Expressionate

by Lucy Smoke

  "I should have started with one of those." She nods to the drink in my hand that I haven't had a chance to take a sip of.

  "Do you want another one?" the bartender asks, as he reaches for the now empty wine glass. Beverly nods, dismissing him completely with a flip of her hair and a squeal as the lights around the stage go down.

  She leaps off her chair. "Oh my god! It's them! Can you freaking believe it?!" she screams at me.

  "Uh, yeah," I say, "it's why we came, isn't it?"

  But Beverly isn't listening to me. She's already pushing through the packed bar, heading toward the front of the stage. I sigh and lean back against the countertop of the bar as the bartender returns with a new glass of Merlot. He shoots a look out into the crowd and sighs as several more patrons leave the bar to head toward the stage. He lingers nearby. My eyes traverse the room. More than half of its occupants are female, and of those females, almost all of them are dressed to attract attention. I know I'm not, but that's never deterred male attention before, and it won't tonight. I notice as another bar patron, a slender man in a button-down shirt and well-fitting jeans steps up to the bar at my side and orders an Old Fashioned. I don't look at him. There's a reason he chose to stop right beside me, even though there are many open stools up and down the bar now that everyone is on the dance floor gearing up for the band.

  "Hi," the man says, proving my point.

  I sigh. "Hi."

  The band steps out and the lights in the bar dim further, all except for the bright spotlights that shine directly on Tax as he stops at the front of the stage. For a second his eyes squint against the light, then his expression clears as he looks around and smiles. I can practically hear the panties slapping the floor.

  "–here?" I barely catch the tail end of the question that the guy next to me is asking, but I turn my gaze back to him.

  "What?"

  He frowns. "I said, what are you doing here? But I guess that’s a dumb question. You're here for the band, aren't you? Groupie?" he asks.

  I shake my head and direct my gaze back to the stage. "Nope. Just here with a friend."

  "I don't see your friend anywhere," he says as the bartender sets his Old Fashioned down in front of him.

  "She's the groupie," I clarify, nodding toward the crowd surrounding the stage as Tax steps up to the microphone stand and taps it twice. When the distinct thumps of his fingers hitting the microphone echo out of the speakers on either side of the stage, he grips it and steps closer.

  "Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Glad you could all make it down here to City Limits to see us perform."

  Several women up front scream in excitement. I distinctly hear Beverly's call to Cross, the one with the flat sweep of blond hair and a wicked grin as he moves his long fingers down the neck of a guitar. His tattoos look even darker under the stage lights. All three of the band members have tattoos, I realize.

  "I've never been here," the guy to my side says. "First time hearing these guys, though, I've heard good things."

  I shrug again. "I wouldn't know."

  "For those of you who don't know us, we're known as The Sound and we look forward to playing for you tonight. You ready?" His ending question seems to be more of a transition than a question because in the next beat, I see the blond – Cross – slide his fingers down his guitar and a loud ricochet of sound erupts from the speakers as more women scream.

  "You're not really interested in talking, are you?" the guy next to me asks.

  I lean my head back and look at him out of the corner of my eye. "No," I say before refocusing my attention. I'm curious to know if this new neighbor is any good. Those are a lot of women screaming for his attention.

  Old Fashioned guy continues to stare at me for several moments and when I don't say anything else, he mutters, "Bitch," before taking his drink and disappearing into the crowd, leaving a shitty tip for the bartender, if the bartender’s grunt is anything to go by when he picks up the man's receipt and money. I wonder if he felt like I should have apologized for my honesty.

  Tired of the countertop digging into my back, I turn around to sit properly on my stool and move to reach for my Long Island when my hand stops, hovering midair. A hauntingly beautiful voice echoes through the bar accompanied by the music at my back. I glance up to the mirror behind the wall of liquor bottles. In the reflection, I see Tax's dark eyes closed and his face strained as his mouth hangs open on the long note that started his song. Full of life and death and pain and suffering, the sound shoots through my ears and deep into my core. My hand drops to the bar and clenches into a fist.

  I’m tempted to put my hands over my ears to stop the heartbreaking sound of his voice. The raw note still reverberates through me as he sings. It's not his song. It's something modern – a popular indie rock song I've heard somewhere before, perhaps on the radio. What he does to it, though, is so different.

  His eyes open and he looks out over the crowd. People are dancing and grinding. The music is loud and hard edged, but the lyrics and his voice, are melancholy. It hits me like a shot in my veins, burning through my blood and making my skin ache. I turn back to my drink and the amber fluid reflects the lights behind me. I grab the glass and suck until the straw squeezes together and the liquid is gone. The bartender appears and takes it away, not bothering to ask me if I want another before making me a new one and sliding it my way. I take it and sip it slowly this time. My head starts to spin from how quickly I drank the first.

  I'm breathing hard and shivering as Tax's voice drifts above the noise of the crowd. The reality of it is the potency of his voice is probably muted because of the speakers, but that only makes me imagine what if it were just him and me. And he was singing solely to me. Of course, that's likely what makes him so enticing to the women down in front of the stage. It’s what makes him good as a rock star. Is he a rock star? I ask myself. Sure, the music is rock-esque, but his voice is so much more. Something damning and different, water sliding over strings colliding with a deeply sexual edge.

