9. Knox
CHAPTER 9
KNOX
“ L isten, kid,” the tattoo artist across the table from me sighs, and I already know what’s going to come out of his mouth next.
The interview for this apprenticeship hasn’t been going well since the moment I walked through the door to Carver’s Ink. I should have turned around as soon as I stepped inside and felt the vibes were off instead of wasting my fucking time. But I need an apprenticeship badly, so I stayed.
I’m officially regretting that decision right now.
The man conducting the interview had forgotten he was even meeting with me today, and I had to wait thirty minutes while he finished with his client before he had free time to speak with me.
He’s lanky and tatted with some of the worst ink I’ve ever seen— is that a clock dripping blood for fuck’s sake? There’s a lion head on his arm and he’s judging me over my art? I bet if he pulled up the sleeves of his flannel any further, he’d be showing a collage of gears forever marked onto his pale skin, too.
He—Chad? Vlad? Something or other, hasn’t listened to a single word I’ve said while I spoke about my time tattooing. That it’s my passion, that I want to make a career out of it. Instead, the guy kicked his sneaker clad feet up onto the edge of the table as he flipped through my portfolio, brushing off the explanations of my work.
I saw the look he gave me when I pulled out my collection of art from my backpack. The way he openly stared at the scars on my hands, running up my forearms. The patches of skin they’d taken from my thighs to cover the gashes ripped open across my palms and up my arms that I’d gotten during the motorcycle accident two years ago. It hadn’t been pretty, still isn’t really, and I fucking hate when people stare.
At this point, I don’t even want to apprentice here anyway, not after all of this, but I’m running out of tattoo parlors to apply to in town. I’m not against riding out to the next city over because I have a reliable source of transportation, but driving all the way out after classes is something I’d rather not have to do.
I set my jaw at his words. I already know it’s going to be bad news so I slip my phone out of my pocket and check the time. Only a few more hours until I’ll be surrounded by a bunch of drunk students with the neighbor I can’t get out of my mind.
I see Quinn more than I’d like. When I’m home, she’s home. When I’m in my room trying to work on my assignments, she’s in her room banging on the wall. When I’m trying to hang out with Ace or Slate, they already have plans with the girls next door.
It’s annoying as fuck.
I’ve had better interviews with the same result. The fact that I keep putting myself through this proves my determination, but I’d be lying if I said that the handful of noes I’ve received isn’t more than a little disheartening. I feel like I’ve come a long way with my tattooing since my accident, when I’d essentially had to relearn how to hold my pencils, charcoal sticks, and my tattoo gun.
All of that pride I’ve built up is slowly deteriorating like an age-old painting.
So, I’m more than ready to pack my things and leave, maybe even swing a fist at the fucker on my way out when he says, “I think you’re very talented with your sketches, but it’s not translating into your tattoos.” He scratches his patchy beard and sucks his teeth but it doesn’t get rid of the cluster of food jammed between them that I’ve been talking to for the past half hour. Yeah, I really don’t want to work here. Not only is this guy an ass, but I’ve seen at least three violations since I walked in.
Imagine if you had to put up with this shit every day.
The man continues because he clearly doesn’t know when to shut up. “Your lines are all jagged, and we can’t have that. I’d be happy to look at your work again next semester when you’ve had more practice.”
No. Fucking. Thanks.
I grind my teeth because there’s nothing else for me to do. How many times have I heard this line before? I know, God help me I fucking know that my lines aren’t the straightest, but I’ve come a long way, and my more recent tattoos aren’t suffering as much because of it.
Why won’t anyone just give me a fucking chance?
“I understand,” I nod tersely, and it takes a lot more effort than I thought to keep my tone neutral.
I’m thankful he can’t see how white-knuckled my fists are under the table.
“What made you want to get into tattooing, anyway?” The man flips my portfolio shut with a harsh snap. The way he asks it makes me feel like I’m about to be told that I should find a backup plan. Based off the way this—and every other interview—has gone, I have one, but this fucker doesn’t need to know that.
“Every tattoo has a story,” I answer simply, because it’s something I believe with my entire heart, and maybe, just maybe, this man can relate to that.
The idiot has the audacity to cock his head, questioningly. “Is that so?”
