Hard Knox Page 3

  I’d never exchanged a word with the guy, nor had his wandering gaze ever landed on me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know of him. Other than knowing he was a junior, probably majoring in Single-Handed Bra Removal, the notes scribbled onto just about every woman’s bathroom stall on campus told the rest of the story. Gems like For a good time, call Knox, 1-800-BIG-DICK or Add to Bucket List: Get Fucked by Knox Jagger.

  You know the saying “Everything I needed to learn, I learned in kindergarten”? Yeah, kind of the same with Knox, except it was more like, “Everything I need to know about Knox Jagger, I learned from reading the Sharpie on women’s bathroom walls.” Thus, one pivotal point in the bad boy corner.

  The second? He’d been in so many fights on campus, most guys gave him a wide berth. Supposedly he’d been approached by MMA to see if he was interested in making some money off of his natural “talents.”

  Of course he couldn’t fit the part if he didn’t dress the part. Knox didn’t wear pants unless they were jeans, well worn-in, and easy to tear the fly open. He lived in dark tees that clung to his—no other way to put it—Hot Damn! muscles, and dinged-up, scuffed-up leather motorcycle boots finished the look. He was built like a beast and as tall as one, and everything from his hair to his eyes to his skin fell somewhere on the dark side of the spectrum. The only light parts of him were the whites of his eyes, and even those seemed a few shades darker than everyone else’s.

  All of the rest of the stereotype fell into a tight, long line behind that bad boy: the groupies, the swagger, the bedroom eyes, the crooked smile, the giant Diesel truck, the giggles that followed him down the halls, the way I’d rarely seen his lap without a girl occupying it . . . Knox Jagger was bad boy through and through, which meant I steered clear.

  When one of the girls who’d been flanking Sydney earlier slid up beside Knox, slipping something into his back pocket, I was reminded of something else. The panties. I didn’t know whose brilliant idea it had been to shimmy out of her panties and stuff them into Knox Jagger’s back pocket with her phone number scribbled on them, but whoever it was might be singlehandedly responsible for dragging the entire female gender back into the days pre-suffrage. The word around campus was that at the end of the party, Knox selected his favorite pair, dialed the number, and helped that girl out of the rest of her clothing. Kind of like where you’d toss your name in a hat to see who got to take the first swing at the piñata, except in this version, the winner got to claim I-got-nailed-by-Knox-Jagger rights. From the volume of girls he’d gone through, someone should have been selling shirts. They could make a fortune.

  Not even thirty seconds later, another girl slid up beside Knox, stuffed her panties deep into his back pocket, and took a complimentary ass-grope in the process. Knox barely flinched. He was probably used to it. Hazards to the bad boy rap.

  God, if that was the direction romance was taking, I might as well tap out. I wanted nothing to do with throwing my panties at a guy then spending the rest of the night waiting in anticipation for his booty call.

  When I saw a third girl bee-lining his way, I made myself look away. Knox Jagger and his conquests and conquest-wannabes were the train-wreck I had trouble looking away from. So I took a sip of the putrid beer, and after puckering up and shaking my head to clear the taste, I turned my focus elsewhere. My notepad was in hand, my pen was full of ink, and my mood was especially sour, which, in my experience, meant the article would be that much richer. Happy, optimistic people didn’t write Pulitzer Prize-winning material—grumpy, pessimistic cynics did.

  I’d perused through some of the frat rosters earlier to figure out who the freshmen guys were, but I would have saved myself the work if I’d known they’d have a giant red L scribbled onto their foreheads. Nothing like some good, old-fashioned hazing . . . I mean, “initiation”. The girls I didn’t have a list of, but I didn’t need one. We were only a few weeks into school, so the freshman girls still hadn’t figured out that frat guys were the spawn of Satan. Those girls would be the ones drinking to excess, taking drinks from guys they’d exchanged less than a dozen words with, and climbing into any guy’s bed who’d proclaimed his “feelings” for her. After a few more weeks, the freshmen would be just as jaded as the rest of us, although plenty would still throw themselves at anyone with a pulse and a cute dimple because maybe after enough guys and walks of shame, they’d find their Prince Charming.

