked on my master’s. Any other questions?”

Noemi raises her hand.

“Yes?”

She remains seated, doesn’t fidget, and her dark gaze hones directly into mine. “You play piano? I mean, of course you do, since you’ll be my tutor. But you play piano in the Symphony Orchestra?”

Christ, her voice… It’s not lazy and high-pitched like girls her age. It’s complex and entrancing, like raindrops at midnight.

“Yes, I play piano in the Orchestra.”

Her smile is a slow-building nocturne, a tranquil expansion from her mouth to her eyes. “Solo?”

“Sometimes.”

“Wow.”

Not only am I shocked by her line of questioning, but the reverent way she’s looking at me makes my goddamn skin hum. I don’t like it. I’m proud of my achievements, but not when that lofty feeling distracts me from my hard-earned bitterness.

I dismiss the remaining raised hands with a sharp tone. “Open your Music Theory books to chapter three. We’re going to jump right into…” My attention snags on Noemi as the entire room follows my directive except her. “Do you need a hearing aid, Miss Carter?”

“No.” She drops her hands in her lap and meets my gaze head-on. “My other teachers gave me the week to buy my books.”

“Do I look like your other teachers?”

“No, Mr. De la Croix.” A female voice pipes up in the back. “You definitely do not.”

A chorus of giggles follows, and irritation curls my fingers.

I swipe my text book from my bag and drop it on her desk. “Chapter three.” I lean in, putting my face in hers. “Try to keep up.”

She blinks rapidly. “Yes, sir.”

Her whispered response strums at a pulsating, destructive, very adult hunger deep inside me. My skin heats, and my palms slick with sweat.

Jesus, I’m going to need a screaming-hard f**k tonight. Leather, rope, and chafing strokes. No safe words. No clingy aftercare. Anna or Rose will do. Maybe both.

Focus, Luka.

“Take out your tablets and open a browser to my website.” With my back to the class, I continue talking while scrawling the url on the whiteboard. “You’ll find all my lectures here. I expect you to follow along.”

When I face the room, Noemi hasn’t moved to follow my directions.

I feel a vein throbbing in my forehead and anchor my fists on my hips. “Let me guess. No tablet?”

“She can sit here,” Harry says, patting his lap, “and share mine.”

She clenches her jaw and flips him off.

I waver between wanting to punch Harry’s face and whip Noemi’s perfect ass. Neither is a lawful option, and the latter boils my blood just for thinking it.

My focus dips to her lips for a breath too long before I address the class. “Read the chapter and answer the questions at the end of the lecture.”

I curl a finger at Noemi in a follow-me gesture. “I’ll see you in the hall.”

I follow Mr. De la Croix out of the classroom, my mouth dry and hands damp. As the door clicks shut behind him, my insides writhe under the barrage of a thousand fists.

He’s not a huge man, but he seems gigantic in the empty hall, a towering pissed-off mountain of repercussion.

If my future depends on his first impression of me, I’ve f****d my life to hell.

He rubs a hand down his face, over his mouth, and glares at me for an eternity. “You come to my class unprepared and—”

“I cleared the text book issue with the front office. They always give me the first week to—”

“Do not interrupt me,” he says harshly and leans in, bracing a hand on the wall beside my head.

A rush of blood heats my cheeks beneath the intimidating blue of his gaze. His mouth is so close I can smell the lingering scent of cinnamon gum on his breath, and my stomach turns with unease.

“Are you deliberately trying to waste my time?” His jaw hardens. “No sniveling excuses or lies. You have five words to explain why you don’t have your supplies.”

Five words? Is this guy serious? He can eat a d**k, because I’m only giving him four.

“I live in Treme.”

“Treme,” he echoes, deadpanned.

I hate how stiff and uncomfortable I feel in the confines of his glare. I want him to look away, because I hate his eyes, hate the vivid facets of sapphire and the way the icy specks sharpen under the fluorescent lights. Nothing could ever be gentle or safe in that gaze.

His throat moves in the deep pocket of shadow above his tie. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you live in Treme?”

He doesn’t just ask the question. He snaps it like a whip. Like a punishment I didn’t earn.

I’m only inches away from him, my back against the wall, and I feel defensive, cornered, my hackles bristling with vindication. “Oh, right. I forgot you have a big fancy degree, so I’ll dumb it down for you.”

“Watch your f*****g tone.”

It’s barely a whisper, caught and held in the small space between us, but I feel it vibrate through me like a thunderous roar.

He said no sniveling excuses or lies? Fine.

I wipe the attitude from my voice and give him raw, unpolished honesty. “I live in Treme because my family can’t afford a mansion in the Garden District, Mr. De la Croix. I can’t afford a cell phone or any kind of phone. I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat. And those…those electronic bracelets all my classmates wear when they work out? I don’t know what they do, but I can’t afford one of those, either. And right now, I don’t have the money for school supplies. But I will. I’ll have it by the end of the week.”

Straightening, he steps back and lowers his head. Is that a f*****g smile he’s hiding? I swear to God I glimpsed one. Is he actually enjoying the pathetic appraisal of my life? What a horrible f*****g person! This is the teacher I’m supposed to look up to? The one who will make me or break me? My lungs heave and slam together.