by Lucy Smoke
Heading down the long back hallway to the lockers, I pull it out and check my screen.
Trish: Anne knows about the hospital visit.
I’m not really sure why I should know that. At least not until I read the next text she sent that I didn’t hear go off.
Trish: She knows you picked me up and that we’ve been seeing each other.
I tense, my skin feeling itchy under the surface, but it was bound to happen. With stiff fingers, I type that as my response. Her reply is immediate.
Trish: She wants to see you.
I frown.
Love: I’m not sure that’s a good idea.
Trish: Please? Maybe she misses you.
I stare at my screen with a hollow feeling in my chest. People like Anne don’t change. The ‘Annes’ and the ‘Dannys’ of the world are the users, and people are their drug of choice. I was around both of them too much, knew them too deeply, and I became a user too. I let people touch me and use me and I used them in return, for money, for escape, for self-punishment. I close my eyes against the memories. The memory dream I had that morning comes back to me in a rush. My phone pings again.
Trish: I’m going to be graduating in a few years. I’d really like the both of you to be there. Maybe this is the way to get the family back together.
“Love?” Willow’s voice down the hall calls to me as I grit my teeth. Before I can think better of it, I type out something I know I’m going to regret.
Love: Fine. I’ll see her.
I feel sick to my stomach as I shove my phone into my purse and leave it there to go back to the front of the store. I find Willow with her crazy, bleached hair waiting and shifting in her kitten heels.
“What’s up?” I ask, hoping there’s some sort of problem. Anything to distract me.
“Um…” she starts, looking around before pushing her forefinger at the bridge of her black rimmed glasses, shoving them back up her nose. “There’s a guy here looking for you.”
“Okay?” I start toward the front.
“Wait!” she squeaks out, grabbing my arm. “H-he’s really big and um…tattooed.” I can just guess who it is, and I couldn’t have asked for a better distraction. “Are you in any trouble?” Willow asks in a hissed whisper.
For the first time in a long time, someone other than the man up front and my own sister have made me want to laugh. As it stands, I can’t keep my lips from twitching, but I shake my head. “No. Don’t worry. I know him.”
“Oh…” her manicured nails release me, and she steps back. “Sorry, I just thought…”
“Don’t worry about it.” I wave away her concern. “I’m sure he’s used to that reaction.”
She nods. “Okay, I’ll just…um…get back to um, the counter.” She disappears through the rows of shelves.
I stare after her before turning and heading toward the cash registers. I’m sure Tax is being the model citizen. If he’s not there, then he’s in the café just to the side. Turning the corner and spotting the mess of dark hair, I realize I was right.
Tax is flipping through a magazine. It’s a rare opportunity for me to watch him without that piercing gaze of his analyzing me. What it is about him that breaks down my walls, I don’t know. He’s handsome, yes, but I’ve been with handsome men before. He’s tall and tattooed. I’ve been with tall and tattooed men before too. So, what is it? It’s not a softness in him. There doesn’t seem to be much of that. He pushes and breaks down my barriers and jumps through like it’s his right. He is hard, immovable.
Tax is not simply another fish in the sea. He is the fucking sea. All violent waves and angry storms and sexy calm with dark, dangerous monsters lurking beneath his surface. I must be crazy, because I like it.
When he turns, and those dark azure eyes meet mine, he grins my way. “Good to see last night didn’t completely put you on your ass, Lovely.”
I shake my head. I don’t know what it is about that nickname, but I can’t fucking help myself; I like that too.
12
Tax
I feel an ache, deep beneath my skin. An ache that I used to be able to cure with a good fight or a nice, hard fuck. But the only woman I can even think about fucking right now is a curvy, short, little ice queen with a whole lot of secrets. I want to pick her apart from the inside and see each little wheel and cog that makes up who she is.
Cross slaps my shoulder as he passes me on his way to the bedroom, startling me out of my thoughts. "You gonna ask your little girlfriend to go out with us tonight?" he asks nonchalantly.