“The one’s that I get do,” I respond stiffly, hoping that this interview is over because I can’t bear to sit here a moment longer. What’s with all of the follow-up questions? He already said no, so why the hell is he still interrogating me?
I’m being looked at like I’m some dumb college kid with no idea what I want to do with my life and I fucking hate that. I know exactly what I want to do when I graduate and that’s to be a tattoo artist, hence trying to find an apprenticeship at a local shop. I’m not going back home, and I’m not working at my father’s company, no matter how often he tries to reach out to me.
“Well, I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me,” I say, gathering my things. The guy looks at my hands again and I know the question is on the tip of his tongue so I hurry, shoving my portfolio into my bag and rising from the chair.
“No problem, kid. Like I said, work on it and maybe next semester?—”
“Right,” I interrupt, forcing a smile like I’ve never forced one before. It feels like I’m cutting steel and I’m sure it looks more threatening than genuine. “Thanks.”
I dip out of the shop before he can ask me anything else.
I’m glad I didn’t even care to remember his name.
I didn’t know I was going to walk into this.
Quinn and Rory don’t seem like the type of girls who would be able to pull this kind of party off. The music is blaring, putting the volume I listen to mine on to shame. There are colorful strobe lights flashing in the windows of the small house and out onto the lawn where a few people are playing some sort of drinking game that looks much too complicated for even a sober mind to figure out.
Bodies pack the house, spilling in and out of the door when I finally arrive, and I’m pretty sure the cops have already been called and stopped by more than once.
Apparently, Vulcan University’s football team has won their homecoming game.
Go Pintos, I guess.
I had taken my sweet time getting here, but as I glance around the yard while I make my way up to the craftsman that Rory’s older sister is renting, I can’t help the churn of nerves in my stomach. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a party of this proportion; besides the ones Slate throws, I haven’t really been much into the partying scene at all. It’s a waste of my time and drinking only accentuates the trembling I sometimes experience in my hands.
Like right now, as I shove myself into the throng of people, looking for any sign of my friends. It’s more packed than the stadium probably was for the homecoming game itself, students more interested in getting shit-faced than watching dumbasses run back and forth with a ball.
There’s no one I know in the living room, but everyone is screaming out the lyrics to a song that is engrained in every college student’s mind. The furniture has been shoved up against the walls and the crowd is going wild, jumping up and down with the beat. The floors shake beneath my feet as I worm my way through the first archway I reach.
My shoulders droop a little as I enter the kitchen. There are less people in here and I admire the interior decorator’s quirkiness as I take in the baby pink tiles and blue walls. This must be every girl’s dream, a colorful kitchen with bottles upon bottles of alcohol lined up on the butcher-block island in the middle of the space.
My friends are here too. Slate’s cheeks are ruddy with drink, his eyes bright and glossy. He looks like he would be two seconds away from slipping into the living room to find a girl to spend the night with if he wasn’t already openly flirting with one of the girls in front of him. I can only assume she’s Rory’s sister’s roommate. Ace is leaning against the countertop, his deep cerulean eyes settled on Rory where she’s giggling with her sister over something. They keep sneaking glances between him and the boy who has his arm slung over Quinn’s shoulder.
My steps falter as I stare. She seems happy, laughing and elbowing the guy in his side when he leans down to whisper something in her ear. Sweet Jesus, that smile is…something. Her rosy lips are stretched wide, showing off those perfectly straight, white teeth. Paired with the glint to her eyes and the crinkle to her button nose, she’s gorgeous.
“Knox,” Slate cheers, bounding over to me. I blink, peeling my gaze away from Quinn before she can catch me in the act of observing her. He shoves an open beer into my hand and it sloshes over the rim, dripping over my skin. “You made it!”
I glare for a second, hastily licking the drink from my hand, before flicking my gaze quickly back to Quinn to see how she reacts to my presence. She was probably hoping that I wasn’t going to show up, that I ditched them all. I bet she was happy, cuddling up to this guy who’s refilling her cup with liquor.
Those blazing hazel eyes are glued to me, watching me as I tongue the droplets of spilled beer off of my skin.
Her throat works around a swallow and something in my chest tightens at the sight.
