Expressionate (Expressions Series Book 1)

by Lucy Smoke

  When the set finally ends and the guys wave to the clapping crowd, descending from the stage to get away for a bit, I've had another few drinks and there is a pile of notes and lyrics on napkins at my side. Before Tax or one of the others can see anything, I stuff them into my purse. Cross passes me and finds a pretty redhead toward the other end of the bar. I watch as he strides over, a man confident in his sexuality, and hungry for satisfaction. The redhead stands no chance.

  Blake, the quiet one, reaches for a beer the bartender hands him and then says something quietly to Tax before stepping outside. Then, finally, it's just me and Tax. Well, me and Tax and a couple dozen other people, but in this corner; we have as much privacy as a crowded bar allows.

  The bartender hands Tax a beer as the older man next to me slaps on his hat and vacates his seat, a wad of bills to pay his tab left on the countertop. Tax pushes the money toward the bartender and sits on the barstool. How fortuitous, I think.

  I watch as a bead of sweat drips down the side of his face. "Hard work?" I ask.

  He takes a long drink from the brown bottle in his hand, his throat working. "I suppose," he says. Tax turns to me, eyes traveling over me again. He does that a lot. Just looks at me. I find it both unnerving and...seductive. I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. "You having fun?" he asks.

  I shrug. "I'm fine," I reply.

  "That wasn't my question," he says, "but I find it interesting that you responded with I'm fine." He enunciates my answer as if it's not exactly leaving a good taste in his mouth.

  "What's wrong with that?" I ask.

  "So many people answer with that ‘I'm fine’ bullshit. But rarely are they ever fine."

  "So what?" I ask.

  "So, give me a real answer," Tax challenges. "What would you be if you weren't fine?"

  I look at him and I realize my lips are twitching. I'm shocked. What is it about Tax that's so damn hot that he melts away some of my ice without even trying?

  "You really don't like that word," I find myself teasing him.

  He scoffs. "What gave you that idea?"

  My lips twitch again and I actually have to fight back the laugh that bubbles up in my throat. I've never had to do that before.

  "Okay," I say moving back to his question. "You asked what I would be if I wasn't fine?"

  Tax downs half of his beer before the bottom of the bottle thunks on the bar top. "Yeah," he says.

  "I think..." I think that the only thing making me fine is the cold – letting it spread throughout me. I may be warming up because of him, but I can still feel that chill in my chest. The need to cut off my emotions and just exist as something wholly separate from it. Because emotions cause hurt, they cause pain. And that pain is all darkness, bottled up inside until it festers and infects. I don't want that. But what would I be, if I wasn’t cold?

  "I think," I try again, "I think I'd be angry."

  His placid gaze meets mine. It may seem calm and mild, but beneath that exterior, there’s the churning of ocean waters waiting for something – something from me? I wonder. "Oh?" he responds, "and why is that?"

  There's a moment, I know, where I can lie, and he'll accept it and turn away. He watches me as I battle with myself.

  Lie.

  Truth.

  Lie.

  Truth.

  Lie.

  Truth.

  10

  Tax

  After what feels like an eternity waiting for Love to answer me, she sighs, and looking away, she answers, "Angry is easy."

  I can agree with that. My anger is always there, simmering beneath the surface, primed and ready to do damage. Even now, I’m thinking about what I plan to do. Something that Cross and Blake would certainly not approve of which is why I’m leaving them out of it. The next time I fight, I’ll go alone. I’ll take the extra precautions I need to. I won’t let myself get jacked afterward. Maybe it means I’m fucked up. Maybe it means I’m dangerous. But the need to feel blood on my hands – to feel the control over someone else’s life is throbbing violently within me. Something I cannot deny. But for someone like Love, I wonder what has angered her. I down the rest of my beer and slide the bottle to the side as I turn and face her fully.

  I have exactly ten minutes before I have to be back on stage. It will take a lot longer than that to cut away all of Love's thorns – hell, it will likely take years, but tonight is a start.

  "Angry is easy," I say, "especially when everything angers you." I'm talking about a younger me – the kid cage fighter, the one I beat back and chained in a dusty basement in the very back of my mind only to be released when needed. Or so I thought. Lately, the craving to shove my fist through someone’s face has become more prevalent. It’s why I’ve got the secret fight coming up.