"Fuck off," I say, though the words come out without any heat. He can't possibly know how fucking much I want that girl.
Cross pauses before reaching the hallway, turning and arching an eyebrow. "Oh?" he smiles before crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Problem in paradise?"
I roll my eyes. What a dick. I get up and head for the door, intending to go where, I don’t know. "I'm heading out," I say by way of response. "Text me when Ally gets back from her friend's house."
Cross isn't given an opportunity to reply as I slam out of the apartment. I pause, feeling a buzzing in my pocket. Withdrawing the cell, I unlock the screen and look over my previous messages. A peculiar swarm of something dark slides into my chest, eerily similar to a snake coiling tight around my heart.
Unknown: $500. You in or out?
Blood pounds in my ears as I read and reread the words. I’m going. I have to go – despite Love, the fights still need to happen. The brief time in the cage when I was there for Keith was nothing. It barely satisfied cravings I hadn’t even realized I’d been suppressing.
I pause outside my apartment, looking to the side at Love's door. Before I can think better of it, I'm standing in front of it and knocking. Several minutes later, a wave of some celebrity inspired perfume overwhelms me as the door opens and Beverly looks up at me in nothing but booty shorts and a tiny little tank top. Hell, I can see the girl's nipples through the thin fabric. I avert my gaze before I even realize I'm doing it. Why? Because it doesn't feel right anymore. Not after last night.
"What?" she snaps. Clearly I’ve disturbed her from her beauty sleep. Dark circles mar the otherwise perfect shape and smoothness of her face.
"Is Love home?"
She scoffs. "I'm not her keeper," she says, "but no, she's probably at work." Beverly doesn't say anything more as she slams the door in my face. What a bitch.
I return to my apartment and Cross takes that as his cue to remind me not to “shit where I sleep,” as he so eloquently puts it. I flip the hypocrite off and snatch my keys from the counter before heading out to the Jeep. I remember the drive to the BookWorm. This time, I don’t see Love’s car anywhere. At least, I don’t until I circle around the back. I pull into the parking spot alongside hers and then walk around the building to the front door.
I stride through the doors, pulling a beanie from my back pocket and sliding it over the top of my head as a short blonde girl wearing a BookWorm apron widens her eyes at my approach. “Hey,” I say, shooting the miniature woman a smile. “Is Love here today?” I ask.
“Umm…” Her eyes fall to my tattoos and if possible, her incredibly wide eyes expand even further. She looks like a shivering, little dog with those big, terrified eyes.
“Sweetheart,” I say, leaning forward and nudging her chin up from across the counter, “Love?”
“LOVE?” she practically squeaks out.
I sigh. “Yes, is Love here? Long, dark hair? Pretty green eyes? Killer body?” I flash my smile again. The helpful information doesn’t seem to phase her. “She works here,” I say.
“Oh, L-love,” the woman stutters.
I nod. “Yeah, I’m looking for her. Is she here?”
“Um…I think she’s in the back…on her break. I c-can um…go get her?”
“I would appreciate that,” I say.
The girl speeds around the counter and past the bookshelves as if her skirt is on fire. I sigh, snatching one of
the fitness mags I see in a nearby rack. I flip through the glossy pages, not really paying attention to anything. The images blur as I move through them so fast. The inked words are empty and boring. I shove the thing back in its holder, turning away and stop as I realize that Love’s there. She looks hot as hell in her tight jeans and black v-neck t-shirt under the BookWorm apron. For a split second, my imagination sees her bent over the front seat of my Jeep with those jeans around her ankles. I blink and she’s right there in my face, lifting a brow at me curiously. Shit. Daydreams. Fantasies I want to make come true. I adjust my stance, hoping she doesn’t notice the fact that my thoughts have made my jeans a little tighter in the front.
My smile spreads. “Good to see last night didn’t completely put you on your ass, Lovely.”
