Make Me Bad: Private Lessons (4 page)

Young.

Beautiful.

A pupil.

It wouldn’t be the first time that I'd become involved with a
student, but they were always grad students, and much closer to my age. At
thirty-two, I'm pretty sure I have a good ten years on Madison.

But for Christ's sake, I can't get her out of my mind, and
after last night I don't think I'll ever be able to forget her. Her thighs were
so smooth and her breasts were perky and soft. I'd forgotten what it was like
to feel such a young eager body. It was so fucking hot pushing her up against
the locked door, teasing her slowly, practically making her beg before sliding
into her tight pussy.

Christ. I’m getting hard now just thinking about it.

I bring my focus back to her as she starts to strum the
guitar. Suddenly, I forget about fucking and I'm consumed by the haunting and
elaborate melody she's playing. This can't be her own piece.

Didn’t I ask her to play something she composed?

“Wait.” I interrupt, sounding ruder than I'd intended.
“Something that
you
composed, please.”

She stares at me blankly. “This is something I composed.”

“You composed
this?”

“Yes.” she says, her brows furrowed, looking incredibly annoyed.

“Play it again.” I order.

She rolls her eyes and starts again. I sit back in my chair,
fold my arms across my chest and close my eyes as she opens again with a
beautiful arpeggio.

Yes, I had heard that Madison Evans was an exceptional
student. I think I also heard that her parents were somewhat famous country
singers, but Madison is more than a mere entertainer... she's downright gifted.
This composition is light years beyond what I was expecting.

I open my eyes.

“That’s enough.” I say, my tone flat, giving nothing away.

She stops abruptly, staring up at me, waiting for my
approval. Her eyes are so beautifully blue that it almost hurts to look at
them.

“Can you meet me this afternoon? ” I say, “I would like to
set up private lessons.”

“Private lessons?”

“Yes. I would say that we could start now, but I have
somewhere to be in twenty minutes. Will four-thirty work?”

“Yes that works.” she says, without even a glance at her
watch or phone.

 “Good. Meet me in the music room across the hall. And if
you can, please bring your guitar.”

“Umm, sure. All right. I’ll see you at four-thirty.”

I smile and nod curtly. I take the guitar from her and
gently place it inside its case. I pull my hat onto my head, and because I
can’t help myself, I take Madison's hand in mine. It's a selfish act, but I
need to feel her soft, smooth skin against mine.

Her eyes light up when I touch her and I know it’s not a
good sign.

“Until then.” I say softly, and then I leave.

I try not to think about Madison as I make my way to the Metro
station.

Yes, she and I have been playing a bit of cat and mouse
since we arrived in Paris; some harmless flirting, some inappropriate comments
that I couldn’t quite stop from leaving my mouth. Too much wine will do that
sometimes.

There is something so young, vibrant, and exciting about Madison.
And I am drawn to her like a moth to a beautiful flame. She's so different than
what I've grown accustomed to. And it isn’t just her youth, her beauty, or
slight Southern accent. It’s her open and innocent personality, her vivacity
and now, her untapped genius.

And hell, she is so beautiful. That gorgeous little body and
her long chestnut hair, creamy skin and big blue eyes... there have been
several wars in human history fought for women like her.

She is so different from anyone I've ever been with before,
so different from Vera.

Just thinking about Vera makes my blood boil. Even now,
after everything, Vera her grip on me is so tight I'm trekking across Paris to
see her dying Uncle Leon.

Leon is a kind man, and I don’t hold his being related to
Vera against him, but I know it will be the last time I ever see the man.

I picture Vera with her short, cropped blonde hair and her
strong jaw and nose. Hard edges all around, and always, always dressed in
black. She is the antithesis of Madison, which is, perhaps, why I found Madison
so intriguing. She embodies everything that Vera isn’t – youthfulness, beauty, innocence,
and genius.

Vera and her hard edges, sharp wit and biting comments—she's
not as intelligent as she thinks. What had ever attracted me to her in the
first place?

It had been my arrogant, self-important attitude. Thinking I
was so damn better than everybody else. And Vera thought the same thing about
herself. Misery loves company, after all.

It's a hard lesson to learn, one I'm still struggling with, realizing
that one is no better than everyone else, no more deserving of anything in this
world. To be fair, musically I am better than most, but otherwise there is
nothing that makes me intrinsically special. I realize that I'm not entitled to
happiness; I have to work for it. Deep down I'm just another loser, a fuck up
with an array of undiagnosed mental conditions. I hide behind the facade of
musical genius so convincing that most people are too intimidated to even attempt
to deal with me on a level of familiarity.

I'm working on it, I am.

But Vera has no intentions to curb her stuck-up pretentious
attitude; in her fucked up head she
knows
she is better than everyone
around her, including me. She's poisonous, and I'm fucking sick of it.

First came the withdrawal, the silence and passive
aggression. Then came the fights and the resentment, and the anger. I can still
see Vera sneering at me, throwing our glass plates on the kitchen floor for
shock value. Of course, I'm not perfect either. I can hurl insults just as well
as Vera can. But at least I attempted to keep my vows. Even though I was caught
in a stranglehold of misery and loathing of the one person I vowed to love and
to hold forever, I didn’t fuck anyone else.

Which is of course, is how it all finally ended.

On a particularly bad day last year I cancelled a class last
minute to come home to rest. And instead of being at her art class, Vera was
home in our bed, screwing some other "artist" who shared her love of
black clothing and snarky one-liners. He wasn’t even embarrassed or remorseful
that I'd caught him fucking my wife. Vera at least had the humanity to act
ashamed. Though I’m not sure how bad she actually felt about it in the end.

