Expressionate

By Lucy Smoke

"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 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 know her secrets, her pains, and everything dark inside of her and whether or not her darkness matches my own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucy Smoke
• Release date: Jul 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386062660

Lucy Smoke

Lucy Smoke is the author of the Sick Boys series, among other series and novels. Also known as Lucinda Dark for her fantasy works, she has a master’s degree in English and is a self-proclaimed creative chihuahua. She lives in the Southern United States with her beloved fur-baby, Hiro, and her family and friends. For more information, visit LucySmoke.com.

Book preview

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 turns 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.

Sure, Anne calls, just stay where you can hear me when I call, or I'll send Love after you.

Yes, ma'am! Trish says excitedly before turning to me. You want to come? she asks.

She has work to do, Anne answers.

I watch Trish's crestfallen face and the way her shoulders droop. I force myself to smile and lean over to hug her.

It's okay, I say. Maybe next time. She wavers in front of me, unsure if she should go now that she knows I can't. Don't worry about me, I urge her. Go have fun.

She hesitates for a moment more, but the thought of meeting the neighborhood kids is too thrilling and soon she's waving goodbye and heading out the door. I watch as she goes before I pull down one of the boxes from the kitchen counter and start to unpack. Anne continues to ignore me, and I can only hope that's how the rest of my dad's business trip will go. If she just ignores me, things will be just fine.

I’ll be fine.

I hope.

Prologue: Part Two

Tax

13 years old

My arms and legs are sore as fuck. I've got bruises on my face, on my arms – hell, they're on my shins too. I've got bruises on my bruises, and my dad tells me that each and every one of them makes me a man. They're supposed to give me pride – I'm supposed to be proud of what I'm doing, of beating other kids to a bloody fucking pulp. But I'm not. I can't be. I don't understand how this is supposed to make me a man at all. I've only been doing it for a couple of years – not a decade like some of the older guys. Some of them started as early as six or seven I hear. It makes me sick, but I'm not exactly in the position to do anything about it .

Thankfully, I'm not squeamish about the blood. I once fought a kid who was. Poor kid. I punched him in the face, and I'm pretty sure I broke his nose. He put one hand to his face and pulled it away before he promptly passed out. He was a skinny guy too. Those are the ones you know aren't good fighters because most of the fighters – I won't call them kids because none of us really are anymore – fight for their food. If they lose, they don't eat. It's a dog eat dog world. Or rather, dog starving dog world because we're all starving for something out here.

I close my eyes and hold my breath for a moment, releasing it in a gust as someone opens the cage and my dad pushes me in. You got this, boy, he says, eyeing the competition. It's Corbin Jung. I've fought him before. I watch him with a narrow gaze. You win this match for me, you hear me, boy? Dad says. You win it for your mom, win it for Ally.

Fuck that, I think. And fuck him. I don't do this shit for him or for Mom. She's a bitch anyway. Always high as fuck. Dad sticks it in her and probably half of the dads here tonight do the same. There's no telling if the man at my back is even my real father. I don't do this shit for either of them. I do it for Ally. My little sister needs me, and I won't let her down. If I keep fighting, I can keep her safe. If I keep fighting she won't end up like Mom.

I stare down at my hands as the gate closes behind me. She's always been sunshine, my Ally. I will always be nothing but blood. I raise my gaze to Corbin who looks back with sunken eyes. He circles me, and I raise my fists, doing the same. Foot to the side, I keep moving. We assess each other – Corbin and I. He's bulked up a bit since I last saw him. He must have won a few more fights. Either that or whoever makes him fight is feeding him steroids. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened here. There are so few rules. What rules do exist aren't written down. We just know.

Rule 1, I think as Corbin jumps forward, raising his fist. I dodge. No one talks shit about the fights. If you do and you're caught, you're dead.

Rule 2. I raise my own fist and slam it into Corbin's cheek. He doesn't even hesitate to use the momentum to come barreling around and shove a knuckled fist right back at me. You don't have to fight fair. I see Corbin's right hook coming a bit too late and it lands on my jaw, knocking me backward.

Rule 3. My whole head is spinning, and I try to right myself before Corbin comes at me again. He's like a fucking shark, if he smells weakness, he'll come down extra hard. If you kill someone in the ring, you get double what you were promised, but you have to dispose of the body. Corbin and I start circling each other again.

