18. Knox
CHAPTER 18
KNOX
I don’t know why I fucking lied.
I do and I shouldn’t have, because now I’m sitting across the table from the man I’m a carbon copy of, and I don’t like it one bit.
Travis Foster, my father, types something on his phone. His thick, gold ring catches the light above the table at Rhonda’s diner. His gray suit is pressed perfectly and his sunglasses are pushed up into the dark hair that he has been religiously dying since his first gray popped up.
I haven’t seen him since the accident. Since he took his fist to my face when my dickhead of a step-brother ratted me out. Travis thought I was a business major here, because that’s what I told him I was, knowing that he wouldn’t approve of me wanting to be in art.
I didn’t think I’d almost lose my life over it.
My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps, take over his business of buying, renovating, and selling or renting out buildings. Sounds fucking boring to me and always has.
My passion lies with art, with tattooing—something I’m not even sure that I can do anymore because of the motorcycle accident that followed the beating.
I shift uncomfortably as the memory resurfaces at his presence alone.
Blood was running down my face, blurring my vision in my haste to get away. I could taste it in my mouth. My heart was beating too furiously in my chest and my hands shaking where they were clenched around the handlebars of my bike as I flew down the streets, trying to get away. My tire to slipped, and my entire world completely shifted in a matter of milliseconds as the bike kicked out from under me.
The helmet I had on saved my life.
I shouldn’t have lied to my roommates about my whereabouts tonight, but I couldn’t think of a better excuse. They would have told me to ignore him, not to go, but he’s been calling and texting me for months now, and Travis doesn’t take no for an answer. He showed up to campus without warning, or if there was, it was another message that had gone ignored.
I hated the way he was touching my bike, admiring the piece of shit I built from the ground up. The accident didn’t stop me from climbing back on, saving enough to get another motorcycle and living my life.
The only thing the accident is threatening is my ability to tattoo.
I took him to Rhonda’s because it’s a comfort to me, and I knew he would hate it. I was proved right when my father slid into the seat across from me with a crinkle of disgust to his nose.
I almost smiled at that.
My hands tremble in my lap. I’m not scared of the man, not anymore, but I’m shaking with rage because he showed up unannounced, demanding to meet with me .
If this is what it takes to get the fucker to leave me alone, I will answer this one request.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, after a long ten minutes of sitting in silence. I only ask because I know that he will wait me out, and I want him gone as soon as possible. I have a life to get back to.
There’s a fresh cup of black coffee sitting in front of him, untouched. He doesn’t bother with niceties when he finally speaks, and I’m happy, because they’d be lies anyway.
We have merely put up with each other ever since mom passed, and that continues to this day.
“I’m interested in an opportunity in town,” he says, finally tucking his phone into the interior pocket of his suit jacket.
“And?” I ask, bored. I don’t fucking care, but the idea that my father might be in Hardwich more often makes me want to squirm.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He pins me with a scathing look. One that used to terrify me when I was young and he was yelling at mom.
Now, it only makes me hate him more.
“And—” he taps his thick ring against the ceramic of the mug impatiently. The sound makes me grit my teeth. “I want to know about the area.” His gaze flickers down to where he can’t see my hands under the table. Something passes through his gaze but I ignore it when he sucks his teeth. “If you’d consider it profitable.”
“Take a walk around,” I wave lazily towards the windows. There aren’t many people milling about this late in the evening, and I hope the lack of them drives my father away from this town. “I certainly don’t have the time to do it.”
“You don’t have the time to do it between drawing those stick figures and nonsense you ruin your body with?” He quirks his brow, always unimpressed.
Oh, he knows that I’m still not taking the classes he tried forcing me into. I don’t want a fucking thing to do with this man or his business, even if I’m owed it by name when he retires. He wouldn’t dare give it to his step-son, Dick, because they’re not related by blood. I know that he won’t do that.
When I refuse to answer, Travis continues. “I’m looking at Third Street Apartments,” he says and my world comes to a screeching halt. My breath catches in my throat and I’m lucky that he doesn’t clock it, too busy sneering at the interior of the diner.
That’s my apartment building. Mine and Ace’s and Slates. Quinn’s and Rory’s.
Ours.
And by the smirk on my father’s face, he knows it too, even if I’ve been paying my own rent through odd summer jobs and selling my artwork.
