Expressionate

by Lucy Smoke

  "I'm fucking doing it," I growl low, dropping his shirt. He takes a step back. "You don’t do this kind of shit. I do. You," I step into his space, and he knows better than to move away this time, "you're going to go home to Abigail and you're gonna fucking eat the dinner she makes you. You're gonna rub her feet and tell her how much you fucking love her and then you're going to meet me at–" I pause for a moment, wondering what place would be good. Not the apartment, Ally can't know. Not the garage, the boys can't know. I think of Love and an idea forms. "You're going to meet me at JU. I'll text you tomorrow and tell you exactly where."

  "Tax–"

  "Shut the fuck up." I glare at him before finally stepping back. "Don't you fucking go near that place."

  He doesn't reply, and I don't give him a chance to. I turn away and stomp toward my Jeep. I open the door and hop in, cranking the engine, spinning my tires as I peel out of the parking lot. I need to get back to the apartment. Cross or Blake: one of them will need to come with me. If anything happens, they've got to make sure I can make it back to the apartment in one piece. It's not uncommon for winners to get jacked after a fight. Either way, my blood is pumping. I'm both exhilarated and terrified out of my fucking mind. Above all, I can't fucking let Ally know.

  7

  Love

  For the need to be in control,

  pen the trigger that lets me

  drown myself in ink and

  for the first time in years

  I can see in the dark

  and all I see,

  is you.

  He’s messing with me, I just know it. His lyrics, or rather the lyrics I wrote from him. They keep shoving their way into my head at random times of the day. In class. Cooking dinner. But right now, I’m in this weird place between dreams and reality, some sort of limbo I’ve put myself in. I’m unsure whether I even want to wake up. The room is cold, and goosebumps rise along my arms. Goosebumps creep me out. Yet, I always seem to have them; they look and feel like little ant hills running up and down my arms. I imagine that there are thousands of ants crawling under my skin when I get them, and it freaks me out.

  I rip the paper to shreds and glance at the napkin from the night at City Limits. All I can seem to do is repeat the first lines I originally composed. They linger in my head, drifting in and out – his voice, I always hear them in his voice. I see him singing on a dark stage, a single arrow of light highlighting only him. I shut the image out. I can't stand the thoughts roaring through my head. Tax isn't important. He's no one. I slam my eyes closed. I reopen them, and shove the napkin away from me. It lands on the floor under the desk somewhere. I don't reach for it. Let it be lost.

  My phone rings and without looking at the screen, I answer. “Love?” I regret not looking at the screen almost immediately. But when I pull it away, the caller ID doesn’t say Todd, even though it’s definitely his voice.

  I sigh and put the phone back to my ear. “Why are you calling me, Todd? Whose phone are you using?”

  “You weren’t fucking answering me and it’s my phone, I got a new one.”

  The back of my head throbs, beating against the base of my skull. “There’s nothing left to say. I wasn’t answering for a reason.” I pull the phone away slightly.

  Either he suspects what I’m about to do or he can hear the movement, because he yells out before I press end. “Love, wait! It’s important.”

  I hesitate. What could be so important? The line doesn’t go dead. I lift the phone back to my ear and don’t say anything. A beat of air static passes between us, thick with the sound of his breath, and then he starts talking.

  “I know,” he says in a rush. “I know that we didn’t have anything serious, but Love, we could be. I thought you just needed time. We were good and—”

  “Are you just calling to talk about our lack of a relationship or is there something important you wanted to tell me?” I remind him.

  Like a tin cup rhythmically striking at the bars of a jail cell, the sound of Todd’s grinding teeth ricochets through the phone’s receiver. “I know,” he says.

  I wait patiently and when he doesn’t elaborate, I feel my headache move from the base of my skull to my temples. “That’s great that you know things. I’m sure you know a lot of things, Todd. What, specifically, do you know that you think is so important?”

