DREARY UNDERTONE

Chapter 17

Just a couple blocks north of the French Quarter, Treme is the place tourists are warned not to go, not in daylight and definitely not at night. I haven’t visited this area since I was a rebellious teen. I forgot about all the graffiti, boarded-up windows, and huddles of men on the street corners looking around like they’re hiding something. How does she live here and not get mugged every day?

She has nothing of value to steal.

Except her innocence. Though I’m certain that was stolen long ago. The niggling question is, how much damage was done? I understand her reactions to me, the looks of both fear and desire to please. They’re her natural reflexes to a dominant man. But layers of obscurity lie beneath her expressions, experiences that strengthened her and tolls that warped her. Not just an abusive brother or a dead father, but something else. Something traumatically s****l.

Anger plunges through my veins, spurring me toward her house and the unknowns that wait there.

I spot her street number on the weathered siding of a narrow shotgun building. The peeling white paint gives way to rotten wood, and the drooping roof over the porch doesn’t look safe enough to stand beneath. The houses are too crammed together to accommodate driveways, and there are no cars parked out front. No lights on inside. No movement in the windows. Unless she’s sitting in the dark, she’s not home.

On my way here, I envisioned the worst. But one could argue the house next to hers is much worse, the exterior veneered in scraps of plywood and the entire structure slanting on its foundation. Someone even spray-painted on the neighbor’s door: Home is a fleeting feeling I’m trying to fix.

As I idle in front of her house, imagining the dilapidated conditions within, a knot of unease forms in my gut. Maybe she doesn’t have electricity? If her mother’s unemployed, who pays the bills? Her brother?

I don’t linger, afraid Noemi will come home and notice my car. A few blocks away, I pull into a crowded parking lot, operating on a hunch and a perverse sense of curiosity.

The bluesy notes of a solo trumpeter vibrate through me as I amble into Tommy’s Piano Bar. I’ve never been here, but it’s not unlike the other seedy New Orleans bars I’ve frequented over the years. Grungy and cave-like, the scarce lighting and exposed brick walls give it a basement tavern feel. The kind of tavern men get shot in.

Where did her father die? Near the piano? Or over by high-top tables? Or right here, where I hover between the door and the bar?

This place sees its share of nosy tourists, so I’m not surprised no one spares me a glance. I scan the low-key crowd and zero in on the only other white guy. It’s too dark to make out details, but he appears to be close to my age with blond hair and a pale complexion. Matches the Google image I found of a young Tommy Carter on my way to Noemi’s house. Can I be this lucky?

Adjusting the curled brim of my favorite fedora lower on my head, I stroll toward the bar and wave down the bartender. “Is that Tommy’s son?”

She lifts her eyes to follow the direction of my nod, her white hair forming an ethereal glow around her dark complexion.

“Mm hmm.” She returns her attention to the drink she’s preparing. “That’s him, sugar.”

“Thanks.” Hooking my thumbs in my front pockets, I wander over to the half-circle booth and tower over his table.

A girl on each arm, he drags his gaze up my relaxed posture and locks on my face. “Do I know you?”

The shadowed corner of the booth obscures his expression, but his delayed movements and slurred speech are hard to miss. High or drunk, he’s probably too blitzed to remember me tomorrow.

“Are you Tommy’s kid?”

“Yyyyup.” He reaches for his beer, sloshing it on the table. “What of it?”

I want to tell him the reason I’m here, that I am what happens when he hurts his sister. But if I mention Noemi, he might retaliate against her.

Keeping my face angled away from the dim light, I bend over the table and slam my fist into his nose.

The girls fly apart and shoot out of the booth as his head falls back and lolls on his shoulders. The whites of his eyes roll and disappear behind his lids as his body slides down in the seat.

The blood from his nostrils forms twin rivers over his lip and splatters on his shirt. His intoxication probably has more to do with the knock-out than my nonexistent boxing skills. I hoped to see him writhe in agony but take pleasure in knowing he’ll wake to the throbbing pain of a broken nose.

The crowd doesn’t seem to have any allegiance to Tommy’s son, because no one makes a move to defend him as I stride toward the door. I know this is a rough neighborhood, but damn, they don’t even look my way when I slip out as inconspicuously as I entered.

