3. Knox
CHAPTER 3
KNOX
T he party is in full swing. Music beats loudly through the apartment and the rumbling of voices shouting over it cram the room, bouncing off the walls and out the open front door. There are people everywhere, crowding the small space. The furniture has been shoved aside to make room for dancing and there’s a beer pong table set up between the fridge and the counter that’s covered in bottles and red cups. Someone’s standing on the countertop pouring a beer into a luge with a frat bro at the other end, chugging. I have no idea how the fuck he got in.
The air is thick with over-sprayed perfumes, body odor, weed, and alcohol. I watch from my spot by the window as I prep my latest victim. Working my hands into a fresh pair of black latex gloves for the girl who sits in the chair in front of me. It’s one of the rickety ones we have at the dining table that my roommates and I rarely ever use, so it’s perfect for this opportunity.
She’s excited, the girl in the chair. She’s wearing a skimpy dress that leaves little to the imagination. She’s sporting a lacy red thong, and straddling the back of the chair. Her dress is scrunched up over her ass, an expanse of olive skin on display, awaiting me to get to work.
I notice a group of guys standing nearby, leering at her with glossy eyes and beers in their hands, half hard at the prospect of watching the girl get a tramp stamp.
“A little pink bunny rabbit,” is what she requested, and I didn’t ask why. I never ask why, because people want what they want and I’m here to deliver. I nodded, pulled out my sketchbook, and got to work, drawing a few options for her to choose from.
I’m not proud of the set-up I currently have: tattooing drunken college kids whenever Slate throws a party. It’s a normal weekly occurrence for us now that we’re juniors and know more than a few people.
To say that I’m completely out of my element is an understatement, but I need the practice and the students are willing. The only reason I don’t have my headphones shoved over my ears, blasting music a little more my own taste, is so that I can hear what’s going on and tend to my client’s needs should anything go south. I’m preceptive, and will keep an eye out for the hiccuping girl with her dress pulled over her ass, only because I care more about the tattooing than if she’s making bedroom eyes at every gaze she meets.
I prep her skin, taking the clean razor to remove the area of any hair. The girl scoffs when she peers over her shoulder to see what I’m doing, but it’s protocol for me, and she’s happily distracted as soon as someone shoves a drink into her hand. Some of the liquid spills over the rim and I grit my teeth, continuing to focus on my preparations.
She keeps squirming, shouting in the direction of the dance-floor where her group of friends can hear her. Her long, crimson hair that’s obviously dyed keeps finding its way back into my workspace, spilling over her shoulder into the area I’ve just taken the antiseptic to. I sigh when it happens again for the third time, sitting back in my seat, my patience burned to its dregs.
“Get out of my chair.”
My voice is so low that she doesn’t hear me. She’s too busy trying to call her friends over, to brag about what she’s about to do. It’s incredibly annoying and I’ve already had a day from hell.
I hate knowing that the girl from the lobby lives next door. She’s infuriating, aggressive with her words and actions, pounding at both the elevator and our front door, demanding that I move my motorcycle.
She may have been having arguably as bad of a day as I did, given the sight of her unruly hair and tired hazel eyes, their coloring more of a raw umber than burnt. Her cheeks were a soft pink that I wanted to reach out and stroke, if it weren’t for both the state of my hands and her shitty attitude.
I came straight home after hearing the news that I hadn’t gotten the apprenticeship I wanted at Mystic Mark Tattoos. I thought I had shown an incredible portfolio of work, filled with both drawings and tattoos done in this very living room, without the distractions of beer, girls, and weed. They said I was too young, that I need to work on straightening my lines and that maybe a different style would suit me better.
There had been no parking spots when I arrived home. Normally, I park in front of Slate’s rust bucket of a Bronco, my sleek motorcycle teetering on the white painted line a hair before the tow zone. Tonight, there had been a moving truck jammed there instead, which meant more noisy neighbors moving into the already packed building. I don’t need to meet more people at mailboxes, fight them for the one slow-ass elevator that might fall if more than three people get on it—two if you’re riding it with Slate’s enormous build. I don’t want to have to fight for a parking spot, either.
Yeah, I might have been feeling a little petty when I blocked the truck in, but I was only planning on leaving my bike there for a few minutes while I dropped my portfolio off at the apartment before turning right back around to ride into the night and clear my head. But then she showed up, nearly knocking me over on her way out the door, guns already blazing, rude and looking more than ready to pick a fight.
So, fight we did.
