22. Knox
CHAPTER 22
KNOX
T he exhibition is in full swing.
Silvio started the night with a speech, gushing over how long he’s been wanting to showcase my art. I’ve been working endlessly on these images, since I figured I should hone in my drawing skills as the dream of becoming a tattoo apprentice stretches further from me.
I wanted to duck my head at all of the attention when I took the floor, but when I met Quinn’s soft hazel eyes through the crowd, the rest of the room seemed to disappear. The overhead lighting shining down on my work was also shining down on her, her blonde hair a golden glow and her encouraging gaze giving me the confidence I needed to continue. The words rolled easily off of my tongue, even if I don’t remember exactly what I said because I was distracted by her beauty.
The conversation is loud and the guests seem to be enjoying themselves, a couple admiring the strokes of charcoal streaked across canvas, the harrowing drawings I’ve made come to life. I can see the way it resonates with people; they may not know my story personally, but each of us carry hurt in our hearts, and they’re witnessing mine, something I would have never thought I’d be able to share.
A few times I’ve found myself looking for Quinn and caught her staring at the centerpiece of my exhibition, her intense gaze watching it with a predatory glint as if she’s protective over it. I can tell it’s her favorite and I find myself wanting to ask her why she seems so drawn to it.
Instead, I watch her monitor the patrons ogling and commenting, the beauty of her sharp gaze.
It isn’t lost on me how she hasn’t left my side all night, as if she somehow knows that I need her near me. Her familiarity makes me less nervous around this many strangers who I’ve allowed to come and judge not only my art, but my life, my hands.
I don’t have to ask her. The brush of the skirt of her dress against the leg of my pant or the whisper of her bare arm against mine is more than enough. My fingers itch to reach out and cling tightly to hers. I keep a firm hold on the stem of my champagne glass, not a single drop of its contents gone.
It’s the same one I hand Quinn when she downs hers during her glaring contest with the guest currently standing a little too close to one of my pieces.
I hate feeling so exposed like this, their eyes on me as they flicker from the drawings to where I walk, slowly winding my own way through the exhibition. I’ve seen it so many times, lived it, but trying to allow the uncomfortable to become comfortable makes me uneasy.
But I’m trying.
The night is slowly winding down, which is perfect because I’m exhausted from playing host. Tired of fake-smiling and laughing at shitty jokes, tired of people staring at my hands, staring at Quinn, all pretty in her dress. I want to kick everyone out and then kick myself for missing her reaction to every picture hung in this gallery. I should’ve been there to see if her responses to my other work was as exquisite as the one she gave when she was admiring the centerpiece.
I feel like a circus animal here, so vulnerable with the spotlight on me. People see me as a strong, confident, brooding man most of the time, not to be fucked with. But it’s not who I used to be, not before the accident. There was a time where I smiled more, was extroverted, even, when Slate, Ace, and I would wreak havoc across the university grounds. We’d stay out until the sun came up and party until we couldn’t see straight.
Ever since that fucking night when my entire world changed, I haven’t been the same.
I haven’t been that na?ve, carefree boy in a long time.
The man before me is talking numbers for one of my pieces. It doesn’t sound remotely close to what I want for it, so I peek over at Quinn again to distract myself while he rambles on and my heart stutters in my chest. She’s peering down into her champagne glass with a soft smile on her face. Her cheeks are a perfect rose color from the alcohol and a strand of her long, blonde hair hangs down, calling to me.
I want to reach out and brush it behind her ear, to feel the warmth of her cheeks against my skin, to have her prefect eyes on me again.
I can’t look away from her. We’ve come a long way since the night we met, and just like my exhibition, we’ve managed to find a way to let go of the old and accept this new start. Yes, most of our interactions since have felt forced, but somewhere along the lines I think I found myself trying to annoy her so that her attention would be on me.
I always want it on me .
What Rory said when I freaked out about finding Quinn in my bed rings in my head. You like Quinn, don’t you?
I do. I really fucking do.
The longer she’s looking away from me, the more nervous I become. I want to talk to her. I want to figure out the unknown draw to her I feel when she’s around. I want to be able to see the world through her eyes, hear her thoughts about each piece even if it takes all fucking night. I won’t be able to sleep, anyway.
