Hard Knox

by Nicole Williams

  His smile stayed in place. Nothing seemed to affect him. “Why? Because you don’t wear any?”

  Moments like those, I wished I had a mantra, because I really could have benefited from a moment of Zen. “Because I wear grannie panties. Giant ones. Old giant ones that have been worn and washed so many times that the elastic’s starting to fail. The kind with little white kittens batting at butterflies and daisies. The kind that wouldn’t fit in one of your back pockets. Or, even if I were to saw it open, fit inside that big head of yours.” Crossing my arms, I lifted my eyebrow at him.

  “Sounds like just the thing my panty collage has been missing. How much longer are you planning on keeping up the I’m-not-getting-your-panties act? Because I love kittens. And butterflies. And daisies.”

  I let out a long breath and resisted the urge to dump what was left of my beer over his head. “How is it possible to hate you after five minutes of conversation?”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a hateable guy.”

  “Does anything get to you?”

  Another lift of his shoulders. “A few things, but not much.”

  “Mind sharing what those few things are? For future reference, because I’d really love to piss you off as much as you’ve done with me. I’m a big fan of payback, grudges, and getting even.”

  His face ironed out, and the amusement vanished. “Well, I could tell you all of my dirty, not-so-little secrets, but I’d have to—”

  “Kill me?” I guessed with an eye-roll.

  His head shook. “Love you.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly that it took a few moments to process. Knox Jagger love someone? Other than himself and his swimming pool full of panties? Not likely.

  “And since I can tell a lost cause from a hundred paces, the chances of us ever loving each other is slim to—”

  “I’d rather have my fingers chopped off one at a time, then my toes, before having to love you for a single day.”

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “So you’re saying there’s a chance?”

  I was just about to shove him away, and hopefully out of my life for good, when some guy who had mastered the pissed-off expression shoved through the crowd in our direction. Knox was too busy waiting for a reaction from me to notice the guy whose glare and curled fists were aimed at him.

  “Incoming,” I said, tilting my head toward the guy.

  Knox took his time glancing over, but even when he saw the guy stomping toward him, he didn’t seem concerned. That chill, unaffected expression stayed in place, his whole body relaxed.

  “You’ve got something that belongs to me, Jagger,” the guy shouted as he stopped a few feet in front of us.

  The music dimmed, and people started to circle around. Nothing like the promise of a fight to pause the party.

  “And what would that be?” Knox replied, almost grinning at the guy. “Besides the last scrap of your pride I’ll take when I knock you out with my pinkie if you don’t lower those fists and back the hell off.”

  The crowd quieted some more, circling closer, and all I wanted to do was get out of there. If Knox Jagger was about to get into one of his legendary fights, I didn’t want to be on the same block. The rumor was that the last place he’d let the rage monster loose in had to be leveled due to the damage he’d done to it.

  “My girl’s underwear is in your back pocket, asswipe. Hand them over, then I’ll lower my fists.”

  A combined inhale went through the crowd. Either the guy had a death wish or was suffering from delusions of grandeur if he thought he had a chance at coming out the victor in a fist-to-fist brawl with Knox Jagger.

  “That’s your problem. That’s your girl’s problem. But it isn’t mine.”

  The guy stepped closer, his whole body shaking from the adrenaline, or the anger, or the something that was going to get him ground into college-frat-boy-marmalade that Knox would spread over his toast in the morning. “It’s about to be your problem, shithead.”

  Sighing, Knox stood up nice and slow. Just when I thought he couldn’t tower over the guy anymore, he straightened another inch. “Actually, I think I’m getting a clearer picture of what exactly your girl’s problem is, and it definitely isn’t me.”

  The guy’s nostrils flared at Knox’s words. He was clearly rethinking his plan now that they were toe-to-toe.

  “And are you so sure she’s your girl when she’s sticking her underwear and phone number in my pocket? Because that sounds like she’s my girl. My beck-and-call girl.”

