DREARY UNDERTONE

Chapter 19

Questions about her financial situation marinate in the back of my mind for the next few hours. A beautiful young girl like her, from a neighborhood like Treme, has a slew of undesirable methods to earn fast money. Drugs and prostitution fall on the top of that list, but I refuse to imagine her degrading herself in that way. It’s too appalling.

When the final bell rings, the piano students exit the classroom, except Noemi, who sets her belongings on a desk by the door and looks at me expectantly. “Don’t the others have private lessons?”

“Nicholas Fischer and William Durand have their own tutors at home.”

“I know.” Her forehead pinches. “But Alex and Maya always take advantage of the lessons here.”

“They opted to study under Mrs. Bruno’s tutelage.”

I planted the suggestion in my meetings with Alex and Maya yesterday, hinting that the other piano instructor had some openings after school, and her softer approach may be a good match for them. It’s partially true. Mrs. Bruno teaches the younger grades and already has her hands full. But she works for me, and therefore, I determine her schedule.

Noemi’s lips part as she considers the news. “Does that mean I’ll have you all to myself from three to seven every day?”

Fuck me, but I love the sound of that.

Her eyes widen. “Oh damn, I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant, and yes, I’ll be mentoring you.”

As a general rule, I prefer to groom only one or two students at a time. Though my intentions with Noemi have little to do with her personal development. When it comes to torturing myself, I’m the dean of effort, hell-bent on enduring the entire school year with achingly sore blue balls.

I close the door and make my way around the corner of the L-shaped room. Leaning a hip against the Bösendorfer grand piano, I wait for her to join me then rap my knuckles on the sleek black surface. “Four hours every day.”

An enormous grin overwhelms her beautiful mouth. “I won’t waste your time.”

“No, you won’t.” I could stare at her twenty-four hours a day and feel like the most productive pervert in the world. But if I don’t eradicate those thoughts from my head, our time together will be over before it begins. “Did you practice last night?”

“Of course.”

She doesn’t tense up, change her breathing, or convey vulnerability in any way. She’s telling the truth, which might explain her whereabouts last night.

“Where did you practice?” Realizing that implies I know she wasn’t home, I rephrase the question. “You own a piano?”

“Not anymore.” Her dark brown hair escapes the curve of her ear and falls over her shoulder. She gathers it at the bend of her neck and twists it into a rope down her chest. “My mom sold my dad’s piano after he died.”

My dad’s, not Daddy’s. I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my satisfaction.

“There’s a music store down the street from my house.” Facing me, she braces an elbow on the edge of the piano and mirrors my position. “The owner lets me practice on his Steinway until eleven every night.”

Which coincides with the time she came home. So why can’t I shake the feeling she’s leaving something out?

Because she’s not looking at me. She’s toying with the ends of her hair, and wherever her thoughts just drifted, she’s distracted to silence.

I touch a finger to her chin, lifting it to recapture her attention. “Time to finish our earlier conversation.”

Her lips thin.

“Who asked you for an inappropriate favor?”

She turns away and lowers onto the piano bench. “No lies?”

“I don’t mentor liars, Miss Carter.”

She nods, her expression grim. “The truth is, I need your help.” Her hands run over the keys without depressing them. “With this. Mastering the piano.” She stretches her fingers. “I’m the best pianist in this school, you know.”

“Is that right?”

She peers up at me through her lashes. “I may even be better than you.”

My stomach swoops in the presence of her tantalizing smile. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“You’re right.” She studies her fingers on the keys. “I have a lot to learn. But with the right teacher and enough focus, I’ll be out of here at the end of the year. Out of Treme. This is the most honesty I can give you, Mr. De la Croix.” She pulls her hands into her lap and stares up at me with pleading eyes. “If you focus on the other stuff in my life, the things not related to my talent, it will hurt my future. And if you involve social services, every opportunity I have here will be taken away.”

She’s all but admitting I won’t like what I find when I poke around in her affairs. I have no intention of involving social services, and she doesn’t need to know the extent to which I’m capable of investigating a person.

But I prefer to hear it from her. “Answer the question.”

“I can’t. Please.”

