Hard Knox Page 8

  “His general debauchery is only the tip of the iceberg. The juicy details I’ve been digging for are far more news-worthy. Not to mention bound to result in a felony if we can dig up the facts to support it.”

  Kicking the beanbag with my heel, I popped out of the thing. “To support what?” When I wondered how she might reply, I realized I probably should have stayed sitting down.

  Neve cleared her throat, leaning even farther across her desk. “Knox Jagger is the one distributing the majority of the date-rape drugs here at Sinclair.”

  I didn’t feel my knees giving out until I crashed back onto the beanbag couch with a loud whoosh! “That’s not possible.”

  “Why? Because you spent a few lucid hours with him and he held a washcloth to your head?” Neve popped open her candy jar and held it out, probably because she was worried I was going to pass out. “Just because you hope a person’s innocent doesn’t make them so.”

  After digging a cinnamon disk free, I unwrapped it and popped the candy into my mouth. I barely felt the heat of it on my tongue. “What makes you think Knox is . . .”

  “A drug dealer? A date-rape drug dealer?” Her words almost made me flinch. “Because of the facts and evidence my sources have brought to me.”

  “What evidence? Which sources?” I moved the candy around in my mouth, still tasting nothing. I might as well have been sucking on air.

  “You know I can’t reveal my sources. That’s journalism ethics 101. But I will happily show you my evidence when you bring me some of your own. You’ll need it all to write the article.”

  My body froze. “You actually think I’m going to write the article? No way. This is your thing, what you’ve been accumulating evidence for. You write the article.”

  The idea of taking down the very person who’d come to my rescue when no one else did didn’t settle well . . . or at all. Plus, I was sure Neve or her sources or her evidence had gotten their wires crossed. Knox wasn’t who she claimed he was. I didn’t need to have spent a year with him to know that. As journalists, we relied on our guts as much as we relied on evidence, and my gut had not raised any drug-pusher flags around Knox.

  “I’m a teacher. I can’t write an article about a student. It could be construed as some kind of conflict of interest. You have to write it—you’re one of my best writers, and you’ve made it into Knox Jagger’s inner circle.”

  I wanted out of this rabbit hole—and I wanted out fast. “I don’t have time to fit anything else in. I’ve got to finish the underage binge-drinking piece. Then I’ve got the one on the correlation between sleep and G.P.A, and then—”

  “Finish the article you’re working on now, and then your assignment for the rest of the semester is to work on the Knox Jagger piece.” I was already opening my mouth to argue when she continued, “You want a 4.0 in this class? You want a glowing recommendation when the Times comes looking for a reference for their summer internship?” She let a quirked brow fill in the rest.

  I concentrated on keeping my heart from leaping into my throat. “Why tie up one of your top students for the rest of the semester on an article that very likely won’t pan out? Our school newspaper sees the inside of more trashcans than either you or I’d like to admit. I’m not sure anyone even read the last article I published.”

  Neve chuckled as she slipped her glasses back into position, her fingers already moving for the typewriter. “Oh, believe me, plenty of people will be reading this article. And don’t you worry about this one not panning out. We’re already halfway there.”

  “Unless we print a naked photo of Knox on the front page, no one’s going to read the article.”

  “Then it’s a good thing this article’s going out on a state-wide level. Maybe one or two people will read it.” Her fingers fired across the typewriter again as a slow smile went into place.

  I gaped at her. “The article isn’t even done, and it won’t be, according to you, for at least a few more months. How did you manage to get the big boys to agree to print a non-existent article that far out in the future?”

  If Neve was being honest and had managed to get state-level papers to print the article, it was the opportunity to make my name—to alert the journalism world that I was coming and to watch out. Few graduate students got an opportunity like this one, and I was only a college sophomore.

  “Let’s just say that Knox Jagger’s reputation spreads farther than just to the four corners of this campus,” Neve explained. “So? Are you going to do it, or will I to have to give the assignment to someone else?”

  As I squirmed on that beanbag couch, I found myself in a serious conundrum. One half of me urged myself not to take the article because I owed Knox. The other half was pushing myself toward taking the assignment. Not only did it have the potential to cement my place in journalism, but it also gave me the chance to disprove Neve’s sources and their supposed evidence. I might have seemed juvenile and misguided, but I was going with my gut on this one. Knox Jagger was not a drug dealer—especially a dealer of the kind of drugs Neve said he was.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, rising from the couch made in beanbag hell. “If only to prove to you and everyone else that Knox Jagger is innocent.”

  Neve stopped. Grabbing a fat red marker, she shoved out of her chair and moved across the room to the giant calendar pinned on the wall.

  “What are you doing?” I asked as she drew an X through one of the days.

  “Marking the day when you’ll be standing in front of me again, in that same spot, admitting that Knox Jagger is the very opposite of what you just claimed he is.”

  I WAS HEADING to another Greek party. Just paint me platinum and call me Chloe.

  If I had one reason to be thankful to be working on the Knox article for the next few months, it was that I wouldn’t have to attend any more of these things and pretend to have a kick-ass time. The only kick-ass time I’d ever genuinely experienced at a frat party had been when I’d nearly lodged my foot up some guy’s ass after he asked me to flog his bishop.