I’ll admit, she has some spunk going up against me like that, her attitude much larger than her short frame. I could feel her eyes all over me, goosebumps raised on my skin in response to her scrutiny. She’s someone who I might have considered asking out once upon a time, even if her blonde hair was falling from her ponytail, long waves tangled around her heart-shaped face.
I wanted to brush them away and smooth the furrow between her brows, but the way she looked at me— glared at me—had gotten under my skin.
With her question, I knew that she was the one who was responsible for the moving truck. Like I said, I had every intention to move my motorcycle until the door to the lobby almost knocked me in the head. She didn’t even apologize, snipping at me and commanding me to move my motorcycle.
Her face twisted so prettily when I denied it was mine.
Her demand was my last straw, though.
No, that’s not entirely true. My final straw had been finding out she lives next door. When she showed up at my apartment with fire in her eyes and rosy cheeks, I was hardly able to swallow my surprise at the sight of her and her roommate, angrier than all hell. The very same expression she wasn’t able to conceal almost made me smirk, but the threat that she had my bike towed sparked something almost deadly in me. I worked damn hard to buy and maintain that motorcycle. I wanted to grab her, force her down the stairs with me to see if it was still there, maybe bend her over it and?—
“What?” The girl asks incredulously, drawing me from the thoughts of my new neighbor. She cranes her neck over her shoulder, that blood red hair touching my work area again.
But I’m done playing around. This had been a terrible decision on my part. I thought tattooing some partygoers would help calm my irritation because art usually does, but tonight it’s only adding fuel to the fire.
I stand, already reaching to pack up my things. “Get the fuck out of my chair or I’ll tattoo a dick on you,” I grunt, ignoring her spluttering confusion. The crimson to her cheeks looks nowhere near as good as it had on hers.
“Fuck you,” the girl screeches, stumbling to her feet. The group of lingering boys watch on and one even steps closer to help steady the poor girl like I’ve pushed her. Tears prick her eyes but I don’t feel bad about it, if she wanted a tattoo that badly she would’ve followed my direction, not fucking wasted my time.
She whirls around, tugging the hem of her dress down with one hand, wrenching her arm free from the boy’s grasp, and tosses her drink right into my face. I wince as the juiced-down alcohol stings my eyes. I lick my lips and cringe; it’s as fruity as it smells. Vodka, it tastes like.
Swiping my now damp hair from my face, I use the same glare that everyone cowers from, but she’s already dragging the boy into the throng of people on the dance-floor. Releasing a harsh breath, I take the loss, peeling the black gloves from my hands and shoving my things under my arms.
“Woah, dude,” Slate—one of my roommates—says when he stumbles into me on the way to my room. My locked room, because I don’t need anyone coming in here to fuck or snoop or touch my things. Them being in my apartment is already bad enough. They can fuck in the stairwell for all I care. “What the hell happened to you?”
Slate’s pants dare to fall to the ground, button and zipper both undone. His shirt has been shucked off, either because he’s spilled beer down his chest or because he’s about to get lucky, I don’t know which for sure. I don’t care. The music is too fucking loud and too fucking poppy, and the air is thick and hot. My skin is sticky from the drink thrown at me and this day comes second to worst out of the twenty-one years I’ve been alive.
“You invited a bunch of assholes to your party, Slate. What the hell do you think happened?” I bite, tugging my keys from my pocket and sliding one into the lock. I don’t have the temperament to even deal with my roommates right now. I just want to be left alone.
“So, she denied you, Knoxie,” Slate teases, slurring a bit. The chocolate of his eyes is bright and normally his jokes make me feel better, but right now I’m itching to get clean and get the fuck out of here.
I really should’ve started drinking.
“Don’t start with me,” I sigh, shoving my way through the door, flicking on the light. My shoulders loosen when I step inside. My own space, decorated how I like. My bed is on the wall opposite my door, made up perfectly and I’d collapse right onto it if I didn’t have someone’s drink running down my neck and seeping into my shirt. There’s a small table next to the bed, a lamp and books stacked high for late night reading when I’m not sketching.
To the left is my desk, pushed up against the sole window. My school textbooks are shoved as far to the side as I can manage to make room for my art supplies. Outside of the window, I notice the moon high in the sky, calling to me like one lost soul to another. A shelf beside the desk is filled with sketchbooks, their black spines stacked in order of size. No one would be able to tell them apart except for me. I’d love to do nothing more than sit down and sketch something, but with the commotion going on outside of my door, there’s no way I’ll be able to focus.
