Expressionate

by Lucy Smoke

  "What?" I turn in the seat completely, with my back pressed against the door and my seatbelt tugging over my shoulder, between my breasts.

  "Nothing," he says, innocently.

  I narrow my eyes. "Fine, don't tell me." I fold my arms and turn back to face the windshield. We sit in silence for several minutes as Tax expertly navigates through the city.

  "So," I begin, wondering what the hell I'm doing, but unable to stop the words, "are you new to Charlotte?" I ask, referring to the city.

  He shrugs. "If you're asking if this is my first time living here, then no. I lived in the city when I was a kid. I was young, Ally wasn't even born yet. I barely remember it. We moved away not long after Ally came."

  "You seem to be able to navigate it fairly well," I say, referring to his lack of a GPS.

  Even seasoned Charlotte city residents often have to pull out their GPS. I'm guilty of that. He shrugs again and we're back to silence. Just minutes before, I had been praying for his silence. I had been hoping he would just let us ride back to the apartment complex in peace, but now I hate it. I hate it because in the quiet of the Jeep, something electric sparks between us. It slides over my skin, along the fine hairs of my arms. I stifle it by pulling out my phone rather than try to talk to him some more. It's a bad idea. He's a bad idea.

  I check my phone and of course, there are no new messages from Trish. Other than Todd, she was the only one who ever texted me anyway, and there's no reason for Todd to text me now that we're no longer seeing each other. Tax pulls into the apartment complex parking lot and parks the Jeep close to the side entrance. I set my phone down on the console and reach for my buckle. As I release the belt, Tax reaches for my phone and before I can grab it away, he's got his door open, typing away. I stare at him, mouth agape. He finishes typing and then looks at me with a smile. Reaching through the open doorway he hands me the phone.

  "What did you do?" I ask, grabbing the phone back.

  "Texted myself. Now I have your number and you have mine," he says. "Use it."

  With that, he closes the door to the Jeep and steps away. I scramble out, and as soon as I close the door behind me, the Jeep beeps, startling me. Tax stands by the entrance to the building, chuckling as he holds the door open and gestures for me to go first. In the elevator, the electricity is stronger than ever between us. He stands near the buttons, seemingly unaffected. I’ve never wanted to know what someone is thinking so much in my life. Not even Anne or my ex, Danny. I never needed to know what they were thinking to know it wasn’t good. But Tax? He’s an enigma, something different and confusing and complex. He’s like a scene in my head trying to play out and all I see are shadows moving around.

  When we get to our floor and arrive at our respective doors, I take out my keys and fumble with them to get the right key into the lock. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he glances over with a smirk and easily slides his key into its hole, pushing his front door open with a creak.

  “Nice keys,” he says with a tilt of his head. If he wants me to tell him how I got them back, he’s going to be disappointed. I turn away and wiggle the key a bit more, trying to hurry up. Tax stands there, shoulder propped on the doorframe, watching me. I sigh with relief when the door finally opens, but before I can take a step into the safety of my apartment, he stops me.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.

  “I’m working,” I say.

  He raises an eyebrow. “And the day after?”

  “Still working?”

  “Do you work Monday through Friday as well?” he challenges.

  “No,” I say defensively. Why am I being defensive? “I have class.”

  He chuckles. “Where do you work?” he asks.

  “Why do you want to know?” I shoot back.

  “Why are you so defensive?” he asks with raised brows.

  I blow out a breath, shrugging. My eyes skirt to the side, avoiding his. I scratch the inside of my elbow. “I work at the BookWorm,” I finally say.

  He laughs, his dark eyes sparkling. “Why am I not surprised?” he shakes his head at me. “You seem like the bookstore type.”

  “How so?” I ask, frowning.

  He shakes his head again before pushing into his apartment. “See you later, Love,” he calls back to me.

  I don’t know how long I stand in front of my door, confused, irritated, and maybe a little curious. When I finally realize I’m still standing in the hallway, and I have been for some time, I head into my apartment and close the door behind me, locking the deadbolt and feeling the weight of the napkin in my pocket with its lyrics – Tax’s lyrics – like rocks on my chest.

