DREARY UNDERTONE

Chapter 13

She touches the blank page and scoots it toward me. “Someone deleted my proposition for Lambert, along with all the prep work I’ve done to support my eligibility. Mrs. Wilson told me she put it all in my file. I don’t want to point fingers, but someone in this school doesn’t like me, and that someone has a son who is competing for my spot.”

Patricia Laurent wiped her file, a conclusion I’d already come to. “Why Lambert?”

“It’s the best conservatory in the country.”

“So?”

“So?” Her eyes light up. “The rigorous education students receive there is unparalleled. They have an elite faculty, top-notch facilities, and the best track record in propelling students into musical careers.” Ticking off names on her fingers, she lists notable alumni, such as world-renowned composers, conductors, and pianists, then adds, “And you, Mr. De la Croix. I mean, you’re in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra.”

I’m about to call her out for being a brown-noser, but then she surprises me.

“I don’t just want to perform.” She clasps her hands together, her gaze losing focus. “I want to occupy a principal chair in a major symphony and sit beside the best of the best, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights. I want to be there, part of it all, when the music begins.”

This isn’t a pitch she prepared in advance. The passion in her voice is a thousand decibels of intensity, her entire body vibrating with the prospect of her words.

She lowers her hands and meets my eyes. “Also, as you already know, every single student accepted into Lambert receives a full-tuition scholarship. Doesn’t matter who you are or what your background is…”

We share a look, and in that space of understanding, I mentally finish her sentence. Lambert has enough prestige and wealth that it doesn’t concern itself with student bank accounts. The school evaluates its applicants on talent alone.

“Very well.” I rub the back of my neck and hope to hell she’s a terrible pianist. “I’ll update your file, and we’ll go from there.”

Under normal circumstances, being best in her class would get her into Lambert. But Patricia hired me to ensure that wouldn’t happen. Lambert will accept Harry Laurent because I’ll make it happen. Everyone else from Le Montaigne will be overlooked. That sucks for Noemi, but life’s a b***h.

“Thank you.” She smiles, her posture loosening.

“We have one more matter to discuss.”

I tuck the file away, rise from the chair, and walk around the desk to sit on the ledge beside her, facing her.

With her legs pinched together, she stacks her feet—one bare foot atop the other—against the leg of my desk. I scan the floor and spot her beat-up shoes beneath her chair. I suspect the torn plastic edges irritate her skin after wearing them all day.

When she looks up, I place a finger beneath her chin, holding the position of her head. “What happened to your lip?”

As expected, she tries to lower her chin. An evasive response. Every instinct in my body tells me someone hurt her.

I apply a small yet unmistakable pressure against her soft skin. “Stand up.”

Her breaths quicken as she lifts from the chair, guided by my touch beneath her jaw.

When she reaches her full height, I drop my hand. “I asked you a question, and before you answer, remember what I said about lies.”

She presses her lips together.

I try another tactic. “As your teacher, I’m a mandated reporter. Do you know what that means?”

Her eyes, like liquid ebony, blink. She’s distressingly beautiful, and I’m so f****d.

I unfold from my perch on the desk. Standing over her, I’m a head taller and a lot bigger. “It means I’m required to report suspected child maltreatment to protective services.”

“No!” Her fingers fly to the cut on her lip. “You don’t need to do that. My brother…he and I got into it this morning, like siblings do. It’s totally normal.”

Normal? I don’t think so. “How old is he?”

She leans a hip against the edge of the desk, a casual pose, but she’s not fooling me. “He’s twenty-six.”

Twenty-six is ten years past knowing better. If the fucker hit her, I won’t report him. I’ll find him and break his f*****g face. “Did he hit you?”

“He…uh, well, we were arguing and uh…” She picks her words carefully, forehead pinched in concentration, no doubt trying to avoid a lie. “I ended up eating the frame of a door.”

“Did. He. Hit you?”

She releases a breath. “He backhanded me. This”—she points at her lip—“was the door frame.”

A raging fire erupts inside me, rushing to the surface and searing across my skin. “How often?”

She hugs her midsection, eyes on the floor, further enraging me.

“Answer me!”

“Don’t do this. I can’t…I have enough problems to deal with right now.”