  That was the breaking point. The point where size, muscle-mass, and fist-fighting experience just didn’t matter. The seemingly-snack-sized guy charged Knox, his fist mid-swing. Knox moved so quickly, I didn’t realize what had happened until the guy with no survival instinct flew through the air and crashed to the floor at the feet of dozens of open-mouthed partiers. The kid was knocked out cold. He had a fist-shaped mark on his cheek that would be a serious shiner tomorrow, but no blood was gushing from him, and the problem had been solved. I guessed once the alcohol and unconsciousness wore off, the guy wouldn’t be so eager to come at Knox again with nothing more than determination.

  Some of the crowd cheered, although most were still too gape-mouthed and surprised to offer much else. One of the senior frat guys shoved through the crowd. From my frat-roster studying, I was pretty sure the guy’s name was Dean. Or Dane. Something one syllable starting with a D.

  “Ah, fuck, Knox. Again? The Dean said if we had another fight break out at one of the Greek parties, he was giving us party-probation for the rest of the semester.”

  Knox cracked the knuckles of the fist he’d just used. “Good thing this wasn’t a fight then.”

  “Dude, there’s a guy unconscious on the living room floor. If you weren’t fighting him, what were you doing? Teaching him how to double Dutch?” The Dean guy toed the unconscious kid’s body like he was afraid he was dead.

  “I was teaching him a lesson, but not one on skipping rope,” Knox replied.

  Dean peaked a brow at Knox and waited.

  “A lesson not to mess with me,” Knox clarified and pointed at the guy on the floor. “Lesson learned.”

  A few guys nearby chuckled, and more than a few girls adjusted the amount of cleavage on display to the please-say-that’s-a-mole-and-not-your-nipple point.

  “You’re an animal, Knox. Can’t fault you for acting like one. Just please try to take it outside next time.” Dean pointed at a few underclassmen, and they scurried in his direction. Apparently body clean-up and removal was in their hazing job description.

  “Sure thing. But you might want to pass that on to my future challengers as well, since it seems they’re the ones in need of a take-it-outside warning.”

  The music was returning to its prior level when Knox kneeled back down beside me. His expression was exactly like it had been before he’d knocked out a guy with one hit. “Now. Where were we?” His eyes twinkled. “Oh, yeah. Talking about you falling in love with me.”

  This time, I did shove him. It was instinctual. He shuffled back a few steps, but I knew it was an act. The only way I had a chance at knocking the guy over was if I fired at him with an AK-47 at close range.

  “You’re insane.”

  “Only every other minute of my life,” he replied.

  I didn’t know what to say other than get lost or eat shit and die, but I couldn’t spend the night arguing with Knox Jagger. I had research to do and an article to work on. As it was, I’d wasted close to fifteen minutes of underage-binge-drinking research letting this guy infuriate me, and from the looks of it, he was willing to keep up the infuriating act for the rest of the night.

  That was when a welcome distraction approached and lightly punched Knox’s arm. “Hey, Hard Knox. Mind sharing the wealth?” Dean eyed Knox’s back pockets as he wet his lips.

  Knox brushed at the spot on his arm Dean had just slugged before he looked up with an expression that probably would have turned Dean into a pil
lar of salt if he hadn’t been swimming in cheap beer. “Do I look like the sharing type of guy?” Knox let those words hang in the air.

  Before I could count to five, Dean raised his hands and backed away. Why couldn’t I have that kind of power when it came to assholes? Oh yeah, because I didn’t have a dick or muscles that looked like I’d been hooked up to a steroid drip since my second birthday.

  Seeming appeased that he’d successfully scared Dean off, Knox returned his attention to me. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry for the interruptions,” he corrected, trying and failing not to smile.

  “For a guy who’s such a notorious badass, it seems unlikely you’d wear the kind of thing around your neck you do.”

  Knox’s hand lifted to the necklace hanging over his dark tee, the necklace he was never seen without. His fist curled around it so tightly, his knuckles whitened.