Then there are the other rules. The rules the fighters and I have. No, they aren't written down either and no, we never talk about them. They're the unspoken rules. The ones we keep to survive both mentally and physically.

Unspoken Rule 1. Corbin's eyes land on a bit of blood drying on my lip. Yeah, he had a cruel punch. No one is your friend. I look at the bruise quickly forming on his cheek. So do I.

Unspoken Rule 2. The roar of the crowd is almost deafening as we slowly pace around the cage. If you can get out without killing someone, do it. If you can't, don't cry about it. They were already dead to begin with. I watch the way Corbin's feet move, knowing we're merely staving off the inevitable. One of us is going down tonight, and I'm damn sure going to walk out of here on my own two fucking legs. So, it's not going to be me.

Unspoken Rule 3. Corbin and I attack again at the same time, our muscles tensing, our bodies bunching. I slam my fist into his face again and blood spurts from his nose. He slams his fist into my temple and I see stars. Never apologize for anything that happens in the cage.

Corbin manages to get me to the ground and he mounts me, fists swinging. I put up my forearms and try to block as much as I can, but it's nearly impossible. I gasp for breath, but with the big bastard sitting on my ribs, it's hard to draw in a decent one. In one last desperate attempt to get out from under him, I lay back completely, keeping my forearms over my face and bring my legs up, crossing my ankles in front of his neck, jerking him back and down.

Together, we roll to the side and break out of each other's holds. Before he can get even a foot away, I grab his head by the hair and slam his face into my knee. I can feel his teeth crack over my knee cap as they cut into my bare skin. For this match, we're only wearing shorts, our sweaty upper bodies on full display. I don't let the image of the cigarette burns on his chest stop me from slamming his face repeatedly. After a few more on my knee, I stop and force him to the ground, slamming it into the concrete floor. Despite Corbin's weight, despite his size and strength, after several more double taps to the floor, he's out for the count.

I'm breathing heavy, covered in blood and sweat and new bruises as I stand up. The crowd roars, half in disappointment and half in exuberance. Money changes hands swiftly as someone comes into the cage and removes Corbin's slack body. I'm tired, aching, and hungry as I slowly walk toward my side of the cage. When I get there, my dad's talking to one of the big shots who runs this place; an older man with dark gray hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a scar running down the side of his f’ugly face. Dad doesn't open the cage door.

Hey, I slap my hands on the metal wiring of the cage, are we leaving or what?

Dad looks at me as f’ugly face shoots me an unreadable look and walks away. There's another fight, Dad begins.

I shake my head. Not tonight, I say, I don't want to chance it.

Dad doesn't smile or try to wheedle me. I can only talk back so much, I've come to know, but usually he doesn't mind trying to convince me. Because usually, it's not hard. He knows all the right buttons to push, or really, the one button he has to push – Ally. He doesn't do that this time, though; he just cuts me a look that I do not like at all.

You're staying in for another round, he says.

What? No! I slap my open, cut up, palms on the cage gate again.

It's double the pay, he says as the gate behind me opens up.

Why? I demand, not looking behind me. The fight hasn't started yet. It doesn't start until the other gate closes. I listen intently for the sound of the lock clicking in place. It doesn't, not yet. Why is it double? I ask.

Dad doesn't reply, he just takes a step back and hardens his face. The lock clicks behind me and I whirl around, fists up and at the ready with my back pressed against the metal wiring.

Oh, fuck me. I think. The guy that's standing across the cage from me is in sneakers, a ratty t-shirt, and holy jeans. He looks skinny as fuck, wide-eyed, and confused. They think I'm gonna kill him; that's why it's double the pay. Poor guy doesn't even seem to know where he is. His face is bruised to hell, his eyes sunken in even further than Corbin's had been, and he's obviously gaunt under his clothes. They practically hang off him like he's a motherfucking wire hanger. His pupils are dilated and that's when I realize he's high. I don't want to do this. I take a step back.

What the fuck are you doing, boy? my father snaps at me. Get in there. This should be a piece of cake for you!

I shake my head. My eyes burn as the noise from the crowd echoes in my ears. You’ll do this, I hear my dad say. You’ll do this or I swear to God I’ll put Ally on every corner from here to fucking Tega Kay.

A hole opens up in my chest. I know he’ll do it. He so rarely threatens it, but I know he’s serious because that’s how Mom got hooked on drugs. Because of me. After my first fight. I refused to go back. I threw up. I bled. I cried. And he tied me to the kitchen chair while he shot Mom in the arm with a needle that glinted under the dull kitchen light.