  "I'm not angry at everything," she replies dryly, flicking a glance my way before her eyes move elsewhere. "I'm not even angry at most things," she admits, "just someone."

  I stiffen, my gaze narrowing on hers. I lean forward, pushing her against the wall at her side, next to the front door of the bar. I settle a palm on the back of her stool, caging her in. Big eyes widen as she looks up at me. "Who?" I demand. I look her over, hunting for bruises, for evidence that someone has fucked with her. She doesn't know it yet, but she will be mine and no one fucks with what's mine. “Did someone hurt you?”

  "N-no," she stutters, shocked by my reaction. “Not me.”

  I don’t see any bruises, so I relax. I let my hand and arm remain around her back, though, needing to feel her close. "Do you need me to beat someone up for you?" I ask with a smirk. Now that I know she's okay, I feel better.

  She looks as if she's contemplating it for a moment, which perks my interest. Could something really be going on? But she shakes her head in the next moment. "No," she replies. "I'm sorry. I'm just whining. It really has nothing to do with me. I’m just worried about Trish. I had to pick her up from the ER today. She said it was just a fall, but I'm not so sure."

  We both stare at each other and her lips are slightly parted. One of her hands reaches toward it as if shocked that so many words came tumbling out. I never would have thought, in a million years, that I would want a chick to actually talk to me – to tell me about her life, but the very fact that Love is doing just that means I'm getting closer. I resist the urge to fist pump.

  The door beside us opens and Blake walks back in, setting his now empty beer bottle on the bar top and nodding toward the stage. I sigh and tip my chin in his direction as he strides over and climbs up. Behind me, Cross whispers sweet, bullshit, promises to the busty redhead one last time and then he, too, is moving past me to the stage.

  "I have to go,” I say. "But just know, if you really do need me to take care of someone – I don't care if they're upsetting you or your sister. I'll do it."

  I stand, and her words stop me. "Why?"

  Turning, I look down at her and I lean closer. She instinctively backs up, but has nowhere to go. "Because," I say in a guttural tone. The scent of her is intoxicating. I want to lick her, suck her. I want to see her perfectly plush lips wrapped around me. But what’s more, I want to see her hair on my chest as she sleeps and her tears on my skin when she cries. "I look out for what's mine," I finish before turning and walking away. I don't look back, but I hope like hell she's dropped that ice queen mask of hers. If she drops it for anyone, I want it to be for me.

  We finish the set as the bar patrons trickle out. The only people remaining, aside from the employees, are a group of old men in the back, the redhead, and Love. I already know Cross is bailing and heading out with the redhead. They solidified plans on our break. Though I tried to keep track of Love after every song, I can see that she's wavering on her stool. There are napkins stuffed in her purse – she probably doesn't notice that they're sticking out. I can barely make out the inky blotches of scribbles on them as I head her way after the stage break down and last calls.

  "Hey," Blake says, catching me before I can reach her. I almost gr
oan in exasperation.

  "What?" I say a little sharper than I intend.

  He doesn't even blink. "I'm heading out," he says.

  Now, I'm confused. "You've got a hookup, too?"

  He shakes his head. "No." He doesn't elaborate.

  I frown, turning my back on Love for just a moment to face him. "What's up?"

  He doesn't respond, simply looks at me in that way that he always has. That pragmatic stare that tells me I can't expect an explanation until I need one. I sigh, waving my hand at him before shoving my fingers through my hair. “Fine,” I say. “Do what you need to. Call me if you need anything.” Blake looks at me for another second more before nodding and heading out the door. At least I'll have Love to myself on the ride back. That's a pretty damn sweet consolation.

  I shake my head and move to the bar. "Hey, you ready to leave?"

  Blonde and brunette waves smack my arm as she turns her head too quickly and almost takes a head-dive out of her stool. I curse and barely manage to catch her before she hits the floor. Limp in my arms, Love's head moves back, and her eyes meet mine, open and a little foggy.

  "You're drunk, baby," I say.

  Slowly, she nods her head. "Yeah," she slurs a little as the single syllable comes out. "I think I am."