And now here I am, four months after our divorce, going to
visit her uncle after she’d sent me a short, yet pleading email, to visit her
Uncle Leon who had always loved my music… And to whom she had accidentally let
it “slip” that I would be in Paris this autumn.

Fuck.

I shake my head, trying to clear away all my thoughts of hatred
towards Vera. I need to focus on Uncle Leon. A dying man's last wish is to hear
me play and there's not much else I can say about that. I plan on keeping this
visit short and sweet so that I can get back to my private lesson with Madison,
and to, hopefully, a clear head.

The visit is actually not that painful, and Leon is grateful
to see me. I talk to him quietly for a few minutes, and we slip into French,
which is much easier for Leon, especially in his state. I play him his favorite,
Bourree
in B minor by Bach, and after an awkward good bye, one I know will
be our last, I leave his room and make my way back to campus.

I make it back twenty minutes early, and I go about setting up
the tiny room, clearing away all the chairs except for two. With no one else
around, it’s going to be difficult to not get carried away with Madison, but
she’s talented and I need to figure out just how deep her talent runs. Who
knows? One day she could change the world with her music.

A few minutes later Madison appears, breathless and carrying
her guitar. Her hair is down now and it’s wild and curly around her face.

“Sorry!” she says, quickly coming into the room and pulling
open her guitar case.

I glance at my watch and see that we're starting nearly ten
minutes late; I lost track of time.

“It’s not a problem. I’m sorry we couldn’t do this earlier. I’d
actually like to meet like this every Tuesday, directly after the composition
class. I’m not sure if you’re getting enough independent study.”

“I’m not getting any independent study,” she laughs, pushing
her sleeves up again. “I feel like all I do outside of class is eat and drink. ”

The sight of her bare arms reminds me of our bathroom tryst.
Focus
.

“Well, that’s about to be rectified. You’re too damn good to
not be getting any independent study.” I flash her a smile. “And as far as
instructors go, I’m about as good as it gets.”

Who cares if I sound cocky? It’s the damn truth.

She doesn’t seem bothered by my confident statement, and
instead sits down with her guitar and stares at me expectantly.

Right. I need to actually work with her now. I'm the
instructor she's the student.

“Let’s go over the piece you played for me earlier.”

I sit down across from her, and we spend the next hour going
through her beautiful piece of music. She explains to me her thought process
behind it. I help her with a few points and show her some different ways she
can change up the chords to make the piece just a little more complex and
interesting than it already is. She's already magnificent at sweep picking,
which is arguably the most difficult technical guitar skill to master, and her
arpeggios and progressions are flawless. I can tell Madison is an eager and
open student, which shouldn’t surprise me but it makes me like her more. I’ve
always hated working with little snots who think their power tabs are some
fucking gift to the world.

And here, Madison’s music is a
gift
and she isn’t
pretentious or arrogant about it at all.

The hour flies by, and I realize we need to wrap things up.
The energy in the room is beginning to shift, and I’ve scooted my chair about
as close as can be to Madison’s.

“I think that’s all we have time for today.” I say softly,
looking down at Madison’s face.

“Yes, my shoulders are getting a little stiff,” she
breathes, staring back at me.

I swallow and stand up, turning my back to her as I begin to
place my guitar back in its case. After a few moments, I hear Madison get up as
well. When I turn back around, her back is to me and she’s locking her guitar
up in its case.

I admire her from behind, remembering what it felt like to
slide my hands across her ass, and pull her hips close to mine. I have half a
mind to do it again, but I’m not that foolish. I already risked my job and
reputation last night when I lured her back to that bathroom. I can't risk
fucking things up even more by trying to screw her on campus, let alone in a
classroom.

For all I know, she could've been completely smashed last
night and barely remembers what happened. Part of me wants to bring it up, but
I don’t.

Madison turns back around to face me and it’s almost as if
she can read my mind. I take a step towards her and then hesitate. We should
leave things at last night and let it be. I’ve already screwed up enough in my
life, and I don’t need to add this to my list of the mistakes.

And yet, deep down I don’t see it as a mistake.

She looks at me, searching my face for permission with those
big blue eyes. I hold strong. I don't waiver.

In an instant she’s in my arms. Her mouth is moving against
mine and I can’t fight it any longer. I groan, returning her kiss, needing her now
more than I ever could've realized. I run my hands through her hair, kissing
her hungrily, trailing kisses along her jaw line as she moans softly. I can
tell she loves every moment of this as much as I do.

“I thought you’d forgotten.” she breathes between kisses,
grabbing my face and gazing into my eyes.

“I couldn’t.” I admit. “I won't ever forget last night.” I
finally mange to break away, worried that someone might walk into the classroom
at any moment. “We can’t do this here. This is too risky.”

“I’m 21 and I can make my own decisions. Who gives a shit?”
she says defensively.

“You’re still a student.
My
student. And Christ,
you’re an undergrad. And I’m supposed to be your advisor on this trip.”

Madison smirks. “An advisor who drinks with his students.”

I shrug. “As you said, you’re all of age, and this is
Paris.”

Madison bites her lip nervously, which is endearing and unintentionally
sexy at the same time. “I should go. I told Cleo that I would be back in time
for dinner...”

“It’s early for dinner in Paris.”

She smirks, “Well we're getting
wine
first.”

“Ahh.”

She picks up her guitar and bag and turns back to me. “So,
will I see you before next week’s class?”