Page 20 of Dark Notes

Christ, this girl has baggage, and given the cut on her lip, it goes beyond Daddy issues. Physical abuse is easy to detect. Sexual trauma, however, is a huge leap. But I’m suspicious by nature and far too curious about her. Despite those bold sparks in her eyes, her posture has a tendency to curl inward in self-defense, evidence that someone in her past or present hurts her.

I want to dig around inside her, carve out the useful facets of her misery, and obliterate the rest. “He was your father, and you have your own life. Move on.”

A twitch bounces in her cheek. “I hate you.”

And I hate how badly I want to punish her mouth by shoving my cock in it. “You’ve succeeded in showing your immaturity, Miss Westbrook. If you want to remain a student under my tutelage, you will stop bellyaching like a schoolgirl and start behaving like an adult.”

She sniffs, shoulders squaring. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me.” She stares across the room, her gaze roaming the wall of instruments. “I’ve really screwed this up.”

“Look at me.”

She does, instantly.

The cloying perfume of her obedience licks along my skin. I want to bathe in it, taste it, and test it. “Why are you here? Because your father decided when you were ten that you would become a pianist?”

Her brows pull together. “No, this is my dream, too, and ‘I’m obliged to be industrious.’”

She can quote Bach. Good for her.

“What is your dream, exactly?” I open the file to the college acceptance section. “According to this, you have no goals, no ambitions. What are you going to do after high school?”

“What?” Outrage screeches through her voice. She launches across the desk and rips the page from my hand, her gaze flying over the empty columns. “Why is this blank? There must be some mistake. I’ve…I’ve… God! I’ve been adamant about—”

“Sit down!”

“Mr. Marceaux, this isn’t right. You have to listen…” Her voice weakens, trailing to frightened silence under the force of my gaze.

She lowers into the chair, face flushing and quivering hands rustling the paper.

I steeple my fingers against my chin. “Now tell me, in a calm voice, what you expected to see on that page.”

“I’m going to Leopold.”

Not a chance in hell.

Except the unwavering strength in her glare argues she has the determination to make it happen, and the lift of her chin challenges me to claim otherwise.

I accept that challenge. “You realize only three percent of the applicants are accepted each year? Dozens of your peers have applied, even though Leopold hasn’t accepted a Le Moyne student in three years. Maybe, just maybe, one of you will make it in next year.”

There’s no maybe about it. My mother still holds a seat on Leopold’s Board of Trustees and has the means to push one of my referrals through. I’m confident she’ll do it. For me.

However. While slipping one student application past the stringent acceptance process won’t raise suspicion, two would most definitely sound alarms and put my mother’s integrity in question. I would never ask that of her.

I lean back in the chair, flipping through the printouts to make sure I didn’t overlook notes on Ivory’s college goals. “You should’ve applied for the matriculation process by now. There’s nothing here indicating you have an interest in pursuing such an impossible venture.”

“Everything is possible, Mr. Marceaux.” She tosses the blank page on my desk. “And I did apply. Three years ago. In fact, Mrs. McCracken intended to refer me as the leading applicant.”

That explains why Beverly forced Barb McCracken into retirement and brought me here as her replacement. When I accepted the deal, I knew there would be students more worthy of my referral than Beverly’s son. But I didn’t expect to feel this much guilt tangling in my gut.

Ivory Westbrook poses a moral dilemma, and I haven’t even heard her play. Maybe her talent is mediocre, and I can shove this conflict of interest aside.

She stares at my tie, a fugue of thoughts flickering in her eyes. Long seconds pass. Somewhere down the hall, a clarinet plays in perfect key.

Finally, she meets my gaze. “My presence isn’t exactly wanted around here. I don’t wear the right clothes, drive the right car.” She laughs. “I don’t even have a car. And I certainly don’t bring endowments or glamorous connections. The only thing I have to offer is my talent. It should be enough. It should be the only thing that matters. Yet this school has been against me since day one.”

Nothing she said surprises me. She’s a little lost lamb among a pack of cutthroat wolves. So why doesn’t she aim a little lower? Try for an easier college and remove herself from the cross-hairs? Why Leopold?

I hold my expression impassive, deferring my questions until she’s finished.