Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels Read online

  Her illusion of control makes it damn hard to keep my proverbial teeth sheathed.

  I step into her space, crowding her. “Threaten me again, and you’ll regret the outcome.”

  “Move back.”

  Leaning in, I let my breath brush her ear. “Everyone has secrets.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Is Mr. Rivard warming another bed?”

  It’s just a guess, but the slight tremor in her hand tells me I’m onto something.

  Her nostrils flare. “Outrageous.”

  “What about your perfect son? What has he done to put you in this precarious position?”

  “He’s done nothing wrong!”

  I wouldn’t be here if that were true. “You’re trembling, Beverly.”

  “This conversation is over.” She steps around me, eyes on the door, and trips.

  Her balance teeters, papers tumble from her hands, and she falls to her knees at my feet. Perfect.

  She casts me a startled look, and as she realizes I made no move to catch her, her upturned face deepens into a self-effacing shade of red.

  Snapping her eyes to the floor, she collects her things with angry movements. “Hiring you was a mistake.”

  I step onto the page she’s reaching for and glare down at the top of her head. “Then fire me.”

  “I…” She stares at the snakeskin-embossed leather on my Doc Martens, her voice hushed, dejected. “Just use your connections.”

  To get her undeserving son into Leopold, the highest ranked music college in the country. That was the deal.

  She gave me a teaching job when no one else would, and I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. But I will not bend or cower like her subordinates. She has no idea who she’s dealing with. But she’ll learn.

  I toe the paper toward her fingers and hold it down with my shoe. “I think we’re clear on the terms”—I lift my foot, allowing her to snatch it—”as well as our positions in this arrangement.”

  She stiffens, her head hanging lower.

  Humiliation complete.

  I turn and amble out of the library.

  Ivory

  “I heard she stuffs her bra.”

  “What a slut.”

  “Didn’t she wear those shoes last year?”

  The murmurs ripple through the crowded hall, spoken behind manicured hands yet intended to reach my ears. After three years, how have these girls not come up with new material?

  As I pass their whispering cluster of brand names, limited edition iPhones, and black American Express cards, I reinforce my smile with the reminder that, despite our differences, I deserve to be here.

  “I wonder whose bed she crawled out of this morning.”

  “Seriously, I can smell her from here.”

  The comments don’t bother me. They’re just words. Unimaginative, immature, hollow words.

  Who am I kidding? Some of those jabs are true enough, and hearing them voiced so hatefully sucks the wind from my lungs. But I’ve learned that tearful reactions only encourage them.

  “Prescott said he had to take three showers after slumming with her.”

  I stop in the center of the corridor. The flow of traffic parts around me as I pull in a deep breath and walk back toward their huddle.

  When they see me coming, several of the girls scatter. Ann and Heather remain, watching me approach with the same morbid curiosity tourists give my homeless neighbors. Unblinking eyes, backs straight, their dancer’s legs motionless beneath knee-length skirts.

  “Hey.” I lounge against the lockers beside them, smiling as they exchange glances. “I’ll tell you something, but you have to keep it to yourselves.”

  Their eyes narrow, but there’s interest there. They love gossip.

  “The truth is…” I gesture at my boobs. “I hate these things. It’s hard to find shirts that fit”—let alone afford them—”and when I do, look at this.” I poke at the safety pin. “Popped buttons.” I give their flat chests a once-over, and while I feel a pinch of envy for their coltish figures, I hide it beneath a sarcastic tone. “Must be nice to not have to worry about that.”

  The taller girl, Ann, gives an indignant huff. All lean and graceful and full of confidence, she’s the highest-ranked dancer at Le Moyne. She’s also intimidatingly beautiful, with her appraising eyes and full lips set in a dark brown complexion sharpened with cool, midnight undertones.

  If Le Moyne had formal dances, she would be the prom queen. And for some reason, she has always hated me. She never even gave it a chance to be any other way.

  Then there’s her sidekick. I’m certain Heather made the shoe comment, but she’s coyer than Ann, much too squeamish to be cruel to my face.