I make my way to the desk, dropping off my tattooing supplies before beelining to my closet on the right side of the room. Slate follows me inside and I hear the door shut softly behind him as I rip the soaked shirt from my body. It does little to drown out the noise of the party going on outside of my door, but I’m thankful he’s closed it anyway. I toss the shirt towards my laundry basket and reach inside the closet for a new one. My wardrobe consists of dark colors, though most of them are black.
“Hey,” Slate pouts, leaning up against the wall as I change. I keep my eyes off of his because it’s obvious that he knows something is up with me and he’s going to try to get me to stay, to try and make me feel better. He’ll probably even recruit Ace—our other roommate—to help out, but who knows what he’s up to right now. “You’re acting as grumpy as our new neighbor,” Slate continues, and I really don’t like being compared to her. I’d rather call that drunk girl back to finish her tattoo. “Who is pretty cute by the way. What’s going on with you?”
My fingers fist the shirt in my hands but I shake my head, pulling it over my damp chest. I won’t be able to shower in the one bathroom we have while this party is going on. Someone will either walk in on me or bang on the door until I get out. Whatever, at least the shirt will soak up the rest of the alcohol. “Just a rough day, man. Nothing to worry about. ”
Slate doesn’t know that it’s the understatement of the year.
He frowns, trying to catch my eye, but again, I refuse to meet his gaze, pulling out my leather jacket next.
“It’s not like…” He trails off like he doesn’t even want to ask this, and my shoulders tense because I also don’t want him to bring up the taboo topic I know he’s trying to bring up. “It’s not like summer break, right?”
I desperately try not to let my body recoil but it does, going completely still. My muscles seize and I squeeze my eyes shut as the memory resurfaces, my chest struggling to pull in air. Two summers ago, when I finished freshman year and returned home for break, my father was waiting for me with a deep frown on his face, something not unusual for him. I took all of two steps inside before he began shouting and threatening me because he found out that I’d been pretending to be a business major like he wanted, when all this time I’ve really been in art. Dick, my step-brother, had been the one to out me, and I can still remember that smug smirk on his face as my father?—
I fled. I took my motorcycle and sped down the winding roads behind his big house, the one where I wouldn’t have had to see him all summer if I didn’t want to. I hadn’t been expecting to see him at all, especially not when I walked in the door. The sketchbook tucked up under my arm hadn’t helped the situation one bit. I can still remember my step-mothers cries, as if there was anything that she could do. I wonder if seeing her husband act like that was the first time or if she’s been enduring it in the five years they’ve been together since my mother passed.
I was being reckless out on those roads, scared out of my fucking mind. My face ached from his fists and blood was clouding my vision from the thick cut on my eyebrow, curtesy of my father’s wedding band. As I tried to clear my vision, the handlebars slipped from my grip around a sharp curve I hadn’t been prepared for.
I don’t remember much after that, except waking up in the hospital with both of my hands fucked beyond belief.
My father got what he wanted after all, because no matter how hard I goddamn try, my hands still shake and my art has suffered tremendously because of it.
“No,” I answer, voice trembling slightly. I can still hear my father’s ugly words sometimes, feel his fists on my face and the burn of my step-brother’s snake-like eyes as he all but laughed. Sometimes, memories of the accident visit me in my sleep, the hot road grinding against my skin, the bones in my hands shattering on impact as I tried to brace myself. The helmet I’d shoved onto my already wounded face had hurt at the time, but it had saved my life, for whatever that’s worth. I clear the thickness from my throat and try again, ignoring the way my hands tremble. “No, it’s not like that.”
It's both better and worse, somehow. Better, because no one is assaulting me, and although my father still tries to reach out, there has never been an apology. I don’t care if ignoring him only fuels his anger towards me. I lost everything when I ruined my hands.
I’ve worked hard since then to get back to where I was artistically, but there are differences now that I’ve had to learn to work through and with. They still shake, and the patches of skin they had to take from my thighs to recover my hands are an eyesore, but I don’t care how cut-up I look. I only want to be able to tattoo.
Maybe my father was right. Maybe my artistic abilities aren’t good enough to be where I want. Maybe the tattoo parlors denying me apprenticeships only confirm that.
“We can ditch the party right now,” Slate tells me, leaning closer. I know he can read me like a fucking book, can tell that I’m bothered by his question and he’s trying to fix it, but all I want right now is to be alone. “Let Ace deal with the party. We can go on a ride and talk if you want to, Knox. We can go down to Rhonda’s. I’ll even let you drive Cherry.”