  BookWorm is one of those places hipster college students go to chill and hang out. Some of them actually come to buy books, but most come to sit in the tiny cafe that has all of five tables. The rest of the space is littered with plush chairs that had been purchased for bargain prices. The students and patrons don't mind. Patchy antique-looking chairs are trendy.

  My manager, Beth, strides over in one of her originally made t-shirts with a book related saying on the front. I don't read it as I normally do because today it's covered by a bookseller apron like the one I'm wearing.

  "Hey Love," she says, "Darcy didn't show up for work today, and we're short over in the café. Would you mind running the counter for a few hours, at least until it dies down?"

  I sigh, glancing over my shoulder at the already boisterous group sitting in the far corner of the tiled off area before turning back to my manager. "I can do that." I reach around to untie my bookseller apron.

  As I cross behind the café’s coffee and pastry counter, one of my coworkers is busy making drinks to the side while a patron stands in front of the counter, her foot tapping impatiently. I reach for one of the café aprons hanging on the back wall and slip it over my head before tying it at the waist, not bothering to remove the name tag that reads "Lauren" that someone has left behind. I approach the counter with a smile that I hope isn't as wan and brittle as it feels. I hardly got any sleep the night before because I had been up all night writing the rest of that goddamn song Tax had brought to my mind. Then I scrapped it and wrote it again – and again. Nothing seemed right.

  "Excuse me," the woman snaps in my face, "did you hear what I said?"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Can you repeat your order for me?" My fingers hover over the register screen.

  She exhales with exaggerated frustration and proceeds to the herculean task of repeating her order. I type the correct buttons on the screen, run her card before handing her the receipt, and direct her to the waiting area. Then I jump in to help my coworker finish the orders he's already behind on. I hate the taste of coffee, but the smell is soothing. Soon my coworker and I finish clearing through the backed up drink orders and he manages to shakily scoot out from behind the counter to head out for his smoke break. I eye him for a moment before I turn back to wipe down the counters. I check the level of coffee grounds we have to see if I’ll need to ask him to go back into the stockroom for more when he gets back.

  "I would have pictured you as someone reading to little kids in the back area," a deep, lyrical voice states from behind me.

  I pause, in the process of returning a container of vanilla bean coffee grounds under the counter cabinet. Slowly, as if my head is on a spit being turned over a fire, I turn so that I'm facing the register and the handsome smirking face there. "I'm not much of a kid person," I hear the words come out of my mouth, but I don't remember giving them permission to exit.

  Tax's smirk widens. "Ahh, then maybe I'm all wrong about you and you don't much care for the books either? You didn't seem like a coffee person to me."

  "I don't have to be a coffee person to be able to make it and sell it," I say.

  Why am I even talking to him? I turn back around. I can just finish checking the grounds and cleaning up and ignore him. That’s what I should do. I don’t have to pay him any attention. It unnerves me, though, the way he stands t
here, examining and analyzing me.

  "And the books?" he prompts as if reading my thoughts.

  "The café was short someone today," I reply. "My manager asked me to step in. Why are you here?" Finally, I manage to get the words I really want to say out. Why is he here?

  His eyes travel down to my name tag and he laughs. A few girls talking over lattes in the corner jerk their heads in his direction, their lips curved down in scowls. When their eyes hit Tax and take him in, their scowls disappear, replaced by expressions of absolute worship. They eyeball him like he's the dessert of the last meal they will ever have and, for some reason, it makes my insides churn. I nearly stumble over my own two feet as I cross between one counter to the next, reaching for the whipped cream. I stop and take a deep breath. Turning and setting the whipped cream down, I step in front of the register and the source of my unease.

  "Do you want something to drink?" I ask, forcing a polite tone.

  His eyes glitter with amusement. "Why, Lauren," he says, elongating the name on my name tag, "I would love something to drink."

