Expressionate

by Lucy Smoke

  She jerks when she hears my voice. Those big green eyes of hers come up, and I rock back on my heels with the amount of emotion in them. It's trapped, swirling in the depths of some frigid wasteland. If eyes are the windows to the soul – hers are in such pain. What happened to cause that? Just minutes ago, she was fine.

  I stride further into the kitchen, reaching up to cup her cheek. "Hey," I whisper, "what happened? Are you okay?"

  "I'm—"

  I cut her off before she can finish. "Do not tell me you're fucking fine right now." I can't take it. "Don't fucking lie to me."

  She's quiet for a moment. "I-I can't tell you why," she whispers.

  I nod my head, even though I don’t understand. “That’s okay,” I say.

  “Tax – I-I’m not—” Her whole body is trembling – from her delicate shoulders to her hips. She's shaking so hard, it's almost as if she's vibrating. I smooth my hands down her arms. Is she having a panic attack? Anxiety? Fuck. I don't know how to deal with these things. I don’t know what to fucking do.

  "What can I do?" I ask. "What do you need?"

  "I—" Love's eyes zero in on my mouth. "I need you," she says quickly, her gaze snapping to mine. Emotional whiplash slaps me across the face. Huh?

  "Please, Tax," she grips my shoulders, pulling me closer, standing up on her toes. "Please just make it go away." She presses her lips to mine and my mouth opens automatically. Her tongue sweeps across mine, tasting like beer. Closing my eyes, I press her against the counter hard, my cock swelling.

  Is this really what she needs? I wonder. But her hips grind against mine and when I palm her waist and lift her onto the counter she whimpers softly, gripping me close. "Please, Tax," she whispers.

  Fuck. I can't tell her no. I don't want to.

  I turn my head towards the doorway, listening intently. I don't hear footsteps in the hall. Everyone is either in the living room or somewhere else. I wonder if there's a way we can do this without alerting the others. If someone walked in on us – I’d be liable to kill them for seeing Love even half naked. I spot the pantry and an idea forms.

  I pull her legs around my hips and lift her up, turning and striding across the kitchen to the single door to the side of the refrigerator. I slap my hand against the knob as I press Love against the cool side of the fridge. She gasps against my throat before kissing my pulse and licking down to my collarbone. Fuck. I can't come yet.

  Swinging the door open, I step into the dark interior of the walk-in pantry. The door closes behind us, shutting us in completely. I push Love's legs down, spinning her around. I kick her legs apart and bend her over slightly before I lean down and slip my hands up the sides of her dress. I slide around to her front and then pull the silky, little scrap of fabric covering her pussy down her thighs, moving down as I go. They catch around her knees and I curse, leaving them as I feel my way back up. I stay down, my own knees on the dirty pantry floor and inhale the scent of her sex. I groan as I lean forward and swipe my tongue up her slit.

  Love's gasp is fucking music to my ears. I tongue her again, gripping an asscheek in each palm and spreading her as wide as I can. I lick up one side of her labia and then down the other before circling her entrance. She reaches back, panting, searching. I release one cheek and catch her hand, letting our fingers intertwine. Her spine softens, and she pushes back. At least I'm doing something right.

  I pull my face away and then slide two fingers into her pussy. Hot. Wet. Wanting and needy. Just like I like it. I stand, releasing her hand, and Love reaches up to grip one of the shelves as I unbuckle my belt. "Are you ready, Lovely?" I ask.

  "Yes," she says quietly. "Please Tax. Can you..."

  I pause, cock in one hand, my other on her lower back. "What do you need?" I ask. All she has to do is ask and I'll give it to her. I don't know, exactly, why here, or why now, but something happened, and she needs this – that much I do know.

  "It's dark," she says, her voice trembling. Her spine may be soft, her ass may be pressed out, but she's still shaking. "I just need you to talk to me. Because you're here. I need to know it's you." She sounds ashamed, like she might be in tears. My heart fucking breaks for this girl. What could fucking make her feel like this?

  "Yeah." I cough once, the guttural sound of my voice rough. "I’ve got you, Lovely."

