Hard Knox

  “I don’t have to explain anything, and besides, if I spend all night explaining, you’ll miss out again on a research opportunity.” Knox lifted his chin at the kegs. “So focus, Chase.”

  When I checked my watch, I knew he was right. Parties were known to go on until the greasy spoon diners close to campus were flicking on their open signs, but with a party in an . . . unauthorized location, all it took was one call to security or the cops, and it was over. I’d rather jump on a trampoline braless in front of my psych class than have to go to another one of these things tomorrow night.

  “To be revisited,” I muttered as I freed my notepad and pen. Holding one in one hand and the other in the other proved to be difficult . . . Well, impossible. Especially with the water bottle I was not about to set down.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less from the intrepid, albeit relentless, Charlie Chase.” Noticing my dilemma, Knox held my notepad for me so I could both write and babysit my water.

  “Bad-boy-slash-badass who knows how to properly use words like intrepid and is a problem solver too?” I grinned at him as I put a mark beneath one of the freshmen girl’s description. “And feminists have the audacity to say the male species is well on their way to turning back into a bunch of apes.”

  “Here’s a headline for you . . .” Knox leaned in closer, his mouth practically grazing my ear. “We never evolved from our ape roots.”

  “Oh, I can see it now.” I held my arm out, my hand showcasing an imaginary headline. “Man: The Ape, the Myth, and the Legend.”

  He laughed with me before lifting his head at a guy stepping up in line. “Freshman incoming. Pretty sure his name’s Ryan. Or Rick. Or something R with a few letters following.”

  After adding another name and tally to my sheet, I took a drink of water, keeping my eyes on the kegs. After a few minutes of silence—at least between Knox and myself—I couldn’t take it anymore. If I didn’t drown out the bad music and bad lines being thrown around me, I was in danger of imploding. “Talk. Say something about anything or everything or nothing. I don’t care. Just please drown out the brain-dumbing material assaulting me.”

  Knox adjusted the notepad so it was easier for me to reach. “I’m not really a mindless talker. If that’s what you’re looking for, just point a finger and you’ll find someone who will fit the bill.”

  “Fine, then we won’t talk about anything mindless.”

  Knox’s face creased into a grimace. “Ouch, that sounds worse. Can we just not talk? It’s not really my thing.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “So I’ve heard through the grapevine.”

  “Okay, fine, if you’re going to take the cheap shot, I’ll prove that while I’m not a fan of conversation, I’m a stellar conversationalist.”

  “Does being difficult come naturally, or is it something you try really hard at?”

  Knox smiled. “Both.”

  Shifting into a more comfortable position against the wall, I marked another tally under one of the guys I remembered from last Friday. “So where did you grow up?”

  “And you’re not a fan of segues . . .” Knox muttered, adjusting the notepad again. “I grew up around whatever trailer park or slum apartment my mom’s boyfriend of the month lived in.” Knox stuck his thumb into his chest. “Trailer trash.”

  “There’s nothing trailer-trash about you, Knox.”

  He held out his arm and appraised himself. The canyon running down the middle of his chest became visible through his shirt, along with the lines and planes of his stomach. I made myself focus on the notepad.

  “Well, I’m not sporting a wife beater with barbecue sauce and beer stains, so there is that,” he said.

  I nudged him lightly. “Do you still see your mom?”

  All emotion bled from his face. “Nope.”

  There was a story there, but not even Charlie Chase, reporter who would light the world on fire, was brave enough to ask about it. “Do you have any siblings?”

  Knox’s jaw went rigid, and the rest of his body did the same. “A sister,” he said in almost, but not quite, a whisper.

  “Do you still see her?” I knew I was stepping onto thin ice, but that’s where I felt most in my realm—tiptoeing between safety and danger.

  Almost like a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, Knox’s expression cleared. He blinked a few times as his whole body relaxed. “Nope.”

  “So you’re saying you’re close to your family?”

  When he glanced at me, that easy expression was back in place. He crossed his fingers. “Like this.”