A couple of minutes later, I find myself parked down the street from Noemi’s house with the engine off and my attention glued to her front door. She should’ve come home by now, but all is dark beyond the front and side windows. Where the f**k is she?

I consider leaving when an orange sportbike pulls up to her curb. The rider removes the helmet, revealing black hair and a dark complexion. Black or Latino? He’s too young to be dating Selene Carter. He f*****g better not be Noemi’s boyfriend.

I pitch forward against the steering wheel, craning my neck as he strolls to the porch and peers in the window. He doesn’t knock on the door and instead meanders into the narrow alley between the houses and disappears around back.

My nerves tighten. Is he a family friend? A cousin? A f*****g burglar? I type the bike’s license plate number in my phone, and a moment later, he emerges from the alley, puffing on a cigarette. A leg goes over the bike, helmet on, engine roars, and he’s gone without a glance in my direction.

That was weird.

I should go. I have no business here.

Thirty minutes later, I’m still telling myself that.

With each hoodlum that walks by, with every car that cruises down the street, my impatience multiplies, twisting through me with spastic fits and starts. Eleven o’clock on a school night, and she’s out there somewhere doing God knows what. I want to tie her to her bed and belt her for being so reckless. Where the hell is her mother?

This isn’t my problem. I reach for the ignition just as my phone beeps with a text message.

Rose: We still on for tonight?

When I messaged her between meetings while staring at Noemi’s tight body, I was raring to go. But now?

Me: Another time

Rose: I’ve been such a bad girl today. Spank me!

My c**k doesn’t even twitch.

Rose: I can pretend to be her again.

By her, she means Dalia. Only Dalia isn’t the her that’s f*****g with my head.

Me: You sound needy. The opposite of sexy.

Rose: *pouts*

Me: Also not sexy

Rose: I’m sorry, sir.

Me: You can make it up to me by moving forward on that favor I requested.

Rose: The GM guy?

Patricia Laurent’s husband, Martin, owns a chain of GM dealerships. I hear his business practices are as sleazy as his wife’s, but I’ve yet to confirm if he cheats on her. If anyone can seduce him, Rose can.

Me: Yes. Use discretion and pay attention to lighting. His face needs to be clear on the video.

Rose: Yes, sir.

Rose: I can’t change your mind about tonight?

Me: Good night, Rose.

What am I doing? Why am I here? To make sure she arrives home safely?

Fuck me, I just want to see her again. Just a glimpse before I face the emptiness of my house.

Ten minutes later, my wish materializes on the sidewalk up ahead. Even in the faint moonlight, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and the flare of her hips are distinguishable. Erotic. So goddamn captivating.

With my car tucked behind a truck, my whole body cants against the door panel to keep her within my sight.

Her long legs carry her toward her house, slowly, leisurely, her chin held high and shoulders relaxed. She’s not afraid here, not like she is in my classroom. How ironic given the dangerous neighborhood.

In the depraved innards of my soul, I thrill at being the thing she fears. I want to claim her apprehension, dread, and uncertainty. I want to take ownership of all of her emotions and be the sole reason she trembles and cries.

In that moment, I pretend I’m not her teacher. With my hand curled around the steering wheel and my shoulder pressed against the door, I watch a beautiful woman walk toward me. She’s strikingly exotic with her enormous eyes and long dark hair, so impossibly stunning I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from approaching her. I would pause a few feet away, hold her gaze, and let the malleable silence enfold us in an intimate cocoon. I wouldn’t need words, just her awareness of my body, my intent, and my confidence to give her what she craves.

She may not know it but she needs clearly-defined boundaries, discipline, and a man she can trust to push her beyond her comfort zone. She may not yet recognize me as that man, but she will. Then what?

Parked five houses away, I can’t focus on anything but her. What happens tomorrow when I sit beside her on the piano bench, breathing in the scent of her skin? How the f**k will I focus then?

With the engine off, the lack of air is stifling. My shirt is soaked through with sweat, the tie long-ago discarded. I’m burning up, antsy, aching for her. Horny as f**k.

She stops at the front door and unlocks it with a key from her satchel. Reaching in to flick on the interior lights, she doesn’t make it over the threshold before an orange cat races out. As it prances around her feet, throwing its body against her ankles, her words come back to me.