  I circle her entrance again, this time with my cock and I lean over, pressing my lips near her ear. "Put your hands up higher on the shelves," I whisper. "Push your ass out, Lovely. You want me inside you, don't you?"

  "Yes, I—" She chokes off when I slam inside.

  "Fuck." I hiss through gritted teeth, my fingers closing around her curves. "You feel so fucking good, Love. Like you were fucking made for my cock. Do you feel like that? Do you feel like my cock was made for you too? I bet you do. I bet this is the best cock you've ever felt, huh?" I pull back and pound back inside.

  She squeaks. I can vaguely make out – through the low light from the cracks in the door – the grip of her fingers on the shelves and how they tighten. "And this pussy," I start again, reaching around with one hand to finger her little clit. She gasps. "This pussy is the sweetest—" I pull back out. "Fucking—" I flick her clit and relish the sound of her stuttering breath "—pussy—” I thrust back inside, eliciting a cry from her throat. “I've ever had,” I finish, meaning every single word. She moans.

  "Shhh, Lovely," I say, "you don't want anyone to hear you, do you?"

  I run my finger up and down her pussy as I fuck her from behind. "Tax." I close my eyes and sink into her even deeper. With my name on her lips, her wetness on my cock, I'm not gonna last. But I can't go off without her. I pinch her clit between my thumb and forefinger, praying this works as I pull out and thrust into her again and again, until the slap of her ass and my hips clap in the panting silence.

  "I – fuck – Tax!" She comes hard on my cock, and I skyrocket into my own orgasm, releasing her clit and re-gripping her hips. She'll likely wear bruises tomorrow. It makes me a bastard, but I think I'll like knowing that I marked her and that she enjoyed it, because as I fuck myself into her and into another orgasm, I know she does. She cries out again and then we're both sagging against the shelves.

  "Lovely," I whisper, pulling her up and brushing the damp curls around her temples to the side as I kiss her neck.

  She whimpers and this time it doesn't sound blissful. I pull back, slipping out of her, and even with her pants still halfway down her legs, Love turns and buries her face in my chest, hands fisting my shirt. I'm shocked, but instead of pulling away and asking questions, I merely yank her closer and rub my palms up and down her back.

  In the darkness of Sarge's pantry, I listen to people laughing somewhere on the other side of the house as the girl in my arms trembles and cries against my chest. Though I would rather slay a motherfucking dragon with my own bare hands than feel her tears burn hot trails across my skin when she presses her nose to the column of my throat, seeking comfort, I'll stay. I'll stay because she's mine and, even though I'm fucked up, I'm hers too.

  After the fuck in the pantry, I bundle Love up, helping her pull the skirt of her dress down and underwear back up, then hurry her out to my Jeep. Blake steps out onto the porch as I close her door, a cigarette in his hand. The flame of his lighter burns bright and he inhales his nicotine fix as I approach the stairs. “Hey,” I call out, “tell Sarge we’re heading out. I’m taking Love back.”

  Blake glances toward the Jeep. “Something happen?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  He blows out a breath and a wave of smoke flits up into the night. “She’s good for you, you know,” he says quietly. “Just don’t fuck it up, man.”

  I shift on the stairs, propping my hip against the side banister. “I won’t.”

  Blake never takes his eyes away from the Jeep. “You know, she’s got her own demons too. I suspect that’s why you’re taking her home. Something did happen.”

  Subconsciously, I wonder
if it’s me. If I set her off. But if that were true, why would she ask me to fuck her? I rub the back of my neck and stare at the rotting wood of the third step. Then something occurs to me. How would he know? I turn and look over my shoulder, but Love is sitting with her face turned away in the passenger side of the Jeep. I look back at Blake and narrow my eyes.

  “Don’t,” he says, blowing out another cloud of smoke. “Whatever you’re thinking, man, don’t. She doesn’t need that shit from you right now.”

  “How do you know something’s up?” I demand, lowly.

  He sighs, dropping the cigarette to the porch before stepping on the cherry red end with his boot. “Did I ever tell you about the time I spent down in Georgia?” he asks.

