Page 13 of Expressionate
"Why does this sound like a tactic to get me to talk?" Iask.
He laughs outright. "Maybe because itis?"
"Why do you care if I talk ornot?"
"Maybe I just like the sound of yourvoice."
"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, Iguess."
"That's not an answer," Ireply.
He grins at me. "It's the only one you'regetting."
"You're the one who wanted to talk," Iaccuse.
"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 nottalking."
I blink at him. "I was just jotting down some notes," I answer quietly. "Something to rememberlater."
"Mmmhmm."
"What?" I turn in the seat completely, with my back pressed against the door and my seatbelt tugging over my shoulder, between mybreasts.
"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 thecity.
"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 thecity.
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 Allycame."
"You seem to be able to navigate it fairly well," I say, referring to his lack of aGPS.
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'sa badidea.
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 thephone.
"What did you do?" I ask, grabbing the phoneback.
"Texted myself. Now I have your number and you have mine," he says. "Useit."
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 movingaround.
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 acreak.
“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 stopsme.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” heasks.
“I’m working,” Isay.
He raises an eyebrow. “And the dayafter?”
“Stillworking?”
“Do you work Monday through Friday as well?” hechallenges.
