Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
By the time the last bell blares and the classroom empties, I’ve become so sensitive to the flashes of fire in his eyes he doesn’t have to tell me to remain seated. The moment we’re alone, he paralyzes me with a single glance. A silent command. Don’t move.
With strong, measured strides, he approaches my desk, grips the outer edges, and bends over the short distance, invading my space in that predatory way he does.
He looks at me, I look at him, and a woozy tingle sweeps through my limbs.
“Mr. Marceaux?” Jesus, my heart is going to beat right out of my chest. “What are you doing?”
“Tell me about Prescott Rivard.”
My heart stops in its tracks. “Sorry?”
He slams a fist on the desk, and the echo bangs in tune with the low D of his timbre. “Answer me!”
My shoulders curl forward, and my throat seals shut. Did he find out? I’m supposed to meet Prescott again tonight. What if that fucking prick told on me? But why would he? Prescott would be just as screwed as me.
Play it cool. Mr. Marceaux doesn’t know anything.
“Prescott’s my biggest competitor for Leopold. But I’m better—”
“Not that.” His voice evens into a calm tessitura. “Tell me about your relationship with him outside of school.”
I open my mouth to form a lie, but the words don’t come. I can’t be dishonest with him. I don’t know why. So I settle on the simple truth. “I hate him.”
“Why?”
“He drives around in his fancy car, wearing his too-good-for-everyone smile and being his tampon-ish self.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Tampon-ish?”
“Yes. Like a tampon. A used, gross, sticky…tampon.”
He rubs a hand over his mouth, staring at me like I’m speaking another language. Dropping his hand on the desk, he narrows his eyes. “Explain what you mean.”
“You really want me to—? Okay, fine. A tampon is repulsive. It bulges and expands with blood. It drips all over the place and smells bad and—”
“Stop. Why is Prescott repulsive?”
“You have to ask?”
He straightens, tucks his fingers in his front pockets, and for the first time in weeks, gives me a half-smile. “No, I guess I don’t.”
Silence wraps around us, but it’s not quiet. The air is so charged and full of heartbeats I get lost in the music that thrums between us. The look in his eyes… My God, it’s overwhelmingly sexual. Not in an I-want-to-fuck-you way. He’s probably thinking that, but his gaze exudes the kind of sensuality that promises more, like if we spent the rest of eternity just sharing eye contact, it would be intimate and mind-blowing and perfect, with or without sex.
It’s a concept I struggle to comprehend. Just thinking about sex with him twists me up in a conflicted heap. But I don’t need to understand or analyze it. I feel it.
The cadence of our breaths plays a soft song of want and hunger and desire in the background, and while those sexual undertones aren’t necessary in our silent communication, they add rhythm and flavor to the heart of our music.
“Mr. Marceaux?” I rub my palms on my thighs, holding his gaze, and whisper, “You’re sharing your notes.”
Lines form on his forehead as he grips the back of his neck. “What?”
“I feel your notes. Here.” I touch my breastbone, my voice shaking. “They’re dark and hypnotic, like your breaths and your heartbeats.”
He takes a step back, then another step, and another. Distance doesn’t matter. I still hear him. Still feel him. He’s inside me.
Turning away, he wanders through the front of the room, zigzagging, switching directions, as if he doesn’t know where he’s going. He ends up at his desk, fumbling with his laptop.
“You’re working on Prokofiev’s Concerto No.2 today,” he says with his back to me. “Go get warmed up.”
Damn. That’s such an intense piece that requires an incredible amount of focus. Is that why he chose it? To distract me?
Disappointment burrows into my chest as I stand from the desk and follow his order.
For the next four hours, I endure his swatting hands and harsh criticism of my piano performance, all the while regretting telling him about the way he makes me feel. I should’ve focused first on preparing and nurturing those words before chucking them out, half-formed, into the winds of his volatility, with the ridiculous hope it would snag and hold his affection for me.
He sends me home at seven o’clock, not a minute after, with an immutable and heart-breaking, “Good night, Miss Westbrook.”
Only I can’t go home. Thirty-minutes later, I’m sitting in the vacant lot in the projects in the back seat of Prescott’s Cadillac, watching him roll on a condom for the seventh time since school started.
I can do this. As long as he doesn’t fuck my ass—something he’s never attempted—I’ll endure. I always do.
“I’m not supposed to be here.” He reaches under my skirt.