The Outsider: Hard Knox Part 4

"Would you please just stop and think? Reserve your comments and finger-of-guilt for one minute to think about everything I've said. Don't just blame me because I'm the only guy close by. Not fair and not cool. Especially since I was the one to swoop in and save you last night."

So many words flew to the tip of my tongue. So many things were begging to be released, but instead of letting my words fly, I kept quiet and processed everything I'd just heard.

I had to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths before my emotions receded, but once they had, I could think more clearly. My mind ran through the whole night. Having to nearly bull past the b.i.t.c.h squad to gain entry, catching up with Beck, making notes while sipping on c.r.a.ppy and ill-fated beer, the conversation with Knox, more note-taking, the encounter with the freshmen girls and senior guys, hiding in the closet, ducking out of the closet, feeling the drugs take effect, getting thrown out of the party, seeing Knox's face before pa.s.sing out . . . I ran through it all again, and on my second run-through, I found yet another piece of evidence pointing toward Knox's innocence-a piece that he hadn't brought up, which made it even more convincing.

The span of time between Knox walking away from me and me feeling the effects of the drug was at least a solid hour. I didn't know what I'd been dosed with, but no matter what it was, it wouldn't have taken longer than a half hour to set in. Yes, he could have dropped something in later as I shoved through the crowd, but so could have anyone else for that matter. My head was really pounding now, and it seemed no amount of temple ma.s.saging was up to the task of alleviating it.

Knox stayed silent as I continued thinking, probably because he knew what I was figuring out-that he wasn't the one I should be blaming. As I added up him hanging around until I woke up, plus the willing sample of his DNA, plus the way my body was feeling down there-my woman business might have been the only thing on my body not throbbing in pain-I knew that if I was putting together an article for the paper, Knox would be one of the last suspects on my list. But what made the tears come to the surface was that I didn't have any other suspects on my list. I didn't have a clue who did this to me or why or if they'd do it again. Having a suspect-even one who didn't pan out-was more comforting than having no one on the list.

"Who did this to me?" This time when my stomach rolled, I came dangerously close to emptying the contents of my stomach on the carpet. I wanted to cry into my hands, but I wouldn't let an emotional purging relieve me of the revenge I was owed.

Knox's face seemed to visibly drain of tension, probably because in a roundabout way, I'd just admitted I didn't think he was guilty. His face had no more than ironed out before it creased again. "There had to have been close to several hundred guys at that party last night, and I wouldn't put it past a single one of them to slip something into a girl's drink."

"I wouldn't put it past some of the girls either," I added, thinking of my "friendly" encounters with Sydney and her Rottweiler crew. "You don't have any ideas? No possibilities of who did it?" I would have settled for a maybe-but-probably-not right now, anything that would point me in some sort of direction.

Knox's head shook once. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

"Some college guy with morals ranging from questionable to non-existent is about as specific as I can make it." Letting my head fall back over the couch, I pictured the faces I remembered from the party. There were so many that it took me several minutes before I ran out . . . and then there were all of the faces I couldn't picture. There were dozens of potential suspects-hundreds-and I didn't have a clue how to go about narrowing the field.

Was it just some random a.s.shole looking to score with whichever girl he could get to? Or was it someone I'd insulted, threatened, or annoyed? That list wouldn't be a short one. Or was it someone I would have least expected? The proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing? This was perhaps the most chilling possibility, because how could I identify my enemy if I a.s.sumed they were a friend?

From the feel of my stomach, I'd had h.e.l.lfire with a side of as...o...b..c acid for dinner last night. "Knox . . ." was the only word I chanced saying. Keeping my mouth closed was a good idea given the present state of my stomach.

"Say no more." He popped out of his chair and rushed toward me.

Twisting the blanket around my back, his arms came around me, and before I knew he was carrying me, we were turning into a bathroom. The timing couldn't have been better. Knox had no more than set me down by the toilet before all of my insides seemed to revolt. I was too sick to even feel embarra.s.sed that a near-stranger was witnessing me hollowing out my guts. When my stomach seemed to be finished convulsing, I heard the sink turn on.

Knox held out a cup of water. "In case you're worried, I can refill it with you watching this time." His voice hinted at lightness.

I almost smiled, either from his comment or from the relief I felt after purging my stomach, as I flushed the toilet and reached for the cup. "If you're trying to drug me after witnessing that, you're one sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He laughed a few notes as I sipped the water. It was so cool and fresh that I downed the entire gla.s.s in a few gulps.

"Another?" he asked, already cranking the sink back on.

