Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Knox
T his is ridiculous.
Correction... I’m ridiculous.
You’d think I was at the White House about to meet another president or foreign dignitary. Not preparing for an interview with a journalist, like I have a million times before. But none of them were a goddamn blinding light that made it impossible to sleep at night.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was stalking me. But she’s always where I need to be before I get there. It’s not like I’m at the gym and then she shows up. She beats me there every time. Hell, with the way I’m always searching for her, maybe I’m the stalker.
I know what time she’s going to be at the gym, so why don’t I get there earlier? Why did I go to the locker room to get a glass of water and take my sweet-ass time leaving after my workout yesterday? Was I hoping to share an elevator with her again?
And why, for the love of God, did I feel more alive arguing with her yesterday afternoon than I have anywhere but the stage for longer than I can remember? Even with her anger aimed at me, the earth shifts, and I feel lighter when I’m around her.
Lighter, yet confused.
Turned on and furious.
It’s impossible all of those things can be true at once, but they are.
I’ve adjusted the carafes of ice water, coffee, and juice sitting on the coffee table five times now, needing to keep myself busy while I wait for the auburn-haired beauty to arrive. I’m about to rearrange the glasses next to the beverages again when there’s a knock at the door.
Glancing at my watch, I smile because she’s eight minutes early. Growing up, Mom and Dad taught us that if you aren’t five minutes early, you’re late. My parents gave me more sage advice than any kid could ever remember, but their words about being on time stuck. Not sure why, but it did.
Looks like Ryan was raised the same way. My kind of girl.
“She is not your kind of girl,” I mutter under my breath before reaching for the door.
Pulling it open, my heart stutters, the vision in front of me leaving me speechless.
With no one and nothing around to distract me, I give her my full attention.
It’s like seeing her in HD and she’s flawless.
Her goddamn eyes are a soothing deep chocolate that instantly warms my icy demeanor.
I’d love to examine every freckle dancing over her high cheekbones and perfect nose, but she interrupts my perusal.
“Are you going to let me in, or did you change your mind?”
Real subtle, McKinnon. You’re staring at the woman .
“Nope, come on in.”
Shoving my embarrassment down deep, because fuck me, if I don’t feel my face heating, I step out of her way.
When was the last time I blushed? Freshman year of high school? And this woman has brought it on twice now.
She floats past me, the smell of vanilla following her, as does the fabric of her long black maxi dress. I gently click the door closed, counting to three before turning around to face her.
A cropped cream sweater covers her shoulders, and the girl is rockin’ Birkenstocks and a headful of waves.
If her make-up free face and casual attire are supposed to give off the impression she didn’t make an effort for our meeting, she’s more than missed her mark, because she has never looked more beautiful.
And I have never been more screwed.
“So, where do you want me?”
You don’t want to know, darlin.
Like the gentleman I am, I keep my desires to myself. “I figure over here will work.” I guide her to the plush couch next to the coffee table. “Do you want something to drink? I have water, coffee, or juice?”
“I’m good with water, thanks. Do you mind if I record this?” she asks, holding her phone up.
“Nope.” Shaking on the inside, it’s a miracle I keep my hand steady as I fill her glass. I take a seat in one of the two matching chairs on the other side of the table.
She’s got me off my game.
As soon as my ass hits the leather chair she gets to work, filling me in on the things she’d like to cover over the coming weeks.
I’m impressed with the depth of research she’s done.
This won’t be a fluff piece. She knows her Hollow Knocks history.
Sure, she’s gleaned some of it from the hours spent with the rest of the Knocks family these last few weeks, but something tells me that’s not it.
She’s put in the work. It’s rare for journalists to want more than your typical puff piece or scandalous expose.
Sipping her water, she looks over her notes. I take the break in her barrage of questions to tell her how impressed I am with the thoughtful approach she’s taking for the article.
Tilting her head, she squints her eyes, looking at me as though she isn’t sure if it’s a dig or if I really mean it. I suppose that’s to be expected with the way things have been between us. Her odd reaction lasts only a moment before she begins again.
“Did you always know you wanted to leave Goose Hollow or was it just once the music started taking off?”
“I always knew.”
That’s a lie. It never crossed my mind until that fateful day my senior year of high school. After that day, everything about my hometown changed. I knew I could never stay. I keep this to myself, like I have for the last two decades.
“Do you still feel that way? You think you’ll ever want to go back to small town life?”
I think about Goose Hollow every day. I’ve been back home more in the last year and a half than usual.
First when Dad passed and then for the holidays and Callen and Charlie’s wedding.
One of the hardest times in my life and then one of the happiest watching my brother marry my friend and the band’s lawyer of many years.
I miss the ranch and the simple life. But there’s more to it than that.
“Someday.”
“What do you miss most?”
“My family,” I say, keeping my answers short and sweet.
“You’re the oldest of four siblings. Is that why you always knew you wanted out? Wanted your own space?”
“Well, living in a van with your four best friends and a shit ton of equipment doesn’t provide much space. But, something like that,” I lie.