She shakes her head, the silken strands of her hair slapping her cheeks as if she can’t help but smirk at me. It’s not a full-blown smile, but I’ll get one. I swear it. I’ll get as many from her as I can, and I’ll hoard them all for myself. Because no one but me knows how to get past her inner ice and that’s what really makes my cock hard, knowing that I’m her weakness. And if I’m not, then I will be. I want to be.
I step closer to her even as she opens her mouth. “What are you doing here, Tax?”
I match her smirk. “I’m here to see you, Lovely.” I reach out and touch a tendril of that mixture of blonde-brunette hair. There’s a little auburn in there as well. The light catches and sets her on fire. My little ice queen, burning alive. “When do you get off?” I ask.
"When the next manager comes in," she starts, looking up at the big clock hanging above the counter at my back, "which will be in about an hour."
"Good," I reply, turning and walking towards the café that the little blonde from earlier is now working in. She studiously attempts to keep her gaze from meeting mine. When she fails and I flash her a smile, she blushes hot pink. I restrain my laughter...barely, and turn back to Love. "I'll be right here when you get done."
Love looks at me curiously, but shakes her head and turns away, disappearing back between the bookshelves. I sit my happy ass down in one of the overstuffed chairs and proceed to flip through yet another boring magazine until my eyes cross and everything blurs in front of me. If any of the patrons mind having a tatted up guy in jeans and a t-shirt just sitting around, they certainly don’t show it. I toss the magazine to the side and pick up another and when I’m finished with that one, another. Time crawls by. I count into the hundreds before I finally can’t stand my own fucking brain anymore. I decide to fuck with Blondie, who keeps shooting worried glances between me and the bookshelves. Before I can think of anything, however, Love finally returns with a skinny, older, redheaded woman wearing a BookWorm apron over her summer dress, and a name tag that reads ‘Manager.’
"Thanks for looking out, Love," the woman says. Love nods as the woman turns and heads for the café counter.
Tossing the mag to the side, I stand up when Love approaches. She pulls off her apron and for several seconds, we just stand there. Until...
"So," she begins, "where are you taking me?"
When we step into the small sushi buffet restaurant, a petite Asian woman in a loud pink sweater and jean shorts bounces up to us holding menus. "Two?" she asks with a slight accent. I nod and follow her as she turns and heads toward one of the booths in the far back, against the row of windows that look out to the interstate.
"You actually meant a date," Love says as we sit, sounding surprised and confused.
I laugh, setting my elbows on the table and leaning on my hands as I watch her reach for her rolled silverware and undo it to put the fabric napkin on her lap. "What did you expect I meant?" I ask, still smiling.
"To be honest," she starts as she folds the napkin over her lap and opens the menu, "another fight."
"Well..." I sit back and rub a hand along my jawline. "I'll still consider that night one of our first dates."
"Oh." Love smirks at me. No full smile for my gorgeous ice queen, just the hints of one. "Are we dating then?"
I turn serious eyes on her. "Yeah," I state, "we're dating." I spread my hands wide. "That's what this is. You and me. On a date. Hence, we're dating."
Love shakes her head, but before she can say anything more the waiter arrives. He takes our drink order, and I shoot Love a quick glance before telling him we'll use the buffet rather than order from the menu. Love closes her menu and hands it over before we both get up and head for the line.
"If we're dating," I say, grabbing a plate and passing her one, "let’s talk about you."
In the middle of allowing her to go ahead of me, her back goes rigid. After a brief pause, she reaches for one of the tongs on the end and starts to make her selection. "What about me?" she asks stiffly.
"What's your favorite color?" I ask, deciding against the list in my head. The list of questions she might not be able to handle just yet. Questions like: Why do you seem so distant to everyone around you? Why did you move in with a chick who obviously doesn't give a shit about you? How do you like sex? How would you like to be flat on your back while I pound into the prettiest pussy I've probably ever fucking had in my goddamn life? And please tell me you go commando...I eye her ass as the questions I shouldn't ask flit through my mind.
