My experience at the hospital had proven to be just as dreadfully awkward as waking up on Knox Jagger’s couch with no memory of what either had or hadn’t transpired. From the moment Harlow’s car had screeched up to the curb outside Knox’s house, her questions hadn’t stopped. I’d had to ask her to leave the examination room as the nurse was about to commence an internal exam that would probably haunt my waking and dream-like states for years.
Of course, Harlow’s questions picked up right after my stint in the examination room, but after a while, I just answered them all with a shrug. I wasn’t trying to give her the brush-off, but I couldn’t answer them. Who did I suspect slipped me the roofie, which the pee-in-a-cup test confirmed? I didn’t suspect anyone . . . and I suspected everyone. Why did Knox come up to me that night? Because I was a sparkling conversationalist and had just as sparkling of a personality. Truthfully, I didn’t have a clue why the bad boy of Sinclair University had sought me out in a crowd of increasingly panty-less women. What was I going to do now? That was like asking me to solve world hunger with a toothpick and a petri dish. And the real clincher of a question: What was I going to do about Knox now—pretend he didn’t exist or treat him like he was the only reason I was still existing?
Issues like the roofie-dropper, continuing on with the underage binge-drinking research, and who I could or couldn’t trust anymore were fairly black-and-white issues. Knox, however, was a gray issue if ever I’d been presented with one. On the black side, Knox was not only a notorious bad boy, but a legendary one, someone who would probably go down in the BB Hall of Fame. He had a reputation for having nailed more girls on campus than there were females actually enrolled, getting into regular fights, switching between a souped-up truck and beefy motorcycle, and making anyone a slave to his wishes with one look. On the white side, Knox had carried on a surprisingly intelligent conversation, held a girl’s hair out-of-range while she puked, hadn’t taken advantage of her while she was passed out, and let’s not forget, saved me from rape.
The white and dark made Knox Jagger one giant ocean of gray I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to swim across. So would I go on living my life without Knox Jagger in it? I’d sufficed without him for nearly twenty years, so I should have been just fine going on another twenty . . . but accepting that wasn’t nearly as easy as pondering it.
He’d saved me. Before Friday, I would have put Knox close to last on the list of people who would step up to help out a stranger. But he’d been the only person in that room full of people to step up, and I hadn’t even had an opportunity to thank him properly. In realizing that, I decided I had to see him again, if for no other reason than to thank him with a batch of homemade cookies or a case of beer or whatever thank-you gift a guy like Knox would get excited over.
I was on my way to grab some lunch when I swung by my journalism professor’s office. I’d never once had to ask for an extension on an article, but if the weekend’s events didn’t warrant one, I didn’t know what would. After plenty of discouragement from Harlow, I’d decided not to drop the underage binge-drinking article. I’d invested too much research and time to crumple up my outline and toss it into the garbage can. Plus, I wasn’t willing to show that if someone roofied me, or beat me, or threatened me, or whatever the hell else humanity would invent, I would drop an article and move on to another. I was going to be a reporter who didn’t compromise, and it looked like that habit was starting abruptly.
The door to Professor Landry’s office was closed, but since I heard Marley and smelled incense burning, it was safe to guess she was inside. Professor Landry was a prime example of someone who marched to the beat of her own drum, as evidenced by her policy that no one precede her name with Professor. She firmly believed that titles had been created to distinguish the upper class from the lower class, and she wanted no part in perpetuating socio-economic stereotypes. So she either went by Landry, Neve, or Hey, you. She didn’t really care, so long as the word “professor” never echoed off the walls she was within.
She listened to Marley and Zeppelin and Floyd, and she dressed like she was a flower child, even though, given her age, she wasn’t even born in the age of free love. She took the bus wherever she needed to go and was so vegan that she was starting to look more vegetable than human. The myth was true—too much beta-carotene really could make a person orange.