  I lift a foot, twisting it so they can see the holes in the plastic. “I wore these last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. In fact, these are the only shoes you’ve ever seen me wear.”

  Heather fingers her long, brown braid and stares at my beat-up flats with a furrowed brow. “What size do you wear? I could give you—”

  “I don’t want your hand-me-downs.”

  I do want them, but there’s no way I’m admitting that. It’s hard enough to stand up for myself in these halls. I’m sure as hell not going to do it in borrowed shoes.

  Since day one, I’ve confronted their barbs with directness and honesty. That’s what Daddy would’ve done. Yet here we are, a brand new year, and they’re already mocking me with enough venom to burn through my skin.

  So I decide to try a different tactic, a harmless lie to shut them up. “These were my grandmother’s shoes, the only things she owned when she immigrated to the States. She handed them down to my mother, who passed them to me as a symbol of strength and resilience.”

  I don’t have a grandmother, but Heather’s guilty expression tells me I may have finally burst her precious golden bubble.

  Triumph spirals its way up my spine. “Next time you open your patronizing mouth, consider the fact that you don’t know shit.”

  Heather sucks in a breath, as if I offended her.

  “Moving on.” I stoop toward them. “Here’s the thing about Prescott Rivard…” I glance around the crowded hall, like I give a shit who can hear me. “He has a sex problem. All guys do. They want it, and if you don’t give it, they take it, you know?”

  Ann and Heather stare at me blankly. Clueless. How do they not know this?

  I adjust the strap of the satchel on my shoulder, my skin itching with the truths I’m leaving out. “Someone has to step up and make the guys happy. I’m just doing my part to keep sexual violence out of our school. You should thank me.”

  I made that sound a lot more charitable than it actually is. I do what I do to survive. Fuck everyone else.

  Ann glares down her scrunched nose at me. “You are such a slut.”

  A label I’ve worn since my freshman year here. I’ve never discouraged their presumptions about me. Sexual misconduct requires proof. As long as it doesn’t happen on school grounds and I don’t show up pregnant, I won’t get kicked out. Of course, the rumors tarnish my already loathsome reputation, but they also distract from the real reason I spend time with the guys at Le Moyne. That truth would get me expelled in a heartbeat.

  “A slut?” I lower my voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “I haven’t had sex in a while. I mean, it’s been like forty-eight hours.” I turn away, wait for their gasps, and spin back, grinning at Ann. “But your dad promised he’d make up for his lapse tonight.”

  “Oh my God.” Ann doubles over, gripping her midsection and cupping her gaping mouth. “Gross!”

  Her father? I wouldn’t know, but sex in general is gross. Horrible. Unbearable.

  And expected.

  I leave them in shocked silence and slip through the first half of the day without losing my smile. Mornings at Le Moyne are a breeze, comprised of all the easy A/B block classes, such as English and History, Science and Math, and World Languages. As midday approaches, we disperse fo
r an hour to eat lunch and work out before switching gears and heading to our specialized classes.

  Daily exercise and food are required as part of the balanced musical diet, but eating is an inconvenience, seeing how I don’t have food or money.

  As I stand at my locker in Campus Center, the empty ache in my stomach awakens with a groan. Layered on top of the hunger is a tight bundle of dread. Or excitement.

  No, definitely dread.

  I stare down at the printout of my afternoon schedule.

  Music Theory

  Piano Seminar

  Performance Master Class

  Private Lessons

  The last half of my day is in Crescent Hall. Room 1A. All taught by Marceaux.

  During English Lit, I overheard some of the girls blabbing about the hotness that is Mister Marceaux, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to wander over to Crescent Hall.

  My insides coil tighter as I mutter aloud, “Why does he have to be a he?”

  The locker door beside me swings shut, and Ellie angles around my arm, glancing at my schedule. “He’s really pretty, Ivory.”

  I whirl toward her. “You saw him?”