“Sure,” I respond lamely to the man who is still babbling, complimenting my work as if that will get me to agree to his offer. Some sort of art connoisseur, he claimed. He told me that he could see the next big thing before it happened and that I’m going to shoot up the ladder fast, that he has to have one of my pieces. “Let Silvio know that I accept. He will draw up the paperwork for you.”
I don’t shake the man’s hand. I don’t shake anyone’s hand, but I do place it gently on Quinn’s lower back to gain her attention. There are those stunning eyes, finding mine so fast that I feel it in my bones, the electricity that comes with it. Those eyes make me weak. They can tear me down with a single glance—and have before. They break through my walls too easily, so quickly that my only defense against it is to pretend I don’t want anything to do with her at all. To piss her off and annoy her so that she can’t see what I truly desire.
I answer her questioning look with a nod of my head. I need to offer my thanks to those attending, even more so for the ones that have purchased my artwork, and after that, the gallery will close and the night will come to an end.
I don’t want it to.
I want to spend more time with Quinn, but I won’t act on that thought.
“I’m sorry, again,” I say after the gallery empties out and it’s just Quinn and I.
I feel the sudden urge to ask for forgiveness for my dickishness again. Although I meant what I said in the elevator, I’m a better man than that, and Quinn deserves a genuine apology.
She deserves a lot more than me.
Even Silvio is gone now, allowing me to lock up after I requested a few final hours with my artwork before it’s all packaged and shipped out after the exhibition ends in twelve weeks.
We’re sitting against the wall opposite the centerpiece, staring at it, a half a bottle of champagne in. Well, Quinn’s a half a bottle of champagne in. I’m driving, so I haven’t had a sip, even if I do need the liquid courage because my heart is threatening to beat out of my chest now that we’re alone.
My gaze falls on Quinn’s shoes at our feet. She’d kicked them off as soon as the last person left the building, before I even had a chance to lock the door behind them, complaining about her aching feet screaming from her dreaded heels.
I can feel her looking at me, watching me. I let her get her fill, find her words before turning my head to meet her gaze. Her hazel eyes are the perfect mix of green and brown, a thick forest of color, honest and raw.
“You’re sorry?” She questions in disbelief.
I nod. “Yes.”
Quinn huffs, nearly knocking over her glass when she throws her hands out, gesturing to the room. “I’m finally getting a real apology out of you and there’s no one here to witness it? ”
A smile cracks my lips and her breath catches. I didn’t realize how close we were sitting until now, our shoulders brushing with each inhale. Her cheeks burn and she ducks away, turning back to the drawing in front of us.
“I was an asshole that night,” I sigh, tipping my head back against the wall. I drain the water in my glass that Quinn had filled, not wanting to feel like she was drinking alone.
“Yeah,” she giggles, and something takes flight in my stomach. I fight the urge to lean in and taste the laughter on her tongue. She looks smug, like she might scream that I’ve apologized from the rooftops. “You were.”
I don’t know why I offer, but something inside of me forces me to blurt, “Would you care to know why I was such a dick that night?” It’s said softly and I immediately want to take my words back when her smile disappears.
She swallows hard and I wipe my suddenly shaky hands down my trousers.
“If you want to,” she says, just as quiet. Like it’s some secret that will be shattered if either of us dare to speak up.
I don’t need to do this. I don’t need to explain anything to her, but after how tonight has gone, I want to. I want to tell her everything, be honest about the parking, my failed apprenticeships, the strained relationship with my father, what happened to my hands. Everything.
Fuck it, I tell myself. I so desperately want to reach over and snag the bottle of champagne, down it all in one go because my confidence has withered into a fucking puddle. My tongue darts out to wet my lips and Quinn tracks the movement, her pupils wide and fixated.
Taking a deep breath, I try to explain, but the words stick in my throat as the memories are drudged up.
Slowly, gently, but with intention, Quinn takes my hand and intertwines her fingers with mine .
I don’t flinch at the contact. The only reason that I had in the car is because I wasn’t expecting it, and my mind flashed back to my father’s hand when he grabbed my shoulder to haul me around into his fist.
My breath is officially caught in my chest as I stare down at how perfectly her hand fits in mine. She’s as warm as I thought she would be, dainty but strong as she squeezes, encouraging me to speak and accepting me if I’ve changed my mind.
