by Lucy Smoke
Synopsis
My stepmother shattered me. My ex ruined me. One look at Tax and I knew he would kill me.
Love
Love. It's a name given to people that you care about. And it was a name given to a little girl that no one cared about. The irony is not lost on me. I've always been a bit separate. First, in my family and then in my relationships. Maybe you have to understand the emotion to feel it.
I've never understood how people will lie, cheat, steal, and murder for it. Why some people hand it over like pennies in their pockets. Or others hoard it like it's their only valuable possession. I don't do either. I'm convinced I don't have any love to give. Someone is going to have to breathe life into my damaged soul before I can ever even consider loving them.
Tax
I'm a shit storm just waiting to happen. Actually, scratch that, I usually don't wait for anything or anybody. The only things I give a fuck about are my boys – my band – and my little sister, Ally.
I've gone from the underground kid fighter I was, to whatever the hell I am now – guardian, bandmate, neighbor to a fucking woman that messes with my head. I want to mess her up, tear her down, and open her secrets. I can handle anything she throws at me as long as she throws something.
Expressionate
Lucy Smoke
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue: Part One
Prologue: Part Two
1. Love
2. Tax
3. Love
4. Tax
5. Love
6. Tax
7. Love
8. Tax
9. Love
10. Tax
11. Love
12. Tax
13. Love
14. Tax
15. Love
16. Tax
17. Love
18. Tax
19. Love
20. Love
21. Tax
22. Love
23. Tax
24. Love
25. Tax
26. Love
27. Tax
Epilogue
Afterword
Note from the Author
About the Author
Also by Lucy Smoke
Copyright © 2018 Lucy Smoke LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no endorsement, implied or otherwise, if any such terms are used.
Expressionate is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The author holds all rights to this work and it is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
Cover Design by Olivia Designs
Acknowledgments
Acknowledgements, I find, are getting harder and harder to write. I feel as though I thank the same people each and every time, but those are the people who are there for me each and every time. So, I guess they will simply have to deal with me thanking them at least one more time, though probably many more before I even consider calling it quits.
As always, to my amazing team of support. My fellow author friends. My twin, CoraLee June. My Sunshine, Jen. To my editor and friend, Kristen. I could not do what I’ve always dreamed of doing without you there. And to Anita Maxwell for all your help – you’ve been so significant in honing this story, which holds a special place in my heart. I cannot thank you enough.
To my parents, though you’re never allowed to read anything I write. I may – just may – let you look at the acknowledgements. Everything else, though, is strictly off limits.
To my all of the creative writing professors in “respectable” universities across the world that think popular genre is trash writing, and certainly to all of the creative writing professors and teachers I’ve ever had that bombarded me with the idea that writing romance isn’t artistic – you’ve been so instrumental in making me a better writer – just to prove you wrong.
To my sisters, my best friends, Ashley and Elizabeth, my dog, and all of the kind people in my life, and to that one girl from Starbucks who I told about my writing. Sorry, I was so awkward, but hey! You got a mention! Hopefully that makes up for it.
And last, but never least, to Desireé, a wonderful woman who I admire greatly. The very woman who strived through her own darkness. You are a brave soul and this book is just as much for you as it is for me. After all, you titled it.
This book is dedicated to everyone who is fighting an invisible battle. To everyone who has ever felt broken and to everyone who has ever felt alone in the dark. You’re not alone. Please know that just because you can’t see us, doesn’t mean we aren’t there.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost, Fire and Ice
Prologue: Part One
Love
11 years old
Mold has a rotten stench to it. The whole trailer smells like it. When I’m alone in it, I can barely make out the strange, nondescript buzzing taps inside the walls – like hundreds of ants are living on the other side. My imagination makes me picture them all over my body, biting down, sinking their tiny teeth deep. Their little, beady ant eyes watching me.
I take a second to glance over my shoulder as I make my way down the short hallway to the room I share with my half-sister, Trisha. No eyes are watching me though, not Trish’s, not my dad’s, and not Anne’s. Anne is the one that never lets me forget that Trish is my half sister. Personally, I couldn't care less if my sister and I don't share both parents. I feel kind of bad for Trisha, though. She’s the one with Anne's crazy in her genes. When I make sure Anne's not following me, even though I know she's not – it's a habit – I turn back around and face the flimsy wooden door that leads into my bedroom. It’s really more of a glorified closet space. I close the door behind me and lean on it.