“It could use some updating, and when summer rolls around and there aren’t as many students on campus, it will be the perfect time to renovate the building, don’t you think?”
My stomach shrivels. If he buys the building and is wanting to renovate during the summer, that means he’ll be evicting everyone, and Slate, Ace, and I will be out of a place to live. Not only that, but Quinn and Rory will be thrown out, too.
I don’t like the thought of that at all.
But my father doesn’t care. He’s already taking the first and final sip of his coffee and grimacing at the taste. He looks around the diner as if he might just buy this place next. I swallow harshly, suddenly regretting bringing him here.
“If the deal goes through, you might be seeing a lot more of your old man around this summer.” It’s said like a threat. He stands, staring down at me. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I glare, glued to my seat. I throw every ounce of hatred at the man who fathered me because there’s nothing that I can do about it. If he’s talking about buying the building that means that the plans are already in the works.
I’m truly and utterly fucked.
Travis Foster throws a twenty-dollar bill down on the table. “This should cover that. You can keep the change too, son, spend the rest on some paint, or something.”
Fuck, do I want to bare my teeth at him right now.
My stare doesn’t leave his back until he’s settled into his sleek, black sports car. My breathing is heavy, fingers clenched so tightly that I know they’ll be aching when I uncurl them.
As I sit alone in the booth, I still can’t help but wonder why I lied about going on a date.
The wind against my body and the rumble of my motorcycle beneath me makes my night slightly better.
I try to let the meeting with my father roll off of my shoulders with the current pressing against my body, but it isn’t happening.
Usually, I enjoy the ride. The way taking the curves a little too fast makes my heart stutter in my chest, the smooth asphalt beneath my wheels wiping my worries away, but there’s something about tonight that has me feeling like I’d rather just put on some music, wallow in my bed, and work on my drawings for my upcoming exhibition.
I’ll show that fucker .
I almost pass the apartment building while I’m distracted with my thoughts. Slate’s big, beat-up Bronco is a red flag waving at me from its perpetual spot in front of the building. Literally, the crimson rust bucket is an eyesore and I’m surprised we haven’t gotten any complaints from the landlord about it bringing down the value of the building.
Especially since he’d been looking to sell it, apparently.
I jerk to a stop and back up my motorcycle, parking it in front of Slate’s car. He always parks closest to the corner so that no one can block him in. I didn’t know if it had been a jab from when I trapped Quinn and Rory’s moving truck in on their first day here, but I laughed nonetheless.
There are a handful of people wandering in and out of the building, typical for a weekend. Giggling groups of girls and guys carrying racks of beers on their shoulders, hooting and hollering, eye-fucking the girls in their short skirts as they wait for the elevator. There are parties throughout the building every weekend, and I pray that for once, Slate has decided to wander down a few floors to find a fuck instead of hosting another party.
My prayers are not answered.
Shoving through the stairwell out onto the fourth floor, the music hits me like a truck. It’s bass-heavy, blaring down the hall like a goddamn rave. I groan, pushing my way through the people loitering in the hall, ignoring the more than interested looks I receive from a few girls staring me down like a pack of hungry hyenas.
Fuck, I really don’t want to deal with this right now.
It’s late enough that the pregame should be finishing soon, but knowing Slate, this party is only just beginning.
I stayed at the diner after my father left, ordering something sweet because I couldn’t leave until my hands stopped trembling. It hadn’t helped much, waiting out the shakes, not even when my favorite waitress—Rhonda herself—brought me a fry on the house and added an extra cherry on top of my milkshake, then proceeded to sit with me to check in.
I adore Rhonda. Slate, Ace, and I used to frequent her diner often during our freshman year, when we had no transportation and were broke art students. Rhonda has always taken care of us, even now that the tradition seems to have dwindled as we’ve gotten older and are able to attend bars and have money for restaurants that don’t only serve smash burgers and shakes.
I’m pretty sure I’m the only one that still visits.
The apartment is packed to the brim with partygoers. I can smell the alcohol and sweat in the air and the stench makes my nose scrunch. I could use a fucking drink right now, I think, even though I try to refrain from alcohol altogether because it only makes my hands tremble and that’s the last thing I need right now.