"Please." When I handed the gla.s.s back to him, I realized he was holding my hair in his other hand. Holding my hair back . . . out of vomit and toilet water range. "You've done this before."

He handed me the second cup of water and lifted a shoulder. "Maybe once or twice."

Once he seemed convinced my puking spell had pa.s.sed, he let go of my hair and tucked the blanket more tightly around me. When he leaned back, the necklace swinging from his neck caught my attention. Again.

"With the girl who gave you that?" I asked softly, leaning into the wall behind me. My muscle strength was returning, but I still felt shaky.

Knox's gaze drifted down as his fist curled around the crucifix. It seemed like that was his instinctual response whenever he talked about it. "Maybe." His voice was as soft as mine.

"Knox, I'm sorry for what I said last night. I've got a big mouth and have a tendency to jump to conclusions-as you witnessed yet again this morning. I'm just really sorry for-"

He raised his hand, letting the crucifix go. "It's okay. I've got a big mouth too. And a quick-fire temper. And only about a million other character flaws we don't need to get into now. Let's let bygones be bygones and figure out what to do now."

"Speaking of what I need to do now . . ." I bit my lip as my eyes indicated at the door. "Would you mind giving me a minute alone? Nature is calling and isn't known to wait." From the feel of my bladder, I hadn't peed in a month.

"Oh. Oh," he repeated as it registered. Backing toward the door, he stopped as something else registered. "No, you can't."

"Excuse me?"

"Or you shouldn't, at least." He stayed paused.

"Excuse me again?" My bladder was none of Knox's business or concern.

"The tests. They'll be more conclusive if you wait to . . . you know . . . answer the call of nature at the hospital. Each time you go dilutes the concentration of whatever's in your system."

My mouth fell open a bit. "How does a college guy know so much about this?"

Knox settled his hands on his hips. "How does a college girl know so little about this?"

I grumbled into my gla.s.s before taking a sip. "Good question."

Going into college, I'd prided myself on not being one of those naive girls who wouldn't know a roofie from an aspirin, but after the past twelve hours, I realized just how little I knew about the world of date rape. Not accepting a drink from anyone and not taking my hands or eyes off my drink appeared to be the extent of my knowledge. At least up until last night. Now I knew what it felt like to be drugged-the signs, symptoms, side effects, and aftereffects. I could still taste the aftereffects.

"Well, I'd better get to a hospital in the next half hour, or else, in addition to vomiting all over myself, I'm going to pee myself." As good as the water tasted, I set the cup on the floor. Taking another sip would be tempting fate.

"I'm ready when you are." He was already pulling a set of keys from his pocket.

I lifted my hand as he approached me, stalling him. "Thank you, Knox, but the past twenty-four hours have been a bit intense." Was that even the right word for it? There had to be a more fitting word for what I'd just gone through. "I'm so thankful for everything you've done-you have no idea-but pee tests, rape kits, and pelvic exams . . ." I cringed just thinking about what was waiting for me in the hospital. "I really think I could use a friend's moral support right now."

He peaked his brows, almost looking insulted.

"A girl friend's moral support."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "So you're saying I'm a friend now?"

"I'm saying you're not a girl friend, nothing more."

His smile pulled higher. "Well, that ranks a h.e.l.l of a lot higher than what you were trying to label me with a little while ago."

"Don't gloat. The verdict's still out on if you're a victim of shallow women or a creator of them."

"That's easy," he answered, motioning at himself. "A victim. Clearly."

I rolled my eyes. The panties stuffed into his pockets last night were gone, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be spilling over at the next party. "Do you know where my purse is?"

"Yeah, I'll go grab it." He wasn't gone from the bathroom for more than a few seconds before he was back with my purse. "After last night, you should probably trade in the expired mace for a stun gun, or better yet, a real gun. Rumor gets around campus that you're packing heat, and a guy's going to think twice before slipping something into your drink."

"You went through my purse?!" I shrieked as I s.n.a.t.c.hed it away from him. I ran through a mental tally of its present contents.

"Well, yeah," he said with a dismissive shrug. "I wanted to see if I could get a hold of someone for you, but since your phone is security-code protected and you don't keep one of those handy emergency contact things in your wallet, you were stuck with me."

"Better stuck with you than someone else." I dug through my purse until I found my phone.

There were several missed calls. Most were from Harlow, but one was from my parents. How was I going to explain this to them? How much, if any of it, could I tell them? My family and I were close-closer than the typical teen-parent relations.h.i.+p-and I'd told them plenty of things that my young and experimenting counterparts wouldn't dream of telling their parents, but admitting I'd had my first drink at a party when I was seventeen was a lot different than confessing I'd nearly been date-raped.