As much as I would enjoy going down to Rhonda’s—our old stomping grounds—I just don’t have it in me right now. When we grew old enough to get into bars, both Slate and Ace stopped going to Rhonda’s. They don’t know that I still frequent the tiny diner not far from here.
I’d like to keep it that way for a little while longer.
I shake my head in response, even with the offer to drive Cherry.
“That’s alright, man,” I answer, turning to face him. Slate’s thick eyebrows are furrowed deeply and it makes me feel bad that I’m ruining his night. I need to distract him, and while he knows me better than anyone, I also know him better than I know anyone. He’s most likely sought me out for one thing. “Grab those condoms you came in here for and go bag your girl.”
The distraction works. Slate curses, his chocolate eyes bulging wide at the reminder. “Oh fuck! Sage! Or was it Paige? Shit, man, I don’t even remember her name.” He’s so frantic I would laugh if I had the energy. There is no shortage of girls for Slate to choose from, even if he seems to be sleeping his way through the school. If this one has bounced already, he’ll have no issues finding another girl to spend the night with.
He catches the box of condoms I toss his way with ease, despite the panicky rambling.
“Just call her ‘baby,’ or something,” I advise, clapping him on the shoulder and guiding him towards the door. “They love that shit.”
The wind in my ears drowns out the bad thoughts.
This. This is what I love, what I thrive on. Roads untraveled, the night and. wind my only friends. Shadows chase my route and the silence rights my soul. The darkness takes care of me. Always has, always will.
The thrum of the bike between my thighs is exhilarating, especially when it climbs to a speed that makes my heart race faster in my chest.
Yep, not even the accident stopped me from getting right back up, selling my old art to pay for my classes now that my father no longer will, and I was able to save up enough extra money to afford a used motorcycle. It’s not as nice as the one I totaled, but with a little elbow grease, it gets me around until I’m able to afford a new one.
It’s just me and the world right now: the bike, the moon, and me. No one can catch me, taunt me, insult me, hurt me. The middle of the night will never treat me the way that others have.
Shifting my weight, I glide around a curve, slowing the motorcycle to a stop. I’ve arrived at the hilltop that overlooks the city, glowing brightly in the night. I’ve found myself here many times since I started at Vulcan University, and it’s my favorite spot to come and think.
It’s far enough to have a good view of the sky and I count whatever constellations I can, cutting the engine. I shove the kickstand down and pull my helmet off, breathing in the crisp scent of night.
Hanging my helmet on the handlebar, I unzip my coat and peel the leather gloves from my hands. They still tremble under the moonlight, but less so than earlier when I’d had my tattoo gun in my hands.
I clench them into fists, cursing.
Slate has three or four jagged tattoos from me because he’s always offered his help whenever someone needs it. When I’d been practicing on myself after regaining the ability to draw and handle the instrument, he was the first to volunteer, even knowing that I hadn’t been able to keep my lines straight no matter how hard I tried. Months later, I’ve improved, but there is still a ways to go.
Most of my roommate’s tattoos are tribal, which were easier to work with when he wanted one added, because it was mostly filling in shapes with black. It was drawing those patterns that was the difficult part, and it’s not often that I don’t think about how fucked up some of the line-work is, as I’m constantly reminded with the amount of times Slate chooses not to wear a shirt around the apartment.
My skin, however, is filled with a different tribute, one of the mythological sorts. Icarus’s inevitable fall inked on my torso, because when I truly began reaching out for what I wanted in life, I was burned. I fell. Psyche and Eros intertwined at the top of my thigh, because I, too, should only be loved in the dark, where no one can see my flaws. There are large, bony wings covering the expanse of my back because I always wished that I could just fly away from here, from all of the problems in my life. Others dot my skin, each one curated to perfection, no matter what anyone else has to say. I’ve spent years drawing, seeking out the tattoo artists who would be the ones to ink my skin with their work, until I was old enough and good enough to do it myself.
I love each and every single one of them.
The breeze blows some of my limp hair in my eyes and I hastily brush it away. I need to get it cut soon .
I slide off of the bike, keeping the headlights on as I dig inside the pocket of my leather jacket for the small notepad and pencil I keep stowed there for times like this. When I need to get away and draw out all of the things filling my head.
Flipping past my previous sketches, I open to a fresh page and put the tip of the pencil to the paper, ignoring the slight shake of my hand. It’s something that I’m not sure I will ever get used to, relearning how to make those crisp, straight lines that used to come so easily.
Right now, alone in the middle of the night, none of that matters.
I draw until my wrist hurts and I can hardly hold the pencil, losing the nighttime hours.