At first glance, I don’t see either of my roommates, but suddenly, Slate is barreling through the crowd as if he has a sixth sense for knowing when I enter a room.
“Hey, man.” He grins widely, tossing an arm over my shoulder. The drink in his cup sloshes precariously close to the rim of his glass and I grimace at the thought of it spilling on me.
His eyes are blurry with the alcohol in his system and he’s swaying, leaning his body weight against me. Slate is not a light man, and I hope he hasn’t tripped and crushed anyone with his sheer size because it wouldn’t bode well for the person trapped underneath the behemoth.
“Hey, Slate.”
“Are you setting up tonight? There are these two chicks that want to get tatted up. Underboob.” Slate wiggles his eyebrows and grins like he just caught a glimpse of heaven. “Matching.”
“Not in the mood,” I grunt, shoving past him. I hate every second of pushing through the crowd, bodies plastered against my own like the ink on my arms. I wonder if the loud music is bothering Quinn on the other side of the thin wall, and I shake that thought straight from my mind because I simply don’t care.
I can pretend that I don’t, anyway.
She’s probably here, if I had to guess. Somewhere in this crowd with a drink in her hand and that gorgeous smile on her face. I bet her cheeks are red with liquor and her perfect hazel eyes are all wide and glossy. She’s probably dancing with Rory, or maybe not, because Rory’s probably off somewhere with Ace. Maybe Quinn’s dancing with someone else, grinding those generous hips against his?—
I clench my jaw, digging in my pocket for my keys so I don’t look over my shoulder to seek her out.
I shove the key into the lock, twisting more aggressively than I need to. I added a new one to my door after our first party when I found a couple in my room about to fuck on my bed.
I’m the only one that gets to do that, even if I haven’t touched another girl in God knows how long. I had a few flings and hookups freshman year, but after my accident I’ve become too much of a surly asshole to even want to pursue a random girl. I know they wouldn’t want me touching them with my fucked-up hands anyway, despite the eyes made at me in the hall.
There’s really only one set of eyes I want on me.
Someone bumps into me and it causes me to nearly smash my head into my door. I choke back the growl threatening to crawl from my throat and decide against whirling around to bark at whoever has run into me. My grip on the doorknob tightens.
A soft light emits from the room when I push my way inside. The lamp beside my bed is glowing, though I don’t remember leaving it on. I release an exasperated huff to try to ease the tension in my shoulders, but it skyrockets when I notice the lump tucked tightly beneath my blankets.
I move closer and my steps falter.
It’s Quinn.
Two thoughts run through my mind so quickly I can hardly grab onto them before they’re zipping away.
What the fuck is she doing in my bed?
Who the fuck let her into my room?
Okay, so the second question is easier to answer than the first. It’s obvious that Slate must have let her in here because I’m pretty sure the fucker made a copy of my key the second he found out I put the lock on the door. I hadn’t let him in when he was trying to get me to smell four different colognes he got as samples from a magazine, so Slate took it into his own hands to make sure I could never be in my own room in peace.
The first question, however, makes no sense. She lives right next door for fuck’s sake, so what the hell is she doing here?
I stare. I can’t help myself; I’m frozen in the doorway until Slate’s belting voice complaining about the pop song that the playlist has switched to snaps me from my stupor. I quickly duck inside, shoving the door shut behind me and flicking the lock back into place.
I genuinely don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
I gawk at Quinn’s sleeping form like she’s only pretending, armed with a weapon and hoping I’ll move closer; she’ll pop up and scare the shit out of me and then Ace and Rory will fall out of the closet laughing and Slate will use his key to burst through the door, clutching his chest in hysterics.
But she’s not moving. Quinn is curled up on her side, and a plastic bowl sits on the table next to my bed, my stack of books spilled over haphazardly. One is face down on the floor.
There’s a glass of water next to the empty bowl, and I don’t like that it’s sitting so close to my books, despite the cup only being half full.
My bag falls from my shoulder and I sling it over the back of my desk chair, all while keeping my eyes pinned on Quinn. The dark sheets rise and fall shallowly with each breath she takes, her pink lips parted slightly, completely unbothered by the intrusion and the loud music shaking the walls, sleeping through it like a cursed princess.
She must be used to it by now.
