The Outsider: Hard Knox Part 18

"So how did you expand from Arm-Wrestling Pro?" My gaze dipped to his biceps. Really, any guy who saw Knox's guns and still challenged him to an arm-wrestling match was either mentally deranged or on a serious ego trip.

"Some guy eventually came up and bet he could knock me out with just one hit."

Half of Knox's eggs were already gone. My plate looked like it hadn't been touched.

"I thought this chump must have had a screw loose if he thought one hit could take me down, so I took the bet, and then I was reminded what an idiot I really am."

I paused with my coffee at my mouth. "Why's that?"

"Because I didn't think to specify that the 'one hit' had to be done with a body part. He took advantage of that technicality, and I got to experience what a crowbar to the middle of my back felt like."

My mouth fell open. Thankfully, no eggs were inside. "Oh my G.o.d, Knox."

"I had lots of time to ruminate on that while I was recovering from three broken ribs and a collapsed lung."

My back gave a sympathy twinge just imagining what that had felt like.

"The upside to that whole experience was that I had an extra two hundred dollars in my wallet, and I learned to create little things known as conditions when someone else came at me with a challenge."

"Wait." I shook my head. "You didn't fall to the ground and curl into a ball like a baby after getting pummeled with a crowbar? I am thinking of the right thing, aren't I? About yea big"-I measured out about two feet on the table-"made of solid steel, double p.r.o.ngs on either side, looks like it could open a person up and be used to sc.r.a.pe out their guts? That's what a crowbar is, right?"

"You've got the general idea, yeah." He was back to staring at me with that amused expression.

Ha ha, I was the funny one because I was acting like a crowbar to the back was actually something to be taken seriously.

"And you managed to stay standing?" Maybe I was missing something.

Knox lifted his hand. "We're not talking about solving the equation for cold fusion or finding the cure for childhood diabetes. We're talking about staying upright when someone coldc.o.c.ks you with a crowbar. Or getting some other guy's arm down before he can get mine down. Or having one shot more than the guy next to me. Or swinging harder, longer, or most. It's not that hard, Charlie."

"It's not that hard?" I hoped that when he heard someone else say it, he'd realize how insane he sounded.

Instead, all he did was offer another half-hearted shrug. He was down to his last few bites of eggs. He'd consumed no less than a dozen eggs in five minutes. I wouldn't bet against Knox on anything.

"You're telling me if I found the arm-wrestling champion of the whole world-if there even is such a thing-you could just lock hands and kick his a.s.s because it's not that hard?"

"I'd like to think I'd have a good chance at beating him," he said.

"Do you have some kind of crazy mind-body connection where if your foot gets chopped off, your brain just tells your body, 'No big deal, we're going to be fine. Keep right on marching along with that b.l.o.o.d.y stump'?"

Knox gave me an all-too-familiar look as he headed over to the coffee pot. "Doesn't everyone have a mind-body connection?"

"Well, yeah, in the sense that our minds tell our hearts to keep pumping, our lungs to keep right on filling, also known as involuntary body functions, but no, not everyone-in fact hardly anyone-is able to make a voluntary mind-body connection." Was I really having this conversation this early on a Sunday?

"I don't know why more people don't do it," Knox said as he refilled my cup, then his own. "It's as simple as telling your body what to do, and it does it."

"I'll remember that next time I'm arm wrestling a guy named Big Al who is in possession of biceps the size of my head. But if I lose, I'm sending all the blame your mind-body connection's way." I poured some creamer into Knox's cup first, then mine. Then I added a little more to his because pouring raspberry creamer into the coffee of a bada.s.s of Knox's proportion was comical.

"So you used to take these kinds of bets all the time, but now not so much?"

Knox reached for another piece of toast as he sat down. "Not quite so much."

"Why not?"

"Because I saved up a ton of money and don't need to take just any bet some chump wants to dangle it in front of me."

When he eyed my plateful of eggs, I slid his empty one over and heaped a mound onto it, leaving a normal person's portion of eggs on my plate. "If you saved up a 'ton' of money, you shouldn't need to take on any bets, right?"

Knox's eyes creased at the corners. I smiled because I knew what that meant-which meant I'd been spending too much time around him . . .

"If money was the only objective, then no, I wouldn't have to take any bets for a long time."

"Then what's the other objective?" I scooted my plate of eggs aside and leaned across the table. I wasn't hungry, the eggs were getting cold, and nothing about this conversation was conducive to eating.

"I like the challenge-the rush of adrenaline I get right before, that moment in the middle when I question if this is the one I might actually lose, the release at the end when I feel everything that had been building up inside me drain away." Knox waved his fork as he continued explaining. "It's a high. My high."

