6. Knox
CHAPTER 6
KNOX
“ S o, you think you’re free to do as you please, when you please?” My neighbor’s grating voice startles me from where I’m elbow deep trying to change the oil of my motorcycle. The drain plug slips from my fingers and I wince as it falls into the oil-filled pan below.
I’d noticed that my bike needed servicing and this is nothing I can’t take care of myself, though Slate was supposed to meet up with me after the only class I had today and he hasn’t shown yet. He’s pretty handy when he wants to be, has to be with that old beat-up Bronco of his. He offered his help when I texted him what I was doing after class, or to at least sit outside the apartment building with me and pester me, whichever he felt like participating in when he arrived.
Apparently, he isn’t feeling much like showing up at all, which is fine because I know what I’m doing and I was enjoying listening to the sounds of the world while I worked: the birds chirping as they chase each other from tree to tree, the students and citizens of the city happily chatting as they walk down the streets, and the occasional rumble of cars driving up the block. It’s easy to focus on something so simple, and I’m feeling a lot looser than I have as of late, but it seems like it isn’t meant to last very long at all.
I wish Slate was here to be a buffer right now.
What I don’t understand is what she’s doing here. Obviously, I know very well that she lives in the same building as I do, but after the harsh few meetings we’ve shared, I’m not entirely sure why she’s approaching me, of all people.
Grimacing, I reach my glove-covered hand into the dark oil pan, feeling through the slick liquid for the plug I dropped. I need it and I didn’t have any intention to get this dirty while working, but at least I have boxes and boxes of gloves to use at my disposal—it’s not like I’ve been giving too many tattoos these days anyway.
I squint against the sun, eyeing her. Her bright blonde hair lies across her shoulders, curling up at the ends. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her hip is popped like she’s going to scold me. With the scowl she’s wearing, she just might.
Her face looks exactly how it had when we ran into each other almost a week ago. A frown tugs the corners of those pretty pink lips and this time she’s glaring down at me with those hazel eyes instead of up at me.
Actively avoiding her has only lasted a handful of days, it seems. It’s inevitable that we would run into each other again, with us living next door to each other and all, but I was hoping she would at least try and keep away from me like I am her.
I even kept my music at a lower volume than I’d normally like. Okay, so, it’s only one click lower, and it hasn’t exactly stopped her from pounding on the walls late at night, but I’ve been trying to be nicer about it. I’ve actually listened to at least one of those knocks, I think, turning the music off completely to shove my headphones over my ears instead.
Seems like nothing can make this one happy .
“Am I disturbing your afternoon, all the way out here, Princess?” I ask, tacking on the little nickname I know she despises.
Her foot taps against the asphalt, showing her annoyance just like I knew it would, and I smirk. The rhythm reminds me of the bass line to one of my favorite songs, and as I glance at her feet, I realize that she’s not wearing any shoes. My brows furrow as my gaze slings back up to hers, enjoying the purse of her perfect lips. I want to touch them, see if they’re as soft as they look, but I duck my head instead in case my face betrays those thoughts, watching the oil slowly drip into the pan.
“I told you not to call me that,” she growls and I blink at how cute she sounds, flicking a glance upwards because there’s no way I can’t not look at her when she sounds like this. Her nose is scrunched with distaste, crinkles accompanying the move. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing this in front of the building.”
“That’s funny,” I snipe, because why can’t she just leave me alone? “I didn’t ask you.”
Her cheeks glow. I brush it off, grabbing a few paper towels off the roll I brought out and wiping the oil plug clean. Now she’s on my nerves, and all I wanted to do was to fix this one little thing before hiding away in my apartment for the rest of the night.
I’m meticulous with my work, ignoring the glare I feel like a dagger in the side of my head. Maybe, if I ignore her for long enough, she’ll leave me the fuck alone.
Once I’m sure all of the threads are clean, I set the piece aside to wipe off my gloves. I snatch a new filter from the box and remove the packaging, patiently awaiting her to decide if she’s going to stalk off or bite back .
I tense as she sighs, even more so when she plants her ass on the curb. What the fuck does she think she’s doing?
My unspoken question is answered a moment later. “Look, I locked myself out of my apartment and my phone is inside. Can you maybe text Slate and have him let Rory know the situation? He has her number.”
I cut her a glance but promptly remove it from her now softened features. I don’t need to see what she looks like when she isn’t irritated. Since when does Slate have either of their numbers? Since when did he even start talking to her?
I remind myself to ask him about it later, and my mouth betrays me when I blurt, “He should be here in a little while. You can ask him then.”
What the fuck are you doing, Knox?
Surprised by myself, I carefully return my attention to the task at hand. Removing the old filter, I toss it into the pan with the used oil and clean up my hands once again before reaching out for the new filter to replace. It slides in easily and I cap the drain.
She huffs like it’s the most inconvenient answer in the world, but I don’t want to get oil on my phone and I don’t want to take my gloves off right now. Not ever, but certainly not now that she might be able to see the traces of the accident that still mar my skin.