  Cue the sarcasm . . .

  Rushing to the arm of a sofa that had just opened up, I plopped down, situated my beer between my legs, and put pen to paper. My first subject staggered up to the keg. I remembered his picture from one of the rosters, although his eyes had been clearer and his smile less stupid in his photo. He was Ben something or other, so that’s what I wrote down. I wasn’t looking to expose people, only the topic. If I wanted to publicly shame people, there was no shortage of subjects or material, but I hadn’t stooped to that journalistic low yet. I knew I’d have to one day though. I couldn’t write about topics my entire career without getting my hands dirty with people. People with first, middle, and last names and plenty of filthy secrets.

  To prove myself as a journalist who wasn’t afraid to make enemies, I’d have to make that leap one day soon, but I was waiting for the right subject—for a person I actually wanted to boil in a vat of hot oil. Sydney Barrister was high on the list, but if I was interested in writing about blond bimbos, there wasn’t a shortage of that flourishing species to target . . . ones whose idea of a solid burn was more creative than calling me a crazy bitch. I’d been being called a crazy bitch since second grade. Time for new material, people.

  Ben something or other looked to be a good five or six beers into the night, but since I hadn’t witnessed the exact number, I started with one mark under his name and grumbled a curse at myself. I thought I’d gotten there early enough, but I guessed no time was too early to start drinking on a Friday. Plus, I’d been sidetracked by Sydney, Beck, and Knox and Knox’s bed-warmer hopefuls.

  Usually I did a better job of staying focused when I was on assignment, but I was off my game. I could have called it a night and set my sights on a different party tomorrow, but the thought of gaining access to another one of these, waiting in a long line for another thirty-cent beer, and suffering more damage to my eardrums kept me where I was.

  Another guy with an L on his forehead—Levi with a last name that began with a G—stumbled up to the keg next with one of those doe-eyed freshmen girls hanging off his arm. I didn’t know her name, so after writing down Levi G, I added “girl with flowery dress and red shoes.” I could have used the tags, “giant melons spilling from said flowery dress” or “suggestive lower-lip biter,” but she didn’t need one more person in the room objectifying her. One surly reporter included.

  I had nearly a dozen freshmen names or clothing identifiers scribbled in my notepad when Ben found his way back to the keg. If he was going for a beer every ten minutes, the guy could be a dozen deep instead of the four or five I’d initially guessed. I judged his weight at around one fifty, which meant the guy had some serious blood-alcohol issues, as was made clear when he hurled all over the girl in front of him. The poor girl screamed as if he’d driven a knife into her back before she sprinted for what I hoped was the bathroom. The hurler wiped his mouth, shrugged, and handed his cup to the keg guy. The drinking must go on . . .

  I was shaking my head as I tallied another mark under Ben, and I noticed someone move up beside me. I was packed between dozens of people, but that one was clearly trying to get my attention. Hoping whoever it was would take a hint and move along, I pretended to be busy making notes. After my fifth nonsensical sentence, I blew out a long breath and glanced up. Then I nearly slipped off the sofa arm.

  “You’re that Charlie Chase girl, aren’t you?”

  I gave myself two seconds to compose myself before answering. I’d be damned if I was one of those girls who stammered and fidgeted around him. “You’re Knox Jagger. I won’t add the �
��aren’t you” because your reputation precedes you.” I managed to keep my voice level and my tone even. To further impress the point that I wasn’t the least bit fazed, I lifted an eyebrow and waited.

  At first, he looked at me with widened eyes and a flat expression, almost as if he’d seen a ghost—and yes, my skin color might have been to blame—but it didn’t last long. The shock morphed into the half-smirk he usually had plastered on his face. At this range, he seemed like a damn statue towering above me. I could detect the hint of his cologne or aftershave or deodorant, or whatever scent device bad boys preferred, and his dark eyes seemed to suggest all things of an illicit nature. The scar on his chin I’d never noticed from far off only heightened the badass vibe.