Suddenly, I want her throat to work around swallowing something else.
Fuck, maybe I should stay away from drinking tonight if this is how it’s going to go. She doesn’t even like me for fuck’s sake, and I’m not too keen on her, either. Or, at least, I’m not supposed to be.
“What’s up, man?” I greet back, focusing my attention on my roommate so I don’t smirk at Quinn like I want to. I can still feel her eyes on me, following me as I move deeper into the kitchen, nodding politely at everyone Slate introduces me to.
“Isn’t this house sick?” Slate grins eagerly, “It’s Peep’s. She’s Rory’s older sister and her name is really Pipa, but they call her Peep for short. Isn’t that the cutest?”
“Yeah,” I agree, distractedly, taking a swig of my drink. I can’t control myself, glancing back over to Quinn where she’s now taking shots with Rory, Ace, and that other guy. “Super cute.”
Slate catches what I’m looking at and makes a noise of outrage, barreling past me and shouting about how they promised not to do shots without him. I shake my head fondly at my roommate, trailing him because I don’t know anyone else here and the way one of Pipa’s roommates is making eyes at me has my skin crawling.
I catch the tail end of their cheers. “Riding with pride since 1869! ”
“That has to be one of the worst school slogans I’ve ever heard,” the guy I don’t know laughs. He seems to be sticking to Quinn like glue and I’m not sure why it’s bothering me so much, but it is.
He has sandy brown hair, and strikingly similar eyes to Quinn’s. His sharp jaw is covered in scruff and he looks like an actor that I can’t quite put my finger on. Either way, I already don’t like him.
“Really? It’s one of the best I’ve heard,” Slate grins, slamming his shot glass back onto the counter. “It’s like, my life motto.”
Quinn grimaces at her drink and I bite back my smile of amusement. She’s only managed to down half of the shot, choking a little before slyly dumping the other half into the nameless guy’s cup.
He catches her and shoots her a look but she only ducks her head, offering him a sheepish grin.
“Knox,” Ace calls, snapping my attention away from her. He’s holding out a shot to me now and I take it, ignoring the questioning look he sends me when he notices the finite tremble of my hand. “You need to catch up,” he continues, although now there’s a weary twinge to his tone. I need Rory to come over here and distract him before he starts questioning me.
Plastering a fake grin on my face, I take the shot. I immediately want to spit it out because what the actual hell am I drinking right now? Maybe Quinn had the right idea, after all.
Speaking of, the music in the living room switches to something different, something with a little more beat and a little less words. It’s the kind of song that makes everyone want to grind, and apparently, Rory and Quinn are no different because the former is dragging the latter out of the room with the biggest smile on her face .
The guy that was all over Quinn slinks over to Pipa and her roommates, seamlessly joining their conversation. My eyes narrow when he sidles up a little too close to Pipa, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and even bats her eyelashes at him when he smiles at her.
“Who’s the guy?” I mutter, and I hate that I care.
“Oh, that’s Quinn’s older brother, Sam,” Slate fills me in, pouring another round of shots for Ace and I. Ugh, I really hope it’s something different than whatever hellish liquid I just had in my mouth. “He flew in specifically for this party. I think he has thing for Peep.”
Of course, now I feel like an idiot for thinking they were something more when they have the exact same eyes. The longer I study him the more I realize that they do have other similar features: the shapes of their faces and the strong lines of their noses. How did I not notice before?
Because you were blind with jealousy, my mind supplies. I toss that thought back with another swig of my drink.
“C’mon, Knox,” Ace warns, and I don’t even realize that I’m still glaring at Sam until I see the sharp look on his face. The one that tells me not to do anything stupid, which is stupid in itself because I wasn’t going to do a damn thing about some random guy with his arm around Quinn’s shoulders. I wasn’t going to do a damn thing at all. “It’s your turn to make a toast.”
I don’t want to but Slate’s looking at me like an eager puppy, more than ready to turn this house upside down.
I’m not good at making toasts and I don’t want to, so I say, lamely, “Go Pintos.”
“Yee-haw!” Slate slams his back like a pro, and I know it’s going to be a long night.
Yee-haw, indeed, I think, and then I take my shot.