  Since I was so close to finishing my underage binge-drinking article, Neve had given me this weekend to wrap it up. After that, I was to focus on nothing else journalism-related unless it was Knox and the dark and sinister world she was convinced he was at the very center of.

  He’d stopped by Harlow’s and my dorm room on Tuesday to check on me while I’d been at class, but otherwise, we seemed back to pretending we were on different worlds. If I’d seen him around, I would have stopped him to say hey—plus, I still owed him a batch of thank-you cookies or a case of beer. By Friday night, I was wondering if I’d ever get within an arm’s-length of him again without slipping him my panties or slipping him free of his own. How could I prove a person’s innocence when they’d seemed to vanish into thin air?

  En route to the party, I forced myself to forget about Knox and focus on the task at hand. I was lucky to have a second chance at this, and I knew a third wouldn’t be given. If I didn’t gather what I needed tonight, I’d be chucking the article come Sunday, and the thought of forfeiting an article because I’d failed was something I wasn’t sure I could tolerate. Tonight’s party was being hosted by one of the frats—the one notorious for throwing the best parties on campus—and in addition to being held in a clandestine location, it was a themed party . . . which was another way of describing my personal party hell.

  The theme for tonight’s soiree? Cops and robbers. Chalk another point in the column that guys never really do grow up. To gain admission, the requirements were fairly simple. First you had to find the party, then you had to show up to it handcuffed to a member of the opposite sex. You know, so at the end of the night, since your wrists were already tangled up together, the rest of your bodies could follow.

  Since I didn’t have a boyfriend, a boy who was a friend, or a boy acquaintance, I got creative. After assuring Harlow I was staying home for the night as I pushed her out the door to celebrate her six-month anniversary with Jake at a
fancy restaurant, I’d snagged a pillow out of the bag she’d been filling with things to drop off at Goodwill. I wasn’t exactly sure who was stamped onto the oversized pillow I’d clamped the other end of my handcuffs around, but I think he was some teen pop icon . . . who couldn’t sing. Or dance. Or not look like a goober from every camera angle.

  Whoever the dude with the saggy britches and pompadour hair was, he was my date for the night. I was the cop, and he was the robber. Or the other way around. Whatever. I got more than my fair share of second looks as I traipsed around campus with a pop prince pillow dangling from my wrist, but I was used to getting second looks. Tonight’s shirt was neon green with bold black letters that read Some People’s Kids. Most girls slid into their finest slut wear when they headed to a frat party; I donned my finest keep-the-hell-away wear.

  As to the “clandestine” location of the party, all a person had to do was follow the steady flow of handcuffed couples crossing campus. They might as well have hung a line of flashing arrows. From the looks of where the bodies were disappearing, the party was being held in one of the old facility buildings. Because nothing says sophistication like the dusty, moldy crypts of some building-sized janitor’s closet . . .

  My phone rang when I was still a few paces away from the entrance. I groaned when I saw who was calling, but I answered the phone just the same. It was like parents had built-in radar when it came to their kids heading to a party.

  “I was just about to call you guys at ten o’clock on a Friday night,” I greeted, leaning into the building wall.

  “We know how much you look forward to your late-night weekend chats with your dad and me,” my mom said in her just-as-chipper-as-it-was-cheerful voice.

  “Is my next-to-non-existent social life that obvious? Even from hundreds of miles away?” I smiled when I heard the dull roar in the background. It sounded like my little sister and dad were battling it out over a game of Scrabble.

  “I’m afraid it’s obvious from the surface of Saturn, Charlie-Bug.”

  I tried not to grimace—but really, how long would my mom call me Charlie-Bug? The answer my mind jumped to disturbed me. “Thanks for the pep talk, Mom. Always appreciated.”

  My mom laughed as water ran in the background. They’d probably just finished dessert, and she was working on the dishes while Dad and Kia duked it out over little wooden letters. I sighed, feeling a tinge of homesickness. I’d decided not to tell my parents what had happened last weekend, at least for now, because I wasn’t sure if they could do or say anything to help. But I really could have gone for a piece of my mom’s mud pie and a solid hug from my dad.

  “I think you’re one of the most brilliant, thoughtful, compassionate, beautiful, promising, hard-working people in the world,” Mom said as dishes sloshed around in the sink. “How was that for a pep talk?”

  “Better.” I covered my phone as a group of hooting and hollering partygoers stumbled by. They all looked one drink away from puking into the bushes. “So what’s up? To what do I owe the honor of a Friday-night call? I know this is normally Dad’s and your preferred time to tear up the town.”

  Mom huffed. She and my dad might have had some wild times in the past, but the craziest they got now was when they cracked open a bottle of wine that cost more than ten bucks. “I just wanted to check on you. After talking with you Tuesday, I felt like you were a bit . . . distracted.” My mom’s tone indicated that wasn’t quite the word she’d been searching for. “I wanted to check in to see if there was anything I could do or anything you wanted to talk about.” When I stayed silent, she exhaled. “Or you could just feed me a line of bull about you being okay and not to worry like the rest of the kids your age tell their parents.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” I could almost see her raised brow. “Really. I’ve just been busy with school, and I’m starting to feel like I’m burning the candle at both ends.” I didn’t relish lying to my parents, but that wasn’t really a lie. It was more an omission. Why make them lose sleep when I had no way of ever knowing who’d been responsible for slipping me the roofie? Some things were just better swept under the rug—especially things a person could neither change nor solve.

