Expressionate

by Lucy Smoke

  Steroid guy shakes his head and pushes to his feet. He was slammed into the ground pretty hard, but other than the malaise with which he moves now, he doesn't seem too badly injured. Perhaps he's not slow. Perhaps he’s just so stacked with muscle that it makes it difficult to be fast. That's an advantage I can tell Tax has over him. Although Tax is smaller in stature, he's still ripped with muscle, corded and lean, dark, intelligent eyes watchful.

  They begin to circle each other again, and I can tell by the way Tax tenses up when he moves around that he's tiring of the drawn-out portion of the fight. I wonder if he's forced to make it last; the audience wouldn't be happy if he simply walked in and knocked out his opponent and left. Or maybe he likes being the predator, that's what I see in him – a predator, hungry and stalking his prey. I don't mean to, but the next image that appears in my mind is of him nearly naked, over me, eyes just as dark, just as full of painful hunger...stalking me...wanting me...flexing over me. I don’t dislike the fantasy.

  The crowd roars, disrupting my dangerous and inappropriate thoughts. My gaze jerks up to find that Tax is over steroid guy, fists flying. Blood spraying. They roll. Tax's back slams into the ground, but he's up in a flash, delivering a swift knee to his opponent's head. I watch, confused at the sensations welling up inside me. I take a step back. Blake looks over at me in confusion. He must’ve forgotten that he called my name earlier, probably forgot that I was even there. I take another step back and another. Cross watches me out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't say anything, and when Blake takes a step toward me, Cross grabs his friend's arm and shakes his head.

  "Let her be," I hear him say.

  Blake's brows lower and a frown pinches his lips down. I suck in a breath when Tax finally attacks, and both of their eyes flip back to the fight. Tax's fist snaps out and collides with his opponent's jaw. I can almost see the rippling effect that I would see on a slowed down version of a fight on TV. The jaw angles away from the head, the skin on the cheek moves and flows as if a gust of air was shot across the other man’s face. Someone bumps against my back, lukewarm liquid is spilled down the back of my shirt and I jump away, whirling around in shock.

  “Watch where you’re going, bitch!” a tall lanky guy shouts. He reeks of booze and his dull, brown eyes are unfocused. When he finally realizes that I’m still standing there, he wobbles his head back and actually looks down at me. “Hey,” he says, his voice lowering, “you’re actually kinda hot. You here with anyone, cutie?”

  I recoil and move around him, heading for the door we came in through. It’s hard to make it through the people crowded around, especially without pushing or shoving, but I don’t want to touch any of these people. When I finally do manage to break free of the crowd, there’s emptiness on the other side. Literally everyone in the giant room is clustered into one space and the rest of it is left empty. I realize quickly that it’s not very warm in here after all. Being surrounded by so many people, by so much body heat, had fooled me. I wrap my arms around myself and rub up and down as I catch sight of the door and head toward it.

  I need to get outside. My breath stutters in my chest, attempting to escape. It can’t. I’m blocked. There’s something holding me down, weighing against my chest – rocks, tons of rocks. I can’t breathe. My skin itches. Being surrounded by so many people – the unwanted intrusion of the old memory – has brought back an old feeling that I thought I had forgotten. I catch the doorknob and turn it, heading back down the hallway. I hurry through it until I get to the very end and slam through the door that leads out into the night. Outside, I find myself craving a cigarette, though I haven’t had one in months. I look around and luckily enough, there are a few girls across the street. They’re wearing the tattered version of club clothes and I know exactly what they are when I approach – hookers – but I don’t care. I can’t judge them for their choices. I made the same ones once, even if I never stood where they stand now.

  “Hey,” I call out as I approach. A couple of the girls frown my way, scowling.

  An older one, with long, stick straight, bleached out hair separates from them. “This is our turf, sweetie,” she hisses. “Back off. Find your own street.”

  “No,” I say and when her face hardens, I rush to explain. “I’m not working,” I say. “I was just wondering if I could bum a cig?”

  Her doe brown eyes trail up and down, taking in my clean clothes and face. “You don’t look like a druggie,” she says. “Just want the cig?”