“Please, can you not be a prick right now? I’d rather let her know as soon as possible so that I don’t have to be around you.”
Ouch, Princess, I think sarcastically. It’s not exactly the response I was thinking she would give, but it sparks my irritation nonetheless.
“I’m not being a prick. I’m working on something and you’re interrupting me because you’ve made the mistake of locking yourself out. Maybe you should take your phone the next time you go to the landlord’s office to complain.”
Her face flushes and her mouth falls as she gapes at me in surprise.
Yeah, I want to bite, I heard all about that.
I return her previous glare, unscrewing the fresh bottle of oil with a little more force then necessary. Some of the liquid sloshes over the rim of the jug but I don’t care anymore, I want to be done and far away from her.
“You’re right.” My grip falters on the bottle at her words, so soft that it throws me off for a second. “I’m so?—”
“Now here’s a sight I never thought I’d see.” Slate’s voice echoes down the street, starling the both of us. I cut her a look and find her already staring at me, both of us averting our eyes to watch as my roommate appears, grinning like a fool. I will the oil into the hole faster because I can’t bear seeing Slate being all buddy-buddy with her. “Knox and Quinnie, sitting on the curb,” he sing-songs, and I want to fucking throttle him. He looks as if he’s going to continue despite my warning glare, but he catches sight of her— Quinn’s —bare feet. “What are you doing out here with no shoes on?”
I watch her response from the corner of my eye. Her hazel gaze is turned my way but disappears just as quickly when she shifts her attention to Slate. Her shoulders droop as if she’s feeling defeated, and a pang of sympathy burrows in my gut.
“I, um, got locked out of my apartment and left my phone inside. I was just asking Knox if I could borrow his to message you, but here you are,” she explains with a weak smile.
I can’t help but note the way my name rolls off her tongue. She’s been paying attention, too.
“Here I am, saving damsels all day long,” Slate jokes, offering Quinn a hand up off the curb. I have to drag my eyes away from how they look together when she accepts.
She laughs at his lame ass joke and the bottle slips from my grasp again because it sounds like the best song I’ve ever heard in my damn life.
I quickly fix the spout back into place.
“Need some help, Knox?” Slate asks, but I shake my head.
“All good here, man.”
“Great. Quinn, why don’t you come on inside and I’ll wait with you until Rory gets back. Maybe we can pick up where we left of in class,” Slate says, waggling his eyebrows. I don’t know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t like it. Quinn rolls her beautiful eyes and allows him to sling an arm around her shoulder. He grunts dramatically at the playful shove she gives him and my hand tightens around the empty bottle on its own accord. I don’t like how friendly they’re being with each other.
And she has a class with Slate too? Something hot flares in my chest. I don’t like that either.
Not. One. Bit.
It’s not right.
Nothing is ever fucking right.
The tattoo gun in my hand shakes and the line squiggles, array, just like my thoughts.
It’s well into the night, yet I’m unable to find sleep again. I tried—I really, truly, did. I was exhausted, laying down in my bed as I shoved my headphones over my ears, praying that the music would keep my haunting thoughts at bay. Flashes of memories shattered the songs, menacing words in my father’s voice slipping between the lyrics, slicing into my brain like spears no matter how loud I turned up the music.
I tossed, turned, and did everything I could to fight away the nasty thoughts, but nothing worked.
After the oil incident with Quinn, I’d cleaned up, disposed of the mess, and headed up to my apartment for a quick shower. Neither she nor Slate were anywhere to be found, so I dipped into the bathroom, feeling greasy from working out in the hot sun.
When I had finished, I’d returned to my phone only to see a message awaiting from my father. I hardly read the first three words before I was swiping it into the trash and trying to shove the reminder of his existence from my head.
My hands shook for a lot longer than I’d ever be willing to admit to anyone, not that I have to worry about it becoming a topic of conversation brought up by me or my roommates.
By the time the pizza arrived that Slate ordered, Quinn was gone and he was calling Ace and I from our rooms, there was only a slight tremor, one I could easily hide.
Still, I wasn’t in the right headspace throughout dinner and I retreated back into my room as soon as I finished my last slice, ignoring Ace calling after me, asking if I wanted to watch a movie with him and Slate.
A part of me did. I want to be able to forget everything in my stupid head and give my full attention to a movie, but tonight isn’t the night for that, apparently. Not with my thoughts aching to be relived like a harrowing film of their own.
So, I’d put my headphones on as to not disturb my roommate’s movie night and pulled down one of the many sketchbooks from the neatly stacked shelf beside my desk.
It had been my therapist’s idea: the sketchbook. That was long before I stopped calling her, but the comfort of drawing always took me away, let me be free. I’ve been practicing since I was young, and the more time I spent doodling on the corners of my homework and tests, the more I fell into it, until, eventually, I decided I wanted to make a career out of it.
Thank you to the therapist I don’t remember the name of, for telling me to buy a sketchbook and use it for when I’m feeling shitty.
Most of the time, when my hands shake or ache with the memories, I push through it, drawing something, nothing , anything I can think of when I’m like this. There are pages shaded completely black, some with random things when I tried forcing myself to think about anything else. Some are of the accident.