  I find myself gripping the edge of the bar and drinking more the longer his set goes on. My eyes are glued to the mirror because I can't bring myself to turn around and see him directly with my own eyes. Tax’s face surprises me when he tilts his chin down and I realize he's staring at me as he sings. At least, I think he is.

  His eyes are a little too clouded for me to know if he is really focusing on anything at all. His voice is deep and rich and enchanting. He shakes his hair out of his face before starting another song and bends down, picking up a guitar. He reaches up to the microphone and belts out a long-lasting note once more. His face is hard, harder than I think a musician’s should be. His nose is slightly crooked like it’s been broken before – perhaps a few times. The song is beautiful, and his voice is melting and effortless, but the lyrics don’t match his face. He doesn’t look like he cares much for the words he’s singing, and I wonder what kind of song would fit him better.

  Beverly hasn't returned, and her second Merlot remains full. It isn't until another band replaces Tax and his bandmates that I realize how tightly I'm holding onto the bar and I release, flexing the muscles of my hand.

  Beverly bounds up to me, sweaty, and smelling like men’s cologne. "Oh my God!" she screams. "Can you believe that?! They were so good! God, the things I'm going to do to Cross tonight."

  I grimace and push my empty glass away. Beverly sees her Merlot and grabs it, downing it like the last one. It's so confusing to watch someone drink wine like a shot of whiskey. I look to the bartender as he stops by and hands me a receipt, then slaps one down in front of Beverly. I hand him my card and ask him for a pen. He yanks one out of his pocket and hands it over before moving down to his computer station with my card in hand while Beverly rifles through her bra for her own card.

  I grab one of the small, square napkins nearby and glance behind me before I turn and start writing, remembering Tax's voice. The words are different than the ones he sang; the meaning is differen
t. My hand is shaking as I grip the pen in my fist, heartbeat thrumming in my ribcage like I’m about to leap off a building. I can almost feel the cheap dollar store pen under my hand cracking as I dive into the words.

  How is it that someone so distant, someone I hardly know, with just the sound of his voice makes me feel more than the man I’ve had sex with dozens of times ever did?

  4

  Tax

  I'm on a music high. It’s hitting me harder than usual tonight. I'm flying. The addiction I have to it is probably unhealthy, but there are worse ways to sink myself. The choking feeling in my throat as I sing doesn't reach my voice. It never does. It's all in my head. It's there when the music begins to flow, and it doesn't leave until the last note fades. Blake's at my back, his hands deftly twirling his drumsticks as he brings them down again and again in an even rhythmic rotation. Even though I'm facing the crowd, I know if I turn around his face would be scrunched in concentration, his eyes shut against the bright lights that he can't stand.

  I'm in a strange head place right now. It's the one I get into when I sing and play long enough. It’s like I’m floating in limbo as the notes and chords mix between us and drown me in the sensations slithering over my skin. Fuck. It’s strong. The only other thing I can compare this to is the fighting, and maybe sex. Sex drowns out my thoughts, but only on occasion does it give me an unbelievable high like the one I’m feeling right now.

  I open my eyes as the last note of the song ends. We’ve been doing covers all night mixed with the three songs we actually wrote. Our songs are slow, not as happy or upbeat as songs written by professional liars. That’s what we’re aiming for though, to become professional liars, even if we never get famous for it. Maybe fame wouldn’t be so bad, but I doubt it’s what any of us want.

  Cross’ face is just as flushed as mine feels. We say goodbye to the audience and announce the follow-up band before making our way backstage to load up the car. When we head back inside, my eyes search for a certain dark-haired girl I saw sitting at the bar. She's still there, and her bouncing little friend is back as well.

  "That was great!" Cross’ little fling jumps at us as we step up to the bar. I catch the bartender’s attention and hold up three fingers. He knows us well enough by now to know what we want.

  Cross must be second guessing his disinterest in the fling because he's all smiles for her as she grips his shirt and drags his head down to her before slapping her bright pink lips on his. She then slides up further and whispers something in his ear. He grins wide and nods his head, whispering something back as his hands travel around her waist.

  I watch Love as she watches them, her slim chin tilted down toward her chest and to the side. She's sitting stiffly at the bar with an empty glass and a receipt beneath it. I drift closer, taking the stool next to her and watch as her shoulders slowly rise, so minutely only someone watching closely would notice. I smirk as the bartender hands me my beer and sets two more to the side. Blake takes his and pulls out his phone. I continue to watch Love, enjoying the knowledge that I must be affecting her in some way for her to tense like that. Then she slaps a pen down on the bar top before crumpling what looks like a napkin in her fist and shoves it in one of her pockets. I wonder what she was writing.

  "Can you stop staring?" She flicks her gaze to mine without turning her head.

  My smirk widens. I’ve decided. I want her. "No," I reply. "I like looking at beautiful things."

  She doesn't flush or deny my compliment or get irritated or do anything that I expect her to do. Instead, she gets up from the bar and looks at me, head-on. My eyes dip down to her perfectly sculpted lips, the color of rose petals, and eyes that – I stop. Eyes that shoot me in the fucking chest. Her head turns away.