  “I’m not, and yeah.” I wait. I know these kinds of girls. I used to be friends with enough of them – or as close to friends as I got when I was living with Danny. He had a parade in and out. The number of women that have put their fingers in my pussy is enough to fill a damn room. Or more, maybe. I don’t know. I can barely remember some of their faces. And that shames me to my core.

  She sighs and finally digs out her pack of cigarettes, tilting the open box in my direction. I slip one of the cigs out and then take her lighter when she offers it.

  I don't know how long we stay outside, sweating in the night's heat. Sweating all my sins out while taking drags off my bummed cigarette. I know what I must look like to the outside eye. A bad woman. Tired. Exhausted. A dead spirit. If Trish could see me, she'd say I don't look like me. If she only knew the things I had done, it would make her cringe – my secrets. Because when I look in the mirror, this is exactly what I think I look like.

  These girls, though, don't cringe away from me. They don't ask questions and that, I think, is what I might miss most about being with Danny – perhaps the only thing: the comfort of silence despite their curiosity, because they don’t ask questions and they don’t pass judgment. I can ignore curiosity as long as they don't ask, and they can ignore me as long as I don't judge them.

  I hang out with the girls for what feels like a long time. Though, in reality, it’s likely less than a half hour. I bum several more cigarettes from a few of the ones who don't eyeball me like I’m a predator on their turf. When people begin to pour from the not-so-abandoned building across the street, the top of a sandy blond head catches my eye. I drop the last half of my cigarette to the ground and step on the bud before reaching into my pocket. I withdraw a couple of bills and hand each of the girls who gave me the nicotine fix a couple of dollars.

  "Thanks for letting me bum off you," I say lightly. "Gotta go."

  They don't offer welcomes or anything. They simply take the money and turn their backs, trying to catch the eyes of the people leaving. As I stride across the street, I can hear some of them calling from behind me.

  "Hey, Daddy! Are you a winner tonight?"

  "I can make you a winner!"

  "Want to have some fun?"

  I meet Blake, Cross, and Tax in the parking lot. Tax's dark gaze meets mine – a cresting wave of a stormy ocean assessing me. He nods his chin back to the girls behind me. "What were you doing over there?" he asks.

  "Smoking," I say.

  "I didn't know you smoked," Cross says. "If you needed a cig, I would have given you some of mine."

  I shrug. "They had some. They shared." I wait for it. Despite the fact that these guys are out here, participating in something illegal, I know most people have their breaking points. What they will and won't do. I met mine and passed it long ago. I expect them to tell me that this is theirs. That I shouldn't hang out with hookers. Shouldn't accept cigarettes from them. Shouldn't even be on the same corner as them.

  The three of them shock me, though. None of them say anything. Cross and Blake simply turn in the direction of their car, and Tax grabs my arm, tugging me along behind them. I look up at him, examining his face. Tax looks brutal. A shine in his eyes – an exhilaration. He's obviously not having any trouble walking or towing me around, so he's fine enough.

  "What will your sister say about that?" I ask, nodding my head at the colorful bruises beginning to show. They're everywhere. I can see the ones on his face, spreading across the underside of his jaw. Som
e of them peek out from beneath his t-shirt. His knuckles are scraped and raw.

  Tax shakes his head at me. "She won't say anything," he says, keeping his eyes trained ahead.

  I narrow my eyes at him, slowly coming to an understanding. She won't say anything because she's used to it. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel genuine sympathy that's more than cursory and expected. Sure, I’ve felt sympathy before, but there was always a feeling of obligation attached to that sympathy, as if it was automatic – trained into me. An expected emotion ingrained by society. Right now, my sympathy for Tax – and for Ally – is genuine. My desire to ease his pain is a surprise, but it’s there, undeniable.

  At the car, Tax releases my arm to open the back door for me. I hop in and he motions for me to move over, getting in beside me as Blake and Cross take the front seat. Cross starts up the car and carefully backs out as people continue to mill about in the parking lot, so sure that they're safe. So entitled to their activities that only the sound of sirens might send them running for the relative safety of their cars and homes.