Inside, I stare at the Cinderella bedsheets Trisha wanted on both the top and bottom mattresses of our bunk beds. No one cares that I don’t like Disney Princess stuff. I have to sleep on whatever Trish wants. I look at the dirty, old carpet that's molding in the corners, at the cement blocks holding up wooden boards that substitute as shelves for books and clothes. Sometimes Trish and I pretend that they are Barbie apartments. I smile at that. Guess Barbie’s moving out, too, because this is the last night we'll ever stay in this place.
We're moving into a house, a nice house with enough bedrooms for all of us, even me. When my dad first started looking, I had nightmares that I would wake up and everything and everyone would be gone. I would dream that I had been left behind in the old, decaying trailer where I'd grow old and live on stale cereal and ketchup packets.
But Dad took me and Trish to the new house today. Both of us! He led us through the house and let us pick our rooms; thankfully, both bedrooms are as far away from the master bedroom and common areas as possible. This house is going to be good for us, I just know it. We are going to be okay in this house. We are going to be better.
I mean, I’m not stupid enough to believe that we'll magically become like all the families on TV, where the mom makes homemade breakfast every morning before school, and the kids get allowances and are allowed to go to slumber parties and have slumber parties. I’m 11, not an idiot.
Anne will still hate me. She’ll likely still yell and urge my father to put me on a diet. I look down at my stomach, and lift my threadbare shirt, pinching the roll of fat there. Maybe it’s time to throw away all those chip bags and granola bar wrappers that are under my bed. I sigh as I move further into the closet-bedroom and set about to do just that.
I pull a plastic grocery bag from a sack on one of the wood planks and get on my knees next to my bed. Reaching under, I squish my eyes together and hope a bug doesn't crawl across my hand. I know that's what happens when you leave wrappers around. There's never anything left in them when I put them there, but I often can't throw them away because Anne is always sitting in the living room with either a book in her hand or the television on. It's difficult to sneak past her with a bag full of food wrappers. My eyes begin to water as I fumble around and pull them out.
I clench one of the chip bags in my hand, staring down at its bright yellow color contrasting with my pasty skin. It's not like all I ever do is eat. I just started hoarding food when Anne told me I needed to ask for permission if I wanted a snack. Trisha, though, can eat whenever and whatever she wants because she has the genes for it. I crush the bag in my hand and shove it in with the others. It's not Trish's fault, I have to remind myself. It’s really not. She can’t help that her mom’s a bitch. I take a deep breath and slowly release it. Despite my jealousy, and despite half of her parentage, Trish is actually pretty okay. She's a little quiet most days, but when you get her out in the sunshine, she sparkles. She loves going outdoors and playing in the mud. Personally, I’d rather just read a book in my room. But she doesn’t put dirt in my bed, or lie to Anne about me being mean to her like I’ve heard other siblings do. So, I like her.
I finish cleaning out the underside of my bed and open the door, to walk back through the dark hallway. The bulb up top doesn't work – it hasn't for the last three months. I walk through the box-filled living room into the kitchen where I toss the bag into the trash can. I stride to the front door, grip the bottom of the diamond shaped window toward the top and stand on my toes to see if anyone is pulling up in the driveway. Dad, Anne, and Trish all went out to grab more boxes and tape for packing. Anne didn't want to stay home, and she didn't want to leave Trish with me, so I'm left to start my own packing. It's likely that they'll stop for dinner while they're out. Dad will bring me back something like he always does, but since Anne's with him, it'll probably be a wilted salad from McDonald's or something.
I head back to my room and this time, let the door hang ajar as I get down to some serious packing. For over an hour, I clean out the room that I share with Trish and even take a few minutes to go to her other room down the hall – the smaller one between our side of the trailer and the living room. It's so small it doesn't even have a door, which is why Anne and Dad moved her into my room. I start sorting what she'll probably want to unpack first and what can wait until later when I hear the front door open.
"We're home!" Dad calls cheerily.
Slowly and quietly, I put one of Trisha's shirts down and walk into the hallway. I see the McDonald's bag in Dad's hand before I see him, and I sigh before pasting on a bright smile. "Hey," I call as I exit the hallway, "I already started packing."
"Great, honey," Dad says as he drops an arm full of boxes on the ground in front of the TV.
"Yes, wonderful," Anne snaps as she comes through the door next with her arms full of bags and bags of tape and markers – I assume for the boxes. "Go get the rest of the stuff out of the van," she orders, and I head for the door. "Love," she calls. I flinch at the sound of my name. It's a dumb name, she reminds me whenever Dad's not around. I guess my biological mom was too free spirited for this world. I agree with Anne, though. It's the only time I ever have. I hate my name. "Manners," she says with bite.