  "Are you ready to head back?" she asks her friend. The girl – whose tongue is halfway down Cross’ throat – pulls away from his face, confused. I almost laugh because Cross is left blinking with a smudge of bright pink lipstick across his mouth. Not that good? I can't wait to get on him about that later.

  "Now?" her friend asks. "No, I want to stay and dance. Cross and I are gonna dance."

  "Oh, we can dance just fine back at my–" I frown at him, shake my head, and he nods, "I mean, your apartment."

  Fling girl pouts, and I see an opportunity. I look to Blake. "You mind riding back with them?" I ask.

  He flicks his gaze up from his phone and frowns at me before looking to Cross and his girl. He raises his brow and shakes his head. "Nah, I've got some friends on the way. They'll give me a ride back."

  That'll do, I think. "I'll give you a ride," I state, grabbing Love’s keys out of her hand and tossing them at Cross’ new girlfriend. She squeals and leaps out of the way before they hit her. I scowl. That was an easy toss, she could have easily caught them, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I look to Love. "Let's go."

  I start walking toward the door of the bar, leaving my half empty beer behind, knowing the guys will pick up the tab and I'll get them back next time. I don’t even have to look behind me to see if she’s following. I know she will because there’s no way Cross is going to let her little friend go. Not with the look I gave him as I passed by. He knows what I want, and he’ll help me get it.

  The night’s heat hits me in the face as I leave the bar. At the Jeep I click the button to unlock the doors and wait at the tail for Love to catch up. She’s slow to follow behind me, but within minutes she exits the building, her face flushed as she catches my gaze and then slides past me to open the passenger door to get inside. So trusting. I get in on the driver’s side and crank the engine before turning on the AC full blast. Love shivers and crosses her arms over her chest, but I see it already – her nipples are hard.

  5

  Love

  What am I doing? I ask myself this question dozens of times as I make my way outside. As soon as Tax made the decision to give me a ride back, tossing my keys at Beverly as if he had the right to, I knew something was going to go wrong. I could have taken the keys back from her, but I also knew that I had downed a lot more alcohol than normal. I didn't like feeling like I was falling into the habit again. That's funny – twenty-one and already worried about becoming an alcoholic. Story of my life, I suppose. Instead of taking my keys back, though, I’d extracted a promise from Cross not to drink and not to let Beverly drive. He’d admitted that they would likely take an Uber back and had handed me my keys anyway. I had taken them, sighed, and followed Tax out, letting my curiosity pull me in his direction.

  He’s standing behind a beat up looking Jeep, a smirk on his lips that makes the angles of his jaw that much more striking. I frown at him before hurrying past and slipping into the passenger side. He follows, cranking the engine and turning on the AC. I shiver and cross my arms, feeling my nipples harden. I should have worn a thicker bra. I could ask him to turn it down, I realize, but for some reason, I keep my mouth shut as he backs out of the spot.

  What is he doing? I wonder. Taking a stranger home. He doesn't seem like the neighborly type. I wonder what's going through his head, what he's thinking. I wonder if it's just nosiness. I frown, thoroughly disliking that thought. It irritates me beyond belief. I hate nosy people. I mean I really hate nosy people.

  "What were you writing?" Tax asks as he slows to a red light and turns to look at me.

  I tense. "We don't need to talk," I say.

  "Why not?" he asks.

  I will my heart to calm, but it’s difficult when the damn thing won't do what I say. Why him? I think. What is it about him that throws me off? Is it his eyes? I glance over at him, wanting to see if the pain I've glimpsed a couple of times is still there. Perhaps, I imagined it. I can't see his face because he's looking forward at the road, as he should. I turn back to the window.

  "Why can't we talk?" he asks again.

  I inhale, glancing at him. "I didn't say we couldn't talk," I reply. "Just that we don't need to."

  "What if I want to talk to you?"

  "The
n talk," I say. "It's no concern of mine what you do."

  He laughs, amused, I assume, by something I've said or done, though I don't know what. "You don't like to talk, then?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "Why talk when I have nothing to say?"

  He hums, chuckling under his breath as he drives. I frown at him and turn back to the window. "So, if I were to talk to you and you were to talk back," he begins. "What would we talk about?"

  "Why does this sound like a tactic to get me to talk?" I ask.

  He laughs outright. "Maybe because it is?"

  "Why do you care if I talk or not?"

  "Maybe I just like the sound of your voice."

  "Why?"

  "Why do I like the sound of your voice?" he clarifies. I nod when he glances my way. Tax shrugs, his big shoulders moving against the fabric of his clothes. "Just do, I guess."

  "That's not an answer," I reply.

  He grins at me. "It's the only one you're getting."

  "You're the one who wanted to talk," I accuse.

  "If I recall correctly," he says, looking over at me with that smirking grin of his, "and I usually do – recall correctly, that is – what I wanted was to know what you were writing. You, somehow, distracted me with all of this talk about talking or not talking."

  I blink at him. "I was just jotting down some notes," I answer quietly. "Something to remember later."

  "Mmmhmm."