Knowing Jack

by Rachel Curtis

  “No. I probably can’t.”

  He’s clearly the definition of the strong, silent type.

  With a shrug, I looked back at my textbook and pretend to read.

  ***

  My last class of the day is at 1:30. On the schedule I printed out a couple of weeks ago, it was supposed to meet in Granby Hall, but when we get there, there’s a note on the door saying the class has been moved to a room in a different building.

  One all the way across campus.

  We would have been early to the class, so we have plenty of time to get to the other building. But, by the time we do, the classroom is already about three-quarters of the way filled.

  For my other classes, we arrived early enough to get our choice of seats, but that’s not going to happen for this one.

  I know Jack wants me in the back row, far corner—so he can plant himself in the corner and get a vantage on every point in the room.

  I stop in the doorway when I see that desk is already taken.

  Everyone stares. To be fair, they would stare at any person who walked in the room, but the stares feel particularly malevolent to me.

  “What about there?” I ask as softly as I can, so no one but Jack can hear. I nod toward the one empty seat in the back row.

  He shakes his head, puts his hand between my shoulder blades, and pushes me toward the back of the room.

  It’s bad enough to be the bitch who brought down the best anthropology professor who ever lived.

  It’s even worse to be that bitch and also come to class with a hulking, pushy guy who doesn’t know how to avoid attention.

  I feel stiff and awkward but try to move quickly, so I can get to the back of the room where I won’t be so much in the spotlight.

  But my attempts at low profile are to avail.

  Damn Jack, anyway.

  He walks over to the back corner seat he wants me in, looms over the baseball player who appears to be taking a nap there, and says, “We need this seat.”

  I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but if you walk into a college classroom and say anything with authority, the students are likely to obey.

  The baseball player looks surprised, but he gathers up his stuff and moves to the empty place a few seats down.

  Jack gestures me into the corner seat.

  Everyone stares.

  God, I want to sink into the floor.

  I glare at Jack, who I fully blamed for the entire incident, as I sit down and pull out my stuff.

  Jack steps into the corner, where he stands without moving.

  My parents cleared Jack’s presence on campus with security and the administration, and all of my faculty must have been informed.

  When my professor comes in, she doesn’t appear to find it strange that there’s a mass of obnoxious machismo in the corner of her classroom.

  She doesn’t like me, though. I can tell that immediately, as soon as she starts going over her class roll.

  My name is always near the top. Chloe Barlow. I’m first on the list for this class. She just says my name and looks at me, but I know she doesn’t like me.

  She’s pretty young. She just started teaching here last year. Carter never mentioned her, but they could have been friends. Maybe she was interested in Carter herself. Who knows?

  But I can tell from the way she turns up her nose that she doesn’t like me.

  I know it for sure when she begins class by saying, “We’ve got a guest in the class, I see. Chloe, do you want to introduce your friend?”

  I freeze for a few seconds, kind of dazed and not believing that she is really expecting me to introduce my bodyguard to the class. All my other professors just ignored him, which is exactly what I want to happen.

  But she’s looking at me, waiting for a response. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems like there’s a gleam of malicious glee in her eyes, like she’s enjoying my mortification.

  The rest of the class is staring at me too. I have to say something. I don’t dare turn around to look at Jack. “This is Jack,” I say at last.

  “Okay, welcome, Jack,” Dr. Harwood says. She is so snide and obnoxious I want to slap her. “Maybe you’ll learn something about literature while you’re here.”

  The class snickers.

  All right. That settles it. I hate this woman with the white-hot wrath of a thousand suns.

  Not that I’m melodramatic or anything.

  ***

  The class is annoying. She keeps us the whole time, trying to engage us in conversation about the significance of literature and giving us a bunch of boring information that will probably show up on an exam.

  After class is over, I wait for the initial rush of students fleeing the classroom to clear out before I get out of my seat. Jack told me this before my first class. It’s easier to protect me if I’m not in the middle of a mob of other people, so just “sit tight”—those were his words—until the crowd thins out.

  I’m putting my notebook and textbook in my backpack when the baseball player who’d been sitting in this seat originally lopes back over toward me.

  I have no idea what he’s doing. He’s not smiling or meeting my eyes, like he’s going to talk to me. I’d be shocked if anyone came over to say hi. But he’s definitely moving in my direction and, as he approaches, he bends down toward me.

  It’s the strangest thing. And even stranger when something unexpected occurs. Jack moves, so quickly I’m not even aware of it happening, and the baseball player is slammed back against the wall.

  Seriously. He’s walking toward me one moment and the next he’s being held against the wall by a frightening version of the Jack I’ve seen before—hard and fierce in all his strength and skill and intimidation.

  I stare breathlessly, trying to process how Jack moved the guy—who’s pretty big himself—so quickly and with so little effort.

  “What the hell—” the baseball player huffs out, struggling futilely against Jack’s grip. It couldn’t have felt good to be slammed against the wall the way he was. He’ll probably end up with bruises.

  “What are you doing?” Jack asks. It’s really more of a growl than a question.

