Hard Knox

by Nicole Williams

  “How did you hear that? I barely heard that.” I rounded the hall into the kitchen. “Do you have super-sonic hearing to go along with your super strength? Is that something you incognito superheroes can do—roll up to some drive-thru window and order a side of super-sonic hearing, a new pair of super boots with jets in the insoles, and drop off your spandex for dry-cleaning? I’d love to make your next run with you. Would make for a great article.”

  Knox was manning the blender, still in his boxers, and not quite as sweaty as he’d been outside. He was still too damn sweaty for the good of my pulse though. Apparently, beating the shit out of a tower of tires came with the benefit of popping just about every conceivable muscle in a man’s body to the surface. A few in his back were still twitching, and a few in his forearms looked ready to burst through the skin. I reached out to brace myself in the doorway.

  “Speaking of articles . . .” When Knox glanced back at me, he barely seemed to notice my current disheveled-ness. Other than a smile and a wave, he didn’t give me a second look. “I was about to go stock up on garlic yesterday afternoon before I managed to talk myself back from the ledge.”

  I felt my brows pull together. I thought about wandering over to the kitchen table, but gauging the feeling in my legs, movement wasn’t a good idea at the moment. “Why?”

  Knox huffed as he cranked the blender up a notch. “Because a guy needs every tool he can get to ward off that bloodsucker.”

  A light bulb flicked on. “You know Neve?” Knox wasn’t the first to refer to her as a bloodsucker.

  “Like she knows me—I know of her, and that’s all I’d care to. She obviously thinks I’m Satan’s bastard.” Knox inspected the contents of the blender with a contemplative expression before grabbing a handful of some dark leafy greens from the counter and tossing it in—must have been some kind of superhero shake.

  “What makes you so sure?” My nose curled as the contents of the blender went from light green to radioactive green.

  One of Knox’s shoulders lifted. I might have missed it if I weren’t in the process of contemplating what it would feel and taste like to run my tongue up the seam of his back . . . and that realization earned me a serious pinch on my inner thigh. The image had been so intense that I pinched and twisted. Thoughts like those could not be tolerated when it came to Knox.

  “Not much other than she seems to grow a second head whenever she sees me,” he said. “She wrote an article last year about the decline in values and all-around male chivalry in the college-aged guy. She used a ‘fictitious’ character in her examples, but since his name was Pax Kegger, I think it was clear who she thinks is at the front of the male scum army, charging the mass off the ledge of humanity.”

  “So you’re saying she thinks you’re the shit?” Feeling confident I wouldn’t wipe out if I put weight on my legs, I slowly headed for the table. I made it, but it put me closer to Knox. At this range, I could smell him. His scent more tipped the man scale than the soap, but it somehow made him that much more appealing.

  “I’m saying that when she manages to finally get me tied to a pyre, she’ll be the one to light the match.” Turning off the blender, Knox popped the lid off and poured the contents into a tall glass cup before plopping a straw into it.

  I shifted in my chair, wondering if I should mention the article Neve was pushing me to put together, but how could I drop that kind of bomb on him this early in the morning when he was prancing around in his underwear and making a green smoothie that smelled like ass? Oh, by the way, Knox, that Neve lady you like so much? Yeah, she’s certain you’re single-handedly responsible for doling out roofies at Sinclair and, by implication, responsible for the astronomical spike in date-rapes on campus. There wasn’t exactly a solid segue out there to bring that one into the conversation.

  “Breakfast is served.” With a proud smile, Knox set the green slop in front of me and waved at me to proceed.

  “What is this?” To save his feelings, I managed to keep my nose from curling, but it took some serious effort. We’re talking effort of Herculean proportions here.

  Knox’s brows knit together like he wasn’t sure why I wasn’t already slurping up the contents of the cup. “It’s a kale and power greens smoothie. I even added a scoop of whey to make sure my growing girl got her protein.” Knox pinched my measly biceps and waved at the smoothie again.