“Sometimes,” I start, and have to clear my throat of the thickness lodged there. I can’t look at her, but I stare at our hands, my fucked-up fingers twisted with her unblemished ones. “Sometimes, when I drink, it feels like my hands aren’t even connected to my fucking brain. Which is kind of why I was such an ass the way we met.” I can sense her confusion and continue. “Not because I was drinking, but because of my hands. I was at an interview for an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor. They told me that my lines were too shaky and turned me down. It had been the third opportunity I didn’t get because of this fucking mess.” I gesture to the scars on my wrists, the skin grafts creeping up my forearms. My skin is still pink, some of the worse spots a faint purple from where they had to cut back into my skin for a second surgery.
My chest heaves with the deep breath that I take. Anger burns in my chest. I shouldn’t be touching her, not with my fucked-up hands, skin stretched too tightly over my muscle and bone.
In a sudden panic, I try to pry my fingers from Quinn’s, but she holds firm, consoling me. “Hey. Knox, stop it.”
With the way she says my name, I go still.
I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.
“You don’t get it, Quinn,” I croak. “All I’ve wanted to do with my life is become a tattoo artist and now my dream is completely fucked because of my step-brother and father.” I can’t help but spit the words, disgust and hatred lacing my tone. “My step-brother ratted me out to my father about me being an art major instead of the business major he wanted me to be.” My voice is thick, wet, and a tightness forms behind my eyes. “I tried to leave before things could get out of hand, but it happened anyway. My father pummeled me into the floor in his foyer, and when I could stand up long enough to flee, I took my bike. It was late and I was terrified, unsure of where to go. Blood was falling into my eyes from a cut in my eyebrow and I lost control. The bike slid out from underneath me before I could right it.”
Quinn looks devastated. Tears fill her eyes and I hate myself all over again for doing this to her. But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
“I had my helmet on, and that’s what saved me, but my hands were fucked. They had to take skin from here—” I take our intertwined hands and pull up my sleeve, showing off the scars of skin grafts creeping up my wrists, then gesture to my legs. “To fix where the road shredded my hands.” I stare for a moment before chuckling wetly because I have to give up my dream of tattooing. Sitting in a room of drawings of the reasons why I have to let it go, it really sets in. “Now, I can hardly hold a tattoo gun for a long period of time, let alone draw a goddamn straight line.”
Tears spill down Quinn’s cheeks and my chest aches. I hate that I’ve made her cry, that my words are the cause of this.
I’m shaking like a leaf, my grip tight around her fingers. My breathing is harsh, loud in the otherwise silent gallery, as I muster up the courage to reach out to her like I want.
With a curled knuckle, I gently catch a tear as it rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t break my gaze. She allows me to do this for her. If this is the only touch I get, I’m thankful.
My voice is tight, a low grind when I try to speak again. “Those drawings,” I gesture vaguely around the room. “I drew the ones nearest the door as soon as I could pick up a piece of charcoal after the incident. Hurt like fucking hell.” My laugh is wet and fake. “And even more so to clean the powder from my hands.” It helped to wear gloves, but when they were still healing the tightness felt like my hands were on fire, melting in the claustrophobic latex.
I don’t have as much trouble with them now, other than the trembling.
“Knox,” she croaks, but I shake my head softly. Unfortunately, I’m not finished yet.
“This exhibition is about new beginnings,” I explain, dragging my gaze across every single piece of work I’ve created. The despair, the agony, fear, anger, slowly turning into something steadier, stronger, and happier. I’m not completely there yet, but I’m hoping that someday I can look down at my hands and be proud of what I’ve accomplished despite what they’ve— I’ve —been through.
I untangle my fingers from Quinn’s and push to my feet, reaching down to help her up. She stands and I re-twine our fingers, not quite ready to let her go. Instead of looking at the art, she’s staring at me.
And I can’t read the look in her eyes.
It’s fitting, how my exhibition is about new beginnings and this feels so much like one. There isn’t any more animosity between us; instead, a fresh, clean slate.
Quinn breathes out a hasty, “I’m sorry, too,” before her free hand wraps around my neck and she hauls me down for a kiss.