  “I dropped my pen. I was picking it up. What the hell is your problem?”

  Jack glances down and sees a pen on the floor, which the guy must have dropped when he was sitting in my seat earlier. He releases the baseball player and leans down to pick it up.

  As he hands it to the other guy, Jack mutters, “Next time, ask first.”

  The guy takes the pen and makes a beeline out of the room.

  Professor Bitch is watching. Several lingering students are watching. And I have no doubt that everyone on campus will know exactly what happened soon enough.

  Even if someone might be brave enough to want to talk to me, there’s no way in hell they will now, after seeing what happened to someone who made the mistake of coming just a little too close to me.

  I’m still a little impressed by Jack’s speed and skill. He looks so big I wouldn’t expect him to be so fast. But that’s drowned out by everything else, so I glare at Jack as I get up and he escorts me out of the room.

  He pretends not to notice. Or maybe he really is oblivious.

  I decide I simply don’t care.

  All I need to do is get through the day, get through the week, get rid of Jack, and then maybe I can feel normal again.

  ***

  I stop at the grocery store on the way back from class, so it’s after three-thirty before I get home.

  It hasn’t really been a long day, but it sure feels long. I’m exhausted and grumpy with the world—particularly with Jack.

  I drop my bag and the groceries on the floor of the entryway as soon as I walk in.

  “What are you going to do now?” Jack asks.

  “I’m going put my food up and then sit on the couch.”

  “Good.”

  I clear my throat when he doesn’t move.

  “I need to check your place fi
rst. Then you can be rid of me for a little while.”

  “Well, hurry.”

  He doesn’t react to my rudeness, but I hardly expect him to at this point. Leaving the front door open, he steps into the hallway and pulls down a smoke detector.

  “What are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer. Just pulls a little device out of the shell.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a camera. You should really be more observant. There was never a smoke detector here before. I put it there yesterday.”

  “Why the hell would I need to be observant about where smoke detectors are? Why do you need a—”

  “So I can see if anyone entered the apartment while we were gone. It’s easier to protect someone with two-man teams.”

  “Yeah, but that costs twice as much, I’m sure. I don’t need more than one man at a time.”

  He shoots me a particular look over his shoulder before he turns back to peer at the little screen on the camera, which he’s obviously rewinding to the time we left the apartment.

  “Would you stop it with that? Not everything is about sex, you know.”

  “Is that right?” The flirting is pretty half-hearted, since he’s distracted by reviewing the hallway footage.

  Evidently, it’s all clear, since he puts the little camera back in the fake smoke detector and then replaces them on the wall.

  He makes a circuit through my apartment, checking out the open-concept kitchen, dining, and living areas, the bathroom, and the one bedroom.

  “All clear,” he says. “I’ll be out there.”

  “Good.” I lean against the wall and close my eyes, feeling like I might just collapse to the floor.

  For the first time all day, I feel like I’m not being stared at, not being judged, not being hated.

  Then my phone chirps with a text message.

  For a few months in the spring, every time I heard that sound, my heart jumped, thinking it might be a hot, dirty message from Carter. Often, it was.

  I’m not excited about texts anymore. I don’t get very many now, and those I do are sometimes not nice.

  I pull out my phone anyway and look at the screen. It’s a blocked number. Like the one when I got the death threat.

  He can loom all he wants. He’s not going to be able to protect you.

  I stare at the words until my eyes blur.

  “What is it?” Jack asks. He sounds closer than he was a minute before, but I can’t look away from the screen to check.

  “Is it another threat?” Jack is definitely closer now. His voice is practically in my ear, and I can feel his tense presence beside me.

  My hand shakes a little bit, but I just can’t believe these threats are real. They’re just trying to scare me. They’re just trying to make me miserable. No one would really kill over a professor being fired.

  Would they?

  “Damn it, Chloe, let me see.” His voice is rough, thick, not his normal drawl.

  Maybe I hand Jack the phone. Maybe he just takes it from my hand. But he stares at the text message too and mutters, “Fucking bastard.”

  Then the phone chirps again, and I jump. I literally jump, already on edge and startled by the unexpected noise.

  “It’s someone named Dana,” Jack says.

  “Okay. She’s in some of my classes.” I reach out for my phone, trying to shake off the stupor. Dana is another art major, and we were casual friends before. Maybe she’s trying to be nice now.

  I read her text too.

  Thought you should see this. Sorry.

  She’s linked a Tumblr page. A page all about me. A horrible page. All about me.

  I grow cold as I scroll down through the collection of photos, animated gifs, and videos. Some are images of a couple screwing—photoshopped to be me and Carter. Some are cartoons or quotations about sluts, whores, and bitches. Some are homemade porn, with a woman that isn’t me but looks close enough to me with long light brown hair and small body to pass. And the worst are pictures of me that were taken today. Me getting out of my car as Jack opened the door. Me walking into a building on campus. Me sitting on the bench with Jack behind me. Me pulling down my skirt over my thighs. Me sitting in class, trying to slink down so no one notices me. Me in the library. Even me in the grocery store.