  Tax leans back, his arm slung up over the top of the bench seat. His fingers touch the ends of my hair. I keep my gaze trained forward, only glancing to the side at him and then occasionally out the window. Despite how relaxed he's acting, I can see in my peripheral vision the clench of his other hand. His knuckles are white and red with the tightness of his closed fist. His thighs are tight as well, bunched behind the shotgun seat where Blake sits. Everyone remains quiet for the majority of the drive. When Cross leans forward and flicks on the radio, a slow rock ballad filters into the silence. That's the first moment that I notice the three of them collectively relax. The music, I realize, is their release. Even though it’s not the only one for Tax. I peek at him again.

  Tax's hand on my hair feels lighter now, more playful. "Did I scare you?" he asks quietly.

  I turn to look at him fully. "No," I admit, "you didn't scare me."

  "You left," he says.

  "It wasn't you," I assure him.

  "I wouldn't blame you if it was me." His eyes watch me, curious.

  Is he worried about what I might think?

  "I've seen worse," I reply with a shrug.

  That interests him, and I realize I may have said too much. "Oh?" he leans closer, his hand threading further into the strands of my hair. I shake my head, trying to shake his fingers loose, but he merely slides closer on the bench seat. I straighten my back and press closer to the door. He notices my retreat and pauses, those swirling eyes ever observant. "What have you seen, Lovely?"

  He asks the question, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's not really asking me, or at least the answer doesn’t really matter anymore. His eyes are unfocused as he looks down, pausing on the throbbing pulse point in my throat. Tax works his gaze over me, over my breasts – making my nipples stand up. Thank God for padded bras – and down further before returning back to my face.

  "Someone who looks as innocent as you do—" he says, "but you're not very innocent, are you?" From anyone else, that might have been an insult. He’s not accusing me, though. He's not ridiculing me. Tax is curious, but he's also trying to work through what he knows about me – which decidedly isn't much – and yet, he's already hit me right. I'm not innocent. Far from it.

  He swallows, hand moving down from the middle of my hair to the ends. "I'm not innocent either, Lovely. Don't think I don't know what it feels like to pretend."

  "I'm not pretending," I say, and frown.

  He raises one eyebrow at me. There's sweat and a little bit of crusted blood on his skin. The sweat is his. The blood is...likely not. "You're pretending," he says. "You're pretending just like everyone else. You're just a little better at it."

  The car pulls up to the apartment complex and I unbuckle my seatbelt, pulling away from him. I open my door and slide out. Cross and Blake get out and ignore us, heading straight for the building. Tax stops in front of the Jeep. I want to keep walking, to ignore his words and the ring of truth in them. His dark blue gaze meets mine, heavy and hurt.

  "Tonight was just to help a friend out," he says.

  I shake my head at him. "What you do and why you do it is none of my business."

  "You went, though," he argues. "I figure you should know why."

  "I left," I reply.

  "Did you, though?" he challenges me.

  I don't know why, but I both like it and hate this new side of him he has exposed to me. Even though it’s slightly different from the sarcastic, stubborn ass that has been dogging my heels, it’s also still very much him. He can't take anything I say and just let it be.

  I shake my head at him. "Why do you have to dissect everything I say?"

  He smiles. I had almost forgotten what the concentration of his smile was capable of. I'm sure any other woman would be a quivering mess on the concrete, but I'm not every woman. I've been used up by a man before – by many. He can't get to me. Not in my mind – that's the place I'm safest.

  "You're so damn interesting," he says, “a woman full of contradictions." His eyes trail down my arm to the blackbirds etched in my skin. I cross them over my chest, putting one hand over the tattoos. "You're like those birds," he continues, "beautiful in your dark feathers. You make me want to pull one out. See if you'll snap at me or if you'll let me do it."

  "I won't," I snap.

  "Then just give me a souvenir for when you leave," he urges, stepping closer. "Let me in, just a little."

  "Why?" I stare up at him shocked by the fervor in his words, in his tone. "Why should I trust you like that? I don't know you."