I could relate with her on plenty of levels—at least from a journalistic level, which was the only one that really mattered in our teacher-student relationship. Neve Landry was rumored to have written so many anonymous articles blowing the lids off of government and Fortune 100 companies’ less-than-honorable policies. She’d been responsible for a half dozen senators being removed from office, one colossus of a company being brought to its financial knees, and one covert, government-funded operation being shut down. She was a legend—at least an anonymous one.
I had to knock twice before Marley dimmed.
“Enter if you dare,” she greeted.
Opening the door, I stepped inside. “I dare,” I replied with a smile, which vanished when the cloud of incense assaulted me. It was spicy and woody and tangy and everything I didn’t like smelling in a concentrated dose on an empty stomach. “Or maybe not.” Moving the door back and forth, I hoped to fan some of the scented air out into the hall.
“Some people have a person, but my muse smells better.” Neve was sitting behind her old typewriter—yeah, she was one of those—with a pencil in her teeth and resolve drawn across her brow.
“‘Smells better’ is in the nose of the beholder,” I said, curling my nose.
Neve peaked a brow, but her eyes were fixed on whatever she was working on. “You’re like a perkier, prettier version of myself when I was a teenager. You know, back when dinosaurs roamed the planet.”
If Neve considered me “perky,” I could only imagine the rooms she’d cleared at my age. “Are we talking old-world dinosaurs, like the Triassic period, or are we talking new-world dinos, like the Cretaceous period? Because I wouldn’t put you a day past the Jurassic period.”
“Ah, the sound of our promising future.” Neve got as close to a smile as she ever got when she glanced at me. “Now are you just here to annoy me, or do you have something of importance to impart?”
After a few more door fans, I took a couple steps inside her office. “I need to request an extension on the underage binge-drinking article I’ve been working on.” Those words were just as hard to form as I’d imagined they would be, but at least I got them out without throwing a string of excuses into the mix.
“What? An extension? I didn’t think Charlie Chase was familiar with the concept.” She went back to typing, but every few words, her gaze flickered my way. How the woman could write a top-notch article while carrying on a conversation was beyond me, but she won the award for multitasking. “Might I inquire as to what transpired to cause you to request one?”
I chewed the inside my cheek. Part of my reason for not wanting to go down the path paved with excuses was that I didn’t want to tell her what had happened this past weekend. I don’t know if it was because I felt weak that I’d been targeted, or if it was something I simply didn’t want to share with just anyone. I wasn’t sure how to answer without leading her around a connect-the-dots scenario.
“My research was compromised this weekend. It isn’t accurate or complete, and without it, I can’t write the article.” I let out the breath I’d been holding, pleased with my answer.
“Missing or erroneous research hasn’t stopped plenty of journalists from publishing their articles.”
I settled a hand on my hip. “But it stops this one.”
The corner of Neve’s mouth twitched. “And that’s why you’re going to tear this country a new asshole before you’re expelled from it.”
“Then I’d better start looking for real estate in Australia,” I replied, backing up for the door. “So am I good to go with the extension?”
“That depends.”
/>
Of course it did. Instead of sighing, I asked, “Depends on what?”
“What happened to compromise your research?” Her fingers were a blur as they danced across the typewriter.
“Why does that matter? Why can’t I just give you my word it won’t happen again and I’ll have the article pretty and polished and on your desk by this time next week?” It meant pulling a few sleepless nights, but I’d get the job done.
“It matters because I want to make sure it won’t happen again. I don’t make a habit of giving extensions, especially if, when I give one, the reason for needing it in the first place is repeated. If you need an extension due to unforeseen circumstances, great, you’ve got it, but if you need an extension because of ‘circumstances’”—she did the air quote thing with one hand—“then it’s my job to kick your ass and tell you not to fall into the sink-hole of sloth and apathy that innumerable others have disappeared into.”
Neve was the last person to hand out a free pass. I should have remembered that before showing up at her door to ask for one. “Unforeseen circumstances. That’s why I need an extension.”
Neve peaked a brow at me. “Unforeseen circumstances are in the perspective of the beholder.”