  “Why don’t you take a long weekend and fly home? We’ll send you a ticket. You can sleep in and I’ll do my best to fatten you back up and we can watch black-and-white movies and stay in our pajamas all day. That might be just the mini reprieve you need.”

  It was. And yet it wasn’t. “That sounds amazing, but I can’t afford to take a whole weekend off right now. My schedule’s insane, and weekends aren’t really a time of R&R around here.” Another loud crowd of handcuffed students jogged by. “At least not for me.” I wondered for the umpteenth time how some of those kids had made it past kindergarten, let alone into a solid university.

  “Well, what if we came to you? We could check into one of the hotels by the campus, take you out to dinner, bring you coffee, try not to get in your busy way too much . . .”

  “That sounds amazing, Mom, but I’m afraid, with my workload, the only times you guys would see me were when I was bent over my desk, en route to the library, bathroom, or mini-fridge, or when I took a break to throw darts at my course schedule.” In addition to carrying an overload of credits, I was also trying to play the part of an intrepid reporter, which was its own full-time job. Plus, there was the whole issue of me having to embed myself into Knox’s life so I could disprove Neve’s theory. I’d be lucky to squeeze in a few hours of sleep over the next few months. I might as well wave sayonara to my social schedule.

  “Why am I getting the subtle feeling you’re trying to give us the brush-off?” she teased.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

  “My, my. Someone’s in a mood.”

  I chuckled. “When have I not been in a mood?”

  “Good point.” Her tone gave away the smile on her face. “Shall I just send our love and a few batches of peanut butter cup cookies?”

  “When have I ever said no to love or peanut butter cup cookies?”

  Mom clucked her tongue. “The cookies, never. The love, more often than I’d like to think.”

  I glared at my “date” for the night dangling from the other end of the handcuffs. If this wasn’t just all too ironic given my mom’s last comment. “Say hey to Dad and Kia for me.”

  “Will do,” Mom replied.

  “And thanks for checking in.” I kicked at the ground with the toe of one of my purple Mary Janes. “I know it seems like I don’t need anyone or anything, but sometimes I’m just really good at pretending.”

  Mom laughed softly. “Charlie-Bug, I figured that out the first time I came into your bedroom during a big thunderstorm to tell you that you could hop into our bed. You told me you were fine, but I found you curled up at the foot of our bed the next morning. Just because you pride yourself on being independent doesn’t mean you have to go it alone.”

  Mom always knew just what to say at just the right time. Without knowing I’d been dragging one around, a heavy burden slid off my back. “And on that wise note, I’m going to bid you adieu.”

  “To you and you and you,” Mom sang in her best pre-pubescent male voice.

  “Yikes. When Sound of Music breaks out, I’m gone.”

  “Love you, Charlie-Bug.”

  “Love you too, Mom.” I ended the call with a smile, feeling that child-like belief that everything would be okay . . . and that was when a half-dressed, handcuffed couple tumbled through the bushes to slam into the wall beside me.

  The girl didn’t notice me, but the guy did. Other than a waggle of his brows, he got on with his business like I wasn’t three feet away from them. That whole “childlike outlook” withered away.

  “Have a nice night,” I said stiffly as I hurried away.

  Their only reply came in the form of a few grunts.

  Back out on the sidewalk, I followed the stream of students wandering around the back of the building. There was a bit of a lin
e at the door, and while I waited, a muffled chorus of snickers trickled around me. Some of the more brazen students pointed at me and my date while guffawing. One guy slid up beside me, wrapped an arm around me, lifted Pop Prince to his genital region, made a rock on symbol, and had the girl he was handcuffed to take a picture. I was debating whether to beat him over the head with Pop Prince or stomp on his foot when someone solved my problem for me.

  A tall shadow shouldered up beside me, towering over the photo-op dude. “Such an accurate depiction, Aaron. The only thing non-discerning enough to go down on you is an oversized pillow.”

  The crowd burst into laughter, pointing their fingers at someone else. The flushing guy bowed his head and stepped back into line.

  “Sorry, Knox,” he muttered, all bravado long gone.

  “Do it again, and you will be.”

  Aaron raised his hands and backed away until he’d disappeared inside the building with his cops-and-robbers compatriot. Knox stayed beside me, stepping up in line as I did.

  “Hello or hey is the generally accepted form of greeting a person,” he said after a moment, nudging me.

  The nudge almost made me jump . . . but why, I don’t know. “Hey.” My voice was high. “Hello.”

  “One is usually sufficient, but knock yourself out,” he teased with another nudge.

  “Keep it up, and I’m about to issue a Get lost.” I glanced at him, trying not to think about what Neve had accused him of, trying not to think about the implications if it were true . . . Which it wasn’t.

  “I’m thinking about saying the exact same thing to you,” he said, all lightness gone from his voice.