  “I don’t even know what that is,” was the only answer I could give him. Other than smelling like something that had died, I didn’t see or smell anything I recognized.

  “It’s like the healthiest thing in the world a person could have for breakfast. That baby is packed with antioxidants . . . and . . . and . . .” Knox’s forehead creased as he studied the glass. “And a bunch of other healthy shit. Come on. You’ll love it.”

  I was so certain I wouldn’t that I would have wagered my life on it. “Are you having one?”

  “Shit no.” Knox cringed, curling his nose. He must have caught a whiff of the funk.

  “Then why did you make this masterpiece for me?” I was still trying to consider his feelings. In all honesty, it was pretty damn sweet he’d gone all out to make me breakfast, but a breakfast I could stomach would have been nice.

  “Harlow said you eat healthy.”

  “Harlow? Are you exchanging trade secrets with the traitor again?” Seriously, I was going to have to erase her phone number from Knox’s speed dial.

  “It was part of the stuff I ran by her yesterday. She said you like healthy shit—the healthier, the better.” Knox waved at the cup. “From my research, it doesn’t get any healthier than that.”

  Now it made sense. His heart had been in the right place, and Harlow hadn’t misspoken, but there was a difference between eating healthy and eating in hopes of one day becoming a plant.

  “I think what she meant by I eat healthy is that I soak the grease off of my pizza with a napkin first. Or instead of the five-egg omelette, I order the three-egg one.” I tempered my confession with a smile and a shrug. I half-wished I had the guts to down what was in front of me, because, really, it was one of the most thoughtful things a guy had done for me. I didn’t know where a person shopped for kale and super greens, but my guess was it wasn’t at the mini-mart on the corner. That Knox had found a recipe, searched for the ingredients to toss into it, and had it ready for me this morning was about ten times more thoughtful than anything my ex-boyfriends had done for me. The most thoughtful thing Beck had done had been when he’d held a restaurant door open for me once.

  “You don’t drink this shit?” Knox asked, looking stumped, but also a bit relieved.

  “I try to make it a habit not to ingest shit,” I replied with a shrug. “Sorry.”

  “Thank God,” he muttered before snatching the glass off of the table. He ran it over to the sink and upended it down the drain. “I was dry-heaving the whole time I was making that thing. I don’t know what I’d do if that was what you ate-slash-drank every morning—besides invest in a respirator, I guess.” Reaching for the blender, he dunked it into the sink and rinsed it.

  “I appreciate the gesture. Truly.”

  He squeezed what seemed like half a bottle of dish soap into the sink. “I’ll let you appreciate the gesture of me making you breakfast when you actually eat what I make. So? What’ll it be?” He glanced over his shoulder as he scrubbed the blender. “I don’t have things like super greens lying around, but my fridge and cupboards are decently stocked.”

  Knox padding barefoot around his kitchen in his boxers, still shiny with sweat, while he threw open cupboards and perused the fridge had to make my top ten list of most unexpected, yet hilarious, scenes.

  “How about toast and eggs?” I suggested, trying not to smile when he bonked his head on the edge of the counter and popped off a string of curses laced with colorful adjectives.

  The look on Knox’s face screamed relief. “Normal food. Thank God. I can manage that. When the word healthy came from Harlow’s mouth
, all I could envision was you throwing out all of the bacon, eggs, steaks, and hamburgers and replacing them with leeks and bok choy and other kinds of rabbit food.”

  I yawned, eyeing the coffee maker. “Please. Do I really seem like the kind of person who would force my ways on someone else?”

  Knox slid the coffee pot from the holder, snagged a cup from the cupboard, and padded to the table. I tried to keep my eyes on the coffee, but it was a futile effort when Zeus incarnate was approaching in his underwear. I had to loosen the knot on my bathrobe when I noticed I was heating up.

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” Knox set the cup in front of me, filled it almost to the top, and waited for my answer.

  “No, not really, Mr. Suddenly Literal.”

  He smiled as he backed up toward the fridge. “I hope I grabbed the right stuff at the store last night. If it’s not, I can run out and get something else.” Knox pulled out a bottle of creamer. Flavored creamer. In the exact flavor I loved.