Talking to her was like having a conversation with myself. I couldn’t pull one over on her any more than I could pull one over on myself. “The party got out-of-control. The area around the ‘bar’ was so packed, I couldn’t keep track of who was or wasn’t getting drinks.”
“And when has an obstacle like too many bodies in a room stopped you from getting a story?”
I blew a chunk of hair off of my face, searching for the next half-truth to lay at her feet. “I also might have foiled a couple of seniors’ hopes of scoring with a couple of clueless freshmen girls.”
Neve glanced at me with her And? expression.
“I expected they’d spiked their drinks with something, so I ran off with one of the cups in hopes of getting it tested, but I locked myself into a coat closet, and well, the rest of the night kind of got away from me.” Because I’d slipped into a roofie-induced sleep . . . but I didn’t need to bring that up to Neve Let’s-Publish-That-Story Landry.
“So what was in the beer? What did it test for?”
I wasn’t sure what that beer would have tested for, but I knew what mine would have tested for. Rohypnol. A double dose of it. “I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to get it tested.”
“Why not?” she asked, because why the hell wouldn’t she ask a question I didn’t want her to ask.
“I spilled it.”
“Clumsiness at its best?”
“Yep.” I clapped and looked over my shoulder. “Can I have that extension?”
“Sure, you can. Once you tell me what you’re trying so hard not to.” Neve slid her glasses onto her head and waited.
My journalism professor was a freaking human lie detector. Lucky me.
“I’d prefer not to,” I said.
“I can see that. And I’d prefer to have that article on my desk right now instead of next week.”
I shifted, eyeing the door.
“Come on, Charlie. There is literally nothing you could tell me that would shock, dismay, or blow my mind. Been there, done that, have been though the lawsuits to prove it.”
I knew she was right. There were likely very few people who’d seen, done, and reported the shit Neve Landry had, but it was one thing to realize that and another to show her my shit. But since I didn’t have a more appealing option—or any other option . . .
“I was roofied Friday night.” And that’s how it’s done. I didn’t look away. I didn’t offer a dismissive shrug. I didn’t squirm. I told the facts like I was talking about someone else.
“Bastards,” Neve cursed, thrusting her palm onto her desk. “Any idea who it was?”
“Not a clue.”
“Of course not. Those boys are a bunch of sneaking, slithering, spineless snakes. I wish I could string every single one of them up by their testicles and hold target practice.”
“Let me know when and if that happens,” I grumbled, crossing my arms. “So do I have that extension?”
Neve rapped her pencil against her desk, seeming to be lost in her thoughts. “So what happened? Since you’re standing in front of me, I’m guessing you didn’t get the whole roofie experience. Thank the Goddess.”
“Um, no, I didn’t get the whole roofie experience.” God, that sounded wrong on every level. “Someone kind of stepped in and saved the day. Or night.”
“Who was this woman who is still in possession of morals and all-around human decency?”
How did I put this? “It wasn’t a woman. It was a guy.”
Neve’s brow went higher. “Just when I was convinced the hero was a long-eradicated species.”
Her and me both.
“Well? Who was this Mr. Darcy?”
I toed the carpet with my shoe. “Knox Jagger.”
She laughed a hard note. “And here I thought you were more of a dry humor kind of person. Kudos, Charlie. That was a solid, in-your-face punchline.”
“That wasn’t a punchline.”
“There. That was the punchline.” Neve clapped a few times.
I blinked, not sure what else to say.
“That wasn’t a joke? Knox Jagger played the part of the knight in not-so-shining armor?”
Since this might have been the only time I’d seen Neve Landry shocked, I decided to sit on the beanbag couch she had in front of the desk. “He’s the one who found me. He stayed with me until I came to.”
Neve looked at me, both brows raised. “Be still my beating heart.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“No, I don’t believe him. You were passed out for Goddess knows how long, so you have no way of corroborating his story.”