“Lift your shirt.” What am I doing? f**k, this is a bad idea, but I have to know. “Show me your ribs.”

She peers around me, her eyes locked on the hall.

“If someone walks by, they can’t see around my body.” I bend my knees, putting my face in hers. “I’m required to hotline you, Miss Carter. Prove to me you’re not covered in bruises, and I won’t make a report.”

I’ll beat the s**t out of her brother instead.

Her fingers grip the hem of her shirt, her expression tight, eyes squeezed shut. She’s so still I’m not sure she’s breathing.

“This is just an examination, for your own good. Nothing inappropriate.” It’s illegal as f**k, but I can’t stop myself. “I’m waiting.”

She directs her gaze on the buttons of my waistcoat, up to the knot of my tie, lingering there, before she drags her focus upward in a painfully slow trip over my mouth. When she connects with my eyes, a sharp hum rattles in the back of her throat.

Then she raises her shirt.

He’s a teacher. He won’t hurt me.

Slowly, shakily, I gather the hem of the shirt above my navel.

He’s just doing his job.

Goosebumps shiver across my skin from the unwavering press of his glare, the rush of my heartbeat, and the chilly air as I inch the cotton higher, baring my ribs.

He promised nothing inappropriate.

So why does this feel so wrong?

It is wrong.

I shove the shirt down and turn to collect my belongings. His hand catches my upper arm, fingers digging in as he swings me back into position. “Show me or I’ll report the injury.”

His voice ricochets through my skull, sharp and uncompromising. If he reports me, I could lose my home, my education, and my cat. And Jeremy… God, my brother would strike back with a wrath of pain.

My stomach quivers as I lift the shirt. He releases my arm as I hold the fabric beneath the weight of my breasts and meet his eyes.

All I see is blue ice, an endless arctic landscape, like I’m staring into an unknown world.

His nostrils flare, and the muscles in his face harden with emotions I don’t understand. I’m not hiding anything. Nothing under my shirt anyway. Other than the cut on my lip, Jeremy hasn’t left a scratch on me since the night I walked in on him f*****g some poor girl on the couch—on my bed. Failing to knock on my own front door earned me a nasty bruise on my stomach. But Mr. De la Croix won’t find that. The discoloration faded last week.

He lowers into a squat, his glacial gaze traveling over my torso, the low waistband of my skirt, then dropping to the knee-length hem. “Now raise your skirt.”

I snap my attention toward the doorway and the empty hall beyond. His bent position puts him eye-level with my pelvis, his body no longer shielding me from hallway traffic. The final bell rang an hour ago, but lots of kids stay after for private lessons. Even now, the legato of a clarinet sings down the hall.

Anyone can walk by and assume the worst. Here I am, the resident slut, flashing my body for the teacher.

The cold floor beneath my bare feet makes me feel even more naked. I wish I hadn’t slipped my shoes off during our meeting. “There’s no privacy. Someone might see me.”

“That’s for me to worry about.” His arms drape over his bent knees, his strong hands flexing in the V of his thighs. “I won’t give the order again.”

I shove the blouse down and cover my stomach. Now the skirt? Holy smokes, what should I do? Physically, he’s in an unusual position for a man, lower than me, his face below my waist. More vulnerable, right? Yet he’s still trying to take in a way. I could knee him in the nose and run. But I’m not sure I need to. Or want to.

Shit. I curl my fingers around the front of the skirt, bunching and lifting until my legs are exposed to mid-thigh.

“Higher.”

I raise the hem another inch. Surely he can see my legs shaking? How high does he want me to go?

“Higher.”

His voice whispers roughly into the foot of space separating his face and my thighs. His hands are right there, too, dangling between us, close enough to grab me between the legs if that’s his plan. A slight tremble twitches through his fingers, and my muscles tighten.

But he’s a teacher. He’s not allowed to touch me.

As his student, I’m supposed to trust him and do what he tells me.

I wad the loose material of the skirt against the crotch of my panties and cup my hand there, giving him a full view of my legs without revealing too much. “What are you looking for?”

“Widen your stance.”

I slide my feet out, wobbling with the effort.

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Good girl.”

His praise wraps around me like a warm hug. I can’t remember the last time someone embraced me without hurting me, but if Mr. De la Croix spends the next nine months calling me a good girl, I might never need a hug again.