  I blink, confused, before shaking my head. His lips twist. “Good – don’t ever ask about it. Just know, when it comes to her, I get it. I get her issues. I get it because I see it in myself.” He turns to go back inside. I reach out, nearly catching the back of his shirt. He must feel the air behind him shift, because Blake pauses, but he doesn’t look back and my hand falls back to my side.

  “Don’t you fucking judge her,” he says quietly. If I didn’t know this fucker so well – know him well enough to know he’d never beg for anything in his life – I’d say… but no. He can’t be. I don’t have a chance to ask or even respond because in the next instant, Blake’s yanking open the front door and disappearing inside, and I’m left feeling like a fucking yawning pit just opened up in my stomach as I look back at Love. What the fuck do I do?

  Shaking my head, I step off the porch stairs and head back to the Jeep, hopping into the driver’s side and cranking the ignition. Love doesn’t speak the entire drive back to the apartments. She doesn’t protest when I park the car, walk around and unbuckle her. It satisfies something inside of me when I lift her into my arms and she goes willingly. I like the feeling of her weight on my muscles.

  I carry her into the building and to the elevator, and hold her while we slowly ascend to our floor. When we get out, I don’t take her home. I head for my own door and quietly, like we’ve done it a thousand times, she reaches for my pocket, retrieving my keys, and unlocks the front door. I don’t set her down until we get to my bedroom.

  “Do you need anything?” I ask as I lay her gently on my side of the bed. She can have it. Hell, she can have everything I own as long as she takes something because if she does then that means she cares.

  Love shakes her head and raises her hands to my neck, linking her fingers at my nape, under my overgrown hair. My beard stubble brushes her soft skin when I lean forward and nuzzle under her chin, kissing her pulse. I crawl on top of her, roughly toeing off my boots and kicking them away as I go.

  Resting my head against her chest, I listen to the rough beat of her heart as Ally sleeps on in the other room. The entire apartment is quiet – a peaceful safe haven. That’s what this woman is to me. When I’m stressed the fuck out, whether it’s over the band, over Ally – just trying to raise her, keep her fed and healthy and give her shit that teenage girls need – this woman makes me forget it all and just escape for a little while. I don’t even need to fuck her to do that. Though, I love it. I love her pussy. Shoving myself in, holding deep as she looks at me with those dark, pain-filled eyes of hers. I want to be the same for her. I want to be her everything. I don’t care if it’s healthy or not. I want her to be obsessed. I want to haunt her. I want to empty her out and fill her up with nothing but me and if anyone fucking hurts her…

  I’ll kill them.

  19

  Love

  The instructor is talking – his voice echoing around the long lecture hall. My mind wanders. I don't even have the energy to put forth the effort today. It's enough that I'm here. My ears are plugged with headphones, but Dr. Hall is such a pompous ass that all he is sure to see is himself and his greatness. His slideshow is filled to the brim with notes – tiny scriptures squeezed into every last available crevice of the current slide.

  Normally, I would be scribbling or typing away like the rest of my classmates – trying to get it all down, trying to cram as much knowledge into my brain as quickly and as inefficiently as possible. That's right. Inefficient. I don't want to be here right now.

  Maybe it's all the time I've been spending with Tax – his inability to take people’s shit while I'm drowning under it and sewing my mouth closed in the process – but I decide that today is not the day for this. I close my laptop and shove it into my bag and stand.

  Several eyes turn my way when I get up and make my way across the row and out into the stair aisle. I move up to the doors leading outside. If the professor calls out to me, I don't hear. The music in my ears drives the noise away. I reach into my pocket and turn it up as I make my way across campus, heading for my car when the song switches and is quickly interrupted by a buzzing.

  Sighing, I slide my earbuds out and lift the phone to my ear, pressing the green button without looking at the name. Only two people ever call my phone now. Trish – as always – and Tax. When I answer, Trish's voice comes across the receiver.

  "I'm done," she snaps in my ear.

  I blink, taking away the phone and staring at the screen. No, the screen definitely says Trish. I put it back to my ear. "What are you talking about?"