"Yes, ma'am," I reply. I grit my teeth as she barely tips her head in a nod and begins opening the bags. Trish comes through the door as I move towards it, carrying nothing but her favorite dolphin. I smile at her as I pass by.
Outside, the air is chilled. Christmas is in three weeks and though we could have waited until after Christmas to move, as soon as Dad signed the papers, everyone else was more than ready to get out of Carneswood Trailer Park. I know I am.
I head to the beaten, purple van and slide the side door open. I sigh when I see that there's still a lot more to be taken in, and shiver. I should have worn a coat. Oh well, it's not like I'll be out here for long. I grab the first thing I see – plastic bags – and shove the handles up my arms all the way until they're hanging near my shoulders before I reach for the flattened cardboard boxes. I lug them all in, armfuls at a time, and leave them in the living room to hurry back for more. I figure I can just get them all in the house quickly and then find out where everything goes.
On my last trip inside, I hear Anne's high-pitched voice. "Why are all of these boxes sitting in front of the door?" she snaps as I walk in. Her flat blue eyes immediately go to me.
"I–"
Anne cuts me off. "Just because we're packing does not mean you can just leave shit lying around," she says. I suck in a breath and slowly release it. It's no use arguing with her. But what does she expect me to do? Be a freaking mind-reader? Of course she does. She wants me to do everything. Wash the dishes. Do the laundry. Become independent because no one is gonna want me otherwise. I want me. My dad wants me.
"Yes, ma'am," I say through gritted teeth.
Her eyes flash angrily and she steps forward, towering over me. "You want to repeat that?" she asks, her voice full of fiery steel and threat.
I pause for a second, debating on if this is a battle I really want to fight and, like always, decide against it. "Yes, ma'am," I repeat in a much politer tone. A tone that feels dead. That’s always the best thing to be around Anne – dead of any real emotion. No anger because I should feel grateful. No genuine happiness because then she must feel like she’s not doing her job correctly. At least, that’s what it feels like to me. Anne stays hovering over me for a moment more before narrowing her gaze and backing away.
"Hurry up and go pack your shit. Make sure Trisha's things are put away and labeled," she says. "Label yours as well or we'll throw it out."
I nod and hurry away to finish packing. It takes all night and by the next morning, I'm so exhausted I keep falling asleep as we drive over to the new house. It takes us days to get everything moved over. When it's all settled and done, and Dad has handed over our old trailer’s keys to the neighbors across the street, I'm relieved. I look around my new room with a new sort of awe. It's twice the size of my old room. It smells like paint, but I’d prefer the paint smell over mold any day.
I go to open my new window and pause when I see Dad standing by his beat up, old pickup truck with Anne in front of him. She's nodding her head and then she's kissing him – gross – before he puts something in the cab. Is that a suitcase? I crack the window and lean out a little ways.
"Watch after Love and Trish. I put some money in your account," he's saying. "Call me if you have any trouble. I shouldn't be gone for too long, but they haven't exactly given me full details."
"I'm sure Pennsylvania will be wonderful," Anne gushes. "Philadelphia is such a large city."
Dad grins and shakes his head. "I'm only flying into Philadelphia," he says. "I'm not staying there." He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek again. "I'll call when I get in."
My heart races in my chest before stumbling over the edge of a steep cliff and diving, headfirst, into disappointment. I watch Dad get into his truck and back out. Why is he leaving now? When we just moved in. He didn’t even say goodbye. I watch the taillights of his truck fade up the road and disappear completely as he tur
ns a corner. Tears prick my eyes. It’s not fair.
Anne doesn't even notice me watching when she walks back inside. I stay at the window for a long time after he's gone, and only when Anne calls me down, sometime later, do I move. And when I move, I do so slowly, because I can't comprehend why my dad’s gone. It was obvious by his attire that he left to go on a business trip. He told Anne he wasn't sure how long he would be away.
When did he have time to plan this? I think. What about the new house? Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he leave me alone with Anne? When I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn into the living room, she's sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand. She looks at me expectantly.
"You have some unpacking to do," she says, nodding to the kitchen. "Get to it." With that, she flips on the TV and promptly ignores me.
I blink and head toward the kitchen. Several minutes later, Trish comes fumbling down the stairs as well, her hair pulled back in two cute braids.
"Mom!" she calls, "there are kids outside on their bikes! Can I go play?"
I pause, looking at her. There were no kids in the trailer park. Only old people and weird middle-aged couples with missing teeth and magic black eyes that disappeared and reappeared depending on whether or not blue and red lights had lit up the neighborhood the night before.