  “Let me guess. Harlow?” I said as he slid the creamer onto the table.

  “You’d think, but no. Worse.” He swallowed as he went to pull out the eggs, like he was hoping I wouldn’t press on . . . but I wouldn’t have been me if I didn’t press when others kept their fingers, toes, and eyes crossed that I wouldn’t.

  “And?” I circled my hand, waiting.

  After setting the eggs on the counter, Knox wove his hands around the back of his head and gave me a sheepish smile. “And I might have noticed what you put in your coffee in the cafeteria before class.”

  Knox had been watching me? Enough to notice what kind of creamer I poured into my coffee? He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who paid attention to details, especially when it came to women, so I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or suspicious. I chose to go with neither.

  “Were you spying on me, Knox Jagger?” When all else fails, smart-ass is always a sure thing.

  “Not spying. Watching. Noticing. Merely observing. If I’d have been spying, I would have known if you used, like, a teaspoon of that stuff or half the bottle.”

  Popping open the creamer, I poured some in. “More like something right in between. I don’t particularly like the taste of coffee, but I love the effects. This stuff makes the nasty, bitter, acidic taste tolerable.” I poured until the coffee turned a creamy brown. Then I added a splash more just to be safe.

  “Yeah?” He pulled a loaf of bread from the top of the fridge. “Maybe I should give that stuff a try, since all I see when I taste coffee is my mom, hungover, cigarette in mouth, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, and telling me I have to find my own damn lunch money. The whole image kind of turned me off to coffee.”

  Another flash of vulnerability. Another moment when I didn’t know what to say. Dig deeper? Offer a heartfelt, sympathetic smile? Make light of it with a self-deprecating story about myself? Or go with something else?

  Standing, I wandered over to the cupboard with the cups. Grabbing the first one I touched, I slid the coffee pot out of the machine, poured a little more than half a cup, and took it back to the table to dump in creamer. I held the cup out for him. “Wanna give it a try?”

  He gave it a suspicious look, then me, but he stepped away from the toaster to grab it. “Not sure this can erase sixteen years of bad memories, but what the hell.” Slowly lifting the cup to his lips, wincing the entire time, he squared his shoulders and took a drink. Then he took another. “Shit. This doesn’t taste anything like I imagined it would. I suppose the so-thick-it-was-mud type my mom drank, sprinkled with the cigarette ashes and a splash of whatever bottle she’d nearly emptied from the night before, would taste different, but this isn’t bad.” He held the cup in front of him, appraising it as though his entire worldview were shifting. “This is actually pretty damn good.”

  I clinked my cup with his. “Never underestimate the power of an ounce or two of raspberry creamer.”

  “I can’t believe I’m drinking raspberry creamer,” Knox muttered after taking another drink.

  I shrugged.

  “The beginning of the end.” He shook his head, glaring at the pink bottle of creamer on the table.

  “Yeah, nothing like a little raspberry creamer in your coffee to smear the whole ass-kicking aura you’ve got going on.”

  Even while he took another drink, he shot another glare at the creamer before turning to the stove and pulling open the drawer below it with his toes. He pulled out a sauté pan, gave it a flip, caught it, and set it on a burner. He glanced back with an “Are you impressed?” glint in his eyes, so I shot a thumbs-up. Knox Jagger knowing his way around the kitchen was something I would have never thought I’d see.

  “Scrambled okay?” he asked as he opened the egg crate.

  “I like my eggs like I like my brain.”

  “Since I don’t know how to make demented eggs, think scrambled will fly?”

  “Just make my eggs already, funny man,” I mumbled into my coffee cup.

  Knox chuckled as he cracked egg after egg into the pan. Either he thought I could throw down some serious egg-age, he was inviting Sinclair’s starting line over for breakfast, or he was like Gaston in Beauty and the Beast and could eat five dozen eggs. I guessed he was roughly the size of an ox . . .

