I just stare at the door for a moment, baffled by his calm, almost welcoming behavior. Even his clothes were more casual, a black, soft sweater instead of a crisp button-up shirt.
I set my sheet music on the stand and spend the next half hour doing scales and technique exercises. The time spent alone helps, as does the knowledge that I won’t be seeing Killian today. When Ian returns, I’m much calmer. Still tired, but not anxious.
“Coffee?” He sets a mug on a side table close to me and takes a sip of his own.
I reach for the mug, relieved at the prospect of caffeine. When I lift it to my mouth, I’m surprised to see the coffee has cream, like I prefer it. The coffee is better than anything I’ve had in a long time, if not ever—a balm on my frazzled nerves.
Ian allows me a few sips, then takes my mug and sets it aside. “Let me hear the part we worked on yesterday.”
As we start working on the page in question, I remember what he asked about my dignity, and my nerves return. I keep expecting some sort of belittlement, but it never comes. He’s a strict and not exactly nice teacher, but if anything, it only drives my need to please him higher.
“No, no, no,” he erupts at one point, swatting my hands off the keys. “If you want to play with my son, you need to use the right wrist movement. I won’t have any of that sloppy technique here.”
Crowding me, he makes me scamper off the bench to let him take a seat. “Like this.” He plays the same part slowly, exaggerating the wrist movement.
“Again,” he demands, getting up.
I try to mimic the movement, but don’t quite get it right.
“It’s too stiff.” He grabs my right wrist, and a swoosh rushes through me at the feeling of his strong fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, genuine regret building in my chest.
He pauses, studying me, seeming surprised. I stare at his hand that’s locked around my wrist—the wide breadth of his knuckles and the thick veins. The sight does strange things to me.
“Like this,” he finally says, moving my wrist in rolling waves. “Not like this.” He moves it back and forth in a stiff line.
Gulping, I nod and lift my hands to the keys. This time, I get it right, and the notes flow much more freely with the new movement.
“That’s it.” He places his hand on my shoulder for a brief moment, and there’s that rush again.
Disappointment rises in its wake when he steps away, and I scold myself inwardly. I should not be drawn to this man. It’s not real affection. He’s just teaching me. I’m too starved to see the difference.
***
Going to Ian and Killian’s house straight after work becomes my new routine throughout the week. There, I spend hours at the grand piano, with and without Ian teaching me with strict authority. He always starts out by assuring me that Killian isn’t home or won’t be coming downstairs while I’m there, and around dinner time, he always brings me a hearty meal.
When I get home at eleven, sometimes as late as twelve, I’m so exhausted I can barely stand on my own two legs. I often fall asleep fully dressed, but not without rubbing myself to an orgasm first.
Friday night, Ian asks if I have the weekend off. When I nod, he tells me to be at his place at seven thirty in the morning on both Saturday and Sunday.
I suppress the urge to gape, not knowing how I’m supposed to keep up this routine. I badly need rest. But he doesn’t give me a chance to protest.
“Don’t be late,” he says in a strict tone, then leaves me to find my own way out.
Saturday leaves me bone-tired, and when my alarm goes off on Sunday morning, I’m so deep in sleep that I fall straight back under the moment I’ve turned it off. I’m not sure if it’s my subconscious mind thinking that I have the day off, as usual, or if I’m just that exhausted, but I’m so far gone that I turn off the next alarm as well. When the third one finally bolts me upright, I realize the bus leaves in fifteen minutes.
I rush around getting ready, skipping breakfast and makeup, but even so, I don’t make it. Just as I round the corner, ready to sprint for the bus stop, the bus pulls away from the curb. I’m left panting, staring after it, dread curdling in my stomach as I realize I’m going to be late.
Ian is not happy about it. I can tell already when I push through the gate and see him appear at the door.
I hurry down the driveway, gluing my eyes to the ground and ignoring the instinct to flee.
“You’re late,” he says with a stern tone that weighs down on me, making each step up the stairs seem like a climb.
“I’m so, so sorry. I was so exhausted I fell asleep again when my alarm went off, and—”
“Get inside,” he cuts me off.