A few strands of her blonde hair fall across her cheek and I ache to reach forward and push them back, tuck them behind her ear. I want to see if her skin is as soft as it looks. I want to wake her up and watch those hazel eyes find focus on me as she tries to figure out how she ended up here.
This is weird. This is so fucking weird that I don’t even know what to do with myself but my feet are pulling me closer against my better judgement. No, it’s beyond fucking creepy now, with me looming over her like this, watching her sleep.
Flexing my fingers, I suck down a few breaths, my mind spiraling.
Doing so doesn’t stop the feelings that curdle in my chest. The one where I want to feel the familiar pencil in my hand, charcoal coating my fingers. There’s a blooming feeling in my head, inspiration swiping the foulness of meeting with my father away. The urge to get my sketchbook and flip it to a clean page and start by drawing every curve of her?—
No. I scold myself, shaking my head furiously, backing away from Quinn. I trip over her shoes, discarded in a pile on the floor, but luckily, I don’t eat shit. Maybe if I did, it would help clear my mind of whatever is happening right now—the way Quinn’s presence has erased my tainted night. It should be adding fuel to my anger, to see her occupying my sacred space like this, but instead, she calms me.
Fuck. I shouldn’t be looking at the way that my sheet is draped across her body. She’s still clothed, and I’m more than thankful for that. I shouldn’t be admiring her quiet, peaceful side, not when I’m so used to seeing that crease between her brows and the frown tugging her lips whenever I’m around.
I bolt from the room, but not before making sure I lock it behind me. I’m feeling frantic again, like my skin is stretched too tightly over my bones. I need to find Ace because the music is making my head spin and I’m so, so close to completely spiraling right now.
Stumbling across the living room to the other side of the apartment, I reach Ace’s door. I hope that it’s unlocked, because being alone right now sounds even better than having to be around anyone right now.
It’s fucking locked.
I pound on the wood. There’s an urgency to it that Ace must hear because he’s cracking open the door and I’m met with the oceanic blue of his eyes and his bare chest.
“Knox?” He frowns, immediately concerned. “What’s up? I’m a little…busy at the moment.”
I don’t need to peek over his shoulder to know that Rory is waiting for him on his bed right now.
I don’t care, though. I shove my way into his room and slam the door behind me. Rory squeaks, pulling his duvet higher over herself, but I’m not looking at her as I pace the length of his room, back and forth and back and forth.
“Knox,” Ace warns softly, raising his hands like I’m a rabid dog he’s trying to leash. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
I ignore him, running my fingers through my hair and pulling on it in distress. I don’t know what the fuck is going on but I’m fucking reeling right now and someone needs to help me stop it.
“Did you know that your roommate is passed out in my bed?” I turn on Rory, ignoring Ace’s question.
“What?” She sits up, concerned, and the blanket drops to reveal her collarbones. She’s wearing a bra, but Ace scowls, helping her into the first shirt that he can find. “Is she okay?”
“Think so,” I mutter, retracing my steps. “She’s sleeping.”
“And you weren’t the one that put her there?” Ace asks and I’m halting my frantic pacing to stop and stare at him. Rory pins him with a glare as if she’s telling him not to go down this road, like this is something they’ve discussed before.
My voice is quiet when I respond. “Why would you assume I put her there?”
Ace is staring at me like I should know exactly why they think that, but I have no idea. Quinn and I haven’t done much other than bicker and fight since she moved in. Our petty nights where I play my music loudly and she bangs on the wall in response is our preferred form of communication. When she makes those little noises of pleasure and I slam my door when I storm out because I can’t stand the thought of another man?—
“Oh, Knox,” Rory says softly at whatever look is on my face. I don’t like the way that she’s staring at me all empathetic. It makes my hackles rise even more. “You like Quinn, don’t you?”
My mouth opens to deflect, to reject that with my entire being, but I can’t. Nothing comes out.
Nothing comes out because it’s true.
“I—” I start, but when the words get caught in my throat, I spin on my heel to escape.
I hear them calling after me but I’m already making my way through the crowd again. I spot Slate somewhere in the middle of the living room with a group of girls rubbing their bodies up against his. They’re so close together that they look like a pack of sardines and Slate is the king fish. He’s laughing, making suggestive eyes to at least three of them.
I wish I could be that carefree, but all I can think about are my feelings toward Quinn.
I definitely need a fucking drink.