  Yet another girl flounced up to Knox, her smile—along with something else—in the high-beam position. She did what half a dozen girls had already beaten her to tonight—what hundreds had beaten her to this year. “Randy.” She skimmed a finger down the very crevasse of Knox’s chest I’d just been admiring . . . I’d just been noticing. “And my name says it all.”

  When her finger hooked around his crucifix, his fingers wrapped around her wrist then pulled her hand back until the necklace slipped from her finger. It seemed the only part of Knox Jagger that was off limits to the ladies was his jewelry.

  A guy with an expression I’d seen before thundered across the room in our direction. “Randy! What the hell?”

  Randy had the decency to look moderately uncomfortable as who I guessed was her boyfriend gunned in our direction. His fists were already in the on position, and he looked at Knox like he couldn’t wait to introduce the two. Why Randy and her boyfriend weren’t handcuffed together, I couldn’t figure out. For that matter, plenty of the “hot” girls and just as many “who’s-who” guys weren’t handcuffed either. I supposed it boiled down to life wasn’t fair. It never had been and never would be, and trying to level the scales would just drive a person to the crazy house. There were haves and have-nots, and at Sinclair, I was the low woman on the have-nots totem pole.

  Knox’s voice boomed through the room as he shoved off of the wall. “Don’t, dude. Just don’t.”

  The guy charging our way skidded to a stop.

  “Your problem. Her problem. Not my problem. So don’t,” Knox added.

  The girl had already floated back into the crowd, but the guy wasn’t going anywhere. He might have screeched to a stop, but he was clearly a long ways away from forfeiting.

  “Or do, and let’s just get this over with.” Knox handed me my notepad and shoved his sleeves up past his elbows. I wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten he was cuffed to me, but it didn’t seem to be a concern. “Judging from your size and pretty face that’s never had a bone broken in a fight, it ought to take all of one swing to take you down. So what’s it going to be?”

  Not another second passed before the guy turned and shoved back into the crowd. Probably heading for the beer because, after the last two minutes he’d had, he needed one.

  “And that’s one of the smart ones.” Knox nodded at the spot where the guy had just been. “Most aren’t, and then they try to blame me for their broken nose when they brought the fight to my front door. Two words: Self. Defense.”

  “Yeah, except you swinging your arm is a little more dangerous than a little old granny swinging her purse.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Let me guess—your life motto?” I asked.

  He took the notepad and situated it back into position. “More like a policy.”

  “When it comes to everything?”

  Knox shook his head. “When it comes to most things. Not everything.”

  “And what are the things that are exempt from the Knox Jagger not-my-problem policy?”

  His answer came in the form of a sealed mouth. Of course. Whatever question I really wanted answered, I got radio silence. When the guy who’d just been one of the smart ones passed by with, yep, a fresh beer in hand, he gave us a wide berth, eyeing Knox from the corner of his eye.

  “So what made you the Knox Jagger you are today?” I asked. “The guy whose name has become synonymous with name-taker
and ass-kicker? And let’s not forget my personal favorite—panty-procurer?”

  Knox finished the last of his water before sealing the empty bottle. “It depends on who you ask. A socialist would say it’s because I’m a member of generation Y and have entitlement issues and am lazy. A psychologist would say it’s because I have anger issues stemming from a turbulent childhood and an absent father.”

  “Do you have an absent father?” I butted in.

  “So absent I don’t even know who he is.” Knox met my gaze. “But I wasn’t finished with my earlier thought, so stop interrupting. You’re the one who wanted to know, remember?” His smile was in place as he nudged me. “If you ask the church, it’s because I haven’t found Jesus. If you ask the girls, it’s because I have commitment issues. If you ask the guys, it’s because I’m a hot-headed jackass. If you ask the transcendentalists, it’s because I haven’t found my inner chi. And if you ask my mother, it’s because one half of me is made up of the son of a bitch known as my absent father.”

  And there was Knox Jagger the enigma—ready to throw down one moment and talking about transcendentalism the next one. For one of the few times in my life, I didn’t know what to say.