  "Anne – I can't handle her anymore," Trish says. Her voice is practically vibrating with anger. "I – Love, I'm so sorry. But she came over after the lunch we had, and she's been staying with me and Lawrence in the guest bedroom, and I just kicked her out."

  "What?" I can't believe what I'm hearing. "What happened?"

  "She was driving me fucking crazy." She huffs over the phone. "She just hangs over me, Love. She asks me all these questions – where are you living? How often do I see you? What do we talk about? If you're dating anyone? She wants to know when Lawrence and I are going to get married? If we’re planning on having kids. She was driving him crazy too. He's pissed at me." Her voice wavers over his name.

  "Okay," I say, "do you want me to come over?” This conversation seems surreal. “Did you really kick her out?”

  She sighs. "No, not exactly. I mean, she's gone. She's not staying with us anymore, but I think that's more because of Lawrence than me. If he asks, she'll do anything. If I ask, then I'm ungrateful...Love?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you think I'm ungrateful?"

  I sigh heavily. "No, Trish, I don't think you're ungrateful."

  "I'm sorry for calling," she says. "If you're busy or if you need to go—"

  "I'm not," I interrupt, "busy that is. But I would like to see you. Do you want to..." I pause, looking around. Trish is a student here too and she doesn't live far. "Do you want to meet at the Java Shop?" I'm not a big fan of coffee, but I find myself wanting to talk to her. I don't have any real friends – especially not girlfriends. I'm happy to listen to her talk about Anne or Lawrence – though both of those subjects are uncomfortable for me, I know she needs an outlet too. But I really want to tell her about Tax.

  "On campus? Yeah, sure. I can be there in an hour," she answers.

  I blanch, but I can head to the library and pick up a few things while I wait for her. "Okay," I say, "I'll meet you there in an hour."

  We hang up and I make a right turn, heading towards the big, hulking behemoth of a library building on the far west side of campus. The doors open as I slide my student ID. I head for the second floor and move for the publishing section, pulling books as I go. I stop by the checkout desk and as the student worker scans the barcodes of the books, I look down. A small, soft yellow flier catches my attention.

  "What's this?" I ask, fingering the edge of the flier.

  The girl shrugs. "What does it look like? It's a flier." She hands me my books back and then a slip of paper. "Books are due back by the date on the receipt. Any charges incurred will go automatically to your student account. Have a nice day."

  As she turns away, I slip the yellow flier into my pocket and head out. Once I'm
outside, on the sidewalk, I pull it back out and read over the words.

  What are the signs?

  Domestic Violence

  Depression

  Suicide Prevention

  I ignore the last two points under the title and focus on the first. Something in my gut tells me that Lawrence isn't exactly as nice as he seems to be. He never returned my phone calls from before. Trish talks about him less and less. Maybe he's not hitting her, but she's not happy. That's when my eyes do move towards the lower points. Is she depressed?

  After several moments of fingering the edges of the paper, I fold it and put it back in my pocket. I know she won't take it if I hand it over directly, but maybe I could just slip it into her bag or something. Maybe leave it on the table. I shake my head. I'll figure it out.

  I start across the lawn in front of the library and head back toward the middle of the campus where the student union building stands like an arching tower. I march that way, my head down, my earbuds firmly back in. Even after killing over thirty minutes at the library, when I arrive at the Java Shop, I'm early. I shrug off my sweater and stop at the register, ordering a vanilla latte for Trish and a green tea for myself.

  In the back corner of the shop, I stop at a table for two, setting the latte down on one side and my green tea on the other. Several minutes later, Trish comes storming into the shop – a bag slung over one shoulder with a sweater dangling over the open clasp of it. When she sees me, her eyes zone in on the latte in relief. Collapsing into the seat across from me, she lifts the cup to her lips, inhaling half the contents in one gulp. Her sweater falls off, sliding into the corner of the seat as she shifts.

  Setting down her cup, Trish sighs. “Guess who called me as I was leaving,” she says sharply.

  “Um… Lawrence?” I guess.

  She shakes her head. “Nope. Fucking Mom. Something is up with her. It’s like she has Love senses, like she knows when I’m coming to see you. I don’t know what’s going on.”