  "Come on." I help her off the stool and when she sags and stumbles a bit, I think what the hell, and swing her up into my arms along with her purse. She makes a small sound of protest that I ignore as I nod to the bartender that I'll be back as I carry her outside to the Jeep.

  "Where are we going?" she asks.

  I look down at her. "Wherever you want to go, Lovely."

  "Why do you call me that?"

  I smile. Drunk Love is a very curious Love. As we reach the passenger side of the vehicle, I nod toward the handle. "I'll tell you if you can open that door for me," I say.

  She reaches out and fumbles for a moment, almost sliding from my grip as she tries to yank on it and her fingers slip. I grunt and readjust her, hefting her higher against my chest. Her unique smell – something like mint and shampoo that smells like a sea breeze teases my nose.

  Love finally manages to get the door open and I set her inside. But before I can pull back, her hands are on my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling me closer. She tugs so hard I almost fall over her. Instead, my face comes just inches from hers. "You'll tell me now?" she asks, big gorgeous eyes blinking at me, making me itch to dive into their depths.

  "I call you Lovely," I say, "because you are."

  She holds me for several more moments, her eyes heavy-lidded. She's drunk right now. I can't kiss her. No matter how fucking good her tits feel smashed up against my chest. Or how sweet her breath smells – like strawberries and orange juice. No matter how fucking hard my goddamn cock is. I gently reach up and wrap my fingers around each of her wrists and ease her away. She goes without resistance, leaning back against the seat as I close the door.

  I hurry back to the bar and pay her tab, eyeballing the bill. Jesus, no wonder the girl is drunk. Love may be curvy, but she's a short little thing. Almost eight drinks in the course of just three hours? Yeah, I'm surprised she's not puking up her guts. The thought makes me freeze as I accept my card back from the bartender. I scribble a quick, hefty tip and book it back out to the car.

  Instead of finding her puking onto the floorboards of the Jeep as I expect when I yank open the driver's side door, she's waiting quietly and patiently. I sigh in relief and get in. Small droplets of rain hit the windshield before I'm even able to get the door shut. Love's gaze focuses on them as I buckle my seatbelt and turn the ignition. More raindrops fall as I back out, sliding down the glass.

  "You gonna be okay?" I ask, wondering if she's just really good at hiding her need to upchuck.

  She doesn't answer me. Instead, she turns to the side window and rolls it down. Rain falls across the glass in front of me and in little streaks down my driver's side door window. But for Love, it falls directly into the interior of the car, hitting her face and lap.

  "Hey, you'll get wet," I warn, reaching over her as I slow to a stop sign, and crank the window back up. It would have been so much easier if this damn thing didn't have manual everything.

  Love shakes her head and pushes me away. "I'm fine," she says. "I want to feel it rain."

  Is she crazy? "Why?" I demand. Her eyes meet mine again and I never realized why looking into her eyes made me pause, but now, I see it’s because they are – like her – a bit twisted. The amber middle bleeds out into a lawn of green and pale flecks of gold littered throughout the rest of the iris.

  "Because it feels clean," she confesses.

  I can see it. Those eyes dancing in the rain. Something about the image is pure for a girl who doesn't mind standing on a street corner, smoking cigarettes with hookers or sitting in a car with a guy who likes the feel of blood between his fingers. She thinks we’re strangers, but we're not strangers anymore. I won't do anything to her or with her – not tonight. But I can give her somewhere to release that anger she was talking about earlier. She's not going to do it by punching some asshole in the face like me. No, she has to do it her own way.

  I turn the car around and head in the opposite direction of our apartment complex. It's been a while since I've lived in this area, but I hope one of the local universities has kept up their old gardens. It'll be the perfect place for Love to feel the rain.

  “This isn’t the way back to the apartment,” she says calmly several minutes later. “Are you taking me somewhere to kill me and dump my body?” she asks, but even as she asks it, her voice doesn’t change in tone. She acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask and as if she’s not particularly worried about the answer. Her hand reaches out the open window and I hear the sound the rain makes on her skin, soft slapping in the silence between us. Going as fast as I am, it probably feels like little needles, but she doesn’t pull her arm back in or tell me to slow down.