“It also means I can’t not corroborate his story.” I scooted forward on the beanbag couch as it felt like it was trying to swallow me.
Neve flopped back into her chair and shoved away from her desk. “Please don’t tell me you’ve caught the Knox-Jagger fever. Please don’t tell me one of the few girls I was certain was immune to barbarians like Knox Jagger has lost all touch with her better judgment and reality.”
“A barbarian?” I repeated, making a face.
Neve rolled her eyes. “He just figured out his fingers are capable of more than picking his nose or ass.”
“There’s more to Knox than that,” I argued . . . and why did I sound defensive? Knox didn’t need me to stand up for him.
“I’m sure. Much more. Like genital herpes, chlamydia, gonorrhea, and a melting pot of every other STD.”
“If he’s nothing more than a giant walking penis with a pea-sized brain—”
“I never said giant. Given his size, he’s probably been pumping some serious steroids, so his penis is probably rather unimpressive.”
I continued, “Then why didn’t he just take advantage of me while I was out? Why did he go through the trouble of taking me back to his place and making sure I went to the hospital to get tested? Why would someone do that if they barely had enough mental capacity to process compassion and concern?”
“Wait. Stop the presses.” Neve made a sound like a car coming to a screeching halt. “Did you just say he took you to his place? Like where he lives?”
“Aren’t they usually one and the same?” I shifted again on the couch, understanding why beanbag sofas weren’t preferred office furniture—a person was too distracted trying to get comfortable to carry on a conversation.
“Knox Jagger never takes anyone back to his place. Believe me, I’ve tried, but no one’s been successful.”
Several things weren’t computing about that comment. “If Knox never takes anyone home, then where does he do all of his . . .”
“Pelvic thrusting and grunting?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of entertaining.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. I forgot you’re th
e newest member of the ‘Knox Jagger groupie’ club. Usually you all wear a shirt so you’re easier to identify.”
I quirked a brow. “A shirt?”
“You know, the kind that displays your breasts instead of covering them.” Neve shook her head at my shirt like it was utterly inadequate.
“So where does he take everyone? The penthouse suite at The Parisian?” The thought of that monthly bill was enough to bring a whole new meaning to the term “frivolous spending.”
Neve’s pencil twirled in the air. “Whatever flat surface is available, I’d assume.”
A few seconds passed before I could say anything else. “What, exactly, do you mean you haven’t been successful trying to get someone over to his place? You mean like to light a bag of dog crap on his front step? Or to teepee his house?”
Neve gave the pencil one last twirl before stabbing it through her messy ponytail. “Nope, I mean I’ve been trying to get someone to his place in order to earn his trust in order to expose him for what I believe he is. I’ve run into brick wall after brick wall until”—she thrust her arms at me—“eureka! One of my top students has ever so neatly slipped under the radar.”
“Why are you so interested in Knox Jagger? Doesn’t he, by your definition, embody everything that’s wrong about our society?” My head was back to throbbing, although I wasn’t sure whether it was because of the drugs still in my bloodstream, the fact that I hadn’t eaten, or the conversation.
“You’re correct. He does embody what’s wrong with our society.” Neve folded her hands on her desk with a sly smile. “And I want to expose him for what he is—both what he appears to be and what he keeps hidden.”
And now my stomach was joining the not-right movement. “You want to do an article on him?”
She shook head. “I want you to do an article on him, future journalistic titan. You know how to write, you know how to research, and you’ve been to his place—you’re the answer to all of my Knox-Jagger’s-Going-To-Burn prayers.”
I found myself inspecting Neve’s office, half expecting to find a voodoo doll wearing motorcycle boots and a tight shirt. “You want me to write a tell-all on a guy who’s got a reputation for screwing a lot of girls? Doesn’t exactly sound like a show-stopping topic. Or an original one.” I could have pointed in any direction at Sinclair to find a guy who was guilty of the same. True, Knox might have held the record, but every other guy was hoping to throw him out of the number-one spot.
Hard Knox Page 7