I knew what my "high" was-digging deep into research for a forthcoming article. I loved combing through information and evidence, grabbing hold of what the next person might have let slip through. We all had them-every one of us had our high. It was part of what kept us crawling out of bed in the morning. The difference between Knox's and most people's was that his hinged on violence.

"What are you trying to release?" I asked.

"Pent-up anger." He looked out the window as he chewed the last of his toast.

"Pent-up anger at what?"

"Myself mostly," he answered quietly, staring out that window as if he were seeing something I couldn't.

"Which implies there's something else responsible for your anger. What else?" I was so close I could feel my hand on the doork.n.o.b. I was about to open the door to the dark vast room holding all of Knox's secrets, and just as I was pulling it open . . .

"I think I need a little more toast. What about you?"

He was halfway across the kitchen before I realized he'd leapt out of his chair. Taking a drink of coffee, I forced myself to s.h.i.+ft topics. I wouldn't gain access to Knox's secret room by relentlessly pounding on the door. The only way I'd get inside was if he felt safe enough to open the door.

"I'm good, but thanks," I answered, sc.r.a.ping the last bit of eggs from my plate onto his. A growing boy needed his one-and-a-half dozen eggs in the morning. "So what's your record?" How many times have you lost bets? How many times have you won them?"

He definitely had a smirk on his face when he glanced back at me as he slid a couple more pieces of bread into the toaster. "I've won them all, so I guess my record is known as undefeated."

"Aren't we c.o.c.ky early in the morning?"

"It's not c.o.c.ky if it's the truth."

With Knox's back to me again, my gaze automatically skimmed down his body, then back up, and repeated. I was on my third revolution when I realized what I was doing, so I gave myself another sharp pinch. It was like some reflex that, whenever Knox turned his back, my eyes went on an ogling spree.

While the bread toasted, he turned and leaned into the counter. "What's the deal with the s.h.i.+rts?"

Having him watch me made it more difficult to s.e.xually a.s.sault him with my eyes, but the view in question made it so tempting I felt myself developing a twitch from abstaining. "You mean the ones I wear on a next-to-daily basis? The ones that trend toward offensive most days, poignant every day, and the self-reflection I leave in my wake? Those s.h.i.+rts?"

"Not exactly how I would describe them, but yeah, I think we're on the same page."

I shrugged. No one had ever come right out and asked me what the deal was with my s.h.i.+rts. Most everyone jumped to the conclusion that I was a closed-off, raging b.i.t.c.h, which, on certain days, hit the nail on the head, but that wasn't the crux of why I wore them-or at least it hadn't been when I'd started out. "It depends."

"Now you're sounding like me." Knox padded over to the fridge to grab the b.u.t.ter, lifting a brow at me. "This house only has room for one person who answers questions vaguely, and I'm older, so I've been doing it longer-and better I might add."

I crossed my arms. "It depends-if someone will let me finish a thought-on the occasion. If I'm at a party, like when we first met, I wear those s.h.i.+rts to keep the s.h.i.+theads away."

"Too bad it didn't work on me. I must be immune to them."

I rolled my eyes at his wide grin. "But most of the time when I wear them, I don't know, I'm kind of hoping-foolishly, probably-that people will read it, get the message, change their lives for the better, even if it's only in the smallest of ways, and make the world a better place."

Knox was still grinning as he b.u.t.tered his toast. "So you're saying your s.h.i.+rts are like a b.u.t.terfly effect?"

"Pretty much, yeah. And when they hand me my n.o.bel Peace Prize in fifty years for changing the world, one snarky s.h.i.+rt at a time, I'm going to wave it in your face and chant 'Told ya so' about a million times."

He laughed, but when he noticed my eyes narrow at him, he stuffed a fresh piece of toast in his mouth.

"What?" I asked as he fought to keep from choking on his toast from the laughter still rolling through him. "What's so amusing?"

He took a drink of coffee to clear the toast then wiped his eyes. He'd actually been laughing so hard that tears had formed. "You think some college girl might read your s.h.i.+rt and reevaluate her whole life?"

Hearing him say it, in those words, made me realize I was definitely more on the foolishly-hoping end of the make-a-difference spectrum. "If there's any justice in this world."

"That's a nice thought, and maybe in a different environment, those s.h.i.+rts of yours would actually get their message across. But the only epiphany college girls are waiting for is the one that comes from a tube of lipstick-like just the right shade will solve all of their problems." Knox scooped some eggs onto his toast then smashed it all together to make a toast-egg taco. "If you're looking to get a message across, you might want to reconsider your approach."

