Page 25 of Expressionate
I meet Blake, Cross, and Tax in the parking lot. Tax's dark gaze meets mine – a cresting wave of a stormy ocean assessing me. He nods his chin back to the girls behind me. "What were you doing over there?" heasks.
"Smoking," Isay.
"I didn't know you smoked," Cross says. "If you needed a cig, I would have given you some ofmine."
I shrug. "They had some. They shared." I wait for it. Despite the fact that these guys are out here, participating in something illegal, I know most people have their breaking points. What they will and won't do. I met mine and passed it long ago. I expect them to tell me that this is theirs. That I shouldn't hang out with hookers. Shouldn't accept cigarettes from them. Shouldn't even be on the same corner asthem.
The three of them shock me, though. None of them say anything. Cross and Blake simply turn in the direction of their car, and Tax grabs my arm, tugging me along behind them. I look up at him, examining his face. Tax looks brutal. A shine in his eyes – an exhilaration. He's obviously not having any trouble walking or towing me around, so he's fineenough.
"What will your sister say about that?" I ask, nodding my head at the colorful bruises beginning to show. They're everywhere. I can see the ones on his face, spreading across the underside of his jaw. Some of them peek out from beneath his t-shirt. His knuckles are scraped andraw.
Tax shakes his head at me. "She won't say anything," he says, keeping his eyes trainedahead.
I narrow my eyes at him, slowly coming to an understanding. She won't say anything because she's used to it. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel genuine sympathy that's more than cursory and expected. Sure, I’ve felt sympathy before, but there was always a feeling of obligation attached to that sympathy, as if it was automatic – trained into me. An expected emotion ingrained by society. Right now, my sympathy for Tax – and for Ally – is genuine. My desire to ease his pain is a surprise, but it’s there,undeniable.
At the car, Tax releases my arm to open the back door for me. I hop in and he motions for me to move over, getting in beside me as Blake and Cross take the front seat. Cross starts up the car and carefully backs out as people continue to mill about in the parking lot, so sure that they're safe. So entitled to their activities that only the sound of sirens might send them running for the relative safety of their cars andhomes.
Tax leans back, his arm slung up over the top of the bench seat. His fingers touch the ends of my hair. I keep my gaze trained forward, only glancing to the side at him and then occasionally out the window. Despite how relaxed he's acting, I can see in my peripheral vision the clench of his other hand. His knuckles are white and red with the tightness of his closed fist. His thighs are tight as well, bunched behind the shotgun seat where Blake sits. Everyone remains quiet for the majority of the drive. When Cross leans forward and flicks on the radio, a slow rock ballad filters into the silence. That's the first moment that I notice the three of them collectively relax. The music, I realize, is their release. Even though it’s not the only one for Tax. I peek at himagain.
Tax's hand on my hair feels lighter now, more playful. "Did I scare you?" he asksquietly.
I turn to look at him fully. "No," I admit, "you didn't scareme."
"You left," hesays.
"It wasn't you," I assurehim.
"I wouldn't blame you if it was me." His eyes watch me,curious.
Is he worried about what I mightthink?
"I've seen worse," I reply with ashrug.
That interests him, and I realize I may have said too much. "Oh?" he leans closer, his hand threading further into the strands of my hair. I shake my head, trying to shake his fingers loose, but he merely slides closer on the bench seat. I straighten my back and press closer to the door. He notices my retreat and pauses, those swirling eyes ever observant. "What have you seen,Lovely?"
He asks the question, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's not really asking me, or at least the answer doesn’t really matter anymore. His eyes are unfocused as he looks down, pausing on the throbbing pulse point in my throat. Tax works his gaze over me, over my breasts – making my nipples stand up. Thank God for padded bras – and down further before returning back to myface.
"Someone who looks as innocent as you do—" he says, "but you're not very innocent, are you?" From anyone else, that might have been an insult. He’s not accusing me, though. He's not ridiculing me. Tax is curious, but he's also trying to work through what he knows about me – which decidedly isn't much – and yet, he's already hit me right. I'mnotinnocent. Far fromit.
He swallows, hand moving down from the middle of my hair to the ends. "I'm not innocent either, Lovely. Don't think I don't know what it feels like topretend."
"I'm not pretending," I say, andfrown.
He raises one eyebrow at me. There's sweat and a little bit of crusted blood on his skin. The sweat is his. The blood is...likely not. "You're pretending," he says. "You're pretending just like everyone else. You're just a little better atit."
The car pulls up to the apartment complex and I unbuckle my seatbelt, pulling away from him. I open my door and slide out. Cross and Blake get out and ignore us, heading straight for the building. Tax stops in front of the Jeep. I want to keep walking, to ignore his words and the ring of truth in them. His dark blue gaze meets mine, heavy andhurt.
"Tonight was just to help a friend out," hesays.
I shake my head at him. "What you do and why you do it is none of mybusiness."
"You went, though," he argues. "I figure you should knowwhy."
"I left," Ireply.
"Did you, though?" he challengesme.
I don't know why, but I both like it and hate this new side of him he has exposed to me. Even though it’s slightly different from the sarcastic, stubborn ass that has been dogging my heels, it’s also still very much him. He can't take anything I say and just let itbe.