  I grit my teeth. "What can I get you?"

  "Coffee, black."

  I press a button and give him the total. He hands over his card. When his fingers brush against mine, I force back a shiver. Maybe I'm getting sick. Yeah, that must be it. Probably a cold. Autumn is almost here. Must be the seasons changing.

  He waits patiently for me to finish his transaction. I almost wish he had asked for something complicated because it's all too soon that I'm finished pouring his cup of plain, black coffee and meeting him at the side counter where the patrons wait. He smiles as he takes the cup and just holds it.

  "So," he begins, "you've seen what I do, and now I've seen what you do." He pauses to glance around.

  "This isn't my career," I state flatly.

  "No, I don't expect someone as smart as you to work as a barista for the rest of your life," he replies. "I half expect you'll do something wild like..." he pauses once more, eyeing me with meaning, "pole dancing instructor?"

  I blink.

  "Teacher?"

  I frown.

  "Pornographer then?"

  "Could you say that a bit louder?" I snap. "I don't think the people outside could hear you."

  I huff out a deeply frustrated breath, and realize how out of character that is for me before I finally answer him in the hopes that he will stop talking. "I'm getting my degree in online editing and web design," I finally say.

  "Online editing?" he asks, raising his brows as he takes a sip of his coffee.

  "Yes," I deadpan.

  "Hmmm."

  I turn away and move back to the counter, pulling out some of the snack packages that need to be replaced in front of the pastry display. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Tax moves to the self-serve station and slips a packet of sugar and a little bit of milk into his coffee. The girls at the table watch him as well. I turn back to the box of prepackaged gingerbread and chocolate covered almonds.

  "I didn't picture web design either," Tax says as he sidles up next to me.

  "Is there a point to you being here?" I ask. I refuse to look at him, but I keep his position in my periphery.

  "Are you doing anything tonight?" he asks.

  I keep stocking. "Yes."

  "I see."

  I keep my eyes glued forward. He doesn't say anything more, but stands to the side, casually sipping on his no longer black coffee as he watches me work. He’s there for so long I finish restocking the racks in front of the pastry display, and my coworker comes back from his smoke break. I move to circle the counter once more, and Tax glances around before spying a chair across from the counter and makes his way toward it. My coworker – a dark-skinned man with short cornrows under his BookWorm baseball cap – glances between us, but thankfully doesn't ask. I wouldn't know how to explain the strange tattooed man showing up to watch and wait on me.

  Another rush of local college students comes through and I notice several girls approach Tax only to leave not long after greeting him. It doesn't matter to me. I don't know him. I focus on my work until the end of my shift and when it's time for me to clock out, I don't stop myself from glancing toward Tax’s chair – or so I've come to refer to it in my head. He's not there and there's a tinge of something inside of me. I don't know what it is, but it can't be disappointment. I won’t let it be disappointment.

  I remove my apron and hang it up on the back wall before heading to the booksellers’ counter to retrieve my purse and car keys. Usually, I leave them in the back, but today I didn’t have time. I wave to Beth as I head toward the front door, and when I hit the sidewalk outside I pause to stretch my neck. I'm standing on the corner, waiting for a slow, silver Camry to pass by when a thick arm, corded with muscle slips over my shoulders. "Where are we heading to?" Tax asks.

  I jump, and my eyes flash up at him. He's so close that all I see is the underside of his stubbled chin. I sigh, reaching around to pluck the wide hand on my shoulder with two of my fingers and angle myself out from under his arm. "I'm going home," I state, starting across the street to the parking lot.

  "I thought you said you had something to do tonight?" He’s right there – back in my space – following me as I head toward my car.

  "I do," I say, frustration in my voice. I take a moment to close my eyes before I open them and take a step away from him. "Can you not hover?"

  He tilts his head to the side, his eyes tracking to my arm where the tattooed fleet of blackbirds makes its way halfway down meeting the sporadic vines of black tree branches that are across my back. "Alright," he says. "I'll leave you alone. I just wanted to know if you would do me a favor if I offered to do you a favor."