  I cleared my throat and diverted my gaze to keep from running my eyes all over him for the sixteenth time that morning. “Clearly I’ve been wearing the wrong attire to the gym.”

  Knox extended an arm out at his side as he looked at his “gym attire.” “This is more what-I-hopped-out-of-bed-in attire.”

  “You work out right after you wake up? Like right after?” The thought of rolling out of bed and bounding into jumping jacks made me queasy.

  “My fists are pounding that thing before my eyes are even all the way open.” He snagged a spatula from a utensil-stuffed jar on the counter and mixed the brimming pan of eggs.

  “Why?” I angled toward him.

  “That’s the time of day I need to hit something most.”

  “First thing in the morning?” I glanced out the back slider. The sun was all of the way up, but I couldn’t shake the picture of Knox from earlier. “When most people are barely lucid and able to do anything other than drool, you feel the most rage and good old-fashioned testosterone?”

  “Bad dreams.” He lifted a shoulder and kept stirring.

  I blinked, wondering what kind of bad dreams could stir up that kind of anger. “I have bad dreams too. The difference is I don’t wake up wanting to beat the shit out of something.”

  When he glanced over his shoulder at me, his eyes were darker than normal. Not quite black, but close enough to make my breath catch in my lungs for a moment. “Then your bad dreams are different than mine.”

  I wanted to ask about those dreams, to dig deeper into the demons that haunted him day and night, but I knew what I would have said if our roles had been reversed—something along the lines of “fuck off” or “mind your own business.” Ripping your chest open and flashing your scars didn’t only take courage on the part of the revealer, but courage on the part of the observer.

  Life held several recurring themes—courage being one of them. Attaining it, building it, holding onto it, and—in rare instances—sharing it. For me, holding on to it had been the most challenging part, but for Knox, if I had to wager a guess, I’d say the challenging part was sharing it. He didn’t trust that anyone had enough courage to deal with the ghosts of his past. That made me that much more determined to prove I could handle it. I couldn’t prove a man innocent until I knew just what he was guilty of. For Knox, I guessed that guilty list ran deep.

  While Knox was busy with the eggs, I decided to make myself useful and man the toaster. I shouldn’t have been able to massacre toast too easily.

  “So you’re studying journalism? To become what after you graduate?” he asked.

  My eyebrows pinched together. “A journalist.” Maybe it wasn’t so obvious to everyone else, or maybe that tir
e punching bag hit back every once in a while and went for Knox’s head. He rolled his eyes. “Really?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “What kind of journalist? The kind who sits behind a camera and smiles all pretty while talking about a litter of twenty-one kittens being born inside an abandoned van?” The sarcasm had been exchanged with mocking.

  Snatching a wooden spoon from the utensil jar, I gave his backside a smack. When the sound it made was more crack than thud, I accepted that, yes, Knox Jagger’s ass was every bit as hard as it looked. The gods were good. As hard as that spoon had cracked, however, Knox barely flinched. He threw me a wicked smile and popped his brows a few times.

  Which made me get back to focusing on the toast… “Not the television kind of journalist. The article-writing kind. The kind who digs deep to research a story and publish the unbiased truth in national papers. The kind who makes a difference instead of just talking about the difference.”

  He sprinkled some salt and pepper into the eggs and kept stirring. “You already make a difference.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded. “That article you wrote on virginity, yours specifically, listing out the pros and cons of abstaining . . .” My eyes were already pulled together in suspicion before his smile broke and he continued speaking. “You made me remember why I’m eternally and deeply grateful I’m no longer one.”

  When I went to smack him with the spoon again, he snatched it from me. “One spank’s foreplay. Two’s a tease.”

  I leapt, trying to reach the spoon he held way above my head. “I don’t know what that means, nor do I want to know.” I jumped again and was still a foot short.

  I was on my fifth or sixth jump when he lowered the spoon. Just as I reached for it, he tucked it into his boxers—the front of his boxers. My hand froze, my eyes as well, and slowly, I took a step back instead of the lunge forward I was dying to.