  “Now can you ask something that doesn’t require such a long-winded answer? Because I’m more of a one-word response kind of guy.” His tone held just enough of a hint of warning to say he was being serious.

  I could keep on pushing, but I knew enough about Knox to realize no amount of pushing or prying would crack anything out of him that didn’t want to be cracked. “Boxers or briefs?” The question surprised me more than it did him. My hand flew up to cover my mouth. Boxers or briefs? Really, Charlie? Damn, I was becoming the hair-flipping, giggling lollipop of my nightmares.

  Knox’s smile flipped the sly switch, his eyes gleaming. “Whatever it is, I’ve never gotten any complaints.”

  When I felt the heat flooding my face, I realized Knox’s underwear, in all respects, was an off-limits topic from here until the end of time. If he even wore any . . .

  And shit, now my face wasn’t only thing heating—I was all-out blushing. I could feel it.

  Clearing my throat, I looked away so he couldn’t see my face. It was probably dark enough in here that he wouldn’t have noticed it even if I were looking at him full-on, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Time to change the subject. Past time to change the subject. “So you’ve been to jail . . .”

  He leaned back into the wall, not appearing the least bit fazed by my question. Good sign. “I’d hardly be worthy of my name if I hadn’t, right?”

  Instead of answering that question, I asked another of my own. “What for?”

  “Mainly stuff from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He lifted the notepad as I added a couple more tallies. People were really giving their livers a run for their money tonight.

  “Say you and OJ, except you didn’t have Cochran on your side, making you try on a glove two sizes too small.”

  “And that’s why I did jail time.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  He sighed, but he wasn’t sealing up the way he had back in the hall. “It’s not really something a person keeps track of. It’s more something they try to forget, which is kind of hard to do when someone is trying to wrestle it out of you. Nosy.”

  A grumble rolled off my lips. I’d run smack into another Knox wall, and they were difficult, if not impossible, to break. They were high and wide, strong and hard. Unscalable. And the only thing that would prove me weaker than giving up was thinking I could break through if I tried long and hard enough.

  “Whatever,” I said with a swat of my hand. “I bet you’re some kid who grew up in the ‘burbs outside Salt Lake, were on the chess club in school, and your mom mails you home-baked cookies every week.”

  Knox laughed a few hard notes. “That’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “Thinking about my mom cooking something other than meth.”

  He was still laughing, but I found myself shifting. I wanted to learn more about Knox. I needed to in order to prove he wasn’t the man Neve was sure he was, but I hadn’t known my exploration of Knox Jagger would take me down such raw, foreign paths.

  “You can ask me questions too, you know?” I looked up at him.

  He was already looking at me. “I know.” He rolled his shoulder into the wall so he was angled my direction. “But I don’t have to know the details to like the result.”

  My eyebrows came together. “What does that mean? Do I even want to know?”

  Knox held up our cuffed wrists and gave them a thoughtful look. “It means I don’t have to know everything about your past to know I like the person right here in front of me today.”

  I tallied another mark under the guy Knox had pointed out earlier, but I’d almost missed it. Knox’s words, or his presence, or his gaze that seemed to tell so much and see just as much were distracting me. Actually, whatever was the next phase past distraction was where I was.

  “Aren’t you a deep one?” I said with a cluck of my tongue, vowing to keep my eyes on the kegs.

  “As a puddle,” he replied.

  Twisting the cap off of my water, I took a long drink. Either the stifling atmosphere or the conversation or the energy being expunged had parched me. I managed to finish off half the bottle, and when I went to put the lid back on, I dropped it. Working one-handed made a person already prone to clumsiness a certified klutz.

  “Shoot,” I muttered, scanning the floor for the cap. Thankfully, it hadn’t rolled or bounced off into party oblivion, but it was almost right below our handcuffed wrists.

  When Knox saw what I was reaching for, he stooped down to reach with me. His fingers brushed mine, and after making sure the cap was firmly in my hand, we rose back up together.