  “I know what you did,” he says. “I knew a while ago, but it didn’t matter. I knew you never strayed and you were reformed. But if you’re breaking up with me then that means you’re going back, right? You’re going back to him.” Todd spits the word. I don’t blame him. The thought of Danny makes me feel vile, too.

  “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, Todd. We’re done talking.”

  Before I can pull the phone away and end the call, he replies. “If that is what you’re doing, then I hope you know – you were never more than a fucking whore anyway. I could’ve been good for you.”

  I slam my thumb down on the red button as bile rises into my throat.

  16 years old

  My eyes are closed as the beat pumps through my veins. I'm fuzzy headed, and I can't even hear the lyrics to whatever song is pounding through the speakers. The floor beneath my feet is shaking under the weight of so many bodies. My tits are pressed against so many people. There's no goddamn room in this place. Someone is grinding against my back. I can feel it, it's not like it's my body that I'm walking around in. It's someone else's. It has to be someone else's. Because this is not me.

  “You’re so hot,” someone whispers in my ear. I feel my lips stretch around a smile. Whoever he is, he smells like alcohol. Smoke clings to my sweat-soaked skin. He reaches under the back of my dress and fondles my ass, and I don't stop him. Instead, I laugh hollowly and toss my hair back, probably slapping him in the face with it, but I don't care. And I don't think he does either, because there's something else back there, something hard.

  The song changes and, if possible, something with an even deeper bass comes over the speakers, causing the walls to shake and tremble. Lights circle the dance floor – dancing and spinning like the half-drunk people around me. What kind of house has a fucking dance floor? I look around and realize, a house with wood flooring everywhere. We're only in the living room. Whoever lives here must be loaded because the place has built in speakers around the room. I feel like I'm surrounded by this song and by these people and by the horny boy at my back.

  "Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" he asks.

  I just want to breathe, I think. I nod, and he takes my hand, drawing me away from the dance floor, through several other rooms, including a hallway and a kitchen, before a sliding glass door opens and the music finally fades. Going from an overly loud place to a place that's so very quiet makes it hard to hear much. There’s ringing in my ears.

  Clammy hands grip my wrists and my waist. My dress is skin tight – a small something to piss Anne off. That is, if she knew where I was right now. The tightness of my dress, however, doesn't slow the boy in front of me down. He's ripping the short tights I have on beneath the dress – to keep me from flashing anyone – and then he's shoving the fabric out of the way as he backs me up against the outside of the house. The ripping is so unexpected and so is his roughness, that when it happens, all I can do is blink in confusion. Brick bites into my skin and I start to question if I should have had those shots earlier.

  The boy gets down on his knees in front of me, cursing lowly as he realizes my tights are still in the way. He shoves my ruined tights down my legs. Without thinking, I step out of them. Because that's what you're supposed to do, right? If your clothes are ruined, you should take them off.

  "God," he groans, looking up at me. I can't even make out the color of his eyes. "You're fucking gorgeous."

  "Thanks." My reply sounds far away.

  "You want this, right?" he asks, though he doesn't really sound like he cares. Just that he knows he’s supposed to ask. He's shaking with his hands around my thighs
as he continues to look up at me for confirmation.

  I reach forward and sink my hands into his light hair. "Yeah," I say, absently. His hair is so soft.

  "Thank God," he mutters before shoving my underwear down as well. His fingers dig into my ass as he pulls me forward and tongues my clit. I jerk. My shoulder bangs into the brick again, and I wince. That's going to hurt tomorrow. Hell, it hurts now. But as I look down on the boy under my dress, I don't think I care very much. This isn’t so bad.

  As his tongue touches me, my mind drifts. Soft streaks of something soothing make their way up through his ministrations. The air isn't quite as warm as I thought it was when I was inside. Everything in there was heated: the air, the people, even the cheap beer was warm. Outside, it's actually kind of cold. I don't have a lot to cover me up, but the boy's hands are hot as they trail across my skin. They're so hot, they burn. He startles me when he pulls back from my pussy, his lips wet, and stands, palming the back of my head and slamming his mouth over mine. He's not drunk, I realize. There's no alcohol on his breath. I thought because he smelled like alcohol earlier that he was just as drunk as I was, but he doesn't taste like it.