That’s all it takes. The seductive sound of her begging in one breathy syllable and she owns every nerve in my body. I want to hear that sound as she kneels to me, releases me from my pants, and guides me toward her mouth.

Get a grip, asshole.

It’s clear she won’t tell me who’s taking advantage of her, but I’ll find out.

“All right.” I flick a hand toward the piano. “Play for me.”

She adjusts the bench, slides off her tattered shoes, and positions her toes on the pedals. With her palms on her knees, she gives me her attention. “Baroque? Classical? Jazz?”

“Surprise me.”

Eyes on the keyboard, she steadies her breathing. A current of serenity seems to float through her as her posture loosens and her face softens. Then her hands lift, her head bows over the keys, and f*****g hell, her fingers fly. The concerto she chose is pure insanity, a high tempo complexity of too many notes. Balakirev’s Islamey is one of the most challenging cadenzas in the whole classical piano repertoire, and she plays it like an expert.

She’s a tornado of whipping wrists, violent fingers, and rocking hips. Her chin sways, head jerking on the hard-hitting beats, her expression a picture of intense focus. But my critical ear doesn’t miss the slips when she hits the chords with too much force, speeds up too fast, and plays all the sixteenth notes like eighth note triplets.

This is why I don’t play the piece. I mastered it in college, but it’s a goddamn nightmare. The difficulty and awkwardness in positioning the fingers, the left hand hopping over the right, and at the end of eight minutes, it leaves me drenched in sweat. Besides, I’m not a fan of classical interpretation, which is ironic since I hold a seat in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra.

Despite Noemi’s minimal mistakes, she brilliantly manipulates the rhythmic flexibility within the measures while following the rubrics with her own artistic convictions. I find myself exhaling with her at the end of every phrase and bending closer as she falls on strong beats, completely mesmerized by the leap of her hands. She breathes life into the notes, beams, and bar lines, making it the best performance I’ve heard on this piece.

She finishes with a sweep of her arms and releases a silent sigh. Perspiration dots along her hairline, and her hands tremble in her lap.

A long moment passes before she drags her gaze to mine and clears her throat. “Well?”

“You hit the notes too hard. Your rubato is rough, too fast. Way too many mistakes.”

She nods, her shoulders slumping.

“This is an instrument, Miss Carter, not a gun. You’re making music, not shooting notes at the audience.?”

“I know,” she says quietly. “Projection is an art, one I’m still…trying to…” Her chin quivers, and tears sheen her eyes before she looks away and whispers under her breath, “Shit.”

If she requires an instructor who gives praise just to balance the criticism, she has the wrong guy. I’m a d**k, and like I told her yesterday, I respect constructive feedback. I’m also not finished with my appraisal.

I approach the piano bench and move to sit, forcing her to make room. She scoots to the edge, the seat barely holding the two of us. Our shoulders, hips, and thighs touch, and it’s not accidental. I want her to feel every contact point and learn to trust it. To trust me.

“What did I say about sniveling?”

Her shoulders snap back, and she stares straight ahead, her voice reedy. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I…I got a little overwhelmed there. I guess I wanted you to—”

“Stop talking.”

She presses her lips together.

I shift to face her, and the position pushes the length of my thigh against hers. The heat from her leg seeps into mine, and I fold my hands together in my lap to keep from reaching out and inching up the hem of her dress. “I didn’t develop the skill to even attempt Islamey until college, and I couldn’t play it all the way through until my final year of graduate school.”

Her eyes flash to mine, huge and round and brimmed with moisture.

I cup the delicate curve of her jaw and swipe my thumb to catch a tear. “Very few people can play that piece. In fact, Balakirev admitted there were passages in his composition even he couldn’t manage.”

She leans into my hand, seemingly unaware she’s doing it as she clings to my words.

“Your interpretation is extraordinarily passionate and stunning.” Just like you. “I’m moved.”

Her breaths come faster, heaving her chest. “Oh Jesus, for real? I’m—” More tears fall from her eyes, and she pulls away to wipe her face. “Dammit, I’m not sniveling. I swear.”

“Why did you choose it?”

“Islamey?”

“Yes.”

She gazes up at me with a relieved smile. “The owner of the music store I told you about, the one where I practice? His name is Liam and—”