Staring at the drawing I just finished, it stares right back, taunting me with its dark, shaky lines and sharp-fanged smile. My chest constricts as I peer into the eyes of my father, the man who hadn’t been able to control himself, keep himself from beating the shit out of me when he found out my lies. His words echo in my head and my fingers tighten around the charcoal pinched between them.
With my breath caught in my throat, I shove away from my chair, slamming the sketchbook shut and binding it with its leather cord, knotting it so tightly that I don’t know if my fucked-up hands will be able to untie it the next time I need to escape these thoughts.
I consider throwing it off a cliff. I considered burning it, tossing it into the lake, digging a hole at the state lines and burying the damned thing. I haven’t done any of that, yet, even though I so desperately want to.
Once my breathing has calmed and my hands stop trembling, I tuck the sketchbook back onto its shelf. I shouldn’t keep it with the rest of my collection in case the drawings in there taint the others, but I choose not to keep it away from the rest for one reason specifically. If someone comes snooping in my room despite the lock on the door, there’s a better chance at them picking up one of the others before that one.
It's also why all of my sketchbooks look the same.
Now, with the memories of drawing those silly fucking pictures, my tattoo looks like a piece of shit.
And the tattoo gun in my hand still shakes.
“Fuck,” I curse, tossing it onto my desk. The clatter cuts through my headphones as it slides, skidding to a stop once it’s knocked into the cup of pencils and sticks of charcoal. A plume of black puffs from the chalk falling from the rim and I glare. “Fuck this!”
Swiping at the jagged lines of the stag I’ve been inking below my kneecap; I scowl at the bite of pain that follows my harsh action. The raggedness of my lines is minimal, but too much for any shop in town to want to hire me. If I can’t figure out how to straighten them, there’s no hope for an apprenticeship at all.
Of course, I have my charcoal drawings to fall back on and the exhibition I have for them is coming up in a few months, but I’ve never wanted anything more than this. I’ve dreamed of becoming a tattoo artist; I love it and I don’t want to give up everything I’ve been working towards.
I slump back in my seat, ripping the latex gloves suctioned to my hands off. I run my fingers through my hair, squeezing my eyes shut tight, swallowing the lump in my throat as I try to breathe deeply.
In. Out. In. Out.
The music is no longer helping. I remove my headphones and shove them into the top drawer of my desk, out of view. I grit my teeth as I catch sight of the decimated skin of my hands, all patched back together like I’m fucking Frankenstein’s monster.
Before I can do something irrational—like smash all of my things to bits, a noise suddenly draws my attention.
It’s not coming from the living room where Ace and Slate are watching some action-packed movie. I can hear the sounds of reckless driving and explosions creeping from beneath my door. This sound, however, has something zipping up my spine, my ears perking as I turn my head, listening intently.
A low moan, muffled by the thin wall connecting my room from Quinn’s. It’s soft and sweet, has my back straightening in my chair, my cheeks growing hotter when I realize that it’s her and the noise is a sensual one.
She must not think I’m home because I’m not blasting music, or maybe she doesn’t care if I am. Maybe it’s her way of getting back at me for all of the times I’ve been rude to her since she moved in.
A low curse emits from her side and I would think she was in pain if I didn’t recognize the sound of lust lining the noises she’s making, the way she seems to be begging for it, chasing her pleasure.
I can imagine her writhing in her bed, hazel eyes hidden behind shut lids and stupidly perfect lips open wide as the filthy noises eke out of her. My cock twitches when Quinn keens, and it’s then that I realize how much of a fucking pervert I am for listening in on this.
I can’t sit here, can’t listen to this. I can’t humanize her or listen to the sweet sounds she’s making through the wall. It’s too weird. As much as it interests my cock, it feels all too wrong to be listening to her pleasure herself though the wall. My body is coiled tighter than it was when I was thinking of the worst moments of my life, and I don’t even realize that my hands have finally stopped quivering.
Springing from my chair, I slip out of my room like my ass is on fire. The warmth coursing through my veins isn’t one of annoyance right now.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think about her the same way again.
“Took you long enough,” Slate complains when I plant myself of the couch beside him, tugging a pillow onto my lap. I need something to hold onto, is all.
Slate shoves a bowl of popcorn my way. I take a handful to distract myself, stuffing the buttery goodness into my very dry mouth. “You’ve missed all the good parts, but we’re watching the sequel next,” Ace says. “Slate will fill you in on what happened before we start the next one.”
“No, I won’t,” Slate protests, completely engrossed in the car chase that’s happening. “He didn’t want to watch it when we asked, so it’s his loss.”
That’s fine, really, because the movie is the furthest thing from my mind.
I can barely focus on what they’re saying, on the brightness of the movie that forces me to squint against every fiery explosion. It’s so different from the soft lighting in my room where I worked.
I refuse to look at anything but the screen but my eyes are unfocused as my mind wanders. When I force them back into clarity, I’m staring right at the door to my room as if I might be able to see past it and through the wall inside.