  His tongue slides into my mouth and I pull away quickly, surprised. He doesn't let up. He pulls my mouth back to his and slips his tongue back in. I haven't ever kissed anyone before. Is this what it's supposed to be like? To me, it feels more slimy than warm. Why do people like this?

  I thought sex was supposed to be this uncontrollable thing. It's why girls get pregnant in high school. They like it so much that they do it again and again until oops, a baby. Maybe that's lust. Whatever this is, though, I don't think it's the same thing. Because it's not uncontrollable. At least, it isn't for me. The boy seems to be pretty into it as he moans against my mouth and grinds into my pelvis. I realize something else, too. His eyes are closed and mine are wide open. At this, I close them, and suddenly, it feels a little different. I realize his lips are warm. In fact, all of him is warm and it's absolutely freezing outside. My hands come up around his shoulders and I grip him to me.

  Do I say something? I think. Do I do something? Aren't I supposed to make noises so that he knows I'm turned on? Am I turned on? I don't know, but I moan and groan anyway and that ignites something in him.

  "Yeah," he mumbles pulling back. "You like it when I kiss you?" he asks. He doesn't wait for a reply, and I'm glad because I don't know what to say. But I do know that I don't want him to talk. I groan louder, this time in relief as he kisses me again. His fingers scale higher along my thighs and then his fingers are rubbing against my pussy again. I feel a little twitchy; I feel wet.

  I don't even know this boy’s name and I find that it's probably not important. After tonight, really, after the next few minutes, he'll walk away and so will I, and then that will be it. We'll probably never see each other again and even if we do, I doubt I'll recognize the guy that took my virginity. In a way, that seems fitting for someone like me.

  I bite my lip when he pulls back again because one of his fingers has made its way over my clit and it rubs in circles over the little bundle of nerves. I feel a jolt of electricity hit me in my spine and shoot through me. I can't think. Breathing is harder than it normally is. This, I believe, is what people crave. I slump down against his chest as his finger continues playing with my clit before it travels lower and then enters my slit. I pant against his shirt as he fingers my hole.

  "W-wait–" I stutter out. Something's coming, it feels like a fucking freight train and it scares me.

  Either the boy doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care because instead of stopping, he pulls his finger out and his hands are on the buckle of his belt. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I know what I’m doing.” I don’t doubt that. But I’m not so sure if we should be doing this here anymore. Plus, all of my limbs feel like electrified liquid. I’m gooey, but sparking up. I’m afraid to catch fire even as I drown under the sensations.

  He jerks his pants open and then slides a hand in his pocket, retrieving a condom. I know I should be glad he thought of that. I hadn't. I'm not even on birth control. I'm not supposed to be having sex. At least he's old enough to practice safe sex. Wait, how old is he?

  I don't have long to contemplate that though, because the next thing I know he's lifting me up and slamming my back harder against the brick wall. I cry out because it hurts. God. Fuck. That really hurt.

  His lips find my neck as he kisses it in apology. "Sorry," he whispers. I nod my head that I acknowledge him, but the bricks have jarred my bones and I can’t talk because in the next moment, his dick is in me. I flinch as it pushes in. I lift up a bit, trying to relieve the pressure.

  He must not notice, because instead of shifting back and giving me some room, his arms arch over my shoulders, hands pressing down and he’s in me fully. I gasp – he must take it for pleasure, because he pulls out and pushes back in. It’s not pleasure. It hurts. But I don’t say anything – I know I can, maybe he’ll stop. But for some reason, I don’t. I just dig my nails in his back and bite my lip and press my forehead to his shoulder as he fucks me.