  When I realized I was making note of his eyes and his scars and the span of his chest, I vowed to find a flogger and have Harlow give me fifty lashes. I wasn’t one of those girls, and I’d chew my own arm off before I let some guy who spent more time using his dick than his brain reduce me to one of those girls.

  He leaned into the wall and stuffed his hands into his front pockets, since his back ones were overflowing with lacy, racy unmentionables. “My reputation really gets in the way of that whole mysterious aura I like to give off.”

  “The only mystery is how you haven’t wound up as the poster child for what not to do if you don’t want to become a breeding ground for sexually transmitted diseases.”

  After chuckling a few low notes, he grinned at me. “I like you even more now.”

  I scooted farther down the arm of the couch, trying to put as much space between him and me the furniture would allow. “Am I to infer from that statement that you somehow liked me before you meandered over here? Oh, and quick tip, I’m not one of the girls whose panties are in your back pocket if that was the qualifier for you ‘liking’ me already.” I plastered on a smile and tapped my pen against my leg.

  “You’re the one who wrote that article in the newspaper about how all of you virgins are the new Hester Prynnes.”

  The first piece of evidence that didn’t point toward the bad boy label—he’d referenced classic literature. I didn’t know whether to be shocked, impressed, or look for the four charging horsemen.

  “Hester Prynne? As in the Scarlet Letter’s Hester Prynne?” I asked, unable to hide my bewilderment.

  His forehead wrinkled. “Is there another Hester Prynne?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but I’m guessing you’re familiar with more female names and numbers than I am.” I eyed the back of his jeans and tried not to curl my nose. Both pockets were stuffed so full, a few pairs looked ready to fall out.

  “No names, just numbers.” Pulling a pair from his pocket, he held it out for my inspection.

  My gaze skimmed the shimmery pink panties—no name, just a number. “Romance is dead.”

  He didn’t hide his smirk as he stuffed the booty call back into his pocket. “Don’t give me that look. It’s not like I’m the one solely responsible for killing it.”

  “Maybe not solely. But you and others like you of the XY chromosome are.”

  He patted his back pockets then scanned the room, his eyes lingering on girls who were dancing more like strippers than students. “From the looks of it, you of the XX chromosome are just as much to blame for killing romance.” He inclined his chin at a girl close by who looked to be polishing a guy’s crotch with her ass. “If girls were fighting for romance, they wouldn’t leave these things until my pockets were bursting at the seams.”

  My jaw tightened. I’d convinced myself I’d pity the guy who approached me tonight, but given who it was and his wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am reputation, pity wasn’t registering. “Is that an excuse for your reprehensible behavior?”

  “Nope. Just a fact. You know, one of those things you search for when you set out to write an article.” When his eyes landed back on me, there was amusement in them.

  Unbelievable. The guy was having a jolly old time while I wanted to spit nails through his amused eyes.

  “Do you realize space is fast becoming a shrinking commodity? Maybe you should stop wasting some of it with your presence on this planet.” I waved with a raised brow, suggesting he find the edge of the planet and take a flying leap.

  Knox’s reaction to probably one of my top-shelf insults? Tipping his head into the wall behind him and chuckling. “Damn. You really are just like you seem from your articles.”

  “Charming and demure?”

  “Almost as much as myself.”

  “Sorry to confirm your suspicions,” I muttered into my cup before taking a small swig. From being trapped between my legs, the beer had warmed, making it somehow even worse.

  “I’m not. It’s a nice change of pace to have a girl fire words and glares at me instead of cleavage and underwear.”

  I let out a sharp huff. “Yeah, because having a harem of women follow your every footstep, ready to fulfill your every wish and desire, is a real inconvenience for a guy like you.”

  Of course that was when a raven-haired girl with dark skin and long legs sashayed up to him and gave him a smile that suggested so much, I shifted in my seat. Stuffing yet another pair of panties—although there was so little material involved I wasn’t sure they could be classified as such—into his pocket, she whispered something into his ear that made one side of his mouth twist up. Then she sashayed back into the crowd.

  With a grunt of disbelief, I crossed my arms and looked at him.