I don’t like that the conversation has turned to home. Her questions are innocent enough, but my spidey-senses are tingling. I rarely share my personal life with journalists, and she’s dancing close to the edge of what I’m willing to answer.
I can tell she’s noticed by the way she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, eyeing me as a hint of a grin pulls at one corner of her mouth. My clipped answers don’t deter her at all. If anything, she seems amused. Maybe preparing for another of our verbal sparring matches.
But rather than pushing me, she reins herself in and sits up, returning to a safer topic. “So, when did you realize music was your passion?”
I’ve answered a variation of this question many times. She’s back in my safety zone.
“It started as a joke. Sean and Matt were playing around in Matt’s garage, and I was just hanging out.
Back then, they played together and Sean sang, but it was just for fun.
I’d sat in that garage listening to them play more times than I can count, but one day I got bored and stole the mic from Sean to sing along to the Pearl Jam song they were covering.
I fucking nailed it, which surprised us all.
Afterward we all just stared at each other, stunned.
They had no idea I could sing. Hell, I didn’t know I could sing.
I had never tried. But just like that... ” I snap my fingers. “My life changed.”
“Did it take time to find your voice?”
I shrug. “That first day or two we tried a bunch of different songs. It didn’t take long to find my sweet spot.”
“Who were your inspirations when you were a kid hanging in Matt’s garage?”
Letting out a disappointed exhale that she’s asking me questions every journalist asks, I answer her next handful on autopilot.
I wonder how many freckles you have?
With all those curls, how crazy is your hair when you wake up in the morning?
Is your skin as soft as it looks?
“Talk to me about your relationship with the other guys in the band.”
This question grabs my attention, stopping my musings about her freckles. “They’re my best friends. My family.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
Distracted by the bounce of her foot keeping the beat of a song only she can hear, I don’t realize I haven’t answered until she clears her throat.
“What would you like to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
It’s irrational, but I want her to know everything.
And dammit, I trust her. But that voice in the back of my mind screams at me, reminding me how stupid it would be to tell a reporter all my deepest, darkest secrets.
Or even scarier, how I actually feel about some of the most important people in my life.
Keeping my mask in place, I give my well-rehearsed answer about growing up together and how lucky I am to have gone on the adventure of a lifetime with my best friends. Including our manager, Trevor. How it’s always been the five of us.
“And what about the new normal? Having the kids and wives on tour with you. I’m sure it’s changed your rock star lifestyles.”
Her question about the kids throws me. What is she trying to imply?
“Of course, but mostly for the rest of the band. No kids on tour for me,” I state the obvious, and nausea churns in my stomach. “But we make it work. Family is number one. Always has been.”
For fuck’s sake, why do I sound so insincere? I’m reading too much into her question. I know I am. But I still want to scream, cry, and rip my hair out.
Her foot is bouncing again. Is this her tell? If so, what does it mean?
“So, Mr. McKinnon, how would you like to do this going forward?”
“Oh, so now it’s Mr. McKinnon, is it?”
“Well, you don’t seem thrilled to have me here. I’d like to make this as easy on you as possible.”
And here I thought my mask was in place. Great work, dickhead.
“You’re with us through the end of the tour, right? ”
“Yes, you won’t be able to escape me for the next couple months.”
Fuck my life.
“How about we try to be less formal? Besides, you are writing about the band and the tour, not personal deep dives on each of us, right?”
“Well, the more personal the piece, the more invested readers will be.”
My hackles are back up.
“Are you looking for a scandal or a scintillating story?”
“Not at all. But fans love that the four of you are childhood friends. It’s more than a band, it’s a family. You said so yourself.”
“Let’s see how it goes.” I stand, indicating we’re done for today. “I’d prefer we do more group things and less one-on-one.”
Ryan stiffens. She thinks my self-preservation is me rejecting her after things went so well this afternoon.
She doesn’t realize what she does to me.
How much I want to tell her. I feel awful, because she’s been nothing but professional today, but she’s still a member of the media and I’m still very attracted to her.
I need some distance if I stand a chance at keeping things professional.
“Here,” I say, handing her my phone. “Add your number.”
She punches in her digits and hands it back.
I cross the room toward the door. “I’ll be in touch,” I say, lifting the phone in the air so she understands.
She gathers her belongings like a deer in headlights. As she crosses the room to where I stand holding the door open for her, she whispers, “Thank you for your time. ”
She sounds meek, and I don’t like it. I miss the ball of fire she usually hurls in my direction.
I didn’t intend to be rude. Besides protecting her from me, I want her piece to showcase all of us. Articles about the Hollow Knocks too often focus on me, but we’ve always been a team. There is no me without the guys.
“Hey, Ryan,” I call after her just as the elevator arrives. She puts her hand out to hold the door. “It’s important that this is about? all of us.”
Her eyes brighten and the corner of her mouth lifts. “Of course. I understand.” She steps into the elevator and disappears.
Relieved to have made her smile I vow to myself never to make her feel this way again. I have a new idea for communicating with her to help her write her story while keeping her at a safe distance and allowing me to stay somewhat in control of the situation.