  “A glimpse.” She wiggles her little mousy nose. “Why does the he part matter?”

  Because I’m more comfortable around women. Because they don’t overpower me with muscle and size. Because men are takers. They take my courage, my strength, my confidence. Because they’re only interested in one thing, and it’s not my ability to play the last bars of Transcendental Étude No.2.

  But I can’t share all this with Ellie, my sweet, sheltered, reared-in-a-strict-Chinese-home friend. I think I can call her a friend. We’ve never really established that, but she’s always nice to me.

  I stuff the schedule in my satchel. “I guess I was hoping for someone like Mrs. McCracken.”

  Maybe Mr. Marceaux is different. Maybe he’s gentle and safe like Daddy and Stogie.

  About a head shorter than me, Ellie smooths a hand over the cowlicks of her inky-black hairline and does this bouncy thing on her toes. I think she’s trying to stretch her height, but mostly it just looks like she needs to pee. She’s so tiny and adorable I want to tug on her ponytail. So I do.

  She bats my hand away, smiling with me, and drops back to her heels. “Don’t worry about Marceaux. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  Easy for her to say. She’s already locked in a cellist spot at Boston Conservatory next year. Her future doesn’t hinge upon whether or not Marceaux likes her.

  “I’m headed to the gym.” She lugs a backpack half her size over her shoulder. “You coming?”

  Instead of an organized PE class, Le Moyne provides a full fitness center, personal trainers, and a myriad of conditioning classes like yoga and kickboxing.

  I’d rather cut off my 5-4-3 fingers than jump around in a mirrored room with disapproving girls. “Nah. I’m going to run the track outside.”

  We say our goodbyes, but my curiosity about Marceaux has me calling after her.

  “Ellie? How pretty exactly?”

  She turns around, walking backwards. “Shockingly pretty. It was just a glimpse, but I’m telling you, I felt it right here.” She pats her stomach and widens her angular eyes. “Maybe a little lower.”

  My chest tightens. The prettiest ones have the ugliest insides.

  But I’m pretty, aren’t I? I’m told I am, less so by people I trust and more often by people I don’t.

  Maybe my insides are ugly, too.

  As Ellie bounces away and flashes her pretty smile at me over her shoulder, I stand corrected in my generalizations. There’s nothing ugly about Ellie.

  In the locker room, I change into shorts and a tank top then head outside to the track that encircles the twenty-acre campus.

  The humidity deters most of the three-hundred students from venturing out of the A/C this time of year, but a few laze on the park benches, laughing and eating their lunches. A couple dancers practice their synchronized warm-ups beneath the imposing steeples of the Campus Center building.

  As I stretch my legs under the shade of a large oak tree, I stare out over the lush green grounds and rubberized walking trails. The same trails I walked with Daddy when my head barely reached his hip. I can still feel his big hand swallowing mine as he led me along. His smile was so full of sunshine when he pointed out the old cathedral-like stonework of Crescent Hall and speculated on the grandeur of the classrooms within.

  Le Moyne was his dream, one his parents couldn’t afford. He never seemed sad about that. Because he wasn’t a taker, not even when he dreamed. Instead, he gave his dream to me.

  Bending at the waist, I reach for my toes and let the stretch heat my hamstrings as the memories warm my blood. I look like Mom with my dark hair and dark eyes, but I have Daddy’s smile. I wish he could see me now, standing here on the campus, living his dream, and wearing his smile.

  I grin wider, because his dream, his smile…they’re mine, too.

  “Holy mother of God, I missed that ass.”

  I snap straight, smile gone and my body too stiff to turn toward the voice that makes my shoulders hike around my ears. “What do you want, Prescott?”

  “You. Naked. Wrapped around my dick.”

  My stomach caves in, and a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I straighten my spine. “I have a better idea. How about you tuck your dick between your legs, dance like Buffalo Bill, and go fuck yourself.”

  “You’re so nasty,” Prescott says with a smile in his voice as he prowls into my line of sight.

  He stops an appropriate distance away, but not far enough. I step back.