  “Oh, yeah. A real inconvenience.” His eyes matched that twisted grin, almost as if he was already in the bedroom with her and performing some kind of filthy act that generated an excess of sighs and sweat.

  “So the rumors are true?”

  “Rumors rarely are, but which ones are you referring to specifically?” Knox diverted his attention from where the dark-haired siren had disappeared back to me.

  “The one having to do with the contents of your back pockets. How at the end of the night, you sort through your take, select your favorite, then give one lucky lady a call.”

  The guy looked at me as though there was a joke I wasn’t in on. That tilted smile, those knowing eyes, his confident stance . . . it grated on my every last nerve.

  “You’ve left something out,” he answered with a shrug.

  “What have I left out?” Other than spelling out the act that followed the phone call, I was pretty sure I’d gotten the gist.

  “I don’t call one girl.” He shook his head once, his eyes flashing. “I call them all.”

  My eyebrows hit the ceiling before I convinced myself that in order to booty call every single number in his pockets, the guy would have to clone himself at least a dozen times. “That’s a joke. Good one.”

  Knox’s face flattened, his mouth drawing into a hard line for the first time. “Sure. Because this is my ‘I’m joking’ face.” When he crossed his arms with his stern expression, he looked every bit the kind of a guy I wouldn’t want to cross paths with on a dark sidewalk.

  “For real? You call every single girl who stuffs her silkies into your pocket?” I had to be missing something. There wasn’t enough Viagra in this county or the next one over to keep a guy “at attention” for that many girls in quick succession. Although if there was even some truth to what he’d just said, I supposed I didn’t need to wonder why one of his many nicknames on campus was Hard Knox . . .

  “For real.”

  “So what are you then? Cyborg, alien, Greek god reincarnated, vampire?” My eyes ran over him. If I’d had a proclivity toward believing in the supernatural, Knox Jagger would have been suspect. “Some kind of sexual dynamo?”

  “Sexual dynamo?” he repeated in a tone that suggested he was just that. “No. And that’s my answer for the rest of your creative, yet incorrect, guesses. I’m just a twenty-one-year-old guy with average urges and appetites.”

  My mouth fell open a bit. “Average? If you consider average”—I tilted my head back to take an educated guess at the number of
women’s underwear packing his pockets—“two to three dozen ‘appetite suppressants’ a night, you need to talk to someone. Preferably someone who specializes in sexual psychology because I’m afraid, my friend, that you might have a bad case of what is known as libido-overdrive.”

  Slowly, Knox kneeled beside me. His amused eyes never left mine. If it weren’t for the bodies packed onto the couch behind me, I would have slid back from my perch, because I didn’t particularly like being at eye-level with Knox Jagger. For reasons I couldn’t quite identify.

  “Or maybe you’re suffering from what is known as libido-underdrive.” With a waggle of his brows, he nudged my leg with his elbow.

  I also didn’t particularly like being touched by Knox Jagger—for yet more reasons I couldn’t quite identify.

  “Friend,” he tacked on as if it was some sort of code word shared between us.

  I practically snorted. “Hate to break it to you, but that isn’t exactly an earth-shattering revelation. Especially since I was the one who wrote the autobiographical article you went all Hester Prynne on me about.”

  He shuffled a little closer. Probably because the volume of the music had just dialed up a few hundred decibels. “Yeah, but just because you aren’t partaking in urges and appetites doesn’t mean you’re not feeling them, right?”

  What kind of conversation was I having? Appetites, libido overdrive, sexual dynamos, and God knew what else would follow. I could have been reading the script from some basement-budget porn film. “Let’s get one thing out in the open now, big guy, before you go and get any ideas about you being the one to tap into my so-called pent-up urges—”

  “Too late,” he interrupted with a wide smile.

  My blood heated. I was trying to have a serious conversation about an awkward topic, and he was making jokes. What was it so many women saw in this guy? Other than a hot-damn face and a hot-double-damn body, the guy oozed so much conceit, I could almost see it puddling across the floor. “My panties, thank you very much, are not, will not, nor will they ever wind up in your back pocket for you to staple to your bedroom wall.”