  “So what’s the deal with the crucifix?” I asked. It had always confused me, seeing a symbol of religion around Knox Jagger’s neck, but maybe the confusion could be put to rest. “A ploy to attract innocent Catholic school girls? A harbinger to keep demons or vampires away? A guilty conscience at work?”

  His fist tightened until his entire hand blanched white. His forehead creased as his gaze shifted to the floor. “I wear it to remember someone I cared about. I wear it to remember her.”

  I thrummed my pen against my thigh, not buying the “soft side” of Knox Jagger. I’d seen every side of him, and the only soft part Knox Jagger had was what was between his legs. You know, when it wasn’t satiating his appetites and urges. “Imagine her surprise when she found out your care and concern for her had a thirty-minute expiration date.”

  For the shortest moment, Knox’s eyes closed. When they reopened, I would have sworn he was trying to bore holes into the floorboards with his glare. Rising out of his crouched position, he let go of the crucifix and shook his head at me. “One of these days, you’re going to realize you can’t explain the whole damn world and everyone in it with a few paragraphs and few minutes of observation.” His voice was level, but it was evident how hard he was working to keep it that way. He was almost trembling. “The day that happens, let me know so I can be sitting in the front row.” Then as quickly as he’d appeared, Knox Jagger vanished.

  THERE WAS ANOTHER name for a Greek party.

  Hell.

  And this one had just entered the inner circle of it.

  After Knox stormed away, it took me a couple of minutes to shake off the whole messed-up encounter and get back to making tallies. After another half hour, the crowd around the kegs was so immense that it was next to impossible to distinguish who was waiting for beer and who was getting it. A fight broke out over a beer—because quarter-a-cup brew was so worth getting into a brawl over—and I saw what looked like two kids passed out in corners. The music had gotten louder, the girls wilder, the guys bolder, and the stench of beer, sweat, and vomit had hit stifling levels. I’d just witnessed a couple having sex—albeit creatively—on the dance floor. I’d pretty much landed smack in the middle of modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.

  Since my research was a wash and there was nothing worth hanging around for, I stuffed my notepad and pen back into my purse to get the hell out of hedonism central. I’d no more than zipped up my purse and contemplated which direction would provide the easiest escape when I saw something that made my skin crawl. Just on the outskirts of the crowd around the kegs, a couple of those bright-eyed, believe-the-best-in-everyone freshman girls were taking drinks from a couple of not-so-bright-eyed senior guys who were sharing a look.

  Parents, if you’re out there, don’t let your daughters go off to college without pounding into them that they should never accept a drink from a guy. Any guy.

  As I grumbled about how I wasn’t their parental figure and I should just mind my own business, my feet took me in their direction. Neither girl had yet to take a sip, but those guys were practically holding their breaths waiting for them to.

  “Don’t drink that!” I shouted above the noise as the dark-haired one went to take a sip.

  She paused with the cup at her lips as I shouldered toward them. The girls looked at me with confusion, but the guys glared at me as if I’d just thrown their trap moments before their prey stepped into it.

  “Why? Is it poisoned or something?” the lighter-haired girl asked, giggling as if that was absurd. She must have grown up in Kansas and been home-schooled.

  “Yeah, it is poisoned or something,” I fired back, getting both of their attention. “With roofies or GHB or whatever else these two bottom-feeders could find for five bucks.”

  The two guys shared a disgruntled sigh, their glares aimed my way. Instead of returning their glare, I smiled and flipped my middle finger their way. About the only people I despised more than date-rapers were pedophiles.

  “GHB?” the dark-haired girl said, looking into her drink as though she was expecting to find something floating in it.

  And that one was from South Carolina and had gone to an all-girl school. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  “How about this? Date-rape. Whatever these two have slipped into your drinks, it boils down to you becoming such a non-functioning, paralyzed mess that a guy can have his way with you, and while you might realize exactly what’s taking place as it’s happening, you won’t remember it in the morning. You won’t remember anything, but you’ll know what happened, and you’ll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of your life.” I lifted my chin at the cups in their hands. “Still worth it?”

  “You crazy-ass bitch,” one of the guys popped off—the one who looked like a little inbreeding might have gone into his DNA.