"Brilliant. I'll just open up my own cosmetic line and stamp a thought-provoking message on the bottom of each lipstick shade. For a s.h.i.+mmery nude, Stars Can't s.h.i.+ne Without Darkness; for a luscious crimson, Birth Control: One is good, Two is better; for a dark purple, Stop crying about being a doormat and get off the floor already." I tapped my chin in consideration. "Better sell magnifying gla.s.ses with those tubes of lipstick since no one would be able to read the 'shade' if they were that long."

"I think you're on to something." Knox held his breakfast taco out to me, but I shook my head. He added, "If you need financial backing to get you up and running, let me know."

"That's right, money bags, and wouldn't that article in Forbes be original? 'Inspirational lipstick creator backed by money won from dubious bets made in seedy bars.'"

Knox and I both laughed at that idea.

"Come on. It's the thought that counts, right?" I said. "Can I help it if college kids are shallow and read a message and only think about how it applies to a friend they have, instead of thinking about how it relates to them? Besides, I like them, and that should be reason enough for why I wear what I wear. Or advertise what I advertise."

"No, I get it. Really," he added when I lifted an eyebrow in doubt. "But while the girls might not get the message because they're not looking at your s.h.i.+rts, the college guys are definitely checking out your s.h.i.+rts."

"Really?" I said slowly, guessing a trap was somewhere in front of me.

"Really. Although the message on your s.h.i.+rt isn't exactly what's catching their attention. It's what's beneath it that they're 'reflecting' on." Knox's eyes dipped, but I had on an oversized bathrobe instead of my standard tee. "The only message they're getting, however, is 'HALLALUJAH!!!'" He threw his hands up, tipped his head back, and bugled, "HALLALUJAH!!!"

So I tore off a chunk of his other piece of toast and tossed it at his face. "You'd think that with all of the food you've been shoveling into it, you could shut your mouth for a few minutes."

"Hallelujah." This time, he whispered it.

"Please. That is not the message guys get when they see my s.h.i.+rts." I'd hardly left a praise-the-heavens chorus in my wake.

"To prove it, I didn't even realize you had stuff written on your s.h.i.+rts until I did a load of laundry last night."

Knox's eyes were gleaming, so I wasn't going to give him anything else to amuse himself with. Time to turn the conversation tables on him.

"So what's the deal with the whole bad-boy vibe?" I asked in the same tone he'd directed at me about my s.h.i.+rts.

"It's not a vibe. This is who I am." When he held out his arms, his cross s.h.i.+fted, catching the light coming through the windows and almost blinding me. If that wasn't either some higher message or an epic coincidence, I don't know what was.

"Really?" I wasn't letting him off with his standard few words and a shrug. "What about the truck and motorcycle? Are they just 'who you are'?"

Knox made a face. "Can you really see me driving a souped-up Honda Civic?"

Point in Jagger's corner.

"The a.s.s-kicking boots?" I fired off.

He huffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, because I could so rock the latest trendy sneaker on my way to basketball practice."

Two points-Jagger. Zilch-Chase.

"And all the girls who flock to you like moths to a flame?"

A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Rumors spread fast in this town."

"And what do those rumors have to do with women harkening at your heels?"

Knox looked at me as if the answer should have been obvious. "I'm a man."

"And good for you for learning something new about yourself every day, but I'm not connecting the dots here."

Knox leaned across the table, that smile curling a bit higher. "A man doesn't make love like a boy. He knows reciprocity in bed makes for happy customers, and happy customers make for repeat business."

Everything south of my navel contracted right before a certain tingling sensation had me gripping the edge of the table. In an attempt to distract myself, I tapped my foot and bit the inside of my cheek. Those measures weren't too effective. "But you don't 'date' college girls."

His brow rose as he stacked my plate on top of his empty one. "But they don't know that."

Shaking my head, I groaned. "I can't decide whether to be impressed by your industriousness or repulsed by your scheming."

"It's not scheming. At least not intentionally. This is who I am." Knox motioned at himself as he rinsed the dishes with a scrub brush-yet another thing I'd never pictured Knox Jagger doing.

"You don't 'date' college girls, but you let them think you do by not telling them otherwise, and then you proceed to let them drool themselves to sleep every night fantasizing about being the next partner to further the happy-customer rumor?"

He shrugged.

"You're a schemer and sick."

"That one part's not a rumor though-the happy customers part. I've got references, if you don't believe me."

Before I thought to censor my answer, I replied, "I believe you." My eyes did that reflexive inspection of his body, and he caught me doing it.

"It appears you do." He popped his brows at me a few times.

I glared at him before turning my attention to my coffee. "How you can fit every single stereotype and yet not be the stereotype is beyond me." I knew that, even before Knox had so dutifully explained it to me, nothing about him was an act.

"What can I say? This is who I am." Wiping his hands with a dish towel, he winked. "I was born bad, baby."