  "You could, though." Tax hovers over me, his big frame blocking out the street lights, the apartment building, and the parking lot. "You could trust me and I'd—I might trust you. We could trust each other."

  "Why me?" I demand.

  This doesn't feel right. But it also doesn't feel completely wrong. It feels like falling, head first, into a tornado – dangerous, but also exciting. It kickstarts my heart and my roiling emotions.

  Tax's hand touches my arm, pulling me closer and my heart jumps into my throat. It pounds in my ears, blocking out his next words. I can't even hear him as his lips move in my vision. Those full, masculine, sensual lips open and close, framing words that don't reach me and then they're descending.

  Tax kisses me with a dark reverence. His lips move over mine, pushing them apart, and I'm too shocked to do anything but let him. I don't realize I've closed my eyes until I'm surprised by the feel of his arms coming around me. I fall deep into the kiss. Feeling like I’m wrapped in silk and chocolate. But there’s something more as his erection presses against me. Something darker, dangerous. Something painful. It rockets up through me. My eyes are still closed.

  When was the last time someone kissed me, and I didn’t have to force my eyes to close? My hands move, with uncertainty, toward his neck, cupping him at the base of his skull and grazing my fingers along his hairline before moving up into the dark locks. He groans into my mouth, clutching me harder, tighter until I can feel him pressing against my belly.

  That dangerous feeling comes back. When he pushes me, I feel a zing. A zap of power in the muscles under his skin. We’re just two bodies bumping and grinding against each other, but it’s what’s inside our minds – the abstraction of our souls that make the feelings explode. Ripping through me like wildfire, uncontrollable.

  My core clenches – another surprise – and I move in closer, wanting to grind against that hardness. I gasp lightly when his hand grips the back of my neck with a force that shoots sparks up my spine. I’m reeling – sinking into this strange man.

  Tax yanks his mouth away and my eyes pop open. We're both breathing hard, our chests rising and falling rapidly. Our gazes lock together and a spark of something passes between us before Tax and I dive for each other again, at the same time. He picks me up and then my legs are wrapped around his waist and he's pressing me into the warmth of the Jeep's hood.
There's a little lip on the front, but it's too low for me to sit on, so he places his knee there and keeps me upright with a leg on the ground as he grinds his cock into my pussy through our clothes.

  I bite his lip when he kisses me again and he groans, his hips stilling as if he needs to regain his composure or he'll come in his jeans. The outline of his head is the only thing I can see, I can't even distinguish features and then, suddenly, it's not Tax hovering over me. It's Danny. I gasp and my pulse doubles in time – and this time it's not the good kind of adrenaline that begins to course through me. My hands find his chest and I push.

  "Love?" Tax's hoarse voice is filled with lust, with passion.

  I just need him off. I need him to get off me. I can't have him this way. I can't have Danny ruining things for me. It wasn't rape. I let him do it. I could have said no, and I didn't.

  "I can't," I rasp through tight lips. "I'm sorry, Tax. I can't."

  He doesn't ask me why. He doesn't curse or call me a whore or a cock tease. He simply nods at me and then backs away slowly, so I won't fall. My legs drop from around his waist and I slide down the front of the Jeep until I'm standing on my own two legs again.

  "It's okay," he says, surprising me further. "I get it. I didn't mean to kiss you...it just happened." He seems to rethink his words, and his burning ocean eyes meet mine with intense solemnness. "I don't regret it, though."

  He's so full of everything I’m not – yearning, passion, playfulness, excitement, lust. I feel like he's pouring those emotions into me and bringing me back to life – even if he doesn’t know it. I didn't realize how numb I was until he started shoving those emotions at me. It's almost like being drenched in hot water after years in the frozen arctic tundra. A shock to my system.

  "I'm going inside." I tear my eyes away from his. I can't let that dark stormy ocean in his eyes trap me beneath his surface. I don't want to be trapped anymore, no matter how much the chains I'm in are the ones I’ve made for myself. I need to be free of them. Getting too close to anyone is dangerous.