  They must have been taken on people’s phones, all without my knowing it. They must have planned it all ahead of time or they couldn’t have organized and posted it so quickly.

  It’s worse—so much worse than the threat. Like I’m violated. Like the whole world is against me.

  “What is it?” Jack asks, right near my ear again. He’s trying to look at the phone. “Is it another threat?”

  “No.” At least, that’s what I try to say. I don’t think an actual word really comes out.

  “Shit, you’re white as a ghost.” He slides an arm around me, and he’s big and warm and solid, and I can’t help but lean against him. I really think I might fall otherwise.

  I really think I might throw up.

  “Let me see.” He takes the phone out of my hand again and scrolls through the horrible page, still supporting me with one hand.

  I’m so close I hear and feel a sharp intake of breath.

  “I’m going to grind someone into the dirt.” It isn’t more than a mutter, but it actually makes me feel a little better.

  At least Jack—older, jaded, nobody’s pushover—thinks this is horrible too.

  “You better sit down,” he says, pushing me toward the living area. “Do you want some water?”

  He gets me a bottle so I take it.

  “You can leave now,” I tell him. I’m going to cry or throw-up—one or the other—in about two minutes, and I don’t want him around for either.

  “I’ll be in the hall. I’m going to keep your phone. I’ll let you know if someone calls.”

  Under normal circumstances, I’d object to his claiming my phone, but I don’t want to ever see it again.

  I don’t want to ever leave the apartment again.

  Jack moves the groceries into the kitchen and then goes out to the hall, where he’s put a chair, and closes the door behind him.

  I can do some homework, although there isn’t really that much to do this early in the semester.

  Instead, I turn on the television and find a cooking show on cable.

  Six months ago I was a normal college student, dreaming of a future in Paris, and I thought I was in love with a brilliant, sexy older man.

  Now everything in the world hurts me.

  It doesn’t matter. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter.

  But I still cover my face and cry.

  Two

  I’m sound asleep when something wakes me up.

  I have no idea what it is, and it doesn’t really matter—because as soon as I open my eyes, my heart jumps up into my throat.

  I know that’s a silly expression, but it’s exactly how it feels. There’s a shadow in the room, and it’s looming over me. I guarantee if that has ever happened to you, your heart will jump into your throat too.

  I sit up with a jerk, my entire body going cold. There’s light coming into the room from my opened bedroom door, and someone is leaning over the bed.

  Oh my fucking God, I’m paralyzed with panic. I open my mouth but can’t scream. I try to scramble away but can’t get off the bed.

  Then my eyes finally focus, and I realize who the looming shadow is.

  It’s Jack. It’s stupid, fucking Jack who just scared the fucking crap out of me.

  I still can’t breathe, my heart throbbing painfully with what’s supposed to be a flight or fight reaction. I’m telling you right now, there’s no way I could have either fled or fought a second ago, so something is clearly wrong with my biological responses.

  I’m just about to say something—probably not very nice—when Jack raises his finger in a sharp, unmistakable gesture of silence.

  My heart jumps back into my throat because I’m fin
ally able to think.

  Jack wouldn’t be in my room, telling me to be quiet, in the middle of the night if something weren’t seriously wrong.

  As the chills start to run through me again, he gestures for me to get up. I try to do as he says. Maybe I’m not a huge fan of bossy men, but I’m not a complete idiot. If your bodyguard storms your room in the middle of the night, you do as he says.

  But I still can’t seem to move. I’m sure I could eventually. I mean, I’m not a total wuss or anything. But I just had a serious fright, and it’s going to take me a few seconds to recover.

  Evidently, Jack doesn’t think we have a few seconds to spare. He reaches down and picks me up—he picks me up—and carries me over to the closet. Then he sets me down in it and closes the door.

  Seriously, I don’t know when I’ve been so terrified and disoriented. I have no idea what’s going on. I’ve just been picked up like a sack of grain and dumped in a closet. And now I’m sitting with my laundry in a pitch black closet.

  And Jack is out there. Doing something. With some sort of bad guy.

  I have no idea if Jack is right outside the door, guarding the closet like a goalie, or if he’s left the room, the apartment, the building even, in pursuit of his suspect.

  I have no idea about anything. I’m just sitting in a dark closet, shivering with fear and cold. I’m wearing a little lavender pajama set made up of a tank and cotton shorts, and it’s doesn’t serve to cover me up very well.

  Before you say snarkily that I’m surrounded by clothes I could put on—since I’m in the closet, after all—let me just say that it’s not exactly the kind of thing you think about in a crisis.

  You just sit in a huddle, hugging yourself and shaking helplessly, praying for the whole thing to be over and for Jack to get back soon.

  At least, that’s what I assume you do. It’s definitely what I do.

  I have no idea how long it lasts. It feels like forever, and each passing minute, each passing second, seems like increasing torture.

  Finally, the door opens and a flood of light breaks into the closet. I blink up blindly, praying I’m going to see Jack and not some faceless assassin.

  Not that I think there’s any reason for faceless assassins to be after me, but I’m not exactly at my best at the moment.