  I narrow my gaze at him as I slow down and stop behind a white minivan. "You don't have anything that I need."

  "Then maybe you'll take an IOU and do it anyway?" He looks at me unapologetically, his cerulean eyes watching me with startling clarity.

  "What do you want?" I ask.

  "Will you tutor Ally?" he asks, not missing a beat.

  I stop to blink at him. I had not been expecting that. He sees the look on my face and starts to explain. "I just...I'm kind of new to this whole guardian thing and she was out of school for a while – well, she was enrolled online and did those classes, so she wouldn't fall behind. This will be her first experience with high school and I was...well, I was shit in high school, and Beverly mentioned that you go to Jamestown University, and I know that's a pretty difficult school to get into. So, I figure you’d know what you're doing and I'm kinda–"

  "What does she need help with?" I ask, stopping his over-explanation, and resume the short trek to my vehicle.

  "You'll do it?"

  "I didn't say that," I reply. "I need to know what she needs help with. If it's math or science, you'll be better off with someone else. If it's anything else, I should be able to help."

  "She needs some help with her advanced English classes," he says. "I know web design doesn't have anything to do with it, but editing works with English right? No one in our family was a big reader." He glances back at the BookWorm, and we stop next to my car.

  "It'll be fine. When does she start school?"

  "She's actually already started," he replies. "They're starting the school year earlier and earlier. She started this week."

  I nod. "Okay, no problem. You have my phone number now." I glare at him and he doesn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. Instead, his signature smirk makes a miraculous reappearance. I let my face go expressionless, not showing a hint of the fire raging in my abdomen. Just one smirk, and I feel a wave of heat crash through me. Maybe I need to go see a doctor. "Just give it to her and have her message me when she needs help. She and I can make arrangements to meet." Hopefully, I won't have to see or speak to him at all.

  "Great," he says, "I really appreciate it."

  "Next time, if you need a favor, maybe you should rethink acting like a stalker to ask," I snap,
turning to my car. I stop in my tracks, gaping at the deflating tire on the back left side.

  He looks down and laughs. I resist the urge to throw my purse at his face, or maybe my keys. Why does he make me so violent? I've never been a violent person.

  "You should probably cash in that IOU beforehand," he says. "This looks like as good a time as any. Unless you have a spare tire and know how to change it?"

  No and No. Fuck me.

  6

  Tax

  I like working with my hands; something about feeling cool metal – or really any kind of material – under my fingers. Flesh would work just as well. I glance at Love as I finish loosening a bolt on her flat tire. She refused to ride with me to get her a new tire. I don’t mind paying for it myself. I know a guy at the local mechanic shop and he probably would have sent someone with me if I hadn't told him I wanted to handle it myself. I think of this as payment for her agreeing to tutor Ally.

  I hadn't known what I was going to do when I’d showed up at Love's work, but she intrigues me. Even though I know for damn sure Ally won't need a whole lot of help, I know it’ll be a good excuse to have Love around, and make sure if Ally does end up needing more tutoring, she has someone like Love to help her. To be honest, though, I just want to know what makes Love tick. She makes me curious – the kind of curiosity that is a constant tugging inside. Maybe it was the way she looked at me last night.

  "If you're going to just sit there while I work," I begin, turning my head fully to Love as she perches on top of one of the concrete parking blocks, "why don't you talk to me? Tell me about yourself?"

  She sighs. "You like to talk a lot, don't you?"

  I chuckle. So snarky. "Yeah," I reply. "Talking. It's a thing we humans do."

  "There's not much to tell," she says. Her eyes shift to the left and then down.

  "Hmmhmm, I call bullshit," I say, loosening another bolt. "There has to be something." It's like pulling teeth trying to get her to answer me. I imagine what it will feel like when she's open. Curiosity has me spellbound. I want to know how to get under her fucking skin. I'm not sure if she's trying to ignore me or if she's just obsessed with something I can't see on the ground in front of her.