  His long hair stops at his jawline, the blond strands bleached by the Caribbean sun or wherever he spends his summers. If his tie and button-up are stifling him in this heat, he doesn’t show it as he takes his time unnerving me with his wandering gaze.

  I don’t understand why the girls at Le Moyne fight over him. His nose is too long, his front tooth is crooked, and his tongue squirms like a worm whenever he shoves it in my mouth.

  “Jesus, Ivory.” His focus zeroes in on my chest, burning my skin beneath the top. “Your tits grew another cup size over the summer.”

  I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “If you’re asking for my help this year, try again.”

  His eyes remain locked on my chest, his long fingers tightening around his sack lunch. “I want you.”

  “You want me to do your homework.”

  “That, too.”

  The huskiness in his voice makes me shiver. I wrap my arms around my chest, hating how noticeable my boobs are, hating the way he flagrantly stares at them, hating that I depend on him.

  His gaze finally lifts, landing on my mouth. “What happened to your lip? Catch it on a cock ring?”

  I shrug. “It was a really big…ring.”

  His expression darkens with jealousy, and I hate that, too.

  “You should get one.” I tilt my head at the forced sound of his laughter. “Why not? It increases the pleasure.” I don’t know anything about piercings, but I can’t pass up the dig. “If you had one, you might actually make a girl come.”

  His strained laugh cuts off with a cough. “Wait, what?” His eyes harden. “I make you come.”

  Sex with him is a lot like removing a tampon. A quick tug that leads to a repulsive mess, one I discard from my mind until it has to be done again. I don’t bother telling him this. He can see it all in my glare.

  “That’s bullshit.” He charges forward, crossing the boundary of what onlookers would consider friendly conversation.

  When he reaches for my arm, I glance up at the Campus Center building and find the empty window of the dean’s office. “Your mom’s watching.”

  “You’re a lying bitch.” He doesn’t look up, but his hand drops.

  “If you want my help, I’m going to need an advance.”

  He barks out a disgusted laugh. “Hells no.”

  “Suit yourself.” I take off at
a sprint, keeping to the grass along the track where it doesn’t burn my bare feet.

  It only takes a couple seconds for Prescott’s long legs to catch up. “Hang on, Ivory.” Sweat forms on his face as he jogs beside me in his collared shirt. “Will you just stop for a minute?”

  I slow my strides, anchor my fists on my hips, and wait for him to catch his breath.

  “Look, I don’t have any cash on me right now.” He pulls at the pockets of his slacks. “But I’ll pay you tonight.”

  Tonight. My stomach buckles, but I smile through it and pluck the sack lunch out of his hand. “This will do until then.”

  Lunch is the only advance I needed anyway. He has an unlimited balance in the cafeteria, so it’s not like he’ll go hungry.

  He looks at my bare feet, at the paper bag in my hand, and pauses on my busted lip. For a guy who struggles with algebra, he’s not stupid. More like disinterested. Disinterested in my problems. Disinterested in the curriculum.

  None of us are here to study quadratic equations or cell biology. We came for the arts program, to dance, to sing, to play our instruments, and to get accepted at the music conservatory of our choosing. Prescott would rather devote his time to fucking and playing classical guitar, not writing a history report en Français. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to bother with academic coursework. Not when he can pay me to do it for him.

  He isn’t the only entitled prick at Le Moyne, but I limit my services to those with the biggest wallets and the most to lose. We all know the risks. If one of us goes down, we all go down. Unfortunately, my little circle of cheaters is largely made up of Prescott and his friends.

  And sometimes they take more than they pay for.

  I peer into the lunch sack, salivating at the sight of roast beef on crusty bread, grapes, and chocolate cookies. “Tonight where?”

  “The usual.”

  Which involves picking me up ten blocks from school, parking his car in a vacant lot, and doing a lot more than homework. But I’m the one who established the rules. No swapping homework assignments on school property or public places. It’s too risky, especially with the way the dean watches her son.