I scooted away from the toilet. "Why didn't you take me to the hospital when you found me? Why go through the ha.s.sle of bringing me back to your place and nursing me back to a staggering, vomiting state?"

"I wasn't sure if you'd want me to take you to a hospital. You know, if that would have been the choice you'd make for yourself if you were conscious." He leaned into the bathroom wall, back to being that towering wall of muscle and mystery.

I liked it better when he was kneeling beside me-when it wasn't so obvious I was helpless against him physically.

"If I took you in there unconscious, they would have run a bunch of tests. Tests I wasn't sure you'd want to have performed." He s.h.i.+fted, clearly uncomfortable with this topic as well.

"Tests that might involve swabbing and generally poking and prodding my lady bits?"

Another rush of color ran up his neck. Just when I'd been sure hardened bad boys were impervious to blus.h.i.+ng and showing any degree of discomfort. "Tests that should be a woman's prerogative." He cleared his throat. "And I'm done with this topic. No guy should have to be subjected to conversations containing words like 'lady bits' and 'swabbing' in the same sentence. I mean, d.a.m.n, I might be tough, but I'm not made of steel."

My casual inspection of him wasn't so casual. "Could have fooled me."

"Besides, I had one of my pre-med friends swing by to check on you."

My eyes widened as I imagined being some pre-med guy's Frankenstein experiment while I was pa.s.sed out.

"Your vitals," he clarified. "He checked your heartbeat, pulse, pupils-those kinds of things. Nothing that I thought would go against the woman's prerogative code."

"And he said I was okay?" I made a face.

"He said you weren't going to die." Knox's jaw went rigid for a moment.

The flash of emotion didn't make sense to me. Yesterday, I'd been no more than a stranger, but from the look of it, a person would have thought I was his nearest-and-dearest.

"He said you'd wake up with a serious headache, probably yak, and would feel like you had mono for the next week or so. You're one of the lucky ones."

With my head throbbing, my stomach still convulsing, my muscles feeling like goo, and my bladder reaching bursting, now was not the time to be convincing me of just how lucky I was. "I'm not sure lucky is the word I'd use, but I'm something."

"You were drugged, but you weren't raped and didn't die from an overdose. If that isn't lucky, tell me what is, because I've seen too many girls come out on the s.h.i.+t-luck side of this."

My gaze went to his necklace, wondering about the story behind it. "You're right. I know that. I'm just having a tough time feeling grateful when I feel like my body's being shredded from the inside out. Tomorrow maybe, but I'm not feeling too lucky right at this present moment. Cut me a little slack?" I speed-dialed Harlow.

The line was ringing when he replied, "I'll cut you a little. But no more." With a wink, he left the bathroom and closed the door to give me some privacy.

Harlow answered on the third ring. "Where the h.e.l.l are you?" The soft notes in her voice from last night were long gone, replaced by frantic, high ones.

If I told her I was at Knox Jagger's place, she'd freak her s.h.i.+t out. Not that it would mean anything to her. I doubted that, other than his reputation, Harlow knew anything about Knox-his address especially-so I decided to keep the "Knox Jagger's place" under wraps for now.

"Um . . . around?" I grimaced. Where the h.e.l.l was I? Other than being in a house, I wasn't sure if I was on campus, off campus, or anywhere close to campus.

"Oh my G.o.d. Are you safe? You didn't come home last night. You didn't answer my calls. You promised to always let me know if you'd be spending the night with a . . . well, you know . . . a . . ."

"Gentlemen suitor?" I suggested in a dry voice.

"It's part of the girl code to let another girl know if you're spending the night with a guy."

"I didn't spend the night with a guy." Then I smelled Knox's scent on the blanket. "At least, not in the way you spent the night with your guy."

"You didn't call!" she shrieked. In the background, it sounded like Jake was trying to calm her down. "I was worried sick about you. So worried I didn't get a wink of sleep last night."

"Like you were planning on getting any sleep before I went MIA on you," I said under my breath.

"Where are you? G.o.d, are you safe?"

As far as roommates went, Harlow was the roomie dream for a rough-around-the-edges girl like yours truly, but she had a tendency toward the dramatic. That was a girl-ism I didn't know what to do with. "I'm safe, I promise, but I might kind of need you to come pick me up and drive me to the hospital if you're available."

"What?!"

I had to hold the phone a few inches away from my ear after that.

"What is going on, Charlie? Why do you need to go to the hospital? Where are you? And why didn't you call me last night?"

Either Harlow was shrieking so loudly Knox had heard her in the next room or he had a sixth sense, because that was right when he came back into the bathroom. Leaning down, he motioned for the phone. "I'll give her the address."