  I’m shaking so hard as he pounds me, I imagine that when he stops, I’ll still be shaking. The boy’s grunts get louder as he thrusts faster, and I throw my head back as he nuzzles into my neck, panting for breath. My skull connects with the brick wall and stars dance in front of my eyes – both real and not because I’m staring up at the sky. Then, as the chill of the air outside the party house crawls over my skin, the boy comes inside me. Immediately, ice forms in my veins knowing this is the end of any lingering innocence I had left.

  Twilight morphs into the dark of night outside my window. I tap my fingers against the window pane, feeling adrift in the sea of my own emotions. Where is my salvation? Where is my shield? I close my eyes, picturing a wall of ice slowly creeping up around me. Even when the earth falls, even when the universe shatters, I’ll still be safe inside my little cocoon. Nothing can touch me in my safe place.

  I remember Tax texting me earlier, and I figure now is as good a time as any to head over and see if he's made it back. I glance down at my clothes and sigh. Pajamas wouldn't be a problem for friends, but that's not what Tax is. I don't know what he is, but I'm not going next door in soft cotton shorts and a baggy sweatshirt. It would be like walking around without armor. I quickly change into a pair of cut off jean shorts and a tank top, then shove my feet into Keds.

  I pass Beverly's room, barely discerning her voice as she talks on the phone.

  There are loud thumps on the other side of Tax's apartment door when I step out into the hallway. I pause for a moment in front of the door, debating on whether or not I should knock. Perhaps it's not a good time. I turn away, deciding to come back later, when the door swings open and Tax nearly plows into me. I stumble back to avoid being hit as he launches out of the apartment and into the hallway. His dark eyes glance over me. Strangely enough, he doesn't have a smirk or a sarcastic grin ready for me. Behind him, his friend – Cross – is following him out. While Tax's face is unreadable, Cross' is obviously upset.

  "This isn't a good idea," Cross argues, ignoring my presence. A door opens somewhere in the apartment and their third friend, Blake, is in the open doorway to the apartment.

  "Where's Ally?" I ask.

  Tax shoots me a look. "I sent her to a friend's house," he says. "No tutoring tonight."

  I frown, confused. "Why?"

  "It's none of your business," he says, turning away.

  I don't know why I do it, but I follow him as he heads toward the elevator. Cross curses and Blake sighs behind us as he closes and locks their apartment door. "I agree with Cross," he says, loud enough for Tax to hear him.

  Tax doesn't respond. He gets to the elevator and punches the down button, his eyes zeroed in on the doors. "What's going on?" I ask.

  Tax glances at me out of the corner of his eyes. "Nothing. What are you still doing here?"

  I don't know, but I don't move away from him. "Coming w
ith you?" I'm not sure if it's a demand or a question, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. They're so out of character, so odd, that even I'm a little shocked I said them.

  He’s focused forward and steps into the elevator when the doors open. "Not a good idea," he replies. I step in with him anyway.

  "Probably not," I agree.

  Cross and Blake step in on either side of Tax.

  Cross looks at me like I'm crazy. "We're not taking her," he says, talking to Tax.

  Tax shakes his head. "No, we're not."

  Blake remains quiet.

  "Are you doing something illegal?" I ask.

  No one replies. I sigh. We ride in silence down to the lobby, and when we step out as a unit, Tax turns and presses a palm to the middle of my chest. His hand is warm against my sternum. It's neither forceful, nor hard, just steady – and there. Once more, he surprises me because I don’t mind it in the least.

  "I'm not kidding. You're not coming," he says.

  I look up at him. The hardness in his features, the cuts under his jaw, the way his nose veers slightly to the side and the bump down the ridge of it. "Where are you going?" I ask again.

  He's quiet, staring back at me, eyes strong and determined. Something deeper resides there. I've seen dead eyes. Eyes with hatred. Eyes without emotion. The thing about Tax's eyes is that they are an ocean of emotion. They are so filled with the stuff, I could drown in it. It almost makes me turn away. Emotions can be scary creatures. They swallow you whole and cloud your judgment. They make you feel guilty or ashamed of things you've had to do to survive.