"Gold," she says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I jerk my gaze up as she turns, her plate full while mine still rests empty. Green eyes flecked with the summer sun look up at me. "Gold?"
"Yup." She pops her p, sounding sexy and child-like all in one breath. It's unusual coming from her, but her eyes still have that heavily guarded ice wall up. She moves in front of me and once again, that ass of hers takes center stage.
I cough and try thinking of something to say. "Um...why gold?" I manage.
She shrugs. "Why not gold?" Then she looks over her shoulder at me. "It's because it's the color of the sun and I could use a little sunshine most days."
"Sunshine clears away the darkness a bit, huh?" I guess. She doesn't reply as she heads further along the buffet, but I know I've got it right. My dirty thoughts don't exactly dry up – how can they with an ass like hers? – but they do take a backseat to food as we head down the aisles and make our selections.
I'm the last back to the table, sliding into the booth section across from Love as she separates her chopsticks. I do the same to mine and start rubbing the ends together to get rid of any splinters. Her eyes track my movements.
"What?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing."
"No, what is it?" I put my chopsticks down.
She sighs and purses her lips. "I thought it was considered rude to rub your chopsticks together," she says quietly.
I raise my brows before laughing. "I'm a big fan of Asian food," I say. "I've always done it."
She shrugs. "Yeah, but those are nice chopsticks – not the cheap wooden ones. If you rub them together like that, I'm pretty sure it's basically saying that you think they're cheap."
My eyes widen, and I quickly look around. No one seems to have noticed. "I'll...ah...try not doing it again, then," I say, one hand lifting to rub the back of my head. Embarrassment floods me. "Thanks."
Her eyes shine in amusement. "You can always research chopstick etiquette when you get home," she suggests. "I could be wrong."
I tilt my head to the side as I pick my chopsticks back up. "How'd you know in the first place?" I ask.
She scrunches up her nose and I know she doesn't want to talk about herself. But I don't retract my question. If she doesn't want to answer it, then she's going to have to be brave enough to tell me. I know she will be. I enjoy those moments of her resistance. She doesn't get so embarrassed as much as she just refuses to do what anyone else expects. Then she surprises me yet again.
"I had this teacher in high school," she confesses, "she was actually a student teacher and she was pretty observant. We were assigned this paper on exploring other cultures and their traditions. When she realized
I was struggling – my family wasn't exactly culturally explorative – she introduced me to a bunch of different ideas. The Asian cultures interested me the most. Some of the research I did has stuck throughout the years becoming random facts. I'm sure everyone has them."
I nod and smile. "Axl Rose's real name is Billy," I say, "and he's from a place called Lafayette, Indiana."
Her mouth parts as she raises a piece of sushi to her lips, but her hand stills and she looks at me. "Really?"
I nod, still grinning, before tapping the side of my head with my free hand. "Most of my random facts are music related."
"That isn't surprising, you’re a musician after all."
"That I am."
"What made you decide to be a musician?" she asks.
I sigh, setting my chopsticks down as she takes her bite. I lean my elbows on the table, interlacing my fingers as I prop my chin on them and watch her. "Ally did, actually," I say.
"Your sister?"
"Yeah." I look to the side, scanning the rest of the restaurant. "I used to sing to her when we were kids. I didn't think anything of it, but she always told me how happy it made her. After – well, after I left my parents' place and went out on my own, I met up with Cross and Blake. Blake used music to relax. He wasn't much for the whole performance aspect. That was all Cross."
"You know," she says, "that doesn't surprise me."
I turn back to her just as she pops another sushi roll into her mouth and chews while blinking at me. "Smartass," I tease.
She shrugs and continues eating.
"Well, you're not wrong," I say, "Cross likes the various aspects of performance. There's a real rush to it. We're decent enough – meaning we have the equipment and we've put in the practice."