  “We’d be unbeatable partners in a three-legged race,” I said, capping my water.

  He stuffed his hand in his pocket, his smile crooked. “Anytime I race it’s a three-legged race.” The glint in his eyes registered before his insinuation did.

  “Control yourself,” I ordered with an eye roll. “Your ego is gushing all over me and getting my favorite shoes dirty.”

  “Hey, jerk-off!” Knox suddenly yelled, making me flinch. His eyes narrowed at a guy in a Sinclair football jersey who was cuffed to a girl who looked close to yawning.

  The guy was clearly drunk because his eyes were glossy from twenty feet away, and he actually returned Knox’s glower. He stepped forward and threw out his free arm. “I know you didn’t just call me a jerk-off. You might be Knox Jagger, but you don’t see me pissing my sneakers, do you?”

  Knox let out a long sigh as he exchanged a look with me. This is one of the not smart ones, it read. “I didn’t call you a jerk-off.”

  The guy, along with everyone else around, lifted their brows.

  “That wasn’t an address, it was an order,” Knox continued. “As in, ‘Hey, man, go jerk off and leave the poor girl alone.’ You’ve got no game, so stop playing.”

  The jersey guy hadn’t made it more than one lunge forward before a herd of his fellow jersey-wearing counterparts popped in front of them, dragging their cuffed dates along.

  After that, another swig of water was in order. I’d just started drinking when Knox’s gaze flickered back my way. His easy expression morphed into the opposite. As his eyes went wide, he snatched the bottle away so sharply some of it splashed down my shirt.

  “Hey, Schizo, time for your medication,” I said, glaring at him as I wiped my shirt.

  “Hey, Helen Keller, open up your eyes and ears and use them.” Lifting the bottle above our heads, he waited for me to look up.

  As soon as I did, I saw it right away. “What the hell is that?” I watched it fizzle away.

  “Please don’t tell me that’s a serious question.” When I didn’t reply, Knox sighed. “What else could be small, white, and unknowingly dropped into a girl’s drink at a party?”

  That
was when I spit. Again and again and again. I was about to stick my finger down my throat.

  “It’s okay, Charlie. The pill was still dissolving, and you didn’t take a big enough drink for it to hit you like it did last time.” Knox’s hand went under my chin.

  “No. No, it’s not okay,” I said, grinding my jaw. “Someone tried to drug me. Again. One fucking week after I was drugged the first time. That is not a recipe for okay.”

  “I meant that there will be trace, if any, amounts of it in your system, so you can stop trying to retch your guts out.” Taking the cap from me, Knox sealed the bottle, his gaze scanning the room. “Everything else is not okay. It’s so not okay that I’m about to crack the skull of the next guy throwing you a sideways look.”

  I couldn’t decide if my stomach was rolling because of whatever amount of the drug had made it into my system or because of the realization of what had just happened.

  “Didn’t you learn anything from last week?” Knox went on, his eyes taking in the whole scene around us.

  I scanned the room with him, but I wasn’t sure exactly what we were looking for. Other than a guy with a flashing neon sign that read It was me, how could I tell who had versus whom hadn’t done it?

  “Don’t take a drink from anyone. Don’t take your eyes off of your drink. Don’t let anyone who’s looking for an opportunity find one by getting distracted!” By the end of that, Knox was shouting.

  Which brought out my own shouting demons. “I was drinking water! Bottled water! I didn’t take my eyes off of my drink, and I kept the cap on it! The only person I accepted a drink from was you!” I threw my hand at him in accusation. “And I didn’t get distracted, so stop yelling at me and help me find the guy who did it so we can yell at him together!”

  Knox looked at me like he was a mixture of surprised and impressed. “I’m not yelling at you at the moment; you’re the one yelling at me. And when we find the guy, you can yell at him if you want, but I won’t let him off so easy.”

  His face shadowed, and for one fraction of a second, I almost felt sorry for the guy when and if Knox ever caught up to him . . . then I remembered how it had felt to be roofied, and all my sympathy vanished.