This is what you made me do, boy, he said. If you don’t fight, this is what happens to your family.

Mom had been too drunk to care. Maybe when she had just been a drunk, she could have gotten better. But now she was a drunk and an addict and it was all my damn fault. I won’t let anything bad happen to Ally. She’s the only good thing I got left.

So, I take a deep breath and take a step toward the poor bastard about to become acquainted with my fist. I fall deep into the hole in my chest and let it swallow me up. I don’t close my eyes when my fist connects with his face. I don’t blink as he struggles pathetically under me. I’m not a fucking killer. I’m not a fucking killer. I’m not a fucking killer. I repeat it over and over again. Every time I punch the kid, I say it to myself.

When it's all said and done and the high as a kite fighter is down and out, I stop. The crowd is roaring for me to do it. To kill him. To end it all. I shake my head and retreat to the cage door where my dad's practically frothing at the mouth. You had him! he yells at me as we collect our cash and leave. You could have snapped his neck like a fucking twig. It was easy. That was the easiest damned fight you could’ve had.

I don't care, I snap back, opening the car door and climbing in. I slam the door harder than necessary, but in no time at all Dad is on the other side, his face beat red as he prepares to lay into me again.

You threw that damn fight, you punk ass bitch! He cranks the engine. Surprisingly, it sputters to life on the first crank.

I won, didn’t I? My words fall on deaf ears.

You didn’t win, you pussied out, he snaps and then off he goes, on another rant about how ungrateful I am. How worthless I am. I can’t disagree.

As the car turns out onto the street, I close my eyes and picture Ally, all golden curls and sweet smiles. I can't wait to get home so I can wash off the blood and then read her a bedtime story. It'll be shitty, and she'll hate it, but then will come the lullaby, and that's always her favorite part. Because despite my bloody fists and bruises, when I sing, all the pain comes out and Ally tells me that it’s beautiful. Who am I to tell her it’s not?

1

Love

Present Day

21 Years Old

The light bulb flickers overhead as I flip on the bedroom light switch, and Beverly strides through the place in her ginormous high heels. The aroma of her floral perfume permeates the apartment causing me to wrinkle my nose. It’s not that the smell is unpleasant – it’s simply overwhelming, like choking on dollar store air freshener when she passes by. At least I know she'll pay her rent; my last roommate moved out without telling me and she still owed me two months in back rent. Now that I think about it, that's probably why she moved out while I was at work .

It's not the best, Beverly states, clutching her iPhone-whatever-number-they're-on-now, and takes another snapshot of a random place in the apartment before quickly texting it to her dozens of friends. Of course, none of her dozens of friends want to room with her either because she's bitchy, self-absorbed, and kind of a twit. I don't care about any of that though. I spend most of my time in my room, at work, or in class – the few that I actually have to attend in person. Most of my classes are online.

The rent's cheap, I say, and Beverly looks up.

Hmmm, then it'll do, I guess. She raises her phone to take a selfie. New apartment! she says with a wink and a smile as she takes the picture. When she lowers it to look at the screen, she squeals with glee. It's perfect. Oh, my followers are gonna love this one on Instagram.

I sigh and take a step inside the bedroom. The window overlooks the back parking lot. It's nothing fancy, and the neighborhood isn't high class, but I've lived in worse places. It's fairly safe and I can get in without any sort of guarantor or cosigner. That's the main issue. I won't ask my father for help and Beverly doesn't understand how to do half the shit it takes to live on her own. She knows how to hand over money, and I don't mind that. I'll pay the bills as long as she gives me her half. Her face pops back in the doorway, blonde hair bouncing over her shoulder.

When can we move in? she asks.

The landlord said we could move in tomorrow if we pay the deposit today, I reply.

How much is that?

Three hundred.

She nods. Okay, I'm going to head down to the ATM. I'll be right back. She scoots out the door faster than I can say anything. I guess we're moving in tomorrow then.

When Beverly returns, we head down again to meet with the landlord – an elderly person with white-gray hair and black bushy eyebrows. I still can't tell if it's a man or a woman. By the long hair, I'm inclined to think woman, but men can have long hair too. That, and there are a few scraggly looking hairs poking out of the he-she's chin. He-she tells us to call them Jordan. A gender-neutral name for a confusingly