  “That’s my nickname around these parts,” I replied with that plastered-on smile.

  “You can’t prove a thing,” the other guy said with a shrug. His eyes scanned the crowd. Probably already in search of his next potential victim.

  My grin curled into something a bit more evil as I reached for one of the girls’ cups. “I can when I get this tested.” I shot the guys a wink before ducking into the crowd and hoping an exit was nearby.

  I hadn’t made it far before a couple of shouts and warnings followed me, but one of the benefits to being on the tiny side was my ability to cut through a roomful of bodies faster than a couple of guys who were either linebackers or couch-potatoes. Keeping the stolen, surely drugged beer in front of me, I held my own beer slightly behind me and tried not to spill either. If a garbage can had been in sight, I would have chucked what remained of my beer, but there weren’t a lot of garbage cans in the middle of the dance floor.

  Once I’d made it to the opposite side of the living room, I glanced back to make sure I’d lost the doofus twins. My heart leapt into my throat when I saw how close they were. Apparently size did have its benefits when cutting through a crowd. Instead of dodging and weaving, they just shoved and pushed.

  Ducking low in hopes they wouldn’t see me, I scurried over to the first door I noticed and hoped it was either an exit or a bathroom door with a lock. As soon as I threw the door open, I leapt inside and slammed the door closed. It took a moment to figure out I was neither outside nor in a bathroom. Instead, I was in a dark, small space that seemed to be stuffed with different kinds of clothing . . . I was in a coat closet. Well, I was stuffed into a coat closet. Not exactly the way I liked to spend my Friday nights, but it was an improvement over where I’d just been. It was quieter, and the beer-vomit-sweat stench hadn’t leaked inside.

  When the shouts and curses of the two guys dimmed, I took a moment to get comfortable. I wasn’t going anywhere for a while—at least fifteen minutes or so. I guessed the guys would search for me a while longer and ask a few of their buddies if they’d seen a crazy-ass chick carrying two beers—which would get a finger pointed in every direction—before muttering a fuck-it and getting back to the party.

  After chilling in the
darkness of the crowded coat closet for five minutes, I decided my private escape wasn’t as luxurious as I’d first thought. In addition to being cramped and on the verge of claustrophobia, I was hot and thirsty. Stealing drugged beers and dodging scumbags could really take it out of a girl.

  After triple-checking the beers in my hands to make sure I drank from my cup, the one that was mostly empty, I took a long drink. Cheap beer still tasted like cheap beer, but the liquid felt good going down my dry throat. When another ten minutes had passed, I decided I was safe to leave my hideout and get out of there.

  I wasn’t sure who I should call about getting the drink tested, but campus security would be a good starting point. First, though, I needed to find a bottle of water—a gallon-sized one. If I was so thirsty I’d just downed the contents of my suck-ass warm beer to quench my thirst, I was probably deep in the dehydration zone.

  Slowly, I opened the door and peeked out. Out of the million and a half bodies nearby, none of them were the two I was trying to avoid. Ducking out of the closet, I pitched my empty beer cup into the garbage nearby then made my way toward what looked to be the back door. It was hard to tell for sure, but it seemed like I could feel cool air coming from that direction. As I made my way through the crowd, I was careful to not spill the kipped beer, as well as stay on high-alert for the two guys who were under the impression that “date-rape” came standard with their college tuition.

  I was nearing what I was now certain was the back door when something hit me so hard and suddenly, I staggered back a few steps. Once I’d recovered some, I glanced around the room, searching for who or what had hit me. Instead of finding one of the two guys hovering over me or a rock at my feet, all I saw were dozens of students laughing, dancing, and having a good time.

  My vision was starting to blur. Faces warped around me, almost as if they’d been transformed to spools of taffy that were being tugged and spun around. The chorus of voices and laughter morphed into a far-off din, like everyone around me was at the end of a tunnel and miles away. When another overwhelming whoosh came over me, my legs gave out, causing me to stagger into the counter for support.