  “No, I’m not going to kill you and dump your body.” I turn into the parking lot, thankful the place is still here. “I’m taking you somewhere you can dance in the rain.”

  Her head flips back to me, cheek slapping against the seat. “You are?” she asks.

  I pull between the white lines of a parking spot and turn off the Jeep. The gardens are beautiful at night – lit by the LED lights above the waterfall statue as well as the single lamp in the middle of a circle of benches. I lean back against my seat and watch the rain run rivulets down my windshield, listening to it slap repeatedly against Love’s arm as she leaves it dangling out the window.

  When I was a kid, I used to live a few blocks from here. That was back before this side of town grew more residential – when it was just starting to grow and the community of people who owned it were trying to make the surrounding area look a little better than the shit ass ghetto it used to be. After a fight, I’d sometimes sneak a toddling Ally out and walk with her, hand in hand, to this place. Whenever our parents would fight, or mom would get high or dad would invite his buddies over, I’d come here with my little sister.

  “Yeah,” I say finally, turning to face the girl with the blackbirds on her arms and the tree on her back. “You ready to go?”

  She stares at me as I hold out my hand, but it doesn’t take much for her to nod and slip her fingers into mine. We get out of the Jeep and I lead her toward the garden. There are statues everywhere, more so than when they first built the place, courtesy of the art students that attend the local colleges. A giant metal pumpkin shaped cage with wrought iron castings, sits lonely on the other side of the waterfall statue. One wheel is crumpled and deformed looking, but the rest are in mint condition.

  Though I could take a moment to look at each and every new piece that has been added through the years that I’ve been gone, I’m more fascinated by the girl next to me as she tugs her fingers away and strides toward the waterfall statue. She doesn’t even take her shoes off, not that it would matter because
the rain is still falling, before she takes a stumbling, running start and leaps through the waterfall. When she lands on the other side, in front of the metal pumpkin carriage, she turns and smiles at me.

  My lips part and even as she turns away and starts walking, I’m frozen in place. That smile of hers leaves me hot as hell. My cock is rock hard in my leathers, straining. I want nothing more than to charge across the gardens and tackle her to the rain-soaked grass and then find her heat and bury my face in it. I want to soak it in, revel in it. I want her fire to always be where it is now. On the outside. She has that icy mask of hers, but that smile promises nothing if not thousands of years in the sun. I’m cold enough, as the rain slides through my hair and down the back of my shirt, that her heat is like waving a steak in front of a starving dog.

  I want to know what she’s thinking. I want to crawl into her brain and pick through all of the tangled webs that make her into this dark siren as she strides around the side of the waterfall and comes back to me. My eyes focus on her features the closer she gets. Her face is serene – almost as if she’s asleep, but her eyes are open and she’s completely and utterly aware, even if she is drunk. I wonder if the alcohol has changed her or somehow let another part of her – a part I’m sure she keeps locked up – out. I move forward.

  She’s at my side, but somehow, she’s also a million miles away. Her face turns towards the waterfall again and a stream of water runs from her temple to her chin. My gaze follows. Maybe I’m addicted to this girl. Why, though? Why her? What’s so special about the green-eyed vixen before me? I blink when she takes off again, running straight for the waterfall. My voice catches in my throat and I throw my arm out to grab her but then she’s already through and standing, soaked on the other side. I let my arm drop to my side. What the fuck? Once wasn’t enough?

  When Love looks back at me, she’s smiling wider than I’ve ever seen her smile before. And it hits me. Why this girl is so damn addicting; she’s like every fucking hard drug and then some. It’s because she’s crazy. Absolutely loony. She’s uncertain – shaking on the ground she walks on. Like a natural disaster heading my way – and she’s sucking up all the violence in me. Not the need to fight, because if I look deep enough, the need to put fist to flesh isn’t bad. No. The violence in me is a wash of darkness that meets the pain I see reflected back in the depths of her eyes. We’re the same. And no matter all the girly shit I think in my head, none of it can erase the fact that when I’m with Love I feel less on the edge. I feel grounded. When I’m with this girl, I don’t feel like I’m staring into a long, yawning void of darkness waiting for me. The kind of darkness that waits until the middle of the night to overtake me and remind me of all the shit – all the sins I’ve committed. I feel balanced.