Sitting back, I assess my work. There’s a warmup sketch of a woman’s legs, the tops of her slender thighs covered, peeking out from the hem of my leather jacket. On the next is a bunny, this one a skeleton, and the black of its eye sockets reads “fuck you.” I also drew a Cerberus showing a full row of sharp teeth as it growls fiercely, two of the canine-like heads gnashing at each other. It has potential to be my next tattoo, actually.
It isn’t until the early hours of the morning when I’m sure that my apartment is finally cleared of partygoers that I return home. I take my time, enjoying the last few moments to myself before I enter the town again, where no one seems to sleep. At least we all have that in common, I think, racing past an Uber filled with giggling girls who wave at me as I go.
There might not be a point in even returning home, knowing that I won’t be able to sleep anyway, but being in my room with my sketchpads and books, easy access to the rest of my art supplies, is a comforting thought.
I’m not expecting to run into my new neighbor on the way in, but of course, because my night isn’t quite done getting on my last nerve, I do.
She’s walking back from the parking lot as I swing my leg off of my bike, removing my helmet. Her head is buried in her phone, her long, blonde hair washed and hanging down her back like a curtain of gold. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with the school’s mascot on it despite the balmy summer night, but who am I to judge? I’m wearing a leather jacket for fucks sake . To complete her nighttime look, she dons a pair of sleep shorts that show off her long legs.
I stumble, but quickly recover, glaring at the curb I tripped over as I watched her.
I don’t know what it is that compels me to talk to her, to tease her because she’s clearly just come outside to move the truck with the flashing hazards now that my bike is no longer blocking it in, but I do. “Finally got that truck moved, huh, Princess?”
She startles at my words, hazel eyes wide with surprise. Her lids quickly fall into a glare and her mouth puckers sourly when she recognizes me. If she weren’t mentally planning my downfall, she would look cute. Fuck it, she does look cute, even if she is planning my downfall.
“No thanks to you, neighbor,” she mutters, trying to avoid crossing into my space. It’s impossible, since I’m parked in my usual spot, sans moving truck. I watch the way her eyes drop down my torso, taking in my jacket and I smirk, enjoying the warm tone that spreads across her cheeks at me catching her.
I tut, playfully. “So rude.”
“Why would I be a peach when you’ve been nothing but a jerk since I moved in?” She defends, crossing her arms over her chest. I kind of like this look on her, defensive, standing up to me despite being almost a foot shorter. She’s easy to rile and I like that. “I’ve had a hellish day and meeting you didn’t help. Then, you go and slam doors in people’s faces and play your horrendous music as loud as fucking possible. Some people want to sleep, you know.”
I wish I could sleep, too.
“Still salty you weren’t invited, Princess?” I deflect.
She scoffs and steps around me, clearly more than ready for this conversation to be over. I’m not, though, spinning on my heel to follow her towards the building. “As if.”
She stalks for the door but my longer strides eat the distance between us easily. “I think I might catch the elevator with you,” I tell her. “Since we’re going to the same floor, and all.”
I don’t know why I’m trying to engage, why I’m egging her on. I’ve had a nice enough night when I escaped the party, but there’s something about her. I want her attention on me, even if it’s because she’s annoyed with me. I want that sharp tongue and dark glares pointed in my direction.
I could easily apologize for earlier, for shutting the door in her face and telling my roommates to do the same, but I think I’ll wait. As much as my ride helped calm me down, I’m not ready to make peace with the fact that she threatened to have my motorcycle towed.
I don’t play about my bike.
“No, thanks,” she responds, all but ripping the front door off its hinges. She’s probably hoping that it will hit me on the backswing but my hand’s already there, catching it and pulling it wider, trailing her inside.
“More of a stairs kind of girl, I presume?” I ask innocently, referring to her trip up to the fourth floor by stairwell when I had taken the elevator up.
She grits her teeth and I can tell that she wants to take the bait as she jams her finger into the button, calling the elevator.
It’s still on the first floor from when she must have taken it down to move the truck. The door opens with a whine that makes me shiver.
“More of a ‘don’t talk to me’ kind of girl,” she retorts, nearly growling when I shove myself inside of the metal box with her. Her anger clouds the space, thick and cloying. She keeps to herself during the ride, much to my dismay, glaring at the neon green numbers as the rickety elevator ascends.
“Feisty, Princess,” I smirk.
“Do not call me that!” Her scowl is strong. Scary, almost. It has the corners of my mouth twitching upwards.
“Sure thing, Princess.”