This ought to be good.

Once I handed the phone over, he cleared his throat. "The address is 601 West Summit Avenue. There'll be an old black pick-up parked out front." Before Harlow could fire off a question, he was already handing the phone back. "Here comes the cavalry."

I smiled. He had no idea what was coming. "Harlow? Did you catch that?"

"Holy s.h.i.+t, Charlie," she said, sounding flabbergasted. "Tell me that wasn't Knox f.u.c.king Jagger."

It was only a matter of time before she figured out the truth. Sighing, I glanced at him. "Is your middle name f.u.c.king?"

He grinned in a way that made my stomach drop. Or was that still the drugs? Tough to tell.

"Not officially," he answered.

With a shake of my head, I looked away from him. That grin was like staring into a world I was still innocent of. "It wasn't Knox f.u.c.king Jagger. It was the other one."

MONDAYS WEREN'T NORMALLY a reason to celebrate, but this one was. After the weekend I'd had, I was all for throwing a party on whatever day gave me a reprieve from it.

My experience at the hospital had proven to be just as dreadfully awkward as waking up on Knox Jagger's couch with no memory of what either had or hadn't transpired. From the moment Harlow's car had screeched up to the curb outside Knox's house, her questions hadn't stopped. I'd had to ask her to leave the examination room as the nurse was about to commence an internal exam that would probably haunt my waking and dream-like states for years.

Of course, Harlow's questions picked up right after my stint in the examination room, but after a while, I just answered them all with a shrug. I wasn't trying to give her the brush-off, but I couldn't answer them. Who did I suspect slipped me the roofie, which the pee-in-a-cup test confirmed? I didn't suspect anyone . . . and I suspected everyone. Why did Knox come up to me that night? Because I was a sparkling conversationalist and had just as sparkling of a personality. Truthfully, I didn't have a clue why the bad boy of Sinclair University had sought me out in a crowd of increasingly panty-less women. What was I going to do now? That was like asking me to solve world hunger with a toothpick and a petri dish. And the real clincher of a question: What was I going to do about Knox now-pretend he didn't exist or treat him like he was the only reason I was still existing?

Issues like the roofie-dropper, continuing on with the underage binge-drinking research, and who I could or couldn't trust anymore were fairly black-and-white issues. Knox, however, was a gray issue if ever I'd been presented with one. On the black side, Knox was not only a notorious bad boy, but a legendary one, someone who would probably go down in the BB Hall of Fame. He had a reputation for having nailed more girls on campus than there were females actually enrolled, getting into regular fights, switching between a souped-up truck and beefy motorcycle, and making anyone a slave to his wishes with one look. On the white side, Knox had carried on a surprisingly intelligent conversation, held a girl's hair out-of-range while she puked, hadn't taken advantage of her while she was pa.s.sed out, and let's not forget, saved me from rape.

The white and dark made Knox Jagger one giant ocean of gray I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to swim across. So would I go on living my life without Knox Jagger in it? I'd sufficed without him for nearly twenty years, so I should have been just fine going on another twenty . . . but accepting that wasn't nearly as easy as pondering it.

He'd saved me. Before Friday, I would have put Knox close to last on the list of people who would step up to help out a stranger. But he'd been the only person in that room full of people to step up, and I hadn't even had an opportunity to thank him properly. In realizing that, I decided I had to see him again, if for no other reason than to thank him with a batch of homemade cookies or a case of beer or whatever thank-you gift a guy like Knox would get excited over.

I was on my way to grab some lunch when I swung by my journalism professor's office. I'd never once had to ask for an extension on an article, but if the weekend's events didn't warrant one, I didn't know what would. After plenty of discouragement from Harlow, I'd decided not to drop the underage binge-drinking article. I'd invested too much research and time to crumple up my outline and toss it into the garbage can. Plus, I wasn't willing to show that if someone roofied me, or beat me, or threatened me, or whatever the h.e.l.l else humanity would invent, I would drop an article and move on to another. I was going to be a reporter who didn't compromise, and it looked like that habit was starting abruptly.

The door to Professor Landry's office was closed, but since I heard Marley and smelled incense burning, it was safe to guess she was inside. Professor Landry was a prime example of someone who marched to the beat of her own drum, as evidenced by her policy that no one precede her name with Professor. She firmly believed that t.i.tles had been created to distinguish the upper cla.s.s from the lower cla.s.s, and she wanted no part in perpetuating socio-economic stereotypes. So she either went by Landry, Neve, or Hey, you. She didn